Wrapped in a tattered woolen cloak. Over layered with a patchwork of uncured skins. The old man shuffled along. His left hand clutching an ash staff, cut from an old spear shaft.
His right, held close to his body. He cradled a small black piglet.“The gods are all mad little pig, They cannot be trusted. We are but their pieces, they play with abandon.“Myrddyn murmured to the piglet. ” "Mad they call me! Wild man of the forest…what else would the blind call the sighted man I ask you little pig?”
The piglet wriggled, trying to get closer, snuggling for warmth. The late after noon was already cold. Samhain was close upon them.” I have seen little pig. She cursed me with the honey tongue you know.” The white raven ruffled her feathers, perched on his shoulder pecking at Myrddyn beard. Plucking at bread crumbs.
“She is the betrayer of heroes, The sow that eats her young, you cannot trust her little pig. She will make bacon of you.”
The white raven had listened to Myrddyns incessant digs for many years. They still hurt her, for she loved him dearly, though there was always a price for her love. ”
“The white lady walks among us little pig. A Gwynyffyr, a white phantom, none more beautiful. She is not just the lady of the lake little pig, she is queen over the mountains that touch father sky Taranis who’s thunderbolts bring forth the rains, The life’s blood of Tuetates. The rivers that feed the lakes, where Esus hangs. Be careful little pig that you do not get burned. She is mistress of the forge. The forger of heroes. The sparks of her forge birth dragons. Borne of the torment of men, as she twists and hammers them into her tool. The bright flash of her sword, is where star light is made. She gathers up her harvest of tears from the battle field and gifts us rain.”
Myrddyn stepped into the tiny stream. Freezing in place, one foot on land, the other in water. There caught between worlds The Awen fell upon him.
” The Thames shall reverse her appointed course. The dragon will awaken and shake the earth. Fair Lyonesse will arise anew from the hungry sea. The planets will flee back along their heavenly paths. Pendragons burning in Caer Arianrhod then shall The spirit of the Rio-Thamus return to lead us.” Myrddyn shouted ecstatically. The scribes, frantic to catch the prophetic words. Their stylus moving frantically, scratched on their wax pads.
Each night Myrddyn would tell the tale of Caladwylch and the RioThamus Arthur to the attentive little black pig. Singing his heartbreak and despair. The white raven nuzzling at his tear stained cheeks. Drinking deeply of those tears until Myrddyn would drift off to sleep. Dreaming his memories. The white raven followed Myrddyn even there.
Dreaming, Myrddyn remembered. The white raven flew through his tortured dreams. Blessing every misery, sanctified beneath the shadow of her wings, baptised, in her own tears.
Myrddyn dreamed, his memories, murmured tales, shrieks of agony and outrage punctuated the remembered scenes. So much pain, fury and grief amidst brief moments of and majestic joy, ecstatic poetic release.
Tragedy, defined in spirit and in truth.
Myrddyn - Myrlyn - Merlin?
The white crow - Gwynyffyr - guinevere?
This just gets more and more interesting.
I had no idea that there were more than one Gwynyffyr. But then, I didn't know it mean "white Lady." She almost sounds like a proto-goddess.