THE OLDEST ANIMALS SEARCH FOR MODERN RELEVANCE:
REFLECTIONS ON THE STORY OF KILHWCH AND OLWEN ©
by Joanne McLain
(Earthsongs: Journal of the Society of Celtic Shamans is pleased to publish the winning entries submitted to our first annual Bardic Competition. Three stories were submitted and a panel of judges read and considered each. As this was a juried competition, had any of the three stories been judged unworthy of publication, that story would have been eliminated from the competition. All three of the submissions were excellent and all three will be published. The three judges, Tira Brandon-Evans, Dillon Carlyon, and Deirdre Smith, had a hard time assigning an order of excellence to the stories. We struggled to decide which of these wonderfully written stories should be first, second, and third. After due consideration we decided Joanne's story was the first runner up in our competition. We thank Joanne McLain for entering our competition and sharing her talent with us and our readers.)
“On, on, on” the Ousel of Cilgwri sang from the proud oak tree. “Long are the nights beneath the fading moon.” She had sung more cheerful tunes long ago, when the world was younger. “Tired I am of tapping beak to iron, wearing away the anvil of time’s measure.”
The ousel flew from the topmost oak branch, down to the forest floor. “What do you do, Oh Stag of Redynvre, old friend,” she sang. “What do you do on this wondrous star-filled night?”
The stag lifted his twisting antlers through the stars. “I wait and watch,” he answered. Broken stumps of ancient oak trees were scattered around him.
“Watch for what?” the ousel asked, “what rides the starlight on this splendid night? I am tired of pecking anvils into nothingness, my friend.”
“It has been long since any of human-kind has sought words from us,” the stag agreed. “I don’t know what awaits us tonight, but there is change in the wind.”
The ousel felt the breeze stir her feathers. “Those were good days, when humans remembered us. When they knew to ask questions of us and when they wanted to hear the answers we could give them. Do you remember Kilhwch the son of Kilydd? He who sought and won the hand of Olwen daughter of Yspaddaden Penkawr.”
“I remember,” said the stag. “He was a well-spoken lad.”
“He was a glorious sight, mounted on that fine dapple grey horse whose shell-like feet scarcely bent the grass under his tread. Horses are fine creatures—I don’t know why humans so rarely ride them now. But then, there are no horses among the eldest animals such as we. Why is that, I wonder?”
“The horse, as a guide, shares his energy between the worlds,” the stag answered. “No energy is left to tie itself for ages to this world.”
“Nevertheless, I like horses, and Kilhwch’s steed was among the finest, and dressed In gold from bridle to saddle. And silver spears rose high above his back.”
“I do not care for spears,” the stag replied. “But Kilhwch’s horse was indeed a fine sight.”
“And the two brindled, white-breasted greyhounds with collars of rubies about their necks who sported like sea-swallows around him—but, of course, you would not care to hear about greyhounds, either. I will speak instead of the cloth of purple over Kilhwch’s shoulders, with an apple of gold at each of four corners, and the gold of his shoes.”
“All shone gloriously in the sunlight, as befit the cousin of Arthur.”
“The days of King Arthur were, indeed, glorious days.”
The black bird and the many-tined stag waited in the meadow until the waning crescent moon rose overhead; the ousel hummed to herself. The wind spoke of changes, but offered no advice.
“Perhaps we should speak to the Owl of Cwm Cawlwyd,”
The ousel perched within the stag’s intertwined antlers as he leaped through the forest. “On the way, on the way, on the way on…” she sang.
The tattered owl hunched within the sheltering yew branches. One eye opened, then the other, clear as moonlight. “Is it time?” she asked the bird and stag.
“I think so,” answered the stag.
“Well enough. I have waited long, as the forest grew and fell, then sprouted anew. I grow tired of waiting, with no one to seek after wisdom in these childish times.”
“Indeed, the men and women of these times do not remember what they should respect.”
“Not like the times of Arthur,” said the owl. “I remember when Kilhwch gathered together all that was needed to win Olwen as his bride. She was a wondrous maiden, was Olwen, clothed in silk robes like flames in the night, jeweled with emeralds and rubies set in ruddy gold. Yet more beautiful was the yellow of her hair, bright as the broom flower, and her foam-white skin, with roses in her cheeks. And the white trefoils that sprang up from her gentle steps.”
“Truly a maiden worth adventure.”
“Worth seeking our aid to win her,” said the owl, clicking her beak. “But now, we wait, with no one seeking us.”
“We have waited long enough,” said the ousel. “Time now to reach the end.”
“Let us find the Eagle of Gwern Abwy,” said the stag.
The owl shuffled forward to the edge of her branch. “I don’t know if these withered stumps of wings will carry me so far.”
“Come, old friend,” said the stag. “I will carry you on my back.” The three ancient animals passed between the drooping yew branches, the stag running with grace, despite the aches in his bones, the owl sheltered in the hollow of his shoulders and the ousel gripping his topmost antler tine, singing “On the way, on the way, on the way, on to the end.”
The Eagle of Gwern Abwy’s crooked claws shifted awkwardly among the pebbles that were all that was left of the towering rock he once gripped tightly as he viewed all the ways of the world. He scarcely noticed his fellow eldest animals until they were near. Looking up at the owl perched carefully on the back of the stag, his eyes sharpened. “I scarcely see you in this darkness,” he complained. “And my feet ache from these meaningless chips of stone. I wish for wider skies than those above me now.”
“We have aged into strange times and they are hard on old bones,” said the stag. “Not like the days of Arthur the King.”
“Arthur was a wise and splendid man,” added the ousel. “Remember his words: ‘The greater our courtesy, the greater will be our renown, and our fame, and our glory.”
“Glory indeed,” said the owl. “He was a warrior of renown and a leader of great fighting men.”
“Fighting men indeed,” said the eagle. “That tremendous boar, Twrch Trwyth: now that was an epic hunt, when Arthur’s men took the comb and razor and scissors from between his ears!”
“They fought for weeks, traveling through Ireland, then up and down the length of Britain. All to obtain the tools to shave Olwen’s father.”
“The humans of today are far more practical sorts,” said the eagle.
“And, as such, they have no use for wisdom we could speak,” replied the stag.
“It is time,” said the eagle.
“It is indeed time, my oldest friend,” said the owl.
The traveled together to find the Salmon of Llyn Llyw. The ousel and owl resumed their perches upon the stag, but the eagle insisted on lifting himself into the sky.
The Severn River rolled silently toward the sea. The eldest animals traveled slowly upstream until they reached the hazel-rimmed pool. Within it, the water was still and empty until the great salmon flowed to fill it. “The blessings of this gentle night be upon you,” he said, rising to the surface.
“Not gentle on my ancient wings,” screeched the eagle as he landed on the shore.
“Yet it is good for old friends to be together, here at the end,” offered the stag.
“At the end or the beginning?” asked the salmon.
“What else but the end for us?” asked the owl. “No one asks for our wisdom in this age of wires and metal boxes that apparently hold all that is of interest.”
“And we grow tired of waiting, waiting, waiting…” sang the ousel.
“Perhaps if we could flow between pools as you can, we could read better the needs of these modern humans,” the stag told the salmon. “How do you travel from a pool here in Wales to a pool in Ireland?”
“And to pools and rivers and seas throughout this world,” the salmon replied. “And pools and rivers and seas not of this world, as well. Much the same, I have come to believe, are these wires and boxes and patterns that travel through air that engross the humans so.”
“Do you mean to swim up a wire to enter a metal box?” asked the eagle, shuddering his feathers. “That is no life.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps it will become a new form of life for me. For us, if you would choose to follow me. Remember the tale of Mabon, child of light, whose freedom was gained by men but only through our remembering. We need them as much as they need us.”
“Can a bird fly where a fish swims?” asked the ousel.
“I believe so,” answered the salmon.
“Then teach me how, eldest.”
“And teach me as well,” added the owl. “I may as well learn to swim, or drown myself, rather than continue as I am.”
The stag touched his antlers to the water surface, sending shivering slices of salmon across the pool. As the water stilled, the salmon reformed. “I will learn if I can,” said the stag.
“Well, if you are all for this madness, I may as well join in,” said the eagle.
“Then come, and be welcome,” said the salmon, drifting lower into the depths. Awkwardly at first, the other animals followed him until they sank gracefully into darkness. A faint glow appeared ahead of them, and the sound of tapping keys.
“On, on, on,” sang the ousel. “On to the end that begins and that ends again into everything…”
Joanne McLain lives in a rural area southeast of Denver, Colorado, with her husband, two children and a menagerie of animals, including dairy and Angora goats, rabbits, chickens, turkeys, geese, ducks, pigeons, a dog, cats, a guinea pig and finches. She develops and manages programs for families involved in the local social services system. She has a master’s degree in Psychology and a Ph.D. in Educational Leadership and Innovation and has been a mental health and substance abuse therapist for over twenty years. She is also the coauthor (writing as Epona Maris) of The Fondis Chronicles, a collection of “magical realism” stories and poems.
The Oldest Animals Search for Modern Relevance: Reflections on the Story of Kilhwch and Olwen copyright © 2010 by Joanne McLain, all rights reserved. Used with permission. Top of Page
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