“In the days when the dew of creation was still fresh on the earth Math, son of Mathonwy, was king over all Gwynedd and Dyfed and Lloegr, as well as the Westerlands. Now Math could only live so long as his feet were held in the lap of a maiden-except when the turmoil of war prevented him. The maiden’s name was Goewin, daughter of Pebin, of Dol Pebin, and she was the fairest known in her time.
“Now in those days word came to Math of a creature new to the Island of the Mighty whose meat was sweet and better to eat than beef. And this is the way of it…”
Hafgan told of how Math sent his nephew Gwydyon to Pryderi, son of Pwyll, to bring back some of the pigs which had been sent as a gift to Pryderi by Arawn, lord of Annwn, so that they might raise herds of swine for themselves. Taliesin sat curled in his father’s lap, memorizing the cadence of Hafgan’s voice and hearing there the echoes of ancient deeds-deeds which had passed into legend so long ago that no one could remember them or even guess what they might have been, but lived now, if only for a glimmering moment, in the dim reflection of Hafgan’s words.
To be a bard, thought Taliesin, to know the secrets of all things under earth and sky, to have the power to order the very elements with nothing but the sounds of your voice- now that would be a life worth living! Someday, he vowed, I will be a bard and a king. Yes, a druid king!
He raised his eyes to the night-dark heavens and to the host of stars winking through the glare of the torchlight. And it seemed to him that he was eternal, that some part of him had always been alive and always would be, that he had been called to life for a purpose. The more he thought about this, the more certain he was that it was true.
As Hafgan’s words filled his ears he observed the rapt faces of his kinsmen, rose-red in the glow of the torches standing round and about, and he knew that although he was forever bound to them, his people, at the same time he was destined for something else, a life far different from any than those sitting within the circle of Hafgan’s magic words could conceive.
These thoughts filled him with a sudden, piercing ache, an arrow-struck emptiness, and the boy closed his eyes and pressed his face against his father’s chest. A moment later he felt Elphin’s strong fingers in his hair.
He opened his eyes to see his mother watching him, her eyes shining in the flickering light-they would shine without the torches, with love for him and for her husband. Taliesin smiled at her and she turned her attention back to Hafgan’s story.
The love was right and good, Taliesin knew, and Hafgan had told him often enough that love lay beneath the foundation-stone of the world. But there was something missing too. Something he had no name for that love could not encompass or supply; something that had to come from a source other than the human heart. That something, whatever it was, was the arrow that pricked him with such emptiness and longing.
These thoughts were only dimly recognized; they were what Hafgan called “wise feelings.” Taliesin had them frequently, and often, like now, without any regard for the attending atmosphere. Right now he should be happy and content, relishing the story of Math the Pig Stealer in its every detail. And he was-with that part of him which was the small boy.
But the other, older part of him was looking on the happy scene and crying out for the lack of something Taliesin was not even sure had a name.
Wise feelings, Hafgan had told him, have a reason all their own. You cannot fight them; you can only accept them and listen to what they tell you. So far Taliesin had never learned anything from them- except not to talk about them with anyone. Instead he kept them to himself, bearing the exquisite pain of their presence silently. True, Hafgan could sometimes tell when he was experiencing them, but even Hafgan could not help him.
He raised his eyes to the stars once more and saw their cold splendor. I am part of thai, he thought. I am part of what they are, part of all that is or ever was. I am Taliesin; I am a word in letters, a sound on the breath of the wind. I am a wave on the sea, and Great Mannawyddan is my father. I am a spear thrown down from heaven…
These words went spinning through the boy’s head and his spirit quivered as they touched him before winging away into the throbbing obscurity from which they were sprung, leaving their mark on him, a brand seared into his young soul as if with white iron.
I am Taliesin, he thought, singer at the dawn of the age.
The next day, as the remains of the feast were being cleared away, Cormach, Chief Druid of Gwynedd, arrived in Caer Dyvi, alone but for the dun-colored pony he rode. He did not speak to any who stood silently by and watched Mm pass, but went straightway to Hafgan ‘s hut and stopped there.
“Hafgan!” he called.
An instant later Blaise appeared, thrusting his head from behind the yellow oxhide that covered the door of the hut. “Corrnach!” The young man stepped slowly out. “What are – I mean, welcome, Master. How may I serve you?”
“Where is Hafgan? Take me to him.”
“Gladly. Will you walk? It is not far.”
“I will ride,” answered the old roan.
Blaise took the pony’s bridle and led the horse aad its rider back through the hill-fort the way they had come. Once outside the timber gates they turned from the track and headed into the forest, where they struck along a well- worn path among the trees to the clearing Hafgan often used for Talie-sin’s instruction.
As the two entered the clearing they saw the boy and his teacher in a customary pose: Taliesin sitting hunched at Hafgan’s feet, the oak staff across his lap while the druid sat on his stump, eyes closed, listening to his student’s recitation. The pose shifted as the Chief Druid slid from the pony’s back. Hafgan rose and Taliesin jumped to his feet. “Cormach is here!”
“Master, your presence is a joy and a welcome surprise,” said Hafgan. “I trust nothing is wrong in Dolgellau?”
“I came to see the boy, if that is what you mean,” replied Cormach. “I am dying. I wanted to see him once more before I join the Ancient Ones.”
“Dying?” wondered Blaise aloud.
Cormach turned on him. “Nothing wrong with your ears, Blaise. But your tongue could use a tightening.”
Hafgan stared at his master. “How long?” he asked softly.
“I will observe my last Lugnasadh,” he said, tilting his head toward the sky as if he might find the exact moment written there, “but I will not see Samhain again.”
Hafgan accepted this calmly. Blaise pushed forward and asked, “Can anything be done?”
“Oh, yes, something can always be done. Turn back the years, Blaise. Stop time in a jar. Wave your hazel wand and conjure me a young man’s body while you are about it-not that this one has served me ill. Well, what are you staring at? I have told you what to do. Get busy!”
Blaise flushed crimson. Taliesin wondered at the exchange. What was old Cormach so upset about? Surely Blaise’s remark had been spoken out of concern for his one-time master.
“If I have offended you” began Blaise.
Cormach made a face and waved the apology aside before it was finished. “Go and boil me a cabbage for my supper, lad,” he told the filidh. “And put some fish with it if you have any.”
Blaise brightened at once. “I will catch some!” he said, trotting from the clearing.
“Taliesin, come here,” said Hafgan, turning toward the boy. “Cormach wants to speak to you.”
The youngster approached cautiously. He had always stood in awe of Cormach, whose abrupt and sometimes caustic manner often made him appear fierce. Taliesin was not really afraid, merely wary, and anxious in case he should say the wrong thing in front of the Chief Druid.
Taliesin came to stand before the old man. “I am honored, Master,” he replied, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead in the sign of utmost honor and respect.