CHAPTER 30

Ogof Angharad

It had taken far longer to reach the cave than she hoped. The deep snow underfoot made for slow going, and now, as Angharad toiled up the long steep track leading to the rock cave, she wished she had left Cel Craidd earlier. Already, there were stars peeping between the clouds to the east; it would be dark before she could get a fire going. Exhausted, she paused and sat on the cracked bole of a fallen tree to rest for a moment and catch her breath for the final climb up to the cave entrance.

She listened to the silence of the forest, keen ears straining for wayward sounds. All she heard was the tick of branches settling in the evening air and, far off, the rasping call of a rook coming in to roost. The distant, lonely sound moved her unexpectedly. She loved the winter and the night. She loved the forest, and all its wonders-just one of innumerable gifts bestowed by a wildly benevolent Creator.

"Before Thee, may I be forever bowing, Kindly King of All Creation," sighed Angharad, the prayer rising gently upward with the visible mist of her breath. And then, leaning on her staff, much more heavily than before, she continued on her way.

Upon reaching the small level clearing halfway up the hill, she paused again to catch her breath. The day would come when she would no longer have the strength to climb up to her ogof, her cave house.

The snow lay undisturbed, deep and crisp and white before the open black entrance. All was as it should be, so she moved quickly inside, throwing off her tuck bag and cloak at the threshold. Then, gathering the dry kindling from its place by the cave mouth, she carried it to the fire ring. Working in utter darkness, her deft fingers found the steel and flint and wisps of birch bark, and soon the rosy bloom of a fire was spreading up through the mass of broken twigs. With patience born of long practice, Angharad shepherded the flames, slowly feeding in larger branches until the fire spread its rosy glow over the interior of the cave.

Rising from her knees, she removed her shoes and her wet, cold robe and drew the undershift over her head, then hung the damp garments from hooks set in the rock walls of the cave so that they could dry. She unrolled her favourite bearskin nearer the still-growing fire and lay down. Closing her eyes, she luxuriated in the blessed warmth seeping into her ancient bones.

After a time, she roused herself, and, wrapping herself in a dry cloak she kept in a basket in the cave, she began to prepare a simple meal, singing as she worked. She sang: O Wise Head, Rock and Redeemer,In my deeds, in my words, in my wishes,In my reason, and in the fulfilling of my desires, be Thou. In my sleep, in my dreams, in my repose, In my thoughts, in my heart and soul always, be Thou. And may the promised Son of Princely Peace dwell, Aye! in my heart and soul always. May the long-awaited Son of Glory dwell in me.

Taking the stone lid from a jar, she placed a double handful of barley meal into a wooden bowl, adding a splash of water from the stoup and a bit of lard from the leather tuck bag she had brought with her. She kneaded the dough and set it aside to rest while she filled her kettle and put it on the fire to boil. Next she formed the dough into small cakes and set them on the rounded stones of the fire ring.

Then, while waiting for the water to boil and the cakes to bake, she resumed her song… In my sleep, in my dreams, in my repose, In my thoughts, in my heart and soul always, be Thou. Thou, a bright flame before me be, Thou, a guiding star above me be, Thou, a smooth path below me be, And Thou a stout shield behind me be, Today, tonight, and ever more. This day, this night, and forever more Come I to Thee, Jesu- Jesu, my Druid and my Peace.

She rested, listening to the fire as the flames devoured the fuel and the water bubbled in the kettle. When the water reached the boil, she roused herself and turned the cakes. Then she rose and, taking a handful of dried herbs and roots from another of her many jars and baskets, she cast the stuff into the steaming bath, removing the kettle from the fire to allow the mixture to steep and cool.

When it was ready, she poured some of the potion into a wooden bowl and drank it, savouring the mellow, calming effect of the brew as it eased the stiffness in her old muscles. She ate a few of the cakes, and felt her strength returning. The warmth of the fire and food, combined with the exertions of the last days, made her drowsy.

Yawning, she rose and carried some more wood to the hearth so that it would be close to hand. Then, banking the fire for the night, she lay down to sleep. She stretched out on the bearskin, and pulled her cloak over her and along with it a covering made from the downy pelt of a young fallow deer. There was no special significance to these but, like the wise women of old who esteemed the hides of the red ox for qualities friendly to dreams and visions, Angharad had always had good luck with this particular combination.

At once, exhaustion from her long walk overwhelmed her and dragged her down into the depths of unknowing. She fell asleep with the words of her song still echoing through her mind and heart… In my sleep, in my dreams, in my repose, In my thoughts, in my heart and soul always, be Thou. Thou, a bright flame before me be, Thou, a guiding star above me be, Thou, a smooth path below me be, And Thou a stout shield behind me be, Today, tonight, and ever more.

She had come to her cave to dream. She had come to think, and to spend time alone, away from Bran and the others, in order to discern the possible paths opening before them into the future. Following the last raid, the feeling had come upon her that Bran stood at a crossing of the ways.

It may have been the appearance of the baron's odd gifts-the gold ring and embroidered gloves and mysterious letter-which filled her with sick apprehension. But the count's swift retaliation in burning the forest indicated that the theft was far more damaging than any of them had yet suspected.

This did seem to be the case. Whatever value those particular objects possessed was far beyond silver or gold; it was measured in life and death. This is what concerned Angharad most of all. Not since the coming of King Raven to the greenwood had anything like this happened; she did not know what it meant, and not knowing made her uneasy. So she had come to her snug ogof to seek an answer.

All along the way, as she trudged through the deep-drifted snow, she had turned this over in her mind. As her aged body stumped along, her agile mind ranged far and wide through time and realms of ancient lore, searching out the more obscure pathways of knowledge and knowing, means now largely forgotten.

As a child, sitting at the feet of Delyth, her people's wise hudolion, little Angharad had seen how the old woman had cast a pinch of dry herb powder into the flames as she stirred her porridge. Taking a deep breath, she had announced that the hunting party that had been away for three days was returning.

"Go, Bee." That was her nickname for young Angharad. "Go tell the queen to fill the ale vat and fire the roasting pit, for her husband will soon arrive." Angharad knew better than to question her banfaith, so she jumped up and darted off to deliver the message. "Three pigs and four stags," Delyth called as the youngster scampered away. "Tell her we will be entertaining strangers as well."

Before the sun had quartered the sky, the hunting party rode into the settlement leading pack animals bearing the dressed carcases of three big boars and four red deer stags. With them, as the banfaith had said, were strangers: three men and two boys from Penllyn, a cantref to the north, who were to be their guests.

That was not the first or last time she had witnessed such foretelling of events, but it was the time she asked how the banfaith gained this knowledge. "Knowledge is easy," the old woman told her. "Wisdom is hard."