THE ADVENTURES OF THE GODS OF HADES
It is with the family of Pwyll, deities connected with the south-west
corner of Wales, called by the Romans Demetia, and by the Britons Dyfed,
and, roughly speaking, identical with the modern county of
Pembrokeshire, that the earliest consecutive accounts of the British
gods begin. The first of the Four Branches of the Mabinogi tell us how
“Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed”, gained the right to be called _Pen Annwn_, the
“Head of Hades”. Indeed, it almost seems as if it had been deliberately
written to explain how the same person could be at once a mere mortal
prince, however legendary, and a ruler in the mystic Other World, and so
to reconcile two conflicting traditions.[330] But to an earlier age than
that in which the legend was put into a literary shape, such forced
reconciliation would not have been needed; for the two legends would not
have been considered to conflict. When Pwyll, head of Annwn, was a
mythic person whose tradition was still alive, the unexplored, rugged,
and savage country of Dyfed, populated by the aboriginal Iberians whom
the Celt had driven into such remote districts, appeared to those who
dwelt upon the eastern side of its dividing river, the Tawë, at least a
dependency of Annwn, if not that weird realm itself. But, as men grew
bolder, the frontier was crossed, and Dyfed entered and traversed, and
found to be not so unlike other countries. Its inhabitants, if not of
Celtic race, were yet of flesh and blood. So that, though the province
still continued to bear to a late date the names of the “Land of
Illusion” and the “Realm of Glamour”,[331] it was no longer deemed to be
Hades itself. That fitful and shadowy country had folded its tents, and
departed over or under seas.
The story of “Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed”,[332] tells us how there was war
in Annwn between its two kings—or between two, perhaps, of its many
chieftains. Arawn (“Silver-Tongue”) and Havgan (“Summer-White”) each
coveted the dominions of the other. In the continual contests between
them, Arawn was worsted, and in despair he visited the upper earth to
seek for a mortal ally.
At this time Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed, held his court at Narberth. He had,
however, left his capital upon a hunting expedition to Glyn Cûch, known
to-day as a valley upon the borders of the two counties of Pembroke and
Carmarthen. Like so many kings of European and Oriental romance, when an
adventure is at hand, he became separated from his party, and was, in
modern parlance, “thrown out”. He could, however, still hear the music
of his hounds, and was listening to them, when he also distinguished the
cry of another pack coming towards him. As he watched and listened, a
stag came into view; and the strange hounds pulled it down almost at his
feet. At first Pwyll hardly looked at the stag, he was so taken up with
gazing at the hounds, for “of all the hounds that he had seen in the
world, he had never seen any that were like unto these. For their hair
was of a brilliant shining white, and their ears were red; and as the
whiteness of their bodies shone, so did the redness of their ears
glisten.” They were, indeed, though Pwyll does not seem to have known
it, of the true Hades breed—the snow-white, red-eared hounds we meet in
Gaelic legends, and which are still said to be sometimes heard and seen
scouring the hills of Wales by night. Seeing no rider with the hounds,
Pwyll drove them away from the dead stag, and called up his own pack to
it.
While he was doing this, a man “upon a large, light-gray steed, with a
hunting-horn round his neck, and clad in garments of gray woollen in the
fashion of a hunting garb” appeared, and rated Pwyll for his
unsportsmanlike conduct. “Greater discourtesy,” said he, “I never saw
than your driving away my dogs after they had killed the stag, and
calling your own to it. And though I may not be revenged upon you for
this, I swear that I will do you more damage than the value of a hundred
stags.”
Pwyll expressed his contrition, and, asking the new-comer’s name and
rank, offered to atone for his fault. The stranger told his name—Arawn,
a king of Annwn—and said that Pwyll could gain his forgiveness only in
one way, by going to Annwn instead of him, and fighting for him with
Havgan. Pwyll agreed to do this, and the King of Hades put his own
semblance upon the mortal prince, so that not a person in Annwn—not even
Arawn’s own wife—would know that he was not that king. He led him by a
secret path into Annwn, and left him before his castle, charging him to
return to the place where they had first met, at the end of a year from
that day. On the other hand, Arawn took on Pwyll’s shape, and went to
Narberth.
No one in Annwn suspected Pwyll of being anyone else than their king. He
spent the year in ruling the realm, in hunting, minstrelsy, and
feasting. Both by day and night, he had the company of Arawn’s wife, the
most beautiful woman he had ever yet seen, but he refrained from taking
advantage of the trust placed in him. At last the day came when he was
to meet Havgan in single combat. One blow settled it; for Pwyll,
Havgan’s destined conqueror, thrust his antagonist an arm’s and a
spear’s length over the crupper of his horse, breaking his shield and
armour, and mortally wounding him. Havgan was carried away to die, and
Pwyll, in the guise of Arawn, received the submission of the dead king’s
subjects, and annexed his realm. Then he went back to Glyn Cûch, to keep
his tryst with Arawn.
They retook their own shapes, and each returned to his own kingdom.
Pwyll learned that Dyfed had never been ruled so well, or been so
prosperous, as during the year just passed. As for the King of Hades, he
found his enemy gone, and his domains extended. And when he caressed his
wife, she asked him why he did so now, after the lapse of a whole year.
So he told her the truth, and they both agreed that they had indeed got
a true friend in Pwyll.
After this, the kings of Annwn and Dyfed made their friendship strong
between them. From that time forward, says the story, Pwyll was no
longer called Prince of Dyfed, but _Pen Annwn_, “the Head of Hades”.
The second mythological incident in the Mabinogi of Pwyll, Prince of
Dyfed, tells how the Head of Hades won his wife, Rhiannon, thought by
Professor Rhys to have been a goddess either of the dawn or of the
moon.[333] There was a mound outside Pwyll’s palace at Narberth which
had a magical quality. To anyone who sat upon it there happened one of
two things: either he received wounds and blows, or else he saw a
wonder. One day, it occurred to Pwyll that he would like to try the
experience of the mound. So he went and sat upon it.
No unseen blows assailed Pwyll, but he had not been sitting long upon
the mound before he saw, coming towards him, “a lady on a pure-white
horse of large size, with a garment of shining gold around her”, riding
very quietly. He sent a man on foot to ask her who she was, but, though
she seemed to be moving so slowly, the man could not come up to her. He
failed utterly to overtake her, and she passed on out of sight.
The next day, Pwyll went again to the mound. The lady appeared, and,
this time, Pwyll sent a horseman. At first, the horseman only ambled
along at about the same pace at which the lady seemed to be going; then,
failing to get near her, he urged his horse into a gallop. But, whether
he rode slow or fast, he could come no closer to the lady than before,
although she seemed to the eyes of those who watched to have been going
only at a foot’s pace.
The day after that, Pwyll determined to accost the lady himself. She
came at the same gentle walk, and Pwyll at first rode easily, and then
at his horse’s topmost speed, but with the same result, or lack of it.
At last, in despair, he called to the mysterious damsel to stop. “I will
stop gladly,” said she, “and it would have been better for your horse if
you had asked me before.” She told him that her name was Rhiannon,
daughter of Heveydd the Ancient. The nobles of her realm had determined
to give her in marriage against her will, so she had come to seek out
Pwyll, who was the man of her choice. Pwyll was delighted to hear this,
for he thought that she was the most beautiful lady he had ever seen.
Before they parted, they had plighted troth, and Pwyll had promised to
appear on that day twelvemonth at the palace of her father, Heveydd.
Then she vanished, and Pwyll returned to Narberth.
At the appointed time, Pwyll went to visit Heveydd the Ancient, with a
hundred followers. He was received with much welcome, and the
disposition of the feast put under his command, as the Celts seem to
have done to especially honoured guests. As they sat at meat, with Pwyll
between Rhiannon and her father, a tall auburn-haired youth came into
the hall, greeted Pwyll, and asked a boon of him. “Whatever boon you may
ask of me,” said Pwyll thoughtlessly, “if it is in my power, you shall
have it.” Then the suitor threw off all disguise, called the guests to
witness Pwyll’s promise, and claimed Rhiannon as his bride. Pwyll was
dumb. “Be silent as long as you will,” said the masterful Rhiannon;
“never did a man make worse use of his wits than you have done.” “Lady,”
replied the amazed Pwyll, “I knew not who he was.” “He is the man to
whom they would have given me against my will,” she answered, “Gwawl,
the son of Clûd. You must bestow me upon him now, lest shame befall
you.” “Never will I do that,” said Pwyll. “Bestow me upon him,” she
insisted, “and I will cause that I shall never be his.” So Pwyll
promised Gwawl that he would make a feast that day year, at which he
would resign Rhiannon to him.
The next year, the feast was made, and Rhiannon sat by the side of her
unwelcome bridegroom. But Pwyll was waiting outside the palace, with a
hundred men in ambush. When the banquet was at its height, he came into
the hall, dressed in coarse, ragged garments, shod with clumsy old
shoes, and carrying a leather bag. But the bag was a magic one, which
Rhiannon had given to her lover, with directions as to its use. Its
quality was that, however much was put into it, it could never be
filled. “I crave a boon,” he said to Gwawl. “What is it?” Gwawl replied.
“I am a poor man, and all I ask is to have this bag filled with meat.”
Gwawl granted what he said was “a request within reason”, and ordered
his followers to fill the bag. But the more they put into it, the more
room in it there seemed to be. Gwawl was astonished, and asked why this
was. Pwyll replied that it was a bag that could never be filled until
someone possessed of lands and riches should tread the food down with
both his feet. “Do this for the man,” said Rhiannon to Gwawl. “Gladly I
will,” replied he, and put both his feet into the bag. But no sooner had
he done so than Pwyll slipped the bag over Gwawl’s head, and tied it up
at the mouth. He blew his horn, and all his followers came in. “What
have you got in the bag?” asked each one in turn. “A badger,” replied
Pwyll. Then each, as he received Pwyll’s answer, kicked the bag, or hit
it with a stick. “Then,” says the story, “was the game of ‘Badger in the
Bag’ first played.”
Gwawl, however, fared better than we suspect that the badger usually
did; for Heveydd the Ancient interceded for him. Pwyll willingly
released him, on condition that he promised to give up all claim to
Rhiannon, and renounced all projects of revenge. Gwawl consented, and
gave sureties, and went away to his own country to have his bruises
healed.
This country of Gwawl’s was, no doubt, the sky; for he was evidently a
sun-god. His name bewrays him; for the meaning of “Gwawl” is
“light”.[334] It was one of the hours of victory for the dark powers,
such as were celebrated in the Celtic calendar by the Feast of Samhain,
or Summer End.
There was no hindrance now to the marriage of Pwyll and Rhiannon. She
became his bride, and returned with him to Dyfed.
For three years, they were without an heir, and the nobles of Dyfed
became discontented. They petitioned Pwyll to take another wife instead
of Rhiannon. He asked for a year’s delay. This was granted, and, before
the end of the year, a son was born. But, on the night of his birth, the
six women set to keep watch over Rhiannon all fell asleep at once; and
when they woke up, the boy had vanished. Fearful lest their lives should
be forfeited for their neglect, they agreed to swear that Rhiannon had
eaten her child. They killed a litter of puppies, and smeared some of
the blood on Rhiannon’s face and hands, and put some of the bones by her
side. Then they awoke her with a great outcry, and accused her. She
swore that she knew nothing of the death of her son, but the women
persisted that they had seen her devour him, and had been unable to
prevent it. The druids of that day were not sufficiently practical
anatomists to be able to tell the bones of a child from those of a dog,
so they condemned Rhiannon upon the evidence of the women. But, even
now, Pwyll would not put her away; so she was assigned a penance. For
seven years, she was to sit by a horse-block outside the gate, and offer
to carry visitors into the palace upon her back. “But it rarely
happened,” says the Mabinogi, “that any would permit her to do so.”
Exactly what had become of Rhiannon’s child seems to have been a mystery
even to the writer of the Mabinogi. It was, at any rate, in some way
connected with the equally mysterious disappearance on every night of
the first of May—Beltaine, the Celtic sun-festival—of the colts foaled
by a beautiful mare belonging to Teirnyon Twryv Vliant, one of Pwyll’s
vassals. Every May-day night, the mare foaled, but no one knew what
became of the colt. Teirnyon decided to find out. He caused the mare to
be taken into a house, and there he watched it, fully armed. Early in
the night, the colt was born. Then there was a great noise, and an arm
with claws came through the window, and gripped the colt’s mane.
Teirnyon hacked at the arm with his sword, and cut it off. Then he heard
wailing, and opened the door, and found a baby in swaddling clothes,
wrapped in a satin mantle. He took it up and brought it to his wife, and
they decided to adopt it. They called the boy Gwri Wallt Euryn, that is
“Gwri of the Golden Hair”.
The older the boy grew, the more it seemed to Teirnyon that he became
like Pwyll. Then he remembered that he had found him upon the very night
that Rhiannon lost her child. So he consulted with his wife, and they
both agreed that the baby they had so mysteriously found must be the
same that Rhiannon had so mysteriously lost. And they decided that it
would not be right for them to keep the son of another, while so good a
lady as Rhiannon was being punished wrongfully.
So, the very next day, Teirnyon set out for Narberth, taking the boy
with him. They found Rhiannon sitting, as usual, by the gate, but they
would not allow her to carry them into the palace on her back. Pwyll
welcomed them; and that evening, as they sat at supper, Teirnyon told
his hosts the story from beginning to end. And he presented her son to
Rhiannon.
As soon as everyone in the palace saw the boy, they admitted that he
must be Pwyll’s son. So they adopted him with delight; and Pendaran
Dyfed, the head druid of the kingdom, gave him a new name. He called him
“Pryderi[335]”, meaning “trouble”, from the first word that his mother
had uttered when he was restored to her. For she had said: “_Trouble_
is, indeed, at an end for me, if this be true”.
-----
Footnote 330:
Rhys: _Studies in the Arthurian Legend_, p. 282.
Footnote 331:
It is constantly so-called by the fourteenth-century Welsh poet,
Dafydd ab Gwilym, so much admired by George Borrow.
Footnote 332:
This chapter is retold from Lady Guest’s translation of the Mabinogi
of _Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed_.
Footnote 333:
Rhys: _Hibbert Lectures_, p. 678.
Footnote 334:
Rhys: _Hibbert Lectures_, p. 123 and note. Clûd was probably the
goddess of the River Clyde. See Rhys: _Arthurian Legend_, p. 294.
Footnote 335:
Pronounced _Pridaíry_.
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