Hiraeth a Cynefin. Helena Sobolevskaya

and the potion became blood. And Cerridwen awoke.

      “What have you done, Gwydion son of Don? What didn’t you tell me?”

      “You have to chase him. You have to chase him until the sun dies. He has to be reborn. Don’t ask me, Cerridwen… that is all I know’.

      She looked at him, pale and trembling. Never before did she see great Gwydion in such state. Into a greyhound she turned, and the chase began.

      Through guises and faces, through valleys and hills she chased him- and finally, devoured him on a guise of a black, red crested hen.

      In nine months she bore him, a boy that outshone the sun. Nine days she sang to him, blessing him, and couldn’t let him go. Tegid Foel, her husband, had to step in. Wrapping the child in silks and furs, he put him in a coracle and sent him down the stream….

      That is how the tale goes. The true tale – not the one you’ve heard so many a time. And what became of Gwydion, do you ask? He returned to his uncle’s court, and after that his legend became his own. As for Cerridwen, she kept on watching over Taliesin – for that was Gwion Bach’s new name.

      How do I know that? Gwydion is my name, and this is the story

      Hanes Taliesin: Cerridwen

      It’s been a week since Cerridwen, the wife of King Tegid, was last seen in the Great Hall. It’s been a week since she last sang lullabies to her two children, spoke to her husband or ate, for that matter. No one in her household knew where their mistress was, or what she could be up to. Something was wrong in the house, something was on so wrong – and only Tegid Foel, wisest among kings, knew where his fair wife was. After all, they were married for many a year, and he learned to understand her – and to the best of his ability, foresee the difficulties. Now was the time to act, and he was ready to be as kind to her as he could, without being too soft-hearted, though, for he knew he had to reason her from her hysteric state.

      She must be in pieces, he thought, making his way to her hut in the woods. She must be, for she has given birth, and having witnessed it twice before, he knew it wasn’t easy. She always had a hard time in labor, he recalled. When Morfran was born, she almost died, so hard it was. Little Creirwy’s birth was easier, but with Creirwy, it was always easier. At nine, she was the perfect daughter, obedient and kind, clever and obliging, and so lovely- Tegid Foel felt his heart swelling with pride and love. His daughter was everything to him, and they were close – much closer than they were with Cerridwen, but who could blame her?

      Marrying Cerridwen wasn’t easy. Living with her wasn’t easy. Nothing was easy when it came to Cerridwen, yet he cared, he loved and he never left her side. She was the best wife he could have wished for, and Tegid’s life was pure bliss – up to this day.

      When he reached the hut, the sun was high up in the sky, the birds sang merrily all around- yet it was quiet by Ceridwen’s abode. Not a sound came out, and though Tegid Foel was keen at hearing, he could not discern a single sound. Something was wrong here, and it was up to him to make it right.

      Three times he knocked, and no answer came. Cautiously he entered, and froze rooted to the spot: no one was inside, no one except a tiny babe, wrapped in silken covers, fast asleep in a cradle. Tegid knew this cradle well – nine years ago he carved it himself for Creirwy, and it hasn’t been used since then. Made of ash, and masterfully decorated, it was his first gift to his first child, his golden girl.

      Upon seeing her, he thought he’d never seen a more wondrous child. She was beautiful even then, five minutes after being born – but this child took his breath away. She told him of course, that it would be a child born of magic, with no mortal father – and Tegid was no stranger to magic himself, being who he was- but he was quite unprepared for what he saw.

      This child was, at the mildest, humblest words, radiant. His eyes, wide open, were the color of the summer skies, his expression – perfectly conscious, calm and serene. Tegid thought, taken aback by this, that the child not only saw him, but knew who he was. Kneeling by the cradle, Tegid smiled at the babe, and the babe smiled back, reaching its hand towards Tegid.

      “You’re brave, aren’t you, Taliesin?” He murmured.

      “How did you call him?”

      Tegid Foel looked up. Cerridwen stood there, her face pale as mist, eyes dark, hair falling in uncombed curls down to her waist.

      “Taliesin’ he said.” I called him Taliesin. That is one radiant brow, innit?”

      “Taliesin’ she mused.” Taliesin… That is the name he was born to have, then’.

      “Ceri, cariad’ the talk wasn’t going to be easy. But then again, with Cerridwen, nothing was.