Fflewddur's legs were growing restless. Since just after dawn, he had been hard at work with the bards in the makeshift Hall of Lore, shut away indoors while a gorgeous day unfolded outside. All morning, the fresh, late spring breeze wafting in through the open windows had tempted him sorely—he imagined he could almost smell the sunlight on the wind—leaving him torn between his two greatest loves, harping and rambling. He tried to keep his attention on that day's work, but it was a losing battle.
"Good, then," Aneirin declared to the group of bards, raising his hands as they reached the end of another long battle lay. "Excellent progress this morning. And now that we have that dragon of a song lashed down to paper, I believe a break is in order. Take an hour's rest and we will begin again this afternoon with the Nine Reflections of Menwy."
As the other bards dispersed, he made his way over to Fflewddur. "And you, Fflewddur—you may have the remainder of the day to do as you wish. That document belongs in the Hall of Bards, so I am afraid we cannot permit you to learn it—yet," he said. "Go take advantage of the lovely afternoon. If I am not mistaken, I believe that tapping foot of yours is demanding some exercise," he added with a wink.
"Oh, I wasn't feeling the least bit restive," Fflewddur replied. "That is to say, not unbearably so. But thank you all the same for the reprieve."
The sage old bard smiled kindly, then turned to gathering up the freshly-inked documents from the central work table. Fflewddur hurried out into the bright sunlight, squinting as his eyes adjusted.
"Hello, you!" came a cheerful greeting from off to his right.
Startled, he stumbled sideways into the doorframe as he passed through, smacking his elbow hard enough to send a tingling bolt into his fingertips. Wincing, he looked over and saw Telyn lounging against the wall just beside the door, her arms crossed, basking in the sunshine.
"Sorry—didn't intend to jolt you like that," she apologized. "Are you quite alright?"
"Oh, no, you didn't startle me in the least," he began.
"So, you deliberately walk into walls, then?" she quipped, not allowing him the chance to finish.
"Hmm. Saw that, did you?" Fflewddur answered ruefully. He rubbed his smarting elbow and wondering whether it hurt more or less than his pride.
"I can pretend I didn't, if you'd like," she offered, eyes twinkling.
"Yes, please, if you don't mind," he replied, shaking out his still-tingling arm.
She favored him with a grin. "So, are you finished for the day, or must you return in the afternoon?"
"Thankfully, I'm done. They'll be transcribing lore that belongs in the Hall of Bards for the remainder of the day, so an unofficial bard like myself isn't invited. Why do you ask?"
Her eyes sparked eagerly. "I thought we might go for a ramble. I need to replenish my supply of medicinal herbs, and what better time than in weather like this? What say you?"
It was Fflewddur's turn to grin. "Great Belin, of course! A Fflam is always ready for an excursion; rambling runs in my blood! Let's set out immediately and not waste another moment," he enthused.
"Wonderful!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together as she pulled away from the wall. "And we can study more plant lore along the way," she added.
Fflewddur's smile faltered. "Oh… yes. Ah… must it involve studying? Not that I mind in the least, but it seems that it might distract you from your own task…"
Telyn pursed her lips in disapproval. "It has been a full week since the last lesson, and once the Great Council begins, we won't have time for it at all. If we wait too long, you'll forget half of what you've already learned."
"Surely not when I've had such a good teacher…" he countered.
"Ha. You won't dissuade me with flattery," she warned. "Your choices are a ramble with me while studying, or an afternoon alone. Which will it be?"
"Such a stern task-mistress you are!" he teased.
"Only to keep you moving forward, my friend," she countered. "If you do attempt the bardic exams again, I couldn't forgive myself if you failed on account of some herb lore questions. Come—we can take food along with us and make a whole day of it. It will be so enjoyable that you won't even notice you're learning."
It was an easy enough decision; Fflewddur would have chosen to spend the afternoon with Telyn even if the questions she posed to him arrived on the tips of spears. She was as quick with a smile and a laugh as she was with banter, and time spent in her company nearly always left him feeling brighter. She did manage to keep the lessons interesting, too, coming up with colorful analogies, anecdotes, or even snatches of song to help him remember how to recognize the various plants and recall their associated legends. No, it wasn't the learning itself he minded—more so the prospect of disappointing her when he inevitably forgot something. But that was hardly reason to turn down her offer. Soon enough, they were on their way.
Riding from Caer Dathyl, they struck out for one of the many streams that wound through the valley below. Several times along the way, Telyn called a halt to point out this herb or that, and collect a few bundles for her own stores. It was a full hour before they reached a point where the stream began to dip in and out of the cool, dappled shade of the surrounding forest. Grasses and gorse transitioned to mosses and lichens, and an earthy dampness suffused the air. They tied up the horses, took a quick break to eat the meal they'd brought, then continued along the stream on foot.
Telyn taught him a few new plants as they went: agrimony and yarrow, to stanch blood and heal wounds; valerian, to promote sleep; and foxglove, if used judiciously, to quiet an irregular heart. Fflewddur tucked clippings of each into a small sack, ostensibly to refer back to later. He always had the best of intentions to study. Somehow, though, they ended up remaining intentions more often than not.
"Oh! Come look at this—" Telyn exclaimed from a little way ahead of him. He picked his way closer through the underbrush and saw her crouching low over a small pool, set off from the main current by a fallen tree. "It's so calm, even in the midst of such turbulence…" For a moment she, too, went still, gazing into the upside-down world where branches became roots and clouds skated among them like pale fish.
Suddenly, something she saw therein made her squint, and she leaned forward onto her hands for a closer look. "Why didn't you tell me my eyes are two different colors?" she exclaimed, abruptly sitting back on her heels and snapping around to face Fflewddur.
"Huh? Oh—well, it's not the sort of thing that comes up in conversation, and it seemed a bit rude to comment otherwise. I wasn't sure whether it was the enchantment that did it or if they had always been thus."
"They certainly have not!" She bent over the pool again for a second look, then trailed her fingertips through the water, breaking the reflection into a swirl of ripples. "Small wonder no one looks me in the eyes for long…" she grumbled.
Fflewddur chuckled. "Oh, I think that has more to do with the ferocity of your gaze than the color of your eyes. It has caught me off-guard more than once myself."
"Hmph," Telyn grunted as she rose and wiped her hands dry on her leggings.
"For what it's worth, I think they're quite lovely," Fflewddur ventured. "It's like having twilight and dawn at the same time. You have a bit of your old self alongside the new—or would that be your new-old self alongside the old-new self?" His brow wrinkled for a moment in thought before he shrugged it off. "No matter. As I said, I rather like them."
Telyn's cheeks turned faintly rosy at the complement. "Well, that's something, I suppose," she said drily, unable to conceal the twitch of a smile. "Still, it makes me uneasy… What else didn't transform back properly? Enchantment… hmph!" She shuddered briefly, as if to shake free of the thought.
"Well, you know my opinion on that matter..." Fflewddur concurred. "Enchantment has always seemed more trouble than it is worth—aside from Eilonwy's bauble, that is, and my old harp."
"Oh, please don't mention your harp," Telyn cut in, looking unexpectedly pained. "It still breaks my heart to think of you sacrificing it. It felt as though I were watching you cut off your own arm."
For that, Fflewddur had no reply. It was an all too accurate description of how he, himself, had felt when he'd burned his beloved instrument to save the companions from a blizzard's wrath. He still felt the phantom weight of it on his shoulder at times, still heard the ghostly twang of snapping strings each time he bent the truth. He never would have guessed that Telyn saw it in the same light, though. Oh, he knew she missed hearing songs played upon it, of course. But for her to understand the deeper loss of it—of identity, of the potential future that it had represented… Such an offhand comment, yet it pulled at something deep within him.
Telyn remained quiet for a while after that, deliberately surveying the vegetation surrounding the stream and pool instead of looking back over at him. "Hmmm… Since we've already stopped here, we might as well study the plants at hand," she declared, abruptly redirecting the conversation.
She clambered further along the bank, stooping intermittently to push aside a branch here and examine a leaf there as she hunted for the particular plants she desired. Fflewddur watched her as she went, marveling yet again at the lithe way she slipped through space: her supple limbs reaching out almost luxuriously, each footfall soft and sure; the tension restrained and then released when she sprang from rock to rock; her slender neck stretched ever so slightly forward as she scouted ahead; the subtle sway of her finely curved hips...
"Aha! Here now—this one," she called out suddenly, waving him over to a sunnier clearing and jolting him from his trance. He followed her summons and found her amid a patch of waist-high, red-stemmed, frothy white flowers. She snapped off a stalk and held it up before his eyes, twirling it slowly, so that he might get a closer look at the dark green leaflets and cloud of tiny blossoms. Then, she abruptly shoved it under his nose. "Here, give it a sniff," she said, while he tried not to sneeze at the ticklish sensation.
He'd caught a hint of the sweet scent as he'd approached the wildflower patch, but up close it was overpowering—familiar, too, like the dried herbs Delyth strewed across the floors back home. Perhaps it was one of the very ones she used?
"This is meadowsweet," Telyn explained. "As legend goes, it was one of the blossoms used to create the flower-woman Blodeuwedd. It's a very useful herb, too: steep the flowers in water and you'll obtain a drink that eases pain. Fortunately, it blooms all summer long, so there is ample time to collect it. You'll usually find it close to water, whether that's a stream or merely some damp soil at a dip in the land. Take a good look and remember it for the next time you have a headache or injury."
She pressed the flower into his hands and strode away again, resuming her search. Fflewddur twirled the stem once more himself, trying to see it as Telyn did—noting the leaves' jagged edges and admiring the way their fuzzy undersides appeared silvery in the light of the sun. He had never considered plants in such detail before they had begun these lessons. Oh, he could tell an oak from a birch and a hazel from a briar, but he had never paid much attention to the finer distinctions of color and texture and leaf shape, or to the way certain plants clustered together like old comrades. Small wonder he had struggled in vain before to learn the plant lore required of bards; studying drawings in dusty old tomes was a far cry from seeing things in the field—or being tutored in them by Telyn.
He looked back up to find she had paused closer to the river, among a thicket of young trees whose roots were partially submerged in the shallows. "You should remember this one…" she called out, then bent a slender branch down once he'd reached her side. The leaves were dark and crinkled, rounded in shape but rough-edged. "It's common near rivers, has long catkins that appear in fall, and bears these odd little seed heads that look like tiny pine cones…" she hinted. "Name it for me."
To Fflewddur's great relief, he did recognize the tree. "Why, that is alder, of course," he stated confidently.
"Yes indeed!" Telyn agreed brightly. "Now, tell me more about it. First, an easy one: is it good for a fire?"
"Not in itself, for it burns too hot and fast. It does yield good charcoal, though." Fflewddur had learned that himself the hard way in the course of his travels. Alder wood fires were hungry beasts, demanding near constant feeding; they'd send you to sleep sweating, only for you to wake shivering an hour later.
"And what other special trait does its wood have?" Telyn went on.
"Water will not cause it to rot, so it can be used to bear up bridges or support houses on soggy ground."
"Very good," she affirmed. "Now for the trickier question: does it have any medicinal use?"
Fflewddur sifted through his memory, trying to envision the setting in which she'd taught him that. At first, all he came up with were images of Telyn herself: stretching gracefully to grasp and pull down a branch; leaning distractingly close as she pointed out notable features of the leaves and twigs; the excitement in her eyes as she gifted her knowledge to him. He rebuked himself for his inattention—or, rather, his attention to things he ought not pay attention to. Oh, the blasted places his mind wandered…
He looked to Telyn, who was patiently awaiting his answer. Finally, the memory of what she'd actually taught him began to materialize in his mind.
"The bark!" he cried suddenly. "The dried inner bark can be boiled down and used to treat inflamed tissues: sore throat, irritated skin, and the like. Rubbed on wounds, it also seems to prevent infection."
"Excellent!" Telyn exclaimed. "And the cones can be used for a liver tonic, too. You see? I knew you could remember such things if you set your mind to it."
Another wave of relief washed over Fflewddur, but it proved short-lived; Telyn was not yet finished with her queries.
"And is alder useful for any other practical purposes?" she asked.
He thought for a moment, trailing his gaze up and down the trees as if he might find the answer perched among their branches. No luck—not even a bird to whistle the answer to him. There was something else, but it had slipped from his memory like the river water flowing between the alders' exposed roots.
"Dye for cloth," she reminded him after a few moments of silence. "Three colors, in fact: red, green, and brown, from its bark, flowers and twigs, in turn. If you'd like to be poetic about it, you could remember it as fire, water, and earth; the alder links all three, from roots to leaves."
Fflewddur nodded, tucking that scrap of information away but wondering contrarily when, aside from the bardic exams themselves, he would ever need to use it.
"All right—while we're on the symbolic path, tell me: which legendary figure is linked to alder?" Telyn asked next.
"Ah, now that I do know," he replied. "That would be Bendigeidvran—Bran the Blessed, Son of Llyr—who led the warriors of Prydain westward to Eire to rescue his beloved sister, Branwen, from her tormentors. A giant he was, who—"
"Splendid!" Telyn cut in before he could wade too deep into the tale and divert the lesson's course. "If you remember as much about every plant we study, you should have no difficulty when the Council of Bards questions you about them."
Heartened by her approval, Fflewddur beamed. Perhaps there was hope for him after all…
"And now," she continued, "spell 'alder' out for me on your hand in finger-Ogham."
His smile evaporated as quickly as it had appeared.
"You don't remember, do you?" she asked, reading the shift in his expression and looking somewhat dismayed herself.
"Of course I remember," Fflewddur scoffed. "Why, I'd happily spell out the entire story of Bran's doomed venture for you here and now, except we'd be here until well past sundown."
"Then it should be no trouble to do what I actually asked, and merely spell 'alder'," Telyn said drily.
"No trouble at all—but to what purpose?" he contended. "To my mind, I don't see why bards should be expected to know Ogham anyway, much less be able to spell it out on their fingers; it's an alphabet from Iwerthon, not Prydain."
Telyn snorted. "Bards are expected to learn it because knowledge is not bound to the limits of our shores. It pays to know the wisdom and poetry of our neighbors—and they have a particularly rich store, from what I've heard." Fflewddur merely huffed in response. "You should count yourself lucky that you're not attempting become a bard there, you know," she went on. "The court bard in Arvon who taught me Ogham was from Iwerthon. He said their highest-ranking bards must undergo twelve years of formal study before they are conferred their titles. He'd given up after eight years and come to Prydain because it was less difficult here."
"Twelve years? Really?" Fflewddur asked, incredulous.
"So he said. Even their unofficial bards are expected to study for at least seven; anything less, and they consider you a lowly minstrel," Telyn confirmed. She crossed her arms resolutely. "So I won't brook any complaints. Now, quit stalling and show me that you can spell 'alder' in finger-Ogham."
"Ah… yes," Fflewddur said hesitantly. "That." He ran a hand nervously over the back of his neck. "Well, the truth of the matter is… I don't quite remember how."
"I knew it!" Telyn crowed, prodding him in the chest with her forefinger and smiling. "Think you can pull one over on me, do you? You ought to know by now that I can smell your bluffing from the opposite side of a mountain."
Fflewddur smiled sheepishly. "Can't blame a fellow for trying, can you?"
Telyn shook her head with a sigh. "You're incorrigible, you know that? All right, I'll show you the alphabet again and we'll keep practicing as we go along."
They spent the next hour or so attending to that and collecting alder bark, before Telyn deemed it time to move on from plants to mushrooms. The previous day's steady rain had sent a fresh crop popping up in every nook and cranny: colorful, spotted ones; ghostly pale ones; slimy and sticky and misshapen ones that no one in their right mind would want to touch, let alone consume. Telyn walked deeper into the forest toward higher ground, rustling through the leaf litter, scavenging the undersides of fallen logs and crevasses between tree roots.
Fflewddur followed with some trepidation. Nearly every time they ventured out, Telyn reviewed the varieties she'd taught him before, and he still couldn't tell a mushroom from a toadstool. No, that wasn't quite true—he now recognized a few of the showier and more unusual-looking varieties. So many of the others looked alike, though—unassuming little brown or white buttons, tantalizing one with the prospect of a meal, but dishing up a potentially deadly mouthful.
"All right, here we go," Telyn said, returning with a specimen in hand. "This is what we shall collect today."
Fflewddur took the mushroom from her and peered at it closely, prodding the cap and flipping it over to examine the underside and stem. It was stout and solid looking, with a fat, pale stalk, and a plump brown cap that looked rather like a toasted loaf of bread.
"That one is called a penny bun," Telyn announced, "on account of the way the cap looks. And see how it has tiny holes dotting the underside, instead of gills? It's quite delicious once it's cooked up. Just do not go trying to collect them without me," she warned, for the umpteenth time. "I don't want to stumble across you doubled-over and turning blue—or worse—one day because you popped the wrong thing into your mouth while out for a stroll. I couldn't bear the guilt on top of the grief."
"Never fear! A Fflam knows when to avoid meddling—and that applies to mushrooms as well as magic," he assured her.
"I do hope so. After all," she added cheekily, "who would sing for me if I lost you?"
"Oho! So, it is only my singing you care about? You wound me, milady!" Fflewddur exclaimed, pressing a hand over his heart in feigned offense.
Telyn grinned. "Well, if you help me harvest more of those penny buns, I will appreciate that, too," she teased. "Come on—they're scattered all over here. Keep that one with you and use it for comparison while you hunt." With that, she casually wandered off again between the trees, leaving Fflewddur to scout for himself.
After another hour of gathering, Telyn at last had the bounty of herbs and mushrooms she desired. It was late afternoon by then, although the sun yet hung high in the sky, moving languidly so close to the cusp of summer. They made their way back to the edge of the woods, freed their horses to have a drink at the river, then took refuge beneath the spreading boughs of a mighty oak to rest for a while. Fflewddur sat at the base of it, leaned his back against the deeply ridged trunk. Telyn lay right upon the ground nearby, hands folded behind her head, gazing up at dancing leaves and the wispy clouds beyond that stretched like horsetails across the azure sky. The fields stretching out before them were boisterously alive—bright with flowers and abuzz with the rattle, chatter, and whir of insect wings. They sat for a good while like that in silence, soaking in the brilliance of it all.
Eventually, though, Fflewddur's thoughts meandered off of their own accord down a darker path—a winding trail of discontent threading through the otherwise tranquil scene. "Telyn… tell me honestly…" he said, absentmindedly plucking apart a fallen leaf, "…do you think it a fool's errand for me to keep attempting to become a bard?"
"Why in the name of Don would I think that?" she asked with no hesitation.
"Oh, I don't know… Sometimes it seems a bit outlandish even to me when I really think on it," he answered. "I mean, consider where I stand: no harp of my own, years older than most aspiring bards, learning to play by muddling my way through it on my own for the most part… And look how today went: I can't seem to remember all of those secret alphabets and what have you to save my life—literally save my life, in the case of knowing which plants and mushrooms are safe to eat. Not exactly a bright prospect, am I?" A long sigh escaped him as he flicked the torn leaf away. "Perhaps I should just fully embrace being a king and have done with it…" he muttered. "Although, I've not done terribly well at that either, have I?"
Telyn shifted onto her stomach, propped herself up on her forearms, and gave him a hard look. "Where is this doubt coming from so suddenly?" she asked. "I thought Fflams were confident to a fault."
Fflewddur replied with a faint, rueful smile. "Ah—well, if I've convinced you of that, then it appears being a good storyteller is one point in my favor."
Telyn's brow furrowed as she continued to scrutinize him, peering beneath the surface of his words. "You are a good man, Fflewddur—better than most. And that ought to be enough," she stated firmly. "I mean that," she reiterated when she saw the skeptical look in his eyes. "Oh, I understand why that might not seem like enough to you, walking as you have among legendary heroes, and High Kings, and enchanters, and the greatest bards in the land, and whatnot. But how many of Prydain's great warriors have fallen while you still stand? How many noble, selfless things have you done for the sake of your friends? Did Taran and Eilonwy forsake eternal life in the Summer Country in order to help this mortal land? You have done no less."
She paused for a beat, her gaze fixed on him, searching. His pensive, dispirited look had hardly faded, although surprise had crept in around the margins. "Listen," she began again. "I will never be the most beautiful woman in Prydain, or the wisest, or the strongest—but I am clever enough, and strong enough, and I have a fierce heart. And that is enough. It has to be—what other choice do I have? What choice does any of us have to be anything other than what we are?"
"And what if 'what I am' turns out not to be a true bard? What then?" he challenged.
"Then so be it," she replied. "But you can't be certain whether or not that is so until you take your final breath. And until then, you can go on trying." She paused once more, thinking. Her voice was a bit softer when next she spoke. "You told me once that it takes more courage to fight when you know you are outmatched than when you know you will win," she reminded him. "And you do fight. You try, and keep on trying, even when you suspect you will fail; so have you always done. I respect that. If you fail the bardic exams one hundred times over, I will still respect you for making the attempt. You should only give up on becoming a true bard if it does not matter to you. And it does seem to matter to you, or you would not be so bothered by the thought that you won't become one."
While Fflewddur stared at her, dumbfounded by the sudden outpouring of encouragement, Telyn flopped once more onto her back, gave a languorous stretch, and returned to cloud-gazing. "And I do think you are capable of becoming a true bard," she added. "And if you won't take my word for it, then remember Taliesin's: 'Your heart has always been the heart of a true bard. Until now, it was unready.' To my mind, that means he deemed you ready now—with a bit more instruction, of course, which is where Caer Dathyl's bards and I come in. It is only a matter of time.
"Now," she went on, "why don't you quit wasting your energy on worrying and spend it instead on singing me a few songs? I haven't heard that one about Medwyn's valley in a while—that would be a nice calming one…"
Fflewddur couldn't think of a single thing to say in response, so he simply obliged Telyn's request: one song, then two, then another and another, until the wave of sound drove away the last whispers of discontentment and doubt. Telyn believed in him… And she wasn't the only one, when he thought on it. So, too, had Braith those many years ago… and his mother… and all of his subjects who'd bade him farewell when he first ventured forth to undertake the bardic exams… and apparently even Taliesin. Lighter of heart, the songs he chose became ever more hopeful as he went along. The sun was shining, summer was just a few breaths away, and the future held great promise.
After singing so many tunes that he lost count, Fflewddur at last trailed back off into silence. Telyn breathed in deeply, then exhaled a contended sigh.
"Could you even imagine a more perfect day than this?" she wondered aloud. "I feel exactly where I belong…"
Fflewddur glanced over and saw that a look of utter bliss had overtaken her: her body relaxed, a subtle smile upon her lips, her eyes bright as they looked to the heavens. A perfect day… Yes, he was inclined to agree—that day, that moment, imperfect as it might have been in a literal sense, felt about as close to perfect as he could ever hope to reach.
Fflewddur didn't see much of Telyn for a few days after that. He was drawn back into full-day work sessions with the bards, and she… well, he didn't quite know what she was up to. And with each passing day, his mood sank a bit lower. Between her relative absence and the persistent drizzle that had settled in over the land, his long days with the bards felt drearier and more tiresome than usual, leaving him wishing he could revisit that glorious sunny day he and Telyn had shared, if only for a little while.
Returning to his chamber one night after a particularly taxing day, he spied a small earthen jar sitting in front of his door. Curious, he stooped to pluck the tiny vessel from the floor. There was a tag of some sort attached: a scrap of folded parchment tied to the lid of the jar with twine. He flipped it open to find a note within, penned in a firm but fluid hand:
Alder bark decoction, to soothe a sore throat after long hours spent singing with the bards—or singing for me. Take one spoonful in hot water or wine. It will taste bitter, but the relief will be sweet. A better gift than dead mice on your doorstep, no?
Telyn. She'd added her name at the bottom—cheekily, in Ogham—as if it could be anyone else, as if he wouldn't recognize her script on sight, as if any other would think of him so. The pervasive dampness and dreariness fell away in an instant as a warmth like sunshine bloomed, rich and full, within his chest. That humble little jar, to him, was a finer gift than gold.
.
A/N: Posting early this week, just because I'm an impatient sort at times.
Much credit on this chapter goes to Robert Graves' The White Goddess: A Historical Grammar of Poetic Myth, from which I gleaned much of the information on plant symbolism/uses and Irish bardic traditions.
