Helena Sobolevskaya "Hiraeth a Cynefin"

Hiraeth aВ Cynefin
Helena Sobolevskaya

This book grew in telling, as all stories do. Through the birth of my children, and personal gnosis, it came through, and now it is free to make its own way.

Hiraeth aВ Cynefin

Helena Sobolevskaya

© Helena Sobolevskaya, 2022

ISBNВ 978-5-0056-7989-5

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Hiraeth aВ Cynefin: The call ofВ Taliesin

You are calling me. Incessantly, beating wildly inВ my ears, haunting me, following me, no matter where IВ go.

Your words echo inВ my heart, weaving glistening spirals, drawing endless paths through deep forests. Your tales come alive inВ my every dream, your voice sings inВ my head, charming and bewitching me, no matter where IВ go.

Cynefin

The land of my fathers, the land I once knew, is hidden in the mists of time. It lies beyond the haze of yesterdays, the ages that have come and gone. The place I once loved is no longer mine, yet I remember it still – the castle on the hill, the swift river of silver and white, running its course below the castle walls.

Hiraeth

I remember everything, yet it is no longer mine. The man, taller than many, dressed in greens and gold, his hair auburn as the young fall, his eyes – the multitude of forest greens. His voice, soft and quiet, yet at times- harsh and thunderous. His hands, caressing the silver harp, his fingers long and strong.

Cynefin

The life unknown, the life gone, the life unreachable- that once was mine. IВ remember it all, as well as IВ remember the names. The name ofВ the land my heart still aches for, and the name ofВ the man, who is now aВ legend.

Hiraeth

That is all IВ have left now. The names and feelings. Places and faces. Cynefin and hiraeth. Cymru. Taliesin. Aneurin.

The story now lost.

Forever.

Till the hiraeth runsВ dry.

When the time comes
For the bard toВ leave
The hillsВ open
And the Neighbors greetВ him
As if he were one ofВ theirВ own.

When the time comes
For the bard toВ flourish
The hillsВ open
And the Fair ones blessВ him
With the gift ofВ the flowing verse.

When the time comes
For the bard toВ sing
The hillsВ open
And the Awen shines
Brighter than theВ sun.

Then the world stops
As there is noВ time
But eternity
For the one who sings.

When the moment is right
Everything falls into place.
Heed myВ word
For it is me who tells you this:

Nothing is impossible for the one wishing toВ hear,
Nothing is impossible for the one ready toВ sing

Hanes Taliesin: Gwydion

…and she chose a young boy by the name of Gwion Bach to tend the cauldron, and an old blind man called Mordda, to keep the flame…

That’s how the legend goes; but be aware of legends, for they can cloud the judgement and their ways are of the morning mist that creeps from nowhere only to cover the truth with seemingness.

I will tell you this story as you’ve never heard it before, for I was there, and none other but me can tell it – after all, they call me the greatest storyteller for a reason. And now- to the story itself, for we have no time to linger.

There was, once, aВ mighty sorceress byВ the name ofВ Cerridwen, who was also called Ogyrwen, or all-knowing, who lived close toВ the lake ofВ Bala. So wise was she that gods themselves asked for her advice, and Gwydion was no exception. His deeds were many, and most ofВ them though done with best intentions, backfired on him inВ such aВ manner that he had toВ resolve much at the same time.

When he was young and far more careless, he met a maid, golden-haired and fair, and wooed her. And by the Calan Mai she gave birth to a boy, so fair in looks that sunlight couldn’t rival him. And, as she bore him by the brook, she called him Gwion Bach, meaning “little stream’. For a time, Gwydion was happy and content, but his nature made him leave the child and his mother – and he never saw them again for years to come.

Six years passed, and aВ strange dream began haunting Gwydion. Immediately he understood that his son was inВ danger- for aВ small brook inВ the valley became blood, boiling so vehemently that it turned toВ poison. He loved the boy, and so he rode toВ the village he left him at all those yearsВ ago.

Upon arriving, he found him toВ be an orphan, for his young mother fell ill and died inВ winter time, and there was no one toВ look after the boy. Bright and clever the lad was, and Gwydion marveled at his will and talents, but remembering the dream, he decided toВ visit Cerridwen toВ seek her advice. So he left the child for aВ day, and rode off toВ Caer Tegid, whence she lived with her husband Tegid Foel and two children.

The storm drove him to her door well past midnight, and the house was already silent when he knocked. Cerridwen’s acumen however prepared her for a visit. For three nights she couldn’t sleep, for in her dreams a great Cauldron boiled and broke with a cry, and blood poured out of it, poisoning the glen.

Gwydion fell on his knees and implored Cerridwen toВ helpВ him.

“Save my son! “He cried. “Save him for I can see the danger coming, and I cannot see its face. I have tried everything but still it grows and all I know is that I have to hide him.”

“You have nowhere to turn’ Cerridwen told him “Wherever you go, trouble follows’.

But she agreed toВ shelter the boy, and Gwydion though still troubled, rode back toВ get him. Having arrived he saw that the storm wiped the village clean, killing many and leaving many homeless. OfВ all children ofВ the village only Gwion was left alive. ToВ his horror, Gwydion realized the storm was ofВ magic, and judging byВ the outcome, it had been raging for weeks.

Cerridwen loved little Gwion from the first glance, and her children took him in unquestioningly and with open hearts. Gwydion and Cerridwen agreed that Gwion would stay for a year and a day – and Gwydion would watch over him in the guise of an old man, so if danger comes, he’d be there to ward it.

Meanwhile Cerridwen was to prepare a potion so mighty that if overdone it would turn to poison- for Gwion’s fate depended on it. It fell upon Cerridwen to make the boy a prophet and a bard unrivalled and a magician unequalled, and for hours she toiled and brewed, and on Nos Calan Gaeaf the brew was done.

Tired, she fell asleep, leaving Gwydion still disguised as an old man, and Gwion to tend the cauldron. And as she slept, the potion began to boil, and turned gold, and red, and white – and Gwion stirred and stirred, as he was taught, and nothing came of it. And three drops jumped out, and landed on his chest, and he cried.

Great lighting came out ofВ the sky, as it darkened, and Gwydion became himself again, rising from the ground. Loud was his voice as he cried,