THE WILD HUNT OF SLIABH MANNAN
Philip Brian Hall
A hero may climb high alone, so our Celtic cousins say, but no man earns immortal renown unless raised up by the gods. In Wales, of course, we know better. The greatest heroes of all are those who can shift the gods out of their way.
One freezing day, Cunedda had scrambled up the rugged scarp face of Sliabh Mannan, far above the grassy and fertile carse where the peat huts and sheepfolds of the Gododdin huddled together for warmth beside the estuary of the great river. Gaining the ridge, he stood upright and looked about him, seeking traces of the furtive roe deer that he had tracked so far above the tree line.
He was the sole human occupant of the harsh wilderness into which winter’s terrible magic had transformed the high moors. With an ironic smile, Cunedda recalled the old prophecy. He had grown into adulthood as a great hunter, slayer of men and wolves that threatened his tribe, but at his birth he had seemed marked for nobler things. His wrinkled grandmother, almost forty years old and possessed of the sight, had taken the newborn babe into her arms and enigmatically declared his destiny to be royal. Well, perhaps on this sparkling, magical day the prophecy was fulfilled. Today he was High King; lord of all this lofty emptiness.
Below him, dense cloud flooded the valleys, narrowing the whole visible world to a few snowy summits. Like an archipelago of barren, windswept islands girt by a limitless gray sea, only the highest plateaus of the upland moors reared above the silently roiling vapor.
Buzzards, soaring in circles high in the limpid air, were the sole living things to be seen moving; the scavengers’ occasional mewing the only sound disturbing a monochrome realm where scrawny tufts of heather clung tenaciously to craggy fissures in exposed outcrops of millstone grit, where gray wildcats ghosted by night and gray wolves by day.
Presently he found a snow-free patch where the deer had lain down to rest in the lee of the summit, sheltering from the icy blast. The north wind atop Sliabh Mannan was truly cold as the grave. If the tribal bards were to be believed, it blew directly from The Otherworld, the dismal realm of the black-faced god Gwynn ap Nudd, where the uncharitable dead who never in life gave shelter nor cloak to a needy neighbor now shivered naked in endless icy torment.
The deer scrape was deserted and already the frost was reasserting its hold on the flattened and broken stalks of sedge. The tracks milled about and Cunedda could not be sure in which direction his quarry had gone. Trusting that the deer would naturally prefer to linger close to the easier grazing of the carse, he had just turned his head towards the east when, faintly at first, he heard upon the wind an incongruous sound.
The Gododdin did not hunt with packs of hounds, nor on horseback. True, they kept a few dogs to help with the sheep and to keep watch over the village at night. They had one or two shaggy, short-legged garrons to carry down from the moor the carcasses of deer that were too large for a man to sling across his shoulders; these ponies were seldom ridden. But the cries drifting to his ears suggested at least a score of hounds and a large mounted field behind them. What was more the pack was running hard, in hot pursuit of some speedy quarry.
Cunedda swore under his breath. He had no idea who was disturbing the virgin solitude of the moor. The few remaining Romans never ventured so far from their warmer lands to the south. Whoever this was had ruined his hunting for the day. Every deer for miles would be alerted and dashing away as fast as they could lay hooves to the ground. He had trekked into the hills and endured the cold of the uplands for nothing.
Since a little more noise could make no difference, he drove his spear into a wind-scoured patch of snow and beat together his mittened hands, blowing upon them in an attempt to restore some sort of feeling to his numbed fingers. His breath formed a cloud of its own, icy exhalations hanging before him in the frosty air, droplets freezing like small icicles in his short dark beard.
There was still nothing to be seen. Even at noon, in mid-winter on Sliabh Mannan the pale orb of a sickly sun struggles to lift its feeble luminescence above the horizon and the earth gropes in a fearful half light neither truly day nor yet dark enough to be night. Cunedda peered into the gloom for signs of movement.
The music of the hounds grew louder. Though still hidden amongst the mist shrouding the woodlands below, the invisible pack was rushing towards him. Further away, a huntsman winded a long, ululating note upon his horn and several uncouth shouts added to the growing cacophony of dogs’ voices and the drumming of galloping hooves.
Hunters? The rowdy crew crashing through the undergrowth sounded more like drunken revelers out seeking wenches at Samhain. Cunedda stood his ground. There was no use trying to avoid this wild hunt until he could see the line it was taking.
Then suddenly as he watched, part of the thick layer of cloud below him boiled up into the air like smoke rising from a signal fire. For several moments the gray column writhed and expanded, then a running figure burst out from it.
Cunedda gasped, astonished. A beautiful young woman, wearing only a light-colored, knee-length kirtle, fled from the pursuing pack. Her bright golden hair streamed loose behind her, long as the tail that an omen star trails across the heavens. She was fast, fleeter than any hind as she sped away from the woodland and up towards the first ridge of Sliabh Mannan.
At any time so remarkable an apparition would have amazed Cunedda, but this was more than just a handsome and athletic woman. His disbelieving eyes saw plainly that she ran through the very air itself, her feet not once touching the frosted ground. Though she carried no lanthorn, the glowing figure seemed to radiate her own light.
Cunedda had never seen a god, but he’d always suspected he’d know one if he saw one. He knew he saw one now. Who could this be but Creiddylad, the beauteous goddess whose warmth brings forth the flowers of spring, the grain of summer and the fruits of autumn, but who in the winter months is dolefully confined in The Otherworld by Gwynn ap Nudd?
But why would the goddess be fleeing? Why to Sliabh Mannan? And why in mid-winter? Beltane was still some moons off. There were long weeks of cold and privation to be endured by the Gododdin before even the first wild snowdrops would poke their tiny, nodding heads above the slowly thawing mosses of the woodlands, heralding the approach of spring. And when she finally did escape her icy prison, she always came first to the sheltered, low-lying carse beside the great river, not to the exposed heather hills and uplands around Sliabh Mannan.
Transfixed by the vision, Cunedda could do nothing but stand and stare, his figure clearly outlined against the skyline. Another second and Creiddylad caught sight of the stupefied mortal. Veering towards him, she descended smoothly and alighted on the hard-frozen earth.
He was dazzled. Her face shone; her cheeks were flushed rose-pink, but despite her long run she showed no signs of fatigue. Hair the color of ripe corn was crowned with a garland of sweet-scented blossoms, white elder interwoven with yellow broom. On each wrist she wore a bracelet of meadow-flowers: blue periwinkle, pink cranes-bill, golden marsh-marigold, and around her neck a circlet of primrose and honeysuckle. All were fully in flower despite the winter’s chill, but even their beauty paled beside the glory of their wearer. Cunedda had never set eyes on anyone so lovely; everything about her from her bright cornflower blue eyes to her lips the color of a robin’s breast was perfect. He dared not let his eyes stray lower, to her scantily clad body.
Behind her the cry of the hounds became uncertain, as though the pack had struck off on a false line. The huntsman began blowing his horn again to recall them.
“You are Cunedda, the one they call Wolfslayer?” Creiddylad said. Her voice was like the tinkling of tiny waterfalls in an upland stream as it carries away the last of the ice in spring.
“Aye, My Lady,” he stammered, near speechless with awe. Creiddylad knew him!
“You are he of the prophecy. I bring you word of your destiny. But first, tell me, Cunedda, is there a place in this Sliabh Mannan where I may safely hide?”
Cunedda’s heart leaped within him. He, a simple hunter of the Gododdin, could be of service to this wondrous creature.
“There is, My Lady.” He extended his hand, pointing excitedly to the south. “Yonder, towards the sun, less than a quarter of a day away as a man walks, the Culloch Burn joins the River Avon in a hollow. Follow the lesser stream a short way south into the hills and you will find a deep gorge full of summer bracken that now lies rotting. The stink of its decay foils any scent; the roe deer lie there overnight safe from wolves.”
“You have my thanks, Cunedda. Now earn my undying gratitude. You hear Gwynn ap Nudd and his retainers?” She extended a slender arm, pointing down towards the woodland. “They hunt me with the hounds of The Otherworld and mounted upon the swift horses of the North Wind. When they see you, delay them. Buy me time to reach this magic glen.”
Cunedda nodded, wordless. Delay a god? What was Creiddylad asking? Surely a man bound hand and foot would have more chance of holding up a pack of wolves?
“Then tomorrow early, come you and some brave companions to the ridge here. You will find the hunters encamped and still in drunken sleep. Steal those great horses and they will carry you to your new kingdom.”
With a last smile at Cunedda, Creiddylad leaped again into the air and raced away towards the south. Within the space of twenty heartbeats her flying figure was lost amongst the dark patches of heather and white, lying snow on the high moor.
Cunedda tore away his unseeing gaze from the empty moor into which she had vanished. His thoughts reeled; he could scarce believe what had befallen him.
Delay them, Creiddylad had said. An easy thing to say. And he had agreed. Yet the goddess herself fled. How could a mortal stand fast before the denizens of The Otherworld and do what a goddess could not? For a cause so noble Cunedda would willingly give his life, but his life would be too quickly taken; to delay the hunters he must employ wits, not strength. He needed to think fast.
Turning back towards the cloud that filled the valley, he saw it boil up again. Out flew two dozen great, white-coated hounds with staring eyes and slavering jaws. They had black faces and red ears and the leaders ran with noses down questing for the scent. As Cunedda watched, a hound at the front of the pack suddenly gave tongue, its sonorous voice echoing across the eerie landscape like the bell of doom.
Within moments others joined the cry and the pack charged forward, straight towards the ridge where Cunedda stood. Seeing them come on, he was amazed to feel not terror but calm determination flooding through his veins. He had an idea.
Making no attempt to stand aside from the line of the scent, he rested his weight on the shaft of his spear and slouched forward, chin on hands, rocking as if unsteady on his feet. Out of bleary eyes he regarded the pack with a good semblance of drunken curiosity.
Behind the hounds the boiling cloud now disgorged a huntsman, mounted on a white horse, and behind the huntsman another score of followers much like himself. Seeing Cunedda in the direct line of pursuit, the leader bellowed a mighty oath and galloped forward, overtaking the pack and laying about him with his whip to drive the hounds away from the slovenly mortal who stood insolently watching him. Then he rode down from the sky and brought his steed to a sliding, scrabbling halt. It snorted great clouds of steam from dilated nostrils and pranced with frustration.
The huntsman was a giant, strongly built and more than half as tall again as Cunedda. Heavy furs bulked out his wide girth and slung around his neck on a lanyard he carried the great curled horn of some fantastic beast. Around the head of the huge rider, a wreath of prickly, dark green, red-berried holly restrained an unruly shock of flowing white hair. A bushy beard, white as the hair, completed the framing of a face of deepest black, as though smeared with charcoal from the fire.
The rider stretched forth a gloved hand and pointed at the churl who lounged before him. A great voice, groaning like an aged oak tree bent in a gale, rumbled up from somewhere deep inside his mighty frame.
“You! Peasant! Your stink fouls the noses of my hounds. I should have let them tear you in pieces. Do you lack the sense even to clear my way?”
Cunedda grinned foolishly and said nothing.
The rider cursed again. “Have you seen my quarry?” he roared.
Face to face with the ruler of The Otherworld, even Cunedda’s great spirit quailed as he beheld the awful figure of the god. Yet in his mind he still heard the musical voice of Creiddylad. She had confirmed him a son of prophecy and promised him glory. Creiddylad would not lie.
“What quarry do you hunt, My Lord?” he slurred. “There are wolves and deer on Sliabh Mannan but surely no game worthy of such a pack and such a retinue?”
His eyes flickered over Gwynn’s followers. They were all dressed and mounted in similar fashion to their lord, but they carried knives or pruning hooks in their belts instead of Gwynn’s great horn and each on his head wore a wreath from a different evergreen tree. He could make out laurel, ivy, mistletoe, yew and pine amongst the foliage encircling the brows of those nearest to him.
“Fool! Do you not know who I am?” the great voice thundered.
“Aye, Lord. For sure I do, and it is anxious to serve you I am.” Cunedda cringed and knuckled his forehead. “But I came up here on Sliabh Mannan to hunt the deer myself and I have seen none since I climbed up out of the mist. There is spoor before you in the sedge there and I saw where the bark of ash trees in the wood below was gnawed, but of the creatures themselves I have seen nothing.”
“Miserable oaf! I do not concern myself with your pathetic prey! I seek Creiddylad who has escaped her prison in The Otherworld. You could not help but see her. She came this way for a certainty!”
“Was she dressed in a light kirtle, with long flowing golden hair? Was she running like the wind through the sky?”
“Mortal, you invite death, trifling with me! Is it likely, do you think, that more than one goddess came fleeing this way?”
“Lord, I know not. I have never seen a goddess before. When I found no deer to hunt, I sat down here to console myself with uisge. I have from time to time seen some very strange creatures after drinking long and deep from my flask.” Here Cunedda raised his head from his hands, swayed unsteadily on his feet, hiccuped, waved his drinking horn and whispered a silent prayer to Creiddylad that none of the hunters would ask to sample his liquor.
“You try my patience, drunken sot! She you describe, where has she run to?”
“Ah, as to whither she runs, Lord, that I couldn’t say.”
There came a great growl from the god.
“But as to the direction in which she set off, Lord, that I did see.”
“Worm! Which way did she go? Tell me without more delay or I shall tear out your heart!”
“My heart, Lord? But that would be the death of me, Lord, and then I could tell you nothing.”
He saw Gwynn’s anger flaring out of control. As the god furiously urged his steed forward, raising his great whip above his head, Cunedda knew he had prevaricated long enough.
“She went east, Lord, along the line of the ridge!” He grovelled, pointing the way with trembling hand, a man quaking in terror for his life. “You are close on her trail, Lord. She cannot have gone far.”
With a curse, Gwynn ap Nudd left the cowering man and spurred his horse into the air, blowing upon his horn and cracking his whip to cast the hounds eastward. Finding no scent upon the alleged line, the confused pack ran mute, but for the moment they ran as they were bid. None offered querulous dissent or risked their master’s wrath by questing in any other direction.
Cunedda knew the opportunity afforded him would be brief. As the hunters turned their backs, he sprinted away, scrambling madly down the steep slope towards the mist, sliding on scree, bounding from rock to tussock, heedless of scrapes and bruises, as though the hounds of The Otherworld were after him and not Creiddylad.
Hysteria made him laugh out loud as he fled. He had tricked a god! Perhaps he would have to answer for it in the hereafter; he was far more concerned with not having to answer for it in the here and now.
Crashing through the outlying shrubs and into the wood where the cloying mist concealed him, Cunedda stopped and drew a great shuddering breath. He listened. There was no pursuit; the only nearby sounds were the drumming of his own heart and the heaving of his lungs. The noise of the riotous hunters was slowly fading as they galloped away eastward.
Leaning against the bole of a tall ash tree and tipping back his head for the support offered by its sturdy, gnarled trunk, Cunedda sighed with blessed relief. His legs shook. Tension drained out of him like the water from his sadly broken flask. He had bought the goddess sufficient time. Spring would come early that year to Sliabh Mannan.
Cunedda recalled the perfection of her shining face; he heard the lilting music of her voice. Creiddylad was everything that was good in the world; she would be true to her word.
Her second command to him somehow seemed less preposterous now that, against all the odds, he had accomplished the first. She had bade him steal the mighty horses of the North Wind. In his imagination he rode one of the great white chargers already. He lacked Gwynn’s magic that made them fly, but he would not need it. The earth would serve for his purpose.
He pictured a troop of heavy cavalry devouring the ground with mighty strides, striking fear into decadent Roman hearts. Gododdin warriors mounted thus could journey deep into the rich lands to the south and carve out a fertile province of their own where life could be more than just a struggle for survival. Brothers in arms, no-one could stand against them.
Cunedda smiled. He was a son of prophecy. He was half way to a kingdom already.
History records that a Gododdin chieftain called Cunedda moved south from Manau, near The Firth of Forth, in the last days of Roman Britain, establishing an extensive new principality in the west of the old province. No historian has ever explained how a pastoral tribe acquired such sudden access of military strength.
In Wales, of course, we know better. Even today we still call ourselves Cymru, meaning band of brothers.
END
Story “The Wild Hunt of Sliabh Mannan” © Philip Brian Hall
Born in Yorkshire, Oxford graduate Philip Brian Hall is a former diplomat and teacher. He has stood for parliament, sung solos in amateur operettas, rowed at Henley Royal Regatta, completed a 40 mile cross-country walk in under 12 hours and ridden in over one hundred horse-races over fences. He lives on a very small farm in the middle of Sliabh Mannan, Scotland with his wife, a dog, a cat and some horses. His novel, ‘The Prophets of Baal’ is available as an e-book and in paperback.
Photomanipulation “The Wild Hunt of Sliabh Mannan” © Fran Eisemann. Stock used: “The Wild Hunt”, oil painting by Johann Wilhelm Cordes; stock photographs by Bernhard Siegl, Salzburg, Austria, http://burtn.deviantart.com/ : “Cloudy Alps”, “Ocean of Clouds”, “Moments of Magic”, and “Over the Fog”; stock photograph by Marcus J. Ranum, U.S., http://mjranum-stock.deviantart.com/, “Barbarian Warrior 23”.