That evening, after Ken had checked all the football results, and his football pools account and complained about all the best games being on Sundays and Mondays now, (no winnings by the way) we had both sat at our dining table with books, our laptops, and Iron Maiden’s ‘The number of the Beast’ album blasting away on the speaker. I was making any notes I could about the Ceridwen legends and Ken was concentrating on the recorded ‘sightings’ made in our part of the Country, of anything, not just linked to Ceridwen. I was immersed in Welsh folklore and Myth. The side quests took me into many areas I hadn’t read about before, and I can honestly say I found it fascinating, though sometimes difficult to keep up with, as characters would pop up in each other’s stories, but with different powers or attributes. However, I had not found any mention or reason of why we should have experienced what we had the previous night. Ken had unearthed a thousand tales of ghosts and spooks, and almost as many accounts of UFO sightings, strange lights, abductions and paranormal events. It seemed that most of Wales was home to legends of Knights, murdered servant maids and ghostly black dogs, or ‘Gwyllgi’, the dog of darkness. But he had found nothing what so ever to explain our evening.
“Don’t suppose you fancy a pint do you Al?” I looked up and stared at him. “I thought we were going to have a night off it tonight Ken!” I answered him, “I’ve already had a couple at lunch and we had quite a bit the last night. Think I could do with a cosy night in and no alcohol. If that’s ok with you?”
” ‘Course it is Love! It was more a wander round I was thinking of anyway… But, you’re right, as usual.” I watched him as he stood and wandered to the kettle and the sink, filling it and then setting it on. He didn’t seem upset or bothered. He rarely did.
“Let’s have a brew and a biscuit and crack on with our research.” He shouted over to me, and I gave him quick affirmative answer, and then added; “There’s gingers in the cupboard!”
“I’ll call the exterminator first thing in the morning!” We both laughed.
“You ok Ken?” I asked when he sat back down, mugs on our coasters, biscuits and some fruit on the small, olive-wood board between us. I reached out and stroked the back of his hand, smiled as he looked at me. I waited for a response though. Gave him time.
“I’m ok. Honestly. Just a little rattled by the old Lady, Hare, Salmon, Otter thing. And the birds too, it was all a bit… let’s just say ‘confusing’ shall we. And I don’t know why, but I have this growing feeling of … unease. That’s it! I’m feeling uneasy about the whole thing.” I looked into his eyes and smiled at him, but realised that he was underemphasising to stop me from worrying, but it hadn’t worked. He was really worrying me now. I would have to keep an even closer eye on my Ken from now on!
After another hour of quiet research, we completed the evening by having a couple of games of Scrabble, accompanied by cheese, water-biscuits and those little Hovis biscuits. It was lovely. Ken had a couple of fingers of his whisky with hot water, and I stayed on the coffee. We retired to bed quite early, around 10pm, and slept like we needed it!
Morning. Early.
I came awake in an instant when I heard the noise from the garden at the back of the house. Our cottage is in a row of ten, built over a century ago and originally lived in by families who had members working at the slate quarries. The address showed as ‘1 Deng nhy,’ being number one, Ten Houses. The street name seems to have altered several times as political rivalry and then correctness took hold, but the row has always been called ‘Ten Houses’ as far as Ken could find. My old Grannie had lived in a row called ‘Ten Houses” when I was little, over in one of the villages above Rochdale, and I just couldn’t resist when we found out the meaning of ‘Deng nhy’ from the estate agent showing us round. He was a cheery chap I remember. Local, and the son of the Business’s owner. He had been booked to show us three places that day, but we never went to either of the others, offering to buy almost as soon as we got to the house we now own. It’s a classic end of terrace, but with three gardens, and some substantial additions too.
Anyway, there was a sharp bark, a screech and then a couple of bangs and the sound of scampering. I jumped out of bed, threw on my dressing gown and slippers and went off down to the back door. Torch in hand, I ventured out into the garden slowly. Scanning the scene of some knocked over plant pots, an overturned garden chair and my bag of clothes pegs spread all over the lawn. Nothing was moving, obviously sped off into the night, but there was the unmissable aroma of fox-poo. Another yelp made me shudder, and I quickly got back inside the kitchen and locked the door.
“Bloody foxes!” I harrumphed to myself, as I filled the kettle and got a cup out.
“Weren’t no fox though!”
I span round, unaware that Ken had come down stairs, and ready to give him a piece of my mind for frightening me, but he wasn’t there. I shivered.
I looked around the rest of the downstairs, switching every light on as I passed it, and with a large steel ladle held in my hand like a weapon. I found nothing. No Ken, no ‘other’, no-one at all. Front and back doors were locked and there were no signs of an intruder.
I made my tea, then made Ken one too, just in case he was awake, turned off all the lights and went back to the bedroom. Everything was silent, and I could hear the sound of Ken’s breathing, as normal as could be. He looked fast asleep. I prodded him. I spoke to him. He was asleep. I got back in bed and settled to drink my tea, and scroll on my phone for a bit. Maybe a game of Scrabble or Sudoku would help. They did, and I heard just one more fox yelp before I returned to my slumber, but nothing else.
When I awoke again, it was to the sounds of whistling and the occasional shouted lyrics of an Oasis song. I opened my eyes and lay listening as my husband accompanied his own terrible singing with taps on the walls and by the sound of it, anything else which would resonate. He seemed to be in a very good mood, had obviously had a good night’s sleep and was completely unworried by the fact that his wife had been scared by a ghostly voice in the night! I instantly decided to let him stay that way. I reached for my phone and made myself a note of what happened on the calendar app. Just as proof it had happened.
We breakfasted in the side garden, which was because the sun was on it. It was warm, even at nine-thirty in the morning, and I sat with a bacon butty and fresh apple juice. A thermos of hot, black coffee was on the table too, with two beakers.
“If we don’t have the coffee now, I thought we could take it with us on our travels.” Smirked Ken as he swallowed his juice. “Oh, and we’re out of those yoghurts you like. I thought we had bought some new last week?” We had. I had stored them in a cupboard above his eye-line, so he obviously didn’t know it existed. I wouldn’t tell him.
“I’ll have a look for them Love.” I told him. He wouldn’t give the matter another thought.
“Anyway, what travels are we going on today exactly? Have you made a plan?” We famously did not do plans. Set off somewhere, see if you get there and if you don’t, then you probably went somewhere better. That was our usual motto, and it suited both of our brains perfectly.
“How did you sleep?” I asked him, with a touch of nonchalance, but watching his reaction very closely. He didn’t hesitate for more than a second. “Bloody beautifully! I feel like I have really rested. No wake-ups at all. You?”
“Yeah, good thanks.” He hadn’t heard me get up, or the fox’s noise, so, no need to tell him anything at the moment.
“Have you got anywhere specific planned?”
“I emailed a chap called Rhys Pugh last night, who runs the Historical Society over in Caernarfon. Told him who we were and what we were looking for, and would he be able to give us a heads-up about who to speak to, and where to look. He must be a very early riser, and answered me this morning, 6am, and said he is free after church today if we fancied Sunday lunch around 2pm. He’ll be in the Pub on the front, overlooked by the Eagle Tower of the Castle. Anglesey Arms, or Head or something like that. I emailed back as soon as I came downstairs, told him we’d see him there! Is that ok?” He gave me that dumb grin he has, so innocent and honest. How could I say no! And, why would I? No cooking for me that day!
“It’s about an hour away, so if we leave around Eleven, we will have time to tootle over on the small roads.”
“Woohoo!” We love a day out.
I had changed so I looked a bit more ‘Sunday Dinner’ friendly, and even put a bit of make-up on, not that Ken would notice. Oblivious to womanly-wiles that one, unless of course one of his favourites came on the TV screen! We had driven over the hills, because why wouldn’t you? The area we now lived in was just stunning, and we got out and about as often as we could, just driving. Looking. Mooching. Turning on to any small roads that let us, especially if Ken found a ‘new’ road he hadn’t driven before. And when I say ‘new’, be aware I mean old, twisty, hidden by trees and possibly leading down into the abyss, or up to King Arthur’s hidden Castle! We saw a couple of red kites circling over the top of one hill, a weasel dashing in front of us in a small valley and some very fine goats along the way. We stopped for a coffee at a tiny service window at a farm that Ken likes to visit, mainly because every journey with Ken includes a coffee stop. I didn’t have one, but did have a bottle of water. As always, Ken had to find us somewhere pretty to sit and drink, and picked a layby on a road leading through the picturesque Beddgelert valley. The weather was glorious and the sun was rising steadily, giving everything a sheen of gold. We had visited Gelert’s Grave a few times before, mostly showing friends or family and always recounting the ancient story of the brave hound Gelert, his owner Prince Llywelyn and the terrible mistake that cost Gelert’s life. Ken could string it out for a good five minutes or more.
Half an hour later we pulled up and parked on the quay and walked a few hundred yards down to the pub. Rhys had told ken to ask for him at the bar, so we did, and were pointed towards a large oak table currently occupied by a family of six enjoying their Welsh lamb dinner. “Mr Pugh arrives at quarter to two. You can wait by the bar or any other table till he arrives.” We ordered a couple of half pints and grabbed some stools at the end, allowing us a good view of whole pub. It was filling up, and the happy noise of people eating, drinking and conversing filled the air. Deep in conversation about something trivial, we completely unheard the man behind us sidle up and introduce himself. A high-pitched voice repeated itself;
“Excuse me, I am Rhys, are you Ken and Alison?” We stopped, giggled and turned together on our stools. An enormous man stood a foot away from us, suited and wearing a preposterously ugly tie and scarf combo showing the Welsh Dragon motif. He held out a hand to Ken, but looking at me, which made me smile at him.
“Hi Rhys, but it is Alison and Ken since the court case!” I jumped in and replied, taking his hand and squeezing it. Ken held back, knowingly, and greeted our host when I eventually let go. It was a play we often made when first meeting people, only for fun, but it made people take a second to re-evaluate their first impressions. The ‘court case’ was changed to something different each time; ‘the accident’, ‘the operation’, ‘the war’ or even “the reading of Grand-Mama’s will’.
After introductions, Rhys led us over to ‘His’ table, which had been vacated and freshly laid. We sat down and chose food and ordered when a girl came to us. “Will you join me in a glass of wine? I always have a nice Merlot in here, it goes brilliantly with the lamb I think.” “Controversial Rhys, I love it, and yes please!” Ken replied. We had all ordered the lamb.
We chattered a bit about Wales, our particular village, and our move from England. Rhys was a great listener, very intent and sounding interested in everything. When he spoke, once we had accustomed ourselves to his high nasally voice, he sounded both educated and passionate about his Country’s history. We gently led him into the area between history and myth, to see if he was knowledgeable here too. The answer was “Very”. After we had eaten, we had the table cleared, Rhys checked if we needed to give it up for other diners, we didn’t, and so we settled down for a good old chinwag.
“Ceridwen is a strange case. Her story or parts of it, is told in five or six of the old manuscripts. Mostly from the thirteenth Century onwards. Mostly in collections of poetry and tales. Obviously the most famous is the ‘Book of Taliesin’, which links her to the origin story of Taliesin a known bard from the 6th Century. Her Cauldron of knowledge or inspiration is a famous mythical meme, and she is equally mentioned as ‘Goddess of various seeds’ and a ‘Source of Poetic Harmony’ if you search online. The most famous tale is the one about her son, ‘Morfran’ who was an ugly child. She decided to use her cauldron to mix a potion that would make Morfran intelligent and wise, to make up for him being ugly. She used a blind man to keep the fire burning, and a young boy was employed to keep the potion stirred. The potion was cooked for a year!” We had read all this, but kept quietly listening because Rhys was a great raconteur.
“The tale is that the first three drops from the potion once it was ready, would give wisdom. But that the rest of the brew would be poisonous. Well, the stirring boy, ‘Gwion Bach’, stirred and stirred for a year, then took his ladle out gently, but three drops of the potion splashed onto his thumb, which burned him, and in response Gwion Bach stuck the thumb in his mouth to cool it. He swallowed the first three drops, and instantly felt the wisdom, knowledge and intelligence meant for Morfran growing inside him. Realising his predicament he ran away, terrified of the repercussions from Ceridwen, who started to give chase…”
“Let me stop you there for a moment please Rhys.” Rhys looked confused.
Ken, looked at me then back to Rhys. “Let me tell you of our evening on Friday, in our village. And Rhys, believe me when I say, this happened exactly as I describe it.”
Ken drew a breath, glanced at me again and started to explain our experience.
All of it.
I had thought he may dilute the story a little, but no. Not a thing was left out, right up to us going to the pub. He stopped talking, and Rhys stared at us both for a bit, but I decided to jump in first with my experience from the early morning, not looking at Ken while I did. After, I got my phone out and showed them both the note I had made in the calendar.
Rhys politely read my words, checked the time, and looked at me. Then at Ken. Then at my phone again. He picked up the bottle of Merlot, offered some to Ken, who declined, to me who accepted and then poured the rest into his own glass, and quaffed it in one.
“Well I was not expecting that!” He told us.
“How close is what Ken just told you to the tale you were about to tell us Rhys?” I asked him, smiling again. My cheeks flushed and a bit full and fat. It was probably the wine – but I was also comfy, warm and well fed. The lamb roast dinner had been magnificent! Rhys, stared at us both again, very obviously trying to make a decision as to whether we were being serious, or were simply ‘Sais Bach’ nutters.
We waited.
“I can’t believe you told me that story to be honest. It makes you look a bit – nutty!”
“Yup!” Ken agreed.
“Definitely.” I added.
“However you do not strike me as dumb little English people.” I looked directly at him, had he read my mind just then? I gulped loudly, and Ken quickly checked on me.
“I have to be very tactful here. I hear a lot of junk stories. And I mean, a lot. From my fellow Welsh, and some from visitors. And I do get a lot of youngsters now-a-days, cameras and tripods in hand, microphones thrust in my face, no-one ever asks, do they! All they want is a soundbite to put on their TakTik account, or on that FaceBook thing. But you two, look at you – real people. Courteous and charming without being obnoxious.” I had stopped hoping now, I couldn’t call how this was going to end. Ken had not moved. His eyes fixed on Rhys, and his face unreadable, which was a miracle.
“You email me first, respond quickly to my answer, turn up on time, are very good company, and then tell me the maddest tale I have ever sat through! But you do it with candour and in a way that I have to say, is completely believable. The story is mad isn’t it!”
“Yup!” Ken is so eloquent at times.
“I will need to consult with some friends of mine at the University in Cardiff, just to check up if there is anything recorded which is similar, but my initial thoughts are that there aren’t. If you have spoken truly to me, then I have no qualms in telling you that it is the single most interesting conversation I have had for a good long time. Decades.” He sat back in his chair, folded his arms, and then unfolded them and leaned across the table to grab one of each of our hands. “It is astonishing, and I am so glad you trusted me to tell it!”
We all sat there holding hands and smiling loudly. We must have looked like some impromptu seance to anyone watching.
“What do you think we should do next Rhys?” Ken broke the moment, then immediately jumped up and excused himself to the Men’s room. Rhys and I sat for a minute before he asked me a question.
“Tell me again about the voice in the night Alison please, there is a strong history of people hearing transient voices in Wales. Mostly fruitcakes I add, unfortunately, but I don’t see you in that way at all.” So I revisited my experience and tried to keep it to the same words, but I feel that I may have lost that attempt. Rhys told me that he had asked because he wanted to see my reaction and watch my eyes. He told me I was remembering from experience, not from learning, and that that added to the feeling of truthfulness he got from us. He made me feel trusted somehow, and I thanked him for that. When Ken got back, we chatted a while longer then Rhys looked at his watch, scowled, and said he needed to get home. “My wife expects me to be home by six. She’s invalided I’m afraid and won’t come out of the house at all, but likes me to enjoy my Sunday Lunch out. I usually have something interesting to tell her when I get home, but I fear she hasn’t heard one like this before.”
We all laughed. Rhys declined a lift home, preferring to walk and have a cigar on the way, telling us it was only a fifteen minute stroll, and it was a lovely evening. He promised to be in touch by Wednesday teatime, probably not earlier as he had some meeting at the local College to prepare for. We all hugged and went our separate ways.
We hardly spoke on the way home, it was nearly dark by then, and as there was little to see Ken powered on to get us home.
In the house we busied ourselves doing meaningless tasks. I put a wash on, taking twenty minutes to sort through darks and whites and get the machine running. My mind was blank, and it felt ok. The past day or so’s events were weighing heavy on me and having told ‘another person’ somehow made all of it even more real. Which was terrifying. I eventually ran into Ken around eight-thirty, slumped over some boots he had found that needed cleaning.
“Hey Batman! Fancy a cuddle on the sofa?
