The Birth Of Taliesin

[Tamrin]

The Birth Of Taliesin

Taliesin, a sixth century Welsh poet and harper is the most famous poet of all of Wales, through all time unto this day. His life was shrouded in magic and in mystery and there are many tales of his deeds. This is the story of his birth, as I have heard it - as the bards relate.

Around the time of Arthur, Warlord king of the Britons there lived a woman of power, her name was Ceridwen. She had twin children, one boy and one girl. The girl was called Creirwy, a radiant beauty, who was also the most gentle and most kind girl in the western world. Ceridwen's son was called Avagddi and he was the ugliest and most unlucky lad in the world. Seeing no way forward for her son, unless he could excel in wit or in wisdom. Though there as in looks, he was sadly lacking. Ceridwen looked through her books of power and knowledge, she looked through scores of books, closely examining countless chapters and verses. Until among them in the book of Virgil the Gaul she found the spell for the cauldron of inspiration.

She mixed wheats, honeys, aloes, precious silvers and myrrh, she added in the crest fabarion and the herb vervain, together with the red berry the Welsh call "Boris y Gwion". All these things and secretly a few more she mixed together in a great cauldron. She culled it all under the rising of the Dog star. She set her cauldron to boil as the book directed for one year and one day.

She ordered a pair of her servants, an old blind man named Morda, and a boy called Gwion Bach to mind the cauldron, to stir it slow and well. To keep the cauldron at a boil and the fire hot, but not so hot that it would boil over. Day in, day out, they were at that very work. They entertained each other, however, with story and song. For though Morda was blind, he was wise in mind and skilled with tongue. Gwion listened very closely. The days passed by like hours, finally at the last Morda asked Gwion to put one more log on the fire, whereby the cauldron bubbled up and three drops of the elixir splashed onto Gwion's finger. He didn't know however it was only in those three drops that all the magic of the potion was contained. Then there was a thunderous crack, as the cauldron broke. In that moment, he learned all things past, present, and future. He knew also that those same three drops were meant for his Mistress' son Avagddi and all the liquid that remained was the deadliest poison. Gwion knew also that Ceridwen would not be pleased so he took to his heels and out the door he ran.

Ceridwen heard that crack and at once knew what had happened and so made chase for Gwion. Gwion, knowing all things, knew the power of shape-shifting and so turned himself into a hare for speed. Ceridwen seeing this, changed herself into a hound following him the closer. Gwion turned himself into a fish to foil the hound, so she became an otter following him even closer. Gwion changed himself into a dove to fool the otter and she flew up in the form of a hawk, following always the closer. Finally with his strength nearly failing him, he changed himself into a single grain, amongst a pile of wheat. Ceridwen, not missing a beat turned herself into a black hen, as such she scuffed at the wheat until she found the one grain which was Gwion Bach. She pecked him up and swallowed him whole!

So the story goes as the bards relate but that was not the end of the story or the end of little Gwion. For, in the fullness of time, Ceridwen bore another son. It was Gwion Bach and such a lovely babe was he that she had not the heart to kill him outright. She bound him in a bag of magical skins and cast him into the sea. The sea swept him up and the sea swept him down and the sea danced after the light moon and the dark. The bag went where ever the sea went and was adrift for a long time. The babe aged not a single day while in that bag; in all that time.

Finally the bag was caught in the salmon weir of King Gwyddno. It was said that the harvest from the weir on May eve was at least the value of a dozen fine horses and a dozen of Britain's finest hunting dogs. Gwyddno was in the habit every May eve of giving the value of the weir to one whom he wish to favor. That year it was his own son, Elphin, to whom he gave the rights. A terrible wastrel and spendthrift young Elphin was, or so was said. Wasting no time at all, Elphin waded into the cold water where he hauled the long nets ashore and found no salmon at all, but only a black leather bag. "Perhaps it holds gold or a cask of drink... something of worth" Elphin hoped.

He opened up the bag and out from the mouth of the bag sprang the babe speaking in perfect tune and meter, words of music and power the likes of which the world has never heard before. It was because of the light shining from the babe's face that Elphin exclaimed "Behold Taliesin!" Which is Welsh for "Shining Brow". And so he was named.

Together they returned to Gwyddno's hall. Gwyddno asked Elphin "Did you catch plenty of fish?". "Better than that father", was the reply, "I caught a Poet!". To that Gwyddno chided his son, by way of a loud groan. It was then that the babe spoke, as the bards relate:

I am Taliesin
I sing perfect meter which will last till the world's end
I know why an echo answers again
why liver is bloody, why breath is black and why silver shines
I know why a cow has horns and why a woman loves a man
why milk is white and holly green
ale bitter and ocean brine
how many spears make a confrontation
how many drops a shower of rain
I know why there are scales on fish and black feet on swans
I have been a blue salmon
a dog, a stag, a roebuck on the mountain
a stock, a spade, an axe in the hand
a buck, a bull, a stallion
upon a hill I was grown as grain
reaped and in the oven thrown
out of that roasting I fell to the ground
pecked up and swallowed by the black hen
in her crop nine nights lain
I have been dead,
I have been alive,
I am Taliesin

From that time forward, with Taliesin at his side, Elphin's luck changed for the best. Loyal was Taliesin to Elphin, and never was it that they for long or far would be apart from each other.

A traditional tale,
as told by, a mad poet