Book 2 – Conwy

Conwy 1330AD

The dying embers of the aureate sunlight bathed the young man’s face as dusk settled over the rugged land of his Northern Wales. Two gulls soared high above him; and descended elegantly to circle the tree tops on the rolling land below. Caught upon the breeze, they then drifted languidly toward the rugged coastline; their noisy tales echoing long after they’d passed on out through the river mouth and over toward the Irish Sea.

On a day of fortune, he would catch sight of a sea petrel in pursuit of a returning fishing cog winding its’ way through the estuary. The birds’ white rear end and cleft tail oft visible as hoping for an easy snatch of fish or gut as it glided along in bold pursuit—its’ long, haunting cry echoing across the waters of early eve.    

Caressing wind tickled Cieron’s hair and brought on an absent tugging of the corners of his mouth as the air he breathed filled his senses of sea and his young, enquiring mind of distant lands. Atop the mountain, he sat beside the ancient hillfort in the company of the scattered, roaming sheep with their customary bleating and chewing; yet no matter how oft he came, their dull wit refused him familiarity as they called to each other in cautious regard. 

The heather in rich mauves and purples grew in abundant clumps about, and around the edges of the old hut circle upon the east of the hill overlooking the valley and estuary. Alas, weather and time had battered and worn many of the stones that made the crude walls; though largely untouched was the mud clay lining which would have served as interior mortar, and also kept the people warm inside. It was very bad custom to shift or steal the stones of the ancients’, though he suspected from the missing stones, that not everyone was privy to such prescience of mind in respect for the auld ones. If he stood inside the hut, he could oft hear the voices of the auld ones, conversing in their odd tongue as it floated through his consciousness, though sounding at times not unlike the Latin the Conwy priest insisted he master. One day the hut walls would no longer stand, mayhap left as just the concentric foundation of a perfect ring. Even now the roof was no more, but he hoped the presence of the auld ones and their voices past would still remain always  in this place—as it should be.

The days’ end signalled time for him to return; moreover the magic of the evensong fascinated him. Darkness began growing long shadows across the valley floor towards the castle. There was a magical air at twilight at that place that had enveloped Cieron from as early as he could remember, as early as when his parents’ had first brought him there. His father had told him the auld folk said Wales was the first place, and he easily believed it to be so. Pride, loyalty and honour thus stirred the young heart beating steadily in his breast as generations of Chieftains before him shadowed around with eager pride. Sometimes he could feel them—just out of reach, or know the gentle reassuring touch upon his shoulder during times of trouble. In the periphery of his vision, he swore he would oft spy the passing glimpse of a thing, mayhap somebody—tall and solid but when eyes would choose to follow the darkened shadow he would be alone. Alone with the churlish sea breezes that would buffet him teasingly like his a favourite horse, harshly whispering snatches of their secrets found upon riding the four winds from distant places.

At times he was left alone with the staying chill of the air from the snow covered mountains; peaceful, yet alone, and at those times oft. He would wonder at the purpose of his mission in life. Life was no easy feat—and he made no youthful plans. The future was mapped for him, and there was some solace and security in that thought.Like his own father before him Cieron was instinctive warrior, and as son of Rhys Gruffydd, Chieftain of Conwy, he was born leader who would one day protect his people. His father had oft times said that an important step was to understand this place he called home. The immutable, rugged mountains with their cloaking, evanescent mists drew him and one day, he knew that he would leave this place, mayhap only for a while to see what lay beyond his wild homeland.   

A sable tussle of Cieron’s hair fluttered covering his eye as he picked lazily at the lichen on the rock from under him. At seventeen he was truly a man, for his father had begun to instruct him long ago in the duties that he would one day assume. His youthful body had long ago given way to the well-developed physique of a warrior in training with the laborious tasks he had been given,  thus it was without pride that he possessed a physical strength beyond his years. At times, his young mind still yearned for the innocence of his carefree childhood days of hunting, fishing, exploring and the fantasy of lore and magic beyond the wild hills of the hold. Now though, there was another kind of dawning magic that had begun that summoned him from beyond his ken.  The memory was crystal clear and he viewed it all again with unusual clarity—even now his breath quickening at the thought.    

The disturbing visions had commenced in his sixteenth year, one cool, still autumn afternoon. Twas a day such as this, when Cieron had come as always to breathe deeply of the mountain air at sunset when the shroud of amber that had enveloped the setting sun swiftly turned blood red and the temperature dropped severely. So sudden and dramatic was the incident that he had leapt to his feet, nearly tumbling forward down the steep rake in alarm.  

‘…The hills were the same, but the castle was not Conwy. Twas Rhuddlan many years ago, and the faces were that of his mother and father, quite young and immaculately clothed. His mother wore an enchanting emerald gown with flashing jewels and woven silver and gold designs—the very one she kept in a huge chest. There seemed to have been a celebration of sorts, and the guests were leaving, or retiring for the night. The scene shifted suddenly and he found himself soaring lower to follow a path as though he were flying…’

Cieron remembered it had seemed he had departed his place by the sunset and transported elsewhere…in his mind or in reality he was ever uncertain, for the experience was as tangible to him as sitting on the rock had been. He had wondered at the time if the ancients tried to show him something, or that twas one of God’s miracles people discussed.

He reluctantly allowed his mind to wander back to that frightening day…and although at the time he’d been able to feel himself, he seemed not to be in control of where he went, and was unable to see any part of himself. The dread he had felt was unforgettable. He remembered attempting to calm himself forcibly in order to make sense of things, and even now felt the terror of his beating heart…

 ‘The way had grown dim and an unfamiliar darkness enveloped gradually as trees from a heavily wooded copse surrounded him—closing in like darkness lays in wait, preying upon the remains of the dying sunlight at the close of day. His heart beat soundly and fear exploded inside his chest as his mind filled with terror—sharp and painful; reminding him that this was all too realistic. A faint light shimmered; then grew in the heart of the wood and he stopped still, as though standing, and was faced with the sudden appearance of a light-filled form. Imperceptibly, the shimmering form changed to become the figure of a man; dark haired but with indistinct detail, yet all the same—a man. He had looked up slowly, seen Cieron and his face suddenly became very clear and vivid—full of anguish, and as fright overcame Cieron he had willed his unseen legs to move…’

Then as suddenly as it had come upon him, he had found himself back on the steep precipice, the sun having long since gone and leaving a shivering chill in its wake. A whole year had passed since that vision and so disturbing and vivid was it that he had forbidden himself to tell a soul, nor about the dreams which sometimes plagued his nights. He shivered at the memory of the strange empty feeling the vision had left him with. Presently, his mind wandered and at the complaint of his empty stomach, he forced himself up onto his legs ready to return home—the dusky-rose mountainous horizon well branded in his mind.  

A stray bird circled high above his head and cawed forlornly at the days’ end. A sudden chill crept through his clothing and far across the stretch of the wild and lonely land, he could see a mist descending and within it another scene took shape. Cieron panicked, as before. ‘Nay…not again, please…!’ he said aloud, berating himself for remembering the first vision that this memory alone could have procure the bizarre transpiration to occur again. He sat down quickly, not wanting to lose his balance on the precarious place as the vision unfolded… 

…A far distant place, he knew instinctively a time in his own future. Poverty and sickness ravaged this place and a lot of his people were dying. A man stood on this very place, and even though his back was turned, he somehow knew it was himself, only older. Beside him, was a beautiful ebony haired woman and together they looked upon the torture of their land and its’ people with heavy hearts.’

Cieron blinked rapidly and shook his head, the second of such disturbing visions. The mist had dissipated and normalcy seemed to return as though naught had happened. Mayhap he ought tell his old Grandam or Mam this time. With one last indulgent look at the purplish-red sky, Cieron rose wearily from his rocky throne and headed toward his home, Conwy.

 

-          Extract of Conwy Book 2 in Conwy Series (unpublished) written by Tracey Lee Hoy ©