Hiraeth Read online

  Hiraeth

  a mark – marc

  Liz Riley-Jones

  Copyright © 2015 Liz Riley-Jones

  www.hiraeth.me

  https://www.facebook.com/Hiraeth.a.story?ref=hl

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador®

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  ISBN 978 1784627 768

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Converted to eBook by EasyEPUB

  I holl Bobl

  Teyrnasoedd y Môr

  For all the People

  of the

  Sea Kingdoms

  Contents

  Cover

  Hiraeth

  Hiraeth

  List of Places and Pronunciations

  Language

  Rhan Gyntaf – Part One

  A week later, on the Kentish coast

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  Ail Ran – Part Two

  Land of my Fathers

  Newgrange – Brú Na Bóinne – Ireland.

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  The story continues in

  Notes

  Acknowledgements

  Hiraeth

  Dwedwch, fawrion o wybodaeth

  O ba beth y gwnaethpwyd hiraeth;

  A pha ddefnydd a roed ynddo

  Na ddarfyddo wrth ei wisgo.

  Derfydd aur a derfydd arian

  Derfydd melfed, derfydd sidan;

  Derfydd pob dilledyn helaeth

  Eto er hyn ni dderfydd hiraeth.

  Hiraeth mawr a hiraeth creulon

  Hiraeth sydd yn torri ’nghalon,

  Pan wyf dryma’r nos yn cysgu

  Fe ddaw hiraeth ac a’m deffry.

  Hiraeth, Hiraeth, cilia, cilia

  Paid â phwyso mor drwm arna,

  Nesa tipyn at yr erchwyn

  Gad i mi gael cysgu ronyn.

  Hiraeth

  Tell me, masters of wisdom, from what thing is

  longing made;

  And what is put in it that it never fades through

  wearing it.

  Gold fades, silver fades, velvet fades. Silk fades,

  Everything fades – but longing never fades.

  Great and cruel longing breaks my heart,

  When I am sleeping in the deep of the night

  Longing comes and wakes me.

  Go away longing and don’t weigh so heavily upon me,

  Let me have a moment of sleep.

  List of Places and Pronunciations

  Cymru (Cum-ree): Wales

  Gwynedd (Gwin-eth): North Wales

  Ynys Môn (Unis Maughn): Anglesey

  Moelfre (Moil-vra): Village on Anglesey

  Swnt (Sunt): Area of Moelfre, on the sea

  Traeth Lligwy (Traith Ligwi): Lligwy beach, Moelfre

  List of Characters and Pronunciations

  Mona Jones (Moh-nah)

  Idwal Jones (Eed-wal): Mona’s brother

  Tom Jones :Mona’s father

  Molly Kelly: Mona’s mother

  Brendan Kelly: Mona’s uncle

  Principal Welsh Druids

  Cai Owens (Kai)

  Sioned Owens (Shon-ed): Cai’s sister

  Rhiannon Owens (Rhi-an-on): Cai’s mother

  Gwilym Owens (Gwil-im): Cai’s father

  Ifan (Eev-ahn): Archdruid

  Hywel (Huh-wel): Cai’s grandfather

  Emlyn (Em-lin): Ifan’s eldest son

  Arwel (Arr-wel): Emlyn’s son

  Dafydd (Dah-vith): Ifan’s younger son

  Nansi (Nan-si): Dafydd’s wife

  Siân (Sharn): Ifan’s daughter

  Nia (Nee-A): Siân’s daughter

  Nesta

  Rhona (Rho-na) : Nesta’s granddaughter

  Ieuan (Yey-an)

  Geraint (Ger-eyent)

  Dai (Die)

  Cerys (Keris)

  Bryn (Brin)

  Irish Druids (Wicklow)

  Seamus (Shay-mus): Archdruid

  Diarmuid (Derm-ot): Seamus’s eldest son

  Cian (Key-an): Son of Seamus

  Colm (Col-um): Seamus’s brother

  Irish Druids (Newgrange)

  Niall (Ni -al): Archdruid

  Aislinn (Ash-lean): Niall’s eldest daughter

  Kathleen: Niall’s youngest daughter

  Others

  Rob: A Cumbrian Druid

  Cadan: A Cornish Druid

  Peder: A Cornish Druid

  Carmen : A Galician Druid

  Maria: A Galician Druid

  John and Liz: An English couple on Eigg

  Language

  Language, not race, has always been the unifying component of the Celts: Welsh, Irish Gaelic, Scots Gaelic, Breton, Manx and Cornish. Though all derived from the ancient Brythonic language of Celtic Britain, they are now so distinct from each other as to be mutually exclusive. Yet they are still here.

  In Hiraeth, Druids from the different Celtic regions use English to communicate with each other, though they all have a smattering of each other’s mother tongue.

  The Welsh used in some of the dialogue in this book isn’t textbook Welsh. A word or two in the local Moelfre, Anglesey dialect has been used to indicate when Welsh is being spoken between characters.

  Rhan Gyntaf – Part One

  Blean Woods, Kent, England 2007

  Twenty years of hiding, of running, and it had come to this.

  Tom pulled her along behind him, willing her to keep up, but she staggered again. She’d run too far, for too long, and Molly knew she would die tonight.

  They called these ancient woods by their first name, Blaen – their Welsh name. Molly had brought Tom here this morning to celebrate Beltane and to consecrate their love, but she should have been more careful. Never the same place twice was the rule, but she’d broken it. It was too late now, and Molly could hear the men gaining on them; crashing through the undergrowth in the wet dawn.

  Tom could feel her waning, and slowed to a jog. “We’ll make our stand here – after all there’s only five of them left now.” He reached for a smile but the expression on his wife’s face extinguished the attempt. “Where’s Brendan?” It was almost a curse beneath his breath. Tom scanned the blanket of moist green, short swo
rd in hand. They were back to back when the first Irishman broke cover.

  “Not bad for a couple of oldies,” the youngster taunted, trying to control his breathing. “He told us you might be a handful.” The tone changed as he gazed at Molly. “He wants you to pay for your mistake.” Molly gagged at a memory and Tom tightened his body around her, as two more men entered the clearing. This Irishman was extremely young, not much more than a teenager, and his strong Wicklow accent jolted Tom back in time. “Nothing you can do now.” The lad grinned, holding up a blackened blade. “The swords are tainted. It’ll only take a nick.”

  Tom threw his own sword in a vicious deadly arc, the momentum of the steel sending the boy flying backwards and clutching at his ruined throat. “Now there’s only four. Do you want to talk?” he spoke evenly, to one of the stunned accomplices.

  “You fucking Welsh bastard,” another lad screeched, the youngest by far, and Tom felt that malice again. “There’s nothing to talk about. You’ll die and he’ll have her, at last.”

  Molly passed Tom her sword, eased a knife from her belt, and threw it into the nearest man’s thigh; she knew it would have bounced from the combat leather on his chest. The boy swore in pain as he dug out the dagger, then advanced on her, tainted blade in hand – all piggy pink eyes and ginger hair.

  Tom pushed Molly behind him, then regained his combat stance. The younger man wasn’t well trained but he didn’t need to be with that blade. He wielded it like a taunt, slashing up and down flashily but leaving his kidneys exposed. Tom feinted to the side leaving his opponent overextended and off balance; a brutal kick to the ribs knocked the runt flat.

  Too late. Tom whirled to Molly, held in the arms of the third man, and all the air emptied from his lungs.

  “No! Molly.”

  But the cut had been made; a large black swathe against her neck. The Irish pig laughed, and pushed her forward into Tom’s arms; he knew ginger was limping towards him from behind with his black blade but that didn’t matter now. Her eyes were flat with pain but there was love and life there too, and when he felt the blade sink into his back, it wasn’t too deep or painful.

  “You’ll live to watch her die,” the runt spat. There was a commotion behind him, and Tom knew that Brendan had arrived. He heard Irish bodies fall thick and fast. The grunting and squealing of combat was played out beyond his vision, but Tom had the satisfaction of knowing that none of the enemy would survive an encounter with Brendan, no matter how many black blades they owned. Each kick and punch meted out by his brother in law, delivered pain and death to the enemy.

  Molly’s breath was slowing; blood loss and poison made it a struggle to speak. “Mona, Idwal, they must live.”

  Cocooning her in his arms, Tom lay them both against the sodden ground, already feeling the heaviness of the poison in his own lungs and heart. “They will live.”

  He kissed her mouth for as long as it would stay warm, and when he pulled away Molly, was wearing the smallest of smiles on her beloved face. “Ein bywydau sydd i ddod. All our future lives, Tom.”

  “Wait for me,” he sobbed into her strawberry hair, but she had gone.

  *

  Tom was taking too long to die, and his vision was still clear enough to focus on Brendan when he staggered over; breathing heavily and decorated with blood that was not his own. He fell to his knees at the sight of his sister. “Molly…” he uttered as he swallowed back grief.

  “She’s gone Bren… they took her from me.”

  Brendan’s heart clenched in grief, as he watched the big man smooth back his sister’s golden-red hair. “I couldn’t get past them in time… too many at the southern gate… I failed her.”

  A seizure shook Tom but he smiled sadly, shaking his head. “It was always going to end like this, Bren. We’ve lasted so much longer than we thought possible.” Brendan lowered his head and nodded; he knew Tom spoke the truth. “Look after them. He mustn’t have them. Not Mona, not Idwal – please.” The words were a struggle for Tom now, and Brendan gripped his friend’s shoulder.

  “Nes i ni gyfarfod eto. Until we meet again, Tom.”

  Tom’s last words were a whisper in the rain. “Burn us, Brendan, ease our passing.”

  The rain pattered through the trees as Brendan stared down at his dead sister and her love. He wasn’t alarmed by the voice of the dying Irishman – Brendan had nicked the boy with that dirty blade. “I did her a favour. Better to die here than face what he had planned for her,” the young man croaked.

  Brendan was too numb to feel anger; his loss was beyond grief. “Why did they have to die? There are so few of us left,” Brendan choked out.

  “Seamus wanted her back.”

  “But why still, after all these years?”

  “The mark… it was the mark – always the mark.”

  “I don’t understand. What is this mark? Why does he need it?”

  “Druids will return to their former power under it; it’s the only way left now.”

  Brendan was well aware of the catechism. The mindless obsession with inherited magic, but he didn’t understand the new fixation with this mark; the psychosis in Seamus must have hollowed him out over the years. Brendan needed one more answer before the man died.

  “How did you find us?”

  “Cameras, surveillance,” the lad winced as the poison began to overwhelm him. “The new world order is technology, old man. He’s been hunting you down with it for years.”

  A week later, on the Kentish coast

  The pub was the only building for miles around and it teetered at the edge of the salt marsh. Brendan watched the arrival of the flashy black Mercedes, confident that it hadn’t been followed. He and the lawyer knew each other by sight, and Brendan waited for the man in the suit to come to his table.

  “Drink?” Brendan asked, knowing the answer.

  “No. Thank you.”

  Brendan knew the lawyer was irritated by the remoteness of the location, but he was either too polite or too scared to complain. It must have taken a great deal of effort to find this place and Brendan might have been impressed – if he could get past his revulsion. It wasn’t just the man in front of him to be fair; the warrior had a real loathing for the entire breed. The Ovate solicitors didn’t take sides, only money, and from all of them – and yet these Druids still had the nerve to laud their academic superiority over any of the warrior class. They liked to move around in the soft, safe circles of mainstream society and claim they were ‘doing their bit’ for the greater good of the Druid community. It was just a load of arse licking and bending over in Brendan’s eyes.

  Brendan didn’t feel safe anywhere anymore, but he’d taken as many precautions as he could; there were no cameras here at least – and he needed to sort out their future.

  “Interesting spot,” the lawyer noted drily.

  “We’re being watched.”

  Brendan was taciturn at best, but the lawyer knew enough to leave well alone, and settled down to business, pulling the papers from his briefcase. “You’re familiar with the will?”

  “Some.”

  “Here we go then.” The man passed the file across the table. “You have custody of the girl and her brother is in the army. The estate is to be shared equally between them, held in trust by you until Mona is eighteen. It’s all quite straightforward.”

  “Not really. I have to make some changes to my will now. Are you sure you don’t want a drink, we’ll be here a while.”

  *

  Business was completed three hours later.

  “Tell me again, just so I know you’ve got it,” Brendan demanded and the lawyer sighed, rubbing his gritty eyes.

  “If anything happens to you, Mona will know. She will contact us, and we will then drive her from the appointed location to the address in Anglesey…”

  “Immediately, the same day, without stopping,” Brendan interrupted, hoarse with repetition.

  “Yes, how many more times?”

  “I’ve paid you
a lot of money for this,” Brendan growled, and the lawyer continued, jolted back into compliance by the threat in the Druid’s eyes. The man was deadly, warrior class, not a Bard or an Ovate.

  “When she arrives there, we leave her with the papers.” The lawyer fluttered a long-fingered hand over the table. “And the details of her contact.”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “I’ll be in touch.”

  The contact. Could Brendan stretch back into a bloody past and trust her life to him? Possibly not, but there had never been anyone else. If Brendan died, Ifan was the last and only hope for Mona, and he felt empty as he watched the red rear lights disappear. One last job, one huge deceit and he would have fulfilled his promise to keep them safe.

  Brendan stood by the red post box, his gaze alternating between its slim metal maw and the letter in his hand. He felt the name beneath his fingers, one last time: ‘Sapper Idwal Jones,’ printed neatly, above the boy’s BFPO number. There was enough money in here for the lad to survive for a few years. The news would devastate him – but this would keep him safe. With a lump in his throat, Brendan slipped the letter in. He let it fall and turned away.