The Beginning...

Tim was running, he acknowledged it - but running to or running from?

The night of the Summer Solstice, the sun never far away, already a pale mackerel sky marked the early return. He had the road to himself as he had all night up from Porth Alarch, over the Van, and through the back roads to eventually draw to a halt at the lake - midnight. He had coasted past his old home, not wishing to disturb his tenants with the tell-tale sound of the Suzuki.

Running from the situation at Porth Alarch - a spur of the moment act upon this significant night... Then, once into his precipitate flight, convincing himself he was running to a solution of a dilemma by performing an old ritual...

Llyn-y-Fan Fach waited as she always waited - still, dark and cold.

Tim still felt that cold in the paradoxical warmth that made him feel so sleepy. Plus the fact that he had barely slept for over twenty-four hours. Night duty and a torrid bout with Glyn had left its mark, though it was the subsequent blazing row that robbed him of any hope of rest. Like a fool he had told his lover he would probably leave Porth Alarch to take up a family commitment - he told him he would be going alone.

How was it that recently it was the way of his relationships never to pass in the night? They would languish in strange harbours with the tide falling on cloying mud. He could take the metaphor further - Glyn was like the picture postcard port that hid the sewage outflow until the sparkling water fled at the moon's behest.

How could he have been so stupid? He might as well have a ring through his prick to be led so.

Would that Mamgu's magic could put everything to rights. Why else would he visit the Faerie lake on this particular night? Getting into the spirit of the thing?

The lake and the ritual behind him, he ran on through Llanddeusant, through Myddfai and Llandovery, heading up towards Llanwrtyd Wells on a whim in search of speed, winding the 500 up to a hundred and more, reckless in the dimsy light. But he was too tired, and nearly lost it at Cynghordy. Chastened, he rode more sedately, though still disturbing jackdaws from the tarmac to fly up like patches of darkness looking for the night.

Suddenly it was dawn...

The Sugar Loaf...

Tim drew off the road, motoring to the edge of the levelled area beneath the eponymous outcrop that dominated the valley. There was silence as he switched off the engine - absolute silence... A waiting silence that tingled his ears even after he removed his helmet.

He climbed stiffly from the bike and stretched, breathing in the pine-scented air. Yesterday's warmth still permeated upwards from the plantation of conifers that clothed the slopes beneath his vantage.

And something else... The silence was not total.

As his ears forgot the sounds of the rushing road, Tim became aware of bird song in the valley. Out of the thin drifts of broken mist, the crescendo of the dawn chorus lofted from the vale. Song birds vied for dominance in vain, for overall he heard the extraordinary paradox of owls out-calling cuckoos.

Entranced, he listened, barely believing the evidence of his senses. It was as if both night and day celebrated the dawn. Or was the darkness only surrendering reluctantly to the day? Deep shadows lingered down there...

A constriction in his throat and a heart that threatened to bloat in his chest made Tim stagger. Tears burned his eyes...

Oh, he said to himself, how I love this earth...

"I love this earth!" he shouted across the valley - which did not throw his words back at him in empty echoes. The soil, the rocks, the trees all heard and kept his cry...

Then Tim made a promise to the listening hills:

"I will be one with you!" he cried out before whispering a passionate avowal upon the scented air... "I swear I shall find my roots and give my life and work meaning in the service of this good earth, and my heritage - Great Mother guide me!"

The moment passed. Day won and the hours were given over to the birds of light.

Tim moved to resume his journey, still the same man - or was he?

Although his life at Porth Alarch laid claim upon him, he hesitated -perhaps he would spend the day in these familiar valleys. He could savour the wooded slopes of Ystrad Ffin and later meet the obligation of visiting his mother at the Home.

His senses, his body, became aware of - what? A feeling...? It had no focus, a kind of tearing... growing, growing so quickly! The sheer sudden magnitude of sound pulverised his senses, detaching his mind from control of his body, which became incapable of reacting...

From the valley a billowing cloud of birds flew up, compressing in a wave... pressed before a tidal bore of hideous sound...

Wing down, he came - threading the narrow venture of the valley... he struck the wave of birds...

Tim saw a silver wheel of light, searing in the risen sun... Then silence crushed him.

He went to his mother's house.

He left the bike in the lane and climbed the winding path that followed the river, past the salmon leap to the foot of the crag.

He climbed the wooden stairs, still sound despite the passage of time since his grandfather made them, and entered the garden that was always peaceful within its walls.

The old 'One Night House' was robust with years. Stone had long since replaced the wattle and clay, meeting the hearth wall seamlessly, surely and without reproach. No man ever challenged this family's right to be there.

Tim stood before the massive door eyeing the brass dragon's head that his grandmother had averred was more guardian than knocker.

Tim entered, closed the door behind him and leaned against it, savouring the peaceful ambience of the house. There was the smell, as always, of polish, of sunlight on curtains, of past meals and, as elusive as ever, the flavour of Hen Dadcu's tobacco... The old cat padded from the kitchen and regarded him owlishly.

He sighed contentedly, threw down his bag and went into the golden light of the living room where the drawn curtains protected the woodwork from the sun. There was a letter on the table, an ornately inscribed envelope. Tim swept it up and dropped into a deep armchair. The cat lost no time in commandeering his lap.

He looked at the heavily embellished version of his name - Timothy Jones - and found it worthy of some ancient manuscript, indeed it boasted a red wax seal that dared any breach other than the true recipient of the missive that foretold his becoming the Steward of Ynys Llechan.

Fatigue overwhelmed him. The figured envelope blurred before his eyes...

Tim slept... He dreamed of owls...

...Flying out of the searing silver wheel that hurt his eyes...

...Burning...


				*The Beginning...*



	Frontispiece. \| Introduction and Commentary.. plus a Glossary. \| The Beginning... \| The Writer. \| Prime. \| Inside the Rainbow. \| Appendix.






		Tim was running, he acknowledged it - but running to or running from? The night of the Summer Solstice, the sun never far away, already a pale mackerel sky marked the early return. He had the road to himself as he had all night up from Porth Alarch, over the Van, and through the back roads to eventually draw to a halt at the lake - midnight. He had coasted past his old home, not wishing to disturb his tenants with the tell-tale sound of the Suzuki. Running from the situation at Porth Alarch - a spur of the moment act upon this significant night... Then, once into his precipitate flight, convincing himself he was running to a solution of a dilemma by performing an old ritual... Llyn-y-Fan Fach waited as she always waited - still, dark and cold. Tim still felt that cold in the paradoxical warmth that made him feel so sleepy. Plus the fact that he had barely slept for over twenty-four hours. Night duty and a torrid bout with Glyn had left its mark, though it was the subsequent blazing row that robbed him of any hope of rest. Like a fool he had told his lover he would probably leave Porth Alarch to take up a family commitment - he told him he would be going alone. How was it that recently it was the way of his relationships never to pass in the night? They would languish in strange harbours with the tide falling on cloying mud. He could take the metaphor further - Glyn was like the picture postcard port that hid the sewage outflow until the sparkling water fled at the moon's behest. How could he have been so stupid? He might as well have a ring through his prick to be led so. Would that Mamgu's magic could put everything to rights. Why else would he visit the Faerie lake on this particular night? Getting into the spirit of the thing? The lake and the ritual behind him, he ran on through Llanddeusant, through Myddfai and Llandovery, heading up towards Llanwrtyd Wells on a whim in search of speed, winding the 500 up to a hundred and more, reckless in the dimsy light. But he was too tired, and nearly lost it at Cynghordy. Chastened, he rode more sedately, though still disturbing jackdaws from the tarmac to fly up like patches of darkness looking for the night. Suddenly it was dawn... The Sugar Loaf... Tim drew off the road, motoring to the edge of the levelled area beneath the eponymous outcrop that dominated the valley. There was silence as he switched off the engine - absolute silence... A waiting silence that tingled his ears even after he removed his helmet. He climbed stiffly from the bike and stretched, breathing in the pine-scented air. Yesterday's warmth still permeated upwards from the plantation of conifers that clothed the slopes beneath his vantage. And something else... The silence was not total. As his ears forgot the sounds of the rushing road, Tim became aware of bird song in the valley. Out of the thin drifts of broken mist, the crescendo of the dawn chorus lofted from the vale. Song birds vied for dominance in vain, for overall he heard the extraordinary paradox of owls out-calling cuckoos. Entranced, he listened, barely believing the evidence of his senses. It was as if both night and day celebrated the dawn. Or was the darkness only surrendering reluctantly to the day? Deep shadows lingered down there... A constriction in his throat and a heart that threatened to bloat in his chest made Tim stagger. Tears burned his eyes... Oh, he said to himself, how I love this earth... "I love this earth!" he shouted across the valley - which did not throw his words back at him in empty echoes. The soil, the rocks, the trees all heard and kept his cry... Then Tim made a promise to the listening hills: "I will be one with you!" he cried out before whispering a passionate avowal upon the scented air... "I swear I shall find my roots and give my life and work meaning in the service of this good earth, and my heritage - Great Mother guide me!" The moment passed. Day won and the hours were given over to the birds of light. Tim moved to resume his journey, still the same man - or was he? Although his life at Porth Alarch laid claim upon him, he hesitated -perhaps he would spend the day in these familiar valleys. He could savour the wooded slopes of Ystrad Ffin and later meet the obligation of visiting his mother at the Home. His senses, his body, became aware of - what? A feeling...? It had no focus, a kind of tearing... growing, growing so quickly! The sheer sudden magnitude of sound pulverised his senses, detaching his mind from control of his body, which became incapable of reacting... From the valley a billowing cloud of birds flew up, compressing in a wave... pressed before a tidal bore of hideous sound... Wing down, he came - threading the narrow venture of the valley... he struck the wave of birds... Tim saw a silver wheel of light, searing in the risen sun... Then silence crushed him. He went to his mother's house. He left the bike in the lane and climbed the winding path that followed the river, past the salmon leap to the foot of the crag. He climbed the wooden stairs, still sound despite the passage of time since his grandfather made them, and entered the garden that was always peaceful within its walls. The old 'One Night House' was robust with years. Stone had long since replaced the wattle and clay, meeting the hearth wall seamlessly, surely and without reproach. No man ever challenged this family's right to be there. Tim stood before the massive door eyeing the brass dragon's head that his grandmother had averred was more guardian than knocker. Tim entered, closed the door behind him and leaned against it, savouring the peaceful ambience of the house. There was the smell, as always, of polish, of sunlight on curtains, of past meals and, as elusive as ever, the flavour of Hen Dadcu's tobacco... The old cat padded from the kitchen and regarded him owlishly. He sighed contentedly, threw down his bag and went into the golden light of the living room where the drawn curtains protected the woodwork from the sun. There was a letter on the table, an ornately inscribed envelope. Tim swept it up and dropped into a deep armchair. The cat lost no time in commandeering his lap. He looked at the heavily embellished version of his name - Timothy Jones - and found it worthy of some ancient manuscript, indeed it boasted a red wax seal that dared any breach other than the true recipient of the missive that foretold his becoming the Steward of Ynys Llechan. Fatigue overwhelmed him. The figured envelope blurred before his eyes... Tim slept... He dreamed of owls... ...Flying out of the searing silver wheel that hurt his eyes... ...Burning...



		All words and pictures on these pages are the property of Y Teuli Calonyddaear unless otherwise stated.