Encounter in the Mist

By

Ann Marie Hill Brixey

“If we were to meet a dragon or two, would it surprise you?” My companion asked.

“Hmm, Where did that come from?” I asked, puzzled.

“Surely you know where we are?”

I did not bother to respond; Of course I knew where we were.

“Well we are in Oxford,” the emphasis was on the word ‘are.’  “You surely must remember the story of Lludd and the Three Plagues of Briton.

I searched my memory; of course, the second of the Three Plagues was the fighting dragons. According to the story, Lludd, on the advice of his brother Llefelys set a trap to capture them, in the very centre of the island of Briton.

“Oh yes, the two dragons,” I replied, “who, after taking the form of pigs, (every one knows that dragons are able to transform themselves) drank themselves silly from a vat of mead then fell into a deep sleep. Legend has it, once captured they were taken to North Wales to be entombed safely in Snowdonia.”

I was glad I had recently re-read the Mabinogion, the Legends of Wales, I hoped that my erudite companion would be suitably impressed at my knowledge of the old tales, but the only response I got was “Hrrmph”

After several more days of traveling around the countryside, we finally arrived in North Wales,

“Do you know where we are?” asked my friend,

Oh boy, here we go again,  “Yes, Beddgelert, and near Dinas Emrys, where it is said, Lludd entombed the two dragons, and they have never been seen again. I said smugly, my companion just nodded.

 On this warm, early spring morning, white clouds lazily capped the tops of the surrounding mountains. The sun, a spinning orb in the azure sky, lit the carpet of wildflowers that cloaked the riverbank. From some distant hillside came the bleating of sheep. A Minibus packed with sightseers, slowed momentarily, giving way to hikers. Then, anxious to get to the attractions that Snowdon had to offer, roared furiously on its way.

Being eager to explore these splendid surroundings, we parked the car, and walked along the river path.  By the time we reached the footbridge leading to the disused railroad bed, I had pushed thoughts of dragons and beasties aside. My companion too seemingly had forgotten the old tales. We ambled on, talking of this and that. Then, on finding a comfortable spot, we sat to enjoy the sights and sounds around us.

From a nearby falls, water splashing down on the rock face and ledges sang a merry counterpoint to the sweet song of birds, anxiously trying to attract a mate. The river, swollen by the early spring thaw and recent heavy rains, tumbled over its rocky bed. Decaying leaves and twigs were being swept furiously downstream to the waiting sea.

“Merlin might well have quenched his thirst from this river,” I observed. Once again thoughts of the old legends had nudged their way to the forefront.

           

“If he existed at all, he most likely would have watered his horses in it, and taken sweeter, colder water from one of the many waterfalls for himself,” my friend replied.

We continued in this vein for some time, before realizing that the morning’s warmth had gone, it had become quite cool and damp. A mist had suddenly rolled in, but my companion and I seemed reluctant to leave this delightful spot.  Traffic sounds now were muffled, the voices of other walkers, grew fainter, till the world became strangely still and silent. 

A lone walker was coming down from the hills. As he neared, we could see that the green jacket and trousers he wore had a slight sheen, as though he had been caught in heavy drizzle or the spray from one of the falls.  Long, unkempt hair, beard, and tattered appearance gave the impression that he was a tramp. My companion and I looked at each other.

“Maybe we should leave,” I whispered, but still we seemed unwilling or unable to move.

 “Bore da,” was his greeting as he neared. I responded in kind, my companion in English.

He stopped, “Do you know where you are?” he asked.

“Oh yes, close to…” I began.

But before I could continue, he interrupted and pointed, “yonder is a cave, mostly covered by brambles now, where since the world began, lives a dragon. He sighed. “ This poor beast has not emerged from it for centuries, not since the time his foot was severed.”

My companion whispered somewhat contemptuously, “ Yes we have read the tale too.” But I sat spellbound, as he continued.

 “One fine spring day, many years ago a beautiful young woman, with hair the color of flax, and eyes as blue and deep as the lake made her way towards the cave where she was to meet her admirer. Tired from carrying a heavy basket and small pail, she looked about for somewhere to sit till he arrived. Nearing the entrance she stood for several minutes peering in, unsure if she should enter into the inky darkness. She had heard the old stories of the fearsome creature that once lived there, but gave little credence to them.  Looking around, she spotted a large flat rock; where she placed her basket.”

As his melodious voice wove the story, it was easy to understand how the Bards of old, could cast a spell on listeners, making even the most incredulous story believable. Closing my eyes I could almost see the young woman as she stood there waiting, and wondering if they would dare to venture into the cave.

“Taking her pail, she went to the falls just there,” he pointed  “and filled it with sweet, icy water. When she returned, her basket had gone. Thinking her lover had arrived, she cautiously stepped into the murky shadows, seeing her basket perched on a rock she called out,  “You are here already.” 

                                                         

Suddenly, she heard a weak voice, say “thank you.” 

Looking around, she could see the cave was littered with large boulders. When one moved, she started to walk quickly back to the entrance.

“Please don’t go,” a feeble voice said, “nothing will hurt you.

            Turning, she warily came further in. To her astonishment she discovered that the thing she thought a large rock, looked exactly like a dragon. It let out a long sigh, and the cave was bathed in a misty red glow. The lass gasped in horror as she could clearly see a suppurating stump where a front foot should have been. The beast tried to move forward, moaning in agony, the sound reverberated like thunder.

She was filled with pity for this suffering creature, all fear left her; taking a cloth from her basket, she dipped it into the icy water. Gently applying the cool compress to the wound, it seemed to give the creature some ease.

As she continued tending the injury, he told her how it had come about.

After successfully hunting his prey, he was about to fly away, when he felt a searing pain. It had taken but one slash from the massive sword wielded by an old man. Writhing in agony, he dropped his victim to the ground, and found his talon had dropped with it.

Trees burned like straw as the fire-breathing beast, blinded by pain, returned to the safety of his den, everything in the dragon’s path was burned. For many weeks, the surrounding hills and valleys reverberated with the screeches of pain and rage that had rent the air. The cave was his refuge, there he remained, never again venturing out; eating only what he was able to find scurrying around on the ground, he became a shadow of his former self, the stump never fully healing. Over the centuries, the trees have re-grown, and brambles cover the mouth of the cave, the dragon was forgotten.

The maiden listened with tears in her eyes, and sorrow in her heart for this poor, sad creature. She promised that she would return each day with food and salves, to help him heal.

“And so she has, “ he said with a long sigh.

My long-suffering companion said scornfully  “Dragon tales…” then taking my arm   “come on, we must be on our way.”

I looked up, ready to thank the stranger for his story, but he was walking away, back toward the hills.  Before disappearing into the shadow of the trees, he lifted his arm above his head to wave. Hurriedly I stood, blinking rapidly, in the blinding sunlight. The mist had disappeared as quickly as it had come.

We walked back in silence, lost in our own thoughts. As we neared the bridge, we passed a young woman, carrying a basket. In the bright sunshine, her hair looked like spun gold she nodded a greeting at us and continued on her way along the track.

Dragons can transform themselves, and speak, the thought suddenly flashed across my mind. I stopped suddenly, “when the man waved, he appeared to have no hand.” I said to no one in particular.

I looked at my companion, who pragmatically shrugged, we continued walking back to our car…

The story of Lludd and Llefelys is taken in part  from the Mabinogion. Translated to English byLady Charlotte E. Guest.

The disused railroad bed now forms part of the line of the Welsh Highland Railway which runs from Caernarfon to Porthmadog.