Few call Cambria civilized and even those that do would admit that most of the country consists of barely-explored regions of extraordinary wildness. Among the most remote and untamed of such places are the forests and hills surrounding the settlement of Betws-y-Coed. Yet in that small, riverside town, on a beautiful May morning in the year 472, a meeting took place that would have been recognized by civilized persons everywhere as essential to the task of maintaining proper order in their community. For on that day, the elders were discussing their turbulent, teenage children in terms that are near universal in the world of human beings.

‘This town will be ruined unless our youths are disciplined and brought to obedience!’ Standing beside the venerable oak tree around which the town had been established and looking as wrinkled and rugged as its bark was the druid, Ithel. The less kind among those listening to him saw a further comparison between man and tree, since Ithel’s outstretched arms and unkempt canopy of grey hair imitated the essential shape of the oak.

His dishevelled appearance notwithstanding, the words of the druid were met with approval, even by those several generations younger than he, by parents, indeed, of the miscreants under discussion. Voice trembling with indignation, Ithel continued his speech.

‘We cannot allow our street to become a thoroughfare for every mischievous púka from Uffen.’[1]

‘Hear him, hear him!’

‘Aye! And aye once more!’

It was rare for these townspeople to be in accord or to express themselves with such passionate cries. Yet they had assembled following the kind of troubled events that rarely occur, even on their notorious Feast of Samhain. The people of Betws-y-Coed had just experienced a night of terrible, haunting screams; of terrified pets (many still missing); of milk and cream turned sour; of groaning timber frames (as though their houses would fall); of sudden, fierce winds that blew through the eaves and, extinguishing candles and fires, threw cups to the floor; of bitter, mocking laughter; of invisible kicks and much yanking of hair; and, worst of all, from the forest depths, a night prolonged by the ululating note of a lonely hunting horn, the memory which even now, under a bright sun, brought shivers to the hardy.

Excited by the responses around him — for it had been more than a decade since Ithel had heard such enthusiasm for his words — the druid once more raised his arms (consciously displaying their morbid tattoos) and did his best to bang a somewhat shaky fist into a palm. ‘It is time to resume the old ways. Time for a sacrifice! Let us pour the blood of young Arthyr into a cauldron and thus win the approval of our allies in Uffen.’

Having suffered a night of fears, the townspeople were tired and weary, they therefore allowed this dramatic pretence a measure of indulgent approval. It was believed that decades earlier Ithel had indeed conducted a most fearsome ritual – now long unfashionable - and had condemned some poor youth to death as a sacrifice to the local spirits. Certainly, the druid made the most of his reputation in this regard and there were few who ever openly opposed him. Yet fewer still in these times were those who actually acted on the druid’s words and even in this case, despite the cheers, there was no genuine enthusiasm for his proposal.

‘Arthyr is the root of the problem. His is the wicked influence upon the others. A cut to that root and the tree of insubordination, troubles, and geas-breaking will fall. Only he could have brought so many wild creatures of Uffen upon us. And if last night’s terrors were the work a youth, what will he unleash when he is mature? What say you? Shall we find him? Bind him in ivy and bring the copper sickle to his neck?’

‘Aye!’ returned the crowd, although the tone of their cries was somewhat lackluster now. The truth was, they needed a more pragmatic solution to their problem and many a resentful glance was cast in the direction of Arthyr’s foster-parents. Had the stick been used more frequently, then the child may have grown up to be less wilful and more inclined to obey to his betters than did the young Sí who was leading their own children astray. Naturally, these bitter thoughts were self-serving and if the good burghers of Betws-y-Coed had been more attentive to the rowdy character of their own children, they would have seen that Arthyr was only one of several inclined to rash deeds.

‘Banish him!’

‘It would be better to banish your Merilyn, for the mischief always starts with her.’ This was Arthyr’s foster-father.

‘Merliyn is a dutiful child.’

‘Can anyone here explain the meaning of the word “dutiful” to our friend the carrot-grower? He seems to have mistaken it for “impossible”.’

At this the assembly broke into factions, rival voices calling out as though a sudden storm had burst from the skies above them. Old Talaith was inclined to let the children be, had not everyone here been young once? Young, maybe, but never so troublesome nor so genuinely dangerous to the community, was the tone of a half dozen responses. Hard work was the solution, said the muscular smith, Menw, and he urged his fellow townspeople to set the youths the task of building a new salmon weir across the river Conwy.

As this proposal was being argued, with no likelihood of it being adopted, a stillness grew from the back of the crowd. Voices, having been eager and unstoppable in their desire to point out the obvious solution to the problem in clear terms that even their doltish neighbours would be able to comprehend, now became silent. One last woman was heard to say, ‘… three groups. Once they are split up… oh.’ And then she too fell quiet.

‘Greetings from her majesty, Empress Lisia of Rome.'

If there was one sight that could bring about a sense of comradeship between even the most fractious residents of Betws-y-Coed, it was that of a Roman soldier. And here were two of them. A woman, surprisingly young and short given that she wore the uniform of an imperial legate, and a poorly-shaven, rather scrawny, grey-haired, male companion.

‘What do you want?’ asked Menw, the smith, in the tone of voice that expressed the hostility that was visible in the faces of the entire assembly. ‘We’ve paid our taxes.’

This statement was made with a profound sense of righteous indignation shared by all, despite the fact that no coin had ever arrived in Rome from this town. Perhaps the people of Betws-y-Coed were recalling the visit of the tax collector from Deva some years earlier. During the course of a long night spent at the settlement, the poor man (along with his two sergeants) had been haunted by a variety of ghastly creatures. The following morning the Romans had left as soon as it was light, expressing gratitude for the — rather malodorous — salmon that had been given them by way of the town’s entire annual contribution to the administration of our mighty empire.

‘The empress has a request of you, the famous people of a land famous for its magic. She desires that you reveal to us your most powerful sorcerer and this woman come with us to assist the empress in her endeavour to wage war on the creatures of Tartarus that have recently invaded our lands.’

‘The empress?’ Menw reached up to scratch his bald head. ‘She wants a sorcerer from Betws-y-Coed?’

‘Exactly. Well, this is not quite exact. Not just any sorcerer. Your most powerful one.’

‘And this sorcerer must go with you to Rome?’ Ithel had a crafty look upon his face.

‘Exactly again. Well, once more let me qualify my remark. She must come and join the Sixth Legion for training, stationed in the kingdom of the Burgundians.’

‘Even better.’ Ithel gave a cackle that came as a surprise nearly as great as that caused by the appearance of the Romans. The druid had not been heard to laugh in decades. Only those old enough to remember Ivor’s goat had ever heard such a creaky noise before.[2] ‘Well, you Romans have come to our town at the right moment. We have your sorcerer. His name is Arthyr.’

A murmur, mostly approving, greeted these words.

Arthyr’s foster-father, however, shook his head. ‘No! What right have the Romans to take one of our own into their army?’

A murmur, equally approving, greeted these words too. For Arthyr’s father had struck a true note. More powerful than their desire to rid themselves of a troublesome youth was a sense of independence in the heart of every inhabitant of Betws-y-Coed.

‘The empress does not seek to enlist your sorcerer as a right but as a question of honour.’ Struggling for a moment with a pouch, the legate held up a silver chain: from it hung a delicate oak leaf, also of silver. It was beautiful work and their own silversmith could not have done better. In fact, she came forward now to look at the necklace more closely.

‘When King Ulwen of Cambria made a treaty with Empress Julia, he gave her this silverwork as a token of the agreement. And did he not promise that if the Romans called upon the Welsh in the name of this token, the Welsh would respond?’

‘May I?’ The silversmith took the leaf in her hands and carefully turned held it up to the sunlight. Reverentially, she handed it back. ‘It is Welsh-made for sure and the work of a master.’

‘That settles the matter.’ Ithel clapped his hands together and glared at Arthyr’s father. ‘The Romans are not demanding anything from us. They are seeking our help. And we would shame our ancestors if we refused them.’ He paused and then spoke solemnly. ‘All who would send Arthyr from our community until such time as he has served the Romans, shout now.’

This time, the ‘ayes’ were clear and strong, after which chorus no one spoke. Although he shook his head and looked tearful, Arthyr’s father had no more to say. Quiet now (but for the cry of a baby), the people of Betws-y-Coed felt as though a truly momentous decision had been made. And some of them wondered if had been a wise one, or a fair one. For there was another aspect to this resolution that had nothing to do with the Romans or even the previous night’s wild visitors from Uffen.

In Betws-y-Coed there was rather more tolerance of adultery than is usual in the civilized world. This was a pragmatic consequence of the fact that there were regular exchanges, a definite pattern of intercourse one might say, between the Earth and Uffen. When a human encountered the ethereal beauty of a Sí and when that Sí wished to lie with the human, there was no marriage vow that could withstand the powerful inducements available to those of the spirit world. Condemnation or disapproval, therefore, of the victim of such wicked Sí enchantments was considered unwarranted. Stigma was attached only upon those who found excuses to linger hopefully at locations where the Sí were wont to appear and, even then, the comments you were likely to hear were of a mocking kind, rather than genuine expressions of anger and intolerance.

This open-minded tradition had functioned successfully for generations. Yet now there was a Sí foundling, Arthyr, who had been raised among them and was reaching an age where heads were turning in his direction and where he responded with an amused, knowing expression. Where did the citizens of the village stand in respect to Arthyr? Surely, he counted as a human? For they had all known him these nineteen years. To lie with Arthyr would be to create long-lasting consequences for the relationships between the inhabitants of this small community; certainly it would be a very different matter to that of a tryst with an utterly strange and mysterious Sí visitor from Uffen.

It was guilt that had stilled the crowd in the aftermath of their decision. Guilt among husbands for mistrusting their wives and among wives (and some husbands too) for their erotic dreams focused on the Sí-born youth. Perhaps it were best that Arthyr was exiled from the town, even if such a decree was undeserved.

Their sheepish silence was broken by the legate.

‘One matter — no several, but this is the first I would address — I cannot fathom. You say your most powerful sorcerer is a man?’ The Roman officer turned to her companion, who nodded his unkempt head as if to agree with her unspoken objection.

Ithel, in a most cheerful and obliging tone, was the person who responded on behalf of the people of Betws-y-Coed. ‘Here in Cymru,[3] men can be sorcerers. Especially if they were born in Uffen and are the offspring of Sí parents, which is the case with Arthyr.’

‘I see. Or rather, I understand but I don’t see him. Which one of you is Arthyr?’

Several heads turned towards the forest path.

‘He’s in there.’ Menw used his thumb to point to the woods in a gesture that was either dismissive to Arthyr, the Roman officer, or both.

‘And when might he return?’

A flurry of voices welled up by way of answer, some saying, ‘soon’, others, with a discontented tone that was not lost on the two Romans, replying, ‘it could be days’.

There was a strong understanding between the legate and her sergeant and if my readers will bear with me for a brief aside, I will say something of the glance that they now shared.

Our two Romans had travelled together all the way from the most beautiful of cities to this extremely remote — not to say dangerous — part of the empire. Cambria (especially its northern part) is a region where Roman arms and equipment are as likely to attract trouble as to demand respect. The older of the two, Alerus, was a sergeant and considerably further down the military hierarchy of our glorious army than the imperial legate, Sapentia Avita Metrodora. Nevertheless, throughout their journey, Sapentia had deferred to the practical experience of Alerus and had allowed him to negotiate their way from inn to inn, stable to stable. Only when dealing with magistrates or priests had the younger of the two taken the lead.

There had been moments in the course of their journey when Sapentia had readied her sword against a perceived threat from bandits and outlaws. Yet Alerus was a man fond of his existence and — for a soldier — surprisingly averse to fighting. Invariably, he preferred to buy his way out of a difficult situation rather than risk a wound. And Sapentia had sufficient funds that the purses they had lost in the course of Alerus’s negotiations were well within their means.

If the opportunity arises, I shall write more concerning the journey of these two Romans to Betws-y-Coed. Yet I have no desire to stray far from the main flow of my narrative and will summarize their relationship in this way: if Sapentia was the embodiment of the highly trained and educated elite noblewoman of Roman society and Alerus that of the streetwise proletarian, they both respected one another sufficiently to have formed an unlikely friendship. And thus in the aforementioned glance was an exchange with approximately the following meaning: do you think the people here are unhappy with this Arthyr and plan on getting rid of him by assigning him to us? I do and I suspect we are being used. We must be careful, for the empress will not be pleased if we travel so far to return with a cracked pot.

‘We cannot say when Arthyr will come home,’ said the druid, ‘sometimes he remains away for a week or more. Especially when he knows we are furious with him, as we are. And sometimes too, he crosses the boundary to Uffen and that can also mean an absence of many days.’

‘Then I would appreciate a room for myself and another for my sergeant.’

A new round of discussion now broke out among the people of Betws-y-Coed, one that might have lasted for some time, but for the unmistakable clink of coin as the smaller Roman tossed a small pouch from hand to hand. This sound created a certain willingness, if not outright eagerness, in the deliberations of the townspeople and soon volunteers had been found for the housing of the Romans and the stabling of their horses.

Sapentia and Alerus allowed themselves to be led away along the town’s only street, towards where they had tied their horses. Behind them, the meeting broke apart and the people of Betws-y-Coed returned to their daily labours, repeating to one another that it was only proper to honour the promise of King Ulwen. They could not bring shame on all of Cymru. And while it would go hard on Arthyr’s foster-parents to lose their adopted son, they would get used to it and as much as everyone else, they would enjoy the quiet that would surely follow Arthyr’s departure.

[1] The world that the Welsh call Uffen is often explained to Roman readers as being Tartarus, or Hell. Only the ignorant, however, can give such an idiotic translation. Of all the countless errors in the latest publication by Publius Cornelius Tacitus (De Origine et situ Cambriorum) this is easily the worst. Tacitus understands nothing of Celtic magic. Uffen is certainly a very shadowy place filled with creatures inimical to humans, but it is not Hell. Insofar as it has a location, some scholars place it in a region far beyond Hell; others say it is heavily entwined with our own world, much as ivy grows thick around the stones of an abandoned tower. Those of us without Sí blood cannot sense it; those with that birthright say Uffen is present always. For the purposes of correcting the common misunderstanding, I did consider attempting to coin a new word for Uffen. Síland or Spiritland would perhaps be reasonable inventions, or to adopt the term Faerie, which the commoners sometimes use, but in the end I decided to leave the term for that mysterious world in the original Welsh.

[2] Two generations ago, in a great temper, the farmer Ivor left his wife and family, taking with him only a goat. Up to the mountain lake he went and for months Ivor lived very contentedly on the goat’s milk. No doubt, thought Ivor, his wife was suffering from his absence, as she would now appreciate how much work he did for the farm, labour which she would now have to do in his stead.

Ivor loved his goat and showed it greater consideration than he had ever shown his wife. He treasured the doe and she grew fat on the luxuriant grasses around the lake. Yet because Llyn Elsi was haunted, the druid Ithel advised that Ivor return to Betws-y-Coed. The farmer, however, was stubborn and instead kept his goat and himself safe by planting a ring of silver birch saplings around their sleeping place and binding them with ivy.

One evening Ivor’s wife came to see him.

‘Ivor,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry. We miss you and we appreciate how hard you worked for us. I’ve come to persuade you to return. Can I come in?’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Ivor, ‘I knew it. But I will not come home.’

‘Ivor, husband, please relent. You will have your way in all matters, great and small.’

‘Even so, I am content where I am.’

‘Are you sure? Dear husband. Do you not miss my loving arms?’

‘Not as much as I delight in the absence of your nagging voice.’

‘But dear husband, I have brought with me your favourite stew.’

This made Ivor hesitate. The aroma of meat filled his dwelling and his mouth watered. It had been a great while since he had tasted anything other than goat’s milk.

‘Very well, wife. Swear you that evermore I am your master and you may enter.’

‘I so swear.’

Thus, Ivor spent a very pleasant night with an eager wife, a clay bottle of mead, and, in due course, an extremely savoury stew. His goat, who had greeted the arrival of Ivor’s wife with dismal bleating, soon fell silent.

The following morning, Ivor woke to find nothing left of his goat except a pile of bones covered in flies. His visitor had not been his wife but a spirit from Uffen and he had been foolish enough to invite the creature into his home, where some magic had evidently transformed his goat into the stew. Ivor was horrified, not only at having eaten his companion, but at his own narrow escape from the harm that may have arisen out of inviting into his home a spirit from Uffen.

With no source of food and cast down in morale, Ivor returned to Betwys-y-Coed and to a wife who heaped invective upon his suffering.

It was while listening to Ivor’s tale that the druid Ithel last broke out laughing.

[3] The Welsh term for their own country, which we call Cambria.