Anyone who claims not to have been impressed upon first meeting Arthyr is a liar, for so handsome was that Welsh youth that it was impossible not to stare at him. His physique was a match for that depicted by the most famous statues in Rome. Every part of the young man had grown in proportion to the golden mean that our artists have established as the perfect measure for the human body. Moreover, a touch under one and three-quarter metres in height, Arthyr had a litheness in his motion that no statue will ever convey. Even his walk was a sway that spoke of absolute self-confidence.

Of the more superficial but nonetheless striking aspects to his appearance, it is worth recording the fact that his eyes were a sea-green so deep as to be nearly black; while his long, dark hair sometimes seemed to have that purple sheen one sees on the bodies of ravens when the sun’s rays catch them at a certain angle. His face was arresting, with a kind of delicate, pale beauty that recalled slender, snow-covered mountain peaks. It was a hard face to read, because the difference between placidity and fierce temper was evident only in a slight tightening of his mouth, a thinning of his lips, so that they became less vivid a red.

If, at the age of nineteen, this captivating appearance had been accompanied by a matching nobility of character, then Arthyr would have been as heroic as any of the figures to be found in, say, Titus Livy’s History of the Romans. Sadly, yet as is to be expected in a barbarian, his bearing was profoundly flawed. For where a young man should be humble, Arthyr was proud. Where he should have been deferential, he was wilful and where he should have been cautious, he was inclined to risk all. This young man therefore made a dangerous enemy; nor was it at all easy being his friend.

It must be held against him too, that Arthyr was the kind of person who relishes the adulation of the crowd (unfortunately, we have many of these in Rome). And when he joins my narrative on that same day in May in which the Romans arrived at his village, we can see this with utter clarity. For that afternoon a group of children were at play in a forest clearing overgrown with amber-coloured bracken whose fronds grew as tall as the waists of the younger ones. Their game was similar to one that the urchins of Rome are also wont to enjoy whenever there are sufficient numbers. A sanctuary (in this case a fallen pine tree) is guarded by one child, while the rest hide and then try to sprint to touch the sanctuary before being identified and having their name called out. Should a child be spotted, then he or she joins the defenders of the sanctuary. It is a most excellent pastime and in my own youth I was rather good at it, for I had a cunning mind when it came to concealment and swift feet when it came to a sprint for safety.

A normal game then, yet these were not normal children. In at least two respects this challenge was unusual. Firstly, Sí blood runs to a greater or lesser extent in all of the people of Betws-y-Coed. These children could walk over piles of dry leaves without creating a rustling sound; they could become invisible simply by standing still in a spot where the light was dappled; they could run through a thicket of bushes without a branch trembling; nor were brambles, gorse or nettles an obstacle to them. Secondly, the game was being played in a place where the boundary between Uffen and the Earth was weak.

Arthyr was guarding the pine tree and laughing. It was perhaps unfair that he play such a role, he thought, as there was no challenge for him in finding hidden children. Not when the wind, the grass and even the trees wished to help him. He called out a dozen names. From the shadows, defeated children joined him at the pine and ringed it, peering in all directions to make sure that no one would succeed where they had failed.

‘Safe!’ announced Merilyn triumphantly; all at once, she was standing behind Arthyr, with one foot on the log.[1]

‘How did you do it?’ Arthyr clapped his hands as though acclaiming Merilyn, although he did so with deliberate and insincere slowness. Irritated by her success, by the fact he had lost despite his expectations, Arthyr put on a sardonic voice. ‘The flight of a bird? A cloud? A squirrel even?’

‘Willow seeds.’

‘Ahhh.’ As soon as Merilyn had given this answer, Arthyr could see the doorways for himself.

Everyone’s attention turned to the flimsy white fluff, which gave the appearance of small tufts of sheep’s wool drifting through the air. As Arthyr tracked them carefully, he noticed that sometimes a particular seed disappeared from view, while elsewhere others suddenly appeared as through blown into view from an invisible tree.

‘Can you take us all through?’ asked Gawain, a boy who was on the cusp of manhood and was suffering from a great many spots on his otherwise fine face. For Gawain, Uffen meant adventure and possible magical rewards. In his daydreams, he uncovered a magic sword in that realm, one that made him a hero on his return.

Beside Gawain was his close friend, the long-haired Netanya and she too had no fears of the land of the Sí. Netanya began a chant, ‘Do it! Do it!’ and waved on the younger children to join in.

‘I will not,’ replied Merilyn, although she smiled at their enthusiasm.

Arthyr looked across at her, sensing an opportunity to once more become the leading star for the other children. ‘Why not?’

‘You know why. It’s dangerous. Even for me, despite all my study. Nor is Uffen safe for you, notwithstanding the advantages of your birth. Then too, unless we go home soon, the village will be all astir with fear for us. Our parents will be thinking of the Piper of Hamlyn and dreading that we have disappeared into Uffen forever.’

It disappointed Arthyr to see that several of the younger children were affected by this argument. In the shine of their dark eyes were thoughts of warm dinners and the safety and love of their families.

‘Just a short journey, to the Seren Stone.’ Arthyr waved towards the sky. ‘We’ll be back before sunset and might be fortunate in its gifts.’

‘A wish!’ cried Netanya.

Merilyn shook her head. ‘There are no wishes granted by the Seren Stone. And we could well find trouble there.’

Sensing that the others were now with him, Arthyr shrugged. ‘I’ve been more than twenty times and never encountered a hostile spirit.’

‘Come on, Merilyn,’ pleaded Gawain. ‘We’ll be safe with you.’

‘No one is ever safe in Uffen.’

‘Hold.’ Arthyr stretched out his hands; Gawain and Netanya were the first to grasp them.

‘No Arthyr, stop.’ Merilyn shook her fingers free from a child who had taken them. The boy, however, simply moved to Arthyr’s group. Triumphant, Arthyr stepped into Uffen with nearly all his young friends.

Allow me a few words in regard to the disconsolate Merilyn. Whereas Arthyr was born with the good will of so many of the spirits of Uffen, Merilyn had found it necessary to earn the same through hard work. Tedious hours spent in the company of the druid Ithel had made Merilyn something of a bore herself, but she really had learned a great deal of the lore of Uffen and had a particular expertise in the character of the various species of tree.

Half Sí, Merilyn was a tall, sixteen-year-old woman with long hair, normally efficiently bound up at the back of her head. Yet her human half was very evident too. Her hair was brown, not black; her physique stocky, rather than slender; and her temperament solid, rather than mercurial. In any other community of children, Merilyn would have been their leader thanks to her common sense and ability to perform powerful magic. Growing up in Betws-y-Coed in the 450s and 60s, however, meant being overshadowed by Arthyr. And if there were moments in which Merilyn loved Arthyr for the beautiful, natural way in which he performed magic, there were also times when she hated him for his sense of superiority. Moreover, Merilyn was well aware that Arthyr very much wished to keep her in her place, not least because she was female. In her desire to overtake Arthyr, overawe him, earn his respect for her gender and come into adulthood free of his mockery, we have all the explanation we need for Merilyn’s unusually mature focus on the patient study of effective magic.

In the aftermath of the game and the departure of Arthyr and most of the children to Uffen, Merilyn was left standing beside the fallen pine tree, with just two of the younger children looking at her. They were tearful.

‘I want to go home.’

‘Me too.’

‘I know,’ said Merilyn, filling her voice with kindness. For she understood it would be hard on them to risk the dangers of Uffen. Sweeping back a lose strand of her hair, Merilyn studied the sky and identified a path through to the world of the Sí. ‘Yet, let us be brave shall we? If some wicked creature should come across our friends they will need us.’

The children nodded.

‘Here.’ Taking a sharp knife from a brushed leather sheath at her waist, Merilyn cut a switch of birch for each of them and placed a circlet of ivy around their heads.

‘Will this help?’ asked one.

‘A little.’ Merilyn shrugged. ‘It might give you encouragement and strength of heart, which counts for a lot in Uffen. Now, hold my hands.’

It was testimony to Merilyn’s systematic mastery of the pathways to Uffen that she could travel there even without an obvious marker, such as a cairn or an ancient stone marker.[2]

Merilyn’s real father was a Sí (a fact that she took pride in). And of all the children of the village – with the exception of Arthyr – Merilyn was the one most able to sense routes to the shadow realm. Where you and I would see nothing but a contorted beech tree, or a ruined, overgrown cottage, she would see a door. Through one such door she now stepped, pulling the reluctant children with her.

Uffen.

When you step into Uffen, you step into a magical world. The hairs on your arm rise, or at least, mine do. A shiver runs down your back and it takes a moment for your body to adjust (to what, exactly, I cannot say). The feeling is somewhat like entering the sea except that instead of cold, the discomfort is more a matter of nerves. But as with swimming, this unpleasant sensation soon passes.

You might feel dizzy for a short while too. It is my belief that this is a result of the unusual scents that assail your nostrils. Alert to danger, you sniff the air. What is that alarming sharpness that accompanies the sweet fragrances of flowers and fern? Tiger perhaps? You’ve never scented a tiger, what made you think of one now? A furtive and ominous motion in the dappled forest?

The light in Uffen is rarely bright and rarely entirely dark. True, there is day and night to match the Earth. Yet daylight is muted, with the sun often no more than a pale blue disc. And at night, the moon glows with a greater intensity than we are used to. Uffen is a world of shadow. Shadows that are always in motion. It is dismaying to notice that the movements of the shadows are not always in accord with those of the objects which cast them. Even more disconcerting is the sight of your own shadow cavorting with that of a satyr, while you are standing still in shock. But I digress.

Merilyn and the two children stood quietly for a while, listening. Not far away, but hidden by tall whitebeam bushes, Gawain and Netanya could be heard discussing the merits of various magic items (Gawain must have said something about swords or spears, because Netanya was replying that having a magic weapon was all very well, but a cauldron that would fill with stew upon command was far more useful. Not only to an individual but to an entire army. Gawain, his voice fading with distance, conceded the point).

Although she could not determine precisely what was wrong, Merilyn sensed a trap. The children were looking at her expectantly and one of them pointed to a path through the undergrowth that led towards where they could hear their friends. With a shake of her head, Merilyn cupped her hands and cawed like a raven. Then she knelt down to whisper to a large, moss-covered rock.

‘By the friendship that your father, Cadair Idris, bears me. Wilt thou aid me?’

— I will.

‘What danger lurks down yonder path?’

— None for me. For you, a Liaeth spider.[3]

‘Thank you.’

Standing up, Merilyn led the children in the opposite direction to the tempting path. With some difficulty, they descended an earthen bank to reach a trail (made by deer or goats) through a copse of swaying mountain ash. This she followed until the three of them arrived at a stream. The water was not deep and Merilyn studied the flow. There were several places where stones would allow them to cross without their feet getting wet. Further downstream was a small wooden bridge, which Merilyn recognized. This was the right way to Seren Stone.

‘Bridge or stepping stones?’ asked Merilyn, to test the children.

‘Stones,’ said the boy. The girl’s answer was the same, she pointed to the water.

‘Correct.’

Quite apart from the danger that some flesh-eating spirit might have made the bridge its home, the bridge itself was hostile to travellers. The previous autumn, Merilyn had attempted to converse with it. Apparently, a Sí warrioress had conjured the bridge into existence from the nearby sycamores (never a helpful tree at the best of times). The fact that branches had torn themselves from their screaming parents in order to create the bridge had not troubled the Sí. And had the bridge become an important and useful crossing point, perhaps it would have forgotten the pain of its birth. Instead, after being crossed just once, it had remained neglected for decades. Brambles had grown thick across whatever paths had once led to the bridge. Mould had crept up the foundation poles. Even squirrels and mice had preferred to leap from stone to stone than step onto the planks of the bridge. And they were wise, for the bridge was sunk so deep in bitterness that it meant harm to any who came within its domain.

The spirit of the brook, by contrast was a playful naiad, who enjoyed the challenge of splashing the feet of those who skipped across her stones. To ensure her game was innocent of harm (even a friendly naiad could trip and drown a child for sport), Merilyn had the children race coloured leaves down the stream. This, understandably, was as amusing to the human children as the water spirit and Merilyn allowed them several minutes of play before conducting them safely across to the far side.

Merilyn found herself letting out a long sigh. It was stressful, attempting to anticipate all the possible dangers of the journey. So much of Uffen was under geas, it was easy to cause offense. For example, this rowan tree had an aversion to anyone stepping upon its shadow; that boulder, on the other hand, must be bowed to, as though he were a former Sí king (an unlikely but not impossible claim).

Ahead of them was a large fox and it stared at Merilyn brazenly, sitting back on its haunches. Worried by the fox’s confidence, the young druidess did not dare move and she squeezed the children’s hands tightly. Still, her familiar had arrived at last. Alighting on her shoulder, the raven tapped her cheek with its beak. This, Merilyn knew, was a gesture of affection.

– What kept you?

– A silver drop of rain; a moist eye in the dark; a rustle beneath a holly bush.

— Your problem is that you are too easily distracted.

— Is that fox what it seems?

Her raven turned one eye towards the animal on the path and studied it before replying. — What does it seem to be to your eyes?

— A large fox.

— You are right!

Pleased with itself, for some reason, the raven leapt up with a flap of its wings and settled on an oak branch, high above the fox.

With a lick of its lips and a disinterested expression, the fox finally moved off, dashing with a sudden leap into a thicket of yew trees. Whereupon, Merilyn could urge the children forward once more.

Eventually, they climbed a gorse-covered rise to reach a large, jagged stone, about three times the height of Arthyr, looking like the incisor of a giant emerging from the ground. All their friends were gathered at its foot and Merilyn’s wards took off with delighted cries to join their companions.

‘So you came after all, Merilyn,’ Arthyr cried. ‘See, I told you there was no danger.’

A pulse of anger beat in her body, but Merilyn knew from past experience that it was pointless to argue with Arthyr about risk, chance, danger, and reward. She did, however, ask him whether he had spotted the Liaeth spider. Arthyr only shrugged. Evidently, he had not. Sooner or later, Arthyr’s lack of caution would bring him to grief. Only then, if he survived the mishap, would he be receptive to Merilyn’s admonishments.

‘You are just in time, Merilyn.’ Gawain was all smiles. ‘I’ve wished for a thousand more wishes, obviously. And now I’m going to see if I have any.’

‘You don’t.’

‘I wish for a honeycomb.’ Gawain held out his hand. Everyone, even Merilyn, looked to see if something would appear. Of course it did not.

‘Oh well.’

‘Is there anything here Arthyr?’ asked Netanya, ‘anything magical?’

‘Let’s ask.’

Arthyr leaned against the stone, both hands pressed upon the grainy surface. – Well, old friend, are there any magic items in this vicinity?

The sky darkened, a crow cawed its way above the tree tops and the wind dropped. Then a voice spoke in Merilyn’s head. Slow, deep, and portentous.

— Not long after my birth, let us say three hundred years later, two immense armies came to this hill. All around me were Sí warriors and their allies, while down in the valley were the knights of Senailtintreach, the black dragon. Even I, who endures wind and rain, sun and heat, ice and snow, even I was afraid. Lightning from that dragon was so powerful it could have struck to my core and shattered me into shards.

Bugles called the troops to order; banners fluttered; archers fingered their arrows and set them to string; warriors raised their shields to form long, glistening lines of silver: as though hundreds of shining snakes were laying upon the hillside. And then, from the very ground you stand upon, Arthyr, Prince Geddarwor stepped forward and challenged his foe.

- ‘Senailtintreach, face me now, one to one.’

- ‘Very well.’

- Prince Geddarwor. Defiant. Proud. Brave. Breastplate covered in labyrinthine designs. Longsword of Cascading Sighs. Shield of the Nine Elements. Senailtintreach in human form. Grim. Unforgiving. Unafraid. Two-handed Sword of Lightning raised high. Black plated armour of dragon scale. Did two such enemies ever face each other before or since? Did their followers look upon the moment with hope or despair?

Senailtintreach edged around his opponent, so that he was no longer at a disadvantage from being further down the hill, all the while his black, flashing eyes remained attentive to Prince Geddarwor’s every breath. And then, when he was standing in my shadow, the storm broke. I have witnessed storms that have brought low huge oaks and I have heard the north wind scream as it tried to pull me down. No storm ever raged so fierce, no wind ever screamed so hard, as did Prince Geddarwor and Senailtintreach. They drew on spirits so raw and primordial that the sky above them fell apart, the earth beneath their feet became like lava and I trembled as though about to fall.

Prince Geddarwor had prepared well, his breastplate captured the lightning of Senailtintreach‘s blows, drawing it into the labyrinths and dispelling it. Yet Senailtintreach was the more powerful and the magic that fuelled his blows and motions came from ancient pacts between dragons and earth, air, fire, water, lightning. Not even the Shield of the Nine Elements could contain such wrath. It did its duty with all the strength that its forging had provided, but then the shield splintered, magic cascading out to rip up earth and trees. Then broke the Longsword of Cascading Sighs and a thousand wailing voices rent the air. Then shattered Prince Geddarwor’s breastplate, molten silver and bronze was flung through the air. Then died Prince Geddarwor, cut through from shoulder to leg by the Sword of Lightning.

Search the crack by your left hand, Arthyr, there is your magical item.

It was hard to imagine the land underfoot as the ground for such a battle. Moss, grass and wild flowers covered the scars. Yet now that Merilyn had heard the story, she could see the truth of it. The bigger rocky outcrops here were of a grey stone that was pockmarked with bubbles as though it had once been molten.

‘Interesting.’ Arthyr held up a piece of silver about the size of his finger.

‘Let me see! Let me see!’ All the younger children were clamouring, but to Merilyn’s surprise he threw the item to her.

A searing pain shot through her head, worse than any headache and she dropped the silver lump. At once, the children scrambled for the nugget and only ceased their struggles when Arthyr intervened.

‘What was that?’ he looked at her curiously, half-smiling.

‘A sharp pain in my head. And a scream. Didn’t you feel it?’

Arthyr held up the shining blob to the grey sky. ‘No. There’s something. It’s not painful. It’s…’ And he was gone, the metal falling to the ground and resting where Arthyr’s left foot had flattened the grass.

‘Maybe he made a wish.’ Netanya spoke hopefully. Then she picked up the silver. ‘I wish I had a thousand wishes. Now I wish that I knew where Arthyr was gone.’

‘Well do you?’ asked Gawain.

‘I do not.’

‘Merilyn.’ Gawain turned to her. ‘What should we do?’

Unsure of her answer, Merilyn stood beside Netanya and raised her friend’s hand, so that she could look more closely at the lump of metal without actually touching it. It was a melted, misshapen piece of silver that had presumably struck the Seren Stone when Prince Geddarwor’s magical breastplate had been destroyed. There were the remains of a delicately etched maze on a part of the surface. Bracing herself, Merilyn reached out a finger, whose tremors she attempted to still for the sake of the children.

This time there was no pain. This time, there was Arthyr.

— Am I inside it?

— What can you see?

— A silver tunnel, but it’s blocked.

— Come out then.

And Arthyr was back among them. He took the silver fragment from Netayna. ‘That could come in useful.’

‘What happened?’ Gawain wanted to know.

‘It is a trap for magical lightning. And it still works.’

[1] For you and I, witnessing such a sudden appearance would come as an unpleasant shock. For the other children of Betws-y-Coed, Merilyn’s achievement was admirable rather than disturbing. As one, they understood that Merilyn had managed to cross into Uffen, thus making herself invisible, then she had returned to Earth at exactly the right spot.

[2] There are, of course, many places where even the least attuned human can enter Uffen, but nearly all are guarded and very few them are safe. In Gaius Gracchus’s infamous The Life of Julius Caesar we read of the appearance of a giant stone monument in Hispania. This was a cave fronted by a marble lion with an open mouth so wide that you could enter it without having to bow your head. Although many townspeople of nearby Cordoba climbed the hill to visit the sight, none dared enter the cave through the lion’s mouth, until a voice came from within, purporting to be the god Endovelicus. Those who entered and spent the night in the cave would be healed. A blind woman braved the lion and emerged the next day, crying at the beauty of the dawn. A rush followed: the lame, the syphilitic, the tooth-sore and even just the curious. For a month, all were healed and none remembered anything of their stay in the cave but the sweetness of pure sleep. After a month of miracles, however, everything changed. Now, whoever went in to the cave did not return. In a short time, the residents of Cordoba learned to shun the hillside and they gave fair warning to pilgrims. To no avail. Word of the healing cave had travelled far and men and women from as distant places as Scythia, Æthiopia and India made the journey in hope of relief from their ailments. Only after a hundred or more people had disappeared into the lion’s maw did the quaestor, Tiberius Gracchus, act. On the advice of his augurs, Tiberius had iron bars inserted across the lion’s mouth, then built a brick wall to seal in the lion and the cave. Into the mortar was mixed the juice of rowan berries. As far as I know, that cave remains sealed thus to this day. What happened to the disappeared? Over a hundred years later, when Emperor Julius Caesar made his peace treaty with the Sí prince, Eleron, those people were released to him. All that they could recall was having lifted heavy black stones to make a mighty wall and it seemed to them that less than a day had passed since entering the cave.

[3] A huge, semi-sentient spider, which uses illusions to draw prey into its webs. The voices of Gawain and Netanya, therefore, were probably illusory.