Drenched in the dream… Drums at dusk. A field lays fog in folds and tresses, The sky clad in scurvy clouds Throwing long thunder. Through the mist Comes a crimson captain, plastered In filth from foot to face, his jaw Blood-scumbled and bearing a smile. “A reverse visit!” His voice fastens. “Some say a spirit-eagle Once told me tales in taloned language Of Mab Duw the Mighty. Today A starling stands as stiff as a man Beholding the very heart of hoarded wisdom. Stay, starling, for a strand of my story: Vast was our voyage through the veils of Annwfn. In the frozen fortress, we feasted on spoils And claimed its prizes. At the castle of protection, Where spells broke spears through spires and ramparts, We coursed through keeps of cloud and glass Where the shackled son of speech and meadows Awaits the whirlwind. We wandered with many. Each seeker was slain, except for seven. The Lord of Light would lay my gest As true and as told by the teller before you. Similar stories I sang of my brothers To the Grey One of the Gate to grant their entry. Vaunted verse once vouchsafed souls, But time has twisted the trials of men. Lost are the legends that lit the way. Now, heed me wholly: your hardship lies not In some unseen citadel or strike of iron— Your nation of noise knows nothing of these. So how would I herald your hallowed return? What draws the drums that drone in your dreams?”
In the past few years, there’s been increased talk about historical and documented evidence for the existence of a real King Arthur. Was he really there at Mount Badon? If he was real, why didn’t Gildas mention him? And what about the stone at Tintagel?
We’re lucky to have such a wealth of talented archaeologists and historians, but in my way of thinking, Arthur is always more mythic than mortal. He has far more important things to tell us as a living myth than he does as an ancient artifact.
As for the former, you could go one of two ways: bask in the splendor of the castle, or traipse through old-growth forests to glimpse a shadow in the corner of your eye.
I like the castle Arthur. He’s clear, clean and far less complicated. A paragon of virtue—the very face you conjure when you think of chivalry. Not only are the post-Geoffrey of Monmouth stories good, but the weirder ones like The Green Knight and Tarn Wadling offer exciting perspectives.
They’re nothing like the Welsh myths.
Before Sir Gawain had his run-in with the Green Knight, there was Gwalchmai, the Hawk of May—one of Artur’s Golden-Tongued knights of welcome and hospitality. Before Kay there was Cai Wyn, who pleaded with the men he struck down, three at a time. And of course, you can’t talk about Artur without his most famous of chroniclers and campaign companions: Taliesin.
Incomplete, obscure, and continuations of histories we’ll never recover, these are myths impossible to sit with comfortably. Time’s turned them into a threadbare patchwork of suggestions and allusions. Artur is sometimes a fierce warrior, feeding the ravens with the corpses of the slain. That’s when he’s not being taught the basics of Christianity by his dead nephew, who appears to his uncle in the form of a bird. (For the Celts, birds are never only what they appear to be.)
I think it would be a mistake to write Welsh Artur off as some pre-Christian violence-monger, as quite obviously both the Pagan and Christianized Welsh never saw him in such simple terms. Nor do I think it’d be fair to say that British Arthur is all chivalry and shining breastplates. Worst of all would be to insist he’s mere historical exaggeration.
No, the best place to hear what he has to say isn’t in the dirt, but nor is it always at court in Camelot. To get the full story, you’ve also got to board the cold and salty deck of Prydwen to find out where it takes you.
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