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Collected Folk Tales
She looked on the chieftain, and loved him. Her mother offered the hospitality of their tent, but Moowis said that he was on a journey of hardship and that he must sleep out in the open, with no cover from the frosts of Spring. So she spent her days in pursuit of a chieftain’s love, and left him to the stars at night. And she soon came to her desire, for Moowis took her for his bride.
Yet still she could not bring the chieftain to the tent. “When we reach home, my home,” said Moowis, “we shall share everything. Until then, be patient,” and he gave her a glittering smile.
The Cree lands were further to the north than the tribe hunted, and Moowis seemed anxious to travel fast, so the new bride and groom took their leave, and her old love, the spurned one, was the last and gayest in the parting.
Moowis urged the way north, and would not allow for her softer strength, and he kept to shadows by day, and made most speed by night. She went with him on bleeding feet, uncomplaining at the hurt, as a chieftain’s wife should. She endured the edges of the rocks and the thorns of the woods when they came to the northern mountains. She planned the fine clothes she would wear, and the dressing of her tent, and was happy with Moowis, her lord and her love.
On the last day, the sun rose in a clear sky. The first scents of growing were in the air, and she followed Moowis up a long cliff path, with neither shade nor shelter. The straight back of her husband, which she had never seen bend in all their journey, went before her. His chieftain feathers were proud.
Yet there was something.
His body he pressed to the cliff, and for all his strength, there was less speed to his pace. She could keep with him easily. The doeskin across his shoulders sagged, the sleeves wrinkled, the legs were slack. And in the growing warmth of the sun dark patches spread like sweat.
“Have you the fever?” she said.
But Moowis did not speak again. He stopped, the headdress fell, and she crouched alone, the chieftain’s bride, on the mountain path, over a puddle of melt-water and some rags and feathers drying in the sun.
And then he felt in his heart an inconceivable commotion of affection, and he approached her in a courteous manner, and she also approached him in the same manner; and he saluted her, and she returned his salutation; and by these mutual salutations he perceived that his society was not disagreeable to her. He then chanced to cast his eye upon her foot, and he saw that she had hoofs instead of feet, and he became exceedingly dissatisfied.
But the lady gave him to understand that he must pay no attention to this trifling freak of nature. “Thou must,” she said, “follow me wheresoever I go, as long as I continue in my beauty.”
The son of Gwalchmai thereupon asked permission to go and say goodbye to his wife, at least.
This the lady agreed to. “But,” said she, “I shall be with thee, invisible to all but thyself.”
So he went, and the goblin went with him; and when he saw Angharad, his wife, he saw her a hag like one grown old, but he retained the recollection of days past, and still felt extreme affection for her, but he was not able to loose himself from the bond in which he was.
“It is necessary for me,” said he, “to part for a time, I know not how long, from thee, Angharad, and from thee, my son, Einion.” And they wept together and broke a gold ring between them; he kept one half and Angharad the other, and they took their leave of each other, and he went with the Lady of the Wood, and knew not where. A powerful illusion was upon him, and he saw not any place, or person, or object under its true and proper appearance, excepting the half of the ring alone.
And after being a long time, he knew not how long, with the goblin, the Lady of the Wood, he looked one morning as the sun was rising upon the half of the ring, and he bethought him to place it in the most precious place he could, and he resolved to put it under his eyelid; and as he was endeavouring to do so, he could see a man in white apparel, and mounted on a snow-white horse, coming towards him, and that person asked him what he did there; and he told him that he was cherishing an afflicting remembrance of his wife Angharad.
“Dost thou desire to see her?” said the man in white.
“I do,” said Einion, “above all things, and all happiness of the world.”
“If so,” said the man in white, “get upon this horse, behind me.” And that Einion did, and looking around he could not see any appearance of the Lady of the Wood, the goblin, excepting the track of hoofs of marvellous and monstrous size, as if journeying towards the north.
“What delusion art thou under?” said the man in white.
Then Einion answered him and told everything how it occurred ’twixt him and the goblin.
“Take this white staff in thy hand,” said the man in white, and Einion took it. And the man in white told him to desire whatever he wished for.
The first thing he desired was to see the Lady of the Wood, for he was not yet completely delivered from the illusion. And then she appeared to him in size a hideous and monstrous witch, a thousand times more repulsive of aspect than the most frightful things seen on earth. And Einion uttered a cry of terror; and the man in white cast his cloak over Einion, and in less than a twinkling Einion alighted as he wished on the hill of Treveilir, by his own house, where he knew scarcely anyone, nor did anyone know him.
But the goblin, meantime, had gone to Einion’s wife, in the disguise of a richly apparelled knight, and wooed her, pretending that her husband was dead. And the illusion fell upon her; and seeing that she should become a noble lady, higher than any in that country, she named a day for her marriage with him. And there was a great preparation of every elegant and sumptuous apparel, and of meats and drinks, and of every honourable guest, and every excellence of song and string, and every preparation of banquet and festive entertainment.
Now there was a beautiful harp in Angharad’s room, which the goblin knight desired should be played on; and the harpers present, the best of their day, tried to put it in tune, and were not able.
But Einion presented himself at the house, and offered to play it. Angharad, being under an illusion, saw him as an old, decrepit, withered, grey-haired man, stooping with age, and dressed in rags. Einion tuned the harp, and played on it the air which Angharad loved. And she marvelled exceedingly, and asked him who he was. And he answered in song:
“Einion the golden-hearted.”
“Where hast thou been?”
“In Kent, in Gwent, in the wood, in Monmouth,
“In Maenol, Gorwenydd;
“And in the valley of Gwyn, the son of Nudd;
“See, the bright gold is the token.”
And he gave her the ring.
“Look not on the whitened hue of my hair,
“Where once my aspect was spirited and bold;
“Now grey, without disguise, where once it was yellow.
“Never was Angharad out of my remembrace,
“But Einion was by thee forgotten.”
But Angharad could not bring him to her recollection. Then said he to the guests:
“If I have lost her whom I loved, the fair one of polished mind,
“The daughter of Ednyfed Fychan,
“Still get you out! I have not lost
“Either my bed, or my house, or my fire.”
And upon that he placed the white staff in Angharad’s hand, and instantly the goblin which she had hitherto seen as a handsome and honourable nobleman, appeared to her as a monster, inconceivably hideous; and she fainted from fear, and Einion supported her until she revived.
And when she opened her eyes, she saw there neither the goblin, nor any of the guests, nor of the minstrels, nor anything whatever except Einion, and her son, and the harp, and the house in its domestic arrangement, and the dinner on the table, casting its savoury odour around. And they sat down to eat, and exceeding great was their enjoyment. And they saw the illusion which the goblin had cast over them. And thus it ends.
Gently dippe: but not too deepe;
For feare you make the goulden beard to weepe.
Faire maiden white and redde,
Combe me smoothe, and stroke my head:
And thou shalt have some cockell bread.
Gently dippe, but not too deepe,
For feare thou make the goulden beard to weepe.
Faire maide, white, and redde,
Combe me smoothe, and stroke my head;
And every haire, a sheave shall be,
And every sheave a goulden tree.
George Peele
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