Caer y Tŵr Hillfort, Holyhead, Anglesey, Gwynedd, North Wales.
King Beli ap Manogan ap Eneid ap Cerwyd ap Crydon Fawr as
rightly and honourably named, was PenDdraig, King of the Druids and the
High-King of all Prydein, being the last in a long and ancient line of the
same. Marrying Dôn ferch Math ap
Mathonwy, they ruled from the fabulous, triple-ditched hill-top Dun known as
CaerBeli, founded near a wide bend in the Afon Wysg in Cymbri. PenDdraig Beli
Mawr was held as a God-like figure by all Prydeinig
as was his spectacular wife, especially by the Cymbri and their deaths were
received by all Brythons as the clap of doom itself….
*
* * * *
The enjoined and spirit-wreathed bodies of these beloved and
world-renowned monarchs had been treated by the Druids, to delay their physical
corruption in death and were cocooned in especially oiled herbs. Hand-in-hand,
they had then been wrapped together in a wondrous, gold-threaded linen for
their fateful voyage home.
Back across the inland Syrian Ocean they were borne in all
honour by the Phoenicians, before they braved the straits and entered the great
Sea of Atlantis, where they turned north and sailed to the Galliad channel. In
this state, they arrived at Porth Dubrys on Caint’s southern coast and the five
sons of Beli Mawr had stood with their families in shocked disbelief, as the
bodies of their seemingly indestructible parents were carried ashore in all
reverence from the gold-covered Royal Phoenician barge. This huge and fabulous
ship of state, with its rich purple sails and one enormous black banner had led
a fleet of the same but without the extravagant mettaling of their timbers, but
they were all massive and hugely impressive just the same. They formed a
floating honour-guard for these world-renowned Monarchs, brought here in the
deepest honour and respect by the Phoenician’s own Monarchs in their glittering
flagship. They did this in tribute too for the many happy and lucrative years
of their friendship, association and trade.
Lludd and his young son Afalach had stood alongside Rianaw,
Nynniaw, Caswallawn and Llefelys and all were surrounded by their family, Gŵyrd
and royal guards. A large retinue of Arch-Druids had also lent their support,
whilst HênDdu himself had overseen the whole process. Beli and Dôn’s
beautifully enwrapped bodies had been carefully loaded onto a huge purpose-made
state Cludiaid, waiting on the elm
wharfing of the Port and there, were bedecked in wreaths and garlands of
flowers. Once this Elor yr Arwyl Reiol,
as the Druids had sadly called it was ready, the huge ‘Royal Funeral Bier’ was
carried north from this landing place, to journey through the Treflans and
Trefs of the southern Brythons and the stark and painful, national mourning of
Prydein had commenced.
Twelve huge-horned Auroch’s had pulled this black cortege of
heartbreak in pairs along the cartways and drover’s lanes, to the south-eastern
corner of Dobunny lands. Dozens of huge and muscular Oxen hauled the trailing
cortege, with its long caravan of Druid’s cludiaid.
The blossom and gift laden carts which followed and ground their way
north-west, to travel in-state across the country, stretched out in the rear
for miles. Before joining the sombre parade, the Lords and Nobles of each
territory had added their tokens to the line of ox-carts as it passed, which
grew heavier and longer with each passing day as it trundled inexorably
westwards. In this ponderous and forlorn way, the huge funeral procession
passed a black-flagged CaerOdor alongside the mudflats of Aber Hafren, where at
Treflan Awst, it passed over the great timber bridge of Pont Cerryg Ddu into
Essyllyr and Cymbri Dde.
Finally home in the welcome embrace of Cymbri, that long
serpent of woe had begun the slow and tortuous journey north, traversing the
very heart of the mother-country and onwards in mourning, getting longer and
more mournful with each passing hour. Crossing the granite spine of Cymbri at
the Afon Gwy, the solemn host had travelled down to the coast through Cwm Ystwyth
and then curving around the sands of the stunning, azure crescent of
Aberystwyth bay they had pushed north then, through Machynlleth and Dolgellau
before braving the way ahead, toward the narrow and twisting passes leading up
to the unassailable high bastion of Eryri.
It had been an agonising and exhausting, even monumental
ordeal to haul the heavy double bier to the very summit of Arglwydd Wyddfa in
the required dignity, being the pinnacle of the eleven-pointed granite crown of
the nation but by necessity, it had been done and so it was, by many hundreds
of trembling hands. Once upon the holy Crown of Cymbri itself, they had made a
sacred Druid-led ceremony to the eternal honour of their fallen monarchs, which
had lasted three days and nights of sombre prayer, leaving a high cairn of
hand-picked stones to mark the event. Once this obligatory procedure was
complete, they had descended in the same dignified fashion through Nant
Ffrancon and on, to behold the glittering straits of Menai in a bright
afternoon sunshine, which brought sight to Cymbri’s sacred mother on the high
northern coast beyond, and their final holy destination; Arglwydd Môn.
The heart-rendered werrin had lined the funeral route in
their thousands and were compelled to wail and tear out their hair as the vast
cortege had passed them by, and each tragic mile had been witnessed by a
panoply of all the proud Gods of Prydein. The vanguard of this National
heart-broken caravan had eventually arrived at Treflan Adda, a small Decawangly
fishing and market-town, with Afon Adda running through its incongruously long
main street. A tiny harbour faced the eastern straits of Menai at this town and
the ocean beyond, whilst the rocky, deeply forested southern coastline of Ynys
Môn across the lively strip of water, sheltered it and its handful of fishing
boats. This little harbour-treflan was blessed with the fabulous scenic
backdrop of the distant snowy mountains of Eryri to its south-west and Môn to
the north, with the coastline and the glittering invitation of the open sea to
its east. Treflan Adda sat below CaerAdda, a hilltop fort which also overlooked
the straits of Menai.
The palisaded battlements of CaerAdda had been festooned with
black rags that pitiful day and its gorse-filled hillside surrounds, were
crammed to capacity with ordinary people, who had come dressed in their own
black rags. They looked forlornly down to the narrow strip of grey water below,
many keening and wringing their hands with their pain and anguish. Many
hundreds of Druids, Kings and Nobles had lined the shallow crossing at Menai,
to witness the arrival of the enormous funeral caravan of Beli and Dôn. The
hills overlooking this sacred crossing on both sides of the water, were filled
with a loud wailing and an almost hysterical outpouring of grief from the
werrin, who were compelled to tear out their hair by the fist-full from their
torment. Brythonic tears had flowed like autumn rills and all had mourned their
loss, as High-King and High-Queen had finally come home, to find eternal
sanctuary on the hallowed, sacred ground of Arglwydd Ynys Môn and the Gods
themselves had wept.
The whole country was filled with a black, bottomless sorrow
at that harrowing time but its people had also trembled in fear, as an unknown
future had been suddenly thrust upon them. They struggled to accept that their
God-like King and his beloved Queen were forever lost to them and had passed in
glory to the Underworld, and every one of the poor werrin of Prydein had
clutched their talismans and prayed. Whether it be a hare’s foot, an elf’s bolt, a lightning stone,
or even the skull of an honoured ancestor all clung onto them tightly, as
no-one had known what the future would bring.
A large flock of Ravens had followed this long and bleak
funeral caravan from on-high, confirming the Dark Lord’s presence as it
traversed the crop fields and Treflans of Môn, to wind its ponderous way to the
coast, at the island’s wild and rocky north-western corner. This rolling byre,
ahead of a long and utterly forlorn, noble but human caravan, towed behind it
the thousands of morose werrin of Prydein, as they followed in silence with
their heads bowed until they came in time, to Beli and Dôn’s final resting
place.
A broad and massively built timber sarn had been built across
the void between Ynys Môn and this long island, dominated by its high mountain
and crowned with its palisaded fortress. This rocky, mountain-island rose over
two hundred reeds offshore and was skirted by a savage shoreline which was
continually thrashed by monstrous, crashing waves at high tides. The rocky
shore around this island was no calm sandy refuge, rather a sabre-toothed
bulwark against the might of a savage ocean, and this south-eastern pass
between the two islands is still much feared by local sailors and fishermen
alike, as its merciless granite fangs have over the years claimed the many
lives of their families.
Hundreds of local trees had been felled to renew and bolster
this impressive causeway, to accommodate the wide caravan of the funeral
cortege and the thousands of people who would be subsequently tramping across
it. The site for the bale-fire and the burial had already been prepared by
Prydein’s leading Druids, commanded by HênDdu and the final resting place of
Prydein’s most beloved Monarchs was at last ready.
In great ceremony, the Decawangly King Bryn ap Terfel and his
nobles had vacated their ancient Caer y Tŵr from the palisaded pinnacle of the
overlooking mountain, descending slowly and sombrely and all were dressed in
black rags to convey their grief. The Gorddofican aristocracy had then been
publicly oath-sworn by HênDdu, to occupy the fortress until the end of days and
Lludd, Nynniaw and Gwerdded, had led an equally long and sombre procession up
the mountain, to accept its stewardship. From that day until this, the
Gorddoficau were Gods-sworn to protect this long northern island, laying close
off the rocky western coast of the larger island of Môn and to safeguard her
most precious treasure; Bedd Beli ap Manogan Fawr a Dôn ferch Math ap Mathonwy
Fawr. This now sacred island of Ynys Mêlan, was always known for its superb
local honey by the sprinkling of its doughty inhabitants, and which blessing had
given the ancient island outpost its name.
This state funeral had been carried-out in a deeply harrowing
and nationally grievous ceremony on this small but now utterly sacred island.
This mournful ritual had drawn Druids, Wizaerds, Priests, Kings, Princes and
Nobles from many foreign lands, and had lasted for over a month. Thirty-three
fraught days and nights of ceremony had ensued, with frantic continual prayers
and huge balefires, which reached up into the heavens with long fingers of
searing flame, animating the elementals. To this day, Bedd Beli a Dôn remains a
place of pilgrimage for many an earnest but weary world-traveller from all
points of the compass. Stories are told, songs and englyns are sung in every mead-hall
in Prydein and Gallia, of the death of great Beli Mawr and his radiant Queen Dôn
and will be, until the end of days.
The locals in humble deference, had come to call this rocky
but now holy island Ynys Lân and the long causeway over the jagged rocks and
teeming surf below, was always busy with people taking votive offerings to the
Bedd of Beli and Dôn, marked with a beautiful carved stone obelisk. It had been
a rough-hewn thing when erected those seven years ago but present-day visitors
are astonished by the transformation of this fabulous grave-marker, as it had
been sculpted with the subtle genius of a true master. Beli and Dôn took the
places of Bel and his revered Queen Sulis on this memorial, to ride together on
a war carbad around the hand-shaped and
moulded column. The sun God Bel was held-up behind them in Beli’s left hand,
for all to mark his lineage back to Belenos Hên, Belinus and further back into
the stygian depths of history, to the great God Bel himself. These figures had
been carved in high relief before being coated with pure bronze, silver and
gold and the monument was such a moving sight and a spiritually charged
experience for those who made the pilgrimage, it became part of their own
family’s folklore and something they would remember until their dying days. The
four granite faces of the base were sculpted with the lineage and achievements
of these high monarchs in the known languages of the world and over those seven
long years, it has become a national treasure all of its own.
No one outside the sacred order of the Druids would dare walk
near the great circle of white quartz stones in the dark hours, nor the
manicured circle of turf within which surrounded this much-adorned column, as
it was always wreathed in the fiercely protective spirits of the Gwyllion, who attended the monument
nightly in their own honourable vigil.
It seems to emanate its own quiet power on auspicious nights
these days, especially on Beltain and no bird, not even a Raven had ever
alighted on the hallowed circle of turf, nor its central marker and none had
even besmirched its sacred stone. On this holy night of Beltain, Ynys Lân held
its own Druid-led and sanctified ceremony for Beli and Dôn and the hallowed
ground around the tall, mist-wreathed and rugged monument, was strewn with
votive offerings and wreathed with fiercely protective spirits. The monument
remains a focal-point for the werrin of Mon’s worshipful devotions, as seven
years is but a heart-beat and so their pain endures.
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