Tonight is called Nos Galan Gaeaf in Wales, and is an ysbrydnos, or ‘spirit night’ when the dead walk abroad under the starry skies. Halloween is the most recent tradition associated with this night, known at one time as ‘All Hallows Eve’, but there were traditions that came before it, such as the old Celtic festivities of harvest time. As with Samhain in Ireland, and indeed for many of the early peoples of Europe in general, this was the time when the ripened fruits and crops of late summer and autumn were celebrated as the abundant wealth of the land. Alongside such celebration there would have naturally been a time of reflection, particularly as this fulfilment of life’s fruition also marks the moment when the seasons turn and all growing life prepares itself to pass through the death of winter. This is the natural time to acknowledge mortality and consider what may come after the cold season.
Its probably for this reason that tonight is also the time when Gwyn ap Nudd hunts the land, when even the living can be taken up as souls to join in his eternal hunt, urging on the magical hounds as they chase through the darkness. This happened to one Ned Pugh, a famous Welsh fiddler whose mournful refrains were heard one Nos Galan Gaeaf transforming into the bright call of a huntsman’s bugle. Having entered a cave on that particular Halloween, he wandered deep into the belly of the earth from which he was never to return alive, but was instead taken up as chief huntsman to Gwyn ap Nudd, exchanging his fiddle for a horn.
A similar account could be given of Arawn from the First Branch of the Mabinogi. One of the very few allusions to Arawn in Welsh folklore concerns a ghost that was often heard declaiming Hir yw’r dydd a hir yw’r nos, a hir yw aros Arawn, a little verse that roughly translates as ‘Long is the day and long is the night, and long is the wait for Arawn.’ Was this the soul of someone long dead still waiting to be called by Arawn to join the otherworldly hunt? We shall never know for certain, but the other similarities between Arawn and Gwyn ap Nudd would lead us to think so.
One of those similarities is the connection both these figures have to the instincts of physical desire, all those visceral and carnal urges that are fired by the hunt. Arawn was the one who tempted Pwyll with his beautiful wife, and Gwyn was a dangerously jealous lover of Creiddylad according to the medieval redactors of Culhwch ac Olwen. Gwyn was also responsible for tempting Collen with illusory food when the saint visited his phantom palace atop Glastonbury Tor. All of these temptations are echoed in an English version of the Magical Huntsman, a figure of superstition that Shakespeare found so intriguing he brought him to life, quite ridiculously, in his play The Merry Wives of Windsor.
“There is an old tale goes, that Herne the hunter,
Some time a keeper here in Windsor forest,
Doth all the wintertime, at still midnight,
Walk round about an oak, with great ragg’d horns;
And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle,
And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain
In a most hideous and dreadful manner.
You’ve heard of such spirit; and well you know
The superstitious idol headed old
Received, and did deliver to our age,
This tale of Herne the hunter for the truth.”
Despite the paucity of material concerning Herne, Shakespeare’s use of him in the play chimes with much of what we already know of Herne’s Welsh cousins, all three being hunters with supernatural qualities that are associated with fairies and the dead. Not unlike the spirits and sprites of many lands it appears that Herne can cause disease amongst cattle, and his moaning and clanking of chains is not unlike the restless behaviour of the souls of the dead.
But it may also be worthwhile considering Shakespeare’s actual use of Herne in the play. To cut a rather long story short, Falstaff, a lecherous wastrel with expensive tastes, attempts to seduce two married women by employing various deceptions. After realising his unsavoury intentions, both women take their revenge by tricking him into dressing up as Herne the Hunter for a promised night of pleasure. While waiting under the Windsor Oak sporting a pair of horns, Falstaff works himself up to a froth waiting for the two wanton wives to come and ravish him. But instead of his anticipated satisfaction he is accosted by a gang of children and adults in fairy costume whom he believes to be real spirits of the otherworld come to punish his mortal trespass (he obviously went for the trick, not the treat). These cruel fairies and sprites ridicule him and eventually put him in his place, all of which Falstaff accepts with rather good grace.
Lechery and excessive desires in general are a theme that Shakespeare explores throughout the play, with Falstaff being the embodiment of aristocratic excess. In contrast to Falstaff’s debauched appetites, through various mentions and allusions, Shakespeare subtly evokes the Order of the Garter, a royal order of nobles chosen by Queen Elizabeth, Shakespeare’s own patron. This order was supposedly one of high-minded restraint and discipline, as stated in their motto ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense’, which literally translates as ‘Evil be to him who thinks evil.’ The Merry Wives of Windsor could well have been written to feature in an event held at the royal estate of Windsor attended by Queen Elizabeth and her Order of the Garter. This would explain why Falstaff’s fate in the play appears to be a realisation of the order’s motto. His bad intentions result in a bad outcome where he finds himself dressed in the guise of none other than Herne the Hunter.
There are several hints in The Merry Wives of Windsor of folk traditions concerning the unfortunate figure of the cuckold. When a man’s wife had been unfaithful, some communities would ridicule the couple and in particular the husband by placing horns on his head, thus marking him out as a cuckold, a man who shares his wife with other men. In this way the wearing of horns was associated with a lack of fidelity. But whereas these later traditions have the cuckold as a figure of derision, Shakespeare, in his own magical way, may well have been evoking a much older idea concerning the horned hunter.
There are several points of comparison between Shakespeare’s Herne and Arawn from the Mabinogi. Both figures are party to an exchange of places, Falstaff with Herne and Pwyll with Arawn, both mortals become the god and both gods are the magical huntsmen in their respective regions. Having taken on the external form of the god, both mortals come to meet the fairies of the otherworld, an experience that went better for Pwyll than it did for Falstaff. Pwyll showed restraint and self-control in the bed of Arawn’s fairy queen, where Falstaff was seen for the lecherous toff he was and punished by the ‘fairies.’ One succeeded in wearing the mantle of the otherworld, while the other didn’t. Pwyll was learning his lesson, as was Shakespeare’s Falstaff, although in a markedly different way.
If this was Shakespeare’s understanding, and who could deny one of the greatest bards of the English language such an insight, this horned figure was far from the object of ridicule and derision that he appeared to be on the surface. Falstaff’s failure was to be deaf to what the Huntsman had to say about the sowing and reaping of one’s desires. Pwyll, on the other hand, was listening well, as his name suggests.
The 1st of March is as good a day as any to consider Dewi Sant, ‘Y Dyfrwr’, known beyond Wales as St. David, ‘The Waterman’. Apparently born around the turn of the 6th century, as a historical figure he is possibly older than Taliesin by a generation or two, and is arguably the better known. But in the mythological sphere at least, both St. David and Taliesin appear to share a similar parentage. It may be surprising initially to count St. David in the mythological category, yet all that we know of him has been passed onto us through the medium of legend and lore. Even his official biographer, Rhygyfarch, reported his life as legend in stylised, myth-laden prose. Interestingly enough, this 11th century priest of St. David’s Cathedral was such a good storyteller that notable Celtic scholars have proposed him as the possible author of The Four Branches of the Mabinogi.
Rhygyfarch’s Buchedd Dewi identifies the saint as belonging to that particular fraternity of magical infants occasionally born to the Welsh imagination, Taliesin being the other obvious example. According to Rhygyfarch, before Dewi Sant was born, his father was told by an angel to collect three things while out hunting in an area close to the river Tywi, those being a stag, a salmon and a swarm of bees (Lives of the Cambro British Saints, 403). This is comparable to the transformations of Gwion Bach through hare, salmon and bird, this time in the domain of that other great Welsh river, the Dyfi. In both accounts, the similarity of the animal triads suggests that the evoking of earth, water and air is a precursor to the incarnation of a spiritually potent soul. As is common throughout medieval European literature, the Welsh bards also referred to fundamental elements (usually fire, earth, air and water) as the material constituents of every individual.
We can go deeper again with this association between Dewi and Taliesin, as Dewi’s father in Rhygyfarch’s account was none other than Sandde, a king of Ceredigion, the northern part of which is connected with the legendary Taliesin. Sandde is mentioned in both Culhwch ac Olwen and in The Twenty Four Knights of Arthur’s Court (Appendix IV of Bromwich’s Trioedd). In both texts he is named as Sandde Bryd Angel (‘angel-face’) and in both texts twinned with Morfran son of Tegid, as in the following quote from Culhwch ac Olwen:
. . . and Morfran son of Tegid, (no man planted his weapon in him at Camlan because of his ugliness. Everyone thought he was a devil helping. He had hair on him like a stag). And Sandde Angel Face, (no man planted his spear in him at Camlan because of his beauty. Everyone thought he was an angel helping).
This Morfran, as well as being Sandde’s twin, is of course Morfran son of Ceridwen, that cauldron-bearing enchantress who was also the unexpected mother of Taliesin. In this respect Taliesin would be a half brother to Morfran son of Tegid who is the mythological twin of Sandde, Dewi’s father. Such are the deeply knotted roots of the Welsh mythological pantheon.
Both preceded by animals with an elemental significance, both born in liminal places where the land meets the sea, Dewi and Taliesin are born to mothers who also may share similar circumstances. According to Rhygyfarch’s account of Dewi Sant’s conception, after finding the triad of symbolic animals during his hunt in the Tywi region, Sandde came across a nun called Non and through blind lust raped her, the result of which was David. Although in the medieval rendering of Taliesin’s tale its the female that hunts the male, its Gwion Bach who seeds Ceridwen’s womb, suggesting his role as Taliesin’s symbolic father. Gwion Bach could in some respects be considered Morfran’s twin, the latter being cheated of the three drops of wisdom when Gwion Bach took his place before the cauldron of inspiration.
Both Non and Ceridwen are made pregnant by two males, both of which are symbolic twins of the same Morfran son of Tegid. Anne Ross has already noted that Morfran son of Tegid, horned like a devil and covered in stag hair, is an echo of the earlier horned god (Pagan Celtic Britain, 190), a British equivalent of Cernunnos. Another example of this twinning is found in the first branch of the Mabinogi, when Pwyll becomes Arawn’s twin before entering Annwfn, Arawn being another variant of the old hunter, as is Gwyn ap Nudd and various other characters from Welsh myth.
The similarities between the birth of Dewi Sant and Taliesin reveal the signs by which the Welsh may have traditionally identified their spiritual leaders, at least in symbolic or mythological terms. Its a well attested fact that the early Christian church adopted many symbols and motifs from the earlier non-Christian beliefs of Western Europe, and it would not be unreasonable to assume that the native mythology concerning the incarnation of a spiritual leader continued as the dominant tradition into the early Christian period. Perhaps in Dewi’s time such a native mythological context would have seemed a natural one to adopt, simply part of the cultural furniture that was at hand. It is fitting for the birth of Dewi Sant, chief of all British saints, to be accompanied by the same magic as that of Taliesin, chief of all bards.