Einion Las
and the
Fair Family

Taken from Ann Moray's A Fair Stream of Silver: Love Tales of Celtic Lore (William Morrow & Company, 1965); a highly recommended book of beautifully told tales.

S ince he was very young, Einion Las had loved the tales his great-grandfather told him while they tended sheep together on the wooded slopes that climb away, in wide shallow steps, towards the moorland reaches of Cader Idris. From morn till eve they would sit, in late spring and all through the summer, leaning against a rock with the wind behind them and the familiar green and grey and brown world of the valleys and hills spread out before them, and Old Gwilym, who was known, by those who knew, as Gwilyn Dwfn, "of the deep thoughts," would put his strong sinewy arms about the shoulders of the eager boy at his side, and his brown eyes shining and wise, would tell of the Bendith y Mamau, who tease the folk living down Llanfabon way, luring them with their Fairy pipes, to lose their way in the dark, and taking their new-born babes.

"In the rock called Ys Geinon, that's where they live," he would say.

"With a pit in the centre."

"A pit a yard wide, five yards deep, and..."

"Sealed with a huge, shining-smooth crystal stone." Einion would say the words slowly.

"They are generous enough, the Bendith y Mamau, to those whom they honour," Gwilym said, "and it's often they'll leave a cap full of guineas on Midsummer Eve, for a mortal who knows the laws of their tribe..." And he told his great-grandson about the Ellyllon, who ride four abreast, on their fleet snow-white steeds:

"The size of a collie dog, they are, and their own hounds have silver eyes and can see the winds..."

"And they round up the goats," Einion would laugh.

"Every last one of them, to have their beards trimmed, and be well groomed come Sunday," Old Gwilym would smile. "The Ellyllon comb them with silver combs."

"And sit on striped cushions with golden tassels while they do it."

"You remember well, grandson," Gwilym Dwfn said, and he would tell of Uther Pendragon, the father of Arthur, and of Arthur's ship Prydwen, and of Myrddin, his Magician.

"Those who came later called him Merlin," he would say, and shake his head. "Poor Myrddin, he carried the tales to Arthur, before he was married to Guinevere, about her and Lancelot, and that no nobleman and Magician should do... he lost his own pure heart for the love of Vivian, and was left at the mercy of the sprites he commanded."

"Ten years and forty, the toy of the lawless ones," Einion quoted. He knew all the stories, and the englyns and poems, but in his heart he longed only to hear his great-grandfather tell of the Tylwyth Teg, the Beautiful People, who live inside the mountains, and under the rivers and tarns, and who, though they live seven leagues deep, or in the hearts of the mountains, can hear the ant a thousand miles away rise from her nest in the morning, and with whom the fleetest of four-footed animals could not run an acre, and who tread so lightly that the slender clover stems do not bend beneath their feet. Again and again Einion would say:

"Tell me the story of Llyn y Cau." And he and Old Gwilym would peer into the purple-green depths of the high, crag-circled tarn, seeking a glimpse of the Lake-Island where the Tylwyth Teg lived, and once they thought they saw a pale gleam, and they sat on the shores of it day after day.

"There"--Old Gwilym would point to the crag beneath the sharp peak of of Craig Llwyd--"in times not so long ago, on Midsummer eve, a great Door was flung open, and the tarn water glistened in the light of thousands and thousands of precious stones, and the Fairy music could be heart through the land, and there was amnesty on that night. Mortals could eat the Fairy food, and there'd be no untoward change, and the hours would be by the earthly reckoning, so that when they returned there'd be no ill effects, and many indeed," Gwilym said, "were the Welsh men and women who called on the Beautiful People come Midsummer Eve, and each one that went returned with a gift, of poetry, harping, or the telling of stories; of singing and dancing, or an added beauty of face or form; a deeper sweetness of character; or a gentler voice... Einion Las, in those days, there was a fair well-bing in all this Land."

Einion would close his eyes while his great-grandfather talked of the Tylwyth Teg, and wish he had lived in the seventeenth century, before Emlyn ap Dafydd, who had lived near Tallyllyn, had rowed to the Door in the rock on Midsummer Eve. Old Gwilym's gentle voice harded when he told of Emlyn ap Dafydd.

"The ill-mannered hedon," he always began. "The vandal was welcomed, but he soon went off by himself, nosing round, and he found himself in a garden. It was beautiful beyond his thought or dreaming, and he could not believe his eyes. There were apple trees and cherry trees, and pear trees and plum trees, and when he pulled an apple or a bunch of cherries, there were still apples there, or cherries, in the selfsame place on the leafy branches. But most of all Emlyn ap Dafydd marvelled at the flowers in that Realm, and he craved to possess one. He knew"--Gwilym Dwfn nodded his head--"he knew well enough. It was the only courtesy the Tylwyth Teg asked of us..."

"That nothing, not even one tiny blade of grass, should be taken out of their Land," Einion said.

"Yes indeed, but Emlyn ap Dafydd sneaking thief that he was, stealthily, thinking himself unobserved, went to a rose tree, pulled a stalk with a bud on it and put it into his pocket. The Tylwyth Teg, with their usual grace, bade him and their other guests farewell, bestowing on each, except Emlyn ap Dafydd, an unseen gift, but"--Gwilym Dwfn was silent awhile, and sad--"but when the last mortal had rowed back across the tarn, they closed the Door in Craig Llwyd forever." Old Gwilym's eyes narrowed with the loss and the longing. "Englyn and harp, and the lordly feasting, all now are gone. He turned to Einion. "But since then," he said, and Einion Las always thought that he looked at him steadfastly as he said it, "only one mortal in each hundred years may visit the Lake-Island of Llyn y Cau, and they are led to another Door"--he shook his head--"somewhere, I've heart, and I cannot think where, near the Place of the Circles, on the crags of Mynydd Moed."

With the years of his growing, the longing deepened in Einion's heart for the Land of the Tylwyth Teg. He longed to find his way to the Lake-Island of Llyn y Cau, and on a midsummer Eve, when he was full grown, and as shapely a lad as had been seen in the valley these many years, he set out for the crags of Mynydd Moed.

He took the valley path, past the Rock of the Birds, where the cormorants nest inland, and when he was almost there, the clouds began to gather and lower themselves on the tips of the crags and the slate-grey Welsh mist fell about him, and though he thought he knew every inch of the way, he found that he was lost. He wandered, hither and yon, backwards and forwards and round and round, until, after many long hours, he sat down, tired and sad, and thought of the longing in his heart, and of his great-grandfather, resting in the graveyard where the two trees twine, and the ancient poem that Gwilym Dwfn had taught him when they'd search the green depths of the tarn, and waited.

He murmured the words to himself. "What is longing made from?"

And from the pain in his own heart, words flowed into his mind:

Einion sat awhile longer, and there were no thoughts left to think. Cold and sad, he tried again to find his way. He had gone but a short distance when he came to a place of brown rushes, and though it was dark, he saw before him on the ground seven circles, and they interwined, each with the other. Remembering Gwilym Dwfn's words, his tiredness forgotten, he jumped for joy, and suddenly, in front of him, was a fat, merry little man. He had bright blue eyes, and he wore a short tunic of greeny-brown colour and long tight breeches that ended in pointed shoes at his feet. He carried a rowan branch in his hand.

"You seem happy, my friend," he said, "up here on the chilly crags."

"I am happy indeed," said Einion, "and the more to see you."

"And I to meet you, indeed," said the little man. "Follow me, and be not afraid." He looked at the young Welshman. "Though I doubt if you have any fear whatever. But have a care...do not utter one word until I give you leave."

He began to run up the mountain side, his feet scarcely touching the rocky pathway. Einion found, to his surprise, that it was easy to keep up with him, and in a short while they came to a ledge where the crannies were full of yellow roseroot flowers, and the spiky mountain sorrel, and nestling in a bed of small ferns there was a large stone, smooth, and grey-blue in colour. The little man struck it three times with the rowan branche in his hand, and on the instant it disappeared. "Come," he said, and Einion followed him along a narrow path inside the crag. It was lit by a pale blue light that seemed to come from the bright stones of the walls. He followed his beckoning guide, and soon they were in a fair and fruitful countryside, magnificently wooded. Avenues of tall trees, of equal height, led to castles of shining quartz and marble, and granite, golden-flecked. Bright rivers flowed through meadows, and the lower slopes of the hills were green pasture lands, all flecked with wild flowers, where the white sheep grazed. The orchards, heavy with fruit, were yet in full bloom, and the nightingale sang from her hollow nest in the branches.

By the time they had come to the House of his friend, Einion was enchanted indeed. They entered the hall. Tapestries, fine as the finest silk, hung on the walls, and there were musical instruments of all kinds, harps and lutes, trumpest and silver flutes, hinging on golden pegs, and in a corner of the room, on a carved table, there was a chessboard, golden and jewel-embossed. Einion stood spellbound. The two sets of chessmen were playing a game, and as each side made a move, they shouted as though they were men, but he saw no living being. A banquet was spread out before them, and they sat down to eat. The dishes came before them of themselves, and disappeared of themselves when they had eaten their fill of the choice and delicate foods. Einion could hear people talking, and their voices were high and sweet, but he could not see them, and he was about to ask his friend about them, but he remembered that he must not speak. His tongue felt like a lump of ice in his mouth, and he had many things in his mind to ask and to say. He was beginning to be impatient, when a handsome old woman came into the hall. Health and benevolence were in her smile, and he saw that three maidens followed her, and they were beautiful beyond words. The two who came first were tall and slender, almost as tall as he. Their gait was graceful, and their feet moved lightly over the floor of the hall as the rays of sunset on the still tarn waters. They wore long tunics of pale green and wore their yellow-gold hair in long braids, threaded with jewels. When he saw the third maiden, Einion's heart leapt to his throat. She wore a flame-red tunic of fine silk, and about her neck she had a golden collar wrought with pearls and rubies. Her hair was golden-yellow as the broom-flower and her skin whiter than the foam when the strong winds blow on Llyn y Cau. Fairer than the eyes of all women were her two eyes, and her breasts were whiter than the swan's breast. Redder than the foxglove were her lips, and wherever she trod, in the place that her white feet touched, four white clover flowers sprang up, and because of this she was called Olwen, which means "White footprint." She came towards him, and Einion's heart melted, and he loved her for all time.

The three maidens gazed at him, their mother smiled and the fat little man laughed merrily, but though his tongue was loosened, Einion did not speak. In truth, he could not, for he was under the spell of a beauty beyond his imaginings. Then the lovely maiden in the crimson tunic came close to him, and he saw that her eyes were the colour of the dark green depths of Llyn y Cau. With her fingers in his curly brown hair, she kissed his mouth.

"Speak to me, Einion," she whispered, "that I may know if your form and your voice are equal in beauty."

and Einion found his tongue, and he told the ancient tales of his land, sometimes to the music of the three-stringed harp he took down from its place on the wall, and sometimes his voice was the only sound, as he told of the Bards who the Triads recall, Plenydd and Alawn and Gwron, the oldest of all. He told them of Gwalchmei, Chief Bard of Owen Gwynedd, Own Fawr, "the Great," before whose valour and assembled warriors, Henry II cowered and fell back, and did not return.

Einion sang the poem that Gwalchmai wrote in praise of Own Fawr:

And he sang of Aneirin, and Taliesin, "Beautiful Brow," who bore within him the lore of all the ages, and confounded the King's Bards with his wisdom; of Bladdyn Fardd, the warrior poet, whose blue enamelled armour was seen in the fore-front of every battle. He told them of the shores of his native land where the sea-foam is white and brilliant as frost, and of Gwilym Dwfn, his grandfather, who had met the Ellyllon, and his Welsh eloquence gave delight to the People of the Tylwyth Teg, and he stayed with them for a year and a day, reciting verces, and playing chess, hunting and riding the proud stiff-maned stallions up over the verdant hills and through the shining woods of that Fairy Land, and the enchantment on him was strong. But bye and bye, a longing for his mountain home overcame him, and he asked if he might return to the world of mortals for a while.

"Stay a while and you shall go awhile," said his fat blue-eyed friend, and so it was.

Olwen's desire was towards him, but her mother forbade that they should marry, for she was afraid to lose the loveliest of her daughters to a mortal who desired the seas and winds, the mountains and storms of his own land. Olwen was sad when he talked of Dolgellau, and of the days when the air was balmy and warm, and wild-flowers strewed the meadows, but as she listened to him, she felt a strange longing she had never felt before, and after a while, she said to him:

"Einion bach, leave me for a while and return to your own land. I know you will come back to me, and when you do I will follow you wherever you go."

And when the time came for him to leave she gave him rich garments, and caparisonings for his favourite stallion, and a bronze chest filled with gold and silver and precious stones, and with a smile, she sent him on his way.

When Einion Las came to the valley of his birth, none knew him. They thought he had died in the icy mists, the night he had climbed past the Rock of the Birds, or fallen from the high crags of Cader Idris, or been drowned in the depths of Llyn y Cau. But at last they believed his story; indeed, it was difficult to disbelieve when they saw for themselves the richness of his clothes and the treasures he had brought back with him.

"He was always, I remember, a gentle lad," said one.

"Indeed, and all the family of Gwilym Dwfn could see the Tylwyth Teg," said another.

"Indeed, yes ... yes indeed," they all agreed, and they took him to their hearts and loved the fine young man who had returned from the Fair Country, and they never tired of listening to the tales he told. He stayed with them for three years, and then, on a Thursday, the first of that moon, as suddenly as he had appeared, he disappeared.

There was a great rejoicing among the Tylwyth Teg when Einion Las returned, and he and Olwen looked into each other's eyes and made a vow never to be parted again. Her mother no longer withheld her consent to the marriage, and their wedding was celebrated with grave joy, and the feasting lasted for three days and three nights, and on the third night Olwen and Einion told the Tylwyth Teg that it was their desire to live in the world of mortals. A silence fell on all who were there. The musicians ceased their music.

"Your beauty will fade," her mother said, "and you will know sickness and death."

"And sorrow," said one of her sisters.

"Your cool green eyes will shed hot tears," her mother pleaded.

"Perhaps they will be tears of joy," her other sister said. When they saw that their words were unavailing, the whole Realm gave their blessing.

They sang to the music of the golden harps, and they danced around Einion and Olwen.

"Hapus ydym ni," they said. "We are happy." And the lovers set forth on two white Welsh ponies, whose silver hooves scarce touched the crags, as swiftly they descended to Einion's house in the village.

It was the opinion of all that Einion's wife was the most beautiful woman who had ever been seen, or about whom tales had been told. The couple were held in high repute, and their wealth was great. They had large estates, and a beautiful Castle of gold-flecked granite near to the Seven Circles of Mynydd Moed.

After a while, as will happen, the people began to ask about Olwen's family, and Einion was approached. After long talk on many and varied subjects, the important magistrates of the Valley asked the question they had come to ask, to which Einion Las replied:

"Indeed, and my wife comes of a most Fair Family. She had two sisters almost as fair as she, and her mother is a woman of wholesome beauty. Yes, I would say that she comes of a very Fair Family indeed."

They returned to the Valley and talked among themselves, and after seven days had passed, they came again to Einion Las.

"Since you did not tell us the name of your wife's Fair Family, Einion Las, it is our conclusion that she is of the Tylwyth Teg," they said, and Einion did not deny it.

And so to this day, among the people who live in the North Land, around Snowdon and Cader Idris and Llyn y Cau, "The Fair Family" is one of their names for the Beautiful People who live inside their mountain and under their rivers and tarns.

Einion and Olwen lived in their Castleon the high reaches of Cader Idris, and the flowers bloomed all through the year in their gardens, and great berries grew on their trees. And Olwen grew healing herbs, and she made salves and unguents that soothed and cooled, and blessed the children with Fairy gifts, and because she was there, the ice around hardened hearts melted again, and they felt life's hurt and its sweetness once more.

In all the changing weathers of that land, the mists around their dwelling were a maze of colour, and the winds were balmy, and on a morning in summer the sun shone on their bed. The covering had fallen from Einion's breast and arms as he slept. Olwen gazed at him, and marvelled at his beauty, and her love for him disolved her Fairy heart. Her tears were as dew in her eyes, and then fell, and at that moment Olwen became a true, mortal woman.

and at this time a strange flock of birds flew over the Castle. They had purple heads, and beaks of gold, and they made minstrelsy as they flew. Einion, wakened by their singing, looked at Olwen, her yellow hair falling about her, her tears, and her breasts like white heather, and great was the virtue of his love.

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