an introduction to Angela Grant’s new translation
by Megli
The ‘Four Branches of the Mabinogi’ – Pwyll, Branwen, Manawydan, and Math – took their final shape around the year 1100. Though they are fashioned out of a rich seam of mythological and folkloric material, much of it very old, the stories have been shaped by a writer of genius. The individual tales, and the motifs within and between tales, are balanced and contrasted with great skill. The Four Branches are among the greatest products of the medieval Celtic mind. Though we recognise ex-gods amongst the characters, the author of the tale was certainly unaware of this. They are presented realistically as men and women, though some have magical powers and strange animal aliases. The plots are mysterious and often magical but they are also written in beautifully clear Welsh. They are evidently the product of a cultured and sensitive mind, with an ideal of courtly life and how it should be lived. In particular, the storyteller loves snappy dialogue, feasting-scenes, and explanations of the ‘Just So’ variety.
Like all traditional storytellers, he, or perhaps she, loves meaningful names, things repeated in threes, proverbs, and odd bits of lore. So these tales explain how pigs came from the Otherworld, why the Owl is called ‘Flowerface’ in Welsh, why Ireland has five regions, and how numerous places in Wales got their names. The tales are full of what appear to our eyes to be loose ends and inconsistencies, so that for example characters simply disappear from the story once their part is done. It’s important not to apply the conventions of modern novels or television drama to these medieval stories. They have their own rules, and are creations of great artistry and moral insight. The Four Branches, which are the only tales to which the term ‘Mabinogi’ is properly applied, are set in a version of Britain just before the Roman conquest. The writer of the stories depicts this as a mythical and idealised version of his own medieval era, with the Britons united under a single high-king at London, rather than as a collection of squabbling woad-painted tribes.
Pwyll, Lord of Dyfed
The first branch is the story of Pwyll, Lord of Dyfed in south-west Wales. His name means ‘good sense’, and the tale is in part the story of how he comes to live up to his name, gradually taming his natural rashness. It is also the story of how a fateful relationship develops between Dyfed and the Otherworld, or Annwn. In Pwyll, the Otherworld appears to border onto Dyfed in a unspecified manner; but in Welsh tradition, as in Irish, it seems on the whole to be a parallel underground world, reached through mysterious mounds, or to be found on strange islands over the sea.
Pwyll agrees to help the King of the Otherworld, Arawn, as a compensation for one of his typical crass blunders when out hunting. Arawn magically swaps their appearances for a year and each rules the other’s kingdom wisely and well, and a great friendship develops between them. In particular, Pwyll shows his good character by not having sex with Arawn’s wife, even though Arawn clearly expects him to and is most surprised that he hasn’t. The bedroom-scene when Arawn’s wife is informed of this state of affairs (after the event) is both sympathetic and amusing.
After his return to Dyfed, Pwyll sits on a magic mound, the Gorsedd Arberth, because any nobleman who sits thereon will receive blows or see a wonder. The wonder soon appears, when Pwyll is sought out by a magical woman, Rhiannon, who wants to marry him. However she is about to be betrothed to another man, Gwawl son of Clud, against her will. This takes some sorting out, with Pwyll – as usual – making a mess of it, and Rhiannon rescuing him from his own thoughtlessness.
Rhiannon has always been popular. Her name means ‘Divine Queen’, and she may well have links to the British and Gaulish horse-goddess Epona. Horses occur repeatedly in connection with her. She appears riding a magical steed, and when her baby is abducted and she is accused of killing and eating him, her punishment is to sit by the horse-block and carry visitors to the court on her back. In the third branch, Manawydan, she and her son are imprisoned and forced to wear asses’ collars around their necks. But she is a very vivid character too, with great intelligence, a sharp wit, and a moving nobility when falsely accused of murder.
We are never told who steals Pwyll and Rhiannon’s son; but he is found by a good man called Teyrnon, whose colts have been repeatedly snatched away every May-Eve by a mysterious force. When he waits in the stable one year, a hideous arm reaches in to snatch a new-born colt, and he hacks the arm off at the elbow. The colt is saved – and he finds also a little baby, wrapped in brocaded silk. Thus Rhiannon’s son continues her association with horses. Furthermore, Teyrnon’s name is interesting: it means ‘Divine Lord’, and he is clearly another ex-god (the -on ending is a give-away.) Many have suggested that Teyrnon is Rhiannon’s proper partner in the myth that must once have lain behind parts of the First Branch.
Teyrnon and his childless wife – who is drawn with great sympathy – pass the baby off as their own. But as he grows, supernaturally fast, they soon see from his features that he is the long-lost son of the Lord of Dyfed, and that by returning him they can free Rhiannon from her unjust punishment. When they do so, Rhiannon joyously announces that her ‘anxiety’, her pryder, is over; and so the boy is given the name Pryderi. He is the only character to appear in all Four Branches, and it has been suggested that they are originally the story of his birth, career as a king and warrior, and eventual death. Pwyll becomes known as ‘Head of Annwn’, because he ruled it for Arawn for a year, and in time he dies, and Pryderi becomes Lord of Dyfed.
The understanding with which the women characters are depicted, and the wit and energy of Rhiannon herself, have led at least one commentator to suggest that the redactor of these tales was a woman. Be that as it may, the first branch is remarkable for its mythic vividness, the strangeness of the incursions of the Otherworld upon Dyfed, and the twists and turns of its bumbling hero’s journey towards wisdom and self-control.
Branwen daughter of Llyr
The scene shifts in the second branch – to north Wales, and to Ireland. The story introduces a new set of characters, the family of Llyr: the brothers Bran the Blessed, Manawydan, their sister Branwen, plus their half-siblings, the peaceable Nisien and the violent and quarrelsome Efnisien. (Though the word ‘Llyr’ means ‘sea’, it may be wrong to think of these characters as ex-gods, descendants of a native Lord of the Sea. The second branch shows many borrowings from Irish tradition, and it is probable that Welsh Llyr and his family were adapted from the figures of Irish literature, rather than being original British Celtic deities in their own right.)
The second branch is a story of violence, gore and national tragedy, leaving both the family of Llyr and the island of Ireland nearly destroyed. It also has a complicated plot for a story which is really quite short. Branwen (‘White Crow’) is sought in marriage by the weak-willed Irish king Matholwch, and her brother Bran (‘Raven’) agrees to the match. He is the high-king of Britain, which is given the grand and solemn title ‘The Island of the Mighty’ in this branch only. Oddly, Bran is a giant, whilst his sister Branwen and their brothers are normal-sized. But Efnisien, their cruel and violent half-brother, has not been consulted about the marriage. In a fit of apparent sexual jealousy, he mutilates Matholwch’s horses in the most horrible way, cutting off their lips, eyelids, and tails. Matholwch is only persuaded to go ahead with the marriage when Bran offers him rich compensation – including the magical Cauldron of Rebirth, which originally came from Ireland and has the power to bring the dead back to life.
Branwen’s life with her new husband in Ireland soon becomes unhappy, as Matholwch’s people whisper against her. After she gives birth to a son, Gwern (‘Alder’) she is banished to the castle kitchens where the butcher slaps her every day. But being gentle and kind-hearted, she trains a starling to understand human speech, and sends it to her brother Bran with a letter tied under its wing. In anger, Bran musters the men of the Island of the Mighty and goes to rescue her. Because he is a giant, he can wade across the Irish sea, surrounded by his fleet.
The two sides negotiate. The Irish build a feasting-hall big enough to contain Bran and his army, for an apparent peace-celebration. But they hang armed men in bags from all the pillars of the hall, to ambush the British when they sit down to dinner. Efnisien, the cruel but clever brother, senses the trick, and crushes the skulls of the Irish warriors through the bags with his bare hands, one by one. The Irish are aghast but unable to do anything to stop him. It is agreed that Gwern, Branwen and Matholwch’s little son, will become King of Ireland. But Efnisien will not stand for this, and when the little boy comes to greet him, Efnisien grabs him by the feet and thrusts him into the fire. In anguish, Branwen tries to leap in after him, but is restrained by Bran, and all-out war ensues. The Irish have the advantage because of the Cauldron which Bran gave Matholwch. In his one good deed, Efnisien pretends to be a dead Irishman and gets thrown into the cauldron, where he stretches out and breaks it apart. His heart breaks too. Bran also is wounded in the foot by a poisoned spear. Only five pregnant women are left alive in Ireland, and only seven men – including Pryderi – of the entire host of Britain return.
When they return, they find out that Caswallon, Bran’s cousin, has seized the high-kingship of Britain. Branwen, in some of the most beautiful lines of Welsh prose ever written, dies of grief and is buried. Bran’s head is cut off according to his instructions, but it remains magically alive and undecayed. It is transported by his men and they enjoy two periods of otherwordly rest, one on the island of Gwales, where the birds of Rhiannon sing to them from over the sea. But eventually, the head of their lord must be buried in London, where Tower Hill is, and where you will find ravens (bran) even today.
Branwen is high tragedy, and epic in scale. Deep behind the story seems to be an ancient myth of how a hero carries off the Cauldron of Rebirth from the Lord of the Otherworld, but this has been much obscured. (So the explanation of how the Cauldron of Rebirth starts out in Ireland, goes to Bran, and is given back to Matholwch is awkward.) The tale has however been intricately patterned with repeating themes – count how many times groups of seven occur in the story, and note all the times that the motif of enclosure crops up – houses, tents, halls, bags, cauldrons, wombs. Branwen is the grandest of the Four Branches in scale, and the most stark and pitiless in plot.
Manawydan son of Llyr
The third branch follows on seamlessly from the second, but soon changes tone. Manawydan contemplates his brother Bran’s death and the usurpation of his throne by his cousin Caswallon. As a consolation, his friend Pryderi offers him Dyfed, and his widowed mother Rhiannon’s hand in marriage. The middle-aged couple are very taken with each other, and marry.
One day, Manawydan, Rhiannon, Pryderi and his wife Cigfa are out hunting in Dyfed when they see an odd castle that wasn’t there before. Magical goings on ensue, and Rhiannon and Pryderi are abducted in a thunderclap, but not before Rhiannon has used her sharp tongue. Dyfed is reduced to an empty wasteland. Cigfa and Manawydan are left alone, and Manawydan tactfully reassures the hysterical Cigfa that she has nothing to fear from him. To her perplexity, he takes no action to recover his wife and step-son. For a time, they live by hunting, but eventually Manawydan takes himself and Cigfa over the border to England, and sets up as a craftsman, to Cigfa’s snobbish distaste. This is a anachronism – the storyteller has forgotten that at the time his story is set, there was as yet no England.
Manawydan is so good at his new profession that he is hounded out of town by fellow-shopkeepers, angry at being driven out of business. This pattern is repeated three times. Eventually, Cigfa and Manawydan return to Dyfed, and Manawydan sows three little fields with wheat. He goes out one morning to harvest the first field, only to find that all the grain has vanished overnight. Annoyed, he plans to harvest the second one the next day, but the same thing happens. Just as Teyrnon waited up to see who was stealing his colts in the first branch, on the third night Manawydan waits up to see who is stealing his corn.
It turns out to be mice – hundreds of mice. Manawydan catches one, which is pregnant and so cannot run away as fast. He keeps it in his glove, like a comic version of the men-in-bags episode in the second branch. The next day, he ceremonially prepares a gibbet, and prepares to hang the mouse for her crimes. Just then, a minor cleric comes along (another anachronism – everywhere else in the Four Branches, mentions of Christianity are avoided on the whole, except in oaths.) He offers to ransom the mouse, but Manawydan refuses. A priest turns up, and offers more money. Manawydan refuses again. A Bishop appears, and tells Manawydan to name his price. In a triumph of intuition, Manawydan demands his wife, his step-son, the lifting of the enchantment on Dyfed, and vitally, the promise of no further revenge to be taken upon any of them.
The ‘Bishop’ grants his request, and turns out to be an enchanter, Llwyd son of Cil Coed, ‘Grey One son of Wood-burrow’. He is a friend of Rhiannon’s original betrothed, Gwawl son of Clud, and by persecuting them has been taking revenge for the disgrace done to his friend by Pwyll, even though the latter is long dead. The mice are Llwyd’s courtiers, transformed by magic, and the pregnant one is Llwyd’s own wife, whom he changes back to her right shape.
So, a happy ending. The third branch has a more folksy feel than the others, but it features several of the characters from both the first and second branches. It also brings in the theme of shapeshifting, which becomes vital in the fourth branch. In Manawydan, we see a character of great insight and self-control. He is utterly unlike the Irish Manannan mac Lir, who is a shape-shifting sea-deity who fathers heroes upon mortal women. Manawydan has no association with the sea, and is the ideal of calmness and restraint. This suggests that whilst the name might well have been borrowed from Irish tales (in one of which Manannan occurs with a character called Bran) his character is the creation of the Welsh storyteller. It has been suggested that Manawydan is a self-portrait by the author. He watches and waits, and does not lose his temper even when provoked. It is his rationality and calm which restores the land of Dyfed and his new family, and ends the magical feuding. Many have seen a moral lesson in this branch.
Math son of Mathonwy
The fourth branch is the richest and most mythological of all. Again, we shift to north Wales, to Gwynedd. Many of the characters in this branch are clearly ex-deities, and their family, ‘the Children of Dôn’ partially correspond to the Irish gods, the Tuatha De Danann, ‘the Tribes of Danu.’ The story is set in the court of Math son of Mathonwy, ruler of Gwynedd and a great enchanter. He is only able to survive by keeping his feet in a virgin’s lap, unless it is war-time.
The action moves in three phases. In the first, two of the sons of Dôn, Gilfaethwy and the enchanter Gwydion, Math’s nephews, cause war with Pryderi in the south in order to get Math off the scene. Gwydion kills Pryderi in single combat. Gilfaethwy has fallen in love with Goewin, Math’s virgin footholder, and with Math away fighting, Gilfaethwy rapes her. When Math returns, Goewin bravely states what has happened, and Math marries her and gives Gwynedd over to her to rule. He punishes his nephews terribly, by turning them into three pairs of male and female animals, each for a year, and making them have children by each other. Gilfaethwy, the rapist, has to be female twice. Math turns their animal offspring into human beings and gives them names. After that they are never mentioned again.
When Math changes Gwydion and Gilfaethwy back to human form, he and his nephews are once again on good terms. Math needs a new footholder, and the storyteller ignores the fact that he hasn’t had one for the past three years. Gwydion and Gilfaethwy suggest their sister, Aranrhod or Arianrhod (‘Silver Wheel’ or possibly ‘Silver Fortress’) for the role. Math asks Arianrhod to step over his magic wand, to prove she is a virgin. She does so, and instantly gives birth to a yellow-haired boy who makes for the sea and ‘takes on its nature’. He is called Dylan, ‘Sea’. She also lets drop ‘a little something’ (the placenta?) and here the second phase of the tale begins.
Gwydion hides the ‘little something’ in a box at the end of his bed. One day he hears a cry coming from the box, and opens it to find a little boy. Like Pryderi, the infant grows supernaturally fast. Gwydion treats the boy like his son, and takes him to Arianrhod’s sea-girt castle to demand that she acknowledge him. She refuses to, and curses the boy, saying that he will have neither a name, nor arms, nor a wife of human stock. By means of his cunning magic, Gwydion gets around the first two prohibitions, tricking Arianrhod into arming the boy and naming him Lleu Llaw Gyffes, ‘Fair One of Skilled Hand’. For the third, he needs Math’s help. Math and Gwydion enchant oak flowers, meadowsweet, and broom, until they have formed the most beautiful woman on earth, whom they name Blodeuedd, ‘Flowerses’. Blodeuedd and Lleu are married, and Lleu is given part of Arfon to rule. Now the third phase of the tale begins.
They live happily for a time, but one day Lleu goes to visit Math and Blodeuedd falls in love with a passing hunter, Gronw Bebr. Together they plot to kill Lleu, who may only die in a very complicated set of circumstances. Blodeuedd tricks Lleu into revealing these circumstances under the guise of wifely concern. The conditions are fulfilled, and Gronw kills Lleu with a spear-thrust. Lleu shrieks, turns into an eagle, and flies away.
Gwydion tracks his nephew single-mindedly. One day he is lead to him by a sow, and finds the eagle sitting in an oak tree, with maggots and rotting flesh dropping from him, which the sow is feeding on. Gwydion sings a poem in three verses, each verse of which calls the eagle down one level of the oak, until Gwydion has him in his lap. Then he turns him back into human form, and has him tended by doctors until he is restored. Then Lleu and Gwydion take a terrible revenge. Lleu spears Gronw to death, and as for Blodeuedd, Gwydion turns her into an owl, which only comes out at night because all the other birds hate it so, and attack it on sight. And her name changes too, to ‘Owl’, or Blodeuwedd, which means literally ‘Flowerface’. After that, Lleu rules and lives alone.
It’s clear that there are very ancient roots behind this story – Lleu is the Welsh equivalent of the god Lugos, Irish Lugh, for example. It is full of mysterious bits that don’t make sense – Goewin is raped, but Arianrhod bears the child, which in some sense is clearly Gwydion’s son (at one point the storyteller calls Lleu y uab, ‘his son’) incestuously begotten upon his sister. And why doesn’t Lleu die? Why does he turn into an eagle instead? How can Math forget about his footholder? Did Arianrhod’s other son Dylan turn into a seal, or not? What did his lost story look like? Why are there so many animal transformations in the story? Many people have felt drawn to the tragic character of Blodeuwedd, though not many people notice the pun in her change of name. It may be the case that her creation from flowers is a late element in the story, to explain the Welsh nick-name for the owl, ‘Flowerface’. If you put two daisy flowers side by side they look like an owl’s eyes. There are medieval Welsh poems in which Blodeuwedd is born human, suggesting that her flower-birth is not one of the original elements of the tale. There are also weird things going on with gender in the story. Arianrhod is an independent woman with her own fortress, and apparently no idea of how she came to be pregnant; Gwydion and Gilfaethwy both spend time as females, and Gwydion in particular is more a ‘male mother’ than a father or uncle to Lleu, incubating him in a womb-like box at the end of his bed. There are a bewildering variety of ways to be born in the fourth branch: made of flowers, born prematurely, incubated in a box, conceived as an animal but turned into a human…
The fourth branch is endlessly fascinating. It is tremendously dense, and filled with magic, murder and treachery. Like the lost myths from which it is constructed, it is not precisely logical, but makes a fierce and eerie sense.
It is important not to treat the Four Branches as ‘mythology in ruins’. Though we can see some very ancient mythic patterns behind the stories, to see them only as half-remembered British myth is to ignore the sublime artistry with which the stories have been fashioned from their different sources. It’s also to ignore the mixture of elements in the stories, some of which are Irish and some of which come from the continent. The story of the ‘chaste friend’ that occurs in the First Branch was a very common Medieval tale, as was the tale of the nobleman who is forced to take up a humble craft, which we find in the Third. Neither are in the least Celtic. The storyteller had clearly inherited an immensely rich native oral tradition, but has synthesised it, choosing to concentrate on the themes of friendships, marriages, and feuds. He or she has chosen to tell the stories in a sober, compassionate way, with great respect for humane values and self-restraint, and in the most beautiful language. Even the strangest parts of his plots are described matter-of-factly. (Compare the wildly-fluctuating tone of Culhwch and Olwen, with its passages of great gusto and brashness.) Though none of the Four Branches is longer than a short story, the tone can shift seamlessly from epic tragedy to homely comedy. Though each tale stands alone, they also speak to each other in an intricate pattern of contrasts and echoes. The women characters are remarkable for their independence and vividness, especially before their marriages. The men are equally well-delineated. Our anonymous storyteller marshals a cast of about thirty-five important characters into an interlaced pattern that can stand with the very greatest works of art and entertainment produced in Medieval Britain.