Grandmother Rhiannon

There is a cave at the edge of the world. It is to the West, in the Mountains of Shadow, where the new day begins. Few have gone there. Some who go, never return.

You protest, The days begin in the East. Does the corn begin when it has sprouted? Or when it is lain into the grave? It is often true that the wise see light where others see shadow.

This cave in the West is the womb of many gods and is the home of Grandmother Rhiannon. To some she is as pretty as the Moon cloaked in her golden robes of sunlight. To some she is as black as ravens, fearful as wolves. Grandmother Rhiannon’s heart is wounded, a wound that may never heal. She morns the loss of love and child.

In her sorrow she has developed an odd pass time. Grandmother Rhiannon gathers bones. She wanders the dark lonely paths, through mountains and deserted woodlands. When she finds a bone, she places it into the Magic sack. She returns to her cave, always just before morning and sorts through her collection. She knows what bone goes to what sort of creature; raven to raven, wolf to wolf, dragon to dragon.

Sometimes she finds the bones of some forgotten child. They remind Grandmother Rhiannon of her son, so she takes special care of them.

When she finds the bones of a whole animal or child, she will puzzle them together, each into place. When finished she will teach her three companions — the birds of pen-Annwn — a song. For seven sunsets they will sing for her over the bones. Mournful, wistful, their song would enchant the living into a death like sleep. For Grandmother Rhiannon’s bones their songs will knit flesh upon bone, blood upon flesh, breath upon blood, life upon breath.

Sometimes as she is assembling the bones of a child Grandmother Rhiannon does not see so well. Her eyes are full of tears for her son. He is an enchanted raven wandering the wild world, none the wiser, they say, for having ben born human. With her tears Grandmother Rhiannon will mistake a leg bone or a rib from a raven or a wolf for one that might belong to a child. The birds of pen- Annwn don’t know and sing over them anyway. Their songs will knit flesh upon bone, blood upon flesh, breath upon blood, life upon breath. The child will awaken and see Grandmother Rhiannon’s tears. Are they for sorrow or joy? The child will reach for Grandmother Rhiannon, and she will raise the child to her breast. The child will grow strong, sometimes with an unusual talent. Will she or he become a sage or some hero or hera? Only time will tell. This is enough for now.