The Daily: 25 January 2024

---

In one of the more curious instances of holidays reclaimed from obscurity, Wales has resurrected St Dwynwen’s Day on January 25th. St Dwynwen was a fifth century princess, the loveliest of King Brychan Brycheiniog’s twenty-four daughters, and the Welsh patron saint of lovers. Her day in the Welsh calendar has steadily grown in popularity since her reintroduction in the 1960s, with sweethearts sending St Dwynwen Day cards and giving each other gifts of spoons. But, rather like that other patron saint of lovers, the story of Dwynwen casts a dubious light on love.

Dwynwen was a maiden who apparently wanted to stay a maiden. But pretty maids are seldom left to their own devices, and her father arranged for her to be married forthwith. Meanwhile a young prince named Maelon Dafodrill (whose name means “prince daffodil”… or “prince narcissist”, as it were) began to court Dwynwen. In some tales she also falls in deeply love with him and is distraught because they can’t marry, she being betrothed. In other tales she spurns his advances, but her heart is still drawn to him. Still other versions say she is horrified when Maelon tries to seduce her and she then spurns him, after which he flies off in a violent rage and abandons her. But in all the stories, she prays fervently that God would make her forget Maelon.

That night she is visited in her dreams by an angel who spoon-feeds her a potion of forgetting and tells her that Maelon has been turned to ice. This last goes a bit beyond her desire, but luckily the angel also says that God has granted her three wishes. So her first wish is to defrost Maelon. Her second is that God always unite true lovers and that he peacefully cool the ardor of all those who are not truly united. Her third is that she remain a maiden for life.

God granted all three wishes. Though, to my mind, he’s sort of slacking off on the second. Still Maelon was no longer an icicle, and Dwynwen went off to a rock in the middle of the sea and devoted herself to God rather than any man. Two out of three ain’t bad…

Dwynwen founded a convent on Llanddwyn, an island off the west coast of Anglesey, though it is also said that she remained an anchoress for the rest of her days. After her death, the well at Llanddwyn, which means “Dwynwen’s church,” became a place of pilgrimage. It is believed that the sinuous dances of the sacred fish and eels that live in the well foretell the fate of lovers. You can still visit the remains of Dwynwen’s church today and ask the eels to show you your heart’s true desire.

Dwynwen undoubtedly had much more of an impact on her part of the world than if she’d been married, either to Maelon or to her nameless betrothed. (We know her name, for example…) She also very likely lived a happier life than an average Queen consort. But I can’t help but think that this isn’t a story about the triumph of true love. It’s more a rather clever scuppering of all entanglement.

Dwynwen didn’t even try to salvage her love, if indeed she felt any (though she didn’t necessarily want to put her lover on ice); and she definitely wanted nothing to do with matrimony. And while she did inveigle that second wish, she herself didn’t do much for others in love. She didn’t even bless their unions like Valentine did a couple hundred years earlier. As soon as she could, she ran off to a rocky island for a happily ever after in contemplative solitude.

I’m not sure what this story says about the Welsh idea of love, but I rather admire Dwynwen. Caught between the competing wants of men, she manages, by invoking her God who trumps the will of mankind, to escape. And then… she becomes a saint — because she escaped! Not many stories of young women end so well.

But true love? Well, ask Maelon on that one… I’m betting he and the eels would say: “Nope, not a bit of it.”

---

The Wolf Moon passes the full today at 12:54pm. I’m sure somebody can see it rising full and yellow this evening. We’re still shrouded by the January malaise, which will probably become a February malaise. In any case, in honor of St Dwynwen’s Day and the full Wolf Moon, here is my favorite short story.

---

Love Story

The full wolf-faced moon shone through the trees as she followed the hare’s trail deep into the night. The scent was not strong in this fresh snowfall, but yet just detectable. It was the only hint of a quarry she’d found tonight. The starved doe her daughter brought to the den back at the dark moon was gnawed to the marrow. It hadn’t yielded up much to swallow in days. Her belly clenched in cold hunger.

It was easier before. When he was alive, somehow the flow of living went more smoothly. True, he was sometimes in the way and often a careless, bumbling oaf. And he always ate more than his share. Yet he was good. A good mate; a good father; a good hunter. It was warmer in the den with his long body curled in front of the door — his kind habit, keeping the cold off his lover and children.

She knew she ought to think about finding another mate. But who? Where? And how could she replace the heart space filled with those eyes, that wolf smile, the very particular soft warmth of him? It was too much to consider in these challenging days of dearth.

Still, that was the very reason she needed to try. Her daughter would leave the den soon. Her sister was too haggard to hunt, would soon be gone. Next winter would be cold and terrible in an empty den. Maybe it would be her last. And yes, maybe that would be the unremarkable end to her story. After all, she’d seen many winters, borne many healthy children, loped in wide-eyed wonder over hills and along streams in her homeland through many starry nights.

But she did not feel ready for the end. She was strong, still sound and able in body and mind. She was not done with rambling through the world. She was not finished with life and all its intriguing mystery. She wanted that next revelation around the bend or over the hillock. She craved the new, the unexperienced, the untasted savor of this juicy living. She was curious and could not give up what the world would reveal to just her. Not just yet.

So she needed someone to help her, to carry some of the load, to keep the den warm. She needed a companion, someone who would walk with her into old age, keep her on the right path, keep her on her feet. Because this hunger, this cold, it was so wearying. She almost — almost — wanted to lay her bones down in this deep snow and just stop.

A sudden soft scuffle in the brush ahead interrupted her morbid musing. She stilled and heeded, directing all her body and mind at the soundscape, at the scents washing over her face, at the chiaroscuro patterns in the snow. Seeking her prey, willing the appearance of an end to hunger for this night.

And it came. A stronger stream of the scent she followed. A frantic heartbeat. A shadow that shifted where no breeze rippled the air. With her upper body fixed and her senses locked, she began to move. Silent, holding her breath, placing each foot into the snow in slow deliberation. She knew one infinitesimal puff of sound or scent would be the end of her hunt. She was no match in speed or agility for a deathly frightened hare.

But then a crack fractured the night into a cascading chaos of sound and motion. A dark blur shot out of the brush; another leaped from the trees to her right. Snow flew in whirling eddies. Snow-muffled footsteps pounded a terrified tattoo in circles around her. She did not know where to turn. She threw her head back and howled in sheer baffled frustration. 

As the noises and scents receded, she pieced together a picture of her lost quarry. Another had pursued the same prey. She should have been more alert to the competition. Hers was not the only empty belly. But here she was, oblivious, ruminating like a stupid lovesick doe. Though, in fairness, it was difficult to remember there were others on the edges of her territory in these days of unwonted isolation.

She blew out a breath and turned back. Maybe her daughter had found better luck. Maybe there was just enough left of the deer carcass to stave off starvation for this night.

But then there came heavy footsteps padding behind her, followed by the sharp must of a stranger. She halted and crouched in preparation, the ruff on her shoulder standing in a nimbus of fear and anger. Perhaps he hadn’t detected her. Perhaps she could live out this night without a fight. Perhaps he could be satisfied with merely stealing away the alleviation of her wretched hunger.

She saw the dark shape of him stopped in the shadow of an oak. His mouth was oddly distorted. She realized she smelled hare’s blood. He was carrying the dead animal. Was he flaunting his kill? Was he not satisfied with causing misery, but he must taunt her? What sort of idiot, who with plenty in his grasp, turns back toward confrontation and risk? 

Still, a part of her angry mind stopped to marvel that he managed to catch a hare in desperate flight. Whatever he was, he was an accomplished hunter!

She began to growl deep in her throat, wishing to flush him out, to move this fight forward if it must be. She wanted her den and sleep. She wanted to not be standing, paws frozen in this snow.

He came forward. Cautiously. Head down. In submission. Then he laid the hare’s body in the snow and backed away.

What was this? What should she do? Was it an offering? Or bait? 

After an agonizing moment he turned and slowly loped off into the night.

She waited a moment more. But she would not turn away nourishment free for the taking. She bounded to the hare and gripped its body in hungry jaws, relishing the taste of warm fur and blood over her tongue.

And as she turned back toward her den with the end of this night’s hunger hanging from her mouth, a full-throated howl pierced the night. She did not stop. She did not turn. But she did listen. For this was a message to her.

From that keening cry to the wolf moon, she knew she would be lonely no longer.

---

©Elizabeth Anker 2024