‘I’m splendid of fame: songs are heard
in the four quarters of the fort, island of the strong door.
Fresh water and jet are mixed together;
sparkling wine is their drink, set in front of their battalion.
Three full loads of Prydwen we went by sea:
save seven, none came back from Caer Rigor.’
~ The Spoils of Annwn

It’s the middle of summer. We set sail for Caer Rigor beyond the ninth wave and further on to where all waves freeze beneath the turning of the frosty gulls. 

There is no fortress in Thisworld or the Otherworld colder than Caer Rigor. It wears its icicles like the Winter King’s crown upside down when he was cast down. There are frozen birds upon the turrets with songs frozen on their tongues.

The gate of the fortress is frosted shut like the cold lips of the gatekeeper.

Down from a tower swoops a messenger on wide white wings like an albatross. He pours water over jet mixing them together. Whoosh! A rush of flames, like from a flamethrower, burning in a multitude of colours, like a flambeau.

Ice drips from the gate and hinges open like the gatekeeper’s jaw. The giant stares and unclenches his fist but halts not our passage as we enter the frozen corridors of Caer Rigor and are taken to stand before the Strong Door.

“The door to this hall has not been opened for 1500 years,” the messenger speaks solemnly, “the men inside have known not death, nor decay, nor old age.”

He holds the jet-flame to the door and the icy seal around it melts. Inside is a battalion of frozen men, not the seven survivors, no, these are dead men. Young, pitifully young hopefuls who accompanied Arthur on his fateful voyage.

There is wine, sparkling wine, in their cups, they wear the faces of happy drunks. Yet, as the door opens, as the ice begins to thaw, they set down their glasses and the pain of memory appears in their eyes with the onset of sobriety as fire and ice, jet and water mix, fiercely coloured and hallucinatory.

“Where are we?” “Thisworld or the Otherworld?” “Are we alive or are we dead?” “Are we burning or are we freezing?” “Is this reward or punishment?”

“All I remember is the flash of Llenlleog’s sword as it was thrust into the cauldron.”

“Blinding!” “The explosion.” “It blinded us.” “Yet we can see.” 

“I remember the cauldron, tiny, in Lleog’s hand.” 

“Nonsense – that was just an illusion – the cauldron cannot be stolen.”

“Arthur cut off His head! The head of the Head of Annwn.” 

“And it sung to us for nights in this feasting hall.” 

“The Head of Annwn sung of cutting off Arthur’s head and how it was deaf and dumb.”

“What will become of us now?” “How can we return to the cauldron if it is gone?”

“I told you it was all an illusion,” speaks the youngest of the men. 

“You’re no longer trapped in that old myth,” the messenger tells them. 

“That old myth is done,” I am inspired to speak up, “we come as new monastic devotees of the Head of Annwn to set you free from Arthur’s rule. When this castle has thawed to the cauldron you will return to be reborn.”

They raise their cups and embrace – fire and ice, jet and water mix fierce and hallucinatory as from the turrets the birds fly free and burst into song.

~

This piece is based on my experiences during our Monastery of Annwn Brythonic texts meditation group last night. Caer Rigor has been translated as ‘the Petrification Fort’ from the Latin rigor from ‘stiffness’ and also contains connotations of ‘cold’ from frigor. The citation above is from Marged Haycock but replaces her translation of ynys pybrydor as ‘stout defence of the island’ with the more popular translation ‘island of the strong door’. This allows it to be related to the Second Branch of The Mabinogion wherein the seven survivors of the battle between the Britons and the Irish feast and drink blissfully on the Island of Gwales with the head of Bran the Blessed until one of the men, Heilyn, opens the door, and all their losses and ills return.