The Chasing of Rhiannon and the Nature of Horse

Tonight I’m giving a talk on animal spirit guides for a local group. One of the topics I am covering is what the story of the Chasing of Rhiannon can teach us about the nature of Horse and ways of approaching Horse and the Gods and spirits in general. I’m also sharing it here.

Rhiannon is the medieval Welsh name of the ancient British Horse Goddess Rigantona ‘Great Queen.’ She appears in the The First Branch of The Mabinogion. This is my retelling of the episode of Her first meeting with Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed.

Pwyll goes to sit on Gorsedd Arberth, a sacred mound in Pembrokeshire, where it is said that if you sit there all night you will either get injured or see something wonderful. Pwyll sits the long night through and at dawn, luckily for him, he sees something wonderful – a beautiful woman in a shining golden dress of brocaded silk on a big, tall, pale white horse. 

As she rides away Pwyll says to one of his men, “Quick, go after her!”

He runs and he runs and he runs but he cannot catch her. 

“Quick, get on a horse!” 

He rides and he rides and he rides but he cannot catch her because the faster he rides the further she gets away and finally she disappears over the horizon and is gone.

Pwyll is bitterly disappointed yet, determined to see her again, he sits on the mound a second night. And at dawn she appears again – a beautiful woman in a shining golden dress of brocaded silk on a big, tall, pale white horse. 

As she rides away Pwyll says to his best rider on his fastest horse, “Quick, go after her!’

He rides and he rides and he rides but he cannot catch her because the faster he rides the further she gets away and finally she disappears over the horizon and is gone.

Pwyll is even more disappointed, yet determined to catch her the next time, he sits on the mound a third night. And at dawn she appears again – a beautiful woman in a shining golden dress of brocaded silk on a big, tall, pale white horse.

As she rides away this time Pwyll himself goes after her on his fastest horse. He rides and he rides and he rides but he cannot catch her because the faster he rides the further she gets away. 

Just as she is about to disappear over the horizon, he shouts, “Maiden, for the sake of the man you love, wait for me.” 

She stops, turns. “I will wait gladly,” she says, “it would have been better for the horse if you had asked a while ago.” 

When Pwyll catches up to her, she draws back her veil, reveals her name, “Rhiannon.”

This story might firstly be seen to relate to Horse as a prey animal. If we chase a horse it will always run faster than us, the faster we chase, getting further away. If we stop, speak quietly, it too will stop, turn, be curious, approach, reveal to us its unique nature.

On another level it relates to the elusive nature of the Horse Goddess and to the Gods and spirits in general. Often, if we chase too hard, try too hard, they evade us. If we stop, ask direct questions, They will turn, respond, reveal Their identities and names.

Folkestone White Horse (Wikipedia Commons)

Rigantona’s Departure

I.
The fall of tempered leaves
stamps itself out mid-November
like leaf-shaped arrow heads

the yellow birch my old daggers

distant memories of the ancestors
contort the gloaming wearing

cloaks as grey as your shroud

and the grey spider who hangs
above watching you departing from
the darkness without a thread.

II.
I cannot imagine you Great Queen
as the young girl who was taken
against her will when the last leaf

fell by the hunter with the horns

and the ember-eyes headlight bright

before there were cars and cars and cars…
before with the leaves the forest fell…
before Annwn was known as Hell.

III.
You always knew where you were going
didn’t you? Needed no thread to lead
you back to your own home in his arms?

They knew that too – our ancestors

who offered up coins minted like leaves
in fairyland where money grows on trees
and crumbles likes us to grey dust.

IV.
I have no coin the leaves in my pockets
are old and withered as grey spiders.

When my fingers are dust I shall
follow without a thread shrugging into
your shroud joining the contours

of the grey-cloaked ever-marching dead.