The night was silent, without even the slightest breeze to stir the branches of the trees. Overhead the stars glittered coldly. Anieron entered the clearing with Elidyr behind him. The Master Bard wore a cloak made of songbird feather—thrushes, sparrows, wrens, robins, and bluebirds. He carried a birch branch hung with dozens of tiny silver bells. As he stepped up to the altar, he shook the branch. The clear, ringing sound carried through the grove and up into the silent trees.
In his deep, powerful voice, Anieron began the festival. He gestured to the eight unlit torches. “This is the Wheel of the Year before us. One torch for each of the eight festivals when we honor the Shining Ones.”
As he gestured and named each one, Elidyr lit the torches. “Calan Llachar,” Anieron intoned, “Alban Haf, Calan Olau, Alban Nerth, Calan Gaef, Alban Nos, Calan Morynion, and Alban Awyr, which we celebrate tonight.”
Again, Anieron shook the branch and the bells sang. “We gather here to honor Taran, King of the Winds, who woke the Great Mother from her enchanted sleep that the earth might be fruitful.”
“We honor him,” the crowd murmured softly, the sound of hundreds of hushed voices was like that of a rushing wind.
Anieron continued, “Let the Shining Ones be honored as they gather to watch the Great Awakening. Mabon, King of Fire. Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters. Annwyn, Lord of Chaos. Aertan, Weaver of Fate. Cerridwen, Queen of the Wood. Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt. Y Rhyfelwr, Agrona and Camulos, the Warrior Twins. Sirona, Lady of the Stars. Grannos, Star of the North and Healer.”
Again, the crowd intoned as one; “We honor the Shining Ones.”
In the sudden silence the clear, piping voice of Cynfar, the youngest son of Elidyr and Elstar, sounded like the bells themselves as he spoke his part in the ritual. “Why do we mourn? Why are we afraid?”
Anieron answered, “We mourn because Modron, the Great Mother, cannot be found. We are afraid because the spring cannot come.”
“How can Modron be found?” the boy continued. “How can Spring begin?”
“Behold,” Anieron said solemnly, “Taran, King of the Winds, is searching for Modron, his beloved. He sends the winds to look the world over. And, at last, Modron is found. She sleeps in the sacred grove and cannot awake. The winds bring this news to Taran, and he flies to her. See how the winds rustle the trees of the grove, and the leaves speak with the wind.” Anieron shook his branch of bells. “See how the sounds of the air have awakened Modron.” Strangely, just at that moment, a slight breeze began. It gently shook the birch trees that began to sway slightly. The rustling of the trees sounded a mournful sigh.
Gwydion felt a faint prickling on the nape of his neck. Something was wrong here. He could feel it. Something was terribly wrong. That breeze . . .
He gazed searchingly at Anieron, but the old man’s face was bland as he tossed the seeds from the bowl onto the ground, then poured wine over the seeds. “The Earth has awakened and spring has come! Blessed be to Taran, King of the Winds.”
“Blessed be to Taran!” the crowd shouted. The breeze blew harder; turning into a steady wind that tossed the branches wildly. The birch fire flickered, dancing on the wind. Gwydion looked around but he saw no concern on anyone else’s face.
“Strange about the wind, don’t you think?” he murmured to Cariadas.
She looked at him blankly. “What wind?”
Gwydion’s breath caught in his throat as he realized that he was seeing something that no one else was seeing. Then he looked again at Anieron’s face, and he knew that the Master Bard was seeing it also.
Anieron began the Alban Awyr song, and the crowd joined in gleefully.
Spring returns, the air rings with the songs of the birds.
The blameless nightingale, the pure-toned thrush,
The soaring wood lark, the swift blackbird.
The birds sing a golden course of fame and glory
In the countless woodland halls. Spring returns!
After the song was over, the Bards began to dance around the fire. Some began to tell the first stories in the great storytelling contest that would go on all night. Gwydion looked around for Anieron and saw him disappearing into the trees. Swiftly, Gwydion took off after him. Coming out of the grove he saw Anieron standing alone, looking to the northwest, toward Gwynedd.
The wind began to blow even harder, whipping Gwydion’s robe and flattening the long grass in wild patterns. Gwydion grabbed Anieron’s arm. “The wind—”
“Taran’s Wind,” Anieron said dreamily, not taking his eyes off the northwest.
“What’s happening?” Gwydion asked frantically.
“Can’t you feel it? There’s a storm over Gwynedd. Taran of the Winds himself rides the sky tonight.”