Gwyn ap Nudd on Samhain
The hounds whine
and nip anxiously at the mare’s feet. She
knickers at them and pounds pale hooves against the cold ground, impatient as
the hounds for the hunt. Deep within the
mound we wait, silent as the grave, for the last lingering strands of day light
to vanish, for darkness to fall and the doorways between this world and that
other place to open, to swing wide for the Host of Gwyn ap Nudd. It has been so long since last we rode, and I
find am as eager as the hounds to step upon mortal soil once more.
And then I feel
it. As gentle as a lovers caress the
veil moves past us, parting for a single night, and we are off. Hooves and claws and cloven feet touch the
soft greenery of the mound momentarily, before taking to the sky. Below me the pale mare moves like lightning,
her milky eyes long since blind, look back at me with another sort of
sight. Behind me I hear the calls and
shrieking of the Host and smile. Some
ride skeletal mounts, others beings with wings and scales, and yet others creature
to horrible to describe. It is the night
of the dead, and we will hunt and feast on the souls of the wicked. And when we’ve had our fill the just and brave
we will gather. Across battlefields we
fly, atop steeples and grave stones we alight.
A choice to be made, join our
ranks, turn spirit to faery flesh, live again, or be ferried beyond this world
to everlasting rest. So if you hear our
howling on the wind as we ride a’ hunting, do not tarry. Whisper a prayer to Gwyn ap Nudd and lend
your thoughts towards living well, for all must bow down to the god of death
one day. But will you be my quarry, a
rabbit for my hounds to rend and chase?
Or will you ride on the winds with me, wild and free....
