Owen of the Red Hand

Here is the story of how a drover chanced to behold a Welsh chieftain who had lived in days so long ago that they are now lost in myth and mystery. A young drover named Dafydd often drove cattle from Cardiganshire to London. One day, when passing through Llandebie, a small village in Carmarthenshire, he cut himself a stout stick to help him in his task of driving the cattle. A few days later, Dafydd was sitting in an inn near London. He had delivered the cattle to their owner, and he was returning to his home. He felt very lonely as he sat in the inn. He clutched his stick with both hands. A man, dressed in a big black cloak came up to Dafydd and asked; “Ah, my lad, from what country do you come?” “I come from Wales, sir” answered Dafydd. The stranger’s eyes shone. Dafydd withdrew a little. There was something magical about this man. The stranger took Dafydd stick. “you cut this from a hedge of hazel in a lane near Llandebie.” Dafydd looked up in surprise. His amazement grew as the stranger described in detail the exact place where the stick had grown. “You are surprised at my words, young lad” said the stranger, “but you would be more surprised if you could see the magical things under where the stick was growing.” Dafydd was silent. He had grown tongue-tied at the strangers words. “I am a wanderer myself,” the man continued. “It matters little where I travel. Tomorrow you mean to return to Wales. I will go with you.” They made the journey on foot. Dafydd was very impatient to see the strange things his companion had described. When they reached the road that leads to Llandebie and Golden Grove the two men made their way to a tree at the foot of Dinas. “This is the tree where you cut the magic stick,” said the man. Dafydd nodded. “Run to that farmhouse and borrow two spades. Tell them also that we will need a nights lodging.” Dafydd did as he was told. When he returned, the two men began to dig at the foot of the tree. It was noon when they started their task. The sun had set and night was falling when suddenly they fell through some loose earth into a great room. When their eyes became accustomed to the dim light there, they saw that the room was a great hall. The ceiling was supported by old oak beams. The walls were adorned with weapons of long ago. The stranger stood in the shadows, but urged Dafydd to enter the room. Dafydd now realised there was someone else in the room. He made his way along, and saw a long table at the end with a man sitting at it. Dafydd looked at him closely. He was very handsome and had the body of a trained warrior. Seated in a great chair, the man was sleeping quietly. His head rested on his left hand. His right hand, red and bloodstained, hung at his side, grasping a great sword. At his feet slept a great mastiff. On tiptoe Dafydd crept closer. He examined the beautiful carved table that stood before the great warrior. Stacked in neat piles upon it were piles of gold coins, stamped with the faces of ancient British Kings. Dafydd started suddenly as a voice broke the silence. He turned to find that the stranger was beckoning him to return to the entrance hall. When Dafydd was alongside him, the strange man said in a hushed voice: “Let me explain all this to you, Dafydd. You my dear lad, have been chosen among all Welshmen of this generation to see the mighty Owen of the red hand.” Dafydd looked puzzled. “There is Owen Llawgoch, Owen of the red hand. He has been sleeping there for hundreds and hundreds of years. When the time is ripe, when the appointed signal is given him, Owen will wake and claim his throne-the throne of Britain. That sword in his hand is an heirloom of the ancient kings. Never yet has it been drawn, except for victory.” Dafydd expressed amazement at all he had seen. “You may come here as often as you like, Dafydd, for you have been chosen to see these strange sights,” the man explained. He laid his hand on Dafydd’s shoulder, speaking very solemnly at first said, “I must warn you of one thing. You must take nothing away from this hall.” Accepting his friend’s advice, Dafydd agreed not to remove anything, and together they left the strange room. Then they made their way to the farmhouse where they had arranged to spend the night. Next morning Dafydd rose up early, and running to the foot of the tree, he climbed down quickly into the hall. Things were just as they had left them the night before. Owen of the red hand slept peacefully, and his dog slumbered at his feet. Dafydd went around the room examining many things. When he reached Owen’s chair, he found that a gold coin had fallen to the floor. “I did not notice that coin there yesterday,” said Dafydd to himself. Moved by curiosity he stooped down and picked up the coin to examine it more closely. “I have never seen anything like this before,” he said. “There can be no harm in taking this with me. There are hundreds of coins left on the table.” He was however, uneasy in his mind about taking the gold coin, yet he continued to persuade himself. “If I take it to show it to the people, then they will believe me when I tell them of this weird old hall.” He put the coin in his pocket. Feeling more than a little frightened, he looked over his shoulder. Owen was still sleeping. He has not seen Dafydd take the coin. He remained cautious and went out of the hall. When he reached the surface he examined the coin in the light of day. It glittered in the sunlight. Would it not be well to collect a sack load of gold coins? Dafydd ran to an outhouse of the farm to fetch a sack. He returned to gather up the booty. But where was the entrance? Dafydd searched, but never again did he find the way in, or a trace of the strange man who had accompanied him.

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