Gwen lived in a cottage on the moorlands beyond Llanwrtyd. She did not find her cottage lonely, for Gerallt her little boy, amused her with his pretty ways. At evening time Prys her husband, returned home from his work as a woodsman on the great Estate near by. Many Elves and Fairies lived on the moor. Gwen saw them dancing at night time, bearing little will-o-the-wisp lanterns that flickered through the heather. “Take heed,” said a Gypsy woman at Gwen’s door, “that the Sprites do not steal away that pretty Bairn of yours.” Gwen laughed. She had heard that Fairies changed babies in their cradles, but Gerallt had outgrown his cradle by now. The Fairies would not want to change him! Then Gwen shuddered and drew her arms around her darling son. One evening as she was preparing a meal for Prys she heard the horse stampede in the stable. What could be the matter? Gwen ran out of the kitchen and into the stable. A few quiet words and more soothing strokes, and Noll was quiet again. Hardly had she finished quietening the horse when she heard a great thud in the cowshed. Gwen ran across the yard and opened the half door. The cattle were lowing piteously. Gwen spoke to them soothingly as she had done to the horse. She left the cattle chewing their cud contentedly. “Enough of these alarms” exclaimed Gwen as she was returning to the house. “ And now for a quiet evening.” As she entered Cariad the Terrier barked strangely in the porch. “Quiet doggy” cried Gwen. “One would think all you creatures were bewitched this evening.” “M-mum-mummy” a thin little voice lisped from the kitchen settle. Gwen ran to pick up Gerallt. She stooped then hesitated, this was not her son! Frantically she looked around the kitchen, but Gerallt was not to be seen. She opened the door of the Grandfather clock, but he was not hidden inside. She ran upstairs in a vain search and then returned to the kitchen. “M-mum-mummy” called the little child as he tottered uncertainly on his small legs. At that moment Prys came in, and greeted the child. Gwen ran to her husband and told him all that had happened. “You’re tired my dear Gwen,” Prys said kindly. “So tired that you are imagining things. We will prove if this is little Gerallt, let me call the dog. He will play with the child if he is Gerallt.” “Cariad, Cariad!” Gwen called, and at the sound of her voice the Terrier came scampering into the kitchen. The Terrier sniffed suspiciously at first, and then he played with the child as he had played before. “That is proof enough,” said Prys happily. He ate his meal, satisfied that all was well. But Gwen kept watching the child carefully. She bathed him and put him to bed as gently as though he were Gerallt, but deep in her heart she felt quite sure that the child was not her son. The next afternoon she left the child in the care of a young girl, and set out on a lonely path to a small cottage where a wizard lived. The wise man listened to her tale. “I am sorry for you, my young woman,” he said. “I will help you and will ask for no reward. Do exactly as I tell you, and you will have your son restored." Gwen hastened home. She told Prys what the wizard had advised her to do. “This child is ours, Gwen,” said Prys patiently, he looked at Gwen sorrowful face and added, “But if it pleases you, do what the wizard advises. It can at least do no harm.” The next day, when the sun was overhead, Gwen locked the doors of the cottage. She drew the blinds and shut out the light from every nook and cranny in the wall. She took an egg and, beating it in a basin, shell and all, placed it on the fender. “Mum-mummy,” called the little child, pointing at the basin. “What for?” “To drink, my dear,” answered Gwen. She turned to the cupboard and pretended to look for a cup, but she listened carefully to the words the little child kept chanting: I am more old Than man can tell, Now shall I drink Wine and eggshell. Gwen pretending she had not heard, said nothing in reply. She undressed the child and put him in his cot to sleep. The next day she visited the wizard and told him what the child had said. “Good!” cried the wizard, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. “Now you must find a white fowl with three black feathers on its head. Kill it with a silver knife, then roast it in it’s feathers before the fire. You will shut out the light as before, and you will watch it as it roasts, and you will not take your eyes off it until it has disappeared into nothingness.” Gwen hastened home to tell Prys what the wizard had advised. By this time Prys had begun to think that Gwen was right, and that the child was not theirs. Together they searched the countryside for a white fowl with three black feathers. At last they discovered such a fowl, nine parishes away. They carried it back to their lonely cottage, and drawing the blinds, they roasted the fowl, watching it carefully until the last feather was burnt. “Mum-mummy,” called Gerallt, and the sound of his voice was sweeter than the sweetest music. He looked pale and frail but otherwise none the worse for his adventure with the mischievous fairies. Gwen ran to him, gathering him into her arms. Prys sang to him, and Gerallt crooned happily. Never again did the Elves steal him away. Bwrlwm, bwrlwm Tatws yn berwi Dwr ar y tan I olchi’r llestri. Torti, torti Bara gwyn yn llosgi Dwr ar y tan I olchi’r llestri.
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