Everybody grab a pumpkin, it’s time for a spooky Halloween tale. This time, it’s the story of Pwyll from Welsh mythology, who embarks on a treacherous journey into the bowels of the Underworld to do penance for a terrible, terrible wrong. Read on, if you dare. Sources and some extra spooky info under the cut. Pretend that I’m cackling evilly.
Press J on your keyboard if you don’t want to read a terrifying yarn about the interior decorating trends of the Underworld and, like, the power of friendship.
Cockblocking yourself because of dogs: pre-Medieval etiquette 101
So our story starts with Pwyll, the prince of Dyfed, which sounds kind of underwhelming until you remember that Welsh princes are basically kings, which sounds really impressive until you remember that Dyfed is approximately the size of a root vegetable and about as sparsely populated. Anyway, Pwyll is sort of swanning around one day, on one of his royal visits to his favourite court at Arberth (no relation to the hot bearded guy in The Mummy with the face tats) when he decides to partake in a spot of hunting, because he’s a pre-medieval prince and therefore he only has two hobbies, one of which is hunting and the other is converting oxygen into carbon dioxide.
So, he gathers up his hunting dogs and his multipurpose horse, and he sets out into the forest to murder some woodland creatures in the name of sport. After a few hours, Pwyll starts to get bored, because it’s not going so well. He hasn’t caught so much as an earthworm, and he really can’t face the thought of going back to Arberth without at least a baby rabbit or two, because all the other lords will laugh at him and tell him to ‘Pwyll off’ again, which secretly really upsets him and also gives you, the reader, a decent idea of how to pronounce his fucking abomination of a name. He’s considering his options, wondering whether or not he could stick some rabbit ears onto one of his dogs and call it a catch, when he hears the baying sound of a pack of hunting dogs in the near distance.
At first, he’s like “I can’t believe that someone else is hunting in my forests, who would do this? Who would trespass on my royal land? They could at least have invited me to go with them so that I didn’t have to spend, like, 80% of my time brooding about my solitude as an unmarried Welsh prince whose nearest friends live a six hour ride away,” but then he realises something and his mouth sort of quirks upwards in a fiendish grin, and he heads towards the sound of the dogs. When he gets there, he sees that a pack of dogs have just brought down and killed a stag, and not just any stag, but a bloody big one. There’s enough meat on it to feed his dogs and still have enough meat to take back to his court and return a hero of the hunt, and so Pwyll chases off the dogs, who all look really weird, because they’re all bright, glowing white with bright, glowing red ears, and he lets his dogs eat the stag.
He’s on his way back home when suddenly this dude appears on horseback, and his face is hidden by a grey hood which casts dark shadows over his visage that shouldn’t be possible, but if his face were visible, it’s pretty evident that he’d look pretty pissed off. The rider comes up to Pwyll, dismounts from his horse, which is the exact same shade of grey as the rider’s cloak, and he surveys the scene, looking at all the various viscera and bits of stag, and then he turns to Pwyll and he says “look, mate, I know exactly who you are, but if you think you’re getting some kind of formal greeting from me, you can just jog right on.”
Pwyll would take a step back, except he’s on horseback, so he sort of squeezes his heels into his horse’s sides and makes his horse take a step back on his behalf, and he glares at this weird grey dude, because he has no idea where this dude was dragged up, but Pwyll is fully aware that formal greetings are, like, a huge deal. Pwyll is the kind of guy who formally greets everyone, because he’s not an ingrate, and if he sometimes gets some weird looks when he names himself and wishes a good day to each of his bed bugs in turn, then it’s all fine because at least he is polite.
Because Pwyll is polite, he resists the urge to just yank down this guy’s hood and lecture him on pre-medieval etiquette until he’s blue in the face, and instead he just furrows his brow benevolently and says “my dude, you don’t need to formally greet me if your status is higher than mine, don’t sweat it,” because he thinks that giving this guy some kind of out is probably the right thing to do, but the guy just shrugs and says “it’s got fuck all to do with status, mate, it’s your goddamn atrocious manners.”
And Pwyll won’t stand for that, because he knows he’s a righteous and courteous dude, and he has like 500 bed bugs who will attest to that in a court of law, and so he dismounts from his horse and takes two steps closer to the grey hooded dude and says, in a low and foreboding voice, “can you extrapolate exactly what I’ve done wrong? Can you explain to me what the fu- what exactly you mean, so that I can do my utmost best to rectify it?”
At that, the guy turns around and points at Pwyll’s dogs, who have just about finished chowing down on fresh venison and are all smeared with, like, blood and guts, like that popular gif of a rabbit eating a raspberry, except it’s stag innards and not a popular summer fruit, and the guy says “you fed your dogs on my dogs’ kill. Not cool, man. Not cool at all,” and then Pwyll’s stomach plummets because he suddenly remembers page 7291 of his portable pre-medieval etiquette guidebook, and this guy is totally right, and Pwyll has totally fucked up, and he feels awful.
He claps a hand to the grey guy’s shoulder and starts wittering, like “I’m sorry, buddy, that’s totally on me, I’ve never done anything like this before, this is so out of character for me, ask literally anybody, normally I make my dogs slaughter their own food, I don’t even feed them Pedigree Chum because it goes against my pre-medieval etiquette and morals,” and then he has an idea, and he says “look, I’ll make it up to you in a way that’s becoming of your rank, OK?” And he’s pretty sure that he’s just resolved everything, because this guy basically admitted earlier that Pwyll outranks him, so nothing can really go wrong, and maybe he’ll have to, like, pay a fine, or mop a floor, or marry an ugly third cousin or something. Except then the guy says “sweet, sounds good to me. I’m Arawn, king of Annwfn. How do you feel about killing my sworn nemesis in the Underworld?” and Pwyll just thinks ‘oh, shit.’
So Pwyll grits his teeth and puts on this really calm smile, even though he feels sicker than Kylie Jenner at a copyright infringement hearing, and he says “that sounds fucking fantastic, mate, honestly, but I have loads of stuff to be getting on with here, what with me being the prince of Dyfed and all, so I’m not sure I’ll have time to kill your sworn nemesis, my six or seven subjects need me,” and Arawn claps a hand onto Pwyll’s shoulder, who still has his hand clasped to Arawn’s shoulder, and he’s like “don’t worry, bro, I’ve got a plan. This is what we’ll do. I’ll do some of my trademark magic stuff and I’ll switch our appearances, and I’ll go and live as you for a year, and you go and live as me, and on the final day of that year, you’ll find that prick Hafgan and bash his head in, and then we’ll switch back. Does that sound good to you?”
And Pwyll just thinks ‘no, that sounds literally the opposite to good, honestly,’ but he knows he doesn’t have a leg to stand on here, so he just nods, tight-lipped, and then he asks “but how will I find this Hafgan chap? If I have to, erm, vanquish him on the final day, where will he be?” And Arawn just airily waves a grey-gloved hand and he’s all “don’t worry, pal, I’ve sorted it. By some astonishing coincidence and definitely not my trademark magic stuff, I’ve arranged a meeting with Hafgan for a year today at this very spot,” and Pwyll bites his tongue and says dully “wow, what are the chances?” and Arawn probably beams under his stupid hood and he’s like “I know, crazy,” and then the deal is done.
So, Pwyll follows Arawn to the entrance of Annwfn, because of course the Underworld is located in Dyfed, and then he suddenly realises that he’s not looking at Arawn any more, but at himself, and he’s like “wow, I had no idea that my parting looked like that from the side,” and Arawn-as-Pwyll nods sagely and says “it’s really just the worst, I might change up your hairdo while I’m living as you, because honestly I can’t live like this,” and Pwyll doesn’t even disagree, and then Arawn adds “oh, and before I go and live as you for a year, there’s some stuff you should probably know,” and Pwyll sighs and says “go on, then,” and Arawn says “right, well, first of all you should know that killing Hafgan is going to be an absolute fucking walk in the park, because all you have to do is smack him once and that’s it,” and Pwyll is like “right in the kisser?” and Arawn says “I don’t think it matters where, honestly, but you have to only hit him once and no more, that’s the important thing,” and Pwyll is all “OK, sock him once and only once in the kisser, I get it, but why do I need to kill him, exactly?” and Arawn says “because he’s the other king of Annwfn, and also he’s a knob,” and Pwyll is like “how come there are two kings?” and Arawn scowls and says “because Welsh inheritance law is simultaneously surprisingly progressive and a pain in the dick, but honestly the whole split kingdom thing is only 30% of it. The main reason I need him dead is the fact that he’s honestly just the absolute worst,” and Pwyll is like “how is he the worst?” and Arawn says “look, I don’t have time to go into it right now, but he once sent a love letter to a woman which consisted entirely of small images of an aubergine,” and Pwyll is like “how did he even dictate that to a scribe?” and Arawn is like “I don’t know, but you see my reasoning, don’t you?”
And then Pwyll asks “What else do I need to know?” and Arawn sort of waggles his eyebrows, which is weird because he’s wearing Pwyll’s skin but Pwyll has never been able to do that and he’s insanely jealous, and Arawn says “the other thing that you need to know is that my wife is smoking hot,” and Pwyll narrows his eyes and he’s like “OK, and what?” and Arawn says “it’s entirely up to you what you do with that information, I just thought you should know,” and then he disappears and Pwyll is alone at the entrance to Annwfn, wearing the appearance of the king of the Underworld, and it’s only a Thursday.
When he gets inside the court at Annwfn, Pwyll is shocked to see that this place is, like, decked the fuck out. It’s insane how beautiful everything is. The staircases are made of solid gold, the ceilings are made of rich, crimson velvet, and the walls are lined with intricate tapestries which depict Arawn doing a whole range of heroic things, like slaying his enemies in fields of blood and attending charity galas and speaking at climate change summits. Pwyll keeps walking through the court until he gets to what he assumes is his chamber, where he’s greeted by an attendant. His first thought is to panic, because he’s pretty sure that they’re going to immediately work out that he isn’t Arawn at all, but then he steels himself and arranges his facial features into what he imagines Arawn’s might look like under that dumb grey hood, and he says, “formal greetings to you, attendant. I am Arawn, king of Annwfn,” and his attendant frowns and says “I know, sir, I’ve been working for you for eleven years,” and Pwyll says “I’m just being polite, I noticed that there’s been a real dearth of manners in these parts lately and I want to remedy it,” and his attendant looks at him a little strangely and then hands him a wonderfully brocaded jacket, all gold and emerald, and says “the queen has already gone to the main hall for dinner, sir,” and Pwyll nods in what he hopes is a sage and noble manner and says “I always feed my dogs on their own meat, you know, and no-one else’s,” and the attendant sighs and says “I know, sir, you’re very proud of that.”
He follows his attendant down to the great hall, which is decorated, if it’s possible, even more sumptuously than the rest of the court. The long table in the centre of the room is made of varnished oak, with little carvings along the edge of animals and gods and emojis, and all along one side of the table are sat the knights of Annwfn, whose armour is made of pure silver and gold, and who each have dozens of finely polished, beautifully wrought weapons. Along the other side are sat the courtiers, who all wear fashionable and finely made gowns, even the men, because gendered notions of fashion are not universal. And at the head of the table, in the seat next to the one which Pwyll’s attendant is guiding him to, is sat the most beautiful woman that Pwyll has ever seen. Like, it’s indescribable how beautiful this woman is. Pwyll feels his mouth run dryer than Donald Trump’s income tax account, and, legs shaking, he lowers himself into the seat next to her. She turns to him and smiles at him, and Pwyll’s stomach flips over like one of the cats in those videos with the cucumbers, and he manages to say “formal greetings, wife, I am Arawn, lord of Annwfn,” and she just keeps smiling at him and says “I’ve always admired your excellent manners, dear. You know that I don’t merit a name for the purpose of this narrative in its original form, but you may call me Paula, husband of mine, as you have done for the past dozen or so years of our marriage,” and Pwyll just blushes furiously.
Over the course of the meal – which is, Pwyll is unsurprised to discover, Michelin star quality – Paula is a total babe, laughing at all of Pwyll’s jokes, even the rubbish one about the mailman and the medieval etiquette tutor, and when they finally retire to bed, Pwyll is also unsurprised to discover that he is experiencing some difficulty in the trouser department. Paula notices this and she does that thing with her eyebrows that Arawn did, and Pwyll starts to wonder if it’s just an Underworld thing, and she says “is that a hunting knife in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” and Pwyll says carefully “it’s a hunting knife, dear, for when I go hunting and feed my dogs on nothing but the animals they kill,” and Paula frowns and says “I was doing an innuendo thing, you normally love the innuendo thing,” and Pwyll doesn’t say anything, because he has no idea what to do. He’s pretty sure that it’s bad form on about eighty levels to sleep with Paula, because firstly she’s not his wife, and secondly it’s impossible to obtain informed consent from her when he’s wearing the guise of her husband.
So, Pwyll does the decent thing, and says “look, dear, I’m desperately attracted to you, as always, but I am experiencing some personal difficulties which pertain to events outside of our relationship, and which are, I assure you, thoroughly platonic and non-sexual in context, and accordingly, I think we should forego the hanky panky for the time being,” and Paula says “you could just say that you’re not in the mood, you know, I get ‘headaches’ too sometimes,” and Pwyll says “yes, but I think this might last a year,” and Paula shrugs and says “our marriage has always been based on more than just our devastatingly ferocious chemistry between the sheets, and I am here to support you through your journey of personal growth and discovery as best I can,” and so they have a slightly awkward hug goodnight and then go to bed.
And that’s how it is between them for an entire year. Pwyll and Paula become the best of friends, and she never even suspects that he’s anyone but Arawn, because he’s very careful to mention every other sentence or so that he always feeds his dogs on their own meat, which is something that he knows Arawn feels strongly about, and then, before he even knows it, the whole year has passed, and it’s time to fuck up Hafgan.
He goes to the meeting place, where Hafgan is already waiting for him, and immediately he just dislikes this dude. Hafgan has one of those faces where you think you’ve seen him before, but it’s actually just because he’s super bland and good-looking in the kind of way that men who star in advertisements for carpet cleaning products sometimes are, and Pwyll honestly wants to kill him. He’s brought his attendant with him, and Hafgan has brought his, and a whole load of courtiers from both Arawn’s and Hafgan’s court have come to watch the duel, and some of them are chanting ‘fight, fight, fight’ and some of them are eating popcorn out of beautifully crafted silver dishes, and Pwyll feels his adrenaline rush like shoppers to a Black Friday deal, and he pulls up his sleeves to his elbows and says “formal greetings, I – ” and Hafgan just waves a hand and says “yeah, yeah, you’re Arawn. I know. Christ, what is it with you and manners?” and Pwyll says “I’m going to challenge the fuck out of you right now,” and Hafgan says “bring it on, Manners,” and wordplay has never been Pwyll’s forte, so he just lunges forward with his sword and stabs Hafgan right through his chest.
Hafgan stares down at his wound, and he’s like “dude, seriously? That’s just super painful. I mean, I’m in complete agony right now. The least you could do would be to kill me like a king. Put the ‘man’ into ‘Manners’, mate, and finish me off.” But Pwyll remembers what Arawn told him, so he just shrugs and says “not my problem any more, pal. Put the ‘have gone’ into ‘Hafgan’ and get out of here, would you? Find someone else to finish you off,” and then Hafgan just groans and says “lads, I’ll be honest with you, he’s properly dicked me over this time, so you should probably go and swear fealty to him while I go and slowly bleed out in this corner over here,” and his attendant carries him off to die slowly and painfully, and Pwyll realises that he’s just won the entirety of Annwfn on behalf of Arawn, and honestly he feels kind of great about it.
So, Pwyll goes to the meeting place he and Arawn had arranged the year before, where Arawn is waiting for him. As soon as Arawn sees him, he breaks into a smile and he’s like “Pwyll, my guy! We can finally change back! I’m so excited to be myself again, you never told me that your knee was so dodgy, mate,” and Pwyll is about to say something when he realises that his knee is twinging, and he’s back as himself again. Arawn says “wait ‘til you get back to your court, pal, you’re going to be thrilled with what you find,” and Pwyll is like “same to you,” and they exchange an awkward silence and then Arawn sniffs and says “come here, bro, let’s hug it out,” and Pwyll feels tears welling up behind his eyes and he says “it’s been so emotional,” and Arawn says “I know, pal, you just did me a massive solid back there, and I owe you one,” and Pwyll says “if you owe me one, then I guess that means we’ll have to meet up again so that I can call in the favour,” and Arawn says “mate, you’re welcome at my court any time, I have this totally rad new bard who recites poetry like you wouldn’t believe, hit me up sometime,” and Pwyll says through his tears “that sounds good to me,” and they let go of each other and just sort of look at each other for a few moments, then Arawn awkwardly punches Pwyll on the arm and says “go on, get out of here, Pwyll off,” and Pwyll sniffs and laughs and says “it’s OK when you say it,” and they part ways.
When Arawn gets back to Annwfn, he goes to find Paula and he says “is that an embroidery bag in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” and Paula says “have you worked through your personal problems in a safe and supportive environment?” and Arawn frowns and says “you what?” and Paula says “well, it’s just that you haven’t really touched me for a year, and I want to make sure that this is coming from a healthy place in you, you know,” and Arawn’s mouth falls open and he says “you didn’t sleep with me all year?” and Paula is like “I mean, I feel like you should also be aware of that,” and Arawn just shakes his head and he’s like “oh, Paula, I have something to tell you, and it starts with the day I met my new best friend, who is a man of great integrity, honour and fealty, after he let his dogs eat the flesh of an animal they hadn’t killed,” and Paula puts her hand on Arawn’s knee and says “I’m definitely listening to you, but also you should put your face in the vicinity of my face,” and Arawn says “I can do one better than that,” and then the whole scene fades to black and slow ‘80s synth music starts to play.
And when Pwyll gets back to his court, he finds his advisor and he asks him “so, indulge me, one man to another, how do you think I did as a prince this year?” and his advisor looks at him suspiciously, like he’s afraid to answer honestly, and Pwyll’s heart sinks, because he can’t believe that he spent the entire year cockblocking himself and improving the bureaucratic infrastructure of Annwfn, only for Arawn to make a total hash of his time in Dyfed, and he says “you can be honest,” and his advisor sighs and says “my lord, you were a better prince this year than you’ve ever been before. You totally revolutionised the tax system, made peace with Gwynedd, and planted a truly delightful herb garden on the front lawn, and you stopped formally greeting every single sentient entity you came across. The year was a delight, my lord,” and Pwyll just blinks and says “can you get a fruit basket made up? I’d like to send it to the one true king of the Underworld.”
And from that day onwards, Dyfed and Annwfn are united under the banner of an immortal friendship, and Pwyll becomes known as Pwyll Pen Annwfn, and no-one ever dares tell him to Pwyll off ever again, because Arawn has a tendency to glare threateningly in the direction of anyone who does, but it’s still OK when Arawn says it, and they live happily ever after.
Until Pwyll falls in love with a magic woman on a horse, but that’s a story for another day.
My other retellings can be found here; my dedicated mythology blog is here; and my Mythology Mondays Facebook page is here. My spooky, spooky book is here.
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