Taran Wanderer (The Chronicles of Prydain) Page 14

  Here, the pasture stretched broad and fair. Ahead he glimpsed an empty sheepfold; he noticed no flock, but the gate of the enclosure stood open as though awaiting the animals’ return at any moment. The low-roofed cottage and sheds were neat and well-kept. A pair of shaggy goats browsed near the dooryard. Taran blinked in surprise, for set about the cottage were all manner of woven baskets, some large, some small, some rising on stilts, and others seemingly dropped at random. Several trees by the river held wooden platforms, and along the riverbank itself Taran caught sight of what appeared to be a weir of carefully woven branches. Wooden stakes secured a number of nets and fishing lines drifting in the current.

  Puzzling over this farmhold, surely the strangest he had seen, Taran drew closer, dismounted, and as he did so a tall figure ambled from the shed and made his way toward the companions. Taran glimpsed the farm wife peering from the cottage window. At the same time, as if out of nowhere, half-a-dozen children of different ages burst into sight and began running and skipping toward the flock, laughing gaily and shouting to one another: “They’re here! They’re here!” Seeing Gurgi, they turned their attention from the sheep to cluster around him, clapping their hands in delight and calling out such merry-hearted greetings that the astonished creature could only laugh and clap his own hands in return.

  The man who stood before Taran was thin as a stick with lank hair tumbling over his brow and blue eyes bright as a bird’s. Indeed, his narrow shoulders and spindly legs made him look like a crane or stork. His jacket was too short in the arms, too long in the body, and his garments seemed pieced together with patches of all sizes, shapes, and colors.

  “I am Llonio Son of Llonwen,” he said, with a friendly grin and a wave of his hand. “A good greeting to you, whoever you may be.”

  Taran bowed courteously. “My name—my name is Taran.”

  “No more than that?” said Llonio. “As a name, my friend, it’s cropped a little short.” He laughed good-naturedly. “Shall I call you Taran Son of Nobody? Taran of Nowhere? Since you’re alive and breathing, obviously you’re the son of two parents. And you’ve surely ridden here from somewhere else.”

  “Call me, then, a wanderer,” Taran replied.

  “Taran Wanderer? So be it, if that suits you.” Llonio’s glance was curious, but he asked no further.

  When Taran then spoke of seeking pasture for the sheep, Llonio nodded briskly.

  “Why, here shall they stay, and my thanks to you,” he exclaimed. “There’s no grazing fresher and sweeter, and no sheepfold safer. We’ve seen to that and labored since the first thaw to make it so.”

  “But I fear they may crowd your own flock,” Taran said, though he admired Llonio’s pastureland and the stoutly built enclosure, and would have been well content to leave the sheep with him.

  “My flock?” Llonio answered, laughing. “I had none until this moment! Though we’ve been hoping and waiting and the children have been talking of little else. A lucky wind it was that brought you to us. Goewin, my wife, needs wool to clothe our young ones. Now we’ll have fleece and to spare.”

  “Wait, wait,” put in Taran, altogether baffled, “do you mean you cleared a pasture and built a sheepfold without having any sheep at all? I don’t understand. That was work in vain—”

  “Was it now?” asked Llonio, winking shrewdly. “If I hadn’t, would you be offering me a fine flock in the first place; and in the second, would I have the place to keep them? Is that not so?”

  “But you couldn’t have known,” Taran began.

  “Ah, ah,” Llonio chuckled, “why, look you, I knew that with any kind of luck a flock of sheep was bound to come along one day. Everything else does! Now honor us by stopping here a while. Our fare can’t match our thanks, but we’ll feast you as best we can.”

  Before Taran could answer, Llonio bent down to one of the little girls who was staring round-eyed at Gurgi. “Now then, Gwenlliant, run see if the brown hen’s chosen to lay us an egg today.” He turned to Taran. “The brown hen’s a moody creature,” he said. “But when she has a mind to, she puts down a handsome egg.” He then set the rest of the children running off on different tasks, while Taran and Gurgi watched astonished at the hustle and bustle in this most peculiar household. Llonio led the two into the cottage where Goewin gave them a warm welcome and bade them sit by the hearth. In no time Gwenlliant was back holding an egg in outstretched hands.

  “An egg!” cried Llonio, taking it from her, raising it aloft, and peering as if he had never seen one before. “An egg it is! The finest the brown hen’s given us! Look at the size! The shape! Smooth as glass and not a crack on it. We’ll feast well on this, my friends.”

  At first Taran saw nothing extraordinary in the egg which Llonio praised so highly; but, caught up by the man’s goods spirits, Taran to his own surprise found himself looking at the egg as though he, too, had never seen one. In Llonio’s hands the shell seemed to sparkle so brightly, to curve so gracefully and beautifully that even Gurgi marveled at it, and Taran watched almost with regret as Goewin cracked such a precious egg into a large earthen bowl. Nevertheless, if Llonio intended sharing it among his numerous family, Taran told himself, the fare would indeed be meager.

  Yet, as Goewin stirred the contents of the bowl, the children crowded one after the other into the cottage, all bearing something that made Llonio call out cheerily at each discovery.

  “Savory herbs!” he cried. “That’s splendid! Chop them up well. And here—what’s this, a handful of flour? Better and better! We’ll need that pot of milk the goat’s given us, too. A bit of cheese? Just the thing!” Then he clapped his hands delightedly as the last and smallest child held up a fragment of honeycomb. “What luck! The bees have left us honey from their winter store.”

  Goewin, meanwhile, was busy popping all these finds into the bowl and, before Taran’s eyes, the contents soon filled it nearly to the brim. Even then, his surprise did not end. Goewin deftly poured the mixture onto a sheet of metal which, Taran was quite certain, was nothing else but a warrior’s shield hammered flat, and held it over the glowing embers. Within moments, the scent of cooking filled the cottage, Gurgi’s mouth watered, and in no time the farm wife drew a dappled golden cake nearly as big as a cartwheel from the fireplace.

  Llonio quickly sliced it into pieces and to Taran’s amazement there was not only enough for all but some left over. He ate his fill of the most delicious egg he ever tasted—if egg it could now be called—and not even Gurgi could eat more.

  “Now then,” said Llonio, when they had finished, “I’ll see to my nets. Come along, if you like.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Weir

  While Gurgi lingered in the cottage, Taran followed Llonio to the riverbank. On the way, whistling merrily through his teeth, Llonio stopped to peer into the baskets, and Taran noticed one of them held a large bee hive undoubtedly the source of the honey which had sweetened Goewin’s cake. The rest, however, stood empty. Llonio merely shrugged his shoulders.

  “No matter,” he said. “Something will surely fill them later. Last time a flock of wild geese flew down to rest. You should have seen the feathers left after they’d gone. Enough to stuff cushions for every one of us!”

  By now they reached the river, which Llonio named as Small Avren since, farther south, it flowed into Great Avren itself. “Small it is,” he said, “but sooner or later whatever you might wish comes floating along.” As if to prove his words he began hauling vigorously at the net staked along the bank. It came up empty, as did the fishing lines. Undismayed, Llonio shrugged again. “Tomorrow, very likely.”

  “How then,” Taran exclaimed, feeling as perplexed as he had ever been, “do you count on baskets and nets to bring you what you need?” He looked at the man in astonishment.

  “That I do,” replied Llonio, laughing good-naturedly. “My holding is small; I work it as best as I can. For the rest—why, look you, if I know one thing, it’s this: Life’s a matter of luck. Trus
t it, and a man’s bound to find what he seeks, one day or the next.”

  “Perhaps so,” Taran admitted, “but what if it takes longer than that? Or never comes at all?”

  “Be that as it may,” answered Llonio, grinning. “If I fret over tomorrow, I’ll have little joy today.”

  So saying, he clambered nimbly onto the weir, which Taran now saw was made not to bar the flow of water but to strain and sift the current. Balancing atop this odd construction, seeming more cranelike than ever as he bobbed up and down, bending to poke and pry among the osiers, Llonio soon gave a glad cry and waved excitedly.

  Taran hurriedly picked his way across the dam to join him. His face fell, however, when he reached Llonio’s side. What had caused the man’s joyful shout was no more than a discarded horse bridle.

  “Alas,” said Taran, disappointed, “there’s little use in that. The bit’s missing and the rein’s worn through.”

  “So be it, so be it,” replied Llonio. “That’s what Small Avren’s brought us today, and it will serve, one way or another.” He slung the dripping bridle over his shoulder, scrambled from the dam, and with Taran following him set off with long strides through the grove of trees fringing the river.

  In a while Llonio, whose sharp eyes darted everywhere at once, cried out again and stooped at the bottom of a gnarled elm. Amid the roots and for some distance around, mushrooms sprouted abundantly.

  “Pluck them up, Wanderer,” Llonio exclaimed. “There’s our supper for tonight. The finest mushrooms I’ve seen! Tender and tasty! We’re in luck today!” Quickly gathering his finds, Llonio popped them into a sack dangling from his belt and set off again.

  Following Llonio’s rambling, halting now and then to cull certain herbs or roots, the day sped so swiftly it was nearly over before Taran realized it had begun. Llonio’s sack being full, the two turned their steps back to the cottage, taking a path different from the way they had come. As they ambled along, Taran caught his foot on a jutting edge of stone and he tumbled head over heels.

  “Your luck is better than mine,” Taran laughed ruefully. “You’ve found your mushrooms, and I, no more than a pair of bruised shins!”

  “Not so, not so!” protested Llonio, hastily scraping away the loam partly covering the stone. “Look you, now! Have you ever seen one so shaped? Round as a wheel and smooth as an egg. A windfall it is that needs only the picking up!”

  If a windfall, Taran thought, it was the hardest and heaviest he had stumbled on, for Llonio now insisted on unearthing the flat rock. They did so with much digging and heaving and, carrying it between them, struggled back to the farmhold, where Llonio rolled it into the shed already bursting with an odd array of chum handles, strips of cloth, horse trappings, thongs, hanks of cord, and all the harvest of his weir, nets, and baskets.

  Over the cookfire, the mushrooms, eked out with the leftover griddle cake and a handful of early vegetables the children had found, simmered so deliciously that Taran and Gurgi needed no urging to stay for the repast. As night fell Taran welcomed the family’s invitation to rest by the hearth. Gurgi, stuffed and contented, began snoring instantly. And Taran, for the first time in many days, slept soundly and dreamlessly.

  The next morning was bright and crisp. Taran woke to find the sun high, and though he had meant to saddle Melynlas and be on his way he did not do so. If Llonio’s weir had yielded little the day before, the night current had more than made up for it. A great sack of wheat had somehow become tangled with a cluster of dead branches which served as a raft and thus had floated downstream undampened by the river. Goewin, without delay, brought out a large stone quern to grind the grain into meal. All took a hand in the task, the children from eldest to youngest, even Llonio himself; Taran did his share willingly, though he found the quem heavy and cumbersome, as did Gurgi.

  “Oh tiresome millings,” Gurgi cried. “Gurgi’s poor fingers are filled with achings, and his arms with strainings and painings!”

  Nevertheless, he finished his turn; although by the time enough meal had been ground, another day had nearly sped by, and once more Llonio urged the wayfarers to share his hospitality. Taran did not refuse. Indeed, as he stretched by the fire, he admitted to himself he had secretly hoped Llonio would suggest it.

  During the next few days, Taran’s heart was easier than it had been since he chose to abandon his quest. The children, shy with him at first as he with them, had become his fast friends, and frolicked with him as much as they did with Gurgi. With Llonio, each day he visited the nets, the baskets, and the weir, sometimes returning empty-handed and sometimes laden with whatever strange assortment the wind or current brought. In the beginning he had seen no value in these odds and ends, but Llonio found a use for nearly all. A cartwheel was turned into a spinning wheel, parts of the horse bridle made belts for the children, a saddlebag became a pair of boots; and Taran shortly realized there was little the family needed that did not, late or soon, appear from nowhere; and there was nothing—an egg, a mushroom, a handful of feathers delicate as ferns—that was not held to be a treasure.

  “In a way,” Taran told Gurgi, “Llonio’s richer than Lord Gast is or ever will be. Not only that, he’s the luckiest man in Prydain! I envy no man’s riches,” Taran added. Then he sighed and shook his head. “But I wish I had Llonio’s luck.”

  When he repeated this to Llonio, the man only grinned and winked at him. “Luck, Wanderer? One day, if you’re lucky, I’ll tell you the secret of it.” Beyond that, Llonio would say no more.

  At this time, a thought had begun taking shape in Taran’s mind. Nearly all of Llonio’s finds had been put to one use or another—save the flat stone which still lay in the shed. “But I wonder,” he told Llonio, “I wonder if it couldn’t serve to grind meal better than the quern …”

  “How then?” cried Llonio, greatly pleased. “If you think it can, do as you see fit.”

  Still pondering his idea, Taran roamed the woods until he came upon another stone of much the same size as the first. “That’s a stroke of luck,” he laughed, as Llonio helped him drag it back.

  Llonio grinned. “So it is, so it is.”

  During the several days following, Taran, with Gurgi’s eager help, toiled unceasingly. In a corner of the shed he set one stone firmly in the ground and the other above it. In this, he laboriously hollowed out a hole and, using the leftover harness leathers, in it he affixed a long pole that reached up through an opening in the roof. At the top of the pole he attached frames of wood, over which he stretched large squares of cloth.

  “But this is no quern,” Gurgi cried when at last it was done. “It is a ship for boatings and floatings! But there is no ship, only mast with sails!”

  “We shall see,” Taran answered, calling Llonio to judge his handiwork.

  For a moment the family stood puzzled at Taran’s peculiar structure. Then, as the wind stirred, the roughly fashioned sails caught the current of the breeze. The mastlike pole shuddered and creaked, and for a breathless instant Taran feared all his work would come tumbling about his ears. But it held fast, the sails bellied out and began turning, slowly at first, then faster and faster, while below, in the shed, the upper stone whirled merrily. Goewin hastened to throw grain into Taran’s makeshift mill. In no time, out poured meal finer than any the quern had ground. The children clapped their hands and shouted gleefully; Gurgi yelped in astonishment; and Llonio laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks.

  “Wanderer,” he cried, “you’ve made much from little, and done it better than ever I could!”

  Over the next few days the mill not only ground the family’s grain, Taran also struck on a means of using it as a sharpening stone for Llonio’s tools. Looking at his handiwork, Taran felt a stirring of pride for the first time since leaving Craddoc’s valley. But with it came a vague restiveness.

  “By rights,” he told Gurgi, “I should be more than happy to dwell here all my life. I’ve found peace and friendship—and a kind of hope, as well. It’s ea
sed my heart like balm on a wound.” He hesitated. “Yet, somehow Llonio’s way is not mine. A spur drives me to seek more than what Small Avren brings. What I seek, I do not know. But, alas, I know it is not here.”

  He spoke then with Llonio and regretfully told him he must take up his journeying again. This time, sensing Taran’s decision firmly made, Llonio did not urge him to stay, and they bade each other farewell.

  “And yet,” Taran said, as he swung astride Melynlas, “alas, you never told me the secret of your luck.”

  “Secret?” replied Llonio. “Have you not already guessed? Why, my luck’s no greater than yours or any man’s. You need only sharpen your eyes to see your luck when it comes, and sharpen your wits to use what falls into your hands.”

  Taran gave Melynlas rein, and with Gurgi at his side rode slowly from the banks of Small Avren. As he turned to wave a last farewell, he heard Llonio calling after him, “Trust your luck, Taran Wanderer. But don’t forget to put out your nets!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Free Commots

  From Small Avren they wended eastward at an easy pace, halting as it pleased them, sleeping on the turf or sheltering at one of the many farmsteads among the rich green vales. This was the land of the Free Commots, of cottages clustering in loose circles, rimmed by cultivated fields and pastures. Taran found the Commot folk courteous and hospitable. Though he named himself only as Taran Wanderer, the dwellers in these hamlets and villages respected his privacy and asked nothing of his birthplace, rank, or destination.

  Taran and Gurgi had ridden into the outskirts of Commot Cenarth when Taran reined up Melynlas at a long, low-roofed shed from which rang the sound of hammer on anvil. Within, he found the smith, a barrel-chested, leather-aproned man with a stubbly black beard and a great shock of black hair bristly as a brush. His eyelashes were scorched, grime and soot smudged his face; sparks rained on his bare shoulders but he seemed to count them no more than fireflies. In a voice like stones rattling on a bronze shield he roared out a song in time with his hammer strokes so loudly that Taran judged the man’s lungs as leathery as his bellows. While Gurgi cautiously drew back from the shower of sparks, Taran called a greeting, scarcely able to make himself heard above the din.