Taran Wanderer (The Chronicles of Prydain) Page 2

  “And you,” Orddu went on, a smile wrinkling her lumpy face, “you are the boldest of bold goslings. Few in Prydain have been willing to brave the Marshes of Morva; and of those few, not one has dared to return. Perhaps Orgoch disheartens them. You alone have done so, my chick.”

  “Oh, Orddu, he is a brave hero,” Orwen put in, looking at Taran with girlish admiration.

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Orwen,” Orddu replied. “There are heroes and heroes. I don’t deny he’s acted bravely on occasion. He’s fought beside Lord Gwydion and been proud of himself as a chick wearing eagle’s feathers. But that’s only one kind of bravery. Has the darling robin ever scratched for his own worms? That’s bravery of another sort. And between the two, dear Orwen, he might find the latter shows the greater courage.” The enchantress turned to Taran. “But speak up, my fledgling. Why do you seek us again?”

  “Don’t tell us,” interrupted Orwen. “Let us guess. Oh, but I do love games, though Orgoch always spoils them.” She giggled. “You shall give us a thousand and three guesses and I shall be first to ask.”

  “Very well, Orwen, if it pleases you,” Orddu said indulgently. “But are a thousand and three enough? A young lamb can want for so much.”

  “Your concern is with things as they are,” Taran said, forcing himself to look the enchantress in the eyes, “and with things as they must be. I believe you know my quest from its beginning to its end, and that I seek to learn my parentage.”

  “Parentage?” said Orddu. “Nothing easier. Choose any parents you please. Since none of you has ever known each other, what difference can it possibly make—to them or to you? Believe what you like. You’ll be surprised how comforting it is.”

  “I ask no comfort,” Taran replied, “but the truth, be it harsh or happy.”

  “Ah, my sweet robin,” said Orddu, “for the finding of that, nothing is harder. There are those who have spent lifetimes at it, and many in worse plight than yours.

  “There was a frog, some time ago,” Orddu went on cheerfully. “I remember him well, poor dear; never sure whether he was a land creature, who liked swimming under water, or a water creature, who liked sunning himself on logs. We turned him into a stork with a keen appetite for frogs, and from then on he had no doubts as to who he was—nor did the other frogs, for the matter of that. We would gladly do the same for you.”

  “For both of you,” said Orgoch.

  “No!” yelled Gurgi, ducking behind Taran. “Oh, kindly master, Gurgi warned of fearsome changings and arrangings!”

  “Don’t forget the serpent,” Orwen told Orddu, “all fretted and perplexed because he didn’t know if he was green with brown spots or brown with green ones. We made him an invisible serpent,” she added, “with brown and green spots, so he could be clearly seen and not trodden on. He was so grateful and much easier in his mind after that.”

  “And I recall,” croaked Orgoch, huskily clearing her throat, “there was a …”

  “Do be still, Orgoch,” Orwen interrupted. “Your tales always have such—such untidy endings.”

  “You see, my pullet,” Orddu said, “we can help you in many ways, all quicker and simpler than any you might think of. What would you rather be? If you want my opinion, I suggest a hedgehog; it’s a safer life than most. But don’t let me sway your choice; it’s entirely up to you.”

  “On the contrary, let’s surprise them,” cried Orwen in happy excitement. “We’ll decide among ourselves and spare them the tedious business of making up their minds. They’ll be all the more pleased. How charming it will be to see the look on their little faces—or beaks or whatever it is they finally have.”

  “No fowls,” grumbled Orgoch. “No fowls, in any case. Can’t abide them. Feathers make me cough.”

  Gurgi’s fright had so mounted he could only babble wordlessly. Taran felt his own blood run cold. Orddu had taken a step forward and Taran defensively reached for his sword.

  “Now, now, my chicken,” Orddu cheerily remarked, “don’t lose your temper, or you may lose considerably more. You know your blade is useless here, and waving swords is no way to set anyone in a proper frame of mind. It was you who chose to put yourselves in our hands.”

  “Hands?” growled Orgoch. From the depths of the hood her eyes flashed redly and her mouth began twitching.

  Taran stood firm. “Orddu,” he said, keeping his voice as steady as he could, “will you tell me what I ask? If not, we will go our way.”

  “We were only trying to make things easier for you,” said Orwen, pouting and fingering her beads. “You needn’t take offense.”

  “Of course we shall tell you, my brave tadpole,” Orddu said. “You shall know all you seek to know, directly we’ve settled another matter: the price to be paid. Since what you ask is of such importance—to yourself, at least—the cost may be rather high. But I’m sure you thought of that before you came.”

  “When we sought the Black Cauldron,” Taran began, “you took Adaon’s enchanted brooch in fee, the one thing I treasured most. Since then I have found nothing I have prized more.”

  “But, my chicken,” said Orddu, “we struck that bargain long ago; it is over and done. Are you saying you brought nothing with you? Why, count yourself lucky to become a hedgehog, since you can afford little else.”

  “Last time,” Orgoch hoarsely whispered in Orddu’s ear, “you would have taken one of the young lamb’s summer days, and a tasty morsel it would have been.”

  “You are always thinking of your own pleasures, Orgoch,” replied Orddu. “You might at least try to think of what we all would like.”

  “There was a golden-haired girl with him then,” Orwen put in, “a pretty little creature. He surely has lovely memories of her. Could we not take them?” She went on eagerly. “How delightful it would be to spread them out and look at them during long winter evenings. Alas, he would have none for himself, but I think it would be an excellent bargain.”

  Taran caught his breath. “Even you would not be so pitiless.”

  “Would we not?” answered Orddu, smiling. “Pity, dear gosling—as you know it, at least—simply doesn’t enter into the question as far as we’re concerned. However,” she went on, turning to Orwen, “that won’t answer either. We already have quite enough memories.”

  “Hear me then,” cried Taran, drawing himself to his full height. He clenched his hands to keep them from trembling. “It is true I own little to treasure, not even my name. Is there nothing you will have of me? This I offer you,” he went on quickly in a low voice. He felt his brow dampen. Though he had taken this decision at Caer Dallben and weighed it carefully, with the moment upon him, he nearly faltered and longed to turn from it.

  “Whatever thing of value I may find in all my life to come,” Taran said, “the greatest treasure that may come into my hands—I pledge it to you now. It shall be yours, and you shall claim it when you please.”

  Orddu did not answer, only looked at him curiously. The other enchantresses were silent. Even Gurgi had ceased his whimpering. The shapes on the loom seemed to writhe before Taran’s eyes as he waited for Orddu to speak.

  The enchantress smiled. “Does your quest mean so much that you will spend what you have not yet gained?”

  “Or may never gain,” croaked Orgoch.

  “No more can I offer,” Taran cried. “You cannot refuse me.”

  “The kind of bargain you propose,” said Orddu in a pleasant but matter-of-fact tone, “is a chancy thing at best, and really satisfies no one. Nothing is all that certain, and very often we’ve found the poor sparrow who makes such a pledge never lives long enough to fulfill it. When he does, there is always the risk of his turning—well, shall we say—a little stubborn? It usually ends with unhappy feelings all around. Once, we might have accepted. But sad experience made us put a stop to it altogether. No, my fledgling, it won’t do. We’re sorry; that is, sorry as much as we can feel sorrow for anything.”

  Taran’s voice caught in his throat. For
an instant the features of the enchantress shifted; he could not be sure whether it was Orddu, Orwen, or Orgoch whom he faced. It was as though there had risen in front of him a wall of ice which force could not breach nor pleading melt. Despair choked him. He bowed his head and turned away.

  “But, my dear gosling,” Orddu called cheerily, “that’s not to say there aren’t others to answer your question.”

  “Of course there are,” added Orwen, “and the finding takes no more than the looking.”

  “Who, then?” Taran asked urgently, seizing on this new hope.

  “I recall a brown-and-orange ousel that comes once a year to sharpen his beak on Mount Kilgwyry,” said Orwen. “He knows all that has ever happened. If you’re patient you might wait and ask him.”

  “Oh, Orwen,” Orddu interrupted with some impatience, “sometimes I do believe you dwell too much in the past. Mount Kilgwyry has been worn down long ago with his pecking and the little darling has flown elsewhere.”

  “You’re so right, dear Orddu,” replied Orwen. “It had slipped my mind for a moment. But what of the salmon of Lake Llew? I’ve never met a wiser fish.”

  “Gone,” muttered Orgoch, sucking a tooth. “Long gone.”

  “In any case, ousels and fishes are flighty and slippery,” Orddu said. “Something more reliable would serve better. You might, for example, try the Mirror of Llunet.”

  “The Mirror of Llunet?” Taran repeated. “I have never heard it spoken of. What is it? Where …”

  “Best yet,” Orgoch broke in, “he could stay with us. And the gurgi, too.”

  “Do try to control yourself, dear Orgoch, when I’m explaining something,” Orddu remarked, then turned back to Taran. “Yes, perhaps if you looked into it, the Mirror of Llunet would show you something of interest.”

  “But where,” Taran began again.

  “Too far,” grumbled Orgoch. “Stay, by all means.”

  “In the Llawgadarn Mountains,” replied Orddu, taking him by the arm, “if it hasn’t been moved. But come along, my gosling. Orgoch is growing restless. I know she’d enjoy having you here, and with two disappointments in the same day I shouldn’t want to account for her behavior.”

  “But how may I find it?” Taran could do no more than stammer his question before he was outside the cottage, with Gurgi trembling at his side.

  “Don’t tarry in the Marshes,” Orddu called, while from within the cottage Taran heard loud and angry noises. “Else you may regret your foolish boldness—or bold foolishness, whichever. Farewell, my robin.”

  The crooked door closed tightly, even as Taran cried out for Orddu to wait.

  “Flee!” Gurgi yelped. “Flee, kindly master, while Gurgi’s poor tender head is still on his shoulders!”

  Despite the creature’s frantic tugging at his arm, Taran stood staring at the door. His thoughts were confused, a strange heaviness had settled upon him.

  “Why did she mock my bravery?” he said, frowning. “Courage to scratch for worms? That task would be far easier than seeking the Mirror of Llunet.”

  “Hasten!” Gurgi pleaded. “Gurgi has his fill of questings. Now he is ready for returnings to safe and happy Caer Dallben, yes, yes! Oh, do not make useless peekings and seekings!”

  Taran hesitated a moment longer. Of the Llawgadarn Mountains he knew only that they rose far to the east. With nothing to guide his search the journey might indeed prove useless. Gurgi looked imploringly at him. Taran patted the creature’s shoulder, then turned and strode to Melynlas.

  “The Mirror of Llunet is the only hope Orddu has given me,” Taran said. “I must find it.”

  While Gurgi hastily mounted his pony, Taran swung astride Melynlas. He glanced once again at the cottage, his heart suddenly uneasy. “Given me?” he murmured. “Does Orddu give anything for nothing?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cantrev Cadiffor

  The two companions left the Marshes of Morva, pressing southeastward to the Valley Cantrevs along the River Ystrad, for Taran had decided to break his journey at Caer Cadarn, fortress of King Smoit, and ask the red-bearded King to refit them with gear sturdier than what they had brought from Caer Dallben. “From there,” Taran told Gurgi, “we can only search as the moment guides us. My poor tender head is full of questions,” he sighed, with a wry and regretful smile, “but of plans, alas, none at all.”

  With the Marshes many days behind, the two companions crossed the borders of Cadiffor, Smoit’s realm and largest of the Valley Cantrevs. The countryside had long since changed from gray moors to green meadows and pleasantly wooded lands with farmholds nestled in the clearings. Though Gurgi eyed the dells longingly, sniffing the smoke of cookfires wafting from the cottage chimneys, Taran did not turn from the path he had chosen. By keeping a brisk pace, another three days of travel would bring them to Caer Cadarn. A little before sundown, seeing the clouds growing heavy and dark, Taran halted to find shelter in a pine grove.

  He had scarcely dismounted, and Gurgi had only begun to unlash the saddlebags, when a band of horsemen cantered into the grove. Taran spun around and drew his blade. Gurgi, yelping in alarm, scurried to his master’s side.

  There were five riders, well-mounted and armed, their rough-bearded faces sun-blackened, their bearing that of men long used to the saddle. The colors they wore were not those of the House of Smoit, and Taran guessed the horsemen to be warriors in the service of one of Smoit’s liege men.

  “Put up your blade,” commanded the leading rider, nevertheless drawing his own, reining up before the wayfarers and glancing scornfully at them. “Who are you? Who do you serve?”

  “They’re outlaws,” cried another. “Strike them down.”

  “They look more like scarecrows than outlaws,” replied the leader. “I take them for a pair of churls who have run away from their master.”

  Taran lowered his sword but did not sheathe it. “I am Taran Assistant Pig-Keeper …”

  “Where then are your pigs?” cried the first rider with a coarse laugh. “And why are you not at keeping them?” He gestured with a thumb toward Gurgi. “Or will you tell me this—this sorry thing is one of your charges?”

  “He is no piggy!” indignantly retorted Gurgi. “No piggy at all! He is Gurgi, bold and clever to serve kindly master!”

  The creature’s outburst brought only more laughter from the horsemen. But now the first rider spied Melynlas. “Your steed is above your station, pig-keeper,” he said. “How do you come by it?”

  “Melynlas is mine by right,” Taran replied sharply. “A gift of Gwydion Prince of Don.”

  “Lord Gwydion?” cried the warrior. “Given? Stolen from him, rather,” he jeered. “Have a care; your lies will cost you a beating.”

  “I tell no lie and seek no quarrel,” Taran answered. “We journey in peace to King Smoit’s castle.”

  “Smoit needs no pig-keeper,” one of the warriors broke in.

  “Nor do we,” said the first rider. He swung around to his fellows. “What say you? Shall we take his horse or his head? Or both?”

  “Lord Goryon will welcome a fresh mount and reward us all the more for this one,” answered a rider. “But the head of a pig-keeper serves no use, not even to himself.”

  “Well said, and so be it!” cried the warrior. “Besides, he can better mind his pigs afoot,” he added, reaching for the stallion’s bridle.

  Taran sprang between Melynlas and the horseman. Gurgi leaped forward and furiously grappled the rider’s leg. The other warriors spurred their mounts, and Taran found himself in the midst of rearing horses, driven from the side of his own steed. He fought to bring up his sword. One of the riders wheeled and drove his mount’s flank heavily against Taran, who lost his footing. At the same instant another of his assailants fetched him a blow that would surely have cost Taran his head had the warrior not struck with the flat of his sword. As it was, Taran fell stunned to the ground, his ears ringing, thoughts spinning, and the horsemen seeming to burst into comets before his eyes.
He was dimly aware of Gurgi frantically yelling, of Melynlas whinnying, and it seemed to him that another figure had joined the fray. By the time he could stagger to his feet, the horsemen had vanished, dragging Melynlas with them.

  Taran, crying out in dismay and anger, stumbled toward the path they had taken. A broad hand grasped his shoulder. He turned abruptly to see a man in a sleeveless jacket of coarse wool girt with a plaited rope. His bare arms were knotted and sinewy, and his back bent, though less by years than by labor. A shock of gray, uncropped hair hung about a face that was stern but not unkind.

  “Hold, hold,” the man said. “You’ll not overtake them now. Your horse will come to no ill. The henchmen of Lord Goryon treat steeds better than strangers.” He patted the oaken staff he carried. “Two of Goryon’s border-band will have heads to mend. But so will you, from the look of you.” He picked up a sack and slung it over his shoulder. “I am Aeddan Son of Aedd,” he said. “Come, both of you. My farm is no distance.”

  “Without Melynlas my quest will fail,” Taran cried. “I must find—” He stopped short. The warriors’ mockery still rankled him, and he was reluctant to tell more than need be, even to this man who had befriended him.

  But the farmer showed no interest in questioning him. “What you seek,” replied Aeddan, “is more your business than mine. I saw five set upon two and only put some fairness in the match. Will you heal your hurt? Then follow me.”

  So saying, the farmer set off down the hillside, Taran and Gurgi behind him. Gurgi turned often to shake his fist in the direction of the departed horsemen, while Taran trudged along the darkening path, speaking not a word, deep in despair over Melynlas, and thinking bitterly that in his quest he had done no more than lose his horse and gain a broken head. His bones ached; his muscles throbbed. To worsen matters, the clouds had thickened; nightfall brought a pelting rain; and by the time he reached Aeddan’s farmhold Taran was as drenched and bedraggled as ever he had been in all his life.