The Foundling and Other Tales of Prydain Page 3

  The courtiers and royal retainers whispered their amazement at such a feat. Gildas clapped his hands sharply; the cloud broke into fragments, the blackness seeped away, and the Great Hall was bright as it had been before.

  The enchanter mopped his streaming brow. His cheeks flushed as he smiled with self-satisfaction. Queen Regat nodded in recognition of his prowess. Princess Angharad stifled a yawn.

  “Well?” said Angharad.

  Gildas blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Is that all there is to it?” Angharad asked. “Is this the enchantment you offer us?”

  “All there is?” exclaimed Gildas. “One of my finest effects! My dear Princess—”

  “My dear enchanter,” Angharad replied, “I don’t doubt for a moment you’ve gone to a great deal of work and strain. I only hope you haven’t done yourself harm. Not to say anything against your spells, you understand, but frankly, I don’t see the point of going to such trouble for the sake of turning day into night. All anybody needs to do is be patient a little while and night will come along very nicely by itself, with a far better quality of darkness than yours—much more velvety. Not to mention the moon and a whole skyful of stars for good measure.”

  “Then, Princess,” returned Gildas, taken aback, “allow me to produce something a little more spectacular. I suggest a snowstorm. My blizzards never fail to please, they have always been received with approbation.”

  Angharad sighed and shrugged. “There again, Master Gildas, why bother? When the proper season comes round, we’ll have snow enough; each flake different, too. Can you do as well?”

  Sputtering and stammering, Gildas admitted he could not. “But—but, perhaps, a culinary manifestation, a full-course feast? Roast goose? Wine? Sweetmeats?”

  “We’re quite satisfied with our own cook,” said Angharad. “Thank you, no.”

  Scowling in wounded dignity, grumbling at the disrespect of young princesses, Gildas seated himself beside Queen Regat, awaiting the next suitor.

  “It is against my principles to criticize my colleagues,” he muttered to the Queen. “But I can assure Your Majesty in advance: No enchantments can rival mine.”

  Queen Regat nevertheless beckoned for the second suitor to enter the Great Hall. This was the enchanter Grimgower, lean, gaunt-faced, with knotted brows and a square black beard twining around his thin lips. His iron-shod boots rang as he strode toward the thrones, and his black cloak streamed behind him. In his train marched dark-robed, hooded servants, and the courtiers drew back uneasily as they passed.

  Grimgower halted before Angharad, folded his arms, and threw back his head.

  “Princess,” he said, “I come to claim your hand and declare myself willing to accept you as my wife.”

  “At least,” replied Angharad, “that settles half the question.”

  “Let us understand each other,” said Grimgower. “The House of Llyr is known for the powers of enchantresses. And the willfulness of its daughters. You shall have all you wish, and more. No luxury will be denied you. But in my household, I am the only master.”

  “You make it sound delightful,” said Angharad.

  “Think more of your duty and less of your pleasure,” Grimgower answered. “The sons born of our marriage will have powers beyond all others and will rule supreme throughout the land. The joining of our two houses—”

  “It’s not houses getting married, it’s me,” said Angharad. “And if you can tell ahead of time that you’ll have sons instead of daughters you’re a prophet, indeed! Meanwhile, I suggest that you demonstrate your skill in some other way.”

  Grimgower stepped back a pace and raised his arms. In a harsh voice he called out the words of a mighty enchantment. The courtiers gasped in terror. For now, out of thin air, suddenly sprang monstrous creatures that snarled, bared sharp fangs, and snapped their jaws. Some, covered with scales, breathed fire through their nostrils; others lashed tails as sharp as swords. The beasts crouched beside the enchanter and glared with blazing eyes at Angharad.

  Queen Regat paled, though she sat stiff and straight and tried to conceal her alarm.

  Angharad, however, glanced unperturbed at the monsters.

  “Poor things, they looked starved for their dinner,” she said to Grimgower. “You should really take better care of them. They need a good brushing and combing, too. I daresay they’re all flea-ridden.”

  “These are no common enchantments,” cried Grimgower, his face twisting angrily, “but creatures shaped of my own dreams. I alone can summon them. You shall not see their like in all the realm.”

  “Happily,” said Angharad. “Yes, I suppose they would be the sort of things you, Master Grimgower, would dream of, and no doubt you’re proud of them. I hope you won’t be offended if I tell you honestly I prefer the animals we have in our forest. The deer are much handsomer than that dismal-looking whatever-it-is next to you. So are the rabbits, the badgers, and all the others. And I’m sure they have better tempers.”

  Frowning darkly, Grimgower spread his cloak, spat an incantation through his clenched teeth, and the monstrous beings disappeared as quickly as they had come. At a sign from Queen Regat, the enchanter took his place beside Gildas, and the two rivals looked daggers at each other.

  “So far,” Angharad whispered to her mother, “the choice is easy. Neither! Are there no other suitors? It’s not that I expect a crowd, all jostling and clamoring to marry me, but I’d really hate to think only two were interested, especially those two.”

  “Alas, daughter, there are none,” Queen Regat began, but stopped as the Chief Steward came to murmur a few words in her ear. Queen Regat turned to Angharad and said:

  “One more awaits. Geraint is his name. He is unknown to me, but he asks admittance to seek your hand.”

  Angharad shrugged and sighed wearily. “I’ve put up with this pair. I doubt a third could be more tiresome.”

  But the Princess caught her breath as the enchanter Geraint made his way through the Great Hall and stood before her. He came with no servants or attendants; he bore no magic wand or golden staff; his garments were plain and unadorned. Yet this youth was the fairest Angharad had ever seen. Nevertheless, despite her quickening heart and the color rising to her cheeks, she tossed her head and said lightly:

  “Now, Master Geraint, by what enchantments do you mean to court us?”

  Geraint smiled as he replied.

  “Why, Princess, by none at all. Does a man court a woman with sorcery? It seems to me he must court her with love.”

  “Boldly spoken,” said Angharad, “but how shall you do so?”

  “As a man to a woman,” answered Geraint. “And may you answer me freely, as a woman to a man.”

  As their eyes met, Angharad knew her heart could be given only to him. However, before she could reply, the enchanter Gildas stepped forward, sputtering and protesting. And the enchanter Grimgower sprang from his seat and angrily insisted that Geraint prove his skill, as they had been obliged to do.

  And so Geraint began. However, unlike the others, he drew no magical patterns, pronounced no magical spells. Instead, in common, quiet words he spoke of waters and woodlands, of sea and sky, of men and women, of childhood and old age; of the wonder and beauty of living things, all closely woven one with the other as threads on the same loom.

  As he spoke, he stretched out his open hands, and all in the court fell silent, marveling. For now, born of his simple gesture, appeared flights of doves, fluttering and circling around him. Flowers blossomed at each motion of his fingers. He raised his arms and above his head stars glittered in a sparkling cloud and a shower of lights was scattered through the Great Hall.

  Then Geraint lowered his arms to his sides, and the enchantments vanished. He stood waiting, saying nothing more, while his glance and the glance of Angharad touched and held each other. Smiling, the Princess rose from her throne.

  “My choice is made,” she said. “The enchanter Geraint has sought my hand and won
my heart. And so shall we be wed.”

  Shouts of joy filled the Great Hall as Angharad and Geraint stepped forward to embrace.

  But Grimgower thrust himself between them. His face was livid with rage as he cried out to Queen Regat and all the company:

  “What trickery is this? He used no sorcery known to me or to any magician. He is an impostor! A false enchanter! Cast him out!”

  “He has tried to dupe us,” fumed Gildas, his jowls shaking with indignation. “My colleague is correct. I heard no proper spells or charms. This upstart has no true power. A hoaxer! A mere juggler!”

  Angharad was about to protest, but the Queen gestured for her to be silent. Regat’s face was grave as she drew herself up and turned a severe gaze upon Geraint.

  “You have heard these accusations,” Queen Regat said. “Are they true?”

  “Yes,” Geraint answered willingly, “altogether true. Sorcery is not my birthright. I have no inborn powers. What I showed, I fashioned by myself. The birds you saw? No doves, but only bits of white parchment. The flowers? Dry grass and tinted leaves. The stars? A handful of bright pebbles. I only helped you imagine these things to be more than what they are. If this pleased you for a few moments, I could ask nothing better.”

  “How dare you come to us in the guise of an enchanter?” demanded the Queen.

  “To win Angharad’s hand,” replied Geraint, “I would dare more than that.”

  “Even so,” answered the Queen. “My daughter has chosen you in vain.”

  “No!” declared Angharad. “Any other choice would be in vain. Those two inherited their skills. Geraint earned his. False? He’s the only true enchanter.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Queen Regat answered. She sighed and shook her head. “Daughter, though I wish your happiness, by rule and custom your marriage to him is forbidden.”

  Since Angharad would consent to none but Geraint, the Queen regretfully commanded the Princess to withdraw and remain in her chambers. And Geraint was sent from the Castle of Llyr.

  But Angharad defied the ancient rule and followed Geraint, and found him waiting for her as if each had known the other’s mind.

  As the two made their way through the forest beyond the castle, suddenly the sky grew dark as midnight, though the day was barely past high noon. But, from her cloak, Angharad drew a golden sphere which glowed at her touch and whose light overcame this vengeful sorcery of Gildas.

  Then, in front of Angharad and Geraint sprang monstrous creatures summoned by Grimgower. But the two clasped hands and kept on their way. And the creatures drew back and bowed their heads while the lovers passed unharmed.

  At the edge of the forest a thick curtain of snow began to fall, and icy gales lashed Angharad and Geraint. But they held each other closer and so passed through it, too, in warmth and safety.

  And where they left footprints in the snow, flowers bloomed.

  THE RASCAL CROW

  Medwyn, ancient guardian and protector of animals, one day sent urgent word for the birds and beasts to join in council with him. So from lair and burrow, nest and hive, proud stag and humble mole, bright-winged eagle and drab wren, they hastened to his valley. No human could have found or followed the secret path to this shelter, for only creatures of field and forest had knowledge of it.

  There they gathered, every kind and degree, one from each clan and tribe. Before them stood Medwyn garbed in a coarse brown robe, his white beard reaching to his waist, his white hair about his shoulders, his only ornament a golden band, set with a blue gem, circling his weathered brow. He spread his gnarled and knotted arms in welcome to the waiting council.

  “You know, all of you,” he began, in a clear voice unweakened by his years, “long ago, when the dark waters flooded Prydain, I built a ship and carried your forefathers here to safety. Now I must warn you: your own lives are threatened.”

  Hearing this, the animals murmured and twittered in dismay. But Kadwyr the crow flapped his glossy wings, clacked his beak, and gaily called out:

  “What, more wind and water? Let the ducks have the joy of it! Don’t worry about me. My nest is high and strong enough. I’ll stay where I am. Good sailing to all web-feet!”

  Chuckling, making loud, impudent quackings at the blue teal, Kadwyr would have flown off then and there. Medwyn summoned him back, saying:

  “Ah, Kadwyr, you’re as great a scamp as your grandsire who sailed with me. No, it is neither flood nor storm. The danger is far worse. King Arawn, Lord of the Land of Death, seeks to enslave all you forest creatures, to break you to his will and bind you to serve his evil ends. Those cousins to the eagles, the gentle gwythaints, have already fallen prey to him. Arawn has lured them to his realm and trapped them in iron cages. Alas, they are beyond our help. We can only grieve for them.

  “Take warning from their fate,” Medwyn continued. “For now the Death-Lord sends his Chief Huntsman to bait and snare you, to bring you captive to the Land of Death or to slaughter you without mercy. Together you must set your plans to stand against him.”

  “A crow’s a match for any hunter,” said Kadwyr. “Watch your step, the rest of you, especially you slow-footed cud-chewers.”

  Medwyn sighed and shook his head at the brash crow. “Even you, Kadwyr, may be glad for another’s help.”

  Kadwyr only shrugged his wings and cocked a bold eye at Edyrnion the eagle, who flew to perch on Medwyn’s outstretched arm.

  “Friend of eagles,” Edyrnion said, “I and my kinsmen will keep watch from the sky. Our eyes are keen, our wings are swift. At first sight of the hunter, we will spread the alarm.”

  “Mind you, don’t fly too close to the sun,” put in Kadwyr with a raucous chuckle. “You’ll singe your pinfeathers and moult ahead of season. If there’s any watching needed, I’d best be the one to do it. I hear you’re going a bit nearsighted these days.”

  The nimble crow hopped away before the eagle could call him to account for his teasing. And now the gray wolf Brynach came to crouch at Medwyn’s feet, saying:

  “Friend of wolves, I and my kinsmen will range the forest. Our teeth are sharp, our jaws are strong. Should the hunter come among us, let him beware of our wolf packs.”

  “And you’d better watch out for that long tail of yours,” said Kadwyr. “With all your dashing back and forth, you’re likely to get burrs in it. In fact, you might do well to leave all that roving and roaming to me. My beak’s as sharp as any wolf’s tooth. And,” the crow added, winking, “I never have to stop and scratch fleas.”

  The wolf’s golden eyes flashed and he looked ready to teach the crow a lesson in manners. But he kept his temper and sat back on his haunches as Gwybeddin the gnat flew close to Medwyn’s ear and bravely piped up:

  “Friend of gnats! We are a tiny folk, but we mean to do our best in any way we can.”

  Hearing this, Kadwyr squawked with laughter and called out to the gnat:

  “Is that you, Prince Flyspeck? I can hardly see you. Listen, old friend, the best thing you can do is hide in a dust cloud, and no hunter will ever find you. Why, even your words are bigger than you are!”

  Kadwyr’s remarks so embarrassed the poor gnat that he blushed and buzzed away as fast as he could. Meantime, Nedir the spider had clambered up to Medwyn’s sleeve, where she clung with her long legs, and declared:

  “Friend of spiders! We spinners and weavers are craftsmen, not fighters. But we shall give our help gladly wherever it is needed.”

  “Take my advice, Granny,” Kadwyr said with a chuckle, “and keep to your knitting. Be careful you don’t get your arms and legs mixed up, or you’ll never untangle them.”

  Kadwyr hopped about and flirted his tailfeathers, croaking and cackling as the other creatures came forward one by one. The owl declared that he and his fellows would serve as night watch. The fox vowed to use his cunning to baffle the hunter and lead him on false trails. The bees pledged to wield their stings as swords and daggers. The bears offered their strength, the stags their speed,
and the badgers their courage to protect their neighbors and themselves.

  Last of all, plodding under his heavy burden, came Crugan-Crawgan the turtle.

  “Friend of turtles,” began Crugan-Crawgan in a halting voice, pondering each word, “I came … yes, well, that is to say I, ah, started … in all possible haste …”

  “And we’ll be well into next week by the time you’re done telling us,” Kadwyr said impatiently.

  “We are … as I should be the first to admit … we are, alas, neither swift nor strong. But if I might be allowed … ah, permitted to state … we’re solid. Very, very … solid. And … steady.”

  “Have done!” cried Kadwyr, hopping onto the turtle’s shell. “You’ll put me to sleep! The safest thing you can do is stay locked up in that portable castle of yours. Pull in your head! Tuck in your tail! I’ll see to it the hunter doesn’t batter down your walls. By the way, old fellow, didn’t you have a race with a snail the other day? Tell me, who won?”

  “Oh, that,” replied Crugan-Crawgan. “Yes, Kadwyr, you see, what happened …”

  Kadwyr did not wait for the turtle’s answer, for Medwyn now declared the council ended, and the crow flapped away, laughing and cackling to himself. “Gnats and spiders! Turtles! What an army! I’ll have to keep an eye on all of them.”

  Once in the forest, Kadwyr gave little thought to Medwyn’s warning. The beavers toiled at making their dams into strongholds; the squirrels stopped up the crannies in their hollow trees; the moles dug deeper tunnels and galleries. Though every creature offered him shelter in case of need, Kadwyr shook his glossy head and answered:

  “Not for me, those holes and burrows! Wits and wings! Wings and wits! There’s not a crow hatched who can’t get the best of any hunter!”

  Soon Edyrnion and his eagle kinsmen came swooping into the forest, beating their wings and spreading the alarm. The wolf packs leaped from their lairs, the bears from their dens, the foxes from their earths, gathering to join battle against the hunter; and all the forest dwellers, each in his own way, made ready to defend nest and bower, cave and covert.