Let's Read the Chronicles of Prydain - What is a Gurgi?

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Genghis Cohen: Jun 29, 2013

nine-gear crow posted:

Aww yiss. This is the big one, folks.

Oh yeah.

# ? Nov 29, 2023 21:58

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# ? Apr 27, 2024 08:53

Darthemed: Oct 28, 2007; "A data unit?
For me?"; College Slice

Aw yeah, it's arts and crafts time.

# ? Nov 29, 2023 23:02

Wahad: May 19, 2011; There is no escape.

BOOK 4: Taran Wanderer

The fourth book in the series, published in 1967. As you might have gleaned from the title, Taran finally decides to abandon his title of Assistant Pig-Keeper, for reasons we'll soon find out. The favorite entry in the series amongst a majority of the fans, Taran Wanderer almost wasn't included in the series; the fifth and final book, the High King, was actually supposed to be the fourth. That said, I think we can all be glad that it was, in fact included. The book itself is much more personal and for that reason in my opinion all the more compelling. The actual coming-of-age story in the coming-of-age series, if you will; see Alexander's note.

quote:

For here, Taran comes to grips with a merciless opponent: the truth about himself. No longer as Taran Assistant Pig-Keeper but as Taran Wanderer, he learns to reshape his life out of his own inner resources; for there must not only be an end to childhood but also a beginning of manhood. This is meant to be a serious tale--- in the way that all humor is serious and all fantasy true--- and if there is no conventionally happy ending in fairy-tale terms, there is still a most hopeful ending in human terms.

Well, without further ado.

Chapter 1: Who Am I?

quote:

IT WAS FULL SPRINGTIME, with promise of the richest summer the farm had ever seen. The orchard was white with fragrant blossoms; the newly planted fields lay light as green mist. Yet the sights and scents gave Taran little joy. To him, Caer Dallben was empty. Though he helped Coll with the weeding and cultivating, and tended the white pig, Hen Wen, with as much care as ever, he went about his tasks distractedly. One thought alone was in his mind.

"Now, my boy," Coll said good-naturedly, as they finished the morning's milking, "I've seen you restless as a wolf on a tether ever since you came back from the Isle of Mona. Pine for the Princess Eilonwy if you must, but don't upset the milk pail." The stout old warrior clapped Taran on the shoulder. "Come, cheer up. I'll teach you the high secrets of planting turnips. Or raising cabbages. Or whatever you might want to know."

Taran shook his head. "What I would know only Dallben can tell me."

"Take my counsel, then," said Coll. "Trouble Dallben with none of your questions. His thoughts are on deeper matter. Have patience and bide your time."

Taran rose to his feet. "I can bide my time no longer. It is in my heart to speak with him now."

"Have a care," warned Coll as Taran strode to the door of the shed. "His disposition rubs a little thin!"

Taran made his way through the cluster of low-roofed farm buildings. In the cottage, at the hearthside, a black-robed woman crouched and tended the cooking fire. She did not raise her head or speak. It was Achren. Thwarted in her scheme to regain her ancient power, from the ruined Castle of Llyr the once-haughty Queen had accepted the refuge Dallben offered; though, by her own choice, she who had long ago ruled Prydain toiled now at the tasks Eilonwy had done before departing for Mona, and at day's end silently vanished to her pallet of straw in the granary. Before Dallben's chamber Taran paused uneasily, then rapped quickly on the door. Entering at the enchanter's command, he found Dallben bent over The Book of Three, which lay open on the cluttered table. Much as he longed for a glimpse at even one page of this secret volume, Taran kept his distance from it. Once, in boyhood, he had dared touch the ancient, leather-bound tome, and his fingers smarted again at the memory.

"I never cease to wonder," Dallben testily remarked, closing The Book of Three and glancing at Taran, "that the young, with all their pride of strength, should find their own concerns such a weighty burden they must be shared with the old. Whereas, the old"--- he waved a frail, bony hand. "But no matter, no matter. For the sake of my temper I hope your purpose in interrupting me is an excellent one. First, before you ask," Dallben went on, "I assure you the Princess Eilonwy is well and no more unhappy than any pretty young madcap obliged to turn a hand to sewing instead of swordplay. Second, you are as aware as I am that Kaw has not yet returned. By now, I daresay he has borne my potion to Glew's cavern, and the giant-by-accident who troubled you so much on Mona will shrink to the small stature he once had. But you also know your crow for a rascal and one to linger wherever he finds sport. Finally, an Assistant Pig-Keeper should have tasks enough to busy himself outdoors. What, then, brings you here?"

"One thing only," Taran said. "All that I have I owe to your kindness. You have given me a home and a name, and let me live as a son in your household. Yet who am I, in truth? Who are my parents? You have taught me much, but kept this always from me."

"Since it has been always thus," Dallben replied, "why should it trouble you now?" When Taran bowed his head and did not answer, the old enchanter smiled shrewdly at him. "Speak up, my boy. If you want truth, you should begin by giving it. Behind your question I think I see the shadow of a certain golden-haired Princess. Is that not so?"

Taran's face flushed. "It is so," he murmured. He raised his eyes to meet Dallben's. "When Eilonwy returns, it--- it is in my heart to ask her to wed. But this I cannot do," he burst out, "this I will not do until I learn who I am. An unknown foundling with a borrowed name cannot ask for the hand of a Princess. What is my parentage? I cannot rest until I know. Am I lowly born or nobly?"

"To my mind," Dallben said softly, "the latter would please you better."

"It would be my hope," Taran admitted, a little abashed. "But no matter. If there is honor--- yes, let me share it. If there is shame, let me face it."

"It takes as much strength of heart to share the one as to face the other," Dallben replied gently. He turned his careworn face to Taran. "But alas," he said, "what you ask I may not answer. Prince Gwydion knows no more than I," he went on, sensing Taran's thought. "Nor can the High King Math help you."

"Then let me learn for myself," Taran cried. "Give me leave to seek my own answer." Dallben studied him carefully. The enchanter's eyes fell on The Book of Three and he gazed long at it, as though his glance penetrated deep into the worn leather volume.

"Once the apple is ripe," he murmured to himself, "no man can turn it back to a greening." His voice grew heavy with sorrow as he said to Taran, "Is this indeed your wish?"

Taran's heart quickened. "I ask nothing more."

Dallben nodded. "So it must be. Journey, then, wherever you choose. Learn what lies in your power to learn."

"You have all my thanks," Taran cried joyfully, bowing deeply. "Let me start without delay. I am ready..." Before he could finish the door burst open and a shaggy figure sped across the chamber and flung itself at Taran's feet.

"No, no, no!" howled Gurgi at the top of his voice, rocking back and forth and waving his hairy arms. "Sharp-eared Gurgi hears all! Oh, yes, with listenings behind the door!" His face wrinkled in misery and he shook his matted head so violently he nearly sprawled flat on the floor. "Poor Gurgi will be lone and lorn with whinings and pinings!" he moaned. "Oh, he must go with master, yes, yes!"

Taran put a hand on Gurgi's shoulder. "It would sadden me to leave you, old friend. But my road, I fear, may be a long one."

"Faithful Gurgi will follow!" pleaded Gurgi. "He is strong, bold, and clever to keep kindly master from harmful hurtings!" Gurgi began snuffling loudly, whimpering and moaning more desperately than before; and Taran, who could not bring himself to deny the unhappy creature, looked questioningly at Dallben. A strange glance of pity crossed the enchanter's face.

"Gurgi's staunchness and good sense I do not doubt," he said to Taran. "Though before your search is ended, the comfort of his kindly heart may stand you in better stead. Yes," he added slowly, "if Gurgi is willing, let him journey with you." Gurgi gave a joyous yelp, and Taran bowed gratefully to the enchanter. "So be it," Dallben said. "Your road indeed will not be easy, but set out on it as you choose. Though you may not find what you seek, you will surely return a little wiser--- and perhaps even grown to manhood in your own right."

That night Taran lay restless. Dallben had agreed the two companions could depart in the morning, but for Taran the hours until sunrise weighed like the links of a heavy chain. A plan had formed in his mind, but he had said nothing of it to Dallben, Coll, or Gurgi; for he was half fearful of what he had decided. While his heart ached at thethought of leaving Caer Dallben, it ached the more with impatience to begin his journey; and it was as though his yearning for Eilonwy, the love he had often hidden or even denied, now swelled like a flood, driving him before it. Long before dawn Taran rose and saddled the gray, silver-maned stallion, Melynlas. While Gurgi, blinking and yawning, readied his own mount, a short, stocky pony almost as shaggy as himself, Taran went alone to Hen Wen's enclosure. As though she had already sensed Taran's decision, the white pig squealed dolefully as he knelt and put an arm around her.

"Farewell, Hen," Taran said, scratching her bristly chin. "Remember me kindly. Coll will care for you until I... Oh, Hen," he murmured, "shall I come happily to the end of my quest? Can you tell me? Can you give me some sign of good hope?"

In answer, however, the oracular pig only wheezed and grunted anxiously. Taran sighed and gave Hen Wen a last affectionate pat. Dallben had hobbled into the dooryard, and beside him Coll raised a torch, for the morning still was dark. Like Dallben's, the old warrior's face in the wavering light was filled with fond concern. Taran embraced them, and to him it seemed his love for both had never been greater than at this leave-taking as they said their farewells. Gurgi sat hunched atop the pony. Slung from his shoulder was his leather wallet with its inexhaustible supply of food. Bearing only his sword at his belt and the silver-bound battle horn Eilonwy had given him, Taran swung astride the impatient Melynlas, constraining himself not to glance backward, knowing if he did, his parting would grieve him the more deeply. The two wayfarers rode steadily while the sun climbed higher above the rolling, tree-fringed hills. Taran had spoken little, and Gurgi trotted quietly behind him, delving now and again into the leather wallet for a handful of food which he munched contentedly. When they halted to water their mounts at a stream, Gurgi clambered down and went to Taran's side.

"Kindly master," he cried, "faithful Gurgi follows as he leads, oh, yes! Where does he journey first with amblings and ramblings? To noble Lord Gwydion at Caer Dathyl? Gurgi longs to see high golden towers and great halls for feastings."

"I, too," answered Taran. "But it would be labor lost. Dallben has told me Prince Gwydion and King Math know nothing of my parentage."

"Then to kingdom of Fflewddur Fflam? Yes, yes! Bold bard will welcome us with meetings and greetings, with merry hummings and strummings!" Taran smiled at Gurgi's eagerness, but shook his head.

"No, my friend, not to Caer Dathyl, nor to Fflewddur's realm." He turned his eyes westward. "I have thought carefully of this, and believe there is only one place where I might find what I seek," he said slowly. "The Marshes of Morva." No sooner had he spoken these words than he saw Gurgi's face turn ashen. The creature's jaw dropped; he clapped his hands to his shaggy head, and began gasping and choking frightfully.

"No, oh, no!" Gurgi howled. "Dangers lurk in evil Marshes! Bold but cautious Gurgi fears for his poor tender head! He wants never to return there. Fearsome enchantresses would have turned him into a toad with hoppings and floppings! Oh, terrible Orddu! Terrible Orwen! And Orgoch, oh, Orgoch, worst of all!"

"Yet I mean to face them again," Taran said. "Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch--- she, or they, or whatever they may really be--- are as powerful as Dallben. Perhaps more powerful. Nothing is hidden from them; all secrets are open. They would know the truth. Could it not be," he went on, his voice quickening hopefully, "could it not be that my parents were of noble lineage? And for some secret reason left me with Dallben to foster?"

"But kindly master is noble!" Gurgi cried. "Noble, generous, and good to humble Gurgi! No need to ask enchantresses!"

"I speak of noble blood," Taran replied, smiling at Gurgi's, protests. "If Dallben cannot tell me,then Orddu may. Whether she will, I do not know," he added. "But I must try. I won't have you risk your poor tender head," Taran continued. "You shall find a hiding place at the edge of the Marshes and wait for me there."

"No, no," Gurgi moaned. He blinked wretchedly and his voice fell so low that Taran could scarcely hear his trembling whisper. "Faithful Gurgi follows, as he promised."

They set out again. For some days after fording Great Avren they bore quickly westward along the green slopes of the riverbank, leaving it reluctantly to wend north across a fallow plain. Gurgi's face puckered anxiously, and Taran sensed the creature's disquiet no less than his own. The closer they drew to the Marshes the more he questioned the wisdom of his choice. His plan which had seemed so fitting in the safety of Caer Dallben now struck him as rash, a foolhardy venture. There were moments when, Taran admitted to himself, had Gurgi spun the pony about and bolted homeward, he would have gladly done likewise. Another day's travel and the marshland stretched before them, bleak, ugly, untouched by spring. The sight and scent of the bogs and the dull, stagnant pools filled Taran with loathing. The rotting turf sucked greedily at the hooves of Melynlas. The pony snorted fearfully. Warning Gurgi to stay close behind him and stray neither to the right nor left, Taran cautiously guided the stallion through beds of reeds shoulder-high, keeping to the firmer ground at the rim of the swamps. The narrow neck at the upper reaches of the Marshes could be crossed with least danger, and the path indeed was burned into his memory. Here, when he and Eiionwy, Gurgi, and Fflewddur had sought the Black Cauldron, the Huntsmen of Annuvin had attacked them, and Taran had lived the moment again and again in nightmares. Giving Melynlas rein, he beckoned to Gurgi and rode into the Marshes. The stallion faltered a sickening instant, then found footing on the chain of islands that lay beneath the brackish water. At the far side, without Taran's urging, Melynlas broke into a gallop, and the pony pelted after, as though fleeing for its life. Beyond the stunted trees at the end of a long gully, Taran halted. Orddu's cottage lay straight ahead. Built against the side of a high mound, half-hidden by sod and branches, it seemed in even greater disrepair than Taran had remembered. The thatched roof, like a huge bird's nest, straggled down to block the narrow windows; a spider web of mold covered the walls, which looked ready to tumble at any moment. In the crooked doorway stood Orddu herself. Heart pounding, Taran swung from the saddle. Holding his head high, in a silence broken only by the chattering of Gurgi's teeth, he strode slowly across the dooryard.

Off we are on our adventure - straight to the Marshes we go!

quote:

Orddu was watching him with sharp, black eyes. If she was surprised, the enchantress gave no sign other than to bend forward a little and peer more closely at Taran. Her shapeless robe flapped about her knees; the jeweled clasps and pins glittered in her weedy tangle of disheveled hair as she nodded her head rapidly and with evident satisfaction.

"Yes, and so it is!" Orddu called out pleasantly. "The dear little fledgling and the--- whatever-you-call-it. But you've grown much taller, my duck. How troublesome it must be should you ever want to climb down a rabbit hole. Come in, come in," she hurried on, beckoning. "So pale you are, poor thing. You've not been ill?" Taran followed her not without uneasiness, while Gurgi, shuddering, clung to him.

"Beware, beware," the creature whimpered. "Warm welcomings give Gurgi frosty chillings."

The three enchantresses, so far as Taran could see, had been busy at household tasks. Orgoch, her black hood shrouding her features, sat on a rickety stool, trying without great success to tease cockleburs from a lapful of wool shearings. Orwen, if indeed it was Orwen, was turning a rather lopsided spinning wheel; the milky white beads dangling from her neck seemed in danger of catching in the spokes. Orddu herself, he guessed, had been at the loom that stood amid piles of ancient, rusted weapons in a corner of the cottage. The work on the frame had gone forward somewhat, but it was far from done; knotted, twisted threads straggled in all directions, and what looked like some of Orgoch's cockleburs were snagged in the warp and weft. Taran could make out nothing of the pattern, though it seemed to him, as if by some trick of his eyes, that vague shapes, human and animal, moved and shifted through the weaving. But he had no chance to study the curious tapestry. Orwen, leaving the wheel, hastened to him, clapping her hands delightedly.

"The wandering chicken and the gurgi!" she cried. "And how is dear little Dallben? Does he still have The Book of Three? And his beard? How heavy it must be for him. The book, not the beard," she added. "Did he not come with you? More's the pity. But no matter. It's so charming to have visitors."

"I don't care for visitors," muttered Orgoch, irritably tossing the wool to the ground. "They disagree with me."

"Of course they do, greedy thing!" Orwen replied sharply. "And a wonder it is that we have any at all." At this, Orgoch snorted and mumbled under her breath. Beneath her black hood Taran glimpsed a shadowy grimace.

Orddu raised a hand. "Pay Orgoch no heed," she said to Taran. "She's out of sorts today, poor dear. It was Orwen's turn to be Orgoch, and Orgoch was so looking forward to being Orwen. Now she's disappointed, since Orwen at the last moment simply refused--- not that I blame her," Orddu whispered. "I don't enjoy being Orgoch either. But we'll make it up to her somehow. 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?"

A good question, Taran. You'll see the price in time.

# ? Dec 2, 2023 18:02

Wahad: May 19, 2011; There is no escape.

Chapter 2: Cantrev Cadiffor

quote:

THE TWO COMPANIONS LEFT the Marshes of Morva, pressing southeastward to the Valley Cantrevs along the Ystrad River, 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 liegemen.

"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 series 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.

Our journey is off to a foul start.

quote:

"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 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. The dwelling into which Aeddan led the companions was only a hut of wattle and daub, but Taran was surprised at its snugness and neat furnishings. Never before in all his adventures had he shared hospitality with the farmer folk of Prydain, and he glanced around as wondering as a stranger in a new land. Now that he could look more closely at Aeddan, he sensed honesty and good nature in the man's weathered face. The farmer gave him a warm grin and Taran, despite the smart of his wounds, grinned back, feeling indeed that he had come upon a friend.

The farm wife, a tall, work-hardened woman with features as lined as her husband's, threw up her hands at the sight of Gurgi, whose dripping, matted hair had gathered a blanket of twigs and pine needles, and cried out at Taran's blood-smeared face. While Aeddan told of the fray, the woman, Alarca, opened a wooden chest and drew out a sturdy, warm jacket, well worn but lovingly mended, which Taran gratefully took in place of his own sodden garment. Alarca set about mixing a potion of healing herbs, and Aeddan, meantime, poured onto a table the contents of his sack: hunches of bread, a cheese, and some dried fruit.

"You come to small comfort," he said. "My land yields little, so I toil part of my days in my neighbors' fields to earn what I cannot grow."

"And yet," Taran said, dismayed to learn Aeddan's plight, "I have heard it told there was rich soil in the Valley Cantrevs."

"Was, indeed," replied Aeddan with a dour laugh. "In the time of my forefathers, not in mine. As the Hill Cantrevs were famed for their long-fleeced sheep, so the Valley Cantrevs of Ystrad were known far and wide for the finest oats and barley, and Cantrev Cadiffor itself for wheat bright and heavy as gold. And golden days there must have been in all Prydain," Aeddan went on, cutting the bread and cheese into portions and handing them to Taran and Gurgi. "My father's father told a tale, already old when it was told to him, of plows that worked of themselves, of scythes that reaped a harvest without even the touch of a man's hand."

"So, too, have I heard," Taran said. "But Arawn Death-Lord stole those treasures, and now they lie unused and hidden deep in the fastness of Annuvin."

The farmer nodded. "Arawn's hand chokes the life from Prydain. His shadow blights the land. Our toil grows heavier, and all the more because our skills are few. Enchanted tools did Arawn steal? Many secrets there were of making the earth yield richly, and of these, too, the Lord of Annuvin robbed us. Twice in two years have my crops failed," Aeddan went on, as Taran listened with heartfelt concern. "My granary is empty. And the more I must toil for others, the less I may work my own fields. Even so, my knowledge is too slight. What I most need is locked forever in the treasure hoard of Annuvin."

"It is not altogether your skill that lacks," Alarca said, putting a hand on the farmer's knotted shoulder. "Before the first planting the plow ox and cow sickened and died. And the second," her voice lowered. "For the second we were without the help of Amren." Taran glanced questioningly at the woman, whose eyes had clouded. She said, "Amren, our son. He was of your years, and it is his jacket you wear. He needs it no longer. Winter and summer are alike to him. He sleeps under a burial mound among other fallen warriors. Yes, he is gone," the woman added. "He rode with the battle host when they fought off raiders who sought to plunder us."

"I share your sorrow," Taran said; then, to console her, added, "But he died with honor. Your son is a hero..."

"My son is slain," the woman answered sharply. "The raiders fought because they were starving; we, because we had scarcely more than they. And at the end all had less than when they began. Now, for us the labor is too great for one pair of hands, even for two. The secrets Arawn Death-Lord stole could well serve us. Alas, we cannot regain them."

"No matter. Even without the secrets my harvest will not fail this year," Aeddan said. "All save one of my fields lies fallow; but in this one have I spent all my toil." He looked proudly at Taran. "When my wife and I could no longer pull the plow ourselves, I broke the earth with my own hands and sowed it grain by grain." The farmer laughed. "Yes, and weeded it blade by blade, as niggling as a granddam with her favorite patch of herbs. It will not fail. Indeed, it must not," he added, frowning. "This season our livelihood hangs on it." Little more was said then, and when the meager meal ended, Taran gladly stretched his aching bones besides the hearth, while Gurgi curled up next to him. Weariness overcame even his despair for Melynlas, and with the patter of rain on the thatch and the hiss of the dying embers Taran soon fell asleep.

The companions woke before first light, but Taran found Aeddan already working in his field. The rain had stopped, leaving the earth fresh and moist. Taran knelt and took up a handful. Aeddan had spoken the truth. The soil had been tilled with utmost pains, and Taran watched the farmer with growing respect and admiration. The farm could indeed yield richly, and Taran stood a moment looking toward the fallow ground, barren for lack of hands to labor it. With a sigh he turned quickly away, his thoughts once more on Melynlas. How he might regain the silver-maned stallion Taran could not foresee, but he had determined to make his way to the stronghold of Lord Goryon where, in Aeddan's judgment, the warriors had surely taken the animal. Though more than ever anxious over his beloved steed, Taran worked through the morning beside Aeddan. The farm couple had kept scarcely a morsel of the evening's fare for themselves, and Taran saw no other means to repay them. By midday, however, he dared delay no longer, and made ready to take his leave.

Alarca had come to the door of the hut. Like her husband, the woman had asked nothing beyond what little Taran had chosen to tell of his quest, but now she said, "Will you still follow your own path? Have you turned from home and kinsmen? What mother's heart longs for her son as I long for mine?"

"Alas, none that I know," Taran answered, folding Amren's jacket and gently putting it in her hands. "And none that knows me."

"You have been well taught in the ways of farming," Aeddan said. "If you seek a place of welcome, you have already found one."

"Whatever other welcomes I find, may they be as openhearted as yours," Taran replied, and it was not without regret that he and Gurgi said farewell.

I especially like Alarca in this scene - Taran's quick to call Amren a hero, but he's reminded swiftly that hero or not, the boy is still dead.

# ? Dec 6, 2023 15:38

Coca Koala: Nov 28, 2005; ongoing nowhere; College Slice

That exchange stuck out to me as well - Taran has spent three books fighting in this grand fantasy, thinking that he�s serving all of Prydain by working for abstract ideals like Honor but he�s never actually spent time with a common labourer that isn�t Gwydion in disguise. As soon as he does, they explain that their big problem with Arawn isn�t that he sits on the throne of the King of Don or whatever, it�s that he�s stolen and hidden the knowledge of how to do anything but subsist. You can go off and fight for whatever, but if you die in service of Honor it doesn�t help the people you�ve left behind.

I don�t know if I�m getting more out of this chapter now that I�m older, but I�m definitely getting something different. What a good book this is.

Edit: man, they�re even like �yeah arawn took the automatic rototiller 9000 and the john deer riding lawnmower with the 24 horsepower engine and a cupholder for my beer can but look, the important thing that we need is just the knowledge of how to farm better.� It�s not the tools, it�s the knowledge that�s the real treasure. I definitely did not pick up on that as a kid.

Coca Koala fucked around with this message at 16:49 on Dec 6, 2023

# ? Dec 6, 2023 16:45

Beefeater1980: Sep 12, 2008; My God, it's full of Horatios!

�The raiders fought because they were starving; we, because we had scarcely more than they. And at the end all had less than when they began�

This is so good

# ? Dec 6, 2023 20:55

Genghis Cohen: Jun 29, 2013

I don't think I particularly got it when I was a kid, I was more rooting for Taran to finally win a fight, but the book is full of the lesson that growing up isn't about being a hero, it's about learning to find your own way and develop some sort of skills and self-reliance. They really are very educational books.

# ? Dec 6, 2023 22:58

Wahad: May 19, 2011; There is no escape.

Chapter 3: Goryon and Gast

quote:

AEDDAN HAD POINT OUT the shortest path to Lord Goryon's stronghold, and the two wayfarers reached it by midafternoon. It was not a castle, Taran saw, but a large huddle of buildings circled by a barricade of wooden stakes lashed with osier and chinked up with hard-packed earth. The gate of heavy palings stood open, and there was much going and coming of horsemen, of warriors on foot, of herdsmen driving in their cows from pasture. Though Gurgi was far from eager, Taran led on, keeping as bold a face as he could, and amid the busy crowd the two entered the stronghold unnoticed and unchallenged.

Without difficulty Taran found the stables, which were larger, cleaner, and in better repair than the rest of the buildings; and strode quickly to a young boy raking straw, calling out in a firm voice, "Tell me, friend, is there not a gray stallion here that Lord Goryon's warriors captured? A handsome steed, they say, and a rare one."

"Gray stallion?" cried the stable boy. "Gray dragon, rather! The beast half-kicked his stall down and gave me a bite I'll not forget. Lord Goryon will have broken bones before the day ends."

"How then?" Taran hurriedly asked. "What has he done with the steed?"

"What has the steed done with him!" answered the boy, grinning. "Thrown him the most of a dozen times already! The Master of Horse himself cannot sit three moments on the creature's back, but Goryon tries to ride it even now. Goryon the Valorous he is called," the boy chuckled; then added behind his hand, "though to my mind he has little stomach for this task. But his henchmen egg him on, and so Goryon means to break the beast to his will even if he must first break its back."

"Master, master," Gurgi whispered frantically, "hasten to King Smoit for helpings!" Taran's face had paled at the boy's words. Caer Cadarn was too far; Smoit's help would come too late.

"Where is the steed?" he asked, hiding his concern. "This would be a sight worth the seeing."

The stable boy pointed his rake toward a long, low-roofed building. "In the training field behind the Great Hall. But take heed," he added, rubbing his shoulder, "keep your distance, or the beast will give you worse than he gave me."

Setting off instantly Taran no sooner passed the Great Hall than he heard shouting and thefurious whinny of Melynlas. His pace quickened into a run. A grassless, hoofbeaten turf was ahead. He glimpsed warriors circling the gray stallion who reared, bucked, and spun about with heels flying. In another moment the burly, thick-set figure atop the stallion's back was flung loose; then, arms and legs flailing, Lord Goryon plummeted to earth and lay there like a sack of lead. Melynlas galloped desperately, seeking escape from the circle of warriors, one of whom hastened to snatch at the horse's reins. All caution forgotten, Taran cried out and raced to the stallion's side. He grasped the bridle before the surprised man could think of drawing his sword, and threw his arms about the neck of Melynlas, who whickered in greeting. The other onlookers ran toward Taran, as he strove to mount and pull Gurgi up after him. A hand seized his jacket. Taran fought free and set his back against the stallion's flank. Lord Goryon had meanwhile picked himself up and now burst through the press of warriors.

"Insolence! Impudence!" roared Goryon. His dark, gray-shot beard bristled like a furious hedgehog. His heavy face was mottled purple, whether from bruises, lack of breath, blind anger, or all three at once Taran could not judge. "Does a churl lay hand on my horse? Away with him! Thrash him soundly for his insult!"

"I do no more than claim my own steed," Taran cried. "Melynlas foal of Melyngar..." A tall, raw-boned man with one arm bound up in a sling, whom Taran guessed to be the Master of Horse, peered sharply at him.

"Foal of Melyngar, Prince Gwydion's war horse? That is noble lineage. How do you know this?"

"I know it as well as I know Melynlas was stolen from me," Taran declared, "near Aeddan's farmhold at the borders of your cantrev, and my comrade robbed of his pony." He tried then to explain who he was and the purpose of his journey, but the cantrev lord, unheeding, broke in angrily.

"Impudence!" cried Goryon, his beard bristling all the more furiously. "How dares a pig-keeper insult me with a liar's tale? My border-band gained these mounts nearly at the cost of their lives."

"The cost of our lives," Taran retorted, glancing hurriedly at the faces around him. "Where are the riders? I beg you call them to witness."

"More insolence!" snapped the cantrev lord. "They ride the borders, as they are commanded. Do you mean to tell me I keep idle men and shirkers in my service?"

"And full service have they given you," one of the warriors said to Goryon. "Heroes, all of them, to stand against six giants..."

"Giants?" repeated Taran, scarcely believing his ears.

"Giants indeed!" cried Goryon. "It will not be forgotten how the brave riders of Goryon the Valorous were beset by enemies, outnumbered two to one. By worse than giants! For one was a fierce monster with sharp claws and fangs. Another carried an oak tree in his fist and swept it about him as if it were no more than a twig. But the riders of Goryon overcame them all with glory and honor!"

"The stallion, too, was bewitched," put in another of Goryon's henchmen, "and fought as fiercely as the giants. The beast is a man-killer, vicious as a starving wolf."

"But Goryon the Valorous will tame the creature," added another, turning to the cantrev lord. "You'll ride the brute, will you not, Goryon?"

"Eh?" said Goryon, a painful and unhappy grimace suddenly marking his face. "So I will, so I will," he growled; then flung out angrily "You insult my honor if you think I cannot." As Taran stood among these rough warriors, he began to despair of finding any means of convincing the prickly-tempered cantrev lord; the thought crossed his mind to draw blade and fight his way out as best he could. But another glance at the stern faces of the henchmen gave him only more cause for dismay.

"My lord," Taran said firmly, "I speak the truth. There were no giants, but my companion and myself, and a farmer who fought beside us."

"No giants?" shouted Goryon. "But more insults!" He stamped his foot as if the turf itself had given him some impertinence. "You call my men liars? As well call me one!"

"My lord," Taran began again, bowing deeply, for it was growing clear to him that Goryon's touchy honor could scarcely allow the cantrev lord to believe an account of simple horse stealing; and there was, Taran realized, even for the border-band themselves, considerably more honor in overcoming giants than in robbing Assistant Pig-Keepers. "I call no man liar and your men spoke the truth. The truth," he added, "as they saw it."

"Insolence!" cried Goryon. "The truth as it is! There were giants, monsters, uprooted oaks. My men were well-rewarded for their valor, but you shall have a beating for your impudence!"

"What I believe, my lord, is this," Taran went on, choosing his words carefully, since all he had thus far managed to say Goryon had turned into one kind of insult or another. "The sun was low and our shadows made our number seem twice as great. Indeed, your men saw double what we truly were.

"As for giants," Taran hurried on before the cantrev lord could cry out against another impertinence, "again, the long shadows of sunset gave us such height that any man could mistake our size."

"The oak-tree cudgel," Lord Goryon began.

"The farmer bore a stout oaken staff," Taran said. "His arm was strong, his blows quick, as two of your men had good reason to know. He smote with such a mighty hand, small wonder they felt a tree had fallen on them." Lord Goryon said nothing for a moment, but sucked a tooth and rubbed his bristling beard.

"What of the monster? A raving, ferocious creature they saw with their own eyes?"

"The monster stands before you," Taran answered, pointing to Gurgi. "He has long been my companion. I know him to be gentle, but the fiercest foe when roused."

"He is Gurgi! Yes, yes!" Gurgi shouted. "Bold, clever, and fierce to fight for kindly master!" With this he bared his teeth, shook his hairy arms, and yelled so frightfully that Goryon and his henchmen drew backward a pace. The face of the cantrev lord had begun to furrow in deep perplexity. He shifted his bulk from one foot to another and glared at Taran.

"Shadows!" he growled. "You mean to shadow the bravery of those who serve me. Another insult..."

"If your warriors believed they had seen what they claimed," Taran said, "and fought accordingly, their bravery is no less. Indeed," he added, half under his breath, "it is every bit as great as their truthfulness."

"These are no more than words," interrupted the Master of Horse. "Show me deeds. There is no creature on four hooves that I cannot ride, save this one. You, churl, will you dare to mount?" For answer, Taran swung quickly into the saddle. Melynlas whinnied, pawed the ground, then stood calmly. Lord Goryon choked with amazement, and the Master of Horse stared in disbelief.

A surprised murmur rose from Goryon's henchmen, but Taran heard a rough laugh as one of them called, "So ho, Goryon! A lout rides a steed a lord has not mastered, and takes your horse and honor both!" Taran thought he had seen a faint flicker of relief in Goryon's bruised face, as though he were not altogether displeased to avoid riding Melynlas, but at the henchman's words the cantrev lord's features began to darken furiously.

"Not so!" Taran hastily cried out to the circle of men. "Would you have your liege lord ride a pigkeeper's nag? Is that fitting to his honor?" He turned now to Goryon, for a bold thought had come to him. "And yet, my lord, were you to take him as a gift from me..."

"What?" shouted Goryon at the top of his voice, his face turning livid. "Insults! Impertinence! Insolence! How dare you! I take no gifts from pig-keepers! Nor will I lower myself to mount the beast again." He flung up an arm. "Begone! Out of my sight--- your nag, your monster, and his pony along with you!" Goryon snapped his jaws shut and said no more. Gurgi's pony was led from the stable, and under the eyes of the cantrev lord and his henchmen the two companions passed unhindered through the gate. Taran rode slowly, head high, with all the assurance he could muster. But once out of sight of the stronghold, the companions clapped heels into their horses' flanks and galloped for dear life.

Well, they got Melynlas back. Pretty quick thinking on Taran's part.

quote:

"OH, WISDOM THAT WINS horses from prideful lord!" Gurgi cried, when they had ridden far enough to be safe from any change of heart on the part of Goryon. "Even Gurgi could not have been so clever. Oh, he wishes to be wise as kindly master, but his poor tender head has no skill in such thinkings!"

"My wisdom?" Taran laughed. "Barely enough to make up for losing Melynlas in the first place." He scanned the valley anxiously. Night was falling and he had hoped by this time to have come upon a farmhold where they might shelter, for the encounter with Goryon's border-band had given him no wish to learn what others might be roving the hills. But he saw neither cottage nor hut, andso pressed on through the purpling dusk. Lights flared in a clearing ahead, and Taran reined Melynlas to a halt near a stronghold much like Lord Goryon's. But here torches blazed at every corner of the palisade, from sockets set high on either side of the gate, even at the rooftree of the Great Hall, as if in token of feasting and revelry within.

"Dare we stop here?" Taran said. "If this cantrev lord shows us Goryon's courtesy, we'd sleep sounder in a gwythaint's nest." Nevertheless, the hope of a comfortable bed and the torches' inviting glow made his weariness weigh all the heavier. He hesitated a moment, then urged Melynlas closer to the gate. To the men in the watchtower Taran called out that here were wayfarers journeying to Caer Cadarn and known to King Smoit. He was relieved when the portal creaked open and the guards beckoned the pair to enter. The Chief Steward was summoned, and he led Taran and Gurgi to the Great Hall.

"Beg hospitality of my Lord Gast," the Steward told them, "and he will grant what he deems fitting." As he followed the Steward, Taran's spirits rose at the thought of a warm meal and a comfortable couch. Loud voices, laughter, and the merry notes of a harp came from the Hall. Stepping through the doorway Taran saw crowded tables on either side of a low-ceilinged room. At the far end, flanked by his henchmen and their ladies, sat a richly garbed war lord, a drinking horn in one fist and most of a joint of meat in the other. Taran and Gurgi bowed deeply. Before they could draw closer, the harper standing in the middle of the Hall turned, cried out in surprise, and ran to them. Taran, whose hand was being shaken half off his arm, found himself blinking with happy astonishment at the long pointed nose and spiky yellow hair of his old companion, Fflewddur Fflam.

Fflewddur's back!

quote:

"Well met, the two of you," cried the bard, pulling them to the high table. "I've missed you ever since we parted. Did you not stay at Caer Dallben? When we sailed from Mona," Fflewddur hurriedly explained, "I really meant to leave off wandering and settle down in my own realm. Then I said to myself, Fflewddur old fellow, spring's only once a year. And here it is. And here am I. But what of yourselves? First, food and drink, and your tidings later." Fflewddur had brought the companions to stand before Lord Gast, and Taran saw a heavyfeatured warrior with a beard the color of muddy flax. A handsome collarpiece dangled from his neck; rings glittered on fingers stout enough to crack walnuts; and bands of beaten silver circled his arms. The cantrev lord's raiment was costly and well-cut, but Taran saw it bore the spots and spatters not only of this feast but of many others long past. The bard, with a sweep of his harp, named the companions to Lord Gast.

"These are two who sought the Black Cauldron from Arawn of Annuvin and fought at the side of Gwydion Prince of Don. Let your hospitality match their boldness."

"And so it shall!" Gast loudly cried. "No wayfarer can fault the hospitality of Gast the Generous!" He made place for the companions at his table and, sweeping aside the empty bowls and dishes before him, clapped his hands and bawled for the Steward. When the servitor arrived, Lord Gast commanded him to bring such an array of food and drink that Taran could hardly imagine himself eating half of it. Gurgi, hungry as always, smacked his lips in gleeful anticipation. As the Steward left, Lord Gast took up a tale, whose matter Taran found difficult to follow, concerning the costliness of his food and his openhandedness toward travelers. Taran listened courteously through it all, surprised and delighted at his good luck in finding Gast's stronghold. Feeling more at ease, thanks to the presence of Fflewddur, Taran at last ventured to speak of his meeting with Lord Goryon.

"Goryon!" snorted Gast. "Arrogant boor! Crude lout! Braggart and boaster! To boast of what?" He snatched up a drinking horn. "See this?" he cried. "The name of Gast carved upon it and the letters worked in gold! See this cup! This bowl! These ornament my common table. My storehouse holds even finer, as you shall see. Goryon! Horseflesh is all he knows, and little enough of that!"

Fflewddur, meanwhile, had raised the harp to his shoulder and began to strike up a tune. "It's a small thing I composed myself," he explained. "Though I must say it's been cheered and praised by thousands..." No sooner were the words past his lips than the harp bent like an overdrawn bow and a string broke with a loud twang. "Drat the thing!" muttered the bard. "Will it give me no peace? I swear it's getting worse. The slightest bit of color added to the facts and it costs me a string. Yes, as I meant to say, I know full half-a-dozen who deemed the song--- ah--- rather well done." With deftness born of long, sad practice, Fflewddur knotted up the broken string. Taran, glancing around the Hall this while, was surprised to realize the plates and drinking horns of the guests were more than half-empty and, in fact, showed no sign of ever having been full. His perplexity grew when the Steward returned to set the food-laden tray before Lord Gast, who planted his elbows on either side of it.

"Eat your fill," cried Gast to Taran and Gurgi, pushing a small hunch of gravy-spotted bread toward them and keeping the rest for himself. "Gast the Generous is ever openhanded! A sad fault that may turn me into a pauper, but it's my nature to be free with all my goods; I can't fight against it!"

"Generous?" Taran murmured under his breath to Fflewddur, while Gurgi, swallowing the skimpy fare, looked hopelessly around for more. "I think he'd make a miser seem a prodigal in comparison." So passed the meal, with Gast loudly urging the companions to stuff themselves, yet all the while grudgingly offering them no more than a few morsels of stringy meat from the heaped platter. Only at the end, when Gast has swallowed all he could and his head nodded sleepily and his beard straggled into his drinking horn, were the companions able to down the meager leavings. At last, disheartened and with bellies still hollow, the three groped their way to a meanly furnished chamber, where they nevertheless dropped into sleep like stones.

In the morning Taran was impatient to start once more for Caer Cadarn, and Fflewddur agreed to ride with him. But Lord Gast would hear none of it until the companions marveled at his storerooms. The cantrev lord flung open chests of goblets, ornaments, weapons, horse trappings, and many things Taran judged of high value, but in such a muddled heap that he could scarcely tell one from another. Among all these goods Taran's eyes lingered on a gracefully fashioned wine bowl, the most beautiful Taran had ever seen. He had, however, little chance to admire it, for the cantrev lord quickly thrust a garishly ornamented horse bridle into Taran's hands and as quickly replaced it with a pair of stirrups which he praised equally.

"That wine bowl is worth all the rest put together," Fflewddur whispered to Taran, as Lord Gast now led the three companions from the storehouse to a large cow pen just outside the barricade. "I recognize the work from the hand of Annlaw Clay-Shaper, a master craftsman, the most skilled potter in Prydain. I swear his wheel is enchanted! Poor Gast!" Fflewddur added. "To count himself rich and know so little of what he owns!"

"But how has he gained such treasure?" Taran said.

"On that score, I should hesitate to ask," Fflewddur murmured with a grin. "Very likely the same way Goryon gained your horse."

"And this," cried the cantrev lord, halting beside a black cow who stood peacefully grazing amid the rest of the herd, "and this is Cornillo, the finest cow in all the land!" Taran could not gainsay the words of the cantrev lord, for Cornillo shone as if she had been polished and her short, curving horns sparkled inthe sun. Lord Gast proudly stroked the animal's sleek flanks. "Gentle as a lamb! Strong as an ox! Swift as a horse and wise as an owl!" Gast went on, while Cornillo, calmly munching her cud, turned patient eyes to Taran, as though hoping not to be mistaken for anything other than a cow. "She leads my cattle," declared Lord Gast, "better than any herdsman can. She'll pull a plow or turn a grist mill, if need be. Her calves are always twins! As for milk, she gives the sweetest! Cream, every drop! So rich the dairy maids can scarcely churn it!"

Cornillo blew out her breath almost in a sigh, switched her tail, and went back to grazing. From the pasture Lord Gast pressed the companions to the hen roost, and from there to the hawk mews, and the morning was half-spent and Taran had begun to despair of ever leaving the stronghold, when Gast finally ordered their mounts readied. Fflewddur, Taran saw, still rode Llyan, the huge, golden-tawny cat who had saved the companions' lives on the Isle of Mona.

"Yes, I decided to keep her--- rather, she's decided to keep me," said the bard, as Llyan, recognizing Taran, padded forward and began happily rubbing her head against his shoulder. "'She loves the harp more than ever," Fflewddur went on. "Can't hear enough of it." No sooner did he say this than Llyan flicked her long whiskers and turned to give the bard a forceful nudge; so that Fflewddur then and there had to unsling his instrument and strike a few chords, while Llyan, purring loudly, blinked fondly at him with great yellow eyes.

"Farewell," called the cantrev lord as the companions mounted. "At the stronghold of Gast the Generous you'll ever find an openhanded welcome!"

"It's a generosity that could starve us to death," Taran, laughing, remarked to the bard as they rode eastward again. "Gast thinks himself openhanded, as Goryon thinks himself valorous; and as far as I can judge, neither one has the truth of it. Yet," he added, "they both seem pleased with themselves. Indeed, is a man truly what he sees himself to be?"

"Only if what he sees is true," answered Fflewddur. "If there's too great a difference between his own opinion and the facts--- ah--- then, my friend, I should say that such a man had no more substance to him than Goryon's giants! But don't judge them too harshly," the bard went on. "These cantrev nobles are much alike, prickly as porcupines one moment and friendly as puppies the next. They all hoard their possessions, yet they can be generous to a fault if the mood strikes them. As for valor, they're no cowards. Death rides in the saddle with them and they count it nothing, and in battle I've seen them gladly lay down their lives for a comrade. At the same time," he added, "it's also been my experience, in all my wanderings, that the further from the deed, the greater it grows, and the most glorious battle is the one longest past. So it's hardly surprising how many heroes you run into. Had they harps like mine," said Fflewddur, warily glancing at his instrument, "what a din you'd hear from every stronghold in Prydain!"

Fflewddur coming out with the life advice for this chapter.

# ? Dec 9, 2023 18:36

GodFish: Oct 10, 2012; We're your first, last, and only line of defense. We live in secret. We exist in shadow.

And we dress in black.

Seems like now that Taran is a bit wiser, Fflewddur can be a bit more of an adult himself.

# ? Dec 10, 2023 10:08

Pistol_Pete: Sep 15, 2007; Oven Wrangler

Wahad posted:

Chapter 2: Cantrev Cadiffor

I especially like Alarca in this scene - Taran's quick to call Amren a hero, but he's reminded swiftly that hero or not, the boy is still dead.

And it's not just that he's dead and dead forever and has left grieving parents behind who'll always miss him: his death is also a catastrophic economic loss, with the aging parents struggling to make ends meet and the farm going to pieces for lack of hands to work it. We're suddenly being smacked in the face with the realisation that some npc getting a spear through them might only take up a line of narrative but has terrible and lasting consequences for the people depending on them.

# ? Dec 10, 2023 20:43

Hemp Knight: Sep 26, 2004

Thanks for sharing these, OP. I read them all as a kid, but I�d forgotten most of what happened in them, except for bits of the last book. It did have nice payoffs for the stuff in the previous books, like Fflewddur�s harp, Achren, and Prince Rhun. Gurgi is less annoying than I thought (I remembered him as being a Jar Jar Binks style character), while Eilonwy seems to be there mainly as a love interest for Taran/plot device (yes, I know it�s a 60 year old series, so her characterisation isn�t going to be up to modern standards)

# ? Dec 12, 2023 14:24

Coca Koala: Nov 28, 2005; ongoing nowhere; College Slice

I do kind of like the way Fflewdur is all �yeah those guys do exactly the same poo poo I do except they don�t have a harp acting like a cop all the time�

# ? Dec 12, 2023 15:56

roffles: Dec 25, 2004

Hemp Knight posted:

Thanks for sharing these, OP. I read them all as a kid, but I�d forgotten most of what happened in them, except for bits of the last book. It did have nice payoffs for the stuff in the previous books, like Fflewddur�s harp, Achren, and Prince Rhun. Gurgi is less annoying than I thought (I remembered him as being a Jar Jar Binks style character), while Eilonwy seems to be there mainly as a love interest for Taran/plot device (yes, I know it�s a 60 year old series, so her characterisation isn�t going to be up to modern standards)

Yeah this has been great. I read these from the library as a kid and now I just remembered that they never had The High King. Welp, we're almost there!

# ? Dec 13, 2023 05:00

Wahad: May 19, 2011; There is no escape.

Chapter 4: A Matter of Cows

quote:

LATE THAT AFTERNOON the companions sighted the crimson banner of the House of Smoit, its black bear emblem flying bravely above the towers of Caer Cadarn. Unlike the palisaded strongholds of the cantrev lords, Smoit's castle was a fortress with walls of hewn stone and ironstudded gates thick enough to withstand all attack; the chips in the stones and the dents in the portal told Taran the castle had indeed thrown back not a few assaults. For the three travelers, however, the gates were flung open willingly and an honor guard of spearmen hastened to escort the companions. The red-bearded King sat at the dining table in his Great Hall, and from the array of dishes, platters, and drinking horns both full and empty Taran judged Smoit could scarcely have left off eating since morning. Seeing the companions, the King leaped from his throne of oakwood, fashioned in the shape of a gigantic bear looking much like Smoit himself.

"My body and bones!" Smoit roared so loudly the dishes rattled on the table. "It's better than a feast to see all of you!" His battle-scarred face beamed with delight and he flung his burly arms around the companions in a joint-cracking hug. "Scrape out a tune from that old pot of yours," he cried to Fflewddur. "A merry tune for a merry meeting! And you, my lad," he went on, seizing Taran's shoulders with his heavy, red-furred hands, "when last we met you looked scrawny as a plucked chicken. And your shaggy friend--- what, has he rolled in the bushes all the way from Caer Dallben?" Smoit clapped his hands, shouted for more food and drink, and would hear nothing of Taran's news until the companions had eaten and the King had downed another full meal.

"The Mirror of Llunet?" said Smoit, when Taran at last was able to tell of his quest. "I've heard of no such thing. As well seek a needle in a haystack as a looking glass in the Llawgadarn Mountains." The King's heavy brow furrowed and he shook his head. "The Llawgadarns rise in the land of the Free Commots, and whether the folk there will be of a mind to help you..."

"The Free Commots?" Taran asked. "I've heard them named, but know little else about them."

"They're hamlets and small villages," Fflewddur put in. "They start to the east of the Hill Cantrevs and spread as far as Great Avren. I've never journeyed there myself; the Free Commots are a bit far even for my ramblings. But the land itself is the pleasantest in Prydain--- fair hills and dales, rich soil to farm, and sweet grass for grazing. There's iron for good blades, gold and silver for fine ornaments. Annlaw Clay-Shaper is said to dwell among the Commot folk, as do many other craftsmen: master weavers, metalsmiths--- from time out of mind their skills have been the Commots' pride."

"A proud folk they are," said Smoit. "And a stiff-necked breed. They bow to no cantrev lords, but only to the High King Math himself."

"No cantrev lords?" asked Taran, puzzled. "Who, then, rules them?"

"Why, they rule themselves," answered Smoit."Strong and steadfast they are, too. And, by my beard, I'm sure there's more peace and neighborliness in the Free Commots than anywhere else in Prydain. And so what need have they for kings or lords? When you come to the meat of it," he added, "a king's strength lies in the will of those he rules."

Taran, who had been listening closely to these words of Smoit, nodded his head. "I had not thought of it thus," he said, half to himself. "Indeed, true allegiance is only given willingly."

"Enough talk!" cried Smoit. "It hurts my head and dries my gullet. Let's have more meat and drink. Forget the Mirror. Tarry with me in my cantrev, lad. We'll ride to the hunt, feast, and make merry. You'll put more flesh on your bones here than scrambling about on a fool's errand. And that, my boy, is good counsel to you." Nevertheless, when he finally saw that Taran would not be dissuaded, Smoit goodnaturedly agreed to give the companions all they needed for the journey. Next morning, after a huge breakfast, which Smoit declared would serve to whet their appetites for dinner, the King threw open his storehouse to them and went with them to be sure they chose the best of gear.

Taran has a destination for his journey, now. Well, sort of.

quote:

Taran had only begun sorting through coils of rope, saddlebags, and harness leather when one of the castle guards burst into the storeroom, calling, "Sire! A horseman of Lord Gast is come. Raiders from Lord Goryon's stronghold have stolen Gast's prize cow and the rest of the herd with her!"

"My pulse!" roared Smoit. "My breath and blood!" The King's tangled bush of eyebrows knotted and his face turned as red as his beard. "How does he dare stir trouble in my cantrev!"

"The men of Gast have armed. They ride against Goryon," the guard hastened on. "Gast craves your help. Will you speak to his messenger?"

"Speak to him?" bellowed Smoit. "I'll clap his master in irons for breaking the peace. And worse! For breaking it without my leave!"

"Put Gast in irons?" Taran asked with some perplexity. "But Goryon stole his cow..."

"His cow?" cried Smoit. "His cow, indeed! Gast stole her from Goryon himself last year. And before that, the other way around. Neither of them knows whose beast it rightly is. Those two brawlers have ever been at loggerheads. Now the warm weather heats their blood again. But I'll cool their tempers. In my dungeon! Gast and Goryon both!" Smoit snatched up a mighty double-edged battle axe. "I'll fetch them back by the ears!" he roared. "They know my dungeons; they've been there often enough. Who rides with me?"

"I will!" cried Fflewddur, his eyes lighting up. "Great Belin, a Fflam never shuns a fight!"

"If you ask our help, Sire," Taran began, "we give it willingly. But..."

"Mount up, then, my lad!" shouted Smoit. "You'll see justice done. And I'll have peace between Gast and Goryon if I have to break their heads to gain it!" Swinging his battle axe, Smoit bolted from the store-room bellowing orders right and left. A dozen warriors sprang to horse. Smoit leaped astride a tall, barrel-chested steed, whistled through his teeth almost loudly enough to break them, and waved his men onward; amid the shouting and confusion, Taran, bewildered, found himself atop Melynlas galloping across the courtyard and out the castle gate.

If they ever made another movie or series out of these books, Smoit should definitely be played by BRIAN BLESSED.

quote:

THE RED-BEARDED KING set such a pace through the valleys that it put even Llyan on her mettle to keep up; while Gurgi, with most of the wind pounded out of him, clung to the neck of his frantically galloping pony. Smoit's war horse was in a lather, and so was Melynlas before the cantrev King signaled a halt.

"To meat!" Smoit cried, swinging out of the saddle and looking as unwearied as if he had just begun a morning's trot. The companions, still catching their breath, had by no means found their appetites, but Smoit clapped his hands to the heavy bronze belt around his middle. "Hunger makes a man gloomy and saps all the spirit from a battle."

"Sire, must we battle with Lord Gast?" Taran asked with some concern, for Smoit's war band numbered only the dozen who had ridden from Caer Cadarn. "And if Lord Goryon's men have armed, we may be too few to stand against all of them."

"Battle?" Smoit retorted. "No, more's the pity. I'll have those troublemakers by the nose and into my dungeons before nightfall. They'll do as I command. I'm their king, by my beard! There's brawn enough here," he added, shaking a mighty fist, "to make them remember it."

"And yet," Taran ventured to say. "You yourself told me a king's true strength lay in the will of those he ruled."

"How's that?" cried Smoit, who had settled his bulk against a tree trunk and was about to attack the joint of meat he had pulled from his saddlebag. "Don't puzzle me with my own words! My body and bones, a king is a king!"

"I meant only that you've locked Gast and Goryon in your dungeon many times before," Taran answered. "And still they quarrel. Is there no way to keep peace between them? Or make them understand..."

"I'll reason them reasons!" bellowed Smoit, clutching his battle axe. He knitted his jutting brows. "But, true enough it is," he admitted, frowning and seeming to chew at the thought as if it were gristle in his meat, "they go surly to the dungeon and surly leave it. You've struck on something, my lad. The dungeon's useless against that pair. And, my pulse, I know why! It needs more dampness, more draught. So be it! I'll have the place well watered down tonight." Taran was about to remark that his own thought was otherwise, but Fflewddur called out and pointed to a horseman galloping across the meadow.

"He wears the colors of Goryon," shouted Smoit, jumping to his feet, still holding the joint in one hand and the battle axe in the other. Two of the warriors quickly mounted and, drawing swords, spurred to engage the rider. But the horseman, brandishing his weapon hilt downward, cried out that he bore tidings from the cantrev lord. "You rogue!" Smoit bellowed, dropping both meat and axe and collaring the rider to haul him bodily from the saddle. "What other mischief's afoot? Speak! Give me your news, man, or I'll have it out of you along with your gizzard!"

"Sire!" gasped the messenger, "Lord Gast attacks in strength. My Lord Goryon is hardpressed; he has ordered more of his warriors to arm and calls on you to help him as well."

"What of the cows?" cried Smoit. "Has Gast won them back? Does Goryon still hold them?"

"Neither, Sire," answered the messenger as well as he could with Smoit shaking him between every word. "Lord Gast attacked Lord Goryon to regain his own herd and take Lord Goryon's, too. But as they fought, all the beasts frighted and ran off. The cows? Sire, both herds are gone, lost, every soul of them, and Cornillo herself!"

"Let that be the end of it!" declared Smoit, "and a good lesson for all cow-robbers. Gast and Goryon shall cry peace and I'll spare them from my dungeon."

"Sire, the fighting grows hotter," the messenger said urgently. "Neither one will leave off. Each blames the other for loss of his herd. Lord Goryon swears vengeance on Lord Gast; and Lord Gast swears vengeance on Lord Goryon."

"They've both been itching for battle," Smoit burst out. "Now they find their excuse!" He summoned one of his warriors, ordering him to take Goryon's messenger to Caer Cadarn, there to be held as hostage. "To horse, the rest of you," Smoit commanded. "My body and bones, we'll see sport after all." He gripped his axe. "Oh, there'll be heads broken today!" he cried with relish, and his battered face brightened as if he were on his way to a feast.

"The bards will sing of this," exclaimed Fflewddur, carried away by Smoit's ardor. "A Fflam in the thick of battle! The thicker the better!" The harp shuddered and a string snapped in two. "I mean," Fflewddur hastily added, "I hope we're not too badly outnumbered."

"Sire," Taran called as Smoit strode to his war horse. "If Gast and Goryon won't stop because their herds are lost, shouldn't we try to find the cows?"

"Yes, yes!" Gurgi put in. "Find cows gone with strayings! And put an end to fightings and smitings!"

But Smoit had already mounted and was shouting for the war band to follow; and Taran could do no more than gallop after him. To which stronghold Smoit was leading them, Taran did not know. As far as Smoit was concerned, Taran decided, it made little difference whether Gast or Goryon fell first into the King's hands. In a while, however, Taran recognized the path he and Gurgi had taken from Aeddan's farm, and he judged now that Smoit would make for Goryon's stronghold. But as they pounded across an open field, the King veered sharply left and Taran glimpsed a troop of mounted warriors some distance away. At the sight of their banners, Smoit bellowed furiously and spurred his steed to overtake the horsemen. But the riders, themselves galloping at top speed, quickly vanished into the woodland. Smoit reined up, shouting after them and shaking his huge fist.

"Has Goryon put more warriors in the fray?" roared Smoit, his face crimson. "Then Gast has done the same! Those louts wore his colors!"

"Sire," Taran began, "if we can find the cows---"

"Cows!" burst out Smoit. "There's more than cows in this, my lad. Such a brawl can spread like a spark through tinder. Those thick-skulled ruffians will set the whole of Cadiffor ablaze and next thing you know we'll all be at one another's throats! But, by my beard, they'll learn my fist smites harder than theirs! " Smoit hesitated and his face darkened with deep concern. He scowled and tugged at his beard. "The lords of the next cantrev," he muttered. "They'll not stand idle, but strike against us when they see we're fighting each other!"

"But the cows," Taran urged. "The three of us can seek them, while you---"

"The dungeon!" cried Smoit. "I'll have Gast and Goryon in it before their squabble gets further out of hand."

Smoit clapped heels to his horse and charged forward, making no attempt to hold to any pathway, dashing at breakneck speed through bramble and thicket. With the companions and the train of warriors pelting behind, Smoit clattered over the stones of a riverbank and plunged his horse into the swift current. The King had ill chosen his fording place, for in another moment Taran found himself in water up to his saddlehorn. Smoit, shouting impatiently, pressed on across the river. Taran saw the King rise up in his stirrups to beckon his followers and urge more haste. But an instant later the war horse lost footing and lurched sideways; steed and rider toppled with a mighty splash, and before Taran could spur Melynlas to him, Smoit had been torn loose from his mount and, like a barrel with arms and legs, was being borne quickly downstream. Behind Taran some of the warriors had turned back, seeking to overtake the King by following along the riverbank. Taran, closer to the opposite bank, urged all strength from Melynlas, leaped from the saddle to dry ground, and raced along the shore after Smoit. The sound of rushing water filled his ears, and with dismay Taran realized the King was being pulled relentlessly to a waterfall. Heart bursting in his chest, Taran doubled his pace; though before he could set foot in the rapids, he saw the King's red beard sink below the churning water, and he cried out in despair as Smoit vanished over the brink.

Even the mightiest king bows before nature is the lesson in this chapter, maybe?

# ? Dec 13, 2023 14:18

Genghis Cohen: Jun 29, 2013

Great stuff; I really liked King Smoit when I read these as a child. As an adult I see the slightly performative nature of the cantrev lords' violence. We've just been introduced to the impact of casualties with Aeddan's son and how his death affected his parents. Yet now, we have Goryon and Gast 'fighting' but it clearly won't be resolved before Smoit gets there and there isn't much sense of the bloodshed. It's a bit hollywood, everyone clashes their swords together and a few men on each side roll dramatically on the ground to make it look good. But when the smoke clears everyone seems to be OK.

# ? Dec 13, 2023 18:22

MadDogMike: Apr 9, 2008; Cute but fanged

Wahad posted:

If they ever made another movie or series out of these books, Smoit should definitely be played by BRIAN BLESSED.

Yeah, even as a kid that was exactly whose voice I heard saying Smoit's lines.

Genghis Cohen posted:

Great stuff; I really liked King Smoit when I read these as a child. As an adult I see the slightly performative nature of the cantrev lords' violence. We've just been introduced to the impact of casualties with Aeddan's son and how his death affected his parents. Yet now, we have Goryon and Gast 'fighting' but it clearly won't be resolved before Smoit gets there and there isn't much sense of the bloodshed. It's a bit hollywood, everyone clashes their swords together and a few men on each side roll dramatically on the ground to make it look good. But when the smoke clears everyone seems to be OK.

At least the book is awesome at deconstructing it (honestly the whole series is extremely good at making the cost of violence, even in those cases when it's in a good cause, terrible to behold).

# ? Dec 14, 2023 05:28

nine-gear crow: Aug 10, 2013

I don't know if I pictured Brian Blessed explicitly, but it was definitely one of those folks who talks in ALL CAPS ALL THE TIME for Smoit.

# ? Dec 14, 2023 10:16

Wahad: May 19, 2011; There is no escape.

Chapter 5: A Judgment

quote:

TARAN SCRAMBLED DOWN the rocks jutting beside the high cascade. In a pool hammered into white spray he could hardly make out Smoit's burly form spinning in the eddies. Heedless of the pounding water, Taran pitched through the falls and sprang into the pool. He groped for Smoit's belt and seized it at last. Battling the whirlpool and nearly drowning himself with his own efforts, Taran painfully strove to drag the half-conscious King into the shallows. Smoit was bleeding heavily from the forehead and his ruddy face had gone chalky pale. Taran tugged at the King's waterlogged bulk, hauling him safely from the rolling waters. In another moment Gurgi and Fflewddur were beside him, helping to drag the King ashore. Smoit, like a beached whale, collapsed on the bank. Gurgi, moaning anxiously, loosened the King's garments, while Taran and the bard hastily saw to Smoit's injuries.

"He can count himself lucky he's only cracked his skull and half his ribs," Fflewddur said. "Another man would have been snapped in two. But we're in a fine pickle," he added under his breath to Taran, glancing at the warriors who had come to gather near the unconscious Smoit. "He'll not lay Gast or Goryon by the heels now. He needs more healing than we can give. We'd best take him to Caer Cadarn."

Taran shook his head. He remembered Smoit's words about the neighboring cantrev lords who would seize the opportunity to attack. It was in his mind, too, that finding Cornillo could best bring Gast and Goryon to terms and thus end their battle. But his thoughts were as tangled as Orddu's weaving and he fervently wished himself in the place of Smoit, whose unconsciousness at that moment seemed a most enviable state.

"Aeddan's farmhold is closer," Taran said. "We'll bring him there and Gurgi shall stay with him. You and I must seek out Gast and Goryon and do what we can to stop their quarrel. As for Cornillo and the herd, I doubt we may hope to find them." The companions, tearing their cloaks into strips, set about binding up Smoit's wounds. The King's eyelids fluttered and he groaned loudly.

"Give me to eat!" gasped Smoit. "I may be half-drowned, but I'll not be half-starved." He put a hand on Taran's shoulder. "Good lad, good lad. You've saved my life. Another moment and I'd have been beaten into a pudding. Claim any favor, it is yours."

"I ask none," Taran replied, knotting. the bandages around Smoit's huge chest. "Alas," he murmured, "what I most want, none can grant."

"No matter," panted Smoit. "What you wish of me, you shall have."

"Sire, you cannot travel far," Taran began as Smoit tried painfully to climb to his feet. "Give us leave to ride with your warriors and---"

"Kind master! Hear!" Gurgi called excitedly. "Hear with listenings!" Llyan, too, had caught some sound, for her ears cupped forward and her whiskers twitched.

"It's my gizzard calling for meat and drink!" cried Smoit. "Loud it must be, for I'm empty as a drum!"

"No, no," shouted Gurgi, seizing Taran's arm and drawing him past the trees along the riverside. "Gurgi hears no thrummings and drummings but cooings and mooings!"

Leaning on the bard, Smoit stumbled after them. Gurgi had spoken the truth; the creature's sharp ears had not deceived him. Now Taran himself heard a faint lowing. Gurgi raced toward the sound. Beyond the trees the land dipped into a shady dell watered by a streamlet. Taran cried aloud. There stood the herd, grazing calmly around Cornillo.

If Taran's the Assistant Pig-Keeper, I think we can bestow the title of Assistant Cow-Finder on Gurgi.

quote:

"My pulse!" bellowed Smoit, so loudly that a dozen horned heads turned and stared as alarmed as if some strange new kind of bull had burst into their quiet pasture.

"Great Belin!" cried Fflewddur. "Cornillo's led them all to safety. She's wiser than either of her masters!" Cornillo raised her head as Taran hurried to her side. She blew out her breath gently and rolled her eyes in a look of long-suffering patience. Smoit, heedless of his grievous bruises, clapped his hands triumphantly and shouted at the top of his voice for his warriors.

"Sire, let us drive the herd to Aeddan's farm," Taran urged. "Your own hurts must be tended better than we've done."

"Drive them where you please, lad," answered Smoit. "My body and bones, we have them now! That will fetch Gast and Goryon to me at a gallop!" He summoned two horsemen, commanding them to bear a message to the cantrev lords. "Tell those two troublemakers where I'll await them," cried Smoit. "And tell each to call truce, for his cows are found!"

"And Gurgi found them!" shouted Gurgi, capering wildly. "Yes, yes! Bold, clever, sharpeared Gurgi finds all that is lost, oh, yes!" He flung his hairy arms around himself and seemed close to bursting with pride and delight at his own deed. "Oh, bards will sing of clever Gurgi with rantings and chantings!"

"I'm sure they will, old friend," Taran said. "You've found the herd. But don't forget we still have Gast and Goryon to deal with--- and there's only one Cornillo."

The cows were at first reluctant to quit the dell, but after much coaxing Taran was able to lead Cornillo along the valley pathways toward Aeddan's farm. The others followed her, lowing and tossing their horns; it was a strange procession that wended its way across the meadows and rolling hillocks. Smoit's warriors rode on either side of the herd, and the red-bearded King himself brandished a spear as if it were a drover's staff; Llyan padded after the cattle, alert for strays; and Gurgi perched proud as a shaggy rooster on Cornillo's back. When Aeddan's but came in sight Taran galloped ahead calling to the farmer, but he had no sooner dismounted when the door burst open and he fell back, surprised. Aeddan stood with a rusted sword in his hand. Behind the farmer, Taran glimpsed Alarca weeping into her apron.

"Is this how you repay kindness?" Aeddan cried, recognizing Taran immediately. His eyes blazed as he pointed the ancient weapon at the approaching war band. "Do you come with them to spoil our land? Begone! It is already done!"

"How then?" Taran stammered, shocked at these words from one he held to be a friend. "I ride with King Smoit and his men. We seek peace between Gast and Goryon---"

"Does it matter whose warriors trampled my crops?" Aeddan flung back. "What Gast has destroyed, Goryon has doubly destroyed, warring back and forth across my field till not a blade of wheat stands! Battle is their pride, but my farm is my life. Do they seek vengeance? I sought only a harvest." In the weariness of despair Aeddan bowed his head and cast his sword to the ground.

Taran stared in dismay at the field where Aeddan had so painfully labored. The hooves of steeds had churned the earth to mud, uprooting the young shoots which now lay torn to shreds. The harvest on which Aeddan had staked his livelihood would never come, and Taran felt the farmer's heartbreak as if it were his own. Before he could speak, a troop of horsemen galloped from the woods edging the farm. Taran recognized Lord Goryon at their head. In another moment Lord Gast and his riders appeared. Catching sight of his rival, the cantrev lord spurred his mount and galloped frantically to the cottage, flung himself out of the saddle, and with a furious shout raced toward Goryon.

"Robber!" cried Gast. "Do you mean to steal Cornillo from me again?"

"Thief!" cried Goryon. "I took what was mine to begin with!"

"Liar!" roared Gast. "Never was she yours!"

"Insults! Insolence!" roared Goryon, his face turning purple, his hand snatching for his sword.

"Be silent!" bellowed Smoit. He shook his battle axe at the cantrev lords. "Your King speaks! How dare you quarrel and insult each other, you pigheaded brawlers!" Smoit gestured to his warriors, who strode to seize Gast and Goryon. The riders of the two war bands cried out angrily and made to unsheathe their swords; for an instant Taran feared another battle would rage then and there. But Smoit's warriors stood their ground, and the sight of the enraged King himself caused the horsemen to draw back submissively. "My dungeon will teach you to be good neighhors," cried Smoit. "You'll stay there till you learn. As for Cornillo--- I've split my skull, cracked my bones, and ridden to the edge of starvation this day, and so I claim her for myself! A prize of war! And small recompense it is for the vexation you've given me! Another day and you'd have set the whole cantrev ablaze!" At this, Gast and Goryon both roared in furious protest; and Taran could no longer hold his tongue. He strode to the King's side.

"Sire, even a lifetime in your dungeon will notraise one grain of wheat on a ruined field. Aeddan has lost all he hoped to gain, one harvest to keep himself and his wife alive. You offered me a favor," Taran went on. "I refused it then; will you let me claim it now?"

"Ask what you please my lad," replied Smoit.

"It is already given." Taran hesitated a moment as he stepped forward and stood facing the cantrev lords. Then he turned to Smoit.

"I ask you this," he said. "Set Gast and Goryon free."

While Smoit blinked in astonishment, Goryon, glimpsing Taran for the first time, exclaimed, "It's the pig-keeper who cozened me out of my horse! I took him for a lout, but he asks a noble favor. Grant it, Smoit. He speaks wisdom!"

"Set them free," Taran continued, "to labor beside Aeddan and strive to mend what they have destroyed."

"What?" cried Gast. "I took him for a hero, but he's no more than a lout! How dare he ask Gast the Generous to delve the ground like a mole and for no reward!"

"Impudence! Impertinence! Insolence!" shouted Goryon. "I'll not have a pig-keeper pass judgment on Goryon the Valorous!"

"Nor on Gast the Generous!" exclaimed Gast.

"Pass judgment on yourselves, then," Taran answered, picking up two handfuls of earth and torn shoots and holding them before the furious, cantrev lords. "This is what remains of Aeddan's livelihood. As well take a sword and slay him. Look on this, Lord Goryon, for there is more truth here than in your tales of giants and monsters. And this he treasured, Lord Gast, more than you treasure any of your possessions--- and it was more truly his own, for he toiled to make it so." Gast and Goryon had fallen silent; the two rough cantrev lords stared at the ground like sheepish boys. Aeddan and his wife looked on without speaking.

"The lad has a better head on his shoulders than I do," exclaimed Smoit, "and his judgment is wiser. Kinder, too, for my choice would have been the dungeon, not the delving!" The cantrev lords reluctantly nodded agreement.

Taran turned to Smoit. "The rest of my favor is this: Grant most where need is greatest. Do you claim Cornillo for your own? Sire, give her to Aeddan."

"Give up Cornillo?" Smoit began, sputtering and choking. "My prize of war..." He finally nodded his head. "So be it, lad."

"Aeddan shall keep her," Taran went on, "and Gast and Goryon shall have her next calves."

"What of my herd?" cried Goryon.

"And mine!"cried Gast. "They're so mixed together no man can tell his own from another's."

"Lord Goryon shall divide the herds in equal portions," Taran said.

"He shall not!" Lord Gast broke in. "He'll give me all the scrawny ones and keep the fat for himself. It's I who'll divide them!"

"Not so!" shouted Goryon. "You'll fob off none of your rawboned creatures on me!"

"Lord Goryon shall divide the herds," Taran repeated. "But Lord Gast shall be first to choose his half."

"Well said!" Smoit burst out, roaring with laughter. "My breath and blood, you have them there! Goryon divides and Gast chooses! Ho, oho! It takes two thieves to strike an honest bargain!"

Aeddan and Alarca had come to stand before Taran and King Smoit. "Who you may truly be, I do not know," the farmer said to Taran. "But you befriended me far better than I befriended you."

"Oh, wisdom of kindly master!" cried Gurgi, as the cantrev lords set about dividing their herds and Smoit's warriors made ready to return to Caer Cadarn. "Gurgi finds cows, but only wise master knows what to do with them!"

"If indeed I did rightly," Taran replied, "Gast and Goryon will be waiting for Cornillo's calves. Gast said they were always twins. I only hope," he added with a grin, "that she doesn't disappoint us."

Taran showing a glimpse of some real wisdom here. As with when Goryon had his horse, he came to a quick solution - and a fair one, at that.

quote:

IT WAS LONG AFTER NIGHTFALL when the companions at last reached Caer Cadarn. Fflewddur and Gurgi were too exhausted to do more than fling themselves onto their couches. Taran would gladly have followed them, but Smoit took his arm and drew him to the Great Hall.

"Count your day well spent, my lad," cried Smoit. "You've spared the cantrev from a war and me from being drubbed into jelly. As for Gast and Goryon, how long they'll stay at peace with each other I'll not guess. But you've taught me one thing: My dungeons are useless. My body and bones, I'll have them walled up directly. From this day I'll try my hand at speaking instead of smiting! "And yet, lad," Smoit went on, furrowing his brow, "my wits are slow. I need no man to tell me that, and I am easier in my mind when I have a blade in my hand. Will you return favor for favor? Stay with me in Cantrev Cadiffor."

"Sire," Taran answered, "I seek to learn who my kinsmen are. I cannot..."

"Kinsmen!" shouted Smoit, slapping his great girth. "There's enough of me to make all the kinsmen you could want! Hear me well," he added, his voice quieter now, "a widower am I, and childless. Do you yearn for parents? No less do I yearn for a son. When the horn of Gwyn the Hunter sounds for me, there shall be none to take my place, and none would I choose but you. Stay, lad, and you shall one day be King of Cadiffor."

"King of Cadiffor?" Taran cried. His heart leaped. What need to seek the Mirror when he could offer Eilonwy a royal throne, the proudest gift he could ever lay at her feet? Taran King of Cadiffor. The words rang more sweetly in his ears than Taran Assistant Pig-Keeper. Yet suddenly his joy turned cold. While Eilonwy might honor his rank, could she respect him for abandoning his quest even before it had begun? Could he respect himself? For a long while Taran did not answer, then with fond admiration he turned his eyes to Smoit. "The honor you would give me," Taran began, "there is nothing I would value more highly. Yes--- I long to accept it." His voice faltered. "Yet I would rather hold kingship by right of noble birth, not as a gift! It may be," he went on slowly, "that in truth I am nobly born. If it should prove thus, then gladly would I rule Cadiffor."

"How then!" cried Smoit. "My body and bones, I'd rather see a wise pig-keeper on my throne than a blood prince who's a fool!"

"But there is this, as well," Taran answered. "It is in my heart to learn the truth about myself. I will not stop short of it. Were I to do so, who I truly am would forever be unknown and through all my life Iwould feel a part of me lacking." At these words Smoit's battle-scarred face fell with sadness and regretfully he bowed his head. But after a moment he clapped Taran heartily on the back.

"My breath, blood, and beard!" he cried. "You've a will to chase the wild goose, will-o'-thewisp, looking-glass, or whatever it may be; and I'll say no more to keep you from it. Seek it out, lad! Whether or not you find it, come back and Cadiffor will welcome you. But hasten, for if Gast and Goryon are ever at loggerheads again, I'll not vouch for how much of the cantrev will be left!"

Thus Taran, with Gurgi and Fflewddur Fflam, set off once more. In his secret heart Taran cherished the hope he might return to Smoit's realm with proud tidings of his parentage. Yet he did not foresee how long it would be until he set foot in Cantrev Cadiffor again.

I like Smoit's vulnerable moment here a lot.

# ? Dec 16, 2023 15:27

Coca Koala: Nov 28, 2005; ongoing nowhere; College Slice

I like that closing scene a lot because it's such a good dilemma for Taran - he set out in the hopes that he would find he has noble blood, and here nobility is being directly offered to him. He could have exactly the thing he thinks he wants, and honestly nobody would say he didn't earn it; taking it and calling the quest done isn't a bad or wrong option, and neither is deciding to continue on. So Taran's got to think about what feels right to him and what he would feel good about, and it really highlights the growth he's gone through because Taran from the first or second book is absolutely taking Smoit's offer every time because it's a quick way to excise the "assistant pig-keeper" label.

and yes, it's also a nice moment of vulnerability for Smoit - he's concerned about what he leaves behind after he's gone.

# ? Dec 16, 2023 16:12

regulargonzalez: Aug 18, 2006; UNGH LET ME LICK THOSE BOOTS DADDY HULU YES YES GIVE ME ALL THE CORPORATE CUMMIES ADBLOCK USERS DESERVE THE DEATH PENALTY, DON'T THEY DADDY?
WHEN THE RICH GET RICHER I GET HORNIER

I kind of hate the message that nobility by right of blood is a more valuable thing than becoming a ruler due to having the skill for it. Wanting to know your parents and heritage is all well and good but there's definitely some outdated British monarchy-worship in there.

# ? Dec 16, 2023 17:32

Genghis Cohen: Jun 29, 2013

regulargonzalez posted:

I kind of hate the message that nobility by right of blood is a more valuable thing than becoming a ruler due to having the skill for it. Wanting to know your parents and heritage is all well and good but there's definitely some outdated British monarchy-worship in there.

Well I don't know about that, Smoit explicitly derides the idea - better a wise pig-keeper than a foolish prince of the blood - so I think the text is more saying that Taran does cling to that idea from his inferiority complex, but the important bit to him, as he gains wisdom, is finding out the truth and wondering whence he came. Of course what he's really doing is discovering his own nature via the journey.

# ? Dec 19, 2023 03:15

Wahad: May 19, 2011; There is no escape.

No chapter today, or saturday, owing to the holidays. Chapters resume Wednesday the 27th.

# ? Dec 20, 2023 18:22

Wahad: May 19, 2011; There is no escape.

Chapter 6: A Frog

We're back! Hope everyone had a merry feast.

quote:

FROM CAER CADARN the companions made good progress and within a few days crossed the Ystrad River, where Fflewddur led them for a time along the farther bank before turning northeastward through the Hill Cantrevs. Unlike the Valley Cantrevs, these lands were grayish and flinty. What might once have been fair pasture-land Taran saw to be overlaid with brush, and the long reaches of forest were close-grown and darkly tangled. Fflewddur admitted his roving seldom brought him to these parts.

"The cantrev nobles are as glum as their domains. Play your merriest tune and the best you can hope for is a sour smile. Yet, if the old lore is true, these realms were as rich as any in Prydain. The sheep of the Hill Cantrevs--- Great Belin, it's said they had fleece so thick you could sink your arm in it up to the elbow! Nowadays, alas, they tend to be a little scruffy."

"Aeddan told me Arawn Death-Lord stole many secrets from the farmers of the valley," Taran replied. "Surely he robbed the shepherds of the Hill Cantrevs as well."

Fflewddur nodded. "Few treasures he hasn't spoiled or stolen save those of the Fair Folk, and even Arawn might think twice before trifling with them. Be that as it may," he went on, "I'd not change the Northern Realms, where my own kingdom is, for any of these. There, my boy, we raise no sheep, but famous bards and warriors! Naturally, the House of Fflam has held its throne there for--- well, for a remarkably long time. In the veins of a Fflam," declared the bard, "flows royal blood of the Sons of Don! Prince Gwydion himself is my kinsman. Distant ---distant, it's true," he added hastily, "but a kinsman nonetheless."

"Gurgi does not care for famous sheep or fleecy bards," Gurgi wistfully murmured. "He is happy at Caer Dallben, oh, yes, and wishes he is soon there."

"As for that," answered Fflewddur, "I'm afraid you'll have hard travel before you see home again. It's anyone's guess how long it will take to find your mysterious Mirror. I'll go with you as far as I can," he said to Taran, "though sooner or later I shall have to get back to my kingdom. My subjects are always impatient for my return..." The harp shuddered violently as a string snapped in two. Fflewddur's face reddened. "Ahem," he said, "yes, what I meant was: I'll be anxious to see them again. The truth of it is, I often have the feeling they manage quite well even when I'm not there. Still, a Fflam is dutiful!" The companions halted while Fflewddur slid from Llyan's back and squatted on the turf to repair his broken string. From his jacket the bard took the large key which he used to tighten the harp's wooden pegs, and began patiently retuning the instrument.

A raucous cry made Taran glance quickly skyward. "It's Kaw!" he exclaimed, pointing to the winged shape plummeting swiftly toward the companions. Gurgi shouted joyfully and clapped his hands as the crow alighted on Taran's wrist. "So you've found us, old friend," cried Taran, delighted to have the crow with him once again. "Tell me," he went on quickly, "how does Eilonwy fare? Does she miss--- all of us?"

"Princess!" Kaw croaked, beating his wings. "Princess! Eilonwy! Taran!" He clacked his beak, hopped up and down on Taran's wrist, and set up such a jabbering and chattering that Taran could barely make out one word from another. The best he could understand was that Eilonwy's indignation at being forced to learn royal behavior had by no means dwindled, and that indeed she missed him--- tidings that both cheered Taran and sharpened his yearning for the golden-haired Princess. In the cavern on Mona, Kaw also managed to convey, Glew the giant had been restored to his original size by Dallben's potion. Kaw himself was in the best of spirits. Still gabbling at the top of his voice, he flapped his glossy black wings, hopped from Taran's wrist to greet the other companions, and even perched on Llyan's head, where he busily ran his beak through the great cat's tawny fur.

Kaw's back!

quote:

"His eyes will help our search," Taran said to Fflewddur, who had left his harp to come and stroke the bird's sleek feathers. "Kaw can scout the land better than any of us."

"So he can," agreed Fflewddur, "if he has a mind to and if you can make him heed you. Otherwise the scamp will have his beak in everyone's business but his own."

"Yes, yes," Gurgi added, shaking a finger at the crow. "Heed commands of kindly master! Help him with flyings and spyings, not pryings and lyings!" In answer, the crow impudently thrust out a sharp black tongue. With a flirt of his tail he fluttered to the harp and began rapidly twanging the strings with his beak. At the bard's cry of protest, Kaw hopped from the instrument's curved frame and snatched up the tuning key, which he began dragging across the turf.

"He's brazen as a magpie!" cried Fflewddur, setting off after the crow. "He's thieving as a jackdaw!" No sooner did Fflewddur come within half a pace of him than Kaw nimbly hopped away again, bearing the key in his beak. Squawking merrily, the crow stayed always out of Fflewddur's grasp, and Taran could not help laughing at the sight of the long-shanked bard vainly racing in circles, while Kaw danced ahead of him. When Gurgi and Taran joined the pursuit and Taran's fingers had come within a hair's breadth of the crow's tail feathers, Kaw shot upwards and flapped teasingly a short distance into the woods. There he lighted on the gnarled branch of a tall, ancient oak, and peered with bright beady eyes at the companions gathered below.

"Come down," Taran ordered as sternly as he could, for the bird's comical antics made it impossible for him to be seriously angry. "I've tried to teach him to behave," Taran sighed, "but it's no use. He'll bring it back when he feels like it and not before."

"Hi, hi! Drop it!" called Fflewddur, waving his arms. "Drop it, I say!" At this Kaw bobbed his head, hunched up his wings, and dropped the key--- not into the bard's outstretched hands but into a hollow of the tree trunk.

"Dropped it! Dropped it!" croaked Kaw, rocking back and forth on the branch, jabbering and chuckling gleefully at his own jest.

Fflewddur snorted. "That bird's ill-mannered as a starling! He's had his merriment, now I shall have the toil." Muttering hard comments about the impudence of waggish crows, the bard flung his arms about the trunk and tried to haul himself upward. Less than halfway, his grip loosened and he came tumbling down to land heavily amid the roots. "A Fflam is agile!" Fflewddur panted, ruefully rubbing his back. "Great Belin, there's not a tree I can't climb--- ah, except this one." He mopped his brow and glared at the high trunk.

"Gurgi climbs, yes, yes!" cried Gurgi, springing to the oak. With shaggy arms and legs working all at once, in a trice the creature clambered up the tree. While Fflewddur shouted encouragement, Gurgi thrust a skinny hand into the hollow. "Here is tuneful key, oh, yes!" he called. "Clever Gurgi finds it!" He stopped short. Taran saw the creature's face wrinkle in surprise and perplexity. Tossing the key down to Fflewddur, Gurgi turned once more to the hollow. "But what is this? What else does Gurgi find with gropings? Kindly master," he shouted, "here is strange something all set away in hidings!" Taran saw the excited creature tuck an object under his arm and slide down the oak tree. "See with lookings!" cried Gurgi as Taran and the bard pressed around him. Kaw's prank was forgotten in the moment and the crow, not abashed whatever, flew to Taran's shoulder, stretched out his neck, and crowded forward as if determined to be first to glimpse Gurgi's discovery. "Is it treasure?" Gurgi exclaimed. "Oh, treasure of great worth! And Gurgi finds it!" He stamped his feet wildly. "Open it, kindly master! Open and seewhat riches it holds!" What Gurgi pressed into Taran's hand was a small, squat iron coffer no wider than Taran's palm. Its curved lid was heavily hinged, bound with iron strips, and secured by a stout padlock. "Is it jewels with winkings and blinkings? Or gold with shimmerings and glimmerings?" cried Gurgi, as Taran turned the coffer over and over; Fflewddur, too, peered at it curiously.

"Well, friends," the bard remarked, "at least we'll have some reward for the trouble that pilfering jackdaw has given us. Though from the size of it, I fear it shan't be very much." Taran, meantime, had been struggling with the lock which refused to give way. The lid resisted all his battering, and finally he had to set the coffer on the ground where Gurgi held it tightly while the bard and Taran pried at the hinges with the points of their swords. But the coffer was surprisingly strong, and it took all their strength and effort before the lid at last, yielded and fell away with a loud, rasping snap. Within lay a packet of soft leather which Taran carefully untied.

"What is it? What is it?" yelped Gurgi, jumping up and down on one leg. "Let Gurgi see shining treasure!" Taran laughed and shook his head. The packet held neither gold nor gems, but no more than a slender piece of bone as long as Taran's little finger. Gurgi groaned in disappointment. Fflewddur snorted.

"I should say our shaggy friend has found a very small hairpin or a very large toothpick. I doubt we'll have much use for either one." Taran had not ceased examining the strange object. The sliver of bone was dry and brittle, bleached white and highly polished. Whether animal or human he could not tell.

"What value can this have?" he murmured, frowning.

"Great value," replied Fflewddur, "if one should ever need a toothpick. Beyond that," he shrugged. "Keep it, if you like or toss it away; I can't see it would make any difference. Even the chest is beyond repair."

"But if it's worthless," Taran said, still studying the bone closely, "why should it be so carefully locked up? And so carefully hidden?"

"It's been my long experience that people can be very odd about their belongings," said Fflewddur, "A favorite toothpick, a family heirloom--- but, yes, I see what you're driving at. A Fflam is quick-thinking! Whoever put it away didn't want it found. As I was about to remark, there's considerably more here than meets the eye."

"And yet," Taran began, "a hollow tree seems hardly the safest place to keep anything."

"On the contrary," answered the bard. "What better way to hide something? Indoors, it could be found without too much difficulty. Bury it in the ground and there's the problem of moles, badgers, and all such. But a tree like this," he continued, glancing upward, "I doubt that anyone but Gurgi could climb it without a ladder, and it's hardly probable that anyone strolling through this forest would be carrying a ladder with them. If the birds or squirrels nest on top, they'd only cover it up all the more. No, whoever put it there gave the matter careful thought and took as much pains as if..."

Fflewddur's face paled. "As if..." He swallowed hard, choking on his own words. "Get rid of it" he whispered urgently. "Forget we ever found the thing. I can sniff enchantment, a mile away. Toothpick, hairpin, or what have you, there's something queer about it." He shuddered. "As I've said time and time again: Don't meddle. You know my mind on that score. Two things never mix: one is enchantments and the other is meddling with them." Taran did not answer immediately, but stared for a time at the polished fragment.

At last he said, "Whatever it may be, it's not ours to take. Yet, if there is enchantment, good or evil, dare we leave it?"

"Away with it!" cried Fflewddur. "If it's good there's no harm done. If it's evil there's no telling what beastly thing might happen. Put it back, by all means."Taran reluctantly nodded. Wrapping the bone once more, he replaced, it in the coffer, set the broken lid loosely on top, and asked Gurgi to return it to the hollow. Gurgi, who had been listening closely to Fflewddur's talk of enchantment, was loath even to touch the coffer; and only after much urging and pleading by the companions did he agree to do so. He hastily climbed the oak and scuttled down even faster than he had clambered up. "And good riddance to it," muttered Fflewddur, striding as quickly as he could from the forest, Taran and Gurgi after him, the latter casting fearful backward glances until the oak was well out of sight.

A strange little bit of bone, in a chest, in the hollow of a tree. Wonder who put it there.

quote:

THE COMPANIONS RETURNED to their steeds and prepared to mount.

Fflewddur picked up his harp, looked about him, and called, "I say, where's Llyan? Don't tell me she's wandered off." Taran's alarm quickly changed to reassurance, for a moment later he saw the huge cat plunge from the underbrush and lope to Fflewddur, who clapped his hands and made loud whispering noises through his teeth. "Sa! Sa! So there you are, old girl," cried the bard, beaming happily as Llyan frisked about him. "Now, what have you been after?""I think she's caught a--- why, yes--- she's caught a frog!" Taran exclaimed, catching sight of a pair of long legs with webbed feet dangling from Llyan's mouth.

"Yes, yes," put in Gurgi. "A froggie! A froggie with thumpings and jumpings!"

"I should hardly think so," said the bard. "We've seen no swamps or pools, and very little water at all, for the matter of that." Proudly purring, Llyan dropped her burden at Fflewddur's feet. It was indeed a frog, and the biggest Taran had ever seen. The bard, after patting Llyan's head and fondly rubbing her ears, knelt and with a certain squeamishness picked up the motionless creature. "Yes, well, I'm delighted, old girl," he said, holding it at arm's length between his thumb and forefinger. "It's lovely; I don't know how to thank you. She often does this," he explained to Taran. "I don't mean dead frogs necessarily, but odds and ends--- an occasional mouse, that sort of thing. Little gifts she fancies I might enjoy. A sign of affection. I always make a fuss over them. It's the thought, after all, that counts."

Taran, curious, took the frog from the bard's hand. Llyan, he saw, had carried the creature gently and had in no way harmed it. Instead, the frog had suffered from lack of water. Its skin, splotched in green and yellow, was sadly parched.Its legs feebly splayed; its webbed toes had begun to curl and wither like dry leaves; and its great bulging eyes were tightly shut. Regretfully, Taran was about to return the creature to the bushes when the faint tremor of a heartbeat touched his palm.

"Fflewddur, the poor thing's alive," Taran said. "There may still be time to save him." The bard shook his head.

"I doubt it. He's too much the worse for wear. A shame, for he's a jolly-looking fellow."

"Give poor froggie a drink," Gurgi suggested. "Give him water with sloshings and washings." In Taran's hand the frog stirred as in a last, painful effort. One eye flickered, the wide mouth gaped, and its throat trembled like a faint pulse.

"Arrad!" croaked the frog.

"I say, there is life in him yet!" exclaimed Fflewddur. "But he must be desperately sick. I've never heard a frog make a noise like that."

"Urgghi!" the frog croaked. "Ood!" The creature was struggling to make a further sound, but its croaking dwindled to a hoarse and scarcely audible rasping. "Elpp! Elpp!"

"He is an odd one," remarked Fflewddur, as Taran, more puzzled than ever, held the frog close to his ear. The creature had forced its eyes open and stared at Taran with what seemed a mostpitiful, pleading expression. "I've known them to go 'chug-a-chug,' " continued Fflewddur, "and at times 'thonk.' But this fellow--- if frogs could talk, I'd swear he was saying 'help'!" Taran gestured the bard to silence. From deep in the frog's throat came another sound, hardly more than a whisper but clear and unmistakable. Taran's jaw fell. His eyes wide with bewilderment, he turned to Fflewddur. Barely able to speak, he held the frog in his outstretched hand and gasped,

"It's Doli!"

A...reunion?

# ? Dec 27, 2023 18:02

Coca Koala: Nov 28, 2005; ongoing nowhere; College Slice

Doli seems like he's doing well.

# ? Dec 27, 2023 18:26

GodFish: Oct 10, 2012; We're your first, last, and only line of defense. We live in secret. We exist in shadow.

And we dress in black.

Good Old Doli!

# ? Dec 27, 2023 18:58

Ravenfood: Nov 4, 2011

regulargonzalez posted:

I kind of hate the message that nobility by right of blood is a more valuable thing than becoming a ruler due to having the skill for it. Wanting to know your parents and heritage is all well and good but there's definitely some outdated British monarchy-worship in there.

I think Taran thinks so, but Smoit pretty clearly tells him to cut that poo poo out and reinforces that his offer to Taran stands regardless of the quests outcome.

I think Taran is also conflating his desire to find his family and heritage with a desire to find that he is secretly a prince or whatever.

# ? Dec 31, 2023 16:11

Prurient Squid: Jul 21, 2008; Tiddy cat Buddha improving your day.

Smatterings and patterings and clatterings and splatterings.

# ? Jan 2, 2024 21:42

Wahad: May 19, 2011; There is no escape.

Two chapters today, coz I missed saturday!

Chapter 7: Friends in Danger

quote:

"DOLI!" ECHOED THE astonished bard, falling back a pace. His eyes bulged like the frog's and he clapped his hands to his head. "It can't be! Not Doli of the Fair Folk! Not good old Doli!" Gurgi had just then come up with a leather water flask and, hearing Fflewddur's words, beganyelping in terror and dismay. Taran took the flask from Gurgi's trembling hand, unstoppered it, and with all haste began drenching the frog.

"Oh, terrible! Oh, horrible!" moaned Gurgi. "Unlucky Doli! Unhappy dwarfish companion! But how did this froggie swallow him with gulpings?" Under the stream of water the frog had begun to revive, and now kicked mightily with its long hind legs.

"Skin! Skin!" came Doli's voice. "Pour it on my skin! Not down my throat, you clot! Are you trying to drown me?"

"Great Belin," murmured Fflewddur. "At first I thought it was just a frog who happened to have the same name as Doli. But I'd know that temper anywhere."

"Doli!" Taran cried. "Is it really you?"

"Of course it is, you long-legged beanpole!" snapped Doli's voice. "Just because I look like a frog on the outside doesn't mean I'm not myself onthe inside!"

Taran's head spun at the thought of Doli in this form. Gurgi was speechless, his eyes as round and wide open as his mouth. Fflewddur, as stunned as the other companions, had recovered somewhat from his first shock and now dropped to his hands and knees on the damp turf where Taran had set the frog.

"You've chosen a strange way to travel about," said Fflewddur. "Did you weary of turning yourself invisible? I can understand how that might be tiresome. But--- a frog? Though you do make a handsome one. I remarked on it the moment I saw you."

The frog rolled up his eyes in utter exasperation and his green-spotted body began to swell as if it might burst. "Chosen? Do you think I chose this? I'm bewitched, you ninny! Can't you see that?"

Taran's heart skipped a beat. "Who bewitched you?" he cried, aghast at the weird fate which had befallen his old companion. "Was it Orddu? She's threatened us before. Did you, too, journey to the Marshes?"

"Idiot! Numbskull!" retorted Doli. "I've better sense than to trifle with her."

"Who then has done this to you?" Taran exclaimed. "How can we help? Dallben surely has power against such enchantment. Have courage! We'll take you to him."

"No time!" Doli answered. "I don't know if Dallben can break the spell. I don't even know if King Eiddileg of the Fair Folk can do it. Right now it doesn't matter. If you want to help me," Doli went on, "dig a hole and put some water in it. I'm dry as a bone, and that's the worst thing that can happen to me--- I mean, to a frog. I learned that quickly enough."He blinked at Fflewddur. "If that giant cat of yours hadn't found me, I'd be dead as a stump. Where did you ever get such a big one?"

"It's a long story," began the bard.

"Don't tell me then," snapped Doli. "As for what brings you here, of all places, you can explain when there's more time." He settled into the muddy basin Taran and Fflewddur had scraped out with their swords and filled with water from the flask. "Ah ---ah, that's better. I owe you my life. Ah--- what a relief. Thank you, friends, thank you."

"Doli, we can't let you stay in this plight," Taran insisted. "Tell us who cast this evil spell. We'll find him and make him lift it."

"At sword point, if need be!" cried Fflewddur. He stopped and peered with renewed fascination at Doli. "I say, old boy, what's it really like, being a frog? I've often wondered."

"Damp is what it's like," retorted Doli. "Damp! Clammy! If I thought turning myself invisible was uncomfortable, this is a hundred times worse. It's like--- oh, don't boggle me with stupid questions! It doesn't matter. I'll manage somehow. There's more important work afoot. Yes, you can help me," Doli quickly went on. "If anyone can help at all. Strange things have been happening..."

"So it would seem," agreed the bard, "to say the very least."

"Fflewddur, let him speak," Taran broke in. "His life may be at stake."

"Strange things," Doli resumed. "Peculiar, unsettling. First, not long ago, word reached King Eiddileg in our realm at the bottom of Black Lake that someone had plundered a Fair Folk treasure trove. Broke into it! Made off with the most valuable gems. It's rarely happened in all the history of Prydain."

Fflewddur gave a whistle of surprise. "Knowing Eiddileg, I can imagine he was rather sour about it."

"Not for loss of the gems," replied Doli. "We've more than enough. It's that someone was able to find the trove in the first place; and, in the second, dared to lay hands on Fair folk treasure. Most of you mortals have better sense."

"Could it have been Arawn or any of his servants?" Taran asked.

"I shouldn't think so," put in Fflewddur. "As I remarked only today, even the Lord of Annuvin would be more than cautious with Fair Folk."

"For once you're right," Doli answered. "No, not Arawn. We were sure of that. But we had only one report, incomplete, from a Fair Folk watcher in the Hill Cantrevs. No tidings from the guardian of the way post here--- that, in itself, was very odd. Eiddileg sent a messenger to scout around and get to the root of things. He never came back. Not a word from him. Eiddileg sent another. Same thing. Silence. Dead silence. You can guess who was chosen to go next. That's right. Good old Doli. Anything disagreeable to be done? Any unpleasant task?" Until now, Taran had never been aware that a frog's face could show such a look of indignation and of being much put upon. Doli snorted, as well as he was able in his present shape. "Naturally, send for good old Doli."

"But you found who did it?" Taran asked.

"Of course I did," Doli retorted. "But I failed in the end. Look at me! Now, of all times, of all the useless things to be! Oh, if I only had my axe! The Fair Folk are in danger," he went on hurriedly. "Terrible danger. Yes, I learned who found our trove and stole our treasure. The same who cast this spell on me: Morda!"

"Morda?" Taran repeated, frowning. "Who is Morda? How could he have done so? Why would he dare to risk Eiddileg's wrath?"

"Why? Why?" Doli's eyes popped furiously and he began to swell up again. "Don't you understand? Morda, this foul villain of a wizard! Oh, he's shrewder than a serpent! Don't you see? He's found a way of bewitching Fair Folk! No enchanter has ever been able to cast a spell on us. Unheard of! Unthinkable!

"And if he's gained the power to turn us into animals--- fish, frogs, no matter--- we're at his
mercy. He could slay us out of hand, if he chose. That's surely what happened to the way post guardian, to the messengers who vanished without a trace. It can happen to any of us. To Eiddileg himself! Not one of the Fair Folk can be safe from Morda. He's the worst threat ever to fall upon our realm." Doli sank back exhausted by his own outburst, and the companions glanced fearfully at each other. "What his scheme is, I couldn't discover," Doli continued at last. "Oh, I tracked him to his hiding place easily enough. He lives in a sort of enclosure not too far from here. I'd gone invisible, needless to say. But it was making my ears buzz so much, worse than a pair of hornets' nests! In the darkness I thought I could chance turning visible--- just for a moment, to escape that awful buzzing. Next thing I knew, there I was, as you see me now.

"Morda could have crushed me then and there. Instead, he mocked my plight. It amused him to see a helpless frog. Then he threw me down among the rocks. He savored my lingering agony more than the mercy of killing me out of hand. He was sure I'd perish in these dry hills, withering little by little to my death. And if by some chance I didn't--- what difference could it make? How could a frog hope to prevail against a wizard? I crept away, trying to find water. I kept on until I could go no farther. Your cat found me then. If she hadn't, I can tell you it would have been the end of me. One thing Morda forgot," Doli added, "one tiny thing he overlooked: I could still speak. I myself didn't know it at the time. The shock of being turned into a frog quite took away my voice for a while."

"Great Belin," murmured Fflewddur, "I've heard of people having frogs in their throats, but never... Forgive me, forgive me, old boy," he added quickly, as Doli glared at him. "I didn't mean to ruffle your feelings."

"Doli, tell us what we must do," Taran cried, horror-stricken at the dwarf's account. It was not Doli's plight alone that turned his blood cold; he saw clearly the fate in store for all the Fair Folk. "Lead us to Morda. We'll try to take him prisoner, or slay him if we must."

"So we shall!" exclaimed Fflewddur, drawing his sword. "I'll not have my friends turned into frogs!"

"No, no!" shouted Gurgi. "Froggies are froggies, but friends are friends!"

"Attack Morda?" Doli replied. "Are you out of your heads? You'll end up in the same pickle as me. No, you can't risk it. Eiddileg must be warned, but before that I must finish my task. Find out more of Morda's powers and how he means to use them. There's no hope of Fair Folk standing against him unless we know better what we have to deal with. Take me back to Morda's stronghold. Somehow I'll get to the bottom of his scheme. Then carry me to a way post, so I can get word to Eiddileg and spread the alarm." A sudden-spasm convulsed him; for an instant Doli seemed about to choke, then a racking sneeze nearly flung him out of the puddle. "Curse this dampness!" he sputtered. "Curse that blackhearted Morda! He's given me all the bad points of being a frog and none of the good!" Doli began coughing violently. "Blast it! Dow I ab losigg by voice! Bake haste! Bake haste! Pick be up. I'll show you the way. There's doe tibe to waste!"

What are the good points of being a frog, I wonder?

quote:

THE COMPANIONS HURRIEDLY mounted. With Doli clinging to his saddle horn, Taran galloped where the dwarf commanded. But the forest thickened and slowed their pace, and often in the tangle of branches they were forced to dismount and go afoot. Doli had assured them the distance was not great, but his usually unfailing sense of direction had grown confused. At times the dwarf was uncertain which path to follow, and twice the companions reined up and retraced their steps.

"Dote blade be!" snapped Doli. "I cabe over this ladd crawligg odd by belly. It's dot the sabe, seeigg it frob up here."

To make matters worse, Doli began to shake and shudder. His eyes bleared; his nostrils streamed; and even as a frog he looked altogether miserable. With constant fits of sneezing and coughing, Doli's voice grew so hoarse he could barely force out a feeble, croaking whisper, which did nothing to improve the state of his disposition or the clarity of his directions to Taran. Until now there had been no sign of Kaw. When the companions had first hastened to follow Doli's orders, the crow had chosen this of all moments to be exasperatingly disobedient. He flapped into the woods, stubbornly refusing to heed Taran's pleas to come back. At last Taran left him behind, sure the crow would rejoin them when he saw fit; but as the companions made their way deeper into the forest, Taran had grown more anxious for the impudent bird. Thus, when they halted to set Doli on the ground--- where the dwarf insisted he could better regain his bearings--- Taran was too relieved to scold the crow when Kaw finally appeared. The prankster, Taran saw, had been up to his old tricks, for he bore some glittering find in his beak. Squawking proudly, Kaw dropped the object into the surprised Taran's hands. It was the fragment of polished bone.

"What have you done?" Taran cried in dismay, as Kaw, overwhelmingly pleased with himself, rocked back and forth and bobbed his head.

"The jackanapes!" burst out Fflewddur. "He's gone back and rifled the coffer. I thought us well rid of that enchanted toothpick, now we've got it again. A sour jest, you magpie!" he exclaimed, flapping his cloak at the bird, who nimbly dodged away. "A Fflam is fun-loving, but I see no joke in this at all. Throw it away," he urged Taran, "toss it into the bushes."

"I dare not, if indeed it's a thing of enchantment," Taran replied, though he felt as uneasy as the bard, and heartily wished Kaw had left the coffer undisturbed. A strange thought, vague and unformed, stirred in his mind, and he knelt, holding out the fragment to Doli. "What can this be?" he asked, after briefly telling how the sliver had first come into their hands. "Could Morda himself have hidden it?"

"Who dose?" croaked Doli. "I've dever seed eddythigg like it. But it's edchadded, you cad be sure. Keep it, id eddy case."

"Keep it?" cried the bard. "We'll have nothing but ill luck from the cursed thing. Bury it!" Swayed by Fflewddur's vehemence yet reluctant not to follow Doli's counsel, Taran stood uncertain what to do. At last, with strong misgivings, he tucked the fragment into his jacket. Fflewddur groaned.

"Meddling! We'll only gain trouble, mark my words. A Fflam is fearless, but not when there's unknown enchantment lurking in someone's pocket."

As they pressed on Taran shortly came to believe he had decided wrongly and that Fflewddur's unhappy prediction was well-founded. Doli had taken a turn for the worse; he could gasp no more than a word or two at a time. The frog's body trembled as in the grip of a painful ague; a sickness, Taran was sure, owing to Doli's grueling crawl overland. To keep his skin from parching, the companions drenched him regularly; while the treatment, on the one hand, kept him alive, on the other it added to his misery. Under the stream of water he sneezed, choked, and sputtered. Soon he sprawled listlessly, too feeble even to be bad-tempered. The day had waned quickly and the companions halted in a glade, for Doli had given them to understand that from now on they must travel with utmost caution. Setting the frog carefully in the folds of a dampened cloak, Taran drew Fflewddur aside and spoke hurriedly with him.

"He has no strength for his task," Taran murmured. "We dare not let him go on."

Fflewddur nodded. "I doubt he could, even if he wanted to."

The bard's face, like Taran's, was drawn tightly with concern.Taran was silent. What he must do was plain to him; yet, despite himself, he shrank from facing it. His mind groped for another, better plan, but found none, returning always to the same answer. What kept him from taking the clear course was not reluctance to help a close companion, for this he would have done gladly. Nor was it fear for his life, but terror that he might share Doli's fate; not only that his own quest would fail but that he might himself be imprisoned, hapless in some pitful creature shape, captive forever. He knelt at Doli's side.

"You must stay here. Fflewddur and Gurgi will watch over you. Tell me how I may find Morda."

Not sure what Taran thinks he's gonna do against this Morda fellow, but he did always have more courage than sense.

Chapter 8: The Walls of Thorns

quote:

HEARING THIS, DOLI KICKED weakly and croaked an incomprehensible protest, though nothing else could he do but agree to Taran's plan. With Kaw on his shoulder, Taran set off afoot through the woods. Behind him loped Gurgi, who had insisted on going with him. After a time Taran shortened his stride and finally halted to glance around him at the forest now thick with brambles. High thorn bushes rose amid the trees in a tangled, impassable screen. Taran realized he had found what he sought. The tall bushes were no haphazard growth, but had been craftily twined into a dense barrier, a living wall nearly twice his height, bristling with spines sharper than the talons of a gwythaint. Taran drew his sword and strove to cut an opening in the thicket.

The brambles were hard as cold iron and Taran blunted both his strength and his blade against them. All he gained for his labor was a tiny hole to which he pressed his eye; he made out nothing more than a dark mound of boulders and black turf surrounded by rank weeds and burdock. What first seemed the lair of a wild beast he saw to be a rambling, ill-shaped dwelling of low, squat walls roofed with sod. There was no movement, no sign of life, and he wondered if the wizard had left his fastness and the companions had come too late. The thought only put a sharper edge to his uneasiness.

"Somehow Doli forced his way in," Taran murmured, shaking his head. "But his skill is greater than mine; he must have struck on an easier passage. If we try climbing over," Taran added, "we risk being seen."

"Or caught on brambles with jabbings and stabbings!" Gurgi replied. "Oh, bold Gurgi does not like climbing walls without knowing what lies in lurkings beyond."

Taran took the crow from his shoulder. "Morda surely has his own passage: a breach in the thorns, or perhaps a tunnel. Find it for us," he said urgently to Kaw. "Find it for us, old friend."

"And hasten, too," Gurgi put in. "No jokings and trickings!" Silent as an owl, the crow flew upward, circled the barrier, then dropped out of sight. Taran and Gurgi crouched waiting in the shadows. After some while, when the sun had dipped below the trees and dusk had gathered with still no tidings from Kaw, Taran began to fear for the bird. Prankster though he was, Kaw understood the seriousness of his mission, and Taran knew it was more than whim that delayed the crow's return.

At last Taran dared wait no longer. He strode to the barrier and carefully began to climb. The branches writhed like serpents and tore viciously at his hands and face. Wherever he sought a foothold the thorns turned against him as with a will of their own. Just below, he heard Gurgi panting, as the sharp points struck through the creature's matted hair. Taran paused to catch his breath while Gurgiclambered up beside him. The top of the wall was almost within reach. With a sudden lashing and rattling among the thorns, a slipnoose tightened around Taran's upraised arm. He shouted in alarm and in that instant glimpsed the terrified face of Gurgi as loops of finely knotted cords whipped over the creature's body. A bent sapling sprang upright, pulling the ropes with it. Taran felt himself ripped from the brambles and, dangling on the end of the strong cord, flung upward and over the barrier. Now he understood the words Doli had striven to gasp out: traps and snares. He fell, and darkness swallowed him.

So what have we learned here? Don't mess with entire walls of brambles. Never works out.

quote:

A BONY HAND GRIPPED his throat. In his ears rasped a voice like a dagger drawn across a stone. "Who are you?" it repeated. "Who are you?"

Taran struggled to pull away, then realized his hands were bound behind him. Gurgi whimpered miserably. Taran's head spun. The guttering light of a candle stabbed his eyes. As his sight cleared, he saw a gaunt face the color of dry clay, eyes glittering like cold crystals deep set in a jutting brow as though at the bottom of a well. The skull was hairless; the mouth a livid scar stitched with wrinkles.

"How have you come here?" demanded Morda."What do you seek of me?" In the dimness Taran could make out little more than a low-ceilinged chamber and a fireless hearth filled with dead ashes. He himself had been propped in the angle of a low wall. Gurgi lay sprawled on the flagstones beside him. He glimpsed Kaw pinioned in a wicker basket set on a heavy oaken table, and he cried out to the bird. "What then," snapped the wizard, "is this crow yours? He found one of my snares, as you did. None enters here without my knowledge. This much have you already learned. Now it is I who shall learn more of you."

"Yes, the bird is mine," Taran answered in a bold voice, deciding his only hope lay in telling as much of the truth as he dared. "He flew beyond the thicket and did not return to us. We feared some mishap and went in search of him. We journey to the Llawgadarn Mountains. You have no cause to hinder us."

"You have hindered yourselves," replied Morda, "foolish creatures without the wits of a fly. To the Llawgadarn Mountains, you say? Perhaps. Perhaps not. In the race of men is much greed and envy; but of truth, little. Your face speaks for you and calls you liar. What do you hope to hide? No matter. Your paltry store of days you call life is spun out. You shall not leave here. And yet--- now you are in my hands, it may be that you shall serve me. I must ponder that. Your lives indeed may have some small use--- to me, if not to yourselves."

More than the wizard's words filled Taran with horror. As he watched, unable to take his own eyes away, Taran saw that Morda's gaze was unblinking. Even in the candle flame the shriveled eyelids never closed; Morda's cold stare never wavered. The wizard straightened and drew the grimy, threadbare robe closer about his wasted body. Taran gasped, for from Morda's withered neck hung a silver chain and crescent moon. Only one other he knew wore such an ornament: Princess Eilonwy Daughter of Angharad. Unlike Eilonwy's, the horns of this crescent held a strangely carved gem, clear as water, whose facets sparkled as though lit by an inner fire.

"The emblem of the House of Llyr!" Taran cried. Morda started and drew back. With fingers lean as spider's legs he clutched at the gem.

"Fool," he hissed, "did you think to gain this from me? Is that why you were sent? Yes, yes," he muttered, "so it must be." His bloodless lips twitched faintly as he fixed Taran with his unlidded eyes. "Too late. The Princess Angharad is long dead, and all its secrets are mine."

Taran stared at him, bewildered to hear the name. "Angharad Daughter of Regat?" he whispered. "Eilonwy never knew her mother's fate. But it was you--- at your hands," he burst out, "at your hands she met her death!" Morda said nothing for a time, seeming as one gripped by a black dream. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with hatred.

"Think you the life or death of one of you feeble creatures should concern me? I have seen enough of the human kind and have judged them for what they are: lower than beasts, blind and witless, quarrelsome, caught up in their own small cares. They are eaten by pride and senseless striving; they lie, cheat, and betray one another. Yes, I was born among the race of men. A human!" He spat the word scornfully. "But long have I known it is not my destiny to be one with them, and long have I dwelt apart from their bickerings and jealousies, their little losses and their little gains." Deep in their shrunken sockets the wizard's eyes glittered.

"As I would not debase myself to share their lives, neither would I share their deaths. Alone, I studied the arts of enchantment. From the ancient lore I learned the Fair Folk held certain gems hidden in their secret troves; he who possessed one gained life far longer than any mortal's mayfly span of days. None had found these treasure troves, and few had even dared to search. Yet I knew that I would learn the means to find them. As for her who called herself Angharad of Llyr," the wizard continued, "of a winter's night she begged refuge in my dwelling, claiming her infant daughter had been stolen, that she had journeyed long in search of her." The wizard's lips twisted. "As if her fate or the fate of a girl child mattered to me. For food and shelter she offered me the trinket she wore at her throat. I had no need to bargain; it was already mine, for too weak was she, too fevered to keep it from me if I chose to take it. She did not live out the night."

In loathing Taran turned his face away. "You took her life, as surely as if you put a dagger in her heart."

Morda's sharp, bitter laugh was like dry sticks breaking. "I did not ask her to come here. Her life was worth no more to me than the book of empty pages I found among her possessions. Though in its way the book proved to be not without some small value. In time a whining weakling found his way to me. Glew was his name, and he sought to make an enchanter of himself. Little fool! He beseeched me to sell him a magic spell, an amulet, a secret word of power. Sniveling upstart! It pleased me to teach him a lesson. I sold him the empty book and warned him not to open it or look upon it until he had traveled far from here lest the spells vanish."

"Glew!" Taran murmured. "So it was you who cheated him."

"Like all your kind," answered Morda, "his own greed and ambition cheated him, not I. His fate I know not, nor do I care to know. This much he surely learned: The arts of enchantment are not bought with gold."

"Nor stolen through heartlessness and evil, as you robbed the Princess Angharad," Taran flung back.

"Heartlessness? Evil?" said Morda. "These words are toys for creatures such as you. To me they mean nothing; my powers have borne me beyond them. The book served to make a fool taste his folly. But the jewel, the jewel served me, as all things will do at the end. The woman Angharad had told me the gem would lighten burdens and ease harsh tasks. And so it did, though years I spent in probing its secrets until I gained mastery of its use. At my command it dwindled the heaviest faggots to no more than twigs. With the gem's help I raised a wall of thorns. As my skill grew, I found the waters of a hidden spring." The wizard's unblinking eyes glittered triumphantly. "At last," he whispered, "at last the gem led me to what I had ever sought: a Fair Folk treasure trove. This trove held none of the life-giving stones," Morda went on. "But what matter! If not here, then would I find them elsewhere. Now all Fair Folk treasure, mines, hidden pathways--- all lay open to me.

You may remember, all the way back in the first book, how Eilonwy said she was sent to live with Achren in order to study. Last book obviously dispelled that lie, but now we learned that Angharad never stopped looking for Eilonwy, and met a tragic end and Morda's hands.

quote:

"One of the Fair Folk watchers came upon me then. I dared not let him raise an alarm. Though none had ever stood against any of them, I did so!" cried Morda. "My jewel was more than a trinket to lighten a scullery maid's toil. I had grasped the heart of its power. At my command this Fair Folk spy turned to a sightless, creeping mole! Yes," Morda hissed, "I had gained power even beyond what I sought. Who now would disobey me when I held the means to make men into the weak, groveling creatures they truly are! Did I seek only a gem? The whole kingdom of the Fair Folk was within my grasp. And all of Prydain! It was then I understood my true destiny. The race of men at last had found its master."

"Its master?" Taran cried, aghast at Morda's words. "You are viler than those you scorn. Dare you speak of greed and envy? The power of Angharad's gem was meant to serve, not enslave. Late or soon, your life will be forfeit to your evil."

The glint in Morda's lidless eyes flickered like a serpent's tongue. "Think you so?" he answered softly. From beyond the chamber came a shout, a sudden crashing amid the wall of thorns. Morda nodded curtly. "Another fly finds my web."

"Fflewddur!" Taran gasped as Morda strode from the chamber. He flung himself closer to Gurgi and the two tore at each other's bonds; in vain, for within a few moments the wizard returned, halfdragging a figure he trussed securely and threw to the ground beside the companions. It was, as Taran feared, the luckless bard.

"Great Belin, what's happened to you? What's happened to me?" groaned Fflewddur, stunned.

"You didn't come back... I went to have a look--- feared you'd got caught somehow in those brambles." The bard painfully shook his head. "What a jolt! My neck will never be the same."

"You shouldn't have followed us," Taran whispered. "I had no way to warn you. What of Doli?"

"Safe enough," replied Fflewddur. "Safer, at least, than we are now."

Morda had been intently watching the companions. "So it was the Fair Folk who sent you to spy on me. You are leagued with the dwarfish creature foolish enough to think he could escape me. So be it. Did I think to spare you? You will share his fate."

"Yes, Doli of the Fair Folk is our companion," Taran cried. "Unloose him from your spell. I warn you: Harm none of us. Your plan will fail, Morda. I am Taran of Caer Dallben, and we are under the protection of Dallben himself."

"Dallben," spat Morda. "Gray-bearded dotard! His powers cannot shield you now. Even Dallben will bow before me and do my bidding. As for you," he added, "I will not slay you. That would be paltry punishment. You will live--- as long as you are able to live in the shapes you will soon have; live and know, during every moment of your wretched days, the cost of defying me." Morda took the jewel and chain from about his neck and turned to Fflewddur. "Let your boldness in seeking your fellows now be cowardice. Flee at the barking of hounds or the tread of hunters. Crouch in fear at the flutter of a leaf and the passing of every shadow."

The gem flashed blindingly. Morda's hand shot forward. Taran heard Fflewddur cry out, but the bard's voice died in his throat. Gurgi screamed and Taran, horror-stricken, saw the bard no longer at his side. Kicking frantically in Morda's grasp was a dun-colored hare. With a harsh laugh Morda held the animal aloft and stared scornfully at it a moment before flinging it into a wicker basket near Kaw's cage. The wizard strode to the companions and stood above Gurgi whose eyes rolled in terror and who could only gibber wordlessly. Taran struggled against his bonds. Morda raised the gem.

"This creature," said the wizard, "this half-brute serves no use. Feeble cringing beast, be weaker still, and prey to owls and serpents." With all his strength Taran fought to break the thongs holding him.

"You destroy us, Morda!" he shouted. "But your own evil will destroy you!" Even as Taran cried these words, the gem flashed once again. Where Gurgi had lain, a gray field mouse reared on its hind legs, then fled squeaking to a corner of the chamber.

Morda turned his unlidded eyes on Taran.

Looks like the end for our fair heroes, dear readers. No Gwydion to save them from this enchanter.

# ? Jan 4, 2024 06:32

nine-gear crow: Aug 10, 2013

Morda.. the most messed up motherfucker in this whole series short of, well... we'll get to him soon enough, I guess. But Morda is just an absolutely hateable douchebag top to bottom.

# ? Jan 4, 2024 06:47

Genghis Cohen: Jun 29, 2013

Amen. And I thought Mordant was a knob!

# ? Jan 4, 2024 14:43

Wahad: May 19, 2011; There is no escape.

Chapter 9: The Hand of Morda

quote:

"AND YOU," SAID MORDA, "your doom will not be to lose yourself in forest or burrow. My plan fail? Here shall you stay prisoner and see my triumph. But what shape shall I give you? A dog whining for scraps from my table? A caged eagle eating out his heart for the freedom of the skies?"

Angharad's gem dangled from Morda's fingers. Despair choked Taran as he stared at the ornament like a bird fascinated by a serpent. He envied the wretched Gurgi and Fflewddur. A hawk's talons or a fox's jaws would shortly put a merciful finish to their days; his own would wear themselves out in the slow agony of captivity, like stone grinding against stone, until Morda was pleased to end them. The wizard's taunts burned like drops of venom; but as Morda spoke, Taran felt a furry body press against his bound wrists. Startled, he almost cried out. His heart leaped and pounded. It was the mouse that had once been Gurgi. Heedless of its plight, the creature had scurried noiselessly on tiny paws to the corner where Taran lay. Unseen by the wizard, the mouse flung himself on Taran's bonds and with his sharp teeth began hurriedly gnawing at the thongs. Morda, as if undecided, toyed with the jewel. Gurgi, Taran felt, was chewing desperately at the stubborn bonds; time pressed, and despite the creature's brave efforts the thongs held fast. Taran strove to draw the leather taut to aid the frantic mouse, but there was no sign of loosening, and now the wizard raised the glittering gem.

"Hold!" Taran cried. "If my fate is to be a beast, grant me this much: Let me choose which it must be."

Morda paused. "Choose?" His bloodless lips tightened in a scornful smile. "What can your wishes matter to me? And yet--- perhaps it would be fitting if you chose your own prison. Speak," he commanded. "Quickly."

"At Caer Dallben," Taran began, speaking as slowly as he dared, "I was Assistant Pig-Keeper. In my charge was a white pig..." At his wrists one strand parted. But Gurgi's strength had begun to ebb.

"What, then," interrupted Morda, laughing harshly. "do you crave to be a swine? To wallow in mire and grub for acorns? Yes, pig-keeper, your choice indeed is fitting."

"It is my only wish," said Taran, "for it may at least remind me of a happier time."

Morda nodded. "Yes. And for that very reason, your wish will not be granted. Clever pig-keeper," he jeered. "You have told me what you most desire. Now I may be all the more sure you will not have it."

"Will you not give me the shape I ask?" Taran replied. Another strand gave way as Gurgi, fighting weariness, redoubled his efforts. Suddenly the thongs yielded. Taran's hands burst free. "Then," Taran cried, "then I will keep my own!"

In the instant Taran sprang to his feet. He snatched his blade from its sheath and lunged toward the wizard who, startled, had taken a backward pace. Before Morda could raise the gem, with a shout Taran drove his sword full into the wizard's breast. He plucked the weapon free. But this shout turned to a cry of horror and he stumbled back against the wall. Morda stood unharmed. His gaze never faltered. The wizard's mocking laughter rang through the chamber.

"Foolish pig-keeper! Had I feared your sword I would have taken it from you!"

The wizard held Angharad's gem aloft. Taran's head spun with fresh terror. In Morda's grasp the jewel gleamed coldly. In the sudden clarity of his fear Taran saw the sharp facets of the crystal and the bony claw that held it. He was aware now, for the first time, that the hand of Morda lacked a little finger; in its place was an ugly stump of scarred and withered flesh.

"Do you seek my life?" hissed Morda. "Seek, then, pig-keeper. My life is not prisoned in my body. No, it is far from here, beyond the reach of death itself! One last power did I gain," said the wizard. "As my jewel could shape the lives of mortal men, so could it shield my own. I have drawn out my very life, hidden it safely where none shall ever find it. Would you slay me? Your hope is useless as the sword you hold. Now, pig-keeper, suffer for your defiance. Hound or eagle would be too proud a fate. Crawl in the darkness of earth, least of all creatures, a spineless, limbless blind worm!" Light flared in the heart of the gem. Taran's sword dropped from his grasp and he flung his arm across his face. He staggered as though a thunderbolt had struck him. Yet he did not fall. His body was still unchanged, still his own.

H-uh. Drawn out your very life, and hidden it safely where none shall ever find it, you say, Morda?

quote:

"What blocks my spell?" cried Morda in a terrible voice. A shadow of fear crossed his face. "As if I struggled against myself."

His lidless eyes stared unbelieving at Taran, and his hand with its lacking finger gripped the gem more tightly. In Taran's mind a strange thought raced. The wizard's life safely hidden? Where none would find it? Taran could not take his eyes from Morda's hand. A little finger. The coffer in the hollow tree. Slowly, terrified lest his hope betray him, Taran thrust a hand into his jacket and drew out the fragment of polished bone. At the sight of it Morda's face seemed to crumble in decay. His jaw dropped, his lips trembled, and his voice came in a rasping whisper.

"What do you hold, pig-keeper? Give it into my hands. Give it, I command you."

"It is a small thing my companions and I found," replied Taran. "How should this have worth to you, Morda? With all your power, do you covet such a trifle?" A sickly sweat had begun to pearl on the wizard's brow. His features twitched and his voice took on a gentleness all the more horrible coming from his lips.

"Bold lad to stand against me," he murmured. "I did no more than test your courage to see if you were worthy to serve me, worthy of rich rewards. You shall have gold in proof of my friendship. And in proof of yours, you shall give me--- the small thing, the trifle you hold in your hand."

"This worthless shard?" Taran answered. "Will you have it for a token? Then let us share it, half for me and half for you."

"No, no, do not break it!" screamed Morda, his face turning ashen. He thrust out a skinny claw and took a step toward Taran, who quickly drew back and raised the fragment of bone above his head.

"A worthless thing it is," Taran cried. "Your life, Morda! Your life I hold in my hand!" Morda's eyes rolled madly in their wasted sockets, a violent shudder gripped him and his body quaked as though buffeted by a gale.

"Yes, yes!" he cried in a voice racked with terror. "My life! Poured into my finger! With a knife I cut it from my own hand. Give! Give it back to me!"

"You set yourself above the human kind," Taran replied. "You scorned their weakness, despised their frailty, and could not see yourself as one of them. Even I, without birthright or name of my own know that if nothing else I am of the race of men."

"Kill me not!" cried Morda, writhing in anguish. "My life is yours; take it not from me!" The wizard flung himself to his knees and stretched out his trembling arms. His bloodless lips quivered as the words burst from his mouth. "Hear me! Hear me! Many secrets are mine, many enchantments. I will teach them to you. All, all!" Morda's hands clasped and unclasped. His fingers knotted around each other and he rocked back and forth at Taran's feet. His voice had taken on a wheedling, whining tone. "I will serve you, serve you well, Master Pig-Keeper. All my knowledge, all my powers at your bidding." Angharad's jewel dangled from its silver chain at Morda's wrist, and he clutched it and held it up before Taran. "This! Even this!"

"The gem is not yours to give," Taran answered.

"Not mine to give, Master Pig-Keeper?" The wizard's voice grew soft and sly. "Not mine to give. But yours to take. Would you know its secret workings? I alone can tell you. Would you gain mastery of its use? Have you never dreamed of power such as this? Here, it awaits you. The race of men at your beck and call. Who would dare disobey your smallest wish? Who would not tremble in fear of your displeasure? Promise me my life, Master Pig-Keeper, and I shall promise you..."

"Do you bargain with enchantment you stole and corrupted?" Taran cried angrily. "Let its secrets die with you!" At this Morda howled horribly and pressed himself almost flat on the ground. Barking sobs racked his body.

"My life! Spare it! Spare it! Do not give me to death. Take the gem. Change me to the lowest crawling thing, to foulest vermin, only let me live!" The sight of the cowering wizard turned Taran sick at heart, and for a long moment he could not speak.

At last he said, "I will not kill you, Morda."

The wizard left off his frightful sobbing and lifted his head. "You will not, Master Pig-Keeper?" He crept forward and made as though to fling his arms about Taran's feet.

"I will not kill you," repeated Taran, drawing back in revulsion, "though it is in my heart to do so. Your evil is too deep for me to judge your punishment. Restore my companions," he commanded. "Then you will go prisoner with me to Dallben. He alone can give whatever justice you may hope for. Stand, wizard. Cast Angharad's jewel from you."

Morda, still crouching, slowly and reluctantly pulled the chain from his wrist. His pasty cheeks trembled as he fondled the winking gem, murmuring and muttering to himself. Suddenly he leaped upright and sprang forward. With all his might he swung the jewel at the end of its chain like a whip across Taran's face.The sharp edges of the stone slashed Taran's forehead. With a cry he stumbled backward. Blood streamed into his eyes, blinding him. The shard of bone flew from his fingers and went spinning and skittering over the floor. Under the force of the wizard's blow, the jewel snapped from its silver chain and rolled into a corner. In another moment the wizard was upon him growling and snarling like a mad beast. Morda's fingers clawed at Taran's throat. His yellow teeth were bared in a ghastly grin. Taran strove to tear himself from the wizard's grasp, but the frenzy of Morda's attack staggered him; he lost his footing and tumbled to earth. Uselessly he sought to break the deadly grip that stifled him. His head whirled. Through bloodfilled eyes he glimpsed the wizard's face twisted in hate and fury.

"Your strength will not save you," Morda hissed. "It is no match for mine. You are weak as all your kind. Did I not warn you? My life is not in my body. Strong as death am I! So shall you die, pig-keeper! "

With sudden horror Taran knew the wizard spoke the truth; Morda's wasted arms were hard as gnarled branches, and though Taran struggled desperately, the wizard's relentless grip tightened. Taran's lungs heaved to bursting and he felt himself drowning in a black sea. Morda's features blurred; only the wizard's baleful, unlidded gaze stayed fixed. A crash of splintering wood shattered in Taran's ears. Morda's grip suddenly slackened. Shouting in alarm and rage, the wizard leaped to his feet and spun about. His head still reeling, Taran clutched at the wall and tried to draw himself up. Llyan had burst into the chamber. Growling fiercely, her eyes blazing gold fires, the huge cat sprang forward. Morda turned to meet her attack.

"Llyan! Beware of him!" Taran cried. The force of Llyan's charge bore the wizard to his knees, but Morda in his unyielding strength grappled with the animal. Llyan flung her tawny body right and left. Her powerful hind legs, their claws unsheathed lashed vainly at the wizard, who twisted from her paws and now clung to her arching back. Yowling and spitting, the great cat tossed her head furiously, her sharp teeth flashed in her massive jaws; yet, with all her might, she could not free herself from the wizard's clutches. Taran knew even Llyan's strength would soon ebb, just as his own had failed. She had given him a moment more of life, but now Llyan herself was doomed.

The bone! Taran dropped to hands and knees seeking the shard. Nowhere did he see it. He flung aside wooden stools, upturned earthen vessels, scrabbled in the ashes of the hearth. The bone had vanished. From behind him rose a high twittering and squeaking and he spun to see the mouse bobbing frantically on its hind legs. In its jaws the creature held the splinter of bone. Instantly Taran caught up the polished fragment to snap it between his fingers. He gasped in dismay.

The bone would not break.

See, Taran, the problem is, phylacteries can't just be broken like that. Every D&D player knows that.

# ? Jan 6, 2024 18:45

regulargonzalez: Aug 18, 2006; UNGH LET ME LICK THOSE BOOTS DADDY HULU YES YES GIVE ME ALL THE CORPORATE CUMMIES ADBLOCK USERS DESERVE THE DEATH PENALTY, DON'T THEY DADDY?
WHEN THE RICH GET RICHER I GET HORNIER

Lich immortality fascinated me as a child. I wondered, what if Taran beheaded Morda? Or put him in a vat of acid? Or dropped a 10 ton boulder on him? What are the rules here.

# ? Jan 6, 2024 19:22

nine-gear crow: Aug 10, 2013

Seriously, Disney picked the wrong book(s) to adapt into a film. This one's got all their 80s animated horror tropes: evil wizards, unpredictable magic, body horror polymorphism, a charismatic villain, the works.

# ? Jan 6, 2024 19:26

Genghis Cohen: Jun 29, 2013

What's odd to me is I'd have said this one was my favourite book in the series, and I certainly read it over and over again. Yet I didn't remember this Morda at all. I remember all the fable-type lessons Taran gets (e.g. Goryon and Gast) and my memory of the book's main antagonist is a character that hasn't appeared yet.

# ? Jan 7, 2024 10:12

Pistol_Pete: Sep 15, 2007; Oven Wrangler

quote:

"At first I thought it was just a frog who happened to have the same name as Doli. "

# ? Jan 8, 2024 14:02

Wahad: May 19, 2011; There is no escape.

Chapter 10: The Broken Spell

Missed last wednesday, but no two chapters today. Trying to just get back in the rhythm in the new year.

quote:

THE POLISHED SPLINTER WAS unyielding as iron. Teeth clenched and muscles trembling with his effort, Taran felt he struggled against the wizard himself. Llyan had dropped weakly to her haunches; Morda sprang free of the unconscious cat and set upon Taran once more, snatching at the fragment. The wizard's fingers locked on the middle of the shard, but Taran clung with all his strength to the ends of it. He felt the splinter bend as Morda strove to wrest it from his grasp. Suddenly the bone snapped in two. A sound sharper than a thunderclap split Taran's ears. With a horrible scream that stabbed through the chamber, Morda toppled backward, stiffened, clawed the air, then fell to the ground like a pile of broken twigs. That same instant the mouse vanished. Gurgi stood at Taran's side.

"Kind master saves us!" he yelled, flinging his arms about Taran. "Yes, yes! Gurgi is Gurgi again! No more a mouse with shriekings and squeakings!"

In Taran's hand the sundered bone had turned to gray dust, which he cast aside. Too exhausted and bewildered to speak, he could only pat Gurgi fondly and gratefully. Llyan, her deep chest heaving, climbed to her feet near Morda's broken, lifeless form. Her tawny fur still bristled furiously and her long tail looked twice its thickness. As Gurgi hastened to unloose Kaw, who jabbered at the top of his voice and beat his wings excitedly against the cage, Llyan's golden eyes darted about the chamber and from her throat rose an anxious, questioning trill.

"Great Belin!" came Fflewddur's voice, "I'm trapped as badly as before!"

Llyan loping ahead of him, Taran ran to a corner of the chamber. The basket in which Morda imprisoned the hare now held the bard, squeezed into it along with his harp and stuck fast with his long shanks dangling over one side and his arms flapping helplessly over the other. With some difficulty Taran and Gurgi set about freeing the bard, who hardly left off stammering incoherently all the while. Fflewddur's face was ashen from fright; he blinked, shook his ragged yellow head, and heaved huge sighs of relief.

"What humiliation!" he burst out. "A Fflam! Turned into a rabbit! I felt I'd been stuffed in a woolsack! Great Belin, my nose still twitches! Never again! I told you no good comes from meddling. Though in this case, Taran old friend, it's lucky you had that bone. Ah, ah! Easy there, that wicker's jabbing me. A rabbit, indeed! If I could only have got my paws--- I mean hands--- on that foul Morda!"

At last out of the basket Fflewddur threw his arms around Llyan's powerful neck. "And you, old girl! If you hadn't come looking for us..." He shuddered and clapped hands to his ears. "Yes, well, let's not think of that."

In the doorway stood a short, stocky, stoutly booted figure dressed in russet leather; on his head a round, close-fitting leather cap. Thumbs hooked into his belt, he turned bright crimson eyes on each of the companions. Instead of his customary scowl, a grin stretched across his broad face.

"Doli!" Taran cried, first catching sight of the dwarf. "It's you again!"

"Again?" snapped Doli, trying to make his voice as gruff as he could. "It always was." He strode into the chamber. For a moment he looked down at Morda and nodded curtly. "So that's the way of it," he said to Taran. "I thought as much. One moment I was a frog wrapped in a sopping wet cloak, sure all of you had been slain, and the next--- as you see me. That cat of yours grew restless after a time," Doli went on, turning to Fflewddur. "She picked me up, cloak and all, and went off on your trail."

"She won't let me out of her sight," replied Fflewddur. "For which," he added, fondly rubbing Llyan's ears, "we've all to thank her."

"But how did she get through the thorns?" Taran asked. "Morda's traps..."

"Through?" answered Doli. "She didn't go through, she went over!" He shook his head. "In one bound! With me in her mouth! I've never seen a creature jump so high. On the other hand, I've never seen a creature like this. But what of the rest of you? What of Morda?"

"If you don't mind," Fflewddur interrupted before Taran could finish telling the dwarf of their ordeal, "I suggest leaving here immediately. A Fflam is steadfast, but there's something about enchantments, even broken ones, that tends to--- ah--- disturb me."

"Wait," cried Taran. "The jewel! Where is it?"

As Doli watched, puzzled, the companions hastily set about searching every corner of the chamber to no avail. Taran's concern mounted, for he was reluctant to leave the gem unfound. However, when almost ready to admit the jewel was hopelessly lost, he heard a raucous laugh above his head. Kaw, perched on an oaken rafter, rocked back and forth chuckling and squawking, delighted with himself. The jewel glittered in his beak.

"Hi, hi!" shouted Fflewddur, alarmed. "Give it up! Great Belin, you'll have us all with paws and tails again!" After much coaxing by Taran and indignant retorts by the bard, Kaw flapped to Taran's shoulder and dropped the gem in his hand.

"Now it belongs to wise and kindly master!" Gurgi exclaimed. "Gurgi fears stone of winkings and blinkings, but not when kindly master holds it."

Doli peered at the gem as Taran held it up. "So that's how Morda meant to enslave us. I should have guessed. This comes from the Fair Folk realm," he added. "We always honored the House of Llyr and gave the stone to Princess Regat as our wedding gift. She must have handed it down to her daughter; and when Angharad vanished, the jewel vanished with her."

"And now it comes to my hands," Taran said. He cupped the gem in his palm watching the play of light in the depths of the crystal. "Morda has turned a thing of usefulness and beauty to evil ends. Whether it may ever serve its true purpose again, I do not know. To speak truth, it draws me. And frightens me, too. Its power is vast--- too vast, perhaps, for any man to hold. Even if I could learn its secrets, I would not choose to do so." He smiled at Gurgi. "Do you call me wise? At least I'm wise enough to know I'll never have wisdom enough to use it. Still, it may serve one purpose," Taran went on. "With this to bargain, Orddu will surely tell me who I am. Yes!" he cried. "This is a treasure she won't refuse." He stopped abruptly and paused a long moment. In his grasp lay means to gain the knowledge he craved. But his heart sank. Though he had won the gem fairly, never could he claim to be its rightful owner. It was his to bargain with no more than it had been Morda's. If Orddu accepted it, and if he should learn he was of noble birth--- was a royal robe enough to hide a dishonorable deed? He looked at Doli. "The gem is mine," Taran said. "But only mine to give, not mine to keep." Slowly he pressed the jewel into Doli's hand. "Take this. It belonged once to the Fair Folk. It belongs to them once more."

The dwarf's usual scowl softened. "You've done us a service," he answered. "Very likely the greatest service any of you mortals have done for the Fair Folk. Without your help Morda could have destroyed us all. Yes, the gem must return to our realm; it's too dangerous in other hands. You chose well. King Eiddileg will ever remember you for this. You have his thanks--- and mine." Doli nodded with satisfaction and tucked the stone carefully into his jacket. "It's made a long journey. At last it comes back to us."

"Yes, yes!" shouted Gurgi. "Take it for keepings. If kindly master will not have it, then Gurgi wants to see no more of wicked stone. Away with it, away! Do not let it turn faithful Gurgi to a mouse again!" Taran, with a fond laugh, put a hand on Gurgi's shoulder.

"Morda couldn't have changed what you truly are, any more than he could have changed Doli. Mouse though you might have seemed, you still had the heart of a lion. But what of me?" he murmured thoughtfully. "As a caged eagle, as a blind worm--- could I indeed have stayed myself? Would I still have been Taran, when I scarcely know who Taran is?"

The sun had begun to climb, promising a day blue and fresh, when the companions left the wizard's fastness. The wall of thorns had fallen, shattered like the evil power that raised it, and the companions breached it without difficulty. They untethered Melynlas and Gurgi's pony, but it was not until they had gone a considerable distance that Fflewddur agreed to halt and rest. Even then, the bard appeared uncomfortable and, while Gurgi opened the wallet of food, Fflewddur sat distractedly on a hummock, meditatively fingering his ears, as though to make certain they were indeed his own.

"Rabbits!" the bard murmured. "I'll never chase another."

All's well that ends well. Everybody's back to human-ish (or gurgi) shape.

quote:

Taran sat apart with Doli, for there was much he had to tell and much he wanted to ask. Though Doli had regained his long frown and short patience, the occasional flicker of a grin betrayed his delight at seeing the companions again. Yet, learning of Taran's quest, Doli scowled more deeply than usual.

"The Free Commots?" said the dwarf. "We're on the best of terms with the Commot folk; they respect us and we respect them. You'll not find many in Prydain to match their stout hearts and good will, and no man lords it over his fellows because he had the luck to be born in a king's castle instead of a farmer's hut. What matters in the Free Commots is the skill in a man's hands, not the blood in his veins. But I can tell you no more than that, for we have few dealings with them. Oh, we keep a way post open here and there, just in case they might need our help. But it seldom happens. The Commot folk would rather count on themselves, and they do quite well at it. So we're more than pleased, for our own sake, as well as theirs, for we have burden enough keeping an eye on the rest of Prydain. As for the Mirror you speak of," Doli continued, "never heard of it. There's a Lake of Llunet in the Llawgadarn Mountains. More than that I can't tell you. But what have you there?" the dwarf suddenly asked, noticing Taran's battle horn for the first time. "Where did you get that?"

"Eilonwy gave it to me when I left Mona," Taran replied. "It was her pledge that we..." He smiled sadly. "How long ago it seems." He unslung the horn from his shoulder and handed it to Doli.

"That's Fair Folk craftsmanship," said the dwarf. "Can't mistake it." To Taran's surprise Doli squinted into one end, then the other, and raised the horn into the sunlight as though trying to peer through the mouthpiece. As Taran watched, puzzled, Doli rapped the horn sharply with his knuckles and thumped it against his knee.

"Empty!" the dwarf grumbled. "All used up. No! Hold on a moment." He pressed the bell of the horn against his ear and listened intently. "There's one left, no more than that."

"One what?" cried Taran, more than ever perplexed at Doli's words.

"One call, what did you think?" snapped Doli. Fflewddur and Gurgi had come closer, drawn by Doli's odd behavior, and the dwarf turned to them. "This was crafted long ago, when men and, Fair Folk lived in closer friendship and each was glad to help the other. The horn holds a summons to us."

"I don't understand," began Taran.

"If you'd listen to me, you would," retorted Doli, handing back the battle horn. "And I mean listen. Hard." He pursed his lips and whistled three long notes of a pitch and sequence strange to Taran. "Hear that? Sound those notes on the horn--- just so, mind you, and no other way. They'll bring you the nearest Fair Folk who will do whatever they can if you need help. Now, do you remember the tune?" Doli whistled the notes again. Taran nodded and unthinkingly raised the horn to his lips. "Not now, you clot!" shouted Doli, "Keep it in your head. I told you there was only one summons. Save it. Don't waste it. Someday, your life may hang on that call."

Taran stared in wonder at the horn. "Eilonwy herself knew nothing of this. You've done me a priceless favor, Doli."

"Favor?" snorted the dwarf. "No favor at all. The horn serves whoever happens to have it--- in this case, you. I've done nothing but show you how to gain a little more use from something already yours. Favor? Humph! It's only common courtesy. But guard it well. Squander it like a fool at the first whiff of danger and you'll regret it when you really are in trouble."

"Ahem," Fflewddur whispered to Taran. "My own counsel to you is: Trust your wits, your sword, or your legs. Enchantment is enchantment, and if you'd been through what I've been through, you'd want no part of it." He frowned uneasily at the battle horn and turned away. "I'll never be the same, that's sure!" he muttered, nervously patting his ears. "Great Belin, they still feel twice as long as before!"

So the mysterious battle-horn from the last book (which you may or may not remember) is a horn of Fair-Folk-Calling! Also known as a Chekov's Horn.

# ? Jan 13, 2024 19:05

Ravenfood: Nov 4, 2011

It would be funny if Taran just never, ever used it because he had a typical hoarding consumables syndrome.

# ? Jan 15, 2024 07:13

Genghis Cohen: Jun 29, 2013

Ravenfood posted:

It would be funny if Taran just never, ever used it because he had a typical hoarding consumables syndrome.

Or because most people can't remember and perfectly reproduce 3 distinct notes on an instrument they were never taught how to play! Rather a difficult item to use IMO.

# ? Jan 15, 2024 17:37

Wahad: May 19, 2011; There is no escape.

Chapter 11: Dorath

quote:

AFTER EATING, the Companions stretched themselves on the turf and slept solidly the rest of the day and all that night. In the morning Doli took his leave of them. Kaw, at Doli's request, had already begun flying to the Fair Folk realm withtidings that all was well; from there, the crow would rejoin Taran.

"I'd go with you if I could," the dwarf said to Taran. "The thought of an Assistant Pig-Keeper blundering his way through the Llawgadarn Mountains makes my hair stand on end. But I dare not. Eiddileg must have the jewel safely. And who's to bring it to him? Good old Doli! Humph!"

"It saddens me to part with you," Taran said, "but you've helped me more than I could hope. The Lake of Llunet bears the same name as the Mirror and perhaps will lead me to it."

"Farewell, then," said Doli. "You've kept us all from being frogs or worse and restored a treasure to us. You'll not regret it. We Fair Folk have long memories." The dwarf clasped hands with the travelers, and pulled his leather cap tighter on his head. Doli waved one last time, and Taran watched the dwarf's stumpy figure trudging steadily across a broad meadow, growing smaller in the distance until he vanished into the skirting woods and Taran saw him no more. Through the day the companions bore northeastward again. Taran would have been glad for Doli's guidance and keenly missed the gruff dwarf, but his spirits had never been higher; he rode eagerly, light-heartedly; the battle horn swinging from his shoulder gave him fresh courage and confidence.

"Eilonwy's gift is more precious even than I thought," he told Fflewddur. "I'm grateful to Doli for telling me its power. And more than that, for telling me of the Lake of Llunet. It's a strange thing, Fflewddur," Taran went on, "but somehow I feel closer to the end of my quest. I believe more than ever that I'll find what I'm looking for."

"Eh? How's that?" Fflewddur answered, blinking as if he had just come awake. Though Gurgi had put all thoughts of Morda behind him, the bard seemed still shaken by his ordeal, and often lapsed into thoughtful silence when he would morosely finger his ears as though expecting them to lengthen at any moment. "Dreadful experience!" he muttered now. "A Fflam into a rabbit! What were you saying? The quest? Yes, of course."

"Smell with whiffings!" interrupted Gurgi. "Someone cooks tasty crunchings and munchings!"

"You're right," Fflewddur agreed, sniffing the air. "Oh, blast! There goes my nose twitching again!" Taran reined Melynlas to a walk. Llyan, too, had caught the scent; her ears forward, she licked hungrily at her whiskers. "Shall we see who it is?" asked Fflewddur. "I wouldn't say no to a hot meal--- so long as it isn't rabbit!"

Taran nodded and the companions rode cautiously through the glade. He had meant to catch a first glimpse of the strangers without himself being seen; but he had gone no more than a few paces when two roughly bearded men rose from the shadows of the bushes. Taran started. The two evidently posted as guards, quickly drew their swords. One of the men whistled a bird call and stared sharply at the companions, but made no attempt to hinder them. In the clearing Taran saw some dozen men sprawled around a cook fire, where collops of meat hung sizzling on a spit. Though armed heavily as warriors, the men wore neither the badge nor colors of any cantrev lord. Some were chewing at their food, some sharpening their blades or waxing their bowstrings. Closest to the fire, stretched at his ease, a heavy-faced man leaned on one elbow and toyed with a long dagger, which he tossed and twirled, catching it first by the hilt, then by the point. He wore a horsehide jacket whose sleeves had been ripped out; his muddy boots were thicksoled and studded with iron nails. His yellowish hair fell below his shoulders; his cold blue eyes seemed to measure the three companions with an unhurried glance.

"Welcome, lordships," he drawled as Taran dismounted. "What lucky wind blows you to the camp of Dorath?"

"I am no lord," replied Taran. "I am Taran Assistant Pig-Keeper..."

"No lord?" Dorath interrupted in mock surprise, a half-smile on his mouth. "If you hadn't told me, I'd never have guessed."

"These are my comrades," Taran went on, vexed that he had let Dorath make sport of him. "Gurgi. Fflewddur Fflam--- he wanders as a bard of the harp, but in his own land he is a king."

"And Dorath is king wherever he rides," answered the yellow-haired man, laughing. "Now, Lord Swineherd, will you share humble fare?" With his dagger he gestured toward the roasting collops. "Eat your fill. Dorath's Company never goes short of commons. Then we'll want to know more about three such as you."

"The harper rides a strange steed, Dorath," called a man with a badly scarred face. "I wager my mare could stand against the beast, no matter, for she's an evil-tempered brute and a killer born. Would it not be a merry match? What say you, Dorath? Will you have the cat show us some sport?"

"Hold your tongue, Gloff," Dorath answered, carefully eyeing Llyan. "You're a fool and always were." He pulled the meat from the spit and thrust it toward the companions. Fflewddur, having assured himself the roast was not rabbit, ate with a good will; Gurgi, as usual, needed no urging to finish his meal; and Taran was glad to swallow his own share, washed down with a mouthful of harsh-tasting wine Dorath poured from a leather flask. The sun was dropping quickly. One of the band flung more branches on the fire. Dorath stuck his dagger into the ground before him and looked up sharply at Taran. "And so, Lord," said Dorath, "have you no traveler's tales to pass the time for my friends and me? Where do you come from? Where do you go? And why? The Hill Cantrevs are dangerous unless a man knows what he's about." Taran did not answer immediately; Dorath's tone and the look of the men around the fire made Taran guard his words.

"We journey northward--- through the Llawgadarn Mountains."

Dorath grinned at him. "And where then?" he asked. "Or do you call my questions discourteous?"

"To the Lake of Llunet," Taran answered with some reluctance.

"I've heard of treasure in those parts," put in the man called Gloff. "Is that what they seek?"

"Is it indeed?" Dorath said to Taran. "Treasure?" He laughed loudly. "Small wonder you're a miser with your words!"

Taran shook his head. "If I find what I seek, it will be more to me than gold."

"So?" Dorath bent close to him. "But what would such a treasure be, Lord? Jewels? Finefashioned ornaments?"

"Neither," Taran answered. He hesitated, then said, "I seek my parents." Dorath was quiet a moment. The grin did not leave his face, but when he spoke again his voice was cold.

"When Dorath asks a question, he wants a truthful answer, Lord Swineherd."

Taran flushed angrily. "I have given you one. Say I have not and you call me liar." There was a sudden silence between the two. Dorath had half-risen, his heavy face darkened. Taran's hand moved to the pommel of his sword.

But in that instant a merry burst of music rose from Fflewddur's harp and the bard called out, "Gently, friends! Hear a gay tune to settle our supper!" He leaned the beautifully curved harp against his shoulders and as his fingers danced over the strings the men around the fire clapped their hands and urged him on. Dorath settled back on the turf, but he glanced at the bard and spat into the fire.

"Have done, harper," Dorath said after a time. "Your tune jangles from that crooked pot. We'll take our rest. You'll stay with us and in the morning my Company will guide you to the Lake of Llunet."

Taran glanced at Fflewddur and caught the bard's quick frown. He rose to his feet. "We thank you for your courtesy," he said to Dorath, "but time presses and we mean to travel during the night."

"Ah, yes--- so we do," Fflewddur put in, while Gurgi vigorously agreed. "As for the Lake--- yes, well--- we wouldn't think of putting you to the trouble. It's a long journey, far beyond your cantrev."

"Prydain is my cantrev," Dorath answered. "Have you not heard of Dorath's Company? We serve any who pay us to serve: a weak lord who craves a strong war band, or three wayfarers who need protection against the dangers of their journey. The many dangers, harper," he grimly added. "Llunet is no more than a step and a jump for my men; and I know how the land lies. Will you go safely? I ask only a little part of the treasure you seek, a small reward to your humble servants."

"We thank you," Taran said again. "It is already past nightfall and we must find our path."

"How then!" cried Dorath in a great show of indignation. "Do you scorn my poor hospitality? You wound my feelings, lords. Is it beneath you to sleep beside the likes of us? Ah, ah, swineherd, do not insult my men. They might take it amiss." Indeed, as Dorath spoke, an ugly grumble rose from the band, and Taran saw some of the warriors finger their swords. He stood uncertain, though well aware of the bard's discomfort. Dorath watched him closely. Two of the men had drifted quietly to the horse lines, and Taran could imagine that in the shadows they were easing their weapons from their sheaths.

"So be it," Taran said, looking Dorath squarely between the eyes. "We welcome your hospitality for the night, and tomorrow we take leave of you."

Dorath grinned. "There will be time to speak of that again. Sleep well."

"Sleep well?" muttered Fflewddur as they wrapped themselves in their cloaks and uneasily stretched out on the ground. "Great Belin, I'll not sleep a wink. I never liked the Hill Cantrevs and this is one reason more for liking them less." He glanced around him. Dorath had flung himself down near the fire; undoubtedly following his leader's order, the man named Gloff lay close by the companions. "I know of such roaming war bands," Fflewddur went on in a hushed voice. "Ruffians and looters, all of them. The cantrev lord who hires their swords to fight his neighbor soon finds them at his own throat. Dorath protect us from dangers? The worst danger is Dorath himself!"

"He's sure we're after treasure," Taran whispered. "It's in his mind and he'll not believe otherwise. Lucky it is, in a way," he added ruefully. "As long as he thinks we can lead, him to gold or jewels he won't kill us out of hand."

"Perhaps so, perhaps not," answered Fflewddur. "He may not cut our throats, but he might just as well decide to--- ah--- shall we say persuade us to tell him where the treasure is, and I fear he'd do considerably more than tweak our toes."

"I'm not sure," Taran replied: "If he meant to torture us, I think he'd have tried before this. He's put us in a tight corner and we dare not let him travel with us. Still, I don't believe Dorath is all that sure of himself. We're only three against a dozen, but don't forget Llyan. If it comes to a fight, Dorath has an excellent chance of killing us all. Yet I think he's shrewd enough to see it would cost him too dearly, perhaps most of his band and himself as well. I doubt he'll risk it unless he has to."

"I hope you're right," sighed the bard. "I'd rather not stay to find out. I'd sooner spend the night in a nest of serpents. We must get free of these villains! But how?"

Taran frowned and bit his lip. "Eilonwy's horn," he began.

"Yes, yes!" whispered Gurgi. "Oh, yes, magic horn of tootings and hootings! Help comes with rescuings! Sound it, wise master!"

"Eilonwy's horn," Taran said slowly. "Yes, that was first in my thoughts. Must I use it now? It's a precious gift, too precious to waste. If all else fails..." He shook his head. "Before I sound it let us try with our own strength. Sleep now," he urged. "Rest as much as you can. Before first light Gurgi can go silently to the horse lines and cut the tethers of all Dorath's steeds while Fflewddur and I try to stun the guards. Frighten the mounts, scatter them in all directions. Then..."

"We ride for dear life!" put in Fflewddur. He nodded. "Good. It's our best chance. Without blowing that horn of yours, I daresay it's our only chance. Dorath!" he added, cradling his harp fondly in his arms. "My tunes jangle indeed! My harp a crooked pot! That ruffian has neither ears nor eyes! A Fflam is forebearing, but when he insults my harp Dorath goes too far. Though, alas," Fflewddur admitted, "I've heard the same opinion from a few others."

While Gurgi and Fflewddur drowsed fitfully, Taran stayed wakeful and uneasy. The campfire burned to embers. He heard the heavy breathing of Dorath's men. Gloff sprawled motionless, snoring atrociously. For a little time Taran closed his eyes. Had he chosen wrongly by not sounding the battle horn? He knew, painfully, that three lives hung in the balance. Doli had warned him not to squander the gift. But was the gamble too great? Should the gift be spent now, when its need was clearest? These thoughts pressed upon him heavier than the moonless night. As the black sky began to show the first pale traces of gray, Taran silently roused Gurgi and the bard. Cautiously they made their way to the tethered steeds. Taran's heart leaped with hope. The two guards were sleeping soundly, their swords across their knees. He turned, meaning to help Gurgi cut the lines. The dark bole of an oak tree loomed, and he clung to the safety of its shadow. A booted leg thrust out to bar Taran's way.

Dorath was leaning against the tree, a dagger in his hand.

Well, we have met Dorath. He's...well, he's Dorath.

# ? Jan 18, 2024 07:28

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# ? Apr 27, 2024 08:53

nine-gear crow: Aug 10, 2013

And thus we cross the "Yeah, but nobody actually dies in these books" threshold...

# ? Jan 18, 2024 08:26

The Something Awful Forums > The Finer Arts > The Book Barn > Let's Read the Chronicles of Prydain - What is a Gurgi?

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