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

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

«‹›9 »

Genghis Cohen: Jun 29, 2013

nine-gear crow posted:

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

Ah, Dorath. Now this prick I remember.

# ? Jan 19, 2024 14:23

Adbot: ADBOT LOVES YOU

# ? Apr 27, 2024 13:13

Hemp Knight: Sep 26, 2004

nine-gear crow posted:

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

Quite a few of the good guys die in the last book, iirc.

# ? Jan 20, 2024 18:48

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

Chapter 12: The Wager

quote:

"WHAT, ARE YOU SO IMPATIENT to be gone, Lord Swineherd?" said Dorath, an edge of mockery in his tone. The dagger twirled in his hands and he clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Without a farewell? Without a word of thanks?" He shook his head. "This is grave discourtesy to me and to my men. Their feelings are tender. I fear you've deeply wounded them."

The men of Dorath's Company had begun to stir. In a moment of panic Taran glanced at Fflewddur and Gurgi. Gloff had climbed to his feet and held his sword lightly, almost carelessly. Taran knew the man could bring up the blade in a flash before his own weapon left its sheath. Taran's eyes darted to the horse lines. Another of Dorath's band had drifted close by the steeds, where he stood idly paring his nails with the point of a hunting knife. Taran gestured for the companions to make no move. Dorath straightened. His eyes were cold.

"Truly, do you mean to part with us? Even warned of the dangers in the hills?" He shrugged. "Never say Dorath forces hospitality on unwilling guests. Go, if that's in your head. Seek your treasure and a speedy journey to you."

"We meant you no discourtesy," Taran answered. "Bear us no ill will, for we bear you none. Farewell to you and your Company." Much relieved, he beckoned Gurgi and the bard and turned away.

Dorath's hand gripped his shoulder. "How then!" Dorath cried, "will you go your way without settling the small matter between us?" Taran halted, surprised, as Dorath went on. "Why, there is payment to be reckoned, Lord Swineherd. Will you cheat me of my fee? We are poor men, Lord; too poor to give where we do not receive." The warriors laughed harshly. Dorath's heavy face had twisted into a leering humility, which Taran found all the more fearsome by its falsity, and the man cried out in an accusing, begging tone, "You have eaten our meat and drunk our wine. All night you slept safely under our protection. Is this worth nothing to you?" Taran stared at him in astonishment and sudden alarm. Dorath's men had come to gather near their leader. Gurgi edged closer to Taran.

"Protection!" Fflewddur muttered under his breath. "Who'll protect us from Dorath? Protection? Great Belin, I'd call it robbery!"

"And there is more, Lord Swineherd," Dorath quickly continued. "The matter of payment for guiding you to the Lake of Llunet. It is no light journey for my Company; the paths are long and harsh..."

Taran faced the man squarely. "You have given us food, drink, and shelter," he said, his thoughts racing to seek escape from Dorath's trap. "We will pay their worth. As for your protection on our journey, we neither ask it nor want it."

"My men are willing, waiting, and ready to guide you," replied Dorath. "It is you who breaks the bargain."

"I struck no bargain with you, Dorath," Taran answered.

Dorath's eyes narrowed. "Did you not? But you will keep it nonetheless." The two watched each other in silence for a moment. The warriors stirred restlessly. From Dorath's expression Taran could not judge whether the man indeed meant to risk battle. If he did, Taran realized coldly the companions had little chance to escape unharmed.

At last he said, "What do you want from us?"

Dorath grinned. "Now you speak wisely. Small scores are quickly settled. We are humble men, Lord. We ask little, far less than what our fee should be. But, for the sake of the friendship between us, Dorath will be generous. What shall you give me?" His eyes went to Taran's belt. "You carry a fair blade," he said. "It will be mine."

Taran's hand clenched on the pommel. "That you shall not have," he answered quickly. "I offer you bridles and harness from our gear, and even these we can ill afford. Dallben my master gave me this blade, the first that was truly mine and the first of my manhood. The one I love girded it on me with her own hands. No, Dorath, I do not bargain with my sword."

Dorath threw back his head and laughed. "You make much ado for a piece of iron. Your sweetling girded it to your side! Your first blade! This adds no worth. It is a fair weapon, no more. I've cast away better than that. But the look of this one suits me well enough. Give it into my hand and we are quit." Dorath's face filled with cruel pleasure as hereached out. Sudden anger goaded Taran. Caution forgotten, he snatched the blade from its sheath and drew back a pace.

"Have a care, Dorath!" Taran cried. "Will you take my sword? It will be a costly bargain. You may not live to claim it."

"Nor you to keep it," Dorath answered, undisturbed. "We know each other's thoughts, swineherd. Am I fool enough to risk lives for a trinket? Are you fool enough to stop me? We can learn this easily," Dorath added. "To your grief or to mine. Will you try me? My Company against yours?" When Taran did not answer, Dorath continued. "My trade is to spill another's blood, not waste my own. And here the matter is easily settled. Pit one of your number against one of mine. A friendly wager, swineherd. Do you dare? The stakes? Your sword!"

Gloff had been listening all this while; his villainous face lit up and he struck his hands together. "Well spoken, Dorath! We'll see sport after all!"

"The choice is yours, swineherd," Dorath said to Taran. "Who is your champion? Will that hairy brute you call comrade stand against Gloff? They're both ill-favored enough to be well-matched. Or the harper..."

"The matter is between you and me, Dorath," Taran replied, "and none other."

"All the better," Dorath answered. "Do you take the wager, then? We two unarmed, win or lose, and the score paid. You have Dorath's word."

"Is your word as true as your claim?" Taran flung back. "I trust no bargain with you."

Dorath shrugged. "My men will withdraw beyond the trees where they'll be no help to me, if, that's what you fear. And so will yours. What say you now? Yes or no?"

"No, no!" shouted Gurgi. "Kindly master, beware!"

Taran looked long at the sword. The blade was plain, the hilt and pommel unadorned, yet even Dorath had seen the craftsmanship in its making. The day Dallben had put it in his hands shone bright in Taran's memory as the untarnished metal itself; and Eilonwy--- her tart words had not hidden her blush of pride. Still, treasure it though he did, he forced himself to see the blade coldly as indeed no more than a strip of metal. Doubt rose in his heart. Win or lose, he felt unsure whether Dorath would let the companions free without a pitched battle. He nodded curtly.

"So be it." Dorath signaled to his band and Taran watched cautiously until all had made their way a good distance into the woods. At Taran's orders Fflewddur and Gurgi untethered Llyan and the two steeds and reluctantly withdrew in the opposite direction. Taran flung down his cloak and dropped Eilonwy's horn beside it. Dorath waited, a crafty glint in his eyes, as Taran slowly ungirded the scabbard and thrust the sword into the ground.

Taran stepped back. In the instant Dorath sprang upon him without warning. The force of the burly warrior's charge drove the breath from Taran's lungs and nearly felled him. Dorath grappled with him and Taran realized the man strove to seize him by the belt and hurl him to earth. Taran flung up his arms and slipped downward out of Dorath's clutches. Cursing, Dorath struck at him with a hard fist, and though Taran escaped the full weight of the blow, it glanced painfully from the side of his head. Ears ringing, Taran sought to disengage himself and regain sure footing, but Dorath pressed his attack without respite. He dared not, Taran understood, let his heavier opponent come to grips with him, for Dorath's powerful arms could snap him in two; as the warrior plunged once more against him, Taran snatched the man's forearm and with all his strength swung Dorath head over heels to send him crashing to the ground.

But Dorath was on his feet in a flash. Taran crouched to meet the warrior's new attack. For all his weight, Dorath moved quick as a cat; he dropped to one side, spun quickly, and suddenly Taran saw the man's thick fingers gouging at hiseyes. As Taran struggled to escape the blinding thrust, Dorath seized him by the hair and wrenched his head backward. The warrior's fist was raised to strike. Taran, gasping at the painful shock, flailed at the man's grinning face. Dorath's hold loosened; Taran tore himself away. For an instant Dorath seemed bewildered by the rain of blows, and Taran pressed his slight advantage, darting from one side to the other, giving Dorath no chance to gain the upper hand again. Dorath dropped suddenly to one knee and caught at Taran with an outflung arm. Striving to tear himself away, Taran felt a sharp, stinging blow to his side. He fell backward, clutching at the hurt. Dorath rose up. He gripped a short-bladed knife drawn from his boot.

"Disarm!" Taran cried. "We fight weaponless! You betray me, Dorath!"

The warrior looked down at him. "Have you learned which of us is the fool, Lord Swineherd?"

Eilonwy's horn lay within Taran's grasp and his fingers reached for it. How long, he thought hurriedly, how long before the Fair Folk might answer his call? Could he hope to keep Dorath at bay, or, at the last, could he do no more than turn and flee? He yearned desperately to sound the notes, but with an angry shout he cast aside the battle horn, snatched up his cloak for a shield, and plunged straight against Dorath. The warrior's knife tangled in the folds of the garment. Gaining strength from his anger, Taran ripped the blade from the hand of Dorath, who staggered under the fury of the onslaught and felt to the ground. Taran followed him, seized Dorath by the shoulders, and braced his knee against the warrior's chest.

"Cut-throat!" Taran shouted through clenched teeth. "You'd have taken my life for the sake of a bit of iron." Dorath's fingers scrabbled in the earth. His arm shot up. A handful of dirt and stones pelted against Taran's face.

"Find me now!" cried Dorath with a mighty heave. Taran clapped hands to his smarting eyes; tears streamed down his face; and he groped for the warrior who sprang away in an instant. Taran stumbled forward on hands and knees. Dorath's heavy boot drove into his ribs. Taran cried out, then fell doubled up and panting. He strove to rise, but even the strength of his anger could not bring him to his feet. He sank down, his face pressed against the ground. Dorath strode to the sword and plucked it from the turf. He turned to Taran.

"I spare your life, swineherd," he cried scornfully. "It means naught to me and I have no wish for it. Should we meet again, it may not go as well for you." Taran raised his head. In Dorath's eyes he saw only cold hatred that seemed to reach out to blight or shatter all it touched.

"You have won nothing," Taran whispered. "What have you gained worth more to you than to me?"

"The getting pleased me, swineherd. The taking pleases me all the more." Dorath tossed the sword in the air, caught it again, then threw back his head and burst into raw laughter. He turned on his heel and strode into the forest. Even after his strength had come back and the pain in his side had dwindled to a dull ache, Taran sat a long while on the ground before gathering up his belongings--- the torn cloak, the battle horn, the empty scabbard, and setting off to join Fflewddur and Gurgi. Dorath had gone. There was no sign of him, but the laughter still rang in Taran's ears.

Down a sword, but at least Taran's still alive. I say he held his own well enough, even with Dorath's cheating.

Hemp Knight posted:

Quite a few of the good guys die in the last book, iirc.

C'mon, man.

# ? Jan 20, 2024 19:37

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

Probably the best outcome Taran could have hoped for. If he�d agreed to give up the sword, it�s easy to imagine Dorath continuing to push for payment until he hit on something that would really pain Taran to relinquish.

# ? Jan 21, 2024 07:07

Pistol_Pete: Sep 15, 2007; Oven Wrangler

I remember this book kind of bummed me out as a kid. I wasn't used to protagonists who kept losing, or where they're forced to choose among a range of bad options rather than the obviously good and correct one.

# ? Jan 21, 2024 19:43

nine-gear crow: Aug 10, 2013

Pistol_Pete posted:

I remember this book kind of bummed me out as a kid. I wasn't used to protagonists who kept losing, or where they're forced to choose among a range of bad options rather than the obviously good and correct one.

Meanwhile, I read this book for the first time when I was starting university during the middle of the 00s/10s financial crash and was like "Oh, this is meant to prepare kids for how lovely real life is. I like this."

# ? Jan 21, 2024 19:50

Pistol_Pete: Sep 15, 2007; Oven Wrangler

nine-gear crow posted:

Meanwhile, I read this book for the first time when I was starting university during the middle of the 00s/10s financial crash and was like "Oh, this is meant to prepare kids for how lovely real life is. I like this."

Oh yeah, as an adult I can read it and see how believable it all is: an idealistic boy riding out on a grand adventure and getting repeatedly smacked in the face by reality.

# ? Jan 21, 2024 20:37

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

Chapter 13: The Lost Lamb

quote:

UNDER FAIR SKIES and gentle weather, thecompanions traveled deeper into the Hill Cantrevs. Gurgi had bandaged Taran's wound and the smart of it eased more quickly than the sting of losing his sword. As for the bard, the encounter with Dorath had driven away his concern for the length of his ears; he hardly mentioned the word "rabbit," and had begun to share Taran's belief in a good ending to a hard journey. Gurgi still grumbled bitterly about the ruffians and often turned to shake an angry fist in the air. Fortunately, the companions had seen no more of the band, though Gurgi's furious grimaces might well have been enough to keep any marauders at a safe distance.

"Shameful robbings!" muttered Gurgi. "Oh, kindly master, why did you not sound helpful horn and be spared beatings and cheatings?"

"The blade meant a great deal to me," Taran answered, "but I'll find another that will serve me. As for Eilonwy's horn, once used, its power is gone beyond regaining."

"Oh, true!" Gurgi cried, blinking in amazement, as if such a thought had never entered his shaggy head. "'Oh, wisdom of kindly master! Will humble Gurgi's wits never grow sharper?"

"We've all wits enough to see Taran chose rightly," put in Fflewddur. "In his place I'd have done the same--- ah, no, what I meant," he quickly added, glancing at the harp, "I'd have blown that horn till I was blue in the face. Ho, there! Steady,old girl!" he cried as Llyan suddenly plunged ahead. "I say, what are you after now?"

At the same time Taran heard a forlorn bleating coming from a patch of brambles. Llyan was already there, crouching playfully, her tail waving in the air and one of her paws outstretched to tug at the briars. A white lamb was caught in the thicket and, seeing the enormous cat, bleated all the louder and struggled pitifully. While Fflewddur, strumming his harp, drew Llyan away, Taran quickly dismounted. With Gurgi's help he bent aside the brambles and picked up the terrified animal.

"The poor thing's strayed--- from where?" Taran said. "I saw no farm nearby."

"Well, I suppose it knows its home better than we do," answered Fflewddur, while Gurgi eyed the lost animal and delightedly patted the creature's fleecy head. "All we can do is let it go to find its own path."

"The lamb is mine," called a stern voice.

Surprised, Taran turned to see a tall, broadshouldered man making his way with great difficulty down the rocky slope. Gray streaked his hair and beard, scars creased his wide brow, and his dark eyes watched the companions intently as he toiled over the jutting stones. Unarmed save for a long hunting knife in his leather belt, he wore the rude garb of a herdsman; his cloak was rolled andslung over his back; his jacket was tattered at the edges, begrimed and threadbare. What Taran had first taken to be a staff or shepherd's crook he now saw to be a roughly fashioned crutch. The man's right leg was badly lamed.

"The lamb is mine," the herdsman said again.

"Why, then it is yours to claim," Taran answered, handing the animal to him. The lamb ceased its frightened bleating and nestled comfortably against the shoulder of the herdsman, whose frown of distrust turned to surprise, as if he had fully expected to be obliged to fight for possession of the stray.

"My thanks to you," he said after a moment, then added, "I am Craddoc Son of Custennin."

"Well met," Taran said, "and now farewell. Your lamb is safe and we have far to go." Craddoc, taking a firm grip on his crutch, turned to climb the slope, and had gone but little distance when Taran saw the man stumble and lose his footing. Under his burden Craddoc faltered and dropped to one knee. Taran strode quickly to him and held out his hands.

"If the way to your sheepfold is as stubborn as the ones we've traveled," Taran said, "let us help you on your path."

"No need!" the herdsman gruffly cried. "Do you think me so crippled I must borrow strength from others?" When he saw that Taran still offered his hands, Craddoc's expression softened. "Forgive me," said the herdsman. "You spoke in good heart. It was I who took your words ill. I am unused to company or courtesy in these hills. You've done me one service," he went on, as Taran helped him to his feet. "Now do me another: Share my hospitality." He grinned. "Though it will be small payment for saving my lamb." As Fflewddur led the mounts and Gurgi happily bore the lamb in his arms, Taran walked close by the herdsman who, after his first reluctance, was willing now to lean on Taran's shoulder as the path steepened and twisted upward before dropping into a deep vale among the hills.

We've met Craddoc! He seems much nicer than our last two encounters, at least, if not a bit rough around the edges.

quote:

The farmstead Taran saw to be a tumbledown cottage, whose walls of stone, delved from the surrounding fields, had partly fallen away. Half-adozen ill-shorn sheep grazed over the sparse pasture. A rusted plow, a broken-handled mattock, and a scant number of other implements lay in an open-fronted shed. In the midst of the high summits, hemmed in closely by thorny brush and scrub, the farm stood lorn and desolate, yet clung doggedly to its patch of bare ground like a surviving warrior flinging his last, lone defiance against a pressing ring of enemies. Craddoc, with a gesture almost of shyness and embarrassment, beckoned the companions to enter. Within, the cottage showed scarcely more cheer than the harsh land around it. There were signs Craddoc had sought to repair his fireplace and broken hearthstone, to mend his roof and chink up the crannies in the wall, but Taran saw the herdsman's labor had gone unfinished. In a corner a spinning wheel betokened a woman's tasks; but if this were so, her hand had ceased to guide it long since.

"Well, friend herdsman," Fflewddur remarked heartily, seating himself on a wooden bench by a narrow trestle table, "you're a bold man to dwell in these forsaken parts. Snug it is," he quickly added, "very snug but--- ah, well--- rather out of the way."

"It is mine," Craddoc answered, and his eyes flashed with pride. Fflewddur's words seemed to stir him, and he bent forward, one hand gripping his crutch and the other clenched upon the table. "I have stood against those who would have taken it from me; and if I must, so shall I do again."

"Why, indeed I've no doubt of that," replied Fflewddur. "No offense, friend, but I might say I'm a little surprised anyone would fancy taking it from you in the first place."

Craddoc did not answer for a time. Then he said, "The land was fairer than you see it now. Here we lived among ourselves, untroubled and at peace, until certain lords strove to claim our holdings for themselves. But those of us whoprized our freedom banded together against them. Hotly fought was the battle and much was destroyed. Yet we turned them back." Craddoc's face was grim. "At high cost to us. Our dead were many, and my closest friends among them. And I," he glanced at his crutch, "I gained this."

"What of the others?" Taran asked.

"In time, one by one, they quit their homes," Craddoc replied. "The land was no longer worth the keeping or the taking. They made their way to other cantrevs. In despair they took service as warriors or swallowed their pride and hopes and labored for any who would give them bed and board."

"Yet you stayed," Taran said. "In a ruined land? Why so?"

Craddoc lifted his head. "To be free," he answered curtly. "To be my own man. Freedom was what I sought. I had found it here, and I had won it.

"You are luckier than I, friend herdsman," Taran answered. "I have not yet found what I seek."

When Craddoc glanced inquiringly at him, Taran told of his quest. The herdsman listened intently, saying no word. But as Taran spoke, a strange expression came upon Craddoc's face, as though the herdsman strove against disbelief and sought to reach out beyond his own wonder.When Taran finished, Craddoc seemed about to speak. But he hesitated, then set the crutch under his arm, and rose abruptly, murmuring that he must see to his sheep. As he hobbled out, Gurgi trotted after him to gaze with pleasure at the gentle animals. The day had grown shadowed. Taran and Fflewddur sat quietly at the table.

"I pity the herdsman as much as I admire him," Taran said. "He fought to win one battle only to lose another. His own land is his worst foe now, and little can he do against it."

"I'm afraid you're right," agreed the bard. "If the weeds and brambles press him any closer," he wryly added, "he must soon graze his sheep on the turf of his rooftop."

"I would help him if I could," Taran replied. "Alas, he needs more than I can give."

When the herdsman came back Taran made ready to take his leave. Craddoc, however, urged the companions to stay. Taran hesitated. Though anxious to be gone, he well knew that Fflewddur disliked traveling at night; as for the herdsman, his eyes more than his words bespoke his eagerness, and at last Taran agreed. Craddoc's provisions being scant, the companions shared out the food from Gurgi's wallet. The herdsman ate silently. When he had done, he cast a few dry, thorny branches on the small fire,watched them flare and crackle, then turned his gaze on Taran.

"A lamb of my flock strayed and was found again," Craddoc said. "But another once was lost and never found." The herdsman spoke slowly and with great effort, as though the words came from his lips at some painful cost. "Long past, when all had left the valley, my wife urged that we, too, should do the same. She was to bear our child; in this place she saw naught but hardship and desolation, and it was for the sake of our unborn that she pleaded." Craddoc bowed his head. "But this I would not do. As often as she besought me, as often I refused. In time the child was born. Our son. The infant lived; his mother died. My heart broke, for it was as if I myself had slain her. Her last wish," Craddoc said, his voice heavy with grief, "was that I take the child from here." His weathered features tightened. "Even that wish I did not heed. No," he added, "to my mind, I had paid in blood, and more than blood, for my freedom. I would not give it up."

The herdsman was silent a while. Then he said, "Alone I sought to raise the child. But it was beyond my skill. A sturdy boy he was, yet in less than a year I saw him sicken. Only then did I understand his mother had spoken wisely, and I, like a proud fool, had not listened. At last I was willing to quit this valley. Too late was my choice," Craddoc said. "I knew the babe could not live out the journey. Nor could he live out another winter here. He was the lamb of my heart, already given to death. But on a certain day," Craddoc went on, "a wayfarer came by chance to my door. A man of deep knowledge he was and of many secret healing arts. In his hands alone the child could live. This he told me, and I knew he spoke the truth. He pitied the infant and offered to raise him for me. Grateful was I for his kindness as I put the child in his arms. He went his way then, and my son with him. No more did I see or hear of either, as the years passed, and often did I fear both had surely perished in the hills. Yet, I still hoped, for the stranger vowed by every oath my son one day would return to me."

The herdsman looked closely at Taran. "The name of the wayfarer was Dallben."

In the fireplace a thorny branch split and crackled. Craddoc said no more, but his eyes never left Taran's face. Fflewddur and Gurgi stared wordlessly. Slowly Taran rose to his feet. He felt himself trembling, for an instant feared his legs would give way under him, and he put a hand to the edge of the trestle table. He could neither think nor speak. He saw only Craddoc silently watching him, and this man he had met as a stranger now seemed a stranger all the more. Taran's lips moved without sound, until at last the words came brokenly and he heard his voice as though it were another's.

"Do you say," Taran whispered, "do you say then, you are father to me?"

"The promise has been kept," Craddoc answered quietly. "My son has come back."

...quest complete?

# ? Jan 25, 2024 07:32

Comstar: Apr 20, 2007; Are you happy now?

You receive 350 experience points.

Do you wish to (C)ontinue or (L)eave?

# ? Jan 25, 2024 10:59

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

The end! No moral.

# ? Jan 25, 2024 18:19

Genghis Cohen: Jun 29, 2013

Lol. I mean, we can see as adults that we're not at the end of the book. If I'm honest, I don't remember reading it for the first time, just re-reading it. But on the face of it . . . what a twist!

# ? Jan 25, 2024 18:49

Pistol_Pete: Sep 15, 2007; Oven Wrangler

Genghis Cohen posted:

Lol. I mean, we can see as adults that we're not at the end of the book. If I'm honest, I don't remember reading it for the first time, just re-reading it. But on the face of it . . . what a twist!

Taran: "So, you're my father! That's.... great." :gonk:

# ? Jan 25, 2024 22:54

nine-gear crow: Aug 10, 2013

Pistol_Pete posted:

Taran: "So, you're my father! That's.... great."

The ultimate "be careful what you wish for" outcome for poor Taran. But a great bit of foreshadowing/reinforcing of the main message of the book: You are shaped like yourself.

# ? Jan 26, 2024 10:57

Strategic Tea: Sep 1, 2012

Taran's father is actually...

emperor palpatine!!

# ? Jan 27, 2024 17:23

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

Chapter 14: The End of Summer

quote:

IT WAS NEAR DAWN. The fire in the hearth had long since burned out. Taran rose silently. He had slept only fitfully, his head crowded with so many thoughts he could not sort one from another: Fflewddur's cry of astonishment, Gurgi's joyful yelps, Craddoc's embrace of welcome to a son he had scarcely seen, and Taran's bewildered embrace to a father he had never known. There had been harp playing and singing. Fflewddur had neverbeen in better voice or spirits, and the herdsman's cottage had surely never rung with so much merriment; yet Taran and Craddoc had been more quiet than gay, as if striving to sense each other's mind and heart. At last, all had slept. Taran stepped to the door. The sheep were silent in their fold. The mountain air was chill. Dew glistened, a net of cold silver on the sparse pasture, and the stones twinkled like stars fallen to earth. Taran shivered and drew his cloak about him. He stood a while in the dooryard before he sensed he was not alone. Fflewddur moved to join him.

"Couldn't sleep, eh?" Fflewddur said cheerily. "Neither could I. Too excited. Didn't close my eyes for three winks--- ah, yes, well--- perhaps a few more than that. Great Belin, but it's been a day and a half! It's not everyone who finds his long-lost father sitting out in the middle of nowhere. Taran, my friend, your search is ended; and ended well. We're spared a journey to the Lake of Llunet--- I don't mind telling you I'm just as pleased. Now we must set our plans. I say we should ride north to the Fair Folk realm and get hold of good old Doli; then, on to my kingdom for some feasting and revelry. And I suppose you'll want to sail to Mona and tell Eilonwy the good news. So be it! Now your quest is over, you're free as a bird!"

"Free as the caged eagle that Morda would have made me!" Taran cried. "This valley will destroy Craddoc if he stays alone even a little longer His burden is too great. I honor him for trying to bear it. Indeed, I honor him for that, and nothing else. His deeds cost my mother her life, and nearly cost me mine. Can any son love such a father? Yet as long as Craddoc lives, I am bound to him by ties of blood--- if truly his blood runs in my veins."

"If?" replied Fflewddur. He frowned and looked closely at Taran. "You say if, as though you doubted..."

"Craddoc speaks truth when he says he is my father," Taran answered. "It is I who do not believe him."

"How's that again?" asked Fflewddur. "You know he's your father and doubt it at the same time? Now you really baffle me."

"Fflewddur, can you not see?" Taran spoke slowly and painfully. "I don't believe him, because I don't want to believe him. In my heart, secretly, I had always dreamed, even as a child, that--- that I might be of noble lineage."

Fflewddur nodded. "Yes, I take your meaning." He sighed. "Alas, there's no choosing one's kinsmen."

"Now," Taran said, "my dream is no more than a dream, and I must give it up."

"His tale rings true," answered the bard. "But ifthere's doubt in your heart, what shall you do? Ah, that rascal Kaw! If he were only here we could send him with word to Dallben. But I doubt he'll find us in this dreary wasteland."

"Wasteland?" said the voice of Craddoc. The herdsman stood in the doorway. Taran quickly turned, ashamed of his own words and wondering how many of them Craddoc had overheard. But if the man had been there longer than a moment, he gave no sign of it. Instead, his weather-beaten face smiled as he hobbled to the companions. Gurgi followed behind him. "Wasteland you see it now," Craddoc said, "but soon as fair as ever it was." He set a hand proudly on Taran's shoulder. "My son and I. We will make it so."

"I had thought," Taran began slowly, "I had hoped you would return with us to Caer Dallben. Coll and Dallben will welcome you. The farm is rich, and can be richer still if you help us with your labor. Here, the land may be worn out past restoring."

"How then?" Craddoc answered, his features growing stern. "Leave my land? To be another's servant? Now? When there is hope for us at last?" His eyes filled with pain as he looked at Taran. "My son," he said quietly, "you do not say all that is in your heart. Nor have I said all that is in mine. My happiness blinded me to the truth. Your life has been too long apart from me. Caer Dallben is your home, more than this may ever be, this wasteland, this fallow ground--- and the master of it a cripple." The herdsman had not raised his voice, but the words echoed in Taran's ears. Craddoc's face had gone hard as stone and a terrible pride flamed in his eyes. "I cannot ask you to share this, nor beg duty from a son who is a stranger to me. We have met. We shall part, if that is your wish. Go your own path. I do not keep you from it." Before Taran could answer, Craddoc turned and made his way to the sheepfold.

"What must I do?" Taran cried in dismay to the bard.

Fflewddur shook his head. "He'll not leave here, that's for certain. It's easy enough to see where your stubborn streak comes from. No, he won't budge. But if you'd set your mind at rest, then you yourself might go to Caer Dallben. Find out the truth from Dallben. He alone can tell you."

"Winter would be upon us before I could return," Taran answered. He gazed at the harsh land and desolate cottage. "My--- my father is at the end of his strength. The tasks are long. They must begin now, and be done before the first snowfall." He said no more for a time. Fflewddur waited silently; Gurgi was quiet, his brow wrinkled with concern. Taran looked at the two and his heart ached. "Hear me well, my friends," he said slowly. "Fflewddur, if you are willing, ride to Caer Dallben. Tell that my search is ended and how this has come about. As for me, my place must be here."

"Great Belin, you mean to stay in this wilderness?" Fflewddur cried. "Even though you doubt...?"

Taran nodded. "My doubts may be of my own making. One way or another, I pray you send word, speedily to me. But Eilonwy must be told nothing of this, only that my quest is over, my father found." His voice faltered. "Craddoc needs my help; his livelihood and his life depend on it, and I will not withhold it from him. But to have Eilonwy know I am a herdsman's son... No!" he burst out. "That would be more than I could bear. Bid her my farewell. She and I must never meet again. It were better the Princess forget the shepherd boy, better that all of you forget me." He turned to Gurgi. "And you, best of good friends, ride with Fflewddur. If my place is here, yours must be in a happier one."

"Kindly master!" Gurgi shouted, flinging his arms desperately about Taran. "Gurgi staysl So he promised!"

"Call me master no more!" Taran bitterly flung back. "No master am I, but a low-born churl. Do you long for wisdom? You will not find it here withme. Take your freedom. This valley is no beginning but an ending."

"No, no! Gurgi does not listen!" shouted Gurgi, clapping his hands over his ears. He threw himself flat on the ground and lay stiff as a poker. "He does not go from side of kindly master. No, no! Not with pullings and pushings! Not with naggings and draggings!"

"So be it," Taran said at last, seeing nothing else would sway the determined creature.

When Craddoc returned, Taran told him only that he and his companion would stay, and that Fflewddur could no longer delay his own journey. When Llyan was ready to travel, Taran put his arms about the cat's mighty shoulders and pressed his cheek into her deep fur as she mewed unhappily. Silently, he and Fflewddur clasped hands, and he watched while the bard, with many a backward glance, rode slowly from the valley. Leaving Melynlas and the pony tethered in the shed, Taran and Gurgi bore the saddlebags holding their few possessions into the tumbledown cottage. Taran stood a moment, looking at the crumbling walls of the narrow chamber, the dead fire and broken hearthstone. From the pasture Craddoc was calling to him.

"And so," Taran murmured, "and so have we come home."

It's a bitter pill to swallow, but Taran's doing well, I think.

quote:

In the weeks that followed, Taran believed he could have fared no worse had Morda done as he had threatened. Tall gray summits rose about. him like the unyielding bars of a cage. Prisoner, he sought freedom from his memories in the harsh toil of the long days. There was much to be done, indeed there was all to be done; the land to clear, the cottage to repair, the sheep to tend. At first he had dreaded the dawns that brought him, weary as if he had not slept, from the straw pallet by the hearth to the seemingly endless labor awaiting him; but soon he rediscovered, as Coll had told him long ago, that he could force himself to plunge into it as into an icy stream, and find refreshment even in his exhaustion. With Gurgi and Craddoc, he strained and sweated to uproot boulders from the field and haul them to the cottage, where they would later serve to mend the walls. The spring where the sheep watered had dwindled to a slow trickle. Taran saw a way to unblock it, shore up the damp ground, and dig a channel which he lined with flat stones. As the sparkling stream rushed into its new course, Taran, forgetting all else, knelt and drank of it from his cupped hands. The cool draught filled him with wonder, as though never had he tasted water until now.

One day the three set about burning away the overgrowth and thorns. Taran's portion of the field took flame too slowly and he pressed his way tothrust his torch deeper amid the brambles. As he did, a sudden gust of wind turned the fire against him. Quickly he drew back, but the thorns caught at his jacket; he stumbled and fell, crying out as the flames rose in a scarlet wave. Gurgi, at some distance, heard the shout. Craddoc, seeing Taran's plight, swung about on his crutch, and even before Gurgi could reach him, flung himself to Taran's side. The herdsman dropped to the ground, and, shielding Taran with his body, seized him by the belt and dragged him clear. Where Taran had been trapped, the flaming thorns roared and crackled. The herdsman, gasping from the effort, climbed painfully to his feet. Though Taran was unscathed, the fire had seared Craddoc's brow and hands.

But the herdsman grinned, clapped Taran on the shoulder, saying with rough affection, "I've not found a son only to lose him," and with no more ado went back to his work.

"My thanks to you," Taran called. But in his voice there was as much bitterness as gratitude, for the man who had saved his life was the same man who had broken it.

Thus it was in the days that followed. When a sheep sickened, Craddoc cared for it with an unexpected tenderness that went to Taran's heart.Yet Craddoc it was who had torn asunder Taran's dream of noble birth and destroyed every hope he had cherished for Eilonwy. When danger threatened the flock, Craddoc turned fierce as a wolf, heedless of his own safety with a courage Taran could only admire. Yet this man held him prisoner, in fetters of blood right. Craddoc would touch no food until Taran and Gurgi had their fill, and often went hungry as a result, all the while insisting his appetite was dull. Yet the gift stuck in Taran's throat, and he scorned the generosity he mould have honored in any other man.

"Are there two herdsman in this valley?" Taran cried to himself. "One I can only love, and one I can only hate?"

So passed the summer. To forget the anguish of his divided heart, Taran labored for the sake of the labor itself. Many tasks were still to be done, and the flock always to be tended. Until now Craddoc had been hard-pressed to keep the new lambs from straying and, as the sheep roved farther afield seeking better pasture, to gather all into the fold at evening. Gurgi pleaded to be given charge of them, and the flock seemed as pleased as he was. He gamboled happily with the lambs, clucked and fussed over the ewes, and even the ancient, bad-tempered ram turned gentle in his presence. As the days grew cooler Craddoc gave him a jacket of unshorn fleece, and as Gurgi moved among his charges Taran could hardly distinguish the shaggy creature bundled in his wooly garb from the rest of the flock. Often Taran came upon him sitting on a boulder, the sheep in an admiring circle around their guardian. They followed him everywhere and would even have trotted after him into the cottage. Marching at the head of the flock, Gurgi looked as proud as a war leader.

"See with lookings!" Gurgi shouted. "See them heed Gurgi with bleatings! Is kindly master Assistant Pig-Keeper? Then bold, clever Gurgi now is Assistant Sheep-Keeper!"

But Taran's eyes still turned beyond the barrier of the hills. At the end of each day he scanned the passes for a sign of Fflewddur and the clouds for a glimpse of Kaw. The crow, he feared, had flown to the Lake of Llunet; not finding the companions there, Kaw might still be waiting or, impatient, be seeking them elsewhere. As for the bard, Taran sensed more than ever that Fflewddur would not return; and as the days shortened and autumn drew closer, he gave up his vigil and looked no longer at the sky.

At least Gurgi's happy!

# ? Jan 27, 2024 20:04

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

Chapter 15: The Open Cage

quote:

THROUGHOUT SUMMER and fall the three had worked unstintingly to finish the cottage, their only refuge against the oncoming winter. Now, as the first snow whirled from the heavy sky to powder the crags with dry, white flakes, it was done. The walls of new stone rose firm and solid; the roof had been thatched anew and tightly chinked against wind and weather. Within, a fire cheerily blazed in the new hearth. The wooden benches had been mended; the door no longer sagged on broken hinges. Though Craddoc had given himself unsparingly to the toil, the cottage for the most part was Taran's labor. The rusted tools, sharpened and refurbished, served him to make what other tools he needed. The planning as well as the doing had been his, and as he stood in the dooryard, the fine snow clinging like chaff to his uncropped hair, it was not without pride that he watched the smoke rising from the rebuilt chimney. Craddock had come to stand beside him, and the herdsman put a hand fondly on Taran's shoulder.

For a time neither spoke, but at last Craddoc said, "For all the years I strove to keep what was mine, it is mine no longer." His bearded face furrowed in a smile. "Ours," he said.

Taran nodded, but made no further answer. Since the winter tasks were short, the brief days seemed longer. Evenings by the fire, to while away the time, Craddoc told of his youth, of his settling in the valley. As the herdsman spoke of his hopes and hardships, Taran's admiration quickened, and for the first time he saw Craddoc as a man who had been not unlike himself. Thus, at Craddoc's urging, Taran was willing to tell of his days at Caer Dallben and all that had befallen him. Craddoc's face brightened with fatherly pride as he heard of these adventures. Yet, often Taran would stop in the midst of his recounting when memories of Eilonwy and all his life long past would surge suddenly and break upon him like a wave. Then would he break off abruptly, turn his face away, and stare at the fire. Those times Craddoc pressed him to speak no further. A bond of affection, born of their common toil, had grown among all three. Craddoc never failed to treat Gurgi with much kindness and gentleness, and the creature, more than ever pleased with his duties as shepherd, was well content.

But once, at the beginning of winter, Craddoc spoke apart with Taran, saying, "Since the day you came to dwell here I have called you my son, yet never have you called me father." Taran bit his lips. At one time, he had yearned to shout aloud his bitterness, to fling it angrily in the herdsman's face. It still tormented him, but now he could not bring himself to wound the feelings of one he scorned as a father yet honored as a man. Seeing Taran's distress, Craddoc nodded briefly.

"Perhaps," he said, "perhaps one day you shall."

Perhaps.

quote:

SNOW TURNED THE GRAY summits glistening white, yet the tall peaks Taran once had seen as bars now shielded the valley from the brunt of the storms, and against the wolf-wind howling through the ice-bound passes the cottage stood fast. Late of an afternoon, when Craddoc and Gurgi had gone to see to the flock, the gale sharpened and Taran set about stretching a heavier sheepskin across the narrow window. He had only begun when the door was flung open as though ripped from its hinges. Shouting frantically, Gurgi burst into the cottage.

"Help, oh help! Kindly master, come with hastenings!" Gurgi's face was pale as ashes, his hands shook violently as he clutched at Taran's arm. "Master, master, follow Gurgi! Quickly, oh, quickly!"

Taran dropped the sheepskin, hurriedly donned a fleece jacket and, as Gurgi moaned and wrung his hands, snatched up a cloak and raced through the open door. Outside, the wind caught at him and nearly flung him backward. Gurgi pressed on, wildly waving his arms. Taran bent forward against the gale and ran beside his desperate companion, stumbling across the snow-swept field. At the edge of the pasture they had cleared during the summer the land fell sharply away into stony slopes, and he followed close behind Gurgi as the creature scrambled past a rocky draw, then along a twisting path where he soon halted. Taran gasped in dismay as Gurgi, whimpering fearfully, pointed downward. A narrow ledge jutted from the sheer side of the gorge. A figure, arms outflung, lay motionless, one leg twisted under his body, partly covered with fallen stones. It was Craddoc.

"Gone with stumblings!" Gurgi moaned. "Oh, miserable Gurgi could not save him from slippings!" He clapped his hands to his head. "Too late! Too late for helpings!" Taran's head spun with shock; grief struck him like a sword. But then, beyond his will, terrifying in its sudden onrush, a wild sense of freedom flooded him as though rising from the most hidden depths of his heart. In one dizzying glance he seemed, to see his cage of stone crumble. The still form on the ledge stirred painfully and lifted an arm.

"He lives!" Taran cried.

"Oh, master! How do we save him?" Gurgi wailed. "Terrible crags are steep! Even bold Gurgi fears to climb down!"

"Is there no way?" Taran exclaimed. "He's badly hurt; dying, perhaps. We cannot leave him." He pressed his fists to his reeling forehead. "Even if we could make our way to him, how should we bear him up? And if we fail--- not one life lost but three."

His hands were shaking. It was not despair that filled him, but terror, black terror at the thoughts whispering in his mind. Was there the slimmest hope of saving the stricken herdsman? If not, even Prince Gwydion would not reproach Taran's decision. Nor would any man. Instead, they would grieve with him at his loss. Free of his burden, free of the valley, the door of his cage opened wide, and all his life awaited him; Eilonwy, Caer Dallben. He seemed to hear his own voice speak these words, and he listened in shame and horror.

Then, as if his heart would burst with with it, he cried out in terrible rage, "What man am I?" Blind with fury at himself, he sprang down the slope and clawed for a handhold amid the icecovered stones, while Gurgi, panting fearfully, clambered after him.

A good man, Taran. A good man.

quote:

Taran's numbed fingers clutched vainly at an outcropping as a rock gave way beneath his feet. Downward he pitched, and cried out as a jagged stone drove against his chest. Black suns burst in his head and he choked with pain. Above, Gurgi was sliding down in a shower of ice and pebbles. Taran's heart pounded. He was on the ledge. Craddoc lay within arm's reach. Taran crawled to his side. Blood streamed down Craddoc's brow as the herdsman struggled to raise his head.

"Son, son," he gasped, "you have lost your life for me."

"Not so," Taran answered. "Don't try to move. We'll find a way to bring you to safety." He raised himself to his knees. Craddoc was even more grievously hurt than Taran had feared. Carefully he lifted away the heavy stones and shale that pressed against the herdsman, and gently drew him closer to the protecting face of the cliff. Gurgi had dropped to the ledge and scurried to join Taran.

"Master, master," he cried, "Gurgi sees a pathway upward. But it is steep, oh, steep, with dangers of hurtful stumblings and tumblings!"

Taran glanced at where the creature pointed. Amid the rocks and snow-filled crevices he could make out a narrow passageway, free of ice. Yet, as Gurgi had warned, it rose nearly straight up. One man at a time could scale it; but what of two, burdened with a third? He gritted his teeth. The sharp stone had wounded him sorely as a blade, and each breath he drew filled his lungs with fire. He gestured for Gurgi to lay hold of Craddoc's legs, while he edged unsteadily along the sheer drop and slid his hands under the herdsman's shoulders. As gently as the companions strove to lift him, Craddoc cried out in agony, and they were forced to halt, fearful their efforts would do him further harm. A wind had risen, screaming through the valley, lashing at the companions and nearly tearing them from the ledge. Once more they struggled to bear Craddoc to the upward passage, and once more fell back as the gale battered them. The early twilight had begun deepening and shadows filled the gorge. The face of the cliff wavered before Taran's eyes. His legs trembled as he forced himself again to lift the herdsman.

"Leave me," Craddoc murmured hoarsely. "Leave me. You waste your own strength."

"Leave you?" Taran burst out. "What son forsakes his own flesh and blood?" Hearing this, Craddoc smiled for an instant, then his face drew taut in anguish.

"Save yourselves," he whispered.

"You are my father," Taran replied. "I stay."

"No!" the herdsman cried out with all his strength. "Do as I ask, and go from here. Heed me now, or it will be too late. The duty of kinship? You owe me none. No bond of blood holds you."

"How then?" Taran gasped, staring wildly at the herdsman. His head spun and he clutched at the ledge. "How then? Do you tell me I am not your son?" Craddoc looked at him a moment, his eyes unwavering.

"Never have I been false to any man. Save once. To you."

"A lie?" Taran stammered in dismay. "Did you lie to me then--- or do you lie to me now?"

"Half-truth is worse than lie," Craddoc answered brokenly. "Hear me. Hear this part of the truth. Yes, long past, as he journeyed through Prydain, Dallben sheltered with me. But of what he sought he never spoke."

"The child," Taran cried. "There was none?"

"There was," Craddoc answered. "A son. Our first born, even as I told you. He did not live beyond the day of his birth. His mother died with him," he murmured. "And you--- I needed your strength to keep what remained to me. I saw no other way. Even as I spoke the lie, I was ashamed, then more ashamed to speak the truth. When your companion left, I could only hope that you would follow with him, and gave you freedom so to do. You chose to stay. But this, as well, is true," Craddoc said hurriedly. "At first I leaned upon you as on my crutch, because you served my need, but no father came to love a son more dearly." Taran's head sank to his breast. He could not speak, and his tears blinded him. Craddoc, who had half-raised himself, fell back to the stones of the ledge: "Go from here," he murmured.

Taran's hand dropped to his side. His fingers touched the rim of the battle horn. With a sudden cry he straightened. Eilonwy's horn! Unthinking, he had slung it about his shoulder when he had run from the cottage. Hastily he drew it from beneath his cloak. The summons to the Fair Folk, the call he had treasured! It alone could save Craddoc. He stumbled to his feet. The ledge seemed to sway beneath him. The notes Doli had taught him blurred in his mind and he strove desperately to recall them. Suddenly they rang once more in his memory. He raised the horn to his lips. The notes sprang loud and clear and even before the signal faded, the wind caught them and seemed to fling the call through all the valley, where it returned in echo after echo. Then whirling shadows engulfed him and Taran dropped to the ledge. How long they clung there he did not know; whether moments or hours, he was only dimly aware of strong hands bearing him up, of a rope lashed about his waist. He glimpsed vaguely, as between the flickering of a dark flame, the broad faces of dwarfish mountaineers, whose number he could not judge.

When next he opened his eyes he was in the cottage, the fire blazing, Gurgi beside him. Taran started up. Pain seared his chest, which he saw had been carefully bandaged.

"The signal!" he murmured feebly. "It was answered..."

"Yes, yes!" Gurgi cried. "Fair Folk save us with mighty haulings and heavings! They bind up kindly master's hurtful wounds and leave healing herbs for all that is needful!"

"The summons," Taran began. "Good old Doli. He warned me not to waste it. For Craddoc's sake, I'm glad I kept it as long as I did. Craddoc--- where is he? How does he fare?" He stopped suddenly. Gurgi was looking at him silently. The creature's face wrinkled miserably and tears stood in his eyes as he bowed his shaggy head. Taran fell back. His own cry of anguish rang in his ears. Beyond that was only darkness.

The chapters with Craddoc are, I think, one of the more compelling parts of this book. Taran is forced to look at himself, properly, for the very first time, since setting out on his quest and even though it was a lie, and he isn't Craddoc's son, the fact that he lived for a time with the idea that he was is, and will be, very meaningful for him.

# ? Jan 31, 2024 14:40

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

It�s a really good section! I�m also looking forward to what I know comes next, but Craddoc is such a good contrast to the portion with Smoit offering to adopt Taran and Taran turning it down. The ongoing quest to find out who he is is just very well done - it�s got enough complexity that as a child reading it, you�re not always quite sure where it�s going and as an adult, you can see how all these lessons are piling up in different ways and you start to suspect you know what the mirror of Llunet is going to be, and what it�s going to reveal to Taran.

# ? Jan 31, 2024 16:10

nine-gear crow: Aug 10, 2013

Coca Koala posted:

It�s a really good section! I�m also looking forward to what I know comes next, but Craddoc is such a good contrast to the portion with Smoit offering to adopt Taran and Taran turning it down. The ongoing quest to find out who he is is just very well done - it�s got enough complexity that as a child reading it, you�re not always quite sure where it�s going and as an adult, you can see how all these lessons are piling up in different ways and you start to suspect you know what the mirror of Llunet is going to be, and what it�s going to reveal to Taran.

Rian Johnson gave an interview about The Last Jedi once where he talked about Rey's arc over the course of the movie and the reveal at the end of the second act and it reminded me so much of the Craddoc section of Taran Wanderer. He said that when it came to who her parents were and where she came from, especially for a person like her who was trying to use a perceived lineage or connection to someone or just something important as a panacea for all her worldly woes, the answer she receives should be the hardest one for her to deal with: you are nobody, and your parents were nobodies too (followup retcons not withstanding).

Taran effectively gets the same gut punch here. His whole quest is initially tied to the delusional promise that he's got to be descended from someone or something important and it'll fix everyone and tell him who he is and give him the go ahead to pursue Eilonwy romantically and then Craddoc comes along and rips his legs out from under him and confirms, at least initially, the worst fear that was silently driving him forward: you are no one of nothing from nowhere. Of course then Craddoc's like "lol jk, I'm gonna die now bye" and throws his whole identity for a loop a second time around, and priming his eventual reaction once he finally reaches the Mirror of Llunet. And unlike Star Wars, there's no JJ Abrams around to pussy out of it at the last second like a bitch hack.

# ? Feb 1, 2024 03:53

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

Chapter 16: Taran Wanderer

Title drop!

quote:

FEVER CAME, SWEEPING over him, a blazing forest through which he staggered endlessly; tossing on the straw pallet, he knew neither day nor night. Often there were dream faces half-glimpsed, half-recognized, of Eilonwy, of his companions, of all whom he had loved; yet they slipped away from him, shifting and changing like wind-driven clouds, or were swallowed by nightmares that made him cry out in terror. Later, he seemed to see Fflewddur, but the bard had turned gaunt, hollow-eyed, his yellow hair matted on his forehead, his mouth pinched and his long nose thin as a blade. His garments hung ragged and stained.

Kaw perched on his shoulder and croaked, "Taran, Taran!"

"Yes, well, indeed it's about time you're waking up," said Fflewddur, grinning at him. Beside the bard, Gurgi squatted on a wooden stool and peered at him anxiously. Taran rubbed his eyes, unsure whether he was asleep or awake. This time the faces did not vanish. He blinked. The sheepskin had been taken from the window and sunlight streamed over him.

"Gurgi? Kaw?" Taran murmured. "Fflewddur? What's happened to you? You look like half of yourself."

"You're hardly one to talk about appearances, old friend." The bard chuckled. "If you could see yourself, I'm sure you'd agree you look worse than I do." Still baffled, Taran turned to Gurgi who had leaped up joyously and clapped his hands.

"Kindly master is well again!" Gurgi shouted. "He is well, without groanings and moanings, without shiverings and quiverings! And it is faithful, clever Gurgi who tends him!"

"That's true," agreed Fflewddur. "For the past two weeks he's fussed over you like a mother hen, and he couldn't have given you more care if you'd been one of his pet lambs! I rode straight as an arrow from Caer Dallben," the bard continued. "Ah--- well--- the truth of it is, I got lost for a time; then it began snowing. Llyan plowed through drifts up to her ears, and even she finally had to stop. For a while we sheltered in a cave--- Great Belin, I thought I'd never see the light of day again."

Fflewddur gestured at his tattered clothing: "It was the sort of journey that tends to make one rather unkempt. Not to mention three-fourths starved. Kaw was the one who happened to find us, and he guided us along the clearer trails. As for Dallben," Fflewddur went on, "he was upset, considerably more than he wanted to show. Though all he said was 'Taran is not the herdsman's son, but whether or not he stays is a matter entirely of his own choosing.' And so I came back as fast as I could," the bard concluded. "Alas, I didn't reach you sooner." He shook his head. "Gurgi told me what happened."

"Craddoc longed for a son," Taran answered slowly, "as I longed for parentage. I wonder if I would not have been happier had I believed him. Though at the end, I think I did. Gurgi and I could have climbed to safety. For the sake of Craddoc, I sounded Eilonwy's horn. Had I done it sooner, perhaps he might have lived. He was a man of courage and good heart, a proud man. Now he is dead. I saved the signal to use in a worthy cause, and when I found one it was wasted."

"Wasted?" answered Fflewddur. "I think not. Since you did your best and didn't begrudge using it, I shouldn't call it wasted at all."

"There is more that you do not know," Taran said. He looked squarely at the bard. "My best? At first I thought to leave Craddoc on the ledge."

"Well, now," replied the bard, "each man has his moment of fear. If we all behaved as we often wished to there'd be sorry doings in Prydain. Count the deed, not the thought."

"In this I count my thought as much," Taran said in a cold voice. "It was not fear that held me back. Will you know the truth? I was ashamed to be base-born, so ashamed it sickened me. I would have left Craddoc to his death. Yes, left him to die!" he burst out. "Because I believed it would have set me free of him. I was ashamed to be the son of a herdsman. But no longer. Now my shame is for myself." He turned his face away and said no more.

And there you have it.

quote:

THE COMPANIONS WINTERED in the cottage, and little by little Taran's strength came back. At the first thaw, when the valley sparkled with melting snow and the streams burst from their ice-bound courses, Taran stood silently in the dooryard and looked at the pale green summits, pondering what had long been in his heart.

"We'll soon be ready," said Fflewddur, who had come from seeing to Llyan and the steeds. "The passes should be dear. The Lake of Llunet can't be too far, and with Kaw to help us, we should reach it in no time."

"I've thought carefully on this," Taran replied. "All winter I've tried to decide what I should do, and never have I found an answer. But one thing is clear, and my mind is made up. I will not seek the Mirror."

"What's that you say?"cried Fflewddur. "Do I hear you aright? Give up your search? Now, of all
times? After all you've gone through? Taran, my boy, you've regained your health, but not your wits!"

Taran shook his head. "I give it up. My quest has brought only grief to all of you. And for me, it's led me not to honor but to shame. Taran? Taran makes me sick at heart. I longed to be of noble birth, longed for it so much I believed it was true. A proud birthright was all that counted for me. Those who had none--- even when I admired them, as I admired Aeddan, as I learned to admire Craddoc--- I deemed them lesser because of it. Without knowing them, I judged them less than what they were. Now I see them as true men. Noble? They are far nobler than I. I am not proud of myself," Taran went on. "I may never be again. If I do find pride, I'll not find it in what I was or what I am, but what I may become. Not in my birth, but in myself."

"All things considered, then," replied the bard, "the best thing would be to pack our gear and start for Caer Dallben."

Taran shook his head. "I cannot face Dallben or Coll. One day, perhaps. Not now. I must make my own way, earn my own keep. Somehow, the robin must scratch for his own worms." He stopped suddenly and looked, wondering, at the bard. "Orddu--- those were her words. I heard them onlywith my ears. Until now, I did not understand with my heart."

"Scratching for worms is unappetizing, to say the best of it," Fflewddur answered. "But it's true, everyone should have a skill. Take myself, for example. King though I am, as a bard you'll find none better---" A harp string snapped, and for a moment it appeared that several others might give way. "Yes, well, aside from all that," Fflewddur said hastily, , "if you don't mean to go home, then I suggest the Free Commots. The craftsmen there might welcome a willing apprentice."

Taran thought for some moments, then nodded. "So shall I do. Now will I scorn no man's welcome."

The bard's face fell. "I--- I fear I can't go with you, old friend. There's my own realm waiting. True enough, I'm happier wandering as a bard than sitting as a king. But already I've been too long away."

"Then our ways must part again," Taran replied. "Will there ever be an end to saying farewell?"

"But Gurgi does not say farewell to kindly master," cried Gurgi, as Fflewddur went to gather up his gear. "No, no, humble Gurgi toils at his side!"

Taran bowed his head and turned away. "If the day comes when I deserve your faithfulness that will be prize enough for me."

"No, no!" protested Gurgi. "Not prizings! Gurgi only gives what is in his heart to give! He stays and asks nothing more. Once you comforted friendless Gurgi. Now let him comfort sorrowful master!" Taran felt the creature's hand on his shoulder.

"Dallben spoke truth, old friend," he murmured. "Staunchness and good sense? All that and more. But your comfort stands me in better stead than all the cleverness in Prydain."

NEXT MORNING TARAN and Fflewddur took leave of one another for the second time. Despite the bard's protest that a Fflam could always find his way; Taran insisted on Kaw's going along as a guide. Once this task was done, Taran urged the crow to return to Caer Dallben or, if it pleased him better, to fly freely as he chose. "I'll not bind you to my journey," Taran said to Kaw, "for even I don't know where it may end."

"Then how do we fare?" cried Gurgi. "Faithful Gurgi follows, oh, yes! But where does kindly master begin?" The valley seemed suddenly empty as Taran stood, unanswering, looking at the silent cottage and the small mound of stones marking Craddoc's resting place.

"Times there were," Taran said,almost to himself, "when I believed I was building my own prison with my own hands. Now I wonder if I shall ever labor as well and gain as much." He turned to the waiting Gurgi. "Where?" He knelt, plucked a handful of dry grass from the turf, and cast it into the air. The freshening wind bore the blades eastward, toward the Free Commots. "There," Taran said. "As the wind blows, so do we follow it."

The road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began.

quote:

SINCE NEITHER TARAN nor Gurgi wished to leave the sheep behind, the wayfarers departed from the valley with the small flock bleating after them. Taran intended offering the animals to the first farmstead with good grazing land, yet several days passed and he saw no inhabited place. The two companions had started in a southeasterly direction, but Taran soon gave Melynlas free rein and, though aware the stallion was bearing more east than south, he paid little heed until they drew near the banks of a wide, rapid-flowing river. Here, the pasture stretched broad and fair.

Ahead he glimpsed an empty sheepfold; he noticed no flock, but the gate of the enclosure stood open as though awaiting the animals' return at any moment. The low-roofed cottage and sheds were neat and well-kept. A pair of shaggy goats browsed near the dooryard. Taran blinked in surprise, forset about the cottage were all manner of woven baskets, some large, some small, some rising on stilts, and others seemingly dropped at random. Several trees by the river held wooden platforms, and along the riverbank itself Taran caught sight of what appeared to be a weir of carefully woven branches. Wooden stakes secured a number of nets and fishing lines drifting in the current. Puzzling over this farmhold, surely the strangest he had seen, Taran drew closer, dismounted, and as he did so a tall figure ambled from the shed and made his way toward the companions. Taran glimpsed the farm wife peering from the cottage window.

At the same time, as if out of nowhere, half-a-dozen children of different ages burst into sight and began running and skipping toward the flock, laughing gaily and shouting to one another: "They're here! They're here!" Seeing Gurgi, they turned their attention from the sheep to cluster around him, clapping their hands in delight and calling out such merryhearted greetings that the astonished creature could only laugh and clap his own hands in return. The man who stood before Taran was thin as a stick with lank hair tumbling over his brow and blue eyes bright as a bird's. Indeed, his narrow shoulders and spindly legs made him look like a crane or stork. His jacket was too short in the arms, too long in the body, and his garmentsseemed pieced together with patches of all sizes, shapes, and colors.

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

Taran bowed courteously. "My name--- my name is Taran."

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

"Call me, then, a wanderer," Taran replied.

"Taran Wanderer? So be it, if that suits you." Llonio's glance was curious, but he asked no further. When Taran then spoke of seeking pasture for the sheep, Llonio nodded briskly.

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

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

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

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

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

"But you couldn't have known," Taran began.

"Ah, ah," Llonio chuckled, "why, look you, I knew that with any kind of luck a flock of sheep was bound to come along one day. Everything else does! Now honor us by stopping here a while. Our fare can't match our thanks, but we'll feast you as best we can." Before Taran could answer, Llonio bent down to one of the little girls who was staring round eyed at Gurgi. "Now then, Gwenlliant, run see if the brown hen's chosen to lay us an egg today." He turned to Taran. "The brown hen's a moody creature," he said. "But when she has a mind to, she puts down a handsome egg." He then set the rest of the children running off on different tasks,while Taran and Gurgi watched astonished at the hustle and bustle in this most peculiar household. Llonio led the two into the cottage where Goewin gave them a warm welcome and bade them sit by the hearth. In no time Gwenlliant was back holding an egg in out-stretched hands.

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

At first Taran saw nothing extraordinary in the egg which Llonio praised so highly; but, caught up by the man's good spirits, Taran to his own surprise found himself looking at the egg as though he, too, had never seen one. In Llonio's hands the shell seemed to sparkle so brightly, to curve so gracefully and beautifully that even Gurgi marveled at it, and Taran watched almost with regret as Goewin cracked such a precious egg into a large earthen bowl. Nevertheless, if Llonio intended sharing it among his numerous family, Taran told himself, the fare would indeed be meager. Yet, as Goewin stirred the contents of the bowl, the children crowded one after the other into the cottage, all bearing something that made Llonio call out cheerily at each discovery.

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

Goewin, meanwhile, was busy popping all these finds into the bowl and, before Taran's eyes, the contents soon filled it nearly to the brim. Even then, his surprise did not end. Goewin deftly poured the mixture onto a sheet of metal which, Taran was quite certain, was nothing else but a warrior's shield hammered flat, and held it over the glowing embers. Within moments; the scent of cooking filled the cottage, Gurgi's mouth watered, and in no time the farm wife drew a dappled golden cake nearly as big as a cartwheel from the fireplace. Llonio quickly sliced it into pieces and to Taran's amazement there was not only enough for all but some left over. He ate his fill of the most delicious egg he ever tasted--- if egg it could now be called--- and not even Gurgi could eat more.

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

We meet Llonio and his family - who seem to have invented the frittata, or maybe a crust-less quiche, in Prydain purely by what's on hand. I love this guy.

# ? Feb 3, 2024 18:58

nine-gear crow: Aug 10, 2013

This is probably my favourite stretch of the whole series coming up. I can't remember it it's all one section or diffused across the rest of the book, but Taran In The Village is just beautiful. A great "rebuilding the hero" sequence after brining him to his lowest point right here.

# ? Feb 3, 2024 19:39

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

Yeah I�m pretty sure from here on out it�s all just so good. Taran�s gone out, been offered what he thought he wanted, found what he thought he wanted, and discovered it all doesn�t mean anything to him. Now he�s gotta figure out where he goes from here. Taran Wanderer indeed.

# ? Feb 3, 2024 20:13

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

Chapter 17: The Weir

quote:

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

"No matter," he said. "Something will surely fill them later. Last time a flock of wild geese flew down to rest. You should have seen the feathers left after they'd gone. Enough to stuff cushions for every one of us!" By now they reached the river, which Llonio named as Small Avren since, farther south, it flowed into Great Avren itself. "Small it is," he said, "but sooner or later whatever you might wish comes floating along." As if to prove his words he began hauling vigorously at the net staked along the bank. It came up empty, as did the fishing lines. Undismayed, Llonio shrugged again. "Tomorrow, very likely."

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

"That I do," replied Llonio, laughing goodnaturedly. "My holding is small; I work it as best as I can. For the rest--- why, look you, if I know one thing, it's this: Life's a matter of luck. Trust it, and a man's bound to find what he seeks, one day or the next."

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

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

There's a lesson anybody can benefit from.

quote:

So saying, he clambered nimbly onto the weir, which Taran now saw was made not to bar the flow of water but to strain and sift the current. Balancing atop this odd construction, seeming more cranelike than ever as he bobbed up and down, bending to poke and pry among the osiers, Llonio soon gave a glad cry and waved excitedly. Taran hurriedly picked his way across the dam to join him. His face fell, however, when he reached Llonio's side. What had caused the man's joyful shout was no more than a discarded horse bridle.

"Alas," said Taran, disappointed, "there's littl euse in that. The bit's missing and the rein's worn through."

"So be it, so be it," replied Llonio. "That's what Small Avren's brought us today, and it will serve, one way or another." He slung the dripping bridle over his shoulder, scrambled from the dam, and with Taran following him set off with long strides through the grove of trees fringing the river. In a while Llonio, whose sharp eyes darted everywhere at once, cried out again and stooped at the bottom of a gnarled elm. Amid the roots and for some distance around, mushrooms sprouted abundantly.

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

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

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

"Not so, not so!" protested Llonio, hastily scraping away the loam partly covering the stone. Look you, now! Have you ever seen one so shaped? Round as a wheel and smooth as an egg. A windfall it is that needs only the picking up!" If a windfall, Taran thought, it was the hardest and heaviest he had stumbled on, for Llonio now insisted on unearthing the flat rock. They did so with much digging and heaving and, carrying it between them struggled back to the farmhold, where Llonio rolled it into the shed already bursting with an odd array of churn handles, strips of cloth, horse trappings, thongs, hanks of cord, and all the harvest of his weir, nets, and baskets.

Over the cookfire, the mushrooms, eked out with the leftover griddle cake and a handful of early vegetables the children had found, simmered so deliciously that Taran and Gurgi needed no urging to stay for the repast. As night fell Taran welcomed the family's invitation to rest by the hearth. Gurgi, stuffed and contented, began snoring instantly. And Taran, for the first time in many days, slept soundly and dreamlessly. The next morning was bright and crisp. Taran woke to find the sun high, and though he had meant to saddle Melynlas and be on his way he did not do so. If Llonio's weir had yielded little the day before, the night current had more than made up for it. A great sack of wheat had somehow become tangled with a cluster of dead branches which served as a raft and thus had floated downstream undampened by the river. Goewin, without delay, brought out a large stone quern to grind the grain into meal. All took a hand in the task, the children from eldest to youngest, even Llonio himself; Taran did his share willingly, though he found the quern heavy and cumbersome, as did Gurgi.

"Oh tiresome millings," Gurgi cried. "Gurgi's poor fingers are filled with achings, and his arms with strainings and painings!" Nevertheless, he finished his turn; although by the time enough meal had been ground, another day had nearly sped by, and once more Llonio urged the wayfarers to share his hospitality. Taran did not refuse. Indeed, as he stretched by the fire, he admitted to himself he had secretly hoped Llonio would suggest it.

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

"In a way," Taran told Gurgi, "Llonio's richer than Lord Gast is or ever will be. Not only that, he's the luckiest man in Prydain! I envy no man's riches," Taran added. Then he sighed and shook his head. "But I wish I had Llonio's luck." When he repeated this to Llonio, the man only grinned and winked at him.

"Luck, Wanderer? One day, if you're lucky, I'll tell you the secret of it." Beyond that, Llonio would say no more. At this time a thought had begun taking shape in Taran's mind. Nearly all of Llonio's finds had been put to one use or another--- save the flat stone which still lay in the shed.

"But I wonder," he told Llonio, "I wonder if it couldn't serve to grind meal better than the quern..."

"How then?" cried Llonio, greatly pleased. "If you think it can, do as you see fit." Still pondering his idea, Taran roamed the woods until he came upon another stone of much the same size as the first.

"That's a stroke of luck," he laughed, as Llonio helped him drag it back.

Llonio grinned. "So it is, so it is."

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

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

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

"Wanderer," he cried, "you've made much from little, and done it better than ever I could!"

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

"By rights," he told Gurgi, "I should be more than happy to dwell here all my life. I've found peace and friendship--- and a kind of hope, as well. It's eased my heart like balm on a wound." He hesitated. "Yet, somehow Llonio's way is not mine. A spur drives me to seek more than what Small Avren brings. What I seek, I do not know. But, alas, I know it is not here." He spoke then with Llonio and regretfully told him he must take up his journeying again. This time, sensing Taran's decision firmly made, Llonio did not urge him to stay, and they bade each other farewell. "And yet," Taran said, as he swung astride Melynlas, "alas, you never told me the secret of your luck."

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

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

And so's this one, for that matter. Llonio's a smart guy.

# ? Feb 7, 2024 17:16

Genghis Cohen: Jun 29, 2013

Another nice (and rather more cheerful) lesson. I do question how well you can feed and clothe a family by that kind of foraging though, and you certainly might hesitate before taking in two adult strangers to share the food!

For that matter, didn't Gurgi used to have an everlasting pouch of food? Seems like it might have come in handy here.

# ? Feb 7, 2024 18:48

Hemp Knight: Sep 26, 2004

Genghis Cohen posted:

Another nice (and rather more cheerful) lesson. I do question how well you can feed and clothe a family by that kind of foraging though, and you certainly might hesitate before taking in two adult strangers to share the food!

Interesting question.

No doubt the description of Llonio�s lifestyle is romanticised a bit (in reality it�d be somewhat harder work than described, and likely require hunting of deer, rabbits, etc to feed the family), but I�ve read elsewhere that the hunter/gatherer life is actually easier than farming. While farming is more reliable as a source of food, it�s also much harder and more time consuming. Hunter/gatherers apparently only need to work for something like 4 hours a day to feed a family.

# ? Feb 7, 2024 19:18

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

Man, that Llonio section all came rushing back into my head as I was reading along with it. What a charming change of pace from Craddoc - as a child I remember being very enchanted with Llonio's attitude of "Anything that shows up, view it in the most positive light and find a way to put it to use".

# ? Feb 7, 2024 22:01

Genghis Cohen: Jun 29, 2013

Hemp Knight posted:

Interesting question.

No doubt the description of Llonio�s lifestyle is romanticised a bit (in reality it�d be somewhat harder work than described, and likely require hunting of deer, rabbits, etc to feed the family), but I�ve read elsewhere that the hunter/gatherer life is actually easier than farming. While farming is more reliable as a source of food, it�s also much harder and more time consuming. Hunter/gatherers apparently only need to work for something like 4 hours a day to feed a family.

That's a fair point though. I think you would need to be at least semi-nomadic though, because you'd forage out your local environment otherwise. I also think it might only be viable in certain environments - not sure I'd like to try it in 'basically Wales' which is what Prydain is.

# ? Feb 8, 2024 10:59

Pistol_Pete: Sep 15, 2007; Oven Wrangler

Genghis Cohen posted:

Another nice (and rather more cheerful) lesson. I do question how well you can feed and clothe a family by that kind of foraging though, and you certainly might hesitate before taking in two adult strangers to share the food!

Craddoc should've just moved to their neck of the woods, where life appears to be easy, rather than shivering in the mountains and eating the lichen he'd scraped off rocks with his fingernails imo.

# ? Feb 8, 2024 16:24

beauty queen breakdown: Dec 21, 2010; partially cromulent posting.
"2021's worst kept secret"

This thread is a delight. I loved these books as a kid, and now I'm finally caught up to the current posts. Looking forward to whatever we get post-Llonio, which I don't remember. And I enjoyed the Disney movie, save Fflewdur -- I always see him as more of a young David Bowie than an old rando. I wish Brad Bird, Don Bluth, or somebody else had gotten ahold of this and made the animated film[s] it deserves

# ? Feb 10, 2024 02:04

Comrade Koba: Jul 2, 2007

I never saw the movie, but I remember having some kind of thin picture book version of it as a child, which had stills from the movie along with a very brief summary of the major scenes.

35 years or so later, this is still how I imagine Gurgi:

# ? Feb 10, 2024 08:25

nine-gear crow: Aug 10, 2013

Comrade Koba posted:

I never saw the movie, but I remember having some kind of thin picture book version of it as a child, which had stills from the movie along with a very brief summary of the major scenes.

35 years or so later, this is still how I imagine Gurgi:

The Disney picture book was my first encounter with the Black Cauldron and Pyrdain series as well. Because Disney vaulted the film after it bombed and never released it on home video, the book was my only experience with the story and being an idiot child I had no idea it was based on another more readily available version of the story. So I made my mother read it to me a few times and was enthralled because going off the still images in the book it looked like a loving awesome movie and the Disney version of the Horned King was a really great design. So I always wondered why it was the one Disney movie we never had on VHS despite having everything from Snow White onward, and later found out that it was a box office bomb and Disney damnatio memoriae'd it because lol capitalism lol Michael Eisner.

Finally got to watch a pirated copy of the movie in the mid 2000s and then bought and read the books a couple years after that. It's... fine? Certainly not bad enough to warrant Disney burying it in cement for nearly 30 years, but whatever. I also still see the Disney versions of Taran, Gurgi, Eilonwy and Dallben whenever I picture them in my head when I read the books. Fflewdur is the one I struggle with for the same reasons as beauty queen breakdown mentioned: the old rear end man image is so burned into my brain that I need to constantly remind myself that he's supposed to look like Balthier from Final Fantasy XII or something.

nine-gear crow fucked around with this message at 09:03 on Feb 10, 2024

# ? Feb 10, 2024 09:00

Strategic Tea: Sep 1, 2012

Between the cartoon and too much Elden Ring I imagine Gurgi as a cuter combination of:

# ? Feb 10, 2024 11:24

Hemp Knight: Sep 26, 2004

I just think of Gurgi as a shorter, scruffier/shaggier haired version of Chewbacca.

Isn�t he basically meant to be a dog, like Chewie?

# ? Feb 10, 2024 14:59

Comstar: Apr 20, 2007; Are you happy now?

Hemp Knight posted:

I just think of Gurgi as a shorter, scruffier/shaggier haired version of Chewbacca.

Does that not describe Gilgamesh�s best buddy Enriqu(?)?

# ? Feb 10, 2024 20:02

Genghis Cohen: Jun 29, 2013

Comstar posted:

Does that not describe Gilgamesh�s best buddy Enriqu(?)?

Enkidu?

# ? Feb 12, 2024 16:28

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

Chapter 18: The Free Commots

quote:

FROM SMALL AVREN THEY WENDED eastward at an easy pace, halting as it pleased them, sleeping on the turf or sheltering at one of the many farmsteads among the rich green vales. This was the land of the Free Commots, of cottages clustering in loose circles, rimmed by cultivated fields and pastures. Taran found the Commot folk courteous and hospitable. Though he named himself only as Taran Wanderer, the dwellers in these hamlets and villages respected his privacy and asked nothing of his birthplace, rank, or destination. Taran and Gurgi had ridden into the outskirts of Commot Cenarth when Taran reined up Melynlas at a long, low-roofed shed from which rang the sound of hammer on anvil. Within, he found the smith, a barrel-chested, leather-aproned man with a stubbly black beard and a great shock of black hair bristly as a brush. His eyelashes were scorched, grime and soot smudged his face; sparks rained on his bare shoulders but he seemed to count them no more than fireflies. In a voice like stones rattling on a bronze shield he roared out a song in time with his hammer strokes so loudly that Taran judged the man's lungs as leathery as his bellows. While Gurgi cautiously drew back from the shower of sparks, Taran called a greeting, scarcely able to make himself heard above the din.

"Master Smith," he said, bowing deeply as the man at last caught sight of him and put down the hammer, "I am called Taran Wanderer and journey seeking a craft to help me earn my bread. I know a little of your art and ask you to teach me more. I have no gold or silver to pay you, but name any task and I will do it gladly."

"Away with you!" shouted the smith. "Tasks I have aplenty, but no time for teaching others to do them."

"Is time what lacks?" Taran said, glancing shrewdly at the smith. "I've heard it said that a man must be a true master of his craft if he would teach it.

"Hold!" roared the smith as Taran was about to turn away, and he snatched up the hammer as if he meant to throw it at Taran's head. "You doubt my skill? I've flattened men on my anvil for less! Skill? In all the Free Comrnots none has greater than Hevydd Son of Hirwas!" With that he seized the tongs, drew a bar of red-hot iron from the roaring furnace, flung it on the anvil, and set to hammering with such quick strokes that Taran could hardly follow the movement of Hevydd's muscular arm; and suddenly there formed at the end of the bar a hawthorn blossom perfect in every turn of leaf and petal.

Taran looked at it in astonishment and admiration. "Never have I seen work so deftly done."

"Nor will you see it elsewhere," Hevydd answered, at pains to hide a proud grin. "But what tale do you tell me? You know the shaping of metal? The secrets are not given to many. Even I have not gained them all." Angrily he shook his bristly head. "The deepest? They lie hidden in Annuvin, stolen by Arawn Death-Lord. Lost they are. Lost forever to Prydain. But here, take these," ordered the smith, pressing the tongs and hammer into Taran's hands. "Beat the bar smooth as it was, and quickly, before it cools. Show me what strength you have in those chicken wings of yours."

Taran strode to the anvil and; as Coll had taught him long ago, did his best to straighten the rapidly cooling iron. The smith, folding his huge arms, eyed him critically for a time, then burst into loud laughter.

"Enough, enough!" cried Hevydd. "You speak truth. Of the art, indeed, you know little. And yet," he added, rubbing his chin with a battered thumb nearly as thick as a fist, "and yet, you have the sense of it." He looked closely at Taran. "But have you courage to stand up to fire? To fight hot iron with only hammer and tongs?"

"Teach me the craft," Taran replied. "You'll have no need to teach me courage."

"Boldly said!" cried Hevydd, clapping Taran on the shoulder. "I'll temper you well in my forge! Prove yourself to me and I'll vow to make a smith of you. Now, to begin..." His eye fell on Taran's empty scabbard. "Once, it would seem, you bore a blade."

"Once I did," Taran answered. "But it is long gone, and now I journey weaponless."

"Then you shall make a sword," commanded Hevydd. "And when you've done, you'll--- tell me which is harder labor: smiting or smithing!" To this Taran learned the answer soon enough. The next several days were the most toilsome he had ever spent. He thought, at first, the smith would set him to work shaping one of the many bars already in the forge. But Hevydd had no such intention.

"What, start when half the work is done?" Hevydd snorted. "No, no, my lad. You'll forge a sword from beginning to end."

Thus, the first task Hevydd gave Taran was gathering fuel for the furnace, and from dawn to dusk Taran stoked the fire until he saw the forge as a roaring, flame-tongued monster that could never eat its fill. Even then the work had only begun, for Hevydd soon put him to shoveling in a very mountain of stones, then smelting out the metal they bore. By the time the bar itself was cast, Taran's face and arms were scorched and blackened, and his hands were covered with more blisters than skin. His back ached; his ears rang with all the clank and clatter and with Hevydd's voice shouting orders and instructions. Gurgi, who had offered to pump the bellows, never faltered even when a cloud of sparks burst and flew into his shaggy hair, singeing it away in patches until he looked as if a flock of birds had plucked him to make their nests.

"Life's a forge!" cried the smith, as Taran, his brow streaming, beat at the strip of metal. "Yes, and hammer and anvil, too! You'll be roasted, smelted, and pounded, and you'll scarce know what's happening to you. But stand boldly to it! Metal's worthless till it's shaped and tempered!"

Despite the weariness that made him drop gratefully at day's end to the straw pallet in the shed, Taran's heart quickened and his spirits rose as the blade little by little took shape on the anvil. The heavy hammer seemed to weigh more each time he lifted it; but at last, with a joyous cry, he flung it down and raised the finished sword, wellwrought and balanced, gleaming brightly in the light of the forge.

"A handsome weapon, master smith!" he cried. "As fair as the one I bore!"

"What, then?" Hevydd exclaimed. "Have you done your work so well? Would you trust your life to a blade untried?" He flung out a burly arm toward a wooden block in a corner of the forge. "Strike hard," he commanded. "The flat, the edge, and the point."

Proudly Taran raised the sword high and swung it down to the block. The weapon shuddered with the force of the blow, a sharp crack and clang smote his ears as the blade shattered and the shards went flying in all directions. Taran shouted in dismay and could have wept as he stared, disbelieving, at the broken hilt stillclutched in his hand. He turned and gave Hevydd a despairing glance.

"So ho!" cried the smith, not at all distressed by Taran's wretched and rueful expression. "Did you think to gain a worthy blade at first go?" He laughed loudly and shook his head.

"Then what must I do?" Taran cried, appalled at Hevydd's words.

"Do?" the smith retorted. "What else but start anew?"

And so they did, but this time for Taran there remained little of his joyous hopes. He labored grimly and doggedly, all the more dejected when Hevydd ordered him to cast aside two new blades even before they were tempered, judging them already flawed. The reek of hot metal clung in his nostrils and flavored even the food he hastily swallowed; the billows of steam from the great quenching tub choked him as if he were breathing clouds of scalding fog; the ceaseless din almost addled his wits until indeed he felt it was himself, not the blade, being hammered. The next blade he shaped seemed to him ugly, dinted, and scarred, without the fair proportions of the first, and this too he would have cast aside had not the smith ordered him to finish it.

"This may well serve," Hevydd told him confidently, despite the doubtful look Taran gave him.Again Taran strode to the block and raised the sword. Doing his best to shatter the ungraceful weapon, he brought it down with all his strength. The blade rang like a bell. This time it was the block that split in two.

"Now," said Hevydd quietly. "That's a blade worth bearing." Then he clapped his hands and seized Taran's arm. "You've strength in those chicken wings after all! You've proved yourself as well as you proved the blade. Stay, lad, and I'll teach you all I know." Taran said nothing for a time, but looked, not without pride, at the new-forged blade.

"You have already taught me much," he said at last to Hevydd, "though I lost what I had hoped to gain. For I had hoped I was indeed a swordsmith. I have learned that I am not."

"How then!" cried Hevydd. "You've the makings of an honest swordsmith, as good as any in Prydain."

"It cheers me to think that may be true," Taran answered. "But I know in my heart your craft is not mine. A spur drove me from Small Avren, and it drives me now. And so must I journey, even if I wished to stay."

The smith nodded. "You are well-named, Wanderer. So be it. I ask no man to go against his heart. Keep the blade in token of friendship. Yours it is, more so than any other, for you forged it with your own hands."

"It's not a noble weapon, and thus it suits me all the more," Taran laughed, glancing at the ungainly sword. "Lucky it was that I didn't have to make a dozen before it."

"Luck?" snorted Hevydd, as Taran and Gurgi took leave of him. "Not so! More labor than luck. Life's a forge, say I! Face the pounding; don't fear the proving; and you'll stand well against any hammer and anvil!"

And so comes the first quest to an end, with no real answer but the one that tells Taran what he is not.

quote:

WITH HEVYDD THE SMITH waving a sooty hand in farewell, the companions traveled on, bearing northward along the rich valley of Great Avren. A few days of easy riding through pleasant countryside brought them to the edge of Commot Gwenith. Here, a shower suddenly began pelting down on them, and the wayfarers galloped for the first shelter they could find. It was a cluster of sheds, stables, chicken roosts, and storehouses seeming to ramble in all directions, but as Taran dismounted and hastened to the cottage amid the maze of buildings, he realized all were linked by covered walkways or flagstoned paths, and whichever he followed would sooner or later have brought him to the doorway that opened almost before he knocked on it.

"Come in, and a good greeting to you!" called a voice crackling like twigs in a fire. As Gurgi scuttled inside to escape the teeming rain, Taran saw a bent old woman cloaked in gray beckoning him to the hearth. Her long hair was white as the wool on the distaff hanging from her belt of plaited cords. Below her short-girt robe, her bony shins looked thin and hard as spindles. A web of wrinkles covered her face; her cheeks were withered; but for all her years she gave no sign of frailty, as though time had only toughened and seasoned her; and her gray eyes were sharp and bright as a pair of new needles.

"I am Dwyvach Weaver-Woman," she replied, as Taran bowed courteously and told her his name. "Taran Wanderer?" she repeated with a tart smile. "From the look of you, I'd say you've indeed been wandering. More than you've been washing. And that's clear as the warp and weft on my loom."

"Yes, yes!" cried Gurgi. "See loom of weavings! See windings and bindings! So many it makes Gurgi's poor tender head swim with twirlings and whirlings!" Taran for the first time noticed a high loom standing like a giant harp of a thousand strings in a corner of the cottage. Around it were stacked bobbins of thread of all colors; from the rafters dangled skeins of yarn, hanks of wool and flax; on the walls hung lengths of finished fabrics, some of bright hue and simple design, others of subtler craftsmanship and patterns more difficult to follow. Taran gazed astonished at the endless variety, then turned to the weaver-woman of Gwenith.

"This calls for skill beyond anything I know," he said admiringly. "How is such work done?"

"How done?" The weaver-woman chuckled. "It would take me more breath to tell than you have ears to listen. But if you look, you shall see." So saying, she hobbled to the loom, climbed to the bench in front of it, and with surprising vigor began plying the shuttle back and forth, all the while working her feet on the treadles below, hardly pausing to glance at her handiwork.

At last she stopped, cocked her head at Taran, fixed him with her sharp gray eyes, and said, "Thus is it done, Wanderer, as all things are, each in its own way, thread by thread." Taran's amazement had grown all the more.

"This would I gladly learn," he said eagerly. "The craft of the swordsmith was not mine. Perhaps the craft of the weaver may be. I pray you, will you teach it to me?"

"That I will, since you ask," replied Dwyvach. "But mind you: It is one thing to admire a well-woven bit of cloth and another to sit yourself before the loom."

"My thanks to you," Taran exclaimed. "I'll not fear to labor at your loom. With Hevydd the Smith, I didn't shrink from hot iron or the flames of hisforge, and a weaver's shuttle is a lighter burden than a smith's hammer."

"Think you so?" Dwyvach asked, with a dry chuckle that sounded like knitting needles clicking together. "Then what shall you weave to begin with?" she went on, eyeing him sharply. "Taran Wanderer you call yourself? Taran Threadbare would be more like it! Would you weave yourself a new cloak? Thus you'll gain something to put on your back, and I'll see what skill you have in your fingers." Taran willingly agreed; but next day, instead of teaching him weaving, Dwyvach led the companions to one of her many chambers, which Taran saw full nearly to bursting with piles of wool. "Tease out the thorns, pick out the cockleburs," the weaver-woman ordered. "Comb it, card it--- carefully, Wanderer, or when your cloak is done you'll feel it's made of thistles instead of wool!"

The size of the task ahead of him made Taran despair of ever finishing, but he and Gurgi started the painstaking work, with Dwyvach herself lending a hand. The aged weaver-woman, Taran soon learned, had not only a tart tongue but a keen eye. Nothing escaped her; she spied the smallest knot, speck, or flaw, and brought Taran's attention to it with a sharp rap from her distaff to his knuckles. But what smarted Taran more than the distaff was to learn that Dwyvach, despite her years, could work faster, longer, and harder than he himself. At the end of each day Taran's eyes were bleary, his fingers raw, and his head nodded wearily; yet the old weaver-woman was bright and spry as if the day had scarce begun. Nevertheless, the work at last was finished. But now Dwyvach set him in front of a huge spinning wheel.

"The finest wool is useless until it's spun to thread," the weaver woman told him. "So you'd best begin learning that, as well."

"But spinnings are woman's toilings!" Gurgi protested. "No, no, spinnings are not fitting for bold and clever weaver-men!"

"Indeed!" snorted Dwyvach. "Then sit you down and learn otherwise. I've heard men complain of doing woman's work, and women complain of doing man's work," she added, fastening her bony thumb and forefinger on Gurgi's ear and marching him to a stool beside Taran, "but I've never heard the work complain of who did it, so long as it got done!"

And so, under Dwyvach's watchful eye, Taran and Gurgi spun thread and filled bobbins during the next few days. Chastened by Dwyvach's words, Gurgi did his best to help, though all too often the hapless creature managed only to tangle himself in the long strands. Next, Dwyvach took the companions to a shed where pots of dye bubbled over a fire. Here, Taran fared no better than Gurgi, for when the yarn was at last dyed, he was bespattered from head to toe with colors, and Gurgi himself looked like a rainbow suddenly sprouting hair. Not until all these other tasks were done to Dwyvach's satisfaction did she take Taran to a weaving room; and there his heart sank, for the loom stood bare and stark as a leafless tree.

"How then?" clucked the weaver-woman as Taran gave her a rueful glance. "The loom must be threaded. Did I not tell you: All things are done step by step and strand by strand?"

"Hevydd the Smith told me life was a forge," Taran sighed, as he laboriously tried to reckon the countless threads needed, "and I think I'll be well-tempered before my cloak is finished."

"Life a forge?" said the weaver-woman. "A loom, rather, where lives and days intertwine; and wise he is who can learn to see the pattern. But if you mean to have a new cloak, you'd do better to work more and chatter less. Or did you hope for a host of spiders to come and labor for you?"

Even after deciding on the pattern, and threading the loom, Taran still saw only a hopeless, confusing tangle of threads. The cloth was painfully slow in forming and at the end of a long day he had little more than a hand's breadth of fabric to show for all his toil.

"Did I ever think a weaver's shuttle a light burden?" Taran sighed. "It feels heavier than hammer, tongs, and anvil all together!"

"It's not the shuttle that burdens you," answered Dwyvach, "but lack of skill, a heavy burden, Wanderer, that only one thing can lift."

"What secret is that?" Taran cried. "Teach it to me now or my cloak will never be done."

But Dwyvach only smiled. "It is patience, Wanderer. As for teaching it, that I cannot do. It is both the first thing and the last thing you must learn for yourself."

Taran gloomily went back to work, sure he would be as ancient as Dwyvach before finishing the garment. Nevertheless, as his hands became used to the task the shuttle darted back and forth like a fish among reeds, and the cloth grew steadily on the loom; though Dwyvach was satisfied with his progress; Taran, to his own surprise, was not.

"The pattern," he murmured, frowning. "It--- I don't know, somehow it doesn't please me."

"Now then, Wanderer," replied Dwyvach, "no man put a sword to your throat; the choice of pattern was your own."

"That it was," Taran admitted. "But now I see it closely, I would rather have chosen another."

"Ah , ah," said Dwyvach, with her dry chuckle, "in that case you have but one of two things to do. Either finish a cloak you'll be ill-content to wear, or unravel it and start anew. For the loom weaves only the pattern set upon it."

Taran stared a long while at his handiwork. At last he took a deep breath, sighed, and shook his head. "So be it. I'll start anew."

Over the next few days he ruefully unthreaded and rethreaded the loom. But after it was ready and he began weaving once again, he was delighted to find the cloth grow faster than ever it had done before, and his spirits rose with his newfound skill. When the cloak at last was done, he held it up proudly.

"This is far better than what I had," he cried. "But I doubt I'll ever be able to wear a cloak again without thinking of every thread!"

Gurgi shouted triumphantly and Dwyvach bobbed her head in approval.

"Well-woven," she said. Her expression had lost much of its tartness and she looked fondly at Taran, seeming to smile within herself. "You have skill in your fingers, Wanderer," she said, with unaccustomed gentleness. "Enough to make you one of the finest weavers in Prydain. And if my distaff and your knuckles met more often than you liked, it was because I deemed you worth reproving. Dwell in my house, if you choose, work at my loom, and what I know I will teach you."

Taran did not answer immediately, and as he hesitated, the weaver-woman smiled and spoke again."I know what is in your heart, Wanderer," she said. "A young man's way is restless; yes, and a young girl's too--- I'm not so gone in years that I've forgotten. Your face tells me it is not your wish to stay in Commot Gwenith."

Taran nodded. "As much as I hoped to be a swordsmith, so I hoped to be a weaver. But you speak truth. This is not the way I would follow."

"Then must we say farewell," answered the weaver woman. "But mind you," she added, in her usual sharp tone, "if life is a loom, the pattern you weave is not so easily unraveled."

What tangled webs you weave for yourself, Taran.

quote:

TARAN AND GURGI SET OFF again, still journeying northward, and soon Commot Gwenith was far behind them. Though Taran wore his new cloak on his shoulders and his new blade at his side, his pleasure in them shortly gave way to disquiet. The words of Dwyvach lingered in his mind, and his thoughts turned to another loom in the distant Marshes of Morva.

"And what of Orddu?" he said. "Does she weave with more than threads? The robin has truly been scratching for his worms. But have I indeed chosen my own pattern, or am I no more than a thread on her loom? If that be so, then I fear it's a thread serving little purpose. At any rate," he added, with a rueful laugh, "it's a long and tangled one."

But these gloomy thoughts flew from his mind when, some days later, Melynlas bore him to the top of a rise and he looked down on the fairest Commot he had ever seen. A tall stand of firs and hemlocks circled broad, well-tended fields, green and abundant. White, thatch-roofed cottages sparkled in shafts of sunlight. The air itself seemed different to him, cool and touched with the sharp scent of evergreens. His heart quickened as he watched, and a strange excitement filled him. Gurgi had ridden up beside him.

"Kindly master, can we not stop here?"

"Yes," Taran murmured, his eyes never leaving the fields and cottages. "Yes. Here shall we rest."

He urged Melynlas down the slope, with Gurgi cantering eagerly behind him. Crossing a shallow stream, Taran reined up at the sight of a hale old man digging busily near the water's edge. Beside him stood a pair of wooden buckets on a yoke, and into these he carefully poured spadefuls of pale brown earth. His iron-gray hair and beard were cropped short; despite his age, his arms seemed as brawny as those of Hevydd the Smith.

"A good greeting to you, master delver," Taran called. "What place is this?" The man turned, wiped his deeply lined brow with a forearm, and looked at Taran with keen blue eyes.

"The water your horse is standing in--- and churning to mud, by the way--- is Fernbrake Stream. The Commot? This is Commot Merin."

What do you think, folks? Third time's the charm?

# ? Feb 14, 2024 17:24

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

Take me down to Commot Merin, where the grass is green and the girls are starin'

# ? Feb 14, 2024 23:40

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

Chapter 19: The Potter's Wheel

quote:

"I'VE TOLD YOU WHERE you are," the man went on good-naturedly, as Taran dismounted at the bank of the stream. "Now might you be willing to tell me who you are, and what brings you to a place whose name you must ask? Have you lost your way and found Merin when you sought another Commot?"

"I am called Wanderer," Taran replied. "As for losing my way," he added with a laugh, "I can't say that I have, for I'm not sure myself where my path lies."

"Then Merin is as fair a place as any to break your journey," the man said. "Come along, if you'd see what hospitality I can offer the two of you."

As the man dropped a last spadeful of clay into the wooden buckets, Taran stepped forward and offered to carry them; and, since the man did not refuse, set his shoulders under the yoke. But the buckets were heavier than Taran reckoned. His brow soon burst out in sweat; he could barely stagger along under the load he felt doubling at every pace; and the hut to which the man pointed seemed to grow farther instead of closer.

"If you seek daub to mend your chimney," Taran gasped, "you've come a long way to find it!"

"You've not caught the trick of that yoke," said the man, grinning broadly at Taran's effort. He shouldered the buckets, which Taran gladly gave back, and strode along so briskly, despite the weight of his burden, that he nearly outdistanced the companions. Arriving at a long shed, he poured the clay into a great wooden vat, then beckoned the wayfarers to enter his hut.

Inside Taran saw racks and shelves holding earthenware of all kinds, vessels of plain baked clay, graceful jars, and among these, at random, pieces whose craftsmanship and beauty made him catch his breath. Only once, in the treasure house of Lord Gast, had he set eyes on handiwork such as this. He turned, astonished, to the old man who had begun laying dishes and bowls on an oaken table.

"When I asked if you sought daub to mend your chimney I spoke foolishly," Taran said, humbly bowing. "If this is your work, I have seen some of it before, and I know you: Annlaw Clay-Shaper."'

The potter nodded. "My work it is. If you've seen it, it may be that indeed you do know me. For I am old at my craft, Wanderer, and no longer sure where the clay ends and Annlaw begins--- or, in truth, if they're not one and the same."

Taran looked closer at the vessels crowding the hut, at the newly finished wine bowl shaped even more skillfully than the one in Lord Gast's trove, at the long, clay-spattered tables covered with jars of paints, pigments, and glazes. Now he saw in wonder that what he had first taken for common scullery-ware was as beautiful, in its own way, as the wine bowl. All had come from a master's hand. He turned to Annlaw.

"It was told me," Taran said, "that one piece of your making is worth more than all of a cantrev lord's treasure house, and I well believe it. And here," he shook his head in amazement, "this is a treasure house in itself."

"Yes, yes!" Gurgi cried. "Oh, skillful potter gains riches and fortunes from clever shapings!"

"Riches and fortune?" replied Annlaw smiling. "Food for my table, rather. Most of these pots and bowls I send to the small Commots where the folk have no potter of their own. As I give what they need, they give what I need; and treasure is what I need the least. My joy is in the craft, not the gain. Would all the fortunes in Prydain help my fingers shape a better bowl?"

"There are those," Taran said, half in earnest as he glanced at the potter's wheel, "who claim work such as yours comes by enchantment." At this Annlaw threw back his head and laughed heartily.

"I wish it did, for it would spare much toil. No, no, Wanderer, my wheel, alas, is like any other. True it is," he added, "that Govannion the Lame, master craftsman of Prydain, long ago fashioned all manner of enchanted implements. He gave them to whom he deemed would use them wisely and well, but one by one they fell into the clutches of Arawn Death-Lord. Now all are gone. But Govannion, too, discovered and set down the high secrets of all crafts," Annlaw went on. "These, as well, Arawn stole, to hoard in Annuvin where none may ever profit from them." The potter's face turned grave. "A lifetime have I striven to discover them again, to guess what might have been their nature. Much have I learned--- learned by doing, as a child learns to walk. But my steps falter. The deepest lore yet lies beyond my grasp. I fear it ever shall. Let me gain this lore," Annlaw said, "and I'll yearn for no magical tools. Let me find the knowledge. And these," he added, holding up his clay-crusted hands, "these will be enough to serve me."

"But you know what you seek," Taran answered. "I, alas, seek without knowing even where to look." He then told Annlaw of Hevydd the Smith and Dwyvach the Weaver-Woman, of the sword and cloak he had made. "I was proud of my work," Taran went on. "Yet, at the end neither anvil nor loom satisfied me."

"What of the potter's wheel?" asked Annlaw. When Taran admitted he knew nothing of this craft and prayed Annlaw to let him see the shaping of clay, the old potter willingly agreed.

Annlaw drew up his coarse robe and seated himself at the wheel, which he quickly set spinning, and on it flung a lump of clay. The potter bent almost humbly to his work, and reached out his hands as tenderly as if he were lifting an unfledged bird. Before Taran's eyes Annlaw began shaping a tall, slender vessel. As Taran stared in awe, the clay seemed to shimmer on the swiftly turning wheel and to change from moment to moment. Now Taran understood Annlaw's words, for indeed between the potter's deft fingers and the clay he saw no separation, as though Annlacv's hands flowed into the clay and gave it life. Annlaw was silent and intent; his lined face had brightened; the years had fallen away from it. Taran felt his heart fill with a joy that seemed to reach from the potter to himself, and in that moment understood that he was in the presence of a true master craftsman, greater than any he had ever known.

"Fflewddur was wrong," Taran murmured. "If there is enchantment, it lies not in the potter's wheel but in the potter."

"Enchantment there is none," answered Annlaw, never turning from his work. "A gift, perhaps, but a gift that bears with it much toil."

"If I could make a thing of such beauty, it is toil I would welcome," Taran said.

"Sit you down then," said Annlaw, making room for Taran at the wheel. "Shape the clay for yourself." When Taran protested he would spoil Annlaw's half-formed vessel, the potter only laughed. "Spoil it you will, surely. I'll toss it back into the kneading trough, mix it with the other clay, and sooner or later it will serve again. It will not be lost. Indeed, nothing ever is, but comes back in one shape or another."

"But for yourself," Taran said. "The skill you have already put in it will be wasted."

The potter shook his head. "Not so. Craftsmanship isn't like water in an earthen pot, to be taken out by the dipperful until it's empty. No, the more drawn out the more remains. The heart renews itself, Wanderer, and skill grows all the better for it. Here, then. Your hands--- thus. Your thumbs--- thus."

From the first moment Taran felt the clay whirling beneath his fingers, his heart leaped with
the same joy he had seen on the potter's face. The pride of forging his own sword and weaving his own cloak dwindled before this new discovery that made him cry out in sudden delight. But his hands faltered and the clay went awry. Annlaw stopped the wheel. Taran's first vessel was so lopsided and misshapen that, despite his disappointment, he threw back his head and laughed.

Annlaw clapped him on the shoulder. "Well tried, Wanderer. The first bowl I turned was as ill-favored--- and worse. You have the touch for it. But before you learn the craft, you must first learn the clay. Dig, sift, and knead it, know its nature better than that of your closest companion. Then grind pigments for your glazes, understand how the fire of the kiln works upon them."

"Annlaw Clay-Shaper," Taran said in a low voice that hid nothing of his yearning, "will you teach me your craft? This more than all else I long to do." Annlaw hesitated several moments and looked deeply at Taran.

"I can teach you only what you can learn," said the potter. "How much that may be, time will tell. Stay, if that is your wish. Tomorrow we shall begin." The two wayfarers made themselves comfortable that night in a snug corner of the pottery shed. Gurgi curled on the straw pallet, but Taran sat with knees drawn up and arms clasped about them.

"It's strange," he murmured. "The more of the Commot folk I've known, the fonder have I grown of them. Yet Commot Merin drew me at first sight, closer than all the others." The night was soft and still. Taran smiled wistfully in the darkness. "The moment I saw it, I thought it the one place I'd be content to dwell. And that--- that even Eilonwy might have been happy here. And at Annlaw's wheel," he went on, "when my hands touched the clay, I knew I would count myself happy to be a potter. More than smithing, more than weaving--- it's as though I could speak through my fingers, as though I could give shape to what was in my heart. I understand what Annlaw meant. There is no difference between him and his work. Indeed, Annlaw puts himself into the clay and makes it live with his own life. If I, too, might learn to do this..." Gurgi did not answer. The weary creature was fast asleep. Taran smiled and drew the cloak over Gurgi's shoulders.

"Sleep well," he said. "We may have come to the end of our journey."

Quest...complete?

quote:

ANNLAW WAS AS GOOD as his word. In the days that followed, the potter showed Taran skills no less important than the working of the clay itself: the finding of proper earths, judging their texture and quality, sifting, mixing, tempering. Gurgi joined Taran in all the tasks, and soon his shaggy hair grew so crusted with dust, mud, and gritty glaze that he looked like an unbaked clay pot set on a pair of skinny legs.

The summer sped quickly and happily, and the more Taran saw the potter at his craft the more he marveled. At the kneading trough, Annlaw pounded the clay with greater vigor than Hevydd the Smith at his anvil; and at the wheel did the most intricate work with a deftness surpassing even that of Dwyvach the Weaver-Woman. As early as he rose in the mornings, Taran always found the potter already up and about his tasks. Annlaw was tireless, often spending nights without sleep and days without food, absorbed in labor at his wheel. Seldom was the potter content to repeat a pattern, but strove to better even what he himself had originated.

"Stale water is a poor drink," said Annlaw. "Stale skill is worse. And the man who walks in his own footsteps only ends where he began." Not until autumn did Annlaw let Taran try his hand at the wheel again. This time, the bowl Taran shaped was not as ill-formed as the other.

Annlaw, studying it carefully, nodded his head and told him, "You have learned a little, Wanderer." Nevertheless, to Taran's dismay, Annlaw cast the bowl into the kneading trough. "Never fear," said the potter. "When you shape one worth the keeping, it will be fired in the kiln."

Though Taran feared such a time might never come, it was not long before Annlaw judged a vessel, a shallow bowl simple in design yet well-proportioned, to be ready for firing. He set it, along with other pots and bowls he had crafted for the folk of Commot Isav, into a kiln taller and deeper than Hevydd's furnace. While Annlaw calmly turned to finishing other vessels for the Commot folk, Taran's anxiety grew until he felt that he himself was baking in the flames. But at last, when the firing was done and the pieces had cooled, the potter drew out the bowl, turned it around in his hands as Taran waited breathlessly, and tapped it with a clay-rimmed finger. He grinned at Taran.

"It rings true. Beginner's work, Wanderer, but not to be ashamed of." Taran's heart lifted as if he had fashioned a wine bowl handsomer than ever Lord Gast has seen. But his joy changed soon to despair. Through autumn Taran shaped other vessels; yet, to his growing dismay, none satisfied him, none matched his hopes, despite the painful toil he poured into the work.

"What lacks?" he cried to Annlaw. "I could forge a sword well enough and weave a cloak well enough. But now, what I truly long to grasp is beyond my reach. Must the one skill I sought above all be denied me?" he burst out in an anguished voice. "Is the gift forbidden me?" He bowed his head, and his heart froze even as he spoke the words, for he knew, within himself, he had touched the truth. Annlaw did not gainsay him, but only looked at him for a long while with deep sadness.

"Why?" Taran whispered. "Why is this so?"

"It is a heavy question," Annlaw replied at last. He put a hand on Taran's shoulder. "Indeed, no man can answer it. There are those who have labored all their lives to gain the gift, striving until the end only to find themselves mistaken; and those who had it born in them yet never knew; those who lost heart too soon; and those who should never have begun at all. Count yourself lucky," the potter went on, "that you have understood this now and not spent your years in vain hope. This much have you learned, and no learning is wasted."

"What then shall I do?" Taran asked. Grief and bitterness such as he had known in Craddoc's valley flooded over him.

"There are more ways to happiness than in the shaping of a pot," replied Annlaw. "You have been happy in Merin. You still can be. There is work for you to do. Your help is welcome and valuable to me, as a friend as much as an apprentice. Why, look you now," he went on in a cheerful tone, "tomorrow I would send my ware to Commot Isav. But a day's journey is long for one of my years. As a friend, will you bear the burden for me?"

Taran nodded. "I will carry your ware to Isav." He turned away, knowing that his happiness was ended, like a flawed vessel shattered in the firing.

A bitter lesson to be learned once again. Sorry, Taran.

# ? Feb 17, 2024 20:37

Ravenfood: Nov 4, 2011

I remember none of this book and I think as a kid it probably escaped me, but this is excellent .

# ? Feb 17, 2024 23:27

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

It�s so, so good. The life lessons come thick and fast, Taran earns every inch of growth and development and without being cloying or patronising, it is never mean spirited or cynical either.

# ? Feb 18, 2024 03:02

Adbot: ADBOT LOVES YOU

# ? Apr 27, 2024 13:13

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

The one lesson that I think gets hammered a little hard is probably also the lesson that's the most abstract for Taran, and by extension, the children who are the audience - every single person Taran meets has some story along the lines of "yes, I do $JOB to survive and yes, there was an enchanted tool that makes $JOB easy as gently caress, and YES that tool is in Arawn's keep and we're probably never going to see it again. But listen, and listen hard, kiddo, somewhere deep in Arawn's keep is a book that tells us how to do $JOB better than I can possibly imagine and if we can only get our hands on that book, the magical tools can burn in a fire and I won't give a gently caress because if I can learn how to do this thing better, the tool won't be any help to me".

# ? Feb 18, 2024 03:32

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

«‹›9 »