Taran Wanderer

T
HIS FOURTH CHRONICLE
of Prydain begins as a gallant, high-hearted quest, which soon becomes more intense and
perhaps more essentially heroic than the preceding adventures. For here, Taran comes to
grips with a merciless opponent: the truth about himself. No longer as Taran Assistant
Pig-Keeper but as Taran Wanderer, he learns to reshape his life out of his own inner
resources; for there must not only be an end to childhood but also a beginning of manhood.
This is meant to be a serious tale--- in the way that all humor is serious and all fantasy
true--- and if there is no conventionally happy ending in fairy-tale terms, there is still
a most hopeful ending in human terms.

This does not imply any less humor or variety in the story. There is possibly more, as
Taran's journey takes him from one end of Prydain to the other, from the Marshes of Morva
to the Free Commots. However, instead of a clash of battle hosts, the underlying conflict
between good and evil is stated in individual encounters: King Smoit, boisterous with
being alive; Morda, deathlike, scornful of all humanity; Dorath the amoral; Annlaw
Clay-Shaper the creator; Craddoc, in whose desolate valley Taran suffers the anguish of
shame. The Princess Eilonwy, alas, is present only in memory, though it is hoped readers
will miss her as much as Taran does--- and the author himself, for that matter.

While certain inhabitants of Prydain were born of Welsh legend, in
Taran Wanderer
they have acquired characteristics more universal than specific. Morda's life secret, for
example, is familiar in many mythologies. Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch have appeared in other
guises (as might well be expected of them): the Three Norns, the Moirae, the Triple
Goddess, and very likely some other transformations they decline to admit. Prydain, of
course, is part-memory and part-dream, the balance favoring the latter.

The Companions have gained many more friends than I had ever hoped, who are willing to
follow these tales both as self-contained chronicles and as part of a larger pattern; and
to them I promise in time all questions will be answered and all secrets revealed. To some
friends of the Companions (especially Gypsy Reeves) I address a plea for clemency; to
others, my sincere thanks for their hard but invaluable labor, insight, and encouragement
when the straits seemed even more dire to an author than to an Assistant Pig-Keeper; and
to all, my warmest affection.

-L.A.

Who am I?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taran made his way through the cluster of low-roofed farm buildings. In the cottage, at
the hearthside, a black-robed woman crouched and tended the cooking fire. She did not
raise her head or speak. It was Achren. Thwarted in her scheme to regain her ancient
power, from the ruined Castle of Llyr the once-haughty Queen had accepted the refuge
Dallben offered; though, by her own choice, she who had long ago ruled Prydain toiled now
at the tasks Eilonwy had done before departing for Mona, and at day's end silently
vanished to her pallet of straw in the granary.

Before Dallben's chamber Taran paused uneasily, then rapped quickly on the door. Entering
at the enchanter's command, he found Dallben bent over
The Book of Three
, which lay open on the cluttered table. Much as he longed for a glimpse at even one page
of this secret volume, Taran kept his distance from it. Once, in boyhood, he had dared
touch the ancient, leather-bound tome, and his fingers smarted again at the memory.

“I never cease to wonder,” Dallben testily remarked, closing
The Book of Three
and glancing at Taran, “that the young, with all their pride of strength, should find
their own concerns such a weighty burden they must be shared with the old. Whereas, the
old”--- he waved a frail, bony hand. "But no matter, no matter. For the sake of my temper
I hope your purpose in interrupting me is an excellent one.

“First, before you ask,” Dallben went on, “I assure you the Princess Eilonwy is well and
no more unhappy than any pretty young madcap obliged to turn a hand to sewing instead of
sword-play. Second, you are as aware as I am that Kaw has not yet returned. By now, I
daresay he has borne my potion to Glew's cavern, and the giant-by-accident who troubled
you so much on Mona will shrink to the small stature he once had. But you also know your
crow for a rascal and one to linger wherever he finds sport. Finally, an Assistant
Pig-Keeper should have tasks enough to busy himself outdoors. What, then, brings you here?”

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

“Since it has been always thus,” Dallben replied, “why should it trouble you now?”

When Taran bowed his head and did not answer, the old enchanter smiled shrewdly at him.
“Speak up, my boy. If you want truth, you should begin by giving it. Behind your question
I think I see the shadow of a certain golden-haired Princess. Is that not so?”

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

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

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

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

“Then let me learn for myself,” Taran cried. “Give me leave to seek my own answer.”

Dallben studied him carefully. The enchanter's eyes fell on
The Book of Three
and he gazed long at it, as though his glance penetrated deep into the worn leather
volume.

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

Taran's heart quickened. “I ask nothing more.”

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

“You have all my thanks,” Taran cried joyfully, bowing deeply. “Let me start without
delay. I am ready...”

Before he could finish the door burst open and a shaggy figure sped across the chamber and
flung itself at Taran's feet. “No, no, no!” howled Gurgi at the top of his voice, rocking
back and forth and waving his hairy arms. “Sharp-eared Gurgi hears all! Oh, yes, with
listenings behind the door!” His face wrinkled in misery and he shook his matted head so
violently he nearly sprawled flat on the floor. “Poor Gurgi will be lone and lorn with
whinings and pinings!” he moaned. “Oh, he must go with master, yes, yes!”

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

“Faithful Gurgi will follow!” pleaded Gurgi. “He is strong, bold, and clever to keep
kindly master from harmful hurtings!”

Gurgi began snuffling loudly, whimpering and moaning more desperately than before; and
Taran, who could not bring himself to deny the unhappy creature, looked questioningly at
Dallben.

A strange glance of pity crossed the enchanter's face. “Gurgi's staunchness and good sense
I do not doubt,” he said to Taran. “Though before your search is ended, the comfort of his
kindly heart may stand you in better stead. Yes,” he added slowly, “if Gurgi is willing,
let him journey with you.”

Gurgi gave a joyous yelp, and Taran bowed gratefully to the enchanter.

“So be it,” Dallben said. “Your road indeed will not be easy, but set out on it as you
choose. Though you may not find what you seek, you will surely return a little wiser---
and perhaps even grown to manhood in your own right.”

That night Taran lay restless. Dallben had agreed the two companions could depart in the
morning, but for Taran the hours until sunrise weighed like the links of a heavy chain. A
plan had formed in his mind, but he had said nothing of it to Dallben, Coll, or Gurgi; for
he was half fearful of what he had decided. While his heart ached at the thought of
leaving Caer Dallben, it ached the more with impatience to begin his journey; and it was
as though his yearning for Eilonwy, the love he had often hidden or even denied, now
swelled like a flood, driving him before it.

Long before dawn Taran rose and saddled the gray, silver-maned stallion, Melynlas. While
Gurgi, blinking and yawning, readied his own mount, a short, stocky pony almost as shaggy
as himself, Taran went alone to Hen Wen's enclosure. As though she had already sensed
Taran's decision, the white pig squealed dolefully as he knelt and put an arm around her.

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

In answer, however, the oracular pig only wheezed and grunted anxiously. Taran sighed and
gave Hen Wen a last affectionate pat. Dallben had hobbled into the dooryard, and beside
him Coll raised a torch, for the morning still was dark. Like Dallben's, the old warrior's
face in the wavering light was filled with fond concern. Taran embraced them, and to him
it seemed his love for both had never been greater than at this leave-taking as they said
their farewells.

Gurgi sat hunched atop the pony. Slung from his shoulder was his leather wallet with its
inexhaustible supply of food. Bearing only his sword at his belt and the silver-bound
battle horn Eilonwy had given him, Taran swung astride the impatient Melynlas,
constraining himself not to glance backward, knowing if he did, his parting would grieve
him the more deeply.

The two wayfarers rode steadily while the sun climbed higher above the rolling,
tree-fringed hills. Taran had spoken little, and Gurgi trotted quietly behind him, delving
now and again into the leather wallet for a handful of food which he munched contentedly.
When they halted to water their mounts at a stream, Gurgi clambered down and went to
Taran's side.

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

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

“Then to kingdom of Fflewddur Fflam? Yes, yes! Bold bard will welcome us with meetings and
greetings, with merry hummings and strummings!”

Taran smiled at Gurgi's eagerness, but shook his head. “No, my friend, not to Caer Dathyl,
nor to Fflewddur's realm.” He turned his eyes westward. “I have thought carefully of this,
and believe there is only one place where I might find what I seek,” he said slowly. “The
Marshes of Morva.”

No sooner had he spoken these words than he saw Gurgi's face turn ashen. The creature's
jaw dropped; he clapped his hands to his shaggy head, and began gasping and choking
frightfully.

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

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

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

“I speak of noble blood,” Taran replied, smiling at Gurgi's protests. “If Dallben cannot
tell me, then Orddu may. Whether she will, I do not know,” he added. "But I must try.

“I won't have you risk your poor tender head,” Taran continued. “You shall find a hiding
place at the edge of the Marshes and wait for me there.”

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

They set out again. For some days after fording Great Avren they bore quickly westward
along the green slopes of the riverbank, leaving it reluctantly to wend north across a
fallow plain. Gurgi's face puckered anxiously, and Taran sensed the creature's disquiet no
less than his own. The closer they drew to the Marshes the more he questioned the wisdom
of his choice. His plan which had seemed so fitting in the safety of Caer Dallben now
struck him as rash, a foolhardy venture. There were moments when, Taran admitted to
himself, had Gurgi spun the pony about and bolted homeward, he would have gladly done
likewise.

Another day's travel and the marshland stretched before them, bleak, ugly, untouched by
spring. The sight and scent of the bogs and the dull, stagnant pools filled Taran with
loathing. The rotting turf sucked greedily at the hooves of Melynlas. The pony snorted
fearfully. Warning Gurgi to stay close behind him and stray neither to the right nor left,
Taran cautiously guided the stallion through beds of reeds shoulder-high, keeping to the
firmer ground at the rim of the swamps.

The narrow neck at the upper reaches of the Marshes could be crossed with least danger,
and the path indeed was burned into his memory. Here, when he and Eiionwy, Gurgi, and
Fflewddur had sought the Black Cauldron, the Huntsmen of Annuvin had attacked them, and
Taran had lived the moment again and again in nightmares. Giving Melynlas rein, he
beckoned to Gurgi and rode into the Marshes. The stallion faltered a sickening instant,
then found footing on the chain of islands that lay beneath the brackish water. At the far
side, without Taran's urging, Melynlas broke into a gallop, and the pony pelted after, as
though fleeing for its life. Beyond the stunted trees at the end of a long gully, Taran
halted. Orddu's cottage lay straight ahead.

Built against the side of a high mound, half-hidden by sod and branches, it seemed in even
greater disrepair than Taran had remembered. The thatched roof, like a huge bird's nest,
straggled down to block the narrow windows; a spider web of mold covered the walls, which
looked ready to tumble at any moment. In the crooked doorway stood Orddu herself.