The Black Cauldron (9 page)

The Cottage

TARAN SPUN AROUND and raised his sword. Suddenly in his hand writhed a cold serpent, hissing and twisting to strike. With a cry of horror he flung it away. The serpent fell to the ground, and there, in its place, lay Taran's blade. Eilonwy stifled a scream. Taran drew back fearfully. Facing him was a short and rather plump little woman with a round, lumpy face and a pair of very sharp black eyes. Her hair hung like a clump of discolored marsh weeds, bound with vines and ornamented with bejeweled pins that seemed about to lose themselves in the hopeless tangle. She wore a dark, shapeless, ungirt robe covered with patches and stains. Her feet were bare and exceptionally large.

The companions drew closer together. Gurgi, trembling violently, crouched behind Taran. The bard, looking pale and uneasy, nevertheless prepared to stand his ground.

“Come along, my ducklings,” the enchantress said cheerily. “I promise it won't hurt a bit. You can bring your sword if you want,” she added with an indulgent smile at Taran, “though you won't need it. I've never seen a toad with a sword. On the other hand, I've never seen a sword with a toad, so you're welcome to do as you please.”

“We please to stay as we are,” cried Eilonwy. “Don't think we're going to let anybody...”

“Who are you?” Taran cried. “We have done you no harm. You have no cause to threaten us.”

“How many twigs in a bird's nest?” asked the enchantress suddenly. “Answer quickly. There, you see,” she added. “Poor chicks, you don't even know that. How could you be expected to know what you really want out of life?”

“One thing I want,” retorted Eilonwy, “is not to be a toad.”

“You're a pretty little duck,” said the enchantress in a kind, cajoling voice. "Would you give me your hair once you've done with it? I have such trouble with mine these days. Do you ever have the feeling things are disappearing into it and you might never see them again?

“No matter,” she went on. "You'll enjoy being toads, skipping about here and there, sitting on toadstools--- well, perhaps not that. Toads don't really sit on toadstools. But you might dance in dew circles. Now there's a charming thought.

“Don't be frightened,” she added, leaning over and whispering in Taran's ear. “You can't for a moment imagine I'd do all I said. Goodness no, I wouldn't dream of stepping on you. I couldn't stand the squashiness.”

With mounting terror, Taran cast desperately about in his mind for some means of saving his companions. He would have considered this disheveled creature's intention as mad and impossible had he not remembered the serpent in his hand, its menacing fangs and cold eyes.

“You mightn't like being toads at first,” the enchantress said reasonably. “It takes getting used to. But,” she added in a reassuring tone, “once it's happened, I'm certain you wouldn't want it any other way.”

“Why are you doing this?” Taran cried with all the more anger at feeling himself powerless. He turned his head in fear and revulsion as the enchantress gave him a kindly pat on the cheek.

“Can't have people poking and prying,” she said. “You understand that much, don't you? Make an exception for one, then it's two, three, and next thing you know, hundreds and hundreds trampling things and getting underfoot. Believe me, this is best for everybody.”

From around the side of the hill, at that moment, two more figures appeared. Both closely resembled the stout little woman, except that one wore a black cloak with the hood pulled up, nearly concealing her face; and at the throat of the other hung a necklace of milky white stones.

The enchantress ran to them and called out happily, “Orwen! Orgoch! Hurry! We're going to make toads!”

Taran gasped. He shot a quick glance at the bard and Eilonwy. “Did you hear those names?” he whispered hurriedly. “We've found them!”

The bard's face was filled with alarm. “Much good it may do us,” he said. “By the time they're through, I don't think we're going to care about the cauldron or anything else. I've never danced in a dew circle,” he continued under his breath. “In different circumstances I might enjoy it. But not now,” he added with a shudder.

“I've never met a person,” whispered Eilonwy, while Gurgi snuffled in fright, “who could talk about such dreadful things and smile at the same time. It's like ants walking up and down your back.”

“We must try to take them unawares,” Taran said. “I don't know what they can do to all of us all at once. I don't even know if there's anything we can do to them. But we must take the chance. One or two of us may survive.”

“I suppose that's all we can do,” agreed the bard. He swallowed with difficulty and gave Taran a worried look. “If it should turn out that I--- I mean, if I should be--- yes, well, what I mean is should anything happen to me, I beg you, do pay attention to where you tread.”

Meantime, the three enchantresses had returned to the cottage. “Oh, Orddu,” the one with the necklace was saying, “why must it always be toads? Can't you think of anything else?”

“But they're so neat,” replied Orddu, “compact and convenient.”

“What's wrong with toads?” asked the hooded one. “That's the trouble with you, Orwen, always trying to make things complicated.”

“I only suggested something else, Orgoch,” answered the enchantress called Orwen, “for the sake of variety.”

“I love toads,” murmured Orgoch, smacking her lips. Even in the shadow of the hood Taran could see the features of the enchantress moving and twitching in what he feared was impatience.

“Look at them standing there,” Orddu said, “poor little goslings, all wet and muddy. I've been talking to them, and I think they finally realize what's best for them.”

“Why, those are the ones we saw galloping across the Marsh,” said Orwen, toying with her beads. “It was so clever of you,” she added, smiling at Taran, “to have the Huntsmen swallowed up in the bog, really quite well done.”

“Disgusting creatures, Huntsmen,” muttered Orgoch. “Nasty, hairy, vicious things. They turn my stomach.”

“They stick to their work,” ventured the bard. “I'll say that much for them.”

“We had a whole flock of Huntsmen here the other day,” said Orddu. “They were poking and prying around, just as you were. Now you understand why I said we couldn't make exceptions.”

“We didn't make exceptions of them, did we, Orddu?” said Orwen. “Though it wasn't toads, if you remember.”

“I remember very distinctly, my dear,” replied the first enchantress, “but you were Orddu then. And when you're being Orddu, you can do as you please. But I'm Orddu today, and what I say is...”

“That's not fair,” interrupted Orgoch. “You always want to be Orddu. I've had to be Orgoch three times in a row, while you've only been Orgoch once.”

“It's not our fault, my sweet,” said Orddu, “if we don't like being Orgoch. It isn't comfortable, you know. You have such horrid indigestion. If you'd only pay more attention to what you take for your meals.”

Taran had been trying to follow this conversation of the enchantresses, but found himself more confused than ever. Now he had no clear idea which was really Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch, or whether they were all three the same. However, their remarks about the Huntsmen gave him hope for the first time.

“If the Huntsmen of Annuvin are your enemies,” Taran said, “then we have common cause. We, too, have fought against them.”

“Enemies, friends, it all comes to the same in the end,” muttered Orgoch. “Do make haste, Orddu, and take them off to the shed. It's been a terribly long morning.”

“You are a greedy creature,” said Orddu, with a tolerant smile at the hooded crone. “There's another reason why neither of us wants to be Orgoch if we can possibly help it. Perhaps if you learned to control yourself better...? Now listen to what these dear mice have to tell us. It should be interesting; they say such charming things.”

Orddu turned to Taran. “Now, my duckling,” she said pleasantly, “how did it come about that you're on such bad terms with the Huntsmen?”

Taran hesitated, fearful of revealing Gwydion's plan. “They attacked us,” he began.

“Of course they did, my poor goslings,” said Orddu with sympathy. “They're always attacking everybody. That's one of the advantages of being toads; you needn't worry about such things any more. It will be all romps in the forest and lovely wet mornings. The Huntsmen won't vex you any more. True, you shall have to keep an eye out for herons, kingfishers, and serpents. But apart from that, you won't have a care in the world.”

“But who is 'us'?” interrupted Orwen. She turned to Orddu. “Aren't you going to find out their names?”

“Yes, by all means,” murmured Orgoch, with a lip-smacking sound. “I love names.”

Once again Taran hesitated. “This... this,” he said, gesturing toward Eilonwy, “is Indeg. And Prince Glessic...”

Orwen giggled and gave Orddu an affectionate nudge. “Listen to them,” she said. “They're delightful when they lie.”

“If they won't give their right names,” said Orgoch, “then simply take them.”

Taran stopped short. Orddu was studying him closely. With sudden discouragement, he realized his efforts were useless. “This is Eilonwy Daughter of Angharad,” he said. “And Fflewddur Fflam.”

“A bard of the harp,” Fflewddur added.

“And this is Gurgi.” Taran continued.

“So that's a gurgi,” said Orwen with great interest. “It seems to me I've heard of them, but I never knew what they were.”

“It's not a gurgi,” retorted Eilonwy. “It's Gurgi. And there's only one.”

“Yes, yes!” Gurgi put in, venturing to step from behind Taran. “And he is bold and clever! He will not let brave companions become toads with humpings and jumpings!”

Orgoch looked curiously at him. “What do you do with the gurgi?” she asked. “Do you eat it or sit on it?”

“I should think,” Orddu suggested, “whatever you did, you would have to clean it first. And you, my duck,” she said to Taran, “who are you?”

Taran straightened and threw back his head. “I am Taran,” he said, “Assistant Pig-Keeper of Caer Dallben.”

“Dallben!” cried Orddu. “You poor lost chicken, why didn't you say so in the first place? Tell me, how is dear little Dallben?”

Little Dallben

TARAN'S JAW DROPPED. Before he could answer, the enchantresses had crowded around the companions and were leading them to the cottage. In wonder, he turned to Fflewddur, who looked less pale now that Orddu had stopped speaking of toads. “Little Dallben?” Taran whispered. “I've never in my life heard anyone talk about him that way. Can they mean the same Dallben?”

“I don't know,” whispered the bard in return. “But if they think it is--- Great Belin, don't tell them otherwise!”

Inside, with a great deal of joyous bustling that in fact accomplished little, the enchantresses hurried to straighten up the chamber. Orwen, in obvious excitement and delight, brought out a number of rickety chairs and stools; Orgoch cleared the table of crockery by brushing it onto the floor; Orddu clapped her hands and beamed at the companions.

“I should never have thought it,” she began. “Oh, no, no, my duck!” she cried suddenly to Eilonwy, who had drawn closer to the loom and had just bent forward to examine the fabric. “Mustn't touch. Nasty prickles if you do. It's full of nettles. Come sit with us, there's a love.”

Despite the sudden warmth of their welcome, Taran glanced at the enchantresses with uneasiness. The chamber itself filled him with odd forebodings he could not name, which eluded him like shadows. Gurgi and the bard, however, appeared delighted at the strange turn of events, and set heartily to eating the food that soon arrived at the table. Taran looked questioningly at Eilonwy.

The girl guessed his thought. “Don't be afraid to eat,” she said behind her hand. “It's perfectly all right, not the least bit poisonous or enchanted. I can tell. I learned how when I was staying with Queen Achren and learning to be a sorceress. What you do is...”

“Now, my sparrow,” Orddu interrupted, “you must tell us all about dear little Dallben. What is he doing? Does he still have The Book of Three?”

“Well... why, yes he does,” Taran said, with some confusion, beginning to wonder if the enchantresses did not know more about Dallben than he did.

“Poor little robin,” remarked Orddu, “and such a heavy book. I'm surprised he would even be able to turn the pages.”

“Well, you see,” Taran said, still puzzled, “the Dallben that we know, he isn't little. I mean, he's rather elderly.”

“Elderly!” burst out Fflewddur. “He's every bit of three hundred and eighty years old! Coll himself told me.”

“He was such a dear, sweet little thing,” said Orwen with a sigh. “All pink cheeks and chubby fingers.”

“I love babies,” said Orgoch, smacking her lips.

“His hair is quite gray,” said Taran, who could not bring himself to believe these strange creatures were indeed speaking of his old teacher. The idea of the learned Dallben ever having pink cheeks and chubby fingers was beyond his imagination. “He has a beard too,” he added.

“A beard?” cried Orddu. “What's little Dallben doing with a beard? Why in the world should he want such a thing? Such a charming little tadpole!”

“We found him in the marsh one morning,” said Orwen. “All by himself in a great wicker basket. It was too sweet for words. Orgoch, of course...”

At this Orgoch made an irritable noise and her eyes glared from the depths of the hood.

“Come now, dear Orgoch, don't look so disagreeable,” said Orddu. “We're all friends together here; we can talk about such things now. Well, I shall put it this way and spare Orgoch's feelings. She didn't want to keep him. That is, not in the usual sense. But we did. And so we brought the poor fledgling to the cottage.”

“He grew very quickly,” added Orwen. “Why, it was no time before he was toddling around, and talking, and doing little errands. So kind and polite. A perfect joy. And you say he has a beard?” She shook her head. “Curious notion. Wherever did he find it?”

“Yes, a delightful little sparrow he was,” said Orddu. “But then,” she continued with a sad smile, “there was that distressing accident. We were brewing some herbs one morning, a rather special potion.”

“And Dallben,” sighed Orwen, “sweet little Dallben was stirring the kettle for us. It was one of those kind, thoughtful things he was always doing. But when it came to a boil, some of it bubbled up and splashed out.”

“It burned his poor dear fingers,” Orddu added. “But he didn't cry, no indeed. He just popped his fingers into his mouth, the brave little starling. Of course, some of the potion was still there, and he swallowed it.”

“As soon as he did that,” explained Orwen, “he knew every bit as much as we did. It was a magical brew, you understand, a recipe for wisdom.”

“After that,” Orddu went on, “it was out of the question to keep him with us. It would never have been the same; no, it would never have done at all; you can't have that many people knowing that much all under the same roof. Especially since he was able to guess some of the things Orgoch had in mind. And so we had to let him go--- really let him go, that is. Orgoch, by this time, was the one who wanted to keep him. In her own fashion, which I doubt he would have liked.”

“He would have been a sweet little thing,” murmured Orgoch.

“I must say we did quite handsomely by him,” Orddu continued. “We gave him his choice of a harp, a sword, or The Book of Three. Had he chosen the harp, he could have been the greatest bard in the world; the sword and the dear duckling could have ruled all Prydain. But,” Orddu said, “he chose The Book of Three. And to tell the truth, we were just as happy that he did, for it was heavy and moldy and did nothing but gather dust. And so he left to make his way in the world. And that was the last we saw of him.”

“A good thing sweet, dear Dallben isn't here,” Fflewddur chuckled to Taran. “Their description hardly matches. I fear they might be rather startled.”

Taran had been silent throughout Orddu's account, wondering how he dared bring up the matter of the cauldron. “Dallben has been my master as long as I can remember,” he said at last, deciding frankness was the best way to go about it especially since the enchantresses seemed able to guess when he was not telling the truth. “If you are as fond of him as I...”

“We love him dearly, the sweet thing,” said Orddu, “you can be sure of that.”

“Then I beg you to help us carry out his wishes and the wishes of Gwydion Prince of Don,” Taran went on. He explained what had taken place at the council, what they had learned at Dark Gate and from Gwystyl. He spoke of the urgency of bringing the cauldron to Caer Dallben, and asked, too, whether the enchantresses had seen Ellidyr.

Orddu shook her head. “A Son of Pen-Llarcau? No, my duck, there's been no such person anywhere near. If he'd come across the Marshes, we'd have been bound to see him.”

“We have a lovely view of the fens from the hilltop,” Orwen put in with such enthusiasm that her necklace bounced and rattled. “You must come and enjoy it. Indeed, you're perfectly welcome to stay as long as you want,” she added eagerly. “Now that little Dallben's gone, and found himself a beard, too, the place isn't half as cheery as it used to be. We wouldn't change you into a toad--- unless you insisted on it.”

“Stay, by all means,” croaked Orgoch with a leer.

“Our task is to regain the cauldron,” Taran pressed, preferring to overlook Orgoch's remark. “From what Gwystyl told us...”

“You said his crow told you, my lamb,” interrupted Orddu. “Don't believe everything you hear from a crow.”

“Doli of the Fair Folk believed him,” Taran said. “Do you tell me now that you have no cauldron? I ask you this in the name of Dallben himself.”

“Cauldron?” answered Orddu. “Why, goodness, we have dozens! Cauldrons, kettles, cook pots--- we can hardly keep track of them all.”

“I speak of the cauldron of Annuvin,” Taran said firmly, “the cauldron of Arawn and his deathless warriors.”

“Oh,” said Orddu, laughing cheerfully, “you must mean the Black Crochan.”

“I do not know its name,” Taran said, “but that may be the one we seek.”

“Are you sure you wouldn't prefer one of the others?” asked Orwen. “They're much more attractive than that old thing. And much more practical. What use have you for Cauldron-Born? They would only be a nuisance. We can give you a kettle to brew the most marvelous sleeping potions, or one you can sprinkle on daffodils to take away that bilious yellow.”

“Our concern is with the Black Crochan,” Taran insisted, deciding this was indeed the name of Arawn's cauldron. “Will you not tell me the truth? Is the cauldron here?”

“Of course it's here,” replied Orddu. “Why not, since it was ours to begin with? And always has been!”

“Yours?” cried Taran. “Then Arawn stole it from you?”

“Stole?” Orddu answered. “Not exactly. No, we couldn't say it was stolen.”

“But you couldn't have given it to Arawn,” Eilonwy cried, “knowing what he meant to use it for!”

“Even Arawn had to be allowed to have his chance,” said Orddu tolerantly. “One day you'll understand why. For there is a destiny laid on everything; on big, ugly Crochans as well as poor little ducklings, and a destiny laid even on us. Besides, Arawn paid dearly for the use of it, very dearly indeed, you can be sure. The details, my duckling, are of a private nature which does not concern you. In any case, the Crochan was not to be his forever.”

“Arawn swore to return it after a time,” said Orwen. “But when the time came, he broke his oath to us, as might be expected.”

“Ill-advised,” murmured Orgoch.

“And since he wouldn't give it back,” Orddu said, “what else could we do? We went and took it.”

“Great Belin!” cried the bard. “You three ladies ventured into the heart of Annuvin and carried the thing out? How did you ever manage?”

Orddu smiled. "There are a number of ways, my curious sparrow. We could have flooded Annuvin with darkness and floated the cauldron out. We could have put all the guards to sleep. Or we could have turned ourselves into--- well, no matter--- let us say we could have used a variety of methods. In any case, the cauldron is here again.

“And,” the enchantress added, “here it will stay. No, no,” she said, raising a hand to Taran. "I can see you'd like to have it, but that's out of the question. Much too dangerous for wandering chicks like you. My goodness, we shouldn't sleep at night. No, no, not even for the sake of little Dallben.

“In fact,” Orddu went on, “you'd be much safer being toads than having anything to do with the Black Crochan.” She shook her head. "Better yet, we could change you into birds and have you fly back to Caer Dallben immediately.

“No indeed,” she continued, rising from the table and taking hold of Taran's shoulders. “Off you ducklings must go and never give a second thought to the Crochan. Tell dear little Dallben and Prince Gwydion we're terribly sorry, and if there's anything else we can possibly do... But not that. Oh, my no.”

Taran started to protest, but Orddu cut him short and guided him rapidly to the door, while the other enchantresses hustled the companions after him.

“You may sleep in the shed tonight, my chickens,” said Orddu. “Then, first thing in the morning, away with you to little Dallben. And you shall decide whether you'd rather go on your legs. Or,” she added, this time without a smile, “on a pair of your own wings.”

“Or,” muttered Orgoch, “hopping all the way.”