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Authors: Lloyd Alexander

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Little Dallben
T
aran’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.”
The Plan
T
he door slammed shut behind them and once again the companions found themselves outside the cottage.
“Well, I like that!” Eilonwy cried indignantly. “After all their talk of dear little Dallben and sweet little Dallben, they’ve turned us out!”
“Better turned out than
into
, if you take my meaning,” said the bard. “A Fflam is always kind to animals, but somehow I can’t bring myself to feel I should like to actually become one!”
“No, oh, no!” Gurgi cried fervently. “Gurgi, too, wants to stay as he is—bold and clever!”
Taran turned back to the cottage and began pounding on the door. “They must listen to us!” he declared. “They didn’t even take time to think it over.” But the door did not open, and though he ran to the window and rapped long and loud, the enchantresses did not show themselves again.
“I’m afraid that’s your answer,” said Fflewddur. “They’ve said all they intend to say—and perhaps it’s for the best. And I have the uneasy feeling all that knocking and thumping might—well, you don’t know but what those, ah, ladies get upset at noises.”
“We can’t just go away,” Taran replied. “The cauldron is in their
hands and, friends of Dallben or not, there’s no telling what they’ll do with it. I fear them and I distrust them. You heard the way the one called Orgoch was talking. Yes, I can well imagine what she’d have done to Dallben.” He shook his head gravely. “This is what Gwydion warned against. Whoever has the cauldron can be a mortal threat to Prydain, if they choose to be.”
“At least Ellidyr hasn’t found it,” Eilonwy said. “That’s something to be grateful for.”
“If you want the advice of one who is, after all, the oldest of us here,” said the bard, “I think we should do well to hurry home and let Dallben and Gwydion attend to the matter. After all, Dallben should know how to deal with those three.”
“No,” Taran answered, “that I will not do. We should lose precious days in travel. The Huntsmen failed to get the cauldron back. But who knows what Arawn will attempt next? No, we dare not leave the thing here.”
“For once,” declared Eilonwy, “I agree. We’ve come this far and we shall have to go on to the end. I don’t trust those enchantresses either.
They
wouldn’t sleep if they thought we had the cauldron? I shall certainly have nightmares if I think of
them
with it! Not to mention Arawn! I believe no one, human or otherwise, should have that much power.” She shuddered. “Ugh! There go the ants on my back again!”
“Yes, well, it’s true,” Fflewddur began. “But the fact remains—they have that wretched pot and we don’t. They’re
there
and we’re
here
, and it looks very much as though it will stay that way.”
Taran was thoughtful a moment. “When Arawn wouldn’t give the cauldron back to them,” he said, “they went and took it. Now, since they won’t let us have the cauldron, I see only one way:
we
shall have to take it.”
“Steal it?” cried the bard. His worried expression changed rapidly and his eyes brightened. “I mean,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “steal it? Now there’s a thought,” he went on eagerly. “Never occurred to me. Yes, yes, that’s the way,” he added with excitement. “Now, that has some style and flair to it!”
“One difficulty,” Eilonwy said. “We don’t know where they’ve hidden the cauldron, and they evidently aren’t going to let us in to find out.”
Taran frowned. “I wish Doli were here; we’d have no trouble at all. I don’t know—there must be some way. They told us we could stay the night,” he continued. “That gives us from now until dawn. Come, let’s not stand in front of their cottage or they’ll know we’re up to something. Orddu spoke of a shed.”
The companions led their horses to the side of the hill where a low, dilapidated building tottered shakily on the turf. It was bare and bleak and the autumn wind whistled through the chinks in the earthen wall. The bard stamped his feet and beat his arms.
“Chilly spot to plan anything,” he remarked. “Those enchantresses may have a lovely view of the Marshes, but it’s a cold one.”
“I wish we had some straw,” Eilonwy said, “or anything to keep us warm. We’ll freeze before we have a chance to think of anything at all.”
“Gurgi will find straw,” Gurgi suggested. He scurried out of the shed and ran toward the chicken roost.
Taran paced back and forth. “We’ll have to get into the cottage as soon as they’re asleep.” He shook his head and fingered the brooch at his throat. “But how? Adaon’s clasp has given me no idea. The dreams I had of the cauldron are without meaning to me. If I could only understand them …”
“Suppose you dozed off right now,” said Fflewddur helpfully, “and slept as fast as you could? As hard as you could, I mean. You might find the answer.”
“I’m not sure,” replied Taran. “It doesn’t quite work that way.”
“It should be a lot easier than boring a hole through the hill,” said the bard, “which was my next suggestion.”
“We could block up their chimney and smoke them out,” Eilonwy said. “Then one of us could sneak into the cottage. No,” she added, “on second thought, I’m afraid anything we might put down their chimney—well—they could very likely put something worse
up
. Besides, they don’t have a chimney, so we shall have to forget that idea.”
Gurgi, meantime, had returned with a huge armload of straw from the chicken roost, and the companions gratefully began heaping it on the clay floor. While Gurgi went off again to fetch another load, Taran looked dubiously at the straggly pile.
“I suppose I could try to dream,” he said, without much hope. “I certainly haven’t a better suggestion.”
“We can bed you down very nicely,” said Fflewddur, “and while you’re dreaming, the rest of us will be thinking, too. That way, we can all be working after our own fashion. I don’t mind telling you,” he added, “I wish I had Adaon’s brooch. Sleep? I wouldn’t need to be asked twice, for I’m weary to my bones.”
Taran, still unsure, made ready to settle himself in the straw when Gurgi reappeared, wide-eyed and trembling. The creature was so upset he could only gasp and gesture. Taran sprang to his feet. “What is it?” he cried.
Gurgi beckoned them toward the chicken roost and the companions hurried after him. The agitated Gurgi led them into the
wattle-and-daub building, then slunk back, terrified. He pointed to the far corner. There, in the midst of the straw, stood a cauldron.
It was squat and black, and half as tall as a man. Its ugly mouth gaped wide enough to hold a human body. The rim of the cauldron was crooked and battered, its sides dented and scarred; on its lips and on the curve of its belly lay dark brown flecks and stains which Taran knew were not rust. A long, thick handle was braced by a heavy bar; two heavy rings, like the links of a great chain, were set in either side. Though of iron, the cauldron seemed alive, grim and brooding with ancient evil. The empty mouth caught the chill breeze and a hushed muttering rose from the cauldron’s depths, like the lost voices of the tormented dead.
“It is the Black Crochan,” Taran whispered in fear and awe. He well understood Gurgi’s terror, for the very sight of the cauldron was enough to make him feel an icy hand clutching his heart. He turned away, hardly daring to look at it any longer.
Fflewddur’s face was pale. Eilonwy put a hand to her mouth. In the corner, Gurgi shivered pitifully. Though he himself had found it, he gave no joyous yelps of triumph. Instead, he sank deeper into the straw and tried to make himself as small as possible.
“Yes, well, I suppose it is indeed,” replied Fflewddur, swallowing hard. “On the other hand,” he added hopefully, “perhaps it is not. They did say they had a number of other cauldrons and kettles lying about. I mean, we shouldn’t want to make a mistake.”
“It is the Crochan,” Taran said. “I have dreamed of it. And even if I had not, I would know it still, for I can sense the evil in it.”
“I, too,” murmured Eilonwy. “It is full of death and suffering. I understand why Gwydion wants to destroy it.” She turned to
Taran. “You were right in seeking it without delay,” Eilonwy added with a shudder. “I’ll take back all the things I said. The Crochan must be destroyed as soon as possible.”
“Yes,” Fflewddur sighed, “I’m afraid this is the Crochan itself. Why couldn’t it have been a nice little kettle instead of this ugly, hulking brute? However,” he went on, taking a deep breath, “let’s snatch it! A Fflam never hesitates!”
“No!” cried Taran, putting out a hand to restrain the bard. “We dare not take it in broad daylight; and we mustn’t stay here or they’ll know we’ve found it. We’ll come back after nightfall with the horses and drag it away. For now, we’d better keep to the shed and act as if nothing has happened.”
The companions quickly returned to the shed. Once away from the Crochan, Gurgi regained some of his spirits. “Crafty Gurgi found it!” he cried. “Oh, yes! He always finds what is lost! He has found piggies, and now he finds a great cauldron of wicked doings and brewings! Kind master will honor humble Gurgi!” Nevertheless, his face wrinkled with fear.
Taran gave Gurgi a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Yes, old friend,” he said, “you have helped us more than once. But I never would have imagined they’d have hidden the Crochan in an empty chicken roost, under a pile of dirty straw.” He shook his head. “I’d think they’d want to guard it better.”
“Not at all,” said the bard. “They were very clever. They put it in one of the first places anybody would look, knowing quite well it was so easy nobody would ever think of looking there.”
“Perhaps,” Taran said. He frowned. “Or perhaps,” he added, unable to stifle the dread suddenly filling him, “they meant us to find it.”
 
 
In the shed the companions tried to sleep, knowing the night to come would be one of hard and dangerous labor. Fflewddur and Gurgi dozed briefly; Eilonwy huddled in her cloak with some straw piled around her. Taran was too restless and uneasy even to close his eyes. He sat silently, in his hands a long coil of rope he had taken from what little gear remained to the companions. They had decided to sling the cauldron between the two horses and make their way from the Marshes into the safe shelter of the forest, where they would destroy the Crochan.
No sign of life came from the cottage. At nightfall, however, a candle suddenly glowed in the window. Taran rose quietly and moved stealthily out of the shed. Clinging to the shadows, he made his way to the low building and peered in. For a moment he stood there, amazed, unable to move. Then he turned and raced back to the others as quickly as he could.
“I saw them in there!” he whispered, rousing the bard and Gurgi. “They aren’t the same ones at all!”
“What?” cried Eilonwy. “Are you sure you didn’t stumble on a different cottage?”
“Of course I didn’t,” retorted Taran. “And if you don’t believe me, go and look for yourself. They aren’t the same. There are three of them, yes, but they’re different. One of them was carding wool; one of them was spinning; and the third was weaving.”
“I suppose, really,” said the bard, “it passes the time for them. There’s little enough to do in the middle of these dismal bogs.”
“I shall indeed have to see for myself,” Eilonwy declared. “There’s nothing so strange about weaving, but beyond that I can’t make any sense of what you say.”
With Taran leading, the companions stole cautiously to the window. It was as he had said. Inside the cottage three figures went about their tasks, but not one of them resembled Orddu, Orwen, or Orgoch.
“They’re beautiful!” whispered Eilonwy.
“I’ve heard of hags trying to disguise themselves as beautiful maidens,” murmured the bard, “but I’ve never heard of beautiful maidens wanting to disguise themselves as hags. It isn’t natural, and I don’t mind telling you it makes me edgy. I think we’d better seize the cauldron and be gone.”
“I don’t know who they are,” said Taran, “but I fear they are more powerful than we could even guess. Somehow we’ve fallen on something—I don’t know what. It troubles me. Yes, we must take the cauldron as soon as we can, but we shall wait until they’re asleep.”
“If
they sleep,” said the bard. “Now that I’ve seen this, nothing would surprise me, not even if they hung by their toes all night, like bats.”
For a long time Taran feared the bard was right and that the enchantresses might not sleep at all. The companions took turns watching the cottage and it was not until almost dawn that the candle finally winked out. In an agony of waiting, Taran still delayed. Soon a loud snoring rose from within.
“They must have gone back to themselves again,” remarked the bard. “I can’t imagine beautiful ladies snoring like that. No, it’s Orgoch. I’d recognize that snort anywhere.”
In the still shadows of the false dawn the companions hastened to the chicken roost where Eilonwy ventured to light her bauble.
The Crochan squatted in its corner, black and baleful.
“Hurry now,” Taran ordered, taking hold of the handle.
“Fflewddur and Eilonwy, pick up those rings; and Gurgi, lift the other side. We’ll haul it out and rope it to the horses. Ready? All lift together.”

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