The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain) (9 page)

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Authors: Lloyd Alexander

BOOK: The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain)
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Eilonwy was silent for a moment. “Yes,” she said slowly, “I believe it now. You don’t even sound quite like yourself. Adaon’s clasp is a priceless gift. It gives you a kind of wisdom,” she added, “which, I suppose, is what Assistant Pig-Keepers need more than anything else.”
The Marshes of Morva
F
rom the moment the marsh bird appeared, Taran led the companions swiftly, following without hesitation a path which now seemed clear. He felt the powerful muscles of Melynlas moving beneath him, and guided the steed with unaccustomed skill. The stallion responded to this new touch on the reins with mighty bursts of speed, so much so that Lluagor could barely keep pace. Fflewddur shouted for Taran to halt a bit and let them all catch their breath. Gurgi, looking like a windblown haystack, gratefully clambered down, and even Eilonwy gave a sigh of relief.
“Since we’ve stopped,” Taran said, “Gurgi might as well share out some food. But we’d better find shelter first, if we don’t want to get soaked.”
“Soaked?” cried Fflewddur. “Great Belin, there isn’t a cloud in the sky! It’s a gorgeous day—taking everything into consideration.”
“If I were you,” Eilonwy advised the puzzled bard, “I should listen to him. Usually, that’s not a wise thing to do. But the circumstances are a little different now.”
The bard shrugged and shook his head, but followed Taran across the rolling fields into a shallow ravine. There, they found a wide and fairly deep recess in the shoulder of a hill.
“I hope you aren’t wounded,” remarked Fflewddur. “My war-leader at home has an old wound that gives him a twinge when the weather changes. Very handy, I admit; though it does seem a painful way of foretelling rain. I always think it’s easier just to wait, and every kind of weather’s bound to come along sooner or later.”
“The wind has shifted,” Taran said. “It comes from the sea now. It’s restless, with a briny taste. There’s a smell of grass and weeds, too, which makes me think we aren’t far from Morva. If all goes well, we may reach the Marshes by tomorrow.”
Soon afterward, the sky indeed clouded over and a chill rain began pelting against the hill. In moments it grew to a heavy downpour. Water coursed in rivulets on either side of their shelter, but the companions remained dry.
“Wise master,” shouted Gurgi, “protects us from slippings and drippings!”
“I must say,” the bard remarked, “you foretold it exactly.”
“Not I,” said Taran. “Without Adaon’s clasp, I’m afraid we’d all have been drenched.”
“How’s that?” asked the perplexed Fflewddur. “I shouldn’t think a clasp would have anything to do with it.”
As he had explained to Eilonwy, Taran now told the bard what he had learned of the brooch. Fflewddur cautiously examined the ornament at Taran’s throat.
“Very interesting,” he said. “Whatever else it may have, it bears the bardic symbol—those three lines there, like a sort of arrowhead.”
“I saw them,” Taran said, “but I didn’t know what they were.”
“Naturally,” said Fflewddur. “It’s part of the secret lore of the
bards. I learned that much when I was trying to study for my examinations.”
“But what do they mean?” Taran asked.
“As I recall,” put in Eilonwy, “the last time I asked him to read an inscription …”
“Yes,” said Fflewddur with embarrassment, “that was something else again. But I know the bardic symbol well. It is secret, though since you have the clasp I don’t suppose it can do any harm for me to tell you. The lines mean knowledge, truth, and love.”
“That’s very nice,” said Eilonwy, “but I can’t imagine why knowledge, truth, and love should be so much of a secret.”
“Perhaps I should say unusual as much as secret,” answered the bard. “I sometimes think it’s hard enough to find any one of them, even separately. Put them all together and you have something very powerful indeed.”
Taran, who had been thoughtfully fingering the clasp, stopped and looked about him uneasily. “Hurry,” he said, “we must leave here at once.”
“Taran of Caer Dallben,” Eilonwy cried, “you’re going too far! I can understand coming
out
of the rain, but I don’t see deliberately going
into
it.”
Nevertheless, she followed; and the companions, at Taran’s urgent command, untethered the horses and ran from the hillside. They had not gone ten paces before the entire slope, weakened by the downpour, collapsed with a loud roar.
Gurgi yelped in terror and threw himself at Taran’s feet. “Oh, great, brave, and wise master! Gurgi is thankful! His poor tender head is spared from terrible dashings and crashings!”
Fflewddur put his hands on his hips and gave a low whistle. “Well, well, fancy that. Another moment and we’d have been
buried for good and all. Never part with that clasp, my friend. It’s a true treasure.”
Taran was silent. His hand went to Adaon’s brooch, and he stared at the shattered hill slope with a look of wonder.
 
 
The rain slackened a little before nightfall. Although drenched and chilled to the bone, the companions had made good progress by the time Taran allowed them to rest again. Here, gray and cheerless moors spread before them. Wind and water had worn crevices in the earth, like the gougings of a giant’s fingers. The companions made their camp in a narrow gorge, glad for the chance to sleep even on the muddy ground. Taran drowsed with one hand on the iron brooch, the other grasping his sword. He was less weary than he had expected, despite the grueling ride. A strange sense of excitement thrilled him, different from what he had felt when Dallben had presented him with the sword. However, his dreams that night were troubled and unhappy.
At first light, as the companions began their journey again, Taran spoke of his dreams to Eilonwy. “I can make no sense of them,” he said with hesitation. “I saw Ellidyr in mortal danger. At the same time it was as though my hands were bound and I could not help him.”
“I’m afraid the only place you’re going to see Ellidyr is in your dreams,” replied Eilonwy. “There certainly hasn’t been a trace of him anywhere. For all we know, he could have been to Morva and gone, or not even reached the Marshes in the first place. It’s too bad you didn’t dream of an easier way to find that cauldron and put an end to all this. I’m cold and wet and at this point I’m beginning not to care who has it.”
“I dreamed of the cauldron, too,” Taran said anxiously. “But
everything was confused and clouded. It seems to me we came upon the cauldron. And yet,” he added, “when we found it, I wept.”
Eilonwy, for once, was silent, and Taran had no heart to speak of the dream again.
Shortly after midday they reached the Marshes of Morva.
Taran had sensed them long before, as the ground had begun to turn spongy and treacherous under the hooves of Melynlas. He had seen more marsh birds and had heard, far in the distance, the weird and lonely voice of a loon. Ropes of fog, twisting and creeping like white serpents, had begun to rise from the reeking ground.
Now the companions halted, and stood in silence at a narrow neck of the swamp. From there, the Marshes of Morva stretched westward to the horizon. Here, huge growths of thorny furze rose up. At the far side, Taran distinguished meager clumps of wasted trees. Under the gray sky, pools of stagnant water flickered among dead grasses and broken reeds. A scent of ancient decay choked his nostrils. A ceaseless thrumming and groaning trembled in the air. Gurgi’s eyes were round with terror, and the bard shifted uneasily on Lluagor.
“You’ve led us here well enough,” said Eilonwy. “But how do you ever expect to go about finding a cauldron in a place like this?”
Taran motioned her to be silent. As he looked across the dreaded Marshes, something stirred in his mind. “Do not move,” he cautioned in a low voice. He glanced quickly behind him. Gray shapes appeared from the line of bushes straggling over a hillock. They were not two wolves, as he had thought at first, but two Huntsmen in jackets of wolf pelts. Another Huntsman, in a heavy cloak of bearskin, crouched beside them.
“The Huntsmen have found us,” Taran went on quickly. “Follow
every step I take. But not a motion until I give the signal.” Now he understood the dream of the wolves clearly, and knew exactly what he must do.
The Huntsmen, believing they could take their prey unawares, drew closer.
“Now!” shouted Taran. He urged Melynlas forward and galloped headlong into the Marshes. Heaving and plunging, the stallion labored through the mire. With a great shout, the Huntsmen raced after him. Once, Melynlas nearly foundered in a deep pool. The great strides of the pursuers brought them closer, so close that in a fearful backward glance Taran saw one of them, teeth bared in a snarl, reach out to clutch the stirrups of Lluagor.
Taran spun Melynlas to the right. Lluagor followed. A shout of terror rose behind them. One of the men clad in wolfskin had stumbled and pitched forward, screaming as the black bog seized and sucked him down. His two comrades grappled each other, striving desperately to flee the ground that fell away under their feet. The Huntsman in bearskin flung out his arms and scrabbled at the weeds, growling in rage; the last warrior trampled the sinking man, vainly seeking a foothold to escape the deadly bog.
Melynlas galloped onward. Brackish water spurted at his hooves, but Taran guided the powerful stallion along what seemed a chain of submerged islands, never stopping even when he reached the far side of the swamp. There, on more solid ground, he raced through the furze and beyond the clump of trees. While Lluagor pounded after him, Taran followed a long gully toward the protection of a high mound.
Suddenly he reined in the stallion. At the side of the mound, almost a part of the turf itself, rose a low cottage. It was so cleverly
concealed with sod and branches that Taran had to look again to see there was a doorway. Circling the hill were tumbledown stables and something resembling a demolished chicken roost.
Taran began to back Melynlas away from this strange cluster of buildings and cautioned the others to keep silent.
“I shouldn’t worry about that,” Eilonwy said. “Whoever lives in there surely heard us coming. If they aren’t out to welcome us or fight with us by now, then I don’t think anyone’s there at all.” She leaped from Melynlas and made her way toward the cottage.
“Come back!” Taran called. He unsheathed his sword and followed her. The bard and Gurgi dismounted and drew their own weapons.
Alert and cautious, Taran approached the low doorway. Eilonwy had discovered a window, half-hidden by turf and grass, and was peering through it. “I don’t see anybody,” she said, as the others came up beside her. “Look for yourself.”
“For the matter of that,” said the bard, ducking his head and squinting past Eilonwy, “I don’t think anyone’s been here for quite some time. So much the better! In any case, we’ll have a dry place to rest.”
The chamber, Taran saw, indeed seemed deserted, of inhabitants, at least, for the room was even more heaped up and disorderly than Dallben’s. In one corner stood a wide loom with a good many of the threads straggling down. The work on the frame was less than half-finished and so tangled and knotted he could imagine no one ever continuing it. Broken crockery covered a small table. Rusted and broken weapons were piled about.
“How would you like it,” asked a cheerful voice behind Taran, “if you were turned into a toad? And stepped on?”
The Cottage
T
aran 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?”

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