Taran Wanderer (12 page)

The Open Cage

T
HROUGHOUT 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.”

S
NOW 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
ice-covered stones, while Gurgi, panting fearfully, clambered after him. 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.

Taran Wanderer

F
EVER 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.

T
HE 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 clear. 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 only with 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.”

N
EXT 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.”

S
INCE 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, for set 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 merry-hearted
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 garments seemed 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.