Taran Wanderer (6 page)

“The honor you would give me,” Taran began, “there is nothing I would value more highly.
Yes--- I long to accept it.” His voice faltered. “Yet I would rather hold kingship by
right of noble birth, not as a gift! It may be,” he went on slowly, “that in truth I am
nobly born. If it should prove thus, then gladly would I rule Cadiffor.”

“How then!” cried Smoit. “My body and bones, I'd rather see a wise pig-keeper on my throne
than a blood prince who's a fool!”

“But there is this, as well,” Taran answered. “It is in my heart to learn the truth about
myself. I will not stop short of it. Were I to do so, who I truly am would forever be
unknown and through all my life I would feel a part of me lacking.”

At these words Smoit's battle-scarred face fell with sadness and regretfully he bowed his
head. But after a moment he clapped Taran heartily on the back. “My breath, blood, and
beard!” he cried. “You've a will to chase the wild goose, will-o'-the-wisp, looking-glass,
or whatever it may be; and I'll say no more to keep you from it. Seek it out, lad! Whether
or not you find it, come back and Cadiffor will welcome you. But hasten, for if Gast and
Goryon are ever at loggerheads again, I'll not vouch for how much of the cantrev will be
left!”

Thus Taran, with Gurgi and Fflewddur Fflam, set off once more. In his secret heart Taran
cherished the hope he might return to Smoit's realm with proud tidings of his parentage.
Yet he did not foresee how long it would be until he set foot in Cantrev Cadiffor again.

A Frog

F
ROM CAER CADARN
the companions made good progress and within a few days crossed the Ystrad River, where
Fflewddur led them for a time along the farther bank before turning northeastward through
the Hill Cantrevs. Unlike the Valley Cantrevs, these lands were grayish and flinty. What
might once have been fair pastureland Taran saw to be overlaid with brush, and the long
reaches of forest were close-grown and darkly tangled.

Fflewddur admitted his roving seldom brought him to these parts. “The cantrev nobles are
as glum as their domains. Play your merriest tune and the best you can hope for is a sour
smile. Yet, if the old lore is true, these realms were as rich as any in Prydain. The
sheep of the Hill Cantrevs--- Great Belin, it's said they had fleece so thick you could
sink your arm in it up to the elbow! Nowadays, alas, they tend to be a little scruffy.”

“Aeddan told me Arawn Death-Lord stole many secrets from the farmers of the valley,” Taran
replied. “Surely he robbed the shepherds of the Hill Cantrevs as well.”

Fflewddur nodded. “Few treasures he hasn't spoiled or stolen save those of the Fair Folk,
and even Arawn might think twice before trifling with them. Be that as it may,” he went
on, “I'd not change the Northern Realms, where my own kingdom is, for any of these. There,
my boy, we raise no sheep, but famous bards and warriors! Naturally, the House of Fflam
has held its throne there for--- well, for a remarkably long time. In the veins of a
Fflam,” declared the bard, “flows royal blood of the Sons of Don! Prince Gwydion himself
is my kinsman. Distant ---distant, it's true,” he added hastily, “but a kinsman
nonetheless.”

“Gurgi does not care for famous sheep or fleecy bards,” Gurgi wistfully murmured. “He is
happy at Caer Dallben, oh, yes, and wishes he is soon there.”

“As for that,” answered Fflewddur, “I'm afraid you'll have hard travel before you see home
again. It's anyone's guess how long it will take to find your mysterious Mirror. I'll go
with you as far as I can,” he said to Taran, “though sooner or later I shall have to get
back to my kingdom. My subjects are always impatient for my return...”

The harp shuddered violently as a string snapped in two. Fflewddur's face reddened.
“Ahem,” he said, “yes, what I meant was: I'll be anxious to see
them
again. The truth of it is, I often have the feeling they manage quite well even when I'm
not there. Still, a Fflam is dutiful!”

The companions halted while Fflewddur slid from Llyan's back and squatted on the turf to
repair his broken string. From his jacket the bard took the large key which he used to
tighten the harp's wooden pegs, and began patiently retuning the instrument.

A raucous cry made Taran glance quickly skyward. “It's Kaw!” he exclaimed, pointing to the
winged shape plummeting swiftly toward the companions. Gurgi shouted joyfully and clapped
his hands as the crow alighted on Taran's wrist.

“So you've found us, old friend,” cried Taran, delighted to have the crow with him once
again. “Tell me,” he went on quickly, “how does Eilonwy fare? Does she miss--- all of us?”

“Princess!” Kaw croaked, beating his wings. “Princess! Eilonwy! Taran!” He clacked his
beak, hopped up and down on Taran's wrist, and set up such a jabbering and chattering that
Taran could barely make out one word from another. The best he could understand was that
Eilonwy's indignation at being forced to learn royal behavior had by no means dwindled,
and that indeed she missed him--- tidings that both cheered Taran and sharpened his
yearning for the golden-haired Princess.

In the cavern on Mona, Kaw also managed to convey, Glew the giant had been restored to his
original size by Dallben's potion.

Kaw himself was in the best of spirits. Still gabbling at the top of his voice, he flapped
his glossy black wings, hopped from Taran's wrist to greet the other companions, and even
perched on Llyan's head, where he busily ran his beak through the great cat's tawny fur.

“His eyes will help our search,” Taran said to Fflewddur, who had left his harp to come
and stroke the bird's sleek feathers. “Kaw can scout the land better than any of us.”

“So he can,” agreed Fflewddur, “if he has a mind to and if you can make him heed you.
Otherwise the scamp will have his beak in everyone's business but his own.”

“Yes, yes,” Gurgi added, shaking a finger at the crow. “Heed commands of kindly master!
Help him with flyings and spyings, not pryings and lyings! ”

In answer, the crow impudently thrust out a sharp black tongue. With a flirt of his tail
he fluttered to the harp and began rapidly twanging the strings with his beak. At the
bard's cry of protest, Kaw hopped from the instrument's curved frame and snatched up the
tuning key, which he began dragging across the turf.

“He's brazen as a magpie!” cried Fflewddur, setting off after the crow. “He's thieving as
a jackdaw!”

No sooner did Fflewddur come within half a pace of him than Kaw nimbly hopped away again,
bearing the key in his beak. Squawking merrily, the crow stayed always out of Fflewddur's
grasp, and Taran could not help laughing at the sight of the long-shanked bard vainly
racing in circles, while Kaw danced ahead of him. When Gurgi and Taran joined the pursuit
and Taran's fingers had come within a hair's breadth of the crow's tail feathers, Kaw shot
upwards and flapped teasingly a short distance into the woods. There he lighted on the
gnarled branch of a tall, ancient oak, and peered with bright beady eyes at the companions
gathered below.

“Come down,” Taran ordered as sternly as he could, for the bird's comical antics made it
impossible for him to be seriously angry. “I've tried to teach him to behave,” Taran
sighed, “but it's no use. He'll bring it back when he feels like it and not before.”

“Hi, hi! Drop it!” called Fflewddur, waving his arms. “Drop it, I say!”

At this Kaw bobbed his head, hunched up his wings, and dropped the key--- not into the
bard's outstretched hands but into a hollow of the tree trunk.

“Dropped it! Dropped it!” croaked Kaw, rocking back and forth on the branch, jabbering and
chuckling gleefully at his own jest.

Fflewddur snorted. “That bird's ill-mannered as a starling! He's had his merriment, now I
shall have the toil.” Muttering hard comments about the impudence of waggish crows, the
bard flung his arms about the trunk and tried to haul himself upward. Less than halfway,
his grip loosened and he came tumbling down to land heavily amid the roots.

“A Fflam is agile!” Fflewddur panted, ruefully rubbing his back. “Great Belin, there's not
a tree I can't climb--- ah, except this one.” He mopped his brow and glared at the high
trunk.

“Gurgi climbs, yes, yes!” cried Gurgi, springing to the oak. With shaggy arms and legs
working all at once, in a trice the creature clambered up the tree. While Fflewddur
shouted encouragement, Gurgi thrust a skinny hand into the hollow.

“Here is tuneful key, oh, yes!” he called. “Clever Gurgi finds it!” He stopped short.
Taran saw the creature's face wrinkle in surprise and perplexity. Tossing the key down to
Fflewddur, Gurgi turned once more to the hollow. “But what is this? What else does Gurgi
find with gropings? Kindly master,” he shouted, “here is strange something all set away in
hidings!”

Taran saw the excited creature tuck an object under his arm and slide down the oak tree.

“See with lookings!” cried Gurgi as Taran and the bard pressed around him.

Kaw's prank was forgotten in the moment and the crow, not abashed whatever, flew to
Taran's shoulder, stretched out his neck, and crowded forward as if determined to be first
to glimpse Gurgi's discovery.

“Is it treasure?” Gurgi exclaimed. “Oh, treasure of great worth! And Gurgi finds it!” He
stamped his feet wildly. “Open it, kindly master! Open and see what riches it holds!”

What Gurgi pressed into Taran's hand was a small, squat iron coffer no wider than Taran's
palm. Its curved lid was heavily hinged, bound with iron strips, and secured by a stout
padlock.

“Is it jewels with winkings and blinkings? Or gold with shimmerings and glimmerings?”
cried Gurgi, as Taran turned the coffer over and over; Fflewddur, too, peered at it
curiously.

“Well, friends,” the bard remarked, “at least we'll have some reward for the trouble that
pilfering jackdaw has given us. Though from the size of it, I fear it shan't be very much.”

Taran, meantime, had been struggling with the lock which refused to give way. The lid
resisted all his battering, and finally he had to set the coffer on the ground where Gurgi
held it tightly while the bard and Taran pried at the hinges with the points of their
swords. But the coffer was surprisingly strong, and it took all their strength and effort
before the lid at last yielded and fell away with a loud, rasping snap. Within lay a
packet of soft leather which Taran carefully untied.

“What is it? What is it?” yelped Gurgi, jumping up and down on one leg. “Let Gurgi see
shining treasure!”

Taran laughed and shook his head. The packet held neither gold nor gems, but no more than
a slender piece of bone as long as Taran's little finger. Gurgi groaned in disappointment.

Fflewddur snorted. “I should say our shaggy friend has found a very small hairpin or a
very large toothpick. I doubt we'll have much use for either one.”

Taran had not ceased examining the strange object. The sliver of bone was dry and brittle,
bleached white and highly polished. Whether animal or human he could not tell. “What value
can this have?” he murmured, frowning.

“Great value,” replied Fflewddur, “if one should ever need a toothpick. Beyond that,” he
shrugged. “Keep it, if you like or toss it away; I can't see it would make any difference.
Even the chest is beyond repair.”

“But if it's worthless,” Taran said, still studying the bone closely, “why should it be so
carefully locked up? And so carefully hidden?”

“It's been my long experience that people can be very odd about their belongings,” said
Fflewddur “A favorite toothpick, a family heirloom--- but, yes, I see what you're driving
at. A Fflam is quick-thinking! Whoever put it away didn't want it found. As I was about to
remark, there's considerably more here than meets the eye.”

“And yet,” Taran began, “a hollow tree seems hardly the safest place to keep anything.”

“On the contrary,” answered the bard. “What better way to hide something? Indoors, it
could be found without too much difficulty. Bury it in the ground and there's the problem
of moles, badgers, and all such. But a tree like this,” he continued, glancing upward, “I
doubt that anyone but Gurgi could climb it without a ladder, and it's hardly probable that
anyone strolling through this forest would be carrying a ladder with them. If the birds or
squirrels nest on top, they'd only cover it up all the more. No, whoever put it there gave
the matter careful thought and took as much pains as if...”

Fflewddur's face paled. “As if...” He swallowed hard, choking on his own words. “Get rid
of it” he whispered urgently. “Forget we ever found the thing. I can sniff enchantment, a
mile away. Toothpick, hairpin, or what have you, there's something queer about it.” He
shuddered. “As I've said time and time again: Don't meddle. You know my mind on that
score. Two things never mix: one is enchantments and the other is meddling with them.”

Taran did not answer immediately, but stared for a time at the polished fragment. At last
he said, “Whatever it may be, it's not ours to take. Yet, if there is enchantment, good or
evil, dare we leave it?”

“Away with it!” cried Fflewddur. “If it's good there's no harm done. If it's evil there's
no telling what beastly thing might happen. Put it back, by all means.”

Taran reluctantly nodded. Wrapping the bone once more, he replaced, it in the coffer, set
the broken lid loosely on top, and asked Gurgi to return it to the hollow. Gurgi, who had
been listening closely to Fflewddur's talk of enchantment, was loath even to touch the
coffer; and only after much urging and pleading by the companions did he agree to do so.
He hastily climbed the oak and scuttled down even faster than he had clambered up.

“And good riddance to it,” muttered Fflewddur, striding as quickly as he could from the
forest, Taran and Gurgi after him, the latter casting fearful backward glances until the
oak was well out of sight.

T
HE COMPANIONS RETURNED
to their steeds and prepared to mount. Fflewddur picked up his harp, looked about him,
and called, “I say, where's Llyan? Don't tell me she's wandered off.”

Taran's alarm quickly changed to reassurance, for a moment later he saw the huge cat
plunge from the underbrush and lope to Fflewddur, who clapped his hands and made loud
whispering noises through his teeth.

“Sa! Sa! So there you are, old girl,” cried the bard, beaming happily as Llyan frisked
about him. “Now, what have
you
been after?”

“I think she's caught a--- why, yes--- she's caught a frog!” Taran exclaimed, catching
sight of a pair of long legs with webbed feet dangling from Llyan's mouth.

“Yes, yes,” put in Gurgi. “A froggie! A froggie with thumpings and jumpings!”

“I should hardly think so,” said the bard. “We've seen no swamps or pools, and very little
water at all, for the matter of that.”

Proudly purring, Llyan dropped her burden at Fflewddur's feet. It was indeed a frog, and
the biggest Taran had ever seen. The bard, after patting Llyan's head and fondly rubbing
her ears, knelt and with a certain squeamishness picked up the motionless creature.

“Yes, well, I'm delighted, old girl,” he said, holding it at arm's length between his
thumb and forefinger. “It's lovely; I don't know how to thank you. She often does this,”
he explained to Taran. “I don't mean dead frogs necessarily, but odds and ends--- an
occasional mouse, that sort of thing. Little gifts she fancies I might enjoy. A sign of
affection. I always make a fuss over them. It's the thought, after all, that counts.”