The River
H
is night’s sleep refreshed Taran but little and hardly blunted the edge of his weariness. Nevertheless, at dawn he roused the companions and with much effort they began roping the Crochan to Lluagor and Melynlas. When they finished, Taran glanced around him uneasily.
“There is no concealment for us on these moors,” he said. “I had hoped we might keep to the flatlands where our journey would be easier. But I fear that Arawn will have his gwythaints seeking the Crochan. Sooner or later they will find us, and here they could fall on us like hawks on chickens.”
“Please don’t mention chickens,” said the bard with a sour grimace. “I had quite enough of that from Orddu.”
“Gurgi will protect kind master!” shouted Gurgi.
Taran smiled and put a hand on Gurgi’s shoulder. “I know you’ll do your best,” he said. “But all of us together are no match for even one gwythaint.” Taran shook his head. “No,” he said reluctantly, “I think we had better turn north to the Forest of Idris. It’s the longest way around, but at least it would give us some cover.”
Eilonwy agreed. “It’s not usually wise to go in the direction opposite to where you want to be,” she said. “But you can be sure I’d rather not fight gwythaints.”
“Lead on, then,” said Fflewddur. “A Fflam never falters! Though what my aching bones might do is another matter!”
Crossing the moorlands, the companions journeyed without difficulties, but once within the Forest of Idris the Crochan grew more burdensome. Although the trees and bushes offered concealment and protection, the paths were narrow. Lluagor and Melynlas stumbled often and, despite their most valiant efforts, they could barely drag the cauldron through the brush.
Taran called a halt. “Our horses have borne all they can,” he said, patting the lathered neck of Melynlas. “Now it is our turn to help them. I wish Doli were here.” He sighed. “I’m sure he’d find an easier way of carrying the Crochan. He’d think of something clever. Like making a sling out of branches and vines.”
“There!” cried Eilonwy. “You’ve just said it yourself! You’re doing amazingly well without Adaon’s brooch!”
With their swords Taran and the bard cut stout branches, while Eilonwy and Gurgi stripped vines from the tree trunks. Taran’s spirits lifted when he saw the sling take shape according to his plan. The companions hoisted up the Crochan and set off again. But even with the sling, and all their strength, their progress was slow and painful.
“Oh, poor weary arms!” moaned Gurgi. “Oh, moilings and toilings! This evil pot is a cruel and wicked master to us all! Oh, sorrow! Fainting Gurgi will never leave Caer Dallben again unbidden!”
Taran gritted his teeth, as the rough branches bit into his shoulders. To him, too, it seemed as if the ugly, heavy cauldron had gained some strange life of its own. The Crochan, squat and blood-darkened, lurched behind him as he stumbled through the brush. It caught on jutting tree limbs, as though eagerly clutching them to
itself. Often, at these sudden checks, the companions lost their footing and went sprawling. Then, laboriously, they were obliged to set the Crochan back in its sling once again. Though the weather was chill enough to turn their breath white, their clothing was drenched with sweat and nearly ripped to shreds by the grasping brambles.
The trees had begun to grow more dense, and the ground rose toward the comb of a hill. For Taran, the Crochan seemed to gain weight with every pace. Its leering, gaping mouth taunted him, and the cauldron dragged at his strength as he heaved and struggled along the ascending trail.
The companions had nearly reached the crest of the hill when one of the carrier branches snapped. The Crochan plunged to the ground and Taran fell headlong. Painfully picking himself up and rubbing his shoulder, he stared at the spiteful cauldron and shook his head.
“No use,” Taran gasped. “We’ll never get it through the forest. No sense trying.”
“You sound like Gwystyl,” Eilonwy remarked. “If I didn’t have my eyes open, I could barely tell the difference.”
“Gwystyl!” cried the bard, looking ruefully at his blistered hands. “I envy that fellow in his rabbit warren! Sometimes I think he had quite the right idea.”
“We are too few to carry such a burden,” Taran said hopelessly. “With another horse or another pair of hands there might be a chance. We are only deceiving ourselves if we think we can bring the Crochan to Caer Dallben.”
“That may be true,” Eilonwy sighed wearily. “But I don’t know what else we can do, except keep on deceiving ourselves. And perhaps by that time we’ll be home.”
Taran cut a new branch for the sling, but his heart was as heavy as the Crochan itself. And, as the companions wrestled their burden over the hill and descended into a deep valley, Taran nearly sank to the ground in despair. Before them, like a brown, menacing serpent, stretched a turbulent river.
Taran stared grimly at the choppy waters for a moment, then turned away. “There is a destiny laid on us that the Crochan shall never reach Caer Dallben.”
“Nonsense!” cried Eilonwy. “If you stop now, then you’ve given up Adaon’s brooch for nothing! That’s worse than putting a necklace on an owl and letting it fly away!”
“If I’m not mistaken,” said Fflewddur helpfully, “that must be the River Tevvyn. I’ve crossed it farther to the north, where it takes its source. Surprising, the bits of information you pick up as a wandering bard.”
“Alas, it does us no good, my friend,” Taran said, “unless we could turn north again and cross where the river is less wide.”
“Afraid that wouldn’t answer,” said Fflewddur. “We’d have the mountains to go over, that way. If we’re to cross at all, we shall have to do it here.”
“It seems a little shallower down that way,” said Eilonwy, pointing to a spot where the river curved around a sedge-covered bank. “Very well, Taran of Caer Dallben,” she said, “what shall it be? We can’t just sit here until gwythaints, or something even more disagreeable, find us, and we certainly can’t go back to Orddu and offer to exchange the Crochan again.”
Taran took a deep breath. “If you are all willing,” he said, “we shall try to cross.”
Slowly, struggling under the cruel weight, the companions brought the Crochan to the riverbank. While Gurgi, leading the horses, cautiously set one foot, then the other, into the stream, Taran and the bard shouldered the sling. Eilonwy followed beside them to steady the swaying cauldron. The icy water slashed at Taran’s legs like a knife. He dug his heels into the riverbed, seeking a firmer foothold. He plunged deeper; behind him, the straining, grunting Fflewddur did his best to avoid dropping his end of the sling. The chill of the river took Taran’s breath away. His head spun, the branches nearly slipped from his numb fingers.
For one moment of terror he felt himself falling. His foot found a rock and he braced himself on it. The vines creaked and tensed as the weight of the cauldron shifted. The companions were in midstream now and the water rose only to their waists. Taran raised his streaming face. The opposite bank was not far; the ground appeared smoother, the forest not as dense.
“Soon there!” he cried, taking heart anew. Gurgi, he saw, had already led the horses from the water and was turning back to help the toiling companions.
Closer to the bank the river bottom turned stony. Blindly, Taran picked his way through the treacherous rocks. Ahead rose a number of high boulders and he warily guided the Crochan past them. Gurgi was reaching out his hands when Taran heard a sharp cry from the bard. The cauldron lurched. With all his strength Taran heaved forward. Eilonwy seized the cauldron by its handle and tugged desperately. Taran flung himself to dry ground.
The Crochan rolled to its side and sank in the muddy shallows.
Taran turned back to help Fflewddur. The bard, who had fallen
heavily against the boulders, was struggling to shore. His face was white with pain; his right arm hung uselessly at his side.
“Is it broken? Is it broken?” Fflewddur moaned as Taran and Eilonwy hurried to lead him up the bank.
“I’ll be able to tell in a moment,” Taran said, helping the stumbling bard to sit down and prop his back against an alder. He opened Fflewddur’s cloak, slit the sleeve of his jacket, and carefully examined the damaged arm. Taran saw quickly that the bard’s fall had not only been severe but that one of the cauldron’s legs had given him a deep gash in his side. “Yes,” Taran said gravely, “I’m afraid it is.”
At this the bard set up a loud lament and bowed his head. “Terrible, terrible,” he groaned. “A Fflam is always cheerful, but this is too much to bear.”
“It was a bad accident,” Eilonwy said, trying to hide her concern, “but you mustn’t take on so. It can be fixed. We’ll bind it up.”
“Useless!” cried Fflewddur in despair. “It will never be the same! Oh, it is the fault of that beastly Crochan! The wretched thing struck at me deliberately, I’m sure!”
“You’ll be all right, I promise you,” Taran reassured the sorrowful bard. He tore several wide strips from his cloak. “Good as new in a little while,” he added. “Of course, you won’t be able to move your arm until it’s healed.”
“Arm?” cried Fflewddur. “It’s not my
arm
that worries me! It’s my
harp!”
“Your harp is in a better state than you are,” said Eilonwy, taking the bard’s instrument from his shoulder and putting it in his lap.
“Great Belin, but you gave me a shock!” Fflewddur said, caressing the harp with his free hand. “Arms? Naturally, they heal themselves
with no trouble at all. I’ve had a dozen broken—yes, well, that is to say I snapped my wrist once during a little swordplay—in any case, I have two arms. But only one harp!” The bard heaved an immense sigh of relief. “Indeed, I feel better already.”
Despite Fflewddur’s brave grin, Taran saw the bard was suffering more than he chose to admit. Quickly and gently Taran finished making a splint and winding the strips about it, then brought herbs from Lluagor’s saddlebag. “Chew these,” he told Fflewddur. “They will ease your pain. And you’d better stay perfectly still for a while.”
“Lie still?” cried the bard. “Not now, of all times! We must fish that vile pot out of the river!”
Taran shook his head. “The three of us will try to raise it. With a broken arm even a Fflam wouldn’t be much help.”
“By no means!” cried Fflewddur. “A Fflam is always helpful!” He struggled to raise himself from the ground, winced, and fell back again. Gasping with the pain of his exertion, he looked dolefully at his injury.
Taran uncoiled the ropes and, with Gurgi and Eilonwy following, made his way to the shallows. The Crochan lay half submerged in the water. The current eddied around its gaping mouth and the cauldron seemed to be muttering defiance. The sling, Taran saw, was undamaged, but the cauldron was caught firmly between the boulders. He looped a rope and cast it over a jutting leg, directing Gurgi and Eilonwy to pull when he signaled.
He waded into the river, bent, and tried to thrust his shoulder under the cauldron. Gurgi and Eilonwy hauled with all their strength. The Crochan did not move.
Soaked to the skin, his hands numb, Taran wrestled vainly with
the cauldron. Breathless, he staggered back to shore where he attached ropes to Lluagor and Melynlas.
Once again Taran returned to the icy stream. He shouted to Eilonwy, who led the horses away from the river. The ropes tightened; the steeds labored; Taran heaved and tugged at the immovable cauldron. The bard had managed to regain his feet and lent what effort he could. Gurgi and Eilonwy took their places in the water beside Taran, but the Crochan resisted the force of all their muscles.
In despair Taran signaled for them to stop. Heavy-hearted, the companions returned to shore.
“We shall camp here for the rest of the day,” Taran said. “Tomorrow, when we have our strength back, we can try again. There may be some other way of getting it out, I don’t know. It is tightly wedged and everything we do seems to make it worse.”
He looked toward the river, where the cauldron crouched like a glowering beast of prey.
“It is a thing of evil,” Taran said, “and has brought nothing but evil. Now, at the last, I fear it has defeated us.”
He turned away. Behind him the bushes rustled. Taran spun around, his hand on his sword.
A figure stepped from the edge of the forest.
The Choice
I
t was Ellidyr. With Islimach following, he strode to the riverbank. Dry mud caked his tawny hair and grimed his face. His cheeks and hands had been cruelly slashed; his bloodstained jacket was half ripped from his shoulders, and he wore no cloak. Dark-ringed, his eyes glittered feverishly. Ellidyr halted before the speechless companions, threw back his head, and glanced scornfully at them.
“Well met,” he said in a hoarse voice, “brave company of scarecrows.” His lips drew back in a taut, bitter grin. “The pig-boy, the scullery maid—I do not see the dreamer.”
“What do you here?” Taran cried, facing him angrily. “You dare speak of Adaon? He is slain and lies beneath his burial mound. You have betrayed us, Son of Pen-Llarcau! Where were you when the Huntsmen set upon us? When another sword would have turned the balance? The price was Adaon’s life, a better man than you shall ever be!”
Ellidyr did not reply, but moved stiffly past Taran and squatted down near the pile of saddlebags. “Give me food,” he said sharply. “Roots and rain water have been my meat and drink.”
“Evil traitor!” shouted Gurgi, leaping to his feet. “There are no crunchings and munchings for wicked villain, no, no!”
“Hold your tongue,” said Ellidyr, “or you shall hold your head.”
“Give him food, as he asks,” Taran ordered.
Muttering furiously, Gurgi obeyed and opened the wallet.
“And just because we’re feeding you,” cried Eilonwy, “don’t think you’re welcome to it!”
“The scullery maid is not pleased to see me,” said Ellidyr. “She shows temper.”
“Can’t say I really blame her,” rejoined Fflewddur. “And I don’t see that you should expect anything else. You’ve done us a bad turn. Would you have us hold a festival?”
“The harp-scraper is still with you, at least,” Ellidyr said, seizing the food from Gurgi. “But I see he is a bird with a wing down.”
“Birds again,” murmured the bard with a shudder. “Shall 1 never be allowed to forget Orddu?”
“Why do you seek us?” Taran demanded. “You were content to leave us once. What brings you here now?”
“Seek you?” Ellidyr laughed harshly. “I seek the Marshes of Morva.”
“Well, you’re a long way from them,” Eilonwy cried. “But if you’re in a hurry to get there—as I hope you are—I’ll be glad to give you directions. And while you’re there, I suggest you find Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch. They’ll be happier to see you than we are.
Ellidyr wolfed down his food and settled himself against the saddlebags. “That is better,” he said. “Now there is a bit more life in me.”
“Enough to take you wherever you happen to be going,” snapped Eilonwy.
“And wherever you happen to be going,” replied Ellidyr, “I wish
you the joy of your journey. You shall find Huntsmen enough to satisfy you.”
“What,” cried Taran, “are the Huntsmen still abroad?”
“Yes, pig-boy,” Ellidyr answered. “All Annuvin is astir. The Huntsmen I have outrun, a noble game of hare and hounds. The gwythaints have had their sport of me,” he added with a contemptuous laugh, “though it cost them two of their number. But enough remain to offer you good hunting, if that is your pleasure.”
“I hope you didn’t lead them to us,” Eilonwy began.
“I led them nowhere,” said Ellidyr, “least of all to you, since I did not know you were here. When the gwythaints and I parted company, I assure you I gave little heed to the path I chose.”
“You can still choose your path,” said Eilonwy, “so long as it leads you from us. And I hope you follow it as swiftly as you did when you sneaked away.”
“Sneaked away?” laughed Ellidyr. “A Son of Pen-Llarcau does not sneak. You were too slow-footed for me. There were matters of urgency to attend to.”
“Your own glory!” Taran replied sharply. “You thought of nothing else. At least, Ellidyr, speak the truth.”
“It is true enough I meant to go to the Marshes of Morva,” Ellidyr said with a bitter smile. “And true enough I did not find them. Though I should, had the Huntsmen not barred my way.
“From the scullery maid’s words,” Ellidyr went on, “I gather you have been to Morva.”
Taran nodded. “Yes, we have been there. Now we return to Caer Dallben.”
Ellidyr laughed again. “And you, too, have failed. But, since your journey was the longer, I ask you which of us wasted more of his labor and pains?”
“Failed?” cried Taran. “We did not fail! The cauldron is ours! There it lies,” he added, pointing past the riverbank to the black hump of the Crochan.
Ellidyr sprang to his feet and looked across the water. “How, then!” he shouted wrathfully. “Have you cheated me once more?” His face darkened with rage. “Do I risk my life again so that a pig-boy may rob me of my prize?” His eyes were frenzied and he made to seize Taran by the throat.
Taran struck away his hand. “I have never cheated you, Son of Pen-Llarcau!” he cried.
“Your
prize? Risk your life? We have lost life and shed blood for the cauldron. Yes, a heavy price has been paid, heavier than you know, Prince of Pen-Llarcau.”
Ellidyr seemed to strangle on his rage. He stood without moving, his face working and twitching. But he soon forced himself to seem again cold and haughty, though his hands still trembled.
“So, pig-boy,” he said in a low, rasping voice, “you have found the cauldron after all. Yet, indeed, it would seem to belong more to the river than to you. Who but a pig-boy would leave it stranded thus? Did you not have wits enough or strength enough to smash it, that you must bear it with you?”
“The Crochan cannot be destroyed unless a man give up his life in it,” Taran answered. “We have wits enough to know it must be put safely in Dallben’s hands.”
“Would you be a hero, pig-boy?” asked Ellidyr. “Why do you not climb into it yourself? Surely you are bold enough. Or are you a coward at heart, when the test is put upon you?”
Taran disregarded Ellidyr’s taunt. “We need your help,” he said urgently. “Our strength fails us. Help us bring the Crochan to Caer Dallben. Or at least aid us to move it to the riverbank.”
“Help you?” Ellidyr threw back his head and laughed wildly.
“Help you? So that a pig-boy may strut before Gwydion and boast of his deeds? And a Prince of Pen-Llarcau play the churl? No, you shall have no help from me! I warned you to take your own part! Do it now, pig-boy!”
Eilonwy screamed and pointed to the sky. “Gwythaints!”
A flight of three gwythaints soared high above the trees. Racing with the wind-driven clouds, the gigantic birds sped closer. Taran and Eilonwy caught up Fflewddur between them and stumbled into the bushes. Gurgi, almost witless with fear, pulled on the horses’ bridles, leading them to the safety of the trees. While Ellidyr followed, the gwythaints swooped downward, the wind rattling in their flashing feathers.
With harsh and fearsome shrieking, the gwythaints circled around the cauldron, blotting out the sun with their black wings. One of the ferocious birds came to rest on the Crochan and for an instant remained poised there, beating its wings. The gwythaints made no attempt to attack the companions, but circled once again, then drove skyward. They veered north and the mountains quickly hid them.
Pale and shaking, Taran stepped from the bushes. “They have found what they were seeking,” he said. “Arawn will soon know the Crochan waits to be plucked from our hands.” He turned to Ellidyr. “Help us,” he asked again, “I beg you. We dare not lose a moment.”
Ellidyr shrugged and strode down the riverbank into the shallows where he looked closely at the half-sunken Crochan. “It can be moved,” he said when he returned. “But not by you, pig-boy. You will need the strength of Islimach added to your own steeds—and you will need mine.”
“Lend us your strength, then,” Taran pleaded. “Let us raise the
Crochan and be gone from here before more of Arawn’s servants reach it.”
“Perhaps I shall; perhaps I shall not,” answered Ellidyr with a strange look in his eyes. “Did you pay a price to gain the cauldron? Very well, you shall pay another one.
“Hear me, pig-boy,” he went on. “If I help you bear the cauldron to Caer Dallben, it shall be on my own conditions.”
“This is no time for conditions,” cried Eilonwy. “We don’t want to listen to your conditions, Ellidyr. We’ll find our own way to get the Crochan out. Or we’ll stay here with it and one of us can go back and bring Gwydion.”
“Stay here and be slain,” Ellidyr replied. “No, it must be done now, and done as I say or not at all.”
He turned to Taran. “These are my conditions,” he said. “The Crochan is mine, and you shall be under my command. It is I who found it, not you, pig-boy. It is I who fought for it and won it. So you shall say to Gwydion and the others. And you shall all swear the most binding oath.”
“No, we shall not!” cried Eilonwy. “You ask us to lie so that you may steal the Crochan and steal our own efforts with it! You are mad, Ellidyr!”
“Not mad, scullery maid,” said Ellidyr, his eyes blazing, “but weary to my death. Do you hear me? All my life have I been forced into the second rank. I have been put aside, slighted. Honor? It has been denied me at every turn. But this time I shall not let the prize slip from my fingers.”
“Adaon saw a black beast on your shoulders,” Taran said quietly. “And I, too, have seen it. I see it now, Ellidyr.”
“I care nothing for your black beast!” shouted Ellidyr. “I care for my honor.”
“Do you think,” Taran said, “I care nothing for mine?”
“What is the honor of a pig-boy?” laughed Ellidyr, “compared to the honor of a prince?”
“I have paid for my honor,” answered Taran, his voice rising, “more dearly than you would pay for yours. Do you ask me now to cast it away?”
“You, pig-boy, dared reproach me for seeking glory,” said Ellidyr. “Yet you yourself cling to it with your dirty hands. I shall not tarry here. My terms or nothing. Make your choice.”
Taran stood silent. Eilonwy seized Ellidyr by the jacket. “How dare you ask such a price?”
Ellidyr drew away. “Let the pig-boy decide. It is up to him whether he will pay it.”
“If I swear this,” Taran said, turning to the companions, “you must swear along with me. Once given, I will not break an oath, and it would be even more to my shame if I broke this one. Before I can decide, I must know whether you, too, will bind yourselves. On this we must all agree.”
No one spoke. At length, Fflewddur murmured, “I put the decision in your hands and abide by what you do.”
Gurgi nodded his head solemnly.
“I shall not lie!” Eilonwy cried, “not for this traitor and deserter.”
“It is not for him,” Taran said quietly, “but for the sake of our quest.”
“It isn’t right,” Eilonwy began, tears starting in her eyes.
“We do not speak of rightness,” Taran answered. “We speak of a task to be finished.”
Eilonwy looked away. “Fflewddur has said the choice is yours,” she murmured at last. “I must say the same.”
For a long moment Taran did not speak. All the anguish he had felt when Adaon’s brooch had left his hands returned to him. And he recalled Eilonwy’s words in his blackest despair, the girl’s voice telling him that nothing could take away what he had done. Yet this was the very price Ellidyr demanded.
Taran bowed his head. “The cauldron, Ellidyr, is yours,” he said slowly. “We are at your command, and all things shall be as you say. Thus we swear.”
Heavy-hearted and silent, the companions followed Ellidyr’s orders and once again lashed ropes around the sunken Crochan. Ellidyr hitched the three horses side by side, then attached the lines to them. While Fflewddur held the bridles with his uninjured hand, the companions waded into the shallows.
Ellidyr, standing up to his knees in the rushing water, commanded Taran, Eilonwy, and Gurgi to post themselves on either side of the Crochan and keep it from slipping back against the boulders. He signaled an order to the waiting bard, then bent to his own task.
As he had done with Melynlas long before, Ellidyr thrust his shoulders as far below the cauldron as the rocks allowed. His body tensed; the veins rose to bursting on his streaming forehead. Still the cauldron did not yield. Beside him, Taran and Eilonwy heaved vainly at the sling.
Gasping for breath, Ellidyr turned once more to the Crochan. The sling creaked against the boulders; the ropes strained. Ellidyr’s shoulders were cut and bleeding, his face deathly white. He choked out another command to the companions; his muscles trembled in a final effort.
With a cry, he pitched forward into the water, stumbling to gain
his balance. Then he gave an exultant shout. The cauldron had lifted free.
Desperately the companions labored to bring the Crochan to shore. Ellidyr seized one end of the sling and thrust ahead. The cauldron skidded to dry, firm ground.
On the riverbank they quickly roped the sling between Melynlas and Lluagor. Ellidyr hitched up Islimach as the leading horse, to guide the others and bear a share of the weight.