The Brooch
F
lewddur’s horse reared as the Huntsmen turned their attack against him. The death of one of their band had roused the enemy to even greater violence and frenzy.
“Take him to safety!” cried the bard. With a mighty leap his steed cleared the bushes and streaked into the forest. The dwarf on his pony followed. With a shout of rage, the remaining Huntsmen pursued them.
Taran seized Lluagor’s bridle and, while Adaon clung to the horse’s mane, raced toward the edge of the clearing. Eilonwy ran to meet them. Between them, they kept Adaon from falling and tore their way into the undergrowth. Gurgi, leading Melynlas, hurried after them.
They ran blindly, stumbling through brambles and harsh nets of dead vines. The wind had risen, cold and biting as a winter gale, but the forest opened a little, and as the ground dipped, they found themselves in a protected hollow in a glade of alders.
From the back of Lluagor, Adaon raised his head and gestured for them to stop. His face was gray and drawn, his black hair damp on his brow. “Put me down,” he murmured. “Leave me. I can go no farther. How do the bard and Doli fare?”
“They have led the Huntsmen away from us,” Taran answered quickly. “We are safe here for a while. I know Doli can throw them off our trail, and Fflewddur will help him. They’ll join us again somehow, I’m sure. Rest now. I’ll fetch your medicines from the saddlebags.”
Carefully, they lifted Adaon from his steed and carried him to a hillock. While Eilonwy brought the leather water flask, Taran and Gurgi unharnessed Lluagor and set the saddle under Adaon’s head. The wind howled above the trees, but this sheltered spot, by contrast, seemed warm. The driven clouds broke away; the sun turned the branches to gold.
Adaon raised himself. His gray eyes scanned the glade and he nodded briefly. “Yes, this is a fair place. I shall rest here.”
“We shall heal your wound,” Taran replied, hastily opening a packet of herbs. “You’ll soon be comfortable, and if we must move, we can make a litter from branches and sling it between our horses.”
“I am comfortable enough,” Adaon said. “The pain has gone and it is pleasant here, as warm as spring.”
At Adaon’s words, Taran’s heart filled with terror. The quiet glade, the sun on the alders, seemed suddenly menacing. “Adaon!” he cried in alarm. “This is what you dreamed!”
“It is much like it,” Adaon answered quietly.
“You knew, then!” cried Taran. “You knew there would be peril for you. Why did you not speak of it before? I would never have sought the Marshes. We could have turned back.”
Adaon smiled. “It is true. Indeed, that is why I dared not speak. I have yearned to be again at the side of my beloved Arianllyn, and my thoughts are with her now. But had I chosen to return, I would
ever wonder whether my choice was made through wisdom or following the wishes of my own heart. I see this is as it must be, and the destiny laid upon me. I am content to die here.”
“You saved my life,” Taran cried. “You will not lose your own life for me. We shall find our way to Caer Cadarn and Gwydion.”
Adaon shook his head. He put his hand to his throat and undid the iron clasp at the collar of his jacket. “Take this,” he said. “Guard it well. It is a small thing, but more valuable than you know.”
“I must refuse,” answered Taran with a smile that ill concealed his anxiety. “Such would be the gift of a dying man. But you shall live, Adaon.”
“Take it,” Adaon repeated. “This is not my command to you, but the wish of one friend to another.” He pressed the brooch into Taran’s unwilling hand.
Eilonwy had come with water to steep the herbs. Taran took it from her and knelt again beside Adaon.
Adaon’s eyes had closed. His face was calm; his hand lay outstretched and open on the ground.
And thus he died.
When their grief abated a little, the companions hollowed out a grave, lining it with flat stones. Wrapping him in his cloak, they lowered Adaon into the earth and laid the turf gently over him, while Lluagor whinnied plaintively and pawed the dry ground. Then they raised a mound of boulders. In a sheltered corner of the glade, Eilonwy found handfuls of small flowers still untouched by the frost. These she scattered on the grave, where they fell among the crevices and seemed to spring from the rocks themselves.
They remained there silently until nightfall, without a sign of Fflewddur or Doli. “We shall wait for them until dawn,” Taran said. “Beyond that, we dare not stay. I fear we have lost more than one gallant friend.
“Adaon warned that I would grieve,” he murmured to himself. “And so I do, thrice over.”
Too burdened with sorrow, too weary even to set a guard, they huddled in their cloaks and slept. Like his spirit, Taran’s dreams were confused, filled with dismay and fear. In them, he saw the mournful faces of the companions, the calm face of Adaon. He saw Ellidyr seized by a black beast that sank its claws into him and gripped him until Ellidyr cried out in torment.
The restless images gave way to a vast sweep of meadow, where Taran ran through grasses shoulder high, desperately seeking a path he could not find. Overhead, a gray bird fluttered and spread its wings. He followed it and a path opened at his feet.
He saw, too, a turbulent stream with a great boulder in the midst of it. On the boulder lay Fflewddur’s harp, which played of itself as the wind stirred the strings.
Taran was running, then, through a trackless marsh. A bear and two wolves set upon him and made to rend him with their fangs. Terrified, he sprang into a dark pool, but the water suddenly turned to dry land. The enraged beasts snarled and leaped after him.
He woke with a start, his heart pounding. The night had barely ended; the first streaks of dawn rose above the glade. Eilonwy stirred; Gurgi whimpered in his sleep. Taran bowed his head and put his face in his hands. The dream lay heavily upon him; he could still see the gaping jaws of a wolf and the sharp, white teeth. He shuddered. He knew he must decide now whether to return to Caer Cadarn or seek the Marshes of Morva.
Taran looked beside him at the sleeping figures of Gurgi and Eilonwy. In little more than a day, the companions had been scattered like leaves, and there remained only this pitifully small band, itself lost and driven. How could they hope to find the cauldron? Taran doubted they would even be able to save their own lives; yet the journey to Caer Cadarn would be as perilous as this quest, perhaps more so. Nevertheless, a choice had to be made.
He rose after a time and saddled the horses. Eilonwy was now awake and Gurgi was poking a tousled, twig-covered head from the folds of his cloak.
“Hurry,” Taran ordered. “We’d better get an early start before the Huntsmen overtake us.”
“They’ll find us soon enough,” Eilonwy said. “They’re probably as thick as burdock between here and Caer Cadarn.”
“We are going to the Marshes,” Taran said, “not Caer Cadarn.”
“What?” Eilonwy cried. “Are you still thinking about those wretched swamps? Do you seriously think we can find that cauldron, let alone haul it back from wherever it is?
“On the other hand,” Eilonwy went on, before Taran could answer her, “I suppose it’s the only thing we can do, now that you’ve got us in the stew. And there’s no telling what Ellidyr has in mind. If you hadn’t made him jealous over a silly horse …”
“I feel pity for Ellidyr,” Taran answered. “Adaon once told me he saw a black beast on Ellidyr’s shoulders. Now I understand a little what he meant.”
“Well,” remarked Eilonwy, “I’m surprised to hear you say that. But it was kindhearted of you to help Islimach; I’m really glad you did. I’m sure you meant well, and that’s encouraging in itself. It does make a person think there might be some hope for you after all.”
Taran did not reply, for he was still anxious and oppressed, although the disturbing dreams had already begun to fade. He swung astride Melynlas; Gurgi and Eilonwy shared Lluagor; and the companions swiftly rode from the glade.
It was Taran’s intention to head southward, hoping somehow to come upon the Marshes of Morva within another day; although he admitted to himself that he had no more than a vague idea of their distance or exact location.
The day was bright and crisp. As Melynlas cantered over the frosty ground, Taran caught sight of a glittering, dew-covered web on a hawthorn branch and of the spider busily repairing it. Taran was aware, strangely, of vast activities along the forest trail. Squirrels prepared their winter hoard; ants labored in their earthen castles. He could see them clearly, not so much with his eyes but in a way he had never known before.
The air itself bore special scents. There was a ripple, sharp and clear, like cold wine. Taran knew, without stopping to think, that a north wind had just begun to rise. Yet in the middle of this he noticed another scent mingled through. He turned Melynlas toward it.
“Since you’re leading us,” Eilonwy remarked, “I wonder if it would be too much to expect you to know where you’re going.”
“There is water nearby,” Taran said. “We shall need to fill our flasks …” He hesitated, puzzled. “Yes, there is a stream,” he murmured, “I’m sure of it. We must go there.”
Nevertheless, he could not quite overcome his surprise when, after a short while, they indeed came upon a swift running brook winding its way through a stand of rowans. They rode to its bank. With a cry, Taran sharply reined in Melynlas. On a rock in
the middle of the stream sat Fflewddur, cooling his bare feet in the water.
The bard leaped up and splashed across to greet the companions. Though haggard and worn, he appeared unwounded. “Now there’s a stroke of luck, my finding you—your finding me, rather. I hate to admit it, but I’m lost. Completely. Got turned around somehow after Doli and I began leading the Huntsmen a chase. Tried to make my way back to you and got lost even more. How is Adaon? I’m glad you managed to …” The bard stopped. Taran’s expression told him what had happened. Fflewddur shook his head sadly. “There are few like Adaon,” he said. “We can ill afford the loss. Nor the loss of our good old Doli.
“I’m not sure what happened,” Fflewddur went on. “All I know is that we were galloping at top speed. You should have seen him! He rode like a madman, popping invisible and back again, the Huntsmen racing after him. If it hadn’t been for him, they’d have dragged me down for certain. They’re stronger than ever, now. Then my horse fell. That is to say,” the bard hastily added, as his harp strings tensed and jangled, “I fell off. Fortunately, by that time Doli had led them well away. At the rate he was going …” Fflewddur sighed heavily. “What has befallen him since then, I do not know.”
The bard bound up his leggings. He had walked all the distance and was quite pleased to be riding once again. Gurgi mounted behind him on Lluagor. Taran and Eilonwy rode Melynlas. The bard’s news lowered Taran’s spirits further, for he realized now there was little chance of Doli rejoining them. Nevertheless, he continued to lead the companions southward.
Until he should recognize a landmark, Fflewddur agreed this was
the only course. “The trouble is,” he explained, “if we veer too far south, we’ll simply end up in the sea and miss the Marshes altogether.”
Taran himself could offer no suggestions. Downcast, he gave Melynlas rein and made little effort to guide the stallion. The trees thinned out behind him and the companions entered a wide, rolling meadow. Taran, half-dozing in the saddle, his cloak wrapped around his shoulders, roused himself uneasily. The meadow, with its high grass stretching all around them, was familiar. He had seen it before; where, he could not quite remember. He fingered Adaon’s clasp at his throat. Suddenly, with fear and excitement, he understood. His hands trembled at the discovery. Taran glanced overhead. A gray bird circled, glided downward on outspread wings, then flew rapidly across the fields and disappeared from sight.
“That was a marsh bird,” Taran said, quickly turning Melynlas. “If we follow this way,” he added, pointing in the direction of the bird’s flight, “I’m sure we’ll come directly to Morva.”
“Well done!” cried the bard. “I must say I never would have noticed it.”
“That’s at least one clever thing you’ve done today,” Eilonwy admitted.
“This is not my doing,” Taran said with a puzzled frown. “Adaon spoke the truth. His gift is a precious one.” He told Eilonwy hurriedly about the clasp and the dreams of the night before.
“Don’t you see?” he cried. “I dreamed about Fflewddur’s harp—and we found Fflewddur himself. It wasn’t all my own idea to go looking for a stream; it just came to me and I knew we would find it. Just now, when I saw the bird—that was in my dream. And there was another dream, a terrible one, of wolves … . That’s going to
happen, too. I’m sure of it. Adaon’s dreams were always true. He told me of them.”
At first Eilonwy was loath to believe him. “Adaon was a wonderful man,” she said. “You can’t tell me it was all because of a piece of iron. I don’t care how magical it is.”
“I don’t mean that,” Taran said. “What I believe,” he added thoughtfully, “is that Adaon understood these things anyway. Even with his clasp, there is much I do not understand. All I know is that I feel differently somehow. I can see things I never saw before—or smell or taste them. I can’t say exactly what it is. It’s strange, and awesome in a way. And very beautiful sometimes. There are things that I know …” Taran shook his head. “And I don’t even know how I know them.”