Taran Wanderer cop-4

by Lloyd Alexander

  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.

  "An egg!" cried Llonio, taking it from her, raising it aloft, and peering as if he had never seen one before. "An egg it is! The finest the brown hen's given us! Look at the size! The shape! Smooth as glass and not a crack on it. We'll feast well on this, my friends."

  At first Taran saw nothing extraordinary in the egg which Llonio praised so highly; but, caught up by the man's good spirits, Taran to his own surprise found himself looking at the egg as though he, too, had never seen one. In Llonio's hands the shell seemed to sparkle so brightly, to curve so gracefully and beautifully that even Gurgi marveled at it, and Taran watched almost with regret as Goewin cracked such a precious egg into a large earthen bowl. Nevertheless, if Llonio intended sharing it among his numerous family, Taran told himself, the fare would indeed be meager.

  Yet, as Goewin stirred the contents of the bowl, the children crowded one after the other into the cottage, all bearing something that made Llonio call out cheerily at each discovery.

  "Savory herbs!" he cried. "That's splendid! Chop them up well. And here― what's this, a handful of flour? Better and better! We'll need that pot of milk the goat's given us, too. A bit of cheese? Just the thing!" Then he clapped his hands delightedly as the last and smallest child held up a fragment of honeycomb. "What luck! The bees have left us honey from their winter store."

  Goewin, meanwhile, was busy popping all these finds into the bowl and, before Taran's eyes, the contents soon filled it nearly to the brim. Even then, his surprise did not end. Goewin deftly poured the mixture onto a sheet of metal which, Taran was quite certain, was nothing else but a warrior's shield hammered flat, and held it over the glowing embers. Within moments; the scent of cooking filled the cottage, Gurgi's mouth watered, and in no time the farm wife drew a dappled golden cake nearly as big as a cartwheel from the fireplace.

  Llonio quickly sliced it into pieces and to Taran's amazement there was not only enough for all but some left over. He ate his fill of the most delicious egg he ever tasted― if egg it could now be called― and not even Gurgi could eat more.

  "Now then," said Llonio, when they had finished, "I'll see to my nets. Come along, if you like."

  Chapter 17

  The Weir

  WHILE GURGI LINGERED in the cottage, Taran followed Llonio to the riverbank. On the way, whistling merrily through his teeth, Llonio stopped to peer into the baskets, and Taran noticed one of them held a large bee hive undoubtedly the source of the honey which had sweetened Goewin's cake. The rest, however, stood empty. Llonio merely shrugged his shoulders.

  "No matter," he said. "Something will surely fill them later. Last time a flock of wild geese flew down to rest. You should have seen the feathers left after they'd gone. Enough to stuff cushions for every one of us!"

  By now they reached the river, which Llonio named as Small Avren since, farther south, it flowed into Great Avren itself. "Small it is," he said, "but sooner or later whatever you might wish comes floating along." As if to prove his words he began hauling vigorously at the net staked along the bank. It came up empty, as did the fishing lines. Undismayed, Llonio shrugged again. "Tomorrow, very likely."

  "How then," Taran exclaimed, feeling perplexed as he had ever been, "do you count on baskets and nets to bring you what you need?" He looked at the man in astonishment.

  "That I do," replied Llonio, laughing goodnaturedly. "My holding is small; I work it as best as I can. For the rest― why, look you, if I know one thing, it's this: Life's a matter of luck. Trust it, and a man's bound to find what he seeks, one day or the next."

  "Perhaps so," Taran admitted, "but what if it takes longer than that? Or never comes at all?"

  "Be that as it may," answered Llonio, grinning. "If I fret over tomorrow, I'll have little joy today."

  So saying, he clambered nimbly onto the weir, which Taran now saw was made not to bar the flow of water but to strain and sift the current. Balancing atop this odd construction, seeming more cranelike than ever as he bobbed up and down, bending to poke and pry among the osiers, Llonio soon gave a glad cry and waved excitedly.

  Taran hurriedly picked his way across the dam to join him. His face fell, however, when he reached Llonio's side. What had caused the man's joyful shout was no more than a discarded horse bridle.

  "Alas," said Taran, disappointed, "there's little use in that. The bit's missing and the rein's worn through."

  "So be it, so be it," replied Llonio. "That's what Small Avren's brought us today, and it will serve, one way or another." He slung the dripping bridle over his shoulder, scrambled from the dam, and with Taran following him set off with long strides through the grove of trees fringing the river.

  In a while Llonio, whose sharp eyes darted everywhere at once, cried out again and stooped at the bottom of a gnarled elm. Amid the roots and for some distance around, mushrooms sprouted abundantly.

  "Pluck them up, Wanderer," Llonio exclaimed. "There's our supper for tonight. The finest mushrooms I've seen! Tender and tasty! We're in luck today!" Quickly gathering his finds, Llonio popped them into a sack dangling from his belt and set off again.

  Following Llonio's rambling, halting now and then to cull certain herbs or roots, the day sped so swiftly it was nearly over before Taran realized it had begun. Llonio's sack being full, the two turned their steps back to the cottage, taking a path different from the way they had come. As they ambled along, Taran caught his foot on a jutting edge of stone and he tumbled head over heels. "Your luck is better than mine," Taran laughed ruefully. "You've found your mushrooms, and I, no more than a pair of bruised shins!"

  "Not so, not so!" protested Llonio, hastily scraping away the loam partly covering the stone. Look you, now! Have you ever seen one so shaped? Round as a wheel and smooth as an egg. A windfall it is that needs only the picking up!"

  If a windfall, Taran thought, it was the hardest and heaviest he had stumbled on, for Llonio now insisted on unearthing the flat rock. They did so with much digging and heaving and, carrying it between them struggled back to the farmhold, where Llonio rolled it into the shed already bursting with an odd array of churn handles, strips of cloth, horse trappings, thongs, hanks of cord, and all the harvest of his weir, nets, and baskets.

  Over the cookfire, the mushrooms, eked out with the leftover griddle cake and a handful of early vegetables the children had found, simmered so deliciously that Taran and Gurgi needed no urging to stay for the repast. As night fell Taran welcomed the family's invitation to rest by the hearth. Gurgi, stuffed and contented, began snoring instantly. And Taran, for the first time in many days, slept soundly and dreamlessly.

  The next morning was bright and crisp. Taran woke to find the sun high, and though he had meant to saddle Melynlas and be on his way he did not do so. If Llonio's weir had yielded little the day before, the night current had more than made up for it. A great sack of wheat had somehow become tangled with a cluster of dead branches which served as a raft and thus had floated downstream undampened by the river. Goewin, without delay, brought out a large stone quern to grind the grain into meal. All took a hand in the task, the children from eldest to youngest, even Llonio himself; Taran did his share willingly, though he found the quern heavy and cumbersome, as did Gurgi.

  "Oh tiresome millings," Gurgi cried. "Gurgi's poor fingers are filled with achings, and his arms with strainings and painings!"

  Nevertheless, he finished his tu
rn; although by the time enough meal had been ground, another day had nearly sped by, and once more Llonio urged the wayfarers to share his hospitality. Taran did not refuse. Indeed, as he stretched by the fire, he admitted to himself he had secretly hoped Llonio would suggest it.

  During the next few days, Taran's heart was easier than it had been since he chose to abandon his quest. The children, shy with him at first as he with them, had become his fast friends, and frolicked with him as much as they did with Gurgi. With Llonio, each day he visited the nets, the baskets, and the weir, sometimes returning empty-handed and sometimes laden with whatever strange assortment the wind or current brought. In the beginning he had seen no value in these odds and ends, but Llonio found a use for nearly all. A cartwheel was turned into a spinning wheel, parts of the horsebridle made belts for the children, a saddlebag became a pair of boots; and Taran shortly realized there was little the family needed that did not, late or soon, appear from nowhere; and there was nothing― an egg, a mushroom, a handful of feathers delicate as ferns― that was not held to be a treasure.

  "In a way," Taran told Gurgi, "Llonio's richer than Lord Gast is or ever will be. Not only that, he's the luckiest man in Prydain! I envy no man's riches," Taran added. Then he sighed and shook his head. "But I wish I had Llonio's luck."

  When he repeated this to Llonio, the man only grinned and winked at him. "Luck, Wanderer? One day, if you're lucky, I'll tell you the secret of it." Beyond that, Llonio would say no more.

  At this time a thought had begun taking shape in Taran's mind. Nearly all of Llonio's finds had been put to one use or another― save the flat stone which still lay in the shed. "But I wonder," he told Llonio, "I wonder if it couldn't serve to grind meal better than the quern…"

  "How then?" cried Llonio, greatly pleased. "If you think it can, do as you see fit."

  Still pondering his idea, Taran roamed the woods until he came upon another stone of much the same size as the first. "That's a stroke of luck,"he laughed, as Llonio helped him drag it back.

  Llonio grinned. "So it is, so it is."

  During the several days following, Taran, with Gurgi's eager help, toiled unceasingly. In a corner of the shed he set one stone firmly in the ground and the other above it. In this, he laboriously hollowed out a hole and, using the leftover harness leathers, in it he affixed a long pole that reached up through an opening in the roof. At the top of the pole he attached frames of wood, over which he stretched large squares of cloth.

  "But this is no quern," Gurgi cried when at last it was done. "It is a ship for boatings and floatings! But there is no ship, only mast with sails!"

  "We shall see," Taran answered, calling Llonio to judge his handiwork.

  For a moment the, family stood puzzled at Taran's peculiar structure. Then, as the wind stirred, the roughly fashioned sails caught the current of the breeze. The mastlike pole shuddered and creaked, and for a breathless instant Taran feared all his work would come tumbling about his ears. But it held fast, the sails bellied out and began turning, slowly at first, then faster and faster, while below, in the shed, the upper stone whirled merrily. Goewin hastened to throw grain into Taran's makeshift mill. In no time, out poured meal finer than any the quern had ground. The children clapped their hands and shouted gleefully; Gurgi yelped in astonishment; and Llonio laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks.

  "Wanderer," he cried, "you've made much from little, and done it better than ever I could!"

  Over the next few days the mill not only ground the family's grain, Taran also struck on a means of using it as a sharpening stone for Llonio's tools. Looking at his handiwork, Taran felt a stirring of pride for the first time since leaving Craddoc's valley. But with it came a vague restiveness

  "By rights," he told Gurgi, "I should be more than happy to dwell here all my life. I've found peace and friendship― and a kind of hope, as well. It's eased my heart like balm on a wound." He hesitated. "Yet, somehow Llonio's way is not mine. A spur drives me to seek more than what Small Avren brings. What I seek, I do not know. But, alas, I know it is not here."

  He spoke then with Llonio and regretfully told him he must take up his journeying again. This time, sensing Taran's decision firmly made, Llonio did not urge him to stay, and they bade each other farewell.

  "And yet," Taran said, as he swung astride Melynlas, "alas, you never told me the secret of your luck."

  "Secret?" replied Llonio. "Have you not already guessed? Why, my luck's no greater than yours or any man's. You need only sharpen your eyes to see your luck when it comes, and sharpen your wits to use what falls into your hands."

  Taran gave Melynlas rein, and with Gurgi at his side rode slowly from the banks of Small Avren. As he turned to wave a last farewell, he heard Llonio calling after him, "Trust your luck, Taran Wanderer. But don't forget to put out your nets!"

  Chapter 18

  The Free Commots

  FROM SMALL AVREN THEY WENDED eastward at an easy pace, halting as it pleased them, sleeping on the turf or sheltering at one of the many farmsteads among the rich green vales. This was the land of the Free Commots, of cottages clustering in loose circles, rimmed by cultivated fields and pastures. Taran found the Commot folk courteous and hospitable. Though he named himself only as Taran Wanderer, the dwellers in these hamlets and villages respected his privacy and asked nothing of his birthplace, rank, or destination.

  Taran and Gurgi had ridden into the outskirts of Commot Cenarth when Taran reined up Melynlas at a long, low-roofed shed from which rang the sound of hammer on anvil. Within, he found the smith, a barrel-chested, leather-aproned man with a stubbly black beard and a great shock of black hair bristly as a brush. His eyelashes were scorched, grime and soot smudged his face; sparks rained on his bare shoulders but he seemed to count them no more than fireflies. In a voice like stones rattling on a bronze shield he roared out a song in time with his hammer strokes so loudly that Taran judged the man's lungs as leathery as his bellows. While Gurgi cautiously drew back from the shower of sparks, Taran called a greeting, scarcely able to make himself heard above the din.

  "Master Smith," he said, bowing deeply as the man at last caught sight of him and put down the hammer, "I am called Taran Wanderer and journey seeking a craft to help me earn my bread. I know a little of your art and ask you to teach me more. I have no gold or silver to pay you, but name any task and I will do it gladly."

  "Away with you!" shouted the smith. "Tasks I have aplenty, but no time for teaching others to do them."

  "Is time what lacks?" Taran said, glancing shrewdly at the smith. "I've heard it said that a man must be a true master of his craft if he would teach it.

  "Hold!" roared the smith as Taran was about to turn away, and he snatched up the hammer as if he meant to throw it at Taran's head. "You doubt my skill? I've flattened men on my anvil for less! Skill? In all the Free Comrnots none has greater than Hevydd Son of Hirwas!"

  With that he seized the tongs, drew a bar of red-hot iron from the roaring furnace, flung it on the anvil, and set to hammering with such quick strokes that Taran could hardly follow the movement of Hevydd's muscular arm; and suddenly there formed at the end of the bar a hawthorn blossom perfect in every turn of leaf and petal.

  Taran looked at it in astonishment and admiration. "Never have I seen work so deftly done."

  "Nor will you see it elsewhere," Hevydd answered, at pains to hide a proud grin. "But what tale do you tell me? You know the shaping of metal? The secrets are not given to many. Even I have not gained them all." Angrily he shook his bristly head. "The deepest? They lie hidden in Annuvin, stolen by Arawn Death-Lord. Lost they are. Lost forever to Prydain.

  "But here, take these," ordered the smith, pressing the tongs and hammer into Taran's hands. "Beat the bar smooth as it was, and quickly, before it cools. Show me what strength you have in those chicken wings of yours."

  Taran strode to the anvil and; as Coll had taught him long ago, did his best to straighten the rapidly cooling iron. Th
e smith, folding his huge arms, eyed him critically for a time, then burst into loud laughter.

  "Enough, enough!" cried Hevydd. "You speak truth. Of the art, indeed, you know little. And yet," he added, rubbing his chin with a battered thumb nearly as thick as a fist, "and yet, you have the sense of it." He looked closely at Taran. "But have you courage to stand up to fire? To fight hot iron with only hammer and tongs?"

  "Teach me the craft," Taran replied. "You'll have no need to teach me courage."

  "Boldly said!" cried Hevydd, clapping Taran on the shoulder. "I'll temper you well in my forge! Prove yourself to me and I'll vow to make a smith of you. Now, to begin…" His eye fell on Taran's empty scabbard. "Once, it would seem, you bore a blade."

  "Once I did," Taran answered. "But it is long gone, and now I journey weaponless."

  "Then you shall make a sword," commanded Hevydd. "And when you've done, you'll― tell me which is harder labor: smiting or smithing!"

  To this Taran learned the answer soon enough. The next several days were the most toilsome he had ever spent. He thought, at first, the smith would set him to work shaping one of the many bars already in the forge. But Hevydd had no such intention.

  "What, start when half the work is done?" Hevydd snorted. "No, no, my lad. You'll forge a sword from beginning to end."

  Thus, the first task Hevydd gave Taran was gathering fuel for the furnace, and from dawn to dusk Taran stoked the fire until he saw the forge as a roaring, flame-tongued monster that could never eat its fill. Even then the work had only begun, for Hevydd soon put him to shoveling in a very mountain of stones, then smelting out the metal they bore. By the time the bar itself was cast, Taran's face and arms were scorched and blackened, and his hands were covered with more blisters than skin. His back ached; his ears rang with all the clank and clatter and with Hevydd's voice shouting orders and instructions. Gurgi, who had offered to pump the bellows, never faltered even when a cloud of sparks burst and flew into his shaggy hair, singeing it away in patches until he looked as if a flock of birds had plucked him to make their nests.