“I must say the old fellow’s well tucked away here,” whispered Fflewddur. “I could never have found the path in, and I doubt I could find the path out.”
Taran nodded. The valley was the most beautiful he had ever seen. Cattle grazed peacefully in the meadow. Near the hemlocks, a small lake caught the sky and sparkled blue and white. The bright plumage of birds flashed among the trees. Even as he stepped across the lush green of the turf, Taran felt exhaustion drain from his aching body.
“There’s a fawn!” Eilonwy cried with delight.
From behind the cottages, a speckled, long-legged fawn appeared, sniffed the air, then trotted quickly toward Medwyn. The graceful creature paid no attention to the wolves, but frisked gaily at the old man’s side. The animal drew shyly away from the strangers; but her curiosity got the better of her, and soon she was nuzzling Eilonwy’s hand.
“I’ve never seen a fawn this close,” said the girl. “Achren never had any pets—none that would stay with her, at any rate. I can’t blame them at all. This one is lovely; it makes you feel all tingly, as if you were touching the wind.”
Medwyn, motioning for them to wait, carried Gurgi into the largest of the cottages. The wolves sat on their haunches and watched the travelers through slanted eyes. Taran unsaddled Melyngar, who began cropping the tender grass. Half-a-dozen chickens clucked and pecked around a neat white henhouse. The rooster raised his head to show a notched comb.
“Those are Dallben’s chickens!” cried Taran. “They must be! There’s the brown hen, the white—I’d know that comb anywhere.” He hurried over and clucked at them.
The chickens, more interested in eating, paid little attention.
Medwyn reappeared in the doorway. He carried an enormous wicker basket laden with jugs of milk, with cheese, honeycombs, and fruits that, in the lowlands, would not be in season for another month. “I shall look after your friend directly,” he said. “Meantime, I thought you might enjoy—oh, yes, so you’ve found them, have you?” he said, noticing Taran with the chickens. “Those are my visitors from Caer Dallben. There should be a swarm of bees, too, somewhere about.”
“They flew away,” Taran said, “the same day Hen Wen ran off.”
“Then I imagine they came straight here,” Medwyn said. “The chickens were petrified with fright; I could make no sense at all out of them. Oh, they settled down quickly enough, but of course by that time they had forgotten why they flew off in the first place. You know how chickens are, imagining the world coming to an end one moment, then pecking corn the next. They shall all fly back when they’re ready, have no fear. Though it’s unfortunate Dallben and Coll should be put out in the matter of eggs.
“I would ask you inside,” Medwyn continued, “but the disorder at the moment—there were bears at breakfast, and you can imagine the state of things. So I must ask you to attend to yourselves. If you would rest, there is straw in the byre; it should not be too uncomfortable for you.”
The travelers lost no time in helping themselves to Medwyn’s provisions, or in finding the byre. The sweet scent of hay filled the low-ceilinged building. They scooped out nests in the straw, uncovering one of Medwyn’s breakfast guests curled up and fast asleep. Fflewddur, at first uneasy, was finally convinced the bear had no appetite for bards, and soon began snoring. Eilonwy dropped off to sleep in the middle of one of her sentences.
Taran had no desire to rest. Medwyn’s valley had refreshed him more than a night’s slumber. He left the byre and strolled across the meadow. At the far side of the lake, otters built a slide and were amusing themselves by tumbling down it. At Taran’s approach, they stopped for a moment, raised their heads to look at him as though sorry he was unable to join them, and returned to their game. A fish broke water in a twinkle of silver scales; the ripples widened until the last of them lapped gently at the shore.
Medwyn, Taran saw, had gardens of both flowers and vegetables behind the cottage. To his surprise, Taran found himself yearning to work with Coll in his own vegetable plot. The weeding and hoeing he had so despised at Caer Dallben now seemed, as he thought of his past journey and the journey yet to come, infinitely pleasant.
He sat down by the rim of the lake and looked across the hills. With the sun resting above the peaks, the wooden skeleton of the great ship stood out sharply against the mound which nearly enveloped it. He had little chance to study it, for Medwyn appeared, walking deliberately across the field; the fawn trotted beside him, the three wolves followed. With his brown robe and white hair, Medwyn looked as broad and solid as a snow-capped mountain.
“Gurgi is more comfortable than he was,” the ancient man said in his deep voice. The fawn danced at the lake shore while Medwyn ponderously sat down and leaned his huge head toward Taran. “He will recover well; there is no longer any danger. Not, at least, while he is here.”
“I have thought long of Gurgi,” Taran said, looking frankly into the old man’s gray eyes. He explained, then, the reason for his journey and the events leading to Gurgi’s accident. Medwyn listened carefully, head cocked to one side, thoughtful, while Taran recounted Gurgi’s willingness to sacrifice his own life rather than endanger the others. “At first, I wasn’t too fond of him,” Taran admitted. “Now I’ve begun to like him in spite of all his whining and complaining.”
“Every living thing deserves our respect,” said Medwyn, knitting his shaggy brows, “be it humble or proud, ugly or beautiful.”
“I wouldn’t want to say that about the gwythaints,” Taran answered.
“I feel only sorrow for those unhappy creatures,” Medwyn said. “Once, long ago, they were as free as other birds, gentle and trusting. In his cunning, Arawn lured them to him and brought them under his power. He built the iron cages which are now their prison house in Annuvin. The tortures he inflicted on the gwythaints were shameful and unspeakable. Now they serve him out of terror.
“Thus would he strive to corrupt every animal in Prydain, no less than the race of men. That is one of the reasons I remain in the valley. Here, Arawn cannot harm them. Even so, were he to become ruler of this land, I doubt I could help them all. Those who fell into his clutches would be counted fortunate if they perished quickly.”
Taran nodded. “I understand more and more why I must warn the Sons of Don. As for Gurgi, I wonder if it wouldn’t be safer for him to stay here.”
“Safer?” asked Medwyn. “Yes, certainly. But you would hurt him grievously were you to turn him away now. Gurgi’s misfortune is that he is neither one thing nor the other, at the moment. He has lost the wisdom of animals and has not gained the learning of men. Therefore, both shun him. Were he to do something purposeful, it would mean much to him.
“I doubt he will delay your journey, for he will be able to walk as well as you—by tomorrow, easily. I urge you to take him. He may even find his own way of serving you. Neither refuse to give help when it is needed,” Medwyn continued, “nor refuse to accept it when it is offered. Gwythyr Son of Greidawl learned that from a lame ant, you know.”
“A lame ant?” Taran shook his head. “Dallben has taught me much about ants, but nothing of a lame one.”
“It is a long history,” Medwyn said, “perhaps you will hear all of it another time. For the moment, you need only know that when Kilhuch—or was it his father? No, it was young Kilhuch. Very well. When young Kilhuch sought the hand of the fair Olwen, he was given a number of tasks by her father, Yspadadden; he was Chief Giant at the time. What the tasks were does not concern us now, except that they were very nigh impossible, and Kilhuch could not have accomplished them without the aid of his companions.
“One of the tasks was to gather nine bushels of flax seed, though there was scarcely that much in all the land. For the sake of his friend, Gwythyr Son of Greidawl undertook to do this. While he was walking over the hills, wondering how he might accomplish it, he heard a grievous wailing from an anthill; a fire had started around it and the ants were in danger of their lives. Gwythyr—yes, I’m quite
sure it was Gwythyr—drew his sword and beat out the fire.
“In gratitude, the ants combed every field until they had collected the nine bushels. Yet the Chief Giant, a picky and disagreeable sort, claimed the measure was not complete. One flax seed was missing, and must be delivered before nightfall.
“Gwythyr had no idea where he could find another flax seed, but at last, just as the sun had begun to set, up hobbled a lame ant carrying a heavy burden. It was the single flax seed, and so the last measure was filled.
“I have studied the race of men,” Medwyn continued. “I have seen that alone you stand as weak reeds by a lake. You must learn to help yourselves, that is true; but you must also learn to help one another. Are you not, all of you, lame ants?”
Taran was silent. Medwyn put his hand into the lake and stirred the water. After a moment, a venerable salmon rippled up; Medwyn stroked the jaws of the huge fish.
“What place is this?” Taran finally asked, in a hushed voice. “Are you indeed Medwyn? You speak of the race of men as if you were not one of them.”
“This is a place of peace,” Medwyn said, “and therefore not suitable for men, at least, not yet. Until it is, I hold this valley for creatures of the forests and the waters. In their mortal danger they come to me, if they have the strength to do so—and in their pain and grief. Do you not believe that animals know grief and fear and pain? The world of men is not an easy one for them.”
“Dallben,” said Taran, “taught me that when the black waters flooded Prydain, ages ago, Nevvid Nav Neivion built a ship and carried with him two of every living creature. The waters drained away, the ship came to rest—no man knows where. But the animals who came safe again into the world remembered, and their young have never forgotten. And here,” Taran said, pointing toward the hillside, “I see a ship, far from water. Gwydion called you Medwyn, but I ask …”
“I am Medwyn,” answered the white-bearded man, “for all that my name may concern you. That is not important now. My own concern is for Hen Wen.”
“You have seen nothing of her, then?”
Medwyn shook his head. “What Lord Gwydion said is true: of all places in Prydain, she would have come here first, especially if she sensed her life in danger. But there has been no sign, no rumor. Yet she would find her way, sooner or later, unless …”
Taran felt a chill ripple at his heart. “Unless she has been killed,” he murmured. “Do you think that has happened?”
“I do not know,” Medwyn answered, “though I fear it may be so.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Black Lake
That night Medwyn prepared a feast for the travelers. The disorder left by the breakfasting bears had been cleared away. The cottage was snug and neat, though even smaller than Caer Dallben. Taran could see that Medwyn was indeed unused to entertaining human visitors, for his table was barely long enough to seat them all; and for chairs he had been obliged to make do with benches and milking stools.
Medwyn sat at the head of the table. The fawn had gone to sleep, but the wolves crouched at his feet and grinned happily. On the back of his chair perched a gigantic, golden-plumed eagle, watching every movement with sharp, unblinking eyes. Fflewddur, though still apprehensive, did not allow his fear to affect his appetite. He ate enough for three, without showing the least sign of becoming full. But when he asked for another portion of venison, Medwyn gave a long chuckle and explained to the amazed Fflewddur it was not meat at all but vegetables prepared according to his own recipe.
“Of course it is,” Eilonwy told the bard. “You wouldn’t expect him to cook his guests, would you? That would be like asking someone to dinner and then roasting him. Really, I think bards are as muddled as Assistant Pig-Keepers; neither one of you seems to think very clearly.”
As much as he welcomed food and the chance to rest, Taran was silent throughout the meal, and continued so when he retired to his nest of straw. Until now, he had never imagined Hen Wen might not be alive. He had spoken again with Medwyn, but the old man could give him no assurance.
Wakeful, Taran left the byre and stood outside, looking at the sky. In the clear air, the stars were blue-white, closer than he had ever seen them. He tried to turn his thoughts from Hen Wen; reaching Caer Dathyl was the task he had undertaken and that in itself would be difficult enough. An owl passed overhead, silent as ashes. The shadow appearing noiselessly beside him was Medwyn.
“Not asleep?” Medwyn asked. “A restless night is no way to begin a journey.”
“It is a journey I am eager to end,” Taran said. “There are times when I fear I shall not see Caer Dallben again.”
“It is not given to men to know the ends of their journeys,” Medwyn answered. “It may be that you will never return to the places dearest to you. But how can that matter, if what you must do is here and now?”
“I think,” said Taran longingly, “that if I knew I were not to see my own home again, I would be happy to stay in this valley.”
“Your heart is young and unformed,” Medwyn said. “Yet, if I read it well, you are of the few I would welcome here. Indeed, you may stay if you choose. Surely you can entrust your task to your friends.”
“No,” said Taran, after a long pause, “I have taken it on myself through my own choice.”
“If that is so,” answered Medwyn, “then you can give it up through your own choice.”
From all over the valley it seemed to Taran there came voices urging him to remain. The hemlocks whispered of rest and peace; the lake spoke of sunlight lingering in its depths, the joy of otters at their games. He turned away.
“No,” he said quickly, “my decision was made long before this.”
“Then,” Medwyn answered gently, “so be it.” He put a hand on Taran’s brow. “I grant you all that you will allow me to grant: a night’s rest. Sleep well.”
Taran remembered nothing of returning to the byre or falling asleep, but he rose in the morning sunlight refreshed and strengthened. Eilonwy and the bard had already finished their breakfast, and Taran was delighted to see that Gurgi had joined them. As Taran approached, Gurgi gave a yelp of joy and turned gleeful somersaults.
“Oh, joy!” he cried. “Gurgi is ready for new walkings and stalkings, oh, yes! And new seekings and peekings! Great lords have been kind to happy, jolly Gurgi!”
Taran noticed Medwyn had not only healed the creature’s leg, he had also given him a bath and a good combing. Gurgi looked only half as twiggy and leafy as usual. In addition, as he saddled Melyngar, Taran found that Medwyn had packed the saddlebags with food, and had included warm cloaks for all of them.
The old man called the travelers around him and seated himself on the ground. “The armies of the Horned King are by now a day’s march ahead of you,” he said, “but if you follow the paths I shall reveal, and move quickly, you may regain the time you have lost. It is even possible for you to reach Caer Dathyl a day, perhaps two, before them. However, I warn you, the mountain ways are not easy. If you prefer, I shall set you on a path toward the Valley of Ystrad once again.”
“Then we would be following the Horned King,” Taran said. “There would be less chance of overtaking him, and much danger, too.”
“Do not think the mountains are not dangerous,” Medwyn said. “Though it is a danger of a different sort.”
“A Fflam thrives on danger!” cried the bard. “Let it be the mountains or the Horned King’s hosts, I fear neither—not to any great extent,” he added quickly.
“We shall risk the mountains,” Taran said.
“For once,” Eilonwy interrupted, “you’ve decided the right thing. The mountains certainly aren’t going to throw spears at us, no matter how dangerous they are. I really think you’re improving.”
“Listen carefully, then,” Medwyn ordered. As he spoke, his hands moved deftly in the soft earth before him, molding a tiny model of hills, which Taran found easier to follow than Fflewddur’s map scratchings. When he finished, and the travelers’ g
ear and weapons were secured on Melyngar’s back, Medwyn led the group from the valley. As closely as Taran observed each step of the way, he knew the path to Medwyn’s valley would be lost to him as soon as the ancient man left.
In a little while Medwyn stopped. “Your path now lies to the north,” he said, “and here we shall part. And you, Taran of Caer Dallben—whether you have chosen wisely, you will learn from your own heart. Perhaps we shall meet again, and you will tell me. Until then, farewell.”
Before Taran could turn and thank Medwyn, the white-bearded man disappeared, as if the hills had swallowed him up; and the travelers stood by themselves on a rocky, windswept plateau.
“Well,” said Fflewddur, hitching up the harp behind him, “I somehow feel that if we meet any more wolves, they’ll know we’re friends of Medwyn.”
The first day’s march was less difficult than Taran had feared. This time he led the way, for the bard admitted—after a number of harp strings had snapped—that he had not been able to keep all Medwyn’s directions in his head.
They climbed steadily until long after the sun had turned westward; and, though the ground was rough and broken, the path Medwyn had indicated lay clearly before them. Mountain streams, whose water ran cold and clear, made winding lines of sparkling silver as they danced down the slopes into the distant valley lands. The air was bracing, yet with a cold edge which made the travelers grateful for the cloaks Medwyn had given them.
At a long cleft protected from the wind, Taran signaled a halt. They had made excellent progress during the day, far more than he had expected, and he saw no reason to exhaust themselves by forcing a march during the night. Tethering Melyngar to one of the stunted trees that grew in the heights, the travelers made camp. Since there was no further danger from the Cauldron-Born, and the hosts of the Horned King moved far below and to the west of the group, Taran deemed it safe to build a fire. Medwyn’s provisions needed no cooking, but the blaze warmed and cheered them. As the night shadows drifted from the peaks, Eilonwy lit her golden sphere and set it in the crevice of a faulted rock.
The Book of Three Page 10
