Gurgi, who had not uttered a single moan or groan during this part of the journey, perched on a boulder and began scratching himself luxuriously; although, after Medwyn’s washing and combing, it was more through habit than anything else. The bard, as lean as ever, despite the huge amount he had eaten, repaired his harp strings.
“You’ve been carrying that harp ever since I met you,” Eilonwy said, “and you’ve never once played it. That’s like telling somebody you want to talk to them, and when they get ready to listen, you don’t say anything.”
“You’d hardly expect me to go strumming out airs while those Cauldron warriors were following us,” Fflewddur said. “Somehow I didn’t think it would be appropriate. But—a Fflam is always obliging, so if you really care to hear me play … ,” he added, looking both delighted and embarrassed. He cradled the instrument in one arm and, almost before his fingers touched the strings, a gentle melody, as beautiful as the curve of the harp itself, lifted like a voice singing without words.
To Taran’s ear, the melody had its own words, weaving a supple thread among the rising notes. Home, home, they sang; and beyond the words themselves, so fleeting he could not be quite sure of them, were the fields and orchards of Caer Dallben, the gold afternoons of autumn and the crisp winter mornings with pink sunlight on the snow.
Then the harp fell silent. Fflewddur sat with his head bent close to the strings, a curious expression on his long face. “Well, that was a surprise,” said the bard at last. “I had planned something a little more lively, the sort of thing my war-leader always enjoys—to put us in a bold frame of mind, you understand. The truth of the matter is,” he admitted with a slight tone of discouragement, “I don’t really know what’s going to come out of it next. My fingers go along, but sometimes I think this harp plays of itself.
“Perhaps,” Fflewddur continued, “that’s why Taliesin thought he was doing me a favor when he gave it to me. Because when I went up to the Council of Bards for my examination, I had an old pot one of the minstrels had left behind and I couldn’t do more than plunk out a few chants. However, a Fflam never looks a gift horse in the mouth, or, in this case, I should say harp.”
“It was a sad tune,” Eilonwy said. “But the odd thing about it is, you don’t mind the sadness. It’s like feeling better after you’ve had a good cry. It made me think of the sea again, though I haven’t been there since I was a little girl.” At this, Taran snorted, but Eilonwy paid no attention to him. “The waves break against the cliffs and churn into foam, and farther out, as far as you can see, there are the white crests, the White Horses of Llyr, they call them; but they’re really only waves waiting their turn to roll in.”
“Strange,” said the bard, “personally, I was thinking of my own castle. It’s small and drafty, but I would like to see it again; a person can have enough wandering, you know. It made me think I might even settle down again and try to be a respectable sort of king.”
“Caer Dallben is closer to my heart,” Taran said. “When I left, I never gave it too much thought. Now I think of it a great deal.”
Gurgi, who had been listening silently, set up a long howl. “Yes, yes, soon great warriors will all be back in their halls, telling their tales with laughings and chaffings. Then it will be the fearful forest again for poor Gurgi, to put down his tender head in snoozings and snorings.”
“Gurgi,” Taran said, “I promise to bring you to Caer Dallben, if I ever get there myself. And if you like it, and Dallben agrees, you can stay there as long as you want.”
“What joy!” Gurgi cried. “Honest, toiling Gurgi extends thanks and best wishes. Oh, yes, fond, obedient Gurgi will work hard …”
“For now, obedient Gurgi had better sleep,” Taran advised, “and so should we all. Medwyn has put us well on our way, and it can’t take much longer. We’ll start again at daybreak.”
During the night, however, a gale rose, and by morning a drenching rain beat into the cleft. Instead of slackening, the wind gained in force and screamed over the rocks. It beat like a fist against the travelers’ shelter, then pried with searching fingers, as if to seize and dash them into the valley.
They set out nevertheless, holding their cloaks before their faces. To make matters worse, the path broke off entirely and sheer cliffs loomed ahead of them. The rain stopped, after the travelers had all been soaked to the skin, but now the rocks were slippery and treacherous. Even the surefooted Melyngar stumbled once, and for a breathless moment Taran feared she would be lost.
The mountains swung a half-circle around a lake black and sullen below threatening clouds. Taran halted on an outcropping of stone and pointed toward the hills at the far side of the lake. “According to what Medwyn told us,” he said to the bard, “we should make for that notch, all the way over there. But I see no purpose in following the mountains when we can cut almost straight across. The lake shore is flat, at least, while here it’s getting practically impossible to climb.”
Fflewddur rubbed his pointed nose. “Even counting the time it would take us to go down and come up again, I think we should save several hours. Yes, I definitely believe it’s worth trying.”
“Medwyn didn’t say a word about crossing valleys,” Eilonwy put in.
“He didn’t say anything about cliffs like these,” answered Taran.
“They seem nothing to him; he’s lived here a long time. For us, it’s something else again.”
“If you don’t listen to what somebody tells you,” Eilonwy remarked, “it’s like putting your fingers in your ears and jumping down a well. For an Assistant Pig-Keeper who’s done very little traveling, you suddenly know all about it.”
“Who found the way out of the barrow?” Taran retorted. “It’s decided. We cross the valley.”
The descent was laborious, but once they had reached ground level, Taran felt all the more convinced they would save time. Holding Melyngar’s bridle, he led the group along the narrow shore. The lake reached closely to the base of the hills, obliging Taran to splash through the shallows. The lake, he realized, was not black in reflection of the sky; the water itself was dark, flat, and as grim and heavy as iron. The bottom, too, was as treacherous as the rocks above. Despite his care, Taran lurched and nearly got a ducking. When he turned to warn the others, to his surprise he saw Gurgi in water up to his waist and heading toward the center of the lake. Fflewddur and Eilonwy were also splashing farther and farther from land.
“Don’t go through the water,” Taran called. “Keep to the shore!”
“Wish we could,” the bard shouted back. “But we’re stuck somehow. There’s a terribly strong pull …”
A moment later, Taran understood what the bard meant. An unexpected swell knocked him off his feet and even as he put out his hands to break his fall the black lake sucked him down. Beside him, Melyngar thrashed her legs and whinnied. The sky spun overhead. He was pulled along like a twig in a torrent. Eilonwy shot past him. He tried to regain his footing and catch her. It was too late. He skimmed and bobbed over the surface. The far shore would stop them, Taran thought, struggling to keep his head above the waves. A roar filled his ears. The middle of the lake was a whirlpool clutching and flinging him to the depths. Black water closed over him, and he knew he was drowning.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
King Eiddileg
Down he spun, battling for air, in a flood that broke upon him like a crumbling mountain. Faster and faster the waters bore him along, tossing him right and left. Taran collided with something—what it was, he could not tell—but he clung to it even as his strength failed him. There was a crash, as though the earth had split asunder; the water turned to foam, and Taran felt himself dashed against an unyielding wall. He remembered nothing more.
When he opened his eyes he was lying on a hard, smooth surface, his hand tightly gripping Fflewddur’s harp. He heard the rush of water close by. Cautiously, he felt around him; his fingers touched only wet, flat stone, an embankment of some kind. A pale blue light shon
e high above him. Taran decided he had come to rest in a cave or grotto. He raised himself and his movement set the harp to jangling.
“Hello! Who’s that?” A voice echoed down the embankment. Faint though it was, Taran recognized it as belonging to the bard. He scrambled to his feet and crept in the direction of the sound. On the way he tripped over a form, which became suddenly vocal and indignant.
“You’ve done very well, Taran of Caer Dallben, with all your shortcuts. What’s left of me is soaked to the skin, and I can’t find my bauble—oh, here it is, all wet, of course. And who knows what’s happened to the rest of us?”
The golden light flared dimly to reveal the dripping face of Eilonwy, her blue eyes flashing with vexation.
Gurgi’s hairy, sputtering shadow rolled toward them. “Oh, poor tender head is filled with sloshings and washings!”
In another moment Fflewddur had found them. Melyngar whinnied behind him. “I thought I heard my harp down here,” he said. “I couldn’t believe it at first. Never expected to see it again. But—a Fflam never despairs! Quite a stroke of luck, though.”
“I never thought I’d see anything again,” Taran said, handing the instrument to Fflewddur. “We’ve been washed into a cave of some kind; but it’s not a natural one. Look at these flagstones.”
“If you’d look at Melyngar,” Eilonwy called, “you’d see all our provisions are gone. All our weapons, too, thanks to your precious short cut!”
It was true. The straps had broken loose and the saddle had torn away in the whirlpool. Luckily, the companions still had their swords.
“I’m sorry,” Taran said. “I admit we are here through my fault. I should not have followed this path, but what’s done is done. I led us here, and I’ll find a way out.”
He glanced around. The roar of water came from a wide, swift-running canal. The embankment itself was much broader than he had realized. Lights of various colors glowed in the high arches. He turned to his companions again. “This is very curious. We seem to be deep underground, but it isn’t the lake bottom—”
Before he could utter another word, he was seized from behind, and a bag smelling strongly of onions was jammed over his head. Eilonwy screamed, then her voice grew muffled. Taran was being half-pushed, half-pulled in two directions at once. Gurgi began yelping furiously.
“Here! Get that one!” a gruff voice shouted.
“Get him yourself! Can’t you see I’ve got my hands full?”
Taran struck out. A solid, round ball that must have been someone’s head butted him in the stomach. There were slapping noises filtering through the oniony darkness around him. Those would be from Eilonwy. Now he was pushed from behind, propelled at top speed, while angry voices shouted at him—and at each other. “Hustle along there!”
“You fool, you didn’t take their swords!”—At this, came another shriek from Eilonwy, the sound of what might have been a kick, then a moment of silence—“All right, let them keep their swords. You’ll have the blame of it, letting them approach King Eiddileg with weapons!”
At a blind trot, Taran was shoved through what seemed a large crowd of people. Everyone was talking at once; the noise was deafening. After a number of turns, he was thrust forward again. A heavy door snapped behind him; the onion bag was snatched from his head.
Taran blinked. With Fflewddur and Eilonwy he stood in the center of a high-vaulted chamber, glittering with lights. Gurgi was nowhere in sight. Their captors were half-a-dozen squat, round, stubby-legged warriors. Axes hung from their belts and each man had a bow and quiver of arrows on his shoulder. The left eye of the short, burly fellow who stood beside Eilonwy was turning greenish-black.
Before them, at a long stone table, a dwarfish figure with a bristling yellow beard glared at the warriors. He wore a robe of garish red and green. Rings sparkled on his plump fingers. “What’s this?” he shouted. “Who are these people? Didn’t I give orders I wasn’t to be disturbed?”
“But Majesty,” began one of the warriors, shifting uneasily, “we caught them …”
“Must you bother me with details?” King Eiddileg cried, clasping his forehead. “You’ll ruin me! You’ll be the death of me! Out! Out! No, not the prisoners, you idiots!” Shaking his head, sighing and sputtering, the King collapsed onto a throne carved from rock. The guards scurried away. King Eiddileg shot a furious glance at Taran and his companions. “Now, then, out with it. What do you want? You might as well know ahead of time, you shan’t have it.”
“Sire,” Taran began, “we ask no more than safe passage through your realm. The four of us …”
“There’s only three of you,” King Eiddileg snapped. “Can’t you count?”
“One of my companions is missing,” Taran said regretfully. He had hoped Gurgi would have overcome his fear, but he could not blame the creature for running off after his ordeal in the whirlpool. “I beg your servants to help us find him. Then, too, our provisions and weapons have been lost …”
“That’s clotted nonsense!” shouted the King. “Don’t lie to me, I can’t stand it.” He pulled an orange kerchief from his sleeve and mopped his forehead. “Why did you come here?”
“Because an Assistant Pig-Keeper led us on a wild-goose chase,” Eilonwy interrupted. “We don’t even know where we are, let alone why. It’s worse than rolling downhill in the dark.”
“Naturally,” said Eiddileg, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You have no idea you’re in the very heart of the Kingdom of Tylwyth Teg, the Fair Folk, the Happy Family, the Little People, or whatever other insipid, irritating names you’ve put on us. Oh, no, of course not. You just happened to be passing by.”
“We were caught in the lake,” Taran protested. “It pulled us down.”
“Good, eh?” Kind Eiddileg answered, with a quick smile of pride. “I’ve added some improvements of my own, of course.”
“If you’re so anxious to keep visitors away,” Eilonwy said, “you should have something better—to make people stay out.”
“When people get this close,” Eiddileg answered, “they’re already too close. At that point, I don’t want them out. I want them in.”
Fflewddur shook his head. “I always understood the Fair Folk were all over Prydain, not just here.”
“Of course, not just here,” said Eiddileg with impatience. “This is the royal seat. Why, we have tunnels and mines every place you can imagine. But the real work—the real labor of organization—is here, right here, in this very spot—in this very throne room. On my shoulders! It’s too much, I tell you, too much. But who else can you trust? If you want something done right …” The King stopped suddenly and drummed his glittering fingers on the stone table. “That’s not your affair,” he said. “You’re in trouble enough as it is. It can’t be overlooked.”
“I don’t see any work being done,” said Eilonwy.
Before Taran could warn Eilonwy not to be imprudent, the door of the throne room burst open and a crowd of folk pressed in. Looking closer, Taran saw not all were dwarfs; some were tall, slender, with white robes; others were covered with glistening scales, like fish; still others fluttered large, delicate wings. For some moments Taran heard nothing but a confusion of voices, angry outcries and bickering, with Eiddileg trying to shout above them. Finally, the King managed to push them all out again. “No work being done?” he cried. “You don’t appreciate everything that goes into it. The Children of Evening—that’s another ridiculous name you humans have thought up—are to sing in the forest of Cantrev Mawr tonight. They haven’t even practiced. Two are sick and one can’t be found.
“The Lake Sprites have been quarreling all day; now they’re sulking. Their hair’s a mess. And who does that reflect on? Who has to jolly them along, coax them, plead with them? The answer is obvious.
“What thanks do I get for it?” King Eiddileg ranted on. “None at all! Has any of you long-legged gawks ever taken the trouble—even once, mind you—to offer the simplest expression of gratitude, such as,
‘Thank you, King Eiddileg, for the tremendous effort and inconvenience you’ve gone to, so that we can enjoy a little charm and beauty in the world above, which would be so unspeakably grim without you and your Fair Folk’? Just a few words of honest appreciation?
“By no means! Just the opposite! If any of you thick-skulled oafs come on one of the Fair Folk above ground, what happens? You seize him! You grab him with your great hammy hands and try to make him lead you to buried treasure. Or you squeeze him until you get three wishes out of him—not satisfied with one, oh, no, but three!
“Well, I don’t mind telling you this,” Eiddileg went on, his face turning redder by the moment, “I’ve put an end to all this wish-granting and treasure-scavenging. No more! Absolutely not! I’m surprised you didn’t ruin us long ago!”
Just then a chorus of voices rose from behind the door of Eiddileg’s throne room. The harmonies penetrated even the walls of heavy stone. Taran had never in his life heard such beautiful singing. He listened, enchanted, forgetting, for the moment, all but the soaring melody. Eiddileg himself stopped shouting and puffing until the voices died away.
“That’s something to be thankful for,” the King said at last. “The Children of Evening have evidently got together again. Not as good as you might want, but they’ll manage somehow.”
“I have not heard the songs of the Fair Folk until now,” Taran said. “I had never realized how lovely they were.”
“Don’t try to flatter me,” Eiddileg cried, trying to look furious, yet beaming at the same time.
“What surprises me,” Eilonwy said, while the bard plucked meditatively at his harp, trying to recapture the notes of the song, “is why you go to so much trouble. If you Fair Folk dislike all of us above ground, why do you bother?”
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