“‘I ruled Prydain long before Arawn,’ Achren told me, ‘and it was I who made him king over Annuvin. It was I who gave him power—though he used it to betray me. But now, if you desire it, you shall take your place on the high throne of Arawn himself and rule in his stead.’
“‘Gladly will I overthrow Arawn,’ I answered. ‘And I will use those powers to destroy you along with him.’
“Raging, she cast me into the lowest dungeon,” Gwydion said. “I have never been closer to my death than in Oeth-Anoeth.
“How long I lay there, I cannot be sure,” Gwydion continued. “In Oeth-Anoeth, time is not as you know it here. It is better that I do not speak of the torments Achren had devised. The worst were not of the body but of the spirit, and of these the most painful was despair. Yet, even in my deepest anguish, I clung to hope. For there is this about Oeth-Anoeth: if a man withstand it, even death will give up its secrets to him.
“I withstood it,” Gwydion said quietly, “and at the end much was revealed to me which before had been clouded. Of this, too, I shall not speak. It is enough for you to know that I understood the workings of life and death, of laughter and tears, endings and beginnings. I saw the truth of the world, and knew no chains could hold me. My bonds were light as dreams. At that moment, the walls of my prison melted.”
“What became of Achren?” Eilonwy asked.
“I do not know,” Gwydion said. “I did not see her thereafter. For some days I lay concealed in the forest, to heal the injuries of my body. Spiral Castle was in ruins when I returned to seek you; and there I mourned your death.”
“As we mourned yours,” Taran said.
“I set out for Caer Dathyl again,” Gwydion continued. “For a time I followed the same path Fflewddur chose for you, though I did not cross the valley until much later. By then, I had outdistanced you a little.
“That day, a gwythaint plunged from the sky and flew directly toward me. To my surprise, it neither attacked nor sped away after it had seen me, but fluttered before me, crying strangely. The gwythaint’s language is no longer secret to me—nor is the speech of any living creature—and I understood a band of travelers was journeying from the hills nearby and a white pig accompanied them.
“I hastened to retrace my steps. By then, Hen Wen sensed I was close at hand. When she ran from you,” Gwydion said to Taran, “she ran not in terror but to find me. What I learned from her was more important than I suspected, and I understood why Arawn’s champion sought her desperately. He, too, realized she knew the one thing that could destroy him.”
“What was that?” Taran asked urgently.
“She knew the Horned King’s secret name.”
“His name?” Taran cried in astonishment. “I never realized a name could be so powerful.”
“Yes,” Gwydion answered. “Once you have courage to look upon evil, seeing it for what it is and naming it by its true name, it is powerless against you, and you can destroy it. Yet, with all my understanding,” he said, reaching down and scratching the white pig’s ear, “I could not have discovered the Horned King’s name without Hen Wen.
“Hen Wen told me this secret in the forest. I had no need of letter sticks or tomes of enchantment, for we could speak as one heart and mind to each other. The gwythaint, circling overhead, led me to the Horned King. The rest you know.”
“Where is the gwythaint now?” asked Taran.
Gwydion shook his head. “I do not know. But I doubt she will ever return to Annuvin, for Arawn would rend her to pieces once he learned what she had done. I only know she has repaid your kindness in the fullest measure.
“Rest now,” Gwydion said. “Later, we shall speak of happier things.”
“Lord Gwydion,” Eilonwy called, as he rose to leave, “what was the Horned King’s secret name?”
Gwydion’s lined face broke into a smile. “It must remain a secret,” he said, then patted the girl gently on the cheek. “But I assure you, it was not half as pretty as your own.”
A few days afterward, when Taran had regained strength enough to walk unaided, Gwydion accompanied him through Caer Dathyl. Standing high on a hill, the fortress alone was big enough to hold several Caer Dallbens. Taran saw armorers’ shops, stables for the steeds of warriors, breweries, weaving rooms. Cottages clustered in the valleys below, and clear streams ran golden in the sunlight. Later, Gwydion summoned all the companions to the Great Hall of Caer Dathyl, and there, amid banners and hedges of spears, they received the gratitude of King Math Son of Mathonwy, ruler of the House of Don. The white-bearded monarch, who looked as old as Dallben and as testy, was even more talkative than Eilonwy. But when at last he had finished one of the longest speeches Taran had ever heard, the companions bowed, and a guard of honor bore King Math from the Hall on a litter draped with cloth of gold. As Taran and his friends were about to take their leave, Gwydion called to them.
“These are small gifts for great valor,” he said. “But it is in my power to bestow them, which I do with a glad heart, and with hope that you will treasure them not so much for their value as for the sake of remembrance.
“To Fflewddur Fflam shall be given one harp string. Though all his others break, this shall forever hold, regardless of how many gallant extravagances he may put on it. And its tone shall be the truest and most beautiful.
“To Doli of the Fair Folk shall be granted the power of invisibility, so long as he chooses to retain it.
“To faithful and valiant Gurgi shall be given a wallet of food which shall be always full. Guard it well; it is one of the treasures of Prydain.
“To Eilonwy of the House of Llyr shall be given a ring of gold set with a gem carved by the ancient craftsmen of the Fair Folk. It is precious; but to me, her friendship is even more precious.
“And to Taran of Caer Dallben …” Here, Gwydion paused. “The choice of his reward has been the most difficult of all.”
“I ask no reward,” Taran said. “I want no friend to repay me for what I did willingly, out of friendship and for my own honor.”
Gwydion smiled. “Taran of Caer Dallben,” he said, “you are still as touchy and headstrong as ever. Believe that I know what you yearn for in your heart. The dreams of heroism, of worth, and of achievement are noble ones; but you, not I, must make them come true. Ask me whatever else, and I shall grant it.”
Taran bowed his head. “In spite of all that has befallen me, I have come to love the valleys and mountains of your northern lands. But my thoughts have turned more and more to Caer Dallben. I long to be home.”
Gwydion nodded. “So it shall be.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Welcomes
The journey to Caer Dallben was swift and unhindered, for the lords of the southern cantrevs, their power broken, had slunk back each to his own tribe throne. Taran and his companions, with Gwydion himself leading, rode south through the Valley of Ystrad. Eilonwy, who had heard so much of Taran’s talk of Coll and Dallben, would not be denied a visit, and she, too, rode with them. Gwydion had given each of the companions a handsome steed; to Taran he had given the finest: the gray, silver-maned stallion, Melynlas, of the lineage of Melyngar and as swift. Hen Wen rode triumphantly on a horse-litter, looking intensely pleased with herself.
Caer Dallben had never seen so joyous a welcome—though by this time Taran was not positive about what Dallben had or had not seen—with such feasting that even Gurgi had his fill for once. Coll embraced Taran, who was amazed that such a hero would deign to remember an Assistant Pig-Keeper, as well as Eilonwy, Hen Wen, and anyone else he could get his hands on; his face beamed like a winter fire and his bald crown glowed with delight.
Dallben interrupted his meditations to be present at the feast; though soon after the festivities, he withdrew to his chamber and was not seen for some time. Later, he and Gwydion spent several hours alone, for there were important matters Gwydion would reveal only to the old enchanter.
Gurgi, making himself completely at home, snored under a pile of
hay in the barn. While Fflewddur and Doli went off exploring, Taran showed Eilonwy Hen Wen’s enclosure, where the pig chuckled and grunted as happily as before.
“So this is where it all began,” Eilonwy said. “I don’t want to sound critical, but I don’t think you should have had all that trouble keeping her in. Caer Dallben is as lovely as you said, and you should be glad to be home,” she went on. “It’s like suddenly remembering where you put something you’ve been looking for.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Taran said, leaning on the railing and examining it closely.
“What will you do now?” asked Eilonwy. “I expect you’ll go back to Assistant Pig-Keeping.”
Without looking up, Taran nodded. “Eilonwy,” he said, with hesitation, “I was hoping—I mean, I was wondering …”
Before he could finish, Coll came hurrying up and whispered that Dallben would like to see him privately.
“Eilonwy—” Taran began again, then stopped abruptly and strode off to the cottage.
When he entered the chamber, Dallben was writing with a great quill in The Book of Three. As soon as he saw Taran, he shut the volume quickly and put it aside.
“Well, now,” Dallben said, “I should like the two of us to speak quietly to each other. First, I am interested to learn what you think of being a hero. I daresay you feel rather proud of yourself. Although,” he added, “I do not gain that impression from your face.”
“I have no just cause for pride,” Taran said, taking his usual place on the familiar bench. “It was Gwydion who destroyed the Horned King, and Hen Wen helped him do it. But Gurgi, not I, found her. Doli and Fflewddur fought gloriously while I was wounded by a sword I had no right to draw. And Eilonwy was the one who took the sword from the barrow in the first place. As for me, what I mostly did was make mistakes.”
“My, my,” said Dallben, “those are complaints enough to dampen the merriest feast. Though what you say may be true, you have cause for a certain pride nevertheless. It was you who held the companions together and led them. You did what you set out to do, and Hen Wen is safely back with us. If you made mistakes, you recognize them. As I told you, there are times when the seeking counts more than the finding.
“Does it truly matter,” Dallben went on, “which of you did what, since all shared the same goal and the same danger? Nothing we do is ever done entirely alone. There is a part of us in everyone else—you, of all people, should know that. From what I hear, you have been as impetuous as your friend Fflewddur; I have been told, among other things, of a night when you dove head first into a thornbush. And you have certainly felt as sorry for yourself as Gurgi; and, like Doli, striven for the impossible.”
“Yes,” admitted Taran, “but that is not all that troubles me. I have dreamed often of Caer Dallben and I love it—and you and Coll—more than ever. I asked for nothing better than to be at home, and my heart rejoices. Yet it is a curious feeling. I have returned to the chamber I slept in and found it smaller than I remember. The fields are beautiful, yet not quite as I recalled them. And I am troubled, for I wonder now if I am to be a stranger in my own home.”
Dallben shook his head. “No, that you shall never be. But it is not Caer Dallben which has grown smaller. You have grown bigger. That is the way of it.”
“And there is Eilonwy,” Taran said. “What will become of her? Is it—is it possible you would let her stay with us?”
Dallben pursed his lips and toyed with the pages of The Book of Three. “By all rights,” he said, “the Princess Eilonwy should be returned to her kinsmen—yes, she is a princess. Did she not tell you? But there is no hurry about that. She might consent to stay. Perhaps if you spoke to her.”
Taran sprang to his feet. “I shall!”
He hurried from the chamber and ran to Hen Wen’s enclosure. Eilonwy was still there, watching the oracular pig with interest.
“You’re to stay!” Taran cried. “I’ve asked Dallben!”
Eilonwy tossed her head. “I suppose,” she said, “it never occurred to you to ask me.”
“Yes—but I mean …” he stammered, “I didn’t think …”
“You usually don’t,” Eilonwy sighed. “No matter. Coll is straightening up a place for me.”
“Already?” cried Taran. “How did he know? How did you know?”
“Humph!” said Eilonwy.
“Hwoinch!” said Hen Wen.
Author’s Note
This chronicle of the Land of Prydain is not a retelling or retranslation of Welsh mythology. Prydain is not Wales—not entirely, at least. The inspiration for it comes from that magnificent land and its legends; but, essentially, Prydain is a country existing only in the imagination.
A few of its inhabitants are drawn from the ancient tales. Gwydion, for example, is a “real” legendary figure. Arawn, the dread Lord of Annuvin, comes from the Mabinogion, the classic collection of Welsh legends, though in Prydain he is considerably more villainous. And there is an authentic mythological basis for Arawn’s cauldron, Hen Wen the oracular pig, the old enchanter Dallben, and others. However, Taran the Assistant Pig-Keeper, like Eilonwy of the red-gold hair, was born in my own Prydain.
The geography of Prydain is peculiar to itself. Any resemblance between it and Wales is perhaps not coincidental—but not to be used as a guide for tourists. It is a small land, yet it has room enough for gallantry and humor; and even an Assistant Pig-Keeper there may cherish certain dreams.
The chronicle of Prydain is a fantasy. Such things never happen in real life. Or do they? Most of us are called on to perform tasks far beyond what we can do. Our capabilities seldom match our aspirations, and we are often woefully unprepared. To this extent, we are all Assistant Pig-Keepers at heart.
The Chronicles of Prydain
by Lloyd Alexander:
The Book of Three
Taran the Assistant Pig-Keeper assembles a group of companions
to rescue the oracular pig Hen Wen from the forces of evil.
The Black Cauldron
Newbery Honor Book
The warriors of Prydain set out to find and destroy the Black
Cauldron, the Death-Lord Arawn’s chief instrument of evil.
The Castle of Llyr
Princess Eilonwy is growing up and must learn to act
like a lady rather than a heroine among heroes.
Taran Wanderer
Taran faces a long and lonely search for his identity among
the hills and marshes, farmers and common people of Prydain.
The High King
Newbery Medal Winner
The final struggle between good and evil dramatically concludes
the fate of Prydain, and of Taran who wanted to be a hero.
Also available:
The Foundling and Other Tales of Prydain
by Lloyd Alexander
Eight short stories evoke the land of Prydain before
the adventures of Taran the Assistant Pig-Keeper.
The Prydain Companion
A Reference Guide to Lloyd Alexander’s Prydain Chronicles
by Michael O. Tunnell
Prydain Pronunciation Guide
Achren AHK-ren
Adaon ah-DAY-on
Aeddan EE-dan
Angharad an-GAR-ad
Annuvin ah-NOO-vin
Arawn ah-RAWN
Arianllyn ahree-AHN-lin
Briavael bree-AH-vel
Brynach BRIHN-ak
Caer Cadarn kare KAH-darn
Caer Colur kare KOH-loor
Caer Dathyl kare DA-thil
Coll kahl
Dallben DAHL-ben
Doli DOH-lee
Don dahn
Dwyvach DWIH-vak
Dyrnwyn DUHRN-win
Edyrnion eh-DIR-nyon
Eiddileg eye-DILL-eg
Eilonwy eye-LAHN-wee
Ellidyr ELLI-deer
Fflewddur Fflam FLEw-der flam
Geraint GHER-aint
Goewin GOH-win
Gurgi GHER-ghee
Gwydion GWIH-dyon
Gwythaint GWIH-thaint
Islimach iss-LIM-ahk
Llawgadarn law-GAD-arn
Lluagor lew-AH-gore
Llunet LOO-net
Llyan lee-AHN
Llyr leer
Melyngar MELLIN-gar
Melynlas MELLIN-lass
Oeth-Anoeth eth-AHN-eth
Orddu OR-doo
Orgoch OR-gahk
Orwen OR-wen
Prydain prih-DANE
Pryderi prih-DAY-ree
Rhuddlum ROOD-lum
Rhun roon
Smoit smoyt
Taliesin tally-ESS-in
Taran TAH-ran
Teleria tell-EHR-ya
About the Author
Lloyd Alexander was born and raised in Philadelphia. As a boy he decided that he wanted to be a writer. “If reading offered any preparation for writing, there were grounds for hope. I had been reading as long as I could remember. Shakespeare, Dickens, Mark Twain, and so many others were my dearest friends and greatest teachers. I loved all the world’s mythologies; King Arthur was one of my heroes; I played with a trash-can lid for a knightly shield, and my uncle’s cane for the sword Excalibur.”
The Book of Three Page 15
