The Black Cauldron: Chapters 9–14

When their grief abated a little, the companions hollowed out a grave, lining it with flat stones.

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, 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.

Eilonwy was now awake and Gurgi was poking a tousled, twig-covered head from the folds of his cloak.

Taran did not reply, for he was still anxious and oppressed, although the disturbing dreams had already begun to fade.

The bard leaped up and splashed across to greet the companions. Though haggard and worn, he appeared unwounded.

“The wind has shifted,” Taran said. “It comes from the sea now. It’s restless, with a briny taste. There’s a smell of grass and weeds, too, which makes me think we aren’t far from Morva. If all goes well, we may reach the Marshes by tomorrow.”

Although drenched and chilled to the bone, the companions had made good progress by the time Taran allowed them to rest again. Here, gray and cheerless moors spread before them.

He was less weary than he had expected, despite the grueling ride.

From there, the Marshes of Morva stretched westward to the horizon. Here, huge growths of thorny furze rose up. At the far side, Taran distinguished meager clumps of wasted trees.

Under the gray sky, pools of stagnant water flickered among dead grasses and broken reeds.

Heaving and plunging, the stallion labored through the mire. With a great shout, the Huntsmen raced after him. Once, Melynlas nearly foundered in a deep pool.

One of the men clad in wolfskin had stumbled and pitched forward, screaming as the black bog seized and sucked him down.

One of the men clad in wolfskin had stumbled and pitched forward, screaming as the black bog seized and sucked him down.

The Huntsman in bearskin flung out his arms and scrabbled at the weeds, growling in rage; the last warrior trampled the sinking man, vainly seeking a foothold to escape the deadly bog.

Brackish water spurted at his hooves, but Taran guided the powerful stallion along what seemed a chain of submerged islands, never stopping even when he reached the far side of the swamp.

Broken crockery covered a small table. Rusted and broken weapons were piled about.

Taran spun around and raised his sword. Suddenly in his hand writhed a cold serpent, hissing and twisting to strike.

“You’re a pretty little duck,” said the enchantress in a kind, cajoling voice.

He turned his head in fear and revulsion as the enchantress gave him a kindly pat on the cheek.

“You are a greedy creature,” said Orddu, with a tolerant smile at the hooded crone.

“Of course they did, my poor goslings,” said Orddu with sympathy. “They’re always attacking everybody. That’s one of the advantages of being toads; you needn’t worry about such things any more. It will be all romps in the forest and lovely wet mornings. The Huntsmen won’t vex you any more. True, you shall have to keep an eye out for herons, kingfishers, and serpents. But apart from that, you won’t have a care in the world.”

Despite the sudden warmth of their welcome, Taran glanced at the enchantresses with uneasiness. The chamber itself filled him with odd forebodings he could not name, which eluded him like shadows.

Despite the sudden warmth of their welcome, Taran glanced at the enchantresses with uneasiness. The chamber itself filled him with odd forebodings he could not name, which eluded him like shadows.

“Stay, by all means,” croaked Orgoch with a leer.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer one of the others?” asked Orwen. “They’re much more attractive than that old thing. And much more practical. What use have you for Cauldron-Born? They would only be a nuisance. We can give you a kettle to brew the most marvelous sleeping potions, or one you can sprinkle on daffodils to take away that bilious yellow.”

“No, oh, no!” Gurgi cried fervently. “Gurgi, too, wants to stay as he is—bold and clever!”

The companions led their horses to the side of the hill where a low, dilapidated building tottered shakily on the turf.

While Gurgi went off again to fetch another load, Taran looked dubiously at the straggly pile.

“Crafty Gurgi found it!” he cried. “Oh, yes! He always finds what is lost! He has found piggies, and now he finds a great cauldron of wicked doings and brewings! Kind master will honor humble Gurgi!”

“What have they gone and done? We tried to warn them about the nasty Crochan, but the headstrong little goslings wouldn’t listen! My, oh my,” she clucked sorrowfully, “now they’ve got their little fingers caught!”

Taran struggled desperately to free himself. Despite his terror, he flung back his head and glared defiantly at Orddu.

“No, no!” Gurgi cried, thrusting his way toward the enchantress and brandishing his wallet. “Take Gurgi’s own great treasure! Take bag of crunchings and munchings!”

“Oh, it is nice!” Orwen murmured wistfully. “And think of the songs we could sing to keep ourselves company.”