Taran Wanderer: Chapters 2–3

“From there,” Taran told Gurgi, “we can only search as the moment guides us. My poor tender head is full of questions,” he sighed, with a wry and regretful smile, “but of plans, alas, none at all.”

The countryside had long since changed from gray moors to green meadows and pleasantly wooded lands with farmholds nestled in the clearings.

He had scarcely dismounted, and Gurgi had only begun to unlash the saddlebags, when a band of horsemen cantered into the grove.

“They look more like scarecrows than outlaws,” replied the leader. “I take them for a pair of churls who have run away from their master.”

“He is no piggy!” indignantly retorted Gurgi. “No piggy at all! He is Gurgi, bold and clever to serve kindly master!”

As it was, Taran fell stunned to the ground, his ears ringing, thoughts spinning, and the horsemen seeming to burst into comets before his eyes. He was dimly aware of Gurgi frantically yelling, of Melynlas whinnying, and it seemed to him that another figure had joined the fray.

He turned abruptly to see a man in a sleeveless jacket of coarse wool girt with a plaited rope.

He turned abruptly to see a man in a sleeveless jacket of coarse wool girt with a plaited rope.

His bare arms were knotted and sinewy, and his back bent, though less by years than by labor.

“Without Melynlas my quest will fail,” Taran cried. “I must find—” He stopped short. The warriors’ mockery still rankled him, and he was reluctant to tell more than need be, even to this man who had befriended him.

“And yet,” Taran said, dismayed to learn Aeddan’s plight, “I have heard it told there was rich soil in the Valley Cantrevs.”
“Was, indeed,” replied Aeddan with a dour laugh.

Arawn’s hand chokes the life from Prydain. His shadow blights the land. Our toil grows heavier, and all the more because our skills are few.

The farmer laughed. “Yes, and weeded it blade by blade, as niggling as a granddam with her favorite patch of herbs. It will not fail. Indeed, it must not,” he added, frowning.

His heavy face was mottled purple, whether from bruises, lack of breath, blind anger, or all three at once Taran could not judge.

"Giants indeed!” cried Goryon. “It will not be forgotten how the brave riders of Goryon the Valorous were beset by enemies, outnumbered two to one. By worse than giants! For one was a fierce monster with sharp claws and fangs. Another carried an oak tree in his fist and swept it about him as if it were no more than a twig. But the riders of Goryon overcame them all with glory and honor!”

“No giants?” shouted Goryon. “But more insults!” He stamped his foot as if the turf itself had given him some impertinence. “You call my men liars? As well call me one!”

“The oak-tree cudgel,” Lord Goryon began.
“The farmer bore a stout oaken staff,” Taran said.

A surprised murmur rose from Goryon’s henchmen, but Taran heard a rough laugh as one of them called, “So ho, Goryon! A lout rides a steed a lord has not mastered, and takes your horse and honor both!”

“What?” shouted Goryon at the top of his voice, his face turning livid. “Insults! Impertinence! Insolence! How dare you! I take no gifts from pig-keepers! Nor will I lower myself to mount the beast again.”

Night was falling and he had hoped by this time to have come upon a farmhold where they might shelter, for the encounter with Goryon’s border-band had given him no wish to learn what others might be roving the hills.

But here torches blazed at every corner of the palisade, from sockets set high on either side of the gate, even at the rooftree of the Great Hall, as if in token of feasting and revelry within.

The Chief Steward was summoned, and he led Taran and Gurgi to the Great Hall.

“I’ve missed you ever since we parted. Did you not stay at Caer Dallben? When we sailed from Mona,” Fflewddur hurriedly explained, “I really meant to leave off wandering and settle down in my own realm. Then I said to myself, Fflewddur old fellow, spring’s only once a year. And here it is. And here am I. But what of yourselves? First, food and drink, and your tidings later.”

The cantrev lord’s raiment was costly and well-cut, but Taran saw it bore the spots and spatters not only of this feast but of many others long past.

“Goryon!” snorted Gast. “Arrogant boor! Crude lout! Braggart and boaster! To boast of what?”

With deftness born of long, sad practice, Fflewddur knotted up the broken string.

“Generous?” Taran murmured under his breath to Fflewddur, while Gurgi, swallowing the skimpy fare, looked hopelessly around for more. “I think he’d make a miser seem a prodigal in comparison.”

“Generous?” Taran murmured under his breath to Fflewddur, while Gurgi, swallowing the skimpy fare, looked hopelessly around for more. “I think he’d make a miser seem a prodigal in comparison.”

“Generous?” Taran murmured under his breath to Fflewddur, while Gurgi, swallowing the skimpy fare, looked hopelessly around for more. “I think he’d make a miser seem a prodigal in comparison.”

At last, disheartened and with bellies still hollow, the three groped their way to a meanly furnished chamber, where they nevertheless dropped into sleep like stones.

The cantrev lord flung open chests of goblets, ornaments, weapons, horse trappings, and many things Taran judged of high value, but in such a muddled heap that he could scarcely tell one from another.

He had, however, little chance to admire it, for the cantrev lord quickly thrust a garishly ornamented horse bridle into Taran’s hands and as quickly replaced it with a pair of stirrups which he praised equally.

Taran could not gainsay the words of the cantrev lord, for Cornillo shone as if she had been polished and her short, curving horns sparkled in the sun.

“Had they harps like mine,” said Fflewddur, warily glancing at his instrument, “what a din you’d hear from every stronghold in Prydain!”

“Had they harps like mine,” said Fflewddur, warily glancing at his instrument, “what a din you’d hear from every stronghold in Prydain!”