Taran Wanderer: Chapters 4–7

“The Free Commots?” Taran asked. “I’ve heard them named, but know little else about them.”
“They’re hamlets and small villages,” Fflewddur put in.

But the land itself is the pleasantest in Prydain—fair hills and dales, rich soil to farm, and sweet grass for grazing. There’s iron for good blades, gold and silver for fine ornaments.

“Enough talk!” cried Smoit. “It hurts my head and dries my gullet. Let’s have more meat and drink. Forget the Mirror. Tarry with me in my cantrev, lad. We’ll ride to the hunt, feast, and make merry. You’ll put more flesh on your bones here than scrambling about on a fool’s errand. And that, my boy, is good counsel to you.”

Next morning, after a huge breakfast, which Smoit declared would serve to whet their appetites for dinner, the King threw open his storehouse to them and went with them to be sure they chose the best of gear.

The red-bearded King set such a pace through the valleys that it put even Llyan on her mettle to keep up; while Gurgi, with most of the wind pounded out of him, clung to the neck of his frantically galloping pony.

“I’ll reason them reasons!” bellowed Smoit, clutching his battle axe. He knitted his jutting brows.

"...You’ve struck on something, my lad. The dungeon’s useless against that pair. And, my pulse, I know why! It needs more dampness, more draught. So be it! I’ll have the place well watered down tonight.”

Two of the warriors quickly mounted and, drawing swords, spurred to engage the rider. But the horseman, brandishing his weapon hilt downward, cried out that he bore tidings from the cantrev lord.

“The bards will sing of this,” exclaimed Fflewddur, carried away by Smoit’s ardor.

Taran scrambled down the rocks jutting beside the high cascade. In a pool hammered into white spray he could hardly make out Smoit’s burly form spinning in the eddies.

Smoit was bleeding heavily from the forehead and his ruddy face had gone chalky pale.

“And Gurgi found them!” shouted Gurgi, capering wildly.

While Smoit blinked in astonishment, Goryon, glimpsing Taran for the first time, exclaimed, “It’s the pig-keeper who cozened me out of my horse! I took him for a lout, but he asks a noble favor. Grant it, Smoit. He speaks wisdom!”

“Gurgi does not care for famous sheep or fleecy bards,” Gurgi wistfully murmured.

“It’s Kaw!” he exclaimed, pointing to the winged shape plummeting swiftly toward the companions. Gurgi shouted joyfully and clapped his hands as the crow alighted on Taran’s wrist.

Still gabbling at the top of his voice, he flapped his glossy black wings, hopped from Taran’s wrist to greet the other companions, and even perched on Llyan’s head, where he busily ran his beak through the great cat’s tawny fur.

In answer, the crow impudently thrust out a sharp black tongue.

“He’s brazen as a magpie!” cried Fflewddur, setting off after the crow.

“He’s brazen as a magpie!” cried Fflewddur, setting off after the crow.

There he lighted on the gnarled branch of a tall, ancient oak, and peered with bright beady eyes at the companions gathered below.

“Come down,” Taran ordered as sternly as he could, for the bird’s comical antics made it impossible for him to be seriously angry.

Muttering hard comments about the impudence of waggish crows, the bard flung his arms about the trunk and tried to haul himself upward.

“A Fflam is agile!” Fflewddur panted, ruefully rubbing his back. “Great Belin, there’s not a tree I can’t climb—ah, except this one.” He mopped his brow and glared at the high trunk.

What Gurgi pressed into Taran’s hand was a small, squat iron coffer no wider than Taran’s palm.

“Well, friends,” the bard remarked, “at least we’ll have some reward for the trouble that pilfering jackdaw has given us. Though from the size of it, I fear it shan’t be very much.”

Fflewddur’s face paled. “As if...” He swallowed hard, choking on his own words. “Get rid of it,” he whispered urgently. “Forget we ever found the thing. I can sniff enchantment a mile way...."

Gurgi, who had been listening closely to Fflewddur’s talk of enchantment, was loath even to touch the coffer; and only after much urging and pleading by the companions did he agree to do so. He hastily climbed the oak and scuttled down even faster than he had clambered up.

Gurgi, who had been listening closely to Fflewddur’s talk of enchantment, was loath even to touch the coffer; and only after much urging and pleading by the companions did he agree to do so. He hastily climbed the oak and scuttled down even faster than he had clambered up.

Taran’s alarm quickly changed to reassurance, for a moment later he saw the huge cat plunge from the underbrush and lope to Fflewddur, who clapped his hands and made loud whispering noises through his teeth.

“Sa! Sa! So there you are, old girl,” cried the bard, beaming happily as Llyan frisked about him.

“Strange things,” Doli resumed. “Peculiar, unsettling. First, not long ago, word reached King Eiddileg in our realm at the bottom of Black Lake that someone had plundered a Fair Folk treasure trove. Broke into it! Made off with the most valuable gems. It’s rarely happened in all the history of Prydain.”

A sudden spasm convulsed him; for an instant Doli seemed about to choke, then a racking sneeze nearly flung him out of the puddle. “Curse this dampness!” he sputtered.

Taran cried in dismay, as Kaw, overweeningly pleased with himself, rocked back and forth and bobbed his head.

“The jackanapes’” burst out Fflewddur. “He’s gone back and rifled the coffer. I thought us well rid of that enchanted toothpick, now we’ve got it again. A sour jest, you magpie!” he exclaimed, flapping his cloak at the bird, who nimbly dodged away.

Swayed by Fflewddur’s vehemence yet reluctant not to follow Doli’s counsel, Taran stood uncertain what to do. At last, with strong misgivings, he tucked the fragment into his jacket.

Swayed by Fflewddur’s vehemence yet reluctant not to follow Doli’s counsel, Taran stood uncertain what to do. At last, with strong misgivings, he tucked the fragment into his jacket.

The frog’s body trembled as in the grip of a painful ague; a sickness, Taran was sure, owing to Doli’s grueling crawl overland.

Under the stream of water he sneezed, choked, and sputtered. Soon he sprawled listlessly, too feeble even to be bad-tempered.

The day had waned quickly and the companions halted in a glade, for Doli had given them to understand that from now on they must travel with utmost caution.

What kept him from taking the clear course was not reluctance to help a close companion, for this he would have done gladly. Nor was it fear for his life but terror that he might share Doli’s fate; not only that his own quest would fail but that he might himself be imprisoned, hapless in some pitiful creature shape, captive forever.