Taran Wanderer: Chapters 8–13

The tall bushes were no haphazard growth, but had been craftily twined into a dense barrier, a living wall nearly twice his height, bristling with spines sharper than the talons of a gwythaint.

As his sight cleared, he saw a gaunt face the color of dry clay, eyes glittering like cold crystals deep set in a jutting brow as though at the bottom of a well.

Gurgi lay sprawled on the flagstones beside him. He glimpsed Kaw pinioned in a wicker basket set on a heavy oaken table, and he cried out to the bird.

Your paltry store of days you call life is spun out. You shall not leave here. And yet—now you are in my hands, it may be that you shall serve me.

The wizard straightened and drew the grimy, threadbare robe closer about his wasted body.

Taran gasped, for from Morda’s withered neck hung a silver chain and crescent moon. Only one other he knew wore such an ornament: Princess Eilonwy Daughter of Angharad. Unlike Eilonwy’s, the horns of this crescent held a strangely carved gem, clear as water, whose facets sparkled as though lit by an inner fire.

Glew was his name, and he sought to make an enchanter of himself. Little fool! He beseeched me to sell him a magic spell, an amulet, a secret word of power.

"...Sniveling upstart! It pleased me to teach him a lesson. I sold him the empty book and warned him not to open it or look upon it until he had traveled far from here lest the spells vanish.”

“One of the Fair Folk watchers came upon me then. I dared not let him raise an alarm. Though none had ever stood against any of them, I did so!” cried Morda. “My jewel was more than a trinket to lighten a scullery maid’s toil. I had grasped the heart of its power...."

Who now would disobey me when I held the means to make men into the weak, groveling creatures they truly are! Did I seek only a gem? The whole kingdom of the Fair Folk was within my grasp. And all of Prydain!

He flung himself closer to Gurgi and the two tore at each other’s bonds; in vain, for within a few moments the wizard returned, half dragging a figure he trussed securely and threw to the ground beside the companions.

“Gray-bearded dotard! His powers cannot shield you now. Even Dallben will bow before me and do my bidding. As for you,” he added, “I will not slay you. That would be paltry punishment. You will live—as long as you are able to live in the shapes you will soon have; live and know, during every moment of your wretched days, the cost of defying me.”

"At Caer Dallben,” Taran began, speaking as slowly as he dared, I was Assistant Pig-Keeper. In my charge was a white pig...” At his wrists one strand parted. But Gurgi’s strength had begun to ebb.

"What, then,” interrupted Morda, laughing harshly, “do you crave to be a swine? To wallow in mire and grub for acorns? Yes, pig-keeper, your choice indeed is fitting.”

"What, then,” interrupted Morda, laughing harshly, “do you crave to be a swine? To wallow in mire and grub for acorns? Yes, pig-keeper, your choice indeed is fitting.”

“It is a small thing my companions and I found,” replied Taran. “How should this have worth to you, Morda? With all your power, do you covet such a trifle?”

Morda’s eyes rolled madly in their wasted sockets, a violent shudder gripped him and his body quaked as though buffeted by a gale.

“I will not kill you,” repeated Taran, drawing back in revulsion, “though it is in my heart to do so. Your evil is too deep for me to judge your punishment. Restore my companions,” he commanded.

Taran’s lungs heaved to bursting and he felt himself drowning in a black sea. Morda’s features blurred; only the wizard’s baleful, unlidded gaze stayed fixed.

The bone! Taran dropped to hands and knees seeking the shard. Nowhere did he see it. He flung aside wooden stools, upturned earthen vessels, scrabbled in the ashes of the hearth. The bone had vanished.

In Taran’s hand the sundered bone had turned to gray dust, which he cast aside.

Even then, the bard appeared uncomfortable and, while Gurgi opened the wallet of food, Fflewddur sat distractedly on a hummock, meditatively fingering his ears, as though to make certain they were indeed his own.

“Favor?” snorted the dwarf. “No favor at all. The horn serves whoever happens to have it—in this case, you. I’ve done nothing but show you how to gain a little more use from something already yours. Favor? Humph! It’s only common courtesy. But guard it well. Squander it like a fool at the first whiff of danger and you’ll regret it when you really are in trouble.”

“How then!” cried Dorath in a great show of indignation. “Do you scorn my poor hospitality? You wound my feelings, lord. Is it beneath you to sleep beside the likes of us? Ah, ah, swineherd, do not insult my men. They might take it amiss.”

“My tunes jangle indeed! My harp a crooked pot! That ruffian has neither ears nor eyes! A Fflam is forbearing, but when he insults my harp Dorath goes too far. Though, alas,” Fflewddur admitted, “I’ve heard the same opinion from a few others.”

While Gurgi and Fflewddur drowsed fitfully, Taran stayed wakeful and uneasy.

Another of Dorath’s band had drifted close by the steeds, where he stood idly paring his nails with the point of a hunting knife.

Dorath threw back his head and laughed. “You make much ado for a piece of iron. Your sweetling girded it to your side! Your first blade! This adds no worth. It is a fair weapon, no more. I’ve cast away better than that. But the look of this one suits me well enough. Give it into my hand and we are quit.”

Dorath’s face filled with cruel pleasure as he reached out. Sudden anger goaded Taran. Caution forgotten, he snatched the blade from its sheath and drew back a pace.

Ears ringing, Taran sought to disengage himself and regain sure footing, but Dorath pressed his attack without respite.

As Fflewddur led the mounts and Gurgi happily bore the lamb in his arms, Taran walked close by the herdsman who, after his first reluctance, was willing now to lean on Taran’s shoulder as the path steepened and twisted upward before dropping into a deep vale among the hills.

A rusted plow, a broken-handled mattock, and a scant number of other implements lay in an open-fronted shed.

In the midst of the high summits, hemmed in closely by thorny brush and scrub, the farm stood lorn and desolate, yet clung doggedly to its patch of bare ground like a surviving warrior flinging his last, lone defiance against a pressing ring of enemies.

There were signs Craddoc had sought to repair his fireplace and broken hearthstone, to mend his roof and chink up the crannies in the wall, but Taran saw the herdsman’s labor had gone unfinished.

In a corner a spinning wheel betokened a woman’s tasks; but if this were so, her hand had ceased to guide it long since.