The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain) (11 page)

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Authors: Lloyd Alexander

BOOK: The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain)
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The companions gave a mighty heave, then nearly fell to the ground. The cauldron had not moved.
“It’s heavier than I thought,” said Taran. “Try again.” He made to shift his grip on the handle. But his hands would not come free. In a spurt of fear, he tried to pull away. It was in vain.
“I say,” muttered the bard, “I seem to be caught on something.”
“So am I!” Eilonwy cried, struggling to tear her hands loose.
“And Gurgi is caught!” howled the terrified Gurgi. “Oh, sorrow! He cannot move!”
Desperately the companions flung themselves back and forth, fighting against the mute, iron enemy. Taran wrenched and tugged until he sobbed for lack of strength. Eilonwy had dropped in exhaustion, her hands still on the heavy ring. Once again, Taran strained to break free. The Black Crochan held him fast.
A figure in a long night robe appeared at the doorway.
“It’s Orddu!” cried the bard. “We’ll be toads for sure!”
The Price
O
rddu, blinking sleepily and looking more disheveled than ever, stepped inside the chicken roost. Behind her followed the other two enchantresses, also in flapping night robes, their hair unbound and falling about their shoulders in a mass of snarls and tangles. They had again taken the shapes of crones, in no way resembling the maidens Taran had spied through the window.
Orddu raised a sputtering candle above her head and peered at the companions.
“Oh, the poor lambs!” she cried. “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!”
“Don’t you think,” said Orgoch in a croaking whisper, “we should start the fire?”
Orddu turned to her. “Do be silent, Orgoch,” she cried. “What a dreadful thought. It’s much too early for breakfast.”
“Never too early,” muttered Orgoch.
“Look at them,” Orddu went on fondly. “They’re so charming when they’re frightened. Like birdlings without their feathers.”
“You have tricked us, Orddu!” Taran cried. “You knew we’d find the cauldron and you knew what would happen!”
“Why, of course we did, my chicken,” Orddu replied sweetly. “We were only curious to find out what you’d do when you did find it. And now you’ve found it, and now we know!”
Taran struggled desperately to free himself. Despite his terror, he flung back his head and glared defiantly at Orddu. “Kill us if you choose, you evil hags!” he cried. “Yes, we would have stolen the cauldron and destroyed it! And so shall I try again, as long as I live!” Taran threw himself furiously against the immovable Crochan and once again with all his strength tried vainly to wrest it from the ground.
“I love to see them get angry, don’t you?” Orwen whispered happily to Orgoch.
“Do take care,” Orddu advised Taran, “or you’ll harm yourself with all that thrashing about. We forgive you for calling us hags,” she added indulgently. “You’re upset, poor chicken, and liable to say anything.”
“You are evil creatures!” Taran cried. “Do with us what you will, but sooner or later you shall be overcome. Gwydion shall learn of our fate. And Dallben …”
“Yes, yes!” shouted Gurgi. “They will find you, oh, yes! With great fightings and smitings!”
“My dear pullets,” replied Orddu, “you still don’t understand, do you? Evil? Why, bless your little thumping hearts, we aren’t evil.”
“I should hardly call this ‘good,’” muttered the bard. “Not, at least, from a personal point of view.”
“Of course not,” agreed Orddu. “We’re neither good nor evil. We’re simply interested in things as they are. And things as they are, at the moment, seem to be that you’re caught by the Crochan.”
“And you don’t care!” cried Eilonwy. “That’s worse than being evil!”
“Certainly we care, my dear,” Orwen said soothingly. “It’s that we don’t care in quite the same way you do, or rather
care
isn’t really a feeling we can have.”
“Come now,” said Orddu, “don’t trouble your thoughts with such matters. We’ve been talking and talking and we have some pleasant news for you. Bring the Crochan outdoors—it’s so stuffy and eggy in here—and we shall tell you. Go ahead,” she added, “you can lift it now.”
Taran cast Orddu a distrustful glance, but ventured to put his weight against the cauldron. It moved, and he discovered, too, his hands were free. With much labor the companions managed to raise the heavy Crochan and carry it from the chicken roost.
Outside, the sun had already risen. As the companions set the cauldron on the ground and quickly drew away, the rays of dawn turned the black iron as red as blood.
“Yes, now as I was saying,” Orddu continued, while Taran and his companions rubbed their aching arms and hands, “we’ve talked it over and we agree—even Orgoch agrees—that you shall have the Crochan if you truly want it.”
“You’ll let us take it?” cried Taran. “After all you’ve done?”
“Quite so,” replied Orddu. “The Crochan is useless—except for making Cauldron-Born. Arawn has spoiled it for anything else, as you might imagine. It’s sad it should be so, but that’s the way things are. Now, I assure you, Cauldron-Born are the last creatures in the world we should want around here. We’ve decided the Crochan is nothing but a bother to us. And, since you’re friends of Dallben …”
“You’re giving us the Crochan?” Taran began in astonishment.
“Delighted to oblige you ladies,” said the bard.
“Gently, gently, my ducklings,” Orddu interrupted. “Give you the Crochan? Oh, goodness no! We never
give
anything. Only what is worth earning is worth having. But we shall allow you the opportunity to buy it.”
“We have no treasures to bargain with,” Taran said in dismay. “Alas that we do not.”
“We couldn’t expect you to pay as much as Arawn did,” replied Orddu, “but we’re sure you can find something to offer in exchange. Oh, shall we say … the North Wind in a bag?”
“The North Wind!” Taran exclaimed. “Impossible! How could you ever dream … ?”
“Very well,” said Orddu, “we shan’t be difficult. The South Wind, then. It’s much gentler.”
“You make sport of us,” Taran cried angrily. “The price you ask is beyond what any of us can pay.”
Orddu hesitated. “Possibly you’re right,” she admitted. “Well, then, something a little more personal. I have it!” she said, beaming at Taran. “Give us—give us the nicest summer day you can remember! You can’t say that’s hard, since it belongs to you!”
“Yes,” Orwen said eagerly. “A lovely summer afternoon full of sunlight and sleepy scents.”
“There’s nothing so sweet,” murmured Orgoch, sucking a tooth, “as a tender young lamb’s summer afternoon.”
“How can I give you that?” protested Taran. “Or any other day, when they’re—they’re inside of me somewhere? You can’t get them out! I mean …”
“We could try,” Orgoch muttered.
Orddu sighed patiently. “Very well, my goslings. We’ve made our suggestions and we’re willing to listen to yours. But mind you, if it’s
to be a fair exchange, it must be something you prize as much as the Crochan.”
“I prize my sword,” Taran said. “It is a gift from Dallben and the first blade that is truly mine. For the Crochan I would gladly part with it.” He began quickly to unbuckle his belt, but Orddu waved an uninterested hand.
“A sword?” she answered, shaking her head. “Goodness, no, my duck. We already have so many—too many, in fact. And some of them famous weapons of mighty warriors.”
“Then,” said Taran, with hesitation, “I offer you Lluagor. She is a noble animal.” He paused, seeing Orddu’s frown. “Or,” he added reluctantly in a low voice, “there is my horse, Melynlas, a colt of Melyngar, Prince Gwydion’s own steed. None is faster or more surefooted. I treasure Melynlas beyond all others.”
“Horses?” said Orddu. “No, that won’t do at all. Such a bother feeding them and caring for them. Besides, with Orgoch it’s difficult to keep pets about.”
Taran was silent for a moment. His face paled as he thought of Adaon’s brooch and his hand went protectively to it. “All that remains to me,” he began slowly.
“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!”
“Not food,” said Orddu. “That won’t do either. The only one of us who has the slightest interest in food is Orgoch. And I’m sure your wallet holds nothing to tempt her.”
Gurgi looked at Orddu in dismay. “But it is all poor Gurgi has to give.” He held out the wallet once again.
The enchantress smiled and shook her head. Gurgi’s hands fell to his sides; his shoulders drooped; and he turned mournfully away.
“You must like jewelry,” Eilonwy put in quickly. She pulled the ring from her finger and offered it to Orddu. “This is a lovely thing,” Eilonwy said. “Prince Gwydion gave it to me. Do you see the stone? It was carved by the Fair Folk.”
Orddu took the ring, held it close to her eye, and squinted. “Lovely, lovely,” she said. “So pretty. Almost as pretty as you, my lamb. But so much older. No, I’m afraid not. We have a number of them, too. We really don’t want any more. Keep it, my chick. One day you may find some use for it, but we surely won’t.” She gave back the ring to Eilonwy, who sadly replaced it on her finger.
“I do have something else I treasure,” Eilonwy went on. She reached into the folds of her cloak and brought out the golden sphere. “Here,” she said, turning it in her hands so that it shone with a bright glow. “It’s much better than just a light,” Eilonwy said. “You see things differently in it, clearer, somehow. It’s very useful.”
“How sweet of you to offer it to us,” said Orddu. “But there again, it’s something we don’t really need.”
“Ladies, ladies!” cried Fflewddur. “You’ve overlooked a most excellent bargain.” He stepped forward and unslung his harp. “I quite understand that bags of food and all such couldn’t possibly interest you. But I ask you to consider this harp. You’re alone in this gloomy fen,” he went on, “and a little music should be just the thing.
“The harp almost plays of itself,” Fflewddur continued. He put the beautifully curved instrument on his shoulder, barely touched the strings, and a long, lovely melody filled the air. “You see?” cried the bard. “Nothing to it!”
“Oh, it is nice!” Orwen murmured wistfully. “And think of the songs we could sing to keep ourselves company.”
Orddu peered closely at the harp. “I notice a good many of the strings are badly knotted. Has the weather got into them?”
“No, not exactly the weather,” said the bard. “With me, they tend to break frequently. But only when I-only when I color the facts a bit. I’m sure you ladies wouldn’t have that kind of trouble.”
“I can understand you should prize it,” Orddu said. “But, if we want music we can always send for a few birds. No, all things considered, it would be a nuisance, keeping it in tune and so on.”
“Are you certain you have nothing else?” Orwen asked hopefully.
“That’s all,” said the disappointed bard. “Absolutely everything. Unless you want the cloaks off our backs.”
“Bless you, no!” said Orddu. “It wouldn’t be proper in the least for you ducklings to go without them. You’d perish with the cold—and what good would the Crochan be to you then?
“I’m terribly sorry, my chicks,” Orddu went on. “It does indeed seem you have nothing to interest us. Very well, we shall keep the Crochan and you shall be on your way.”
The Black Crochan
“F
arewell, my owlets,” Orddu said, turning toward the cottage. “Unfortunate you couldn’t strike a bargain with us. But that, too, is the way things are. Flutter home to your nest, and give all our love to little Dallben.”
“Wait!” Taran called, and strode after her. Eilonwy, realizing his intent, cried out in protest and caught his arm. Gently, Taran put her aside. Orddu stopped and looked back at him.
“There is—there is one thing more,” Taran said in a low voice. He stiffened and took a deep breath. “The brooch I wear, the gift of Adaon Son of Taliesin.”
“Brooch?” said Orddu, eyeing him curiously. “A brooch, indeed? Yes, that might be more interesting. Just the thing, perhaps. You should have mentioned it sooner.”
Taran lifted his head and his eyes met Orddu’s. For that instant it seemed to him they were quite alone. He raised his hand slowly to his throat and felt the power of the brooch working within him. “You have been toying with us, Orddu,” he whispered. “You saw that I wore Adaon’s clasp from the moment we came here. You knew it for what it was.”
“Does that matter?” Orddu replied. “It is still your choice,
whether you will bargain with it. Yes, we know the brooch well. Menwy Son of Teirgwaedd, first of the bards, fashioned it long ago.”
“You could have slain us,” Taran murmured, “and taken the clasp.”
Orddu smiled sadly. “Do you not understand, poor chicken? Like knowledge, truth, and love themselves, the clasp must be given willingly or its power is broken. And it is, indeed, filled with power. This, too, you must understand. For Menwy the Bard cast a mighty spell on it and filled it with dreams, wisdom, and vision. With such a clasp, a duckling could win much glory and honor. Who can tell? He might rival all the heroes of Prydain, even Gwydion Prince of Don.
“Think carefully, duckling,” Orddu said. “Once given up, it shall not come to you again. Will you exchange it for an evil cauldron you intend only to destroy?”
As he held the brooch, Taran recalled with bitter clarity the joys of sight and scent, of dewdrops on a spiderweb, his rescue of the companions from the rock fall, of Gurgi praising his wisdom, the admiring eyes of Eilonwy, and Adaon who had entrusted the brooch to him. Once more there came to him the pride of strength and knowledge. At his feet, the ugly cauldron seemed to mock him.
Taran nodded, barely able to speak. “Yes,” he said heavily. “This shall be my bargain.” Slowly he undid the clasp at his throat. As he dropped the bit of iron into Orddu’s outstretched hand, it was as though a light flickered and died in his heart, and he nearly cried out with the anguish of it.
“Done, my chicken!” Orddu cried. “The brooch for the Crochan!”
About him the companions stood in silence and dismay. Taran’s
hands clenched. “The Crochan is ours,” he said, looking Orddu full in the face. “Is this not so? It is ours, to do with as we please?”
“Why, of course, dear fledgling,” Orddu said. “We never break a bargain. It’s yours entirely, no question of it.”
“In your stables,” Taran said, “I saw hammers and iron bars. Will you grant us the use of them? Or,” he added bitterly, “must we pay still another price?”
“Use them by all means,” replied Orddu. “We’ll count that as part of the bargain, for you are a bold chicken, we must admit.”
Taran led the companions to the stable and there he paused. “I understand what you were all trying to do,” he said quietly, taking their hands in turn. “Each of you would have given up what you treasured most, for my sake. I’m glad Orddu didn’t take your harp, Fflewddur,” he added. “I know how unhappy you’d be without your music, even more than I without my brooch. And Gurgi, you should never have to tried to sacrifice your food on my account. And Eilonwy, your ring and your bauble are much too useful and beautiful to exchange for an ugly Crochan.
“All of these things,” Taran said, “are doubly precious now. And so are you, the best of true comrades.” He seized a heavy hammer that was leaning against the wall. “Come now, friends, we have a task to finish.”
Armed with iron bars and sledges, the companions hurried back to the cottage and, while the enchantresses looked on curiously, Taran raised his hammer. With all his strength he brought it down on the Crochan.
The hammer rebounded. The cauldron rang like a deep bell of doom, but remained undented. With a cry of anger, Taran struck again. The bard and Eilonwy added a fury of blows, while Gurgi belabored the cauldron with an iron bar.
Despite their efforts, the cauldron showed not the slightest damage. Drenched and exhausted, Taran leaned on his hammer and wiped his streaming face.
“You should have told us, my goslings, what you intended,” Orddu called. “You can’t do that to the Crochan, you know.”
“The cauldron belongs to us,” retorted Eilonwy. “Taran has paid more than enough. It’s our business if we want to smash it!”
“Naturally,” replied Orddu, “and you’re quite welcome to hammer and kick it from now until the birds start nesting again. But, my silly goslings, you’ll never destroy the Crochan that way. Goodness no, you’re going at it all wrong!”
Gurgi, about to crawl inside the Crochan and attack it from within, stopped to listen while Orddu continued.
“Since the Crochan is yours,” she said, “you’re entitled to know how to dispose of it. There’s only one way, though very simple and neat it is.”
“Then tell us!” Taran cried. “So that we may put an end to the evil thing!”
“A living person must climb into it,” Orddu said. “When he does, the Crochan will shatter. But,” she added, “there’s only one disagreeable thing about that, the poor duckling who climbs in will never climb out again alive.”
With a yelp of terror, Gurgi sprang from the cauldron and scuttled to a safe distance, where he furiously brandished his iron bar and shook his fist at the Crochan.
“Yes,” said Orddu with a smile, “that’s the way of it. The Crochan only cost you a brooch, but it will cost a life to destroy it. Not only that, but whoever gives up his life to the Crochan must give it willingly, knowing full well what he does.
“And now, my chickens,” she went on, “we must really say
farewell. Orgoch is dreadfully sleepy. You had us up so early, you know. Farewell, farewell.” She waved a hand and, with the other enchantresses, turned to enter the cottage.
“Stop!” Taran shouted. “Tell us, is there no other way?” He ran to the doorway.
Orddu’s head popped out for an instant. “None whatever, my chicken,” she said, and for the first time there was a hint of pity in her voice.
The door snapped shut in Taran’s face. He pounded in vain; no further reply came from the enchantresses, and even the window suddenly darkened with an impenetrable black fog.
“When Orddu and her friends say farewell,” remarked the bard, “they mean it. I doubt we shall see them again.” He brightened. “And that’s the most cheerful piece of news I’ve had this morning.”
Taran wearily dropped his hammer to the ground. “Surely there must be something else we can do. Though we cannot destroy the Crochan, we dare not part with it.”
“Hide it,” suggested Fflewddur. “Bury it. And I should say, as soon as possible. You can be quite certain we won’t find anyone eager to jump into the thing and break it for us.”
Taran shook his head. “No, we cannot hide it. Sooner or later Arawn would find it, and all our efforts would have been useless. Dallben will know,” he went on. “He alone has the wisdom to deal with the cauldron. Gwydion himself planned to bring the Crochan to Caer Dallben. Now that must be our task.”
Fflewddur nodded. “I suppose that’s the only safe thing. But it’s a cumbersome beast. I don’t see the four of us lugging it along some of those mountain trails.”
In front of the silent cottage, the companions led out Lluagor and Melynlas and lashed the cauldron between the two steeds.
Gurgi and Eilonwy guided the heavily laden horses, while Taran and the bard walked, one in front, one behind, to steady the Crochan.
Though eager to be gone from Orddu’s cottage, Taran did not dare venture across the Marshes of Morva again. Instead, he determined the companions would travel some distance from the edges of the swamp, keeping to solid ground and following a path half-circling the bog until they reached the moors.
“It’s longer,” Taran said, “but the Marshes are too treacherous. Last time, Adaon’s brooch guided me. Now,” he added with a sigh, “I’m afraid I’d lead us to the same fate as the Huntsmen.”
“That’s rather a good idea!” cried the bard. “Not for us,” he added quickly, “for the Crochan. Sink the beastly pot in the quicksand!”
“No thank you!” answered Eilonwy. “By the time we found quicksand, we’d be sinking along with the Crochan. If you’re tired, we can change off and you lead Melynlas.”
“Not at all, not at all,” grunted Fflewddur. “It’s not as heavy as all that. In fact, I find the exercise bracing, quite invigorating. A Fflam never flags!”
At this, a harp string broke, but the bard gave it no heed, busy as he was in holding his side of the swaying cauldron.
Taran trudged in silence, speaking only to call directions to Eilonwy and Gurgi. They continued with few moments of rest throughout the day. Nevertheless by sunset Taran realized they had covered only a little distance and had barely reached the broad moorlands. He was aware, too, of his own fatigue, heavy as the Crochan itself, a weariness he had never noticed while he had worn Adaon’s brooch.
They camped on an open heath, cold and barren, shrouded with
mist drifting from the Marshes of Morva. There they unroped the Crochan from the tired horses and Gurgi brought out food from the wallet. After the meal, Fflewddur’s spirits revived. Although shivering in the chill and dampness, the bard put his harp to his shoulder and attempted to cheer the companions with a merry song.
Taran, usually eager to listen to the bard’s music, sat apart, gloomily watching the cauldron. After a time Eilonwy drew near and put her hand on his shoulder.
“I realize it’s no consolation to you,” she said, “but if you look at it in one way, you didn’t give up a thing to the enchantresses, not really. You did exchange the clasp and everything that went along with it. But, don’t you see, all those things came from the clasp itself; they weren’t inside of you.
“I think,” she added, “it would have been much worse giving up a summer day. That’s part of you, I mean. I know I shouldn’t want to give up a single one of mine. Or even a winter day, for the matter of that. So, when you come right down to it, Orddu didn’t take anything from you; why, you’re still yourself and you can’t deny that!”
“Yes,” Taran answered. “I am still only an Assistant Pig-Keeper. I should have known that anything else was too good to last.”
“That may be true,” said Eilonwy, “but as far as being an Assistant Pig-Keeper is concerned, I think you’re a perfectly marvelous one. Believe me, there’s no question in my mind you’re the best Assistant Pig-Keeper in all Prydain. How many others there are, I’m sure I don’t know, but that’s beside the point. And I doubt a single one of them would have done what you did.”
“I could not have done otherwise,” Taran said, “not if we were to gain the cauldron. Orddu said they were interested in things as
they are,” he went on. “I believe now they are concerned with things as they must be.
“Adaon knew there was a destiny laid on him,” Taran continued, turning to Eilonwy, his voice growing firmer, “and he did not turn from it, though it cost him his life.
“Very well,” he declared. “If there is a destiny laid on me, I shall face it. I hope only that I may face it as well as Adaon did his.”
“But don’t forget,” added Eilonwy, “no matter what else happens, you won the cauldron for Gwydion and Dallben and all of us. That’s one thing nobody can take away from you. Why, for that alone you have every reason to be proud.”
Taran nodded. “Yes, this much have I done.” He said no more and Eilonwy quietly left him there.
For long after the others had gone to sleep, Taran sat staring at the Crochan. He thought carefully over all Eilonwy had told him; his despair lightened a little and pride stirred within him. Soon the cauldron would be in Gwydion’s hands and the long task ended. “This much have I done,” Taran repeated to himself, and new strength budded in his heart.
Nevertheless, as the wind moaned across the heath and the Crochan loomed before him like an iron shadow, he thought once again of the brooch, and he buried his face in his hands and wept.

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