The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain) (6 page)

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Authors: Lloyd Alexander

BOOK: The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain)
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T
aran stopped short. “You
know
that?” he asked in surprise. “Then why didn’t you …”
Gwystyl gulped and darted nervous glances about him. “Oh, I know. But only in a very general way, you understand. I mean, I don’t really know anything at all. Just the usual unfounded rumor you might expect to hear in a beastly place like this. Of no importance. Pay no attention to it.”
“Gwystyl,” said Doli sharply, “you know more about this than you let on. Now, out with it.”
The gloomy creature flung his hands to his head and began moaning and rocking back and forth. “Do go away and let me alone,” he sobbed. “I’m not well; I have so many tasks to finish, I shall never be caught up.”
“You must tell us!” cried Taran. “Please,” he added, lowering his voice, for the wretched Gwystyl had begun to shake violently, his eyes turning up as though he were about to have a fit. “Do not keep your knowledge from us. If you stay silent, our lives are risked for no purpose.
“Leave it alone,” Gwystyl choked, fanning himself with an edge of his robe. “Don’t bother with it. Forget it. That’s the best thing
you can do. Go back wherever you came from. Don’t even think about it.”
“How can we do that?” Taran cried. “Arawn won’t rest until he has the cauldron again.”
“Of course he won’t rest,” Gwystyl said. “He isn’t resting now. That’s exactly why you should drop the search and go quietly. You’ll only stir up more trouble. And there’s enough of that already.”
“Then we’d better get back to Caer Cadarn and join Gwydion as quickly as we can,” Eilonwy said.
“Yes, yes, by all means,” broke in Gwystyl, with the first trace of eagerness Taran had glimpsed in this strange individual. “I only give you this advice for your own good. I’m glad, very glad, you’ve seen fit to follow it. Now, of course,” he added, almost brightly, “you’ll want to be on your way. Very wise of you. I, unhappily, have to stay here. I envy you, I really do. But—that’s the way of it, and there’s little anyone can do. A pleasure meeting you all. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye?” cried Eilonwy. “If we put our noses above ground and the Huntsmen are waiting for us—yes, it will be good-bye indeed! Doli says it’s your duty to help us. And with that, you haven’t done a thing. Except sigh and moan! If this is the best the Fair Folk can manage, why, I’d rather be up a tree with my toes tied together!”
Gwystyl clutched his head again. “Please, please, don’t shout. I’m not up to shouting today. Not after the horses. One of you can go and see if the Huntsmen are still there. Not that it will really do any good, for they might have just stepped away for a moment.”
“I wonder who’ll do that?” muttered the dwarf. “Good old Doli, of course. I thought I’d done with making myself invisible.”
“I could give all of you a little something,” Gwystyl went on, “not that it will do much good. It’s a kind of powder I’ve put by in case of need. I was saving it for emergencies.”
“What do you call this, you clot!” Doli growled.
“Yes, well, I meant, ah, more for personal emergencies,” Gwystyl explained, paling. “But it doesn’t matter about me. You can have it. Take all of it, go ahead.
“You put it on your feet, or whatever you walk on—I mean hooves and so forth,” Gwystyl added. “It doesn’t work too well, hardly much sense in bothering. Because it wears off. Naturally, if you’re walking on it, it
would
do that. However, it will hide your tracks for a while.”
“That’s what we need,” said Taran. “Once we throw the Huntsmen off our trail, I think we can outrun them.”
“I’ll get some,” Gwystyl said with eagerness. “It won’t take a moment.”
As he made to leave the chamber, however, Doli took him by the arm. “Gwystyl,” said the dwarf severely, “you have a skulking, sneaking look in your eyes. You might hoodwink my friends. But don’t forget you’re also dealing with one of the Fair Folk. I have a feeling,” Doli added, tightening his grip, “you’re far too anxious to see us gone. I’m beginning to wonder, if I squeezed you a little, what more might come out.”
At this, Gwystyl rolled up his eyes and fainted away. The dwarf had to haul him upright, while Taran and the others fanned him.
At length Gwystyl opened one eye. “Sorry,” he gasped. “Not myself today. Too bad about the cauldron. One of those unfortunate things.”
The crow, who had been watching all this activity, turned a beady glance on his owner and flapped his wings with such vigor that Gurgi roused himself in alarm.
“Orddu!” Kaw croaked.
Fflewddur turned in surprise. “Well, can you imagine that! He didn’t say ‘kaw’ at all. At least it didn’t seem that way to me. I could have sworn he said something like ‘or-do.’”
“Orwen!” croaked Kaw. “Orgoch!”
“There,” said Fflewddur, looking at the bird with fascination. “He did it again.”
“It’s strange,” agreed Taran. “It sounded like orduorwenorgoch! And look at him, running back and forth on his perch. Do you think we’ve upset him?”
“He acts as if he wants to tell us something,” began Eilonwy.
Gwystyl’s face, meanwhile, had turned the color of ancient cheese.
“You may not want us to know,” said Doli, roughly seizing the terrified Gwystyl, “but
he
does. This time, Gwystyl, I really mean to squeeze you.”
“No, no, Doli, please don’t do that,” wailed Gwystyl. “Don’t give him another thought. He does odd things; I’ve tried to teach him better habits, but it doesn’t do any good.”
A flood of Gwystyl’s pleading and moaning followed, but the dwarf paid it no heed, and began to carry out his threat.
“No,” squealed Gwystyl. “No squeezing. Not today. Listen to me, Doli,” he added, his eyes crossing and uncrossing frantically, “if I tell you, will you promise to go away?”
Doli nodded and relaxed his grip.
“All Kaw meant to say,” Gwystyl went on hurriedly, “is that the cauldron is in the hands of Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch. That’s all.
It’s a shame, but there’s
certainly
nothing to be done about it. It hardly seemed worth mentioning.”
“Who are Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch?” Taran asked. His excitement and impatience were getting the better of him, too, and he was sorely tempted to aid Doli in squeezing Gwystyl.
“Who
are
they?”
murmured Gwystyl. “You had better ask
what
are they?”
“Very well,” cried Taran, “what are they?”
“I don’t know,” replied Gwystyl. “It’s hard to say. It doesn’t matter; they’ve got the cauldron and you might as well let it rest there.” He shuddered violently. “Don’t meddle with them; there’s no earthly use in it.”
“Whoever they are, or whatever they are,” cried Taran, turning to the rest of the company, “I say find them and take the cauldron. That’s what we set out to do, and we should not turn back now. Where do they live?” he asked Gwystyl.
“Live?” asked Gwystyl with a frown. “They don’t live. Not exactly. It’s all very vague. I really don’t know.”
Kaw flapped his wings again. “Morva!” he croaked.
“I mean,” Gwystyl moaned, as the angry Doli reached for him again, “they stay in the Marshes of Morva. Exactly where, I have no idea, no idea at all. That’s the trouble. You’ll never find them. And if you do, which you won’t, you’ll wish you never had.” Gwystyl wrung his bony hands, and his trembling features indeed held a look of deepest dread.
“I have heard of the Marshes of Morva,” Adaon said. “They lie to the west of here. How far, I do not know.”
“I do!” interrupted Fflewddur. “A good day’s journey, I should say. I once came upon them during my wanderings. I recall them quite clearly. Unpleasant stretch of country and quite terrifying.
Not that it bothered me, of course. Undaunted, I strode through …”
A harp string snapped abruptly with a resounding twang.
“I went around them,” the bard corrected himself hurriedly. “Dreadful, smelly, ugly-looking fens they were. But,” he added, “if that’s where the cauldron is, then I say with Taran: go there! A Fflam never hesitates!”
“A Fflam never hesitates to open his mouth,” put in Doli. “Gwystyl is telling the truth for once, I’m sure of it. I’ve heard tales, back in Eiddileg’s realm, of those—whatever you call thems. And they weren’t pleasant. Nobody knows much about them. Or, if they do, they aren’t telling.”
“You should pay attention to Doli,” interrupted Eilonwy, turning impatiently to Taran. “I don’t see how you can even think about getting the cauldron away from whoever has it—and not even knowing
whatever
has it.
“Besides,” Eilonwy went on, “Gwydion ordered us to meet him at Caer Cadarn, and if my memory hasn’t got holes in it from all the nonsense I’ve been hearing, he didn’t say a word about going off in the opposite direction.”
“You don’t understand,” Taran retorted. “When he told us to meet him, he was going to plan a new search. He didn’t know we would find the cauldron.”
“In the first place,” Eilonwy said, “you haven’t found the cauldron.”
“But we know where it is!” cried Fflewddur. “That’s just as good!”
“And in the second place,” Eilonwy continued, ignoring the bard, “if you’ve got any news about it, the only wise thing is to find Gwydion and tell him what you know.”
“That’s sense,” put in Doli. “We’ll have enough trouble getting
to Caer Cadarn without splashing around in swamps on a wild goose chase. You listen to her. She’s the only one, outside of myself, who has any notion of what ought to be done.”
Taran hesitated. “It may be,” he said, after a pause, “that we would be wiser returning to Gwydion. King Morgant and his warriors can lend us their strength.”
He spoke these words with some effort; in the back of his mind he yearned to find the cauldron, to bring it in triumph to Gwydion. Nevertheless, he could not deny to himself that Eilonwy and Doli had proposed the surer plan.
“It seems to me, then,” he began. But he had no sooner started to agree with Doli than Ellidyr thrust his way to the fireside.
“Pig-boy,” Ellidyr said, “you have chosen well. Return with your friends and let us make our parting here.”
“Parting?” asked Taran, puzzled.
“Do you think I would turn my back now, when the prize is nearly won?” Ellidyr said coldly. “Go your way, pig-boy, and I shall go mine—to the Marshes of Morva themselves. Wait for me at Caer Cadarn,” Ellidyr added with a scornful smile. “Warm your courage beside the fire. I shall bring the cauldron there.”
Taran’s eyes flashed with anger at Ellidyr’s words. The thought that Ellidyr should find the cauldron was more than he could bear.
“I shall warm my courage, Son of Pen-Llarcau,” he cried, “in whatever fire you choose! Go back, the rest of you, if that’s what you want. I was a fool to listen to the thoughts of a girl!”
Eilonwy gave a furious shriek. Doli raised a hand in protest, but Taran cut him short. He was calmer now that his first anger had passed. “This is not a game of courage,” he said. “I would be twice a fool, and so should we all, to be goaded by an idle taunt.
This much, at least, I have learned from Gwydion. But there is also this: Arawn seeks the cauldron even now. We do not dare lose the time it would take to bring help. If he finds the cauldron before we do …”
“And if he doesn’t?” put in Doli. “How do you know he knows where it is? And if he doesn’t know, how long will it take him to find out? A merry while, I’ll be bound, even with all his Cauldron-Born and Huntsmen and gwythaints, and what have you! There’s a risk either way, any clodpole can see that. But if you ask me, there’s more risk than otherwise if you go popping off into the Marshes of Morva.”
“And you, Taran of Caer Dallben,” said Eilonwy, “you’re only making excuses for some harebrained idea of your own. You’ve been talking and talking and you’ve forgotten one thing. You’re not the one to decide anything; and neither are you, Ellidyr. Adaon commands you both,
if
I’m not mistaken.”
Taran flushed at Eilonwy’s reminder. “Forgive me, Adaon,” he said, bowing his head. “I did not intend to disobey your orders. The choice is yours.”
Adaon, who had been listening silently near the fire, shook his head. “No,” he said quietly, “this choice cannot be mine. I have said nothing for or against your plan; the decision is greater than I dare make.”
“But why?” cried Taran. “I don’t understand,” he said quickly and with concern. “Of all of us, you know best what to do.”
Adaon turned his gray eyes toward the fire. “Perhaps you will understand one day. For now, choose your path, Taran of Caer Dallben,” he said. “Wherever it may lead, I promise you my help.”
Taran drew back and stood silent a moment, filled with distress
and uneasiness. It was not fear touching his heart, but the wordless sorrow of dry leaves rushing desolate before the wind. Adaon continued to watch the dance of the flames.
“I shall go to the Marshes of Morva,” Taran said.
Adaon nodded. “So it shall be.”

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