“Oh, wisdom of kindly master!” cried Gurgi, as the cantrev lords set about dividing their herds and Smoit’s warriors made ready to return to Caer Cadarn. “Gurgi finds cows, but only wise master knows what to do with them!”
“If indeed I did rightly,” Taran replied, “Gast and Goryon will be waiting for Cornillo’s calves. Gast said they were always twins. I only hope,” he added with a grin, “that she doesn’t disappoint us.”
It was long after nightfall when the companions at last reached Caer Cadarn. Fflewddur and Gurgi were too exhausted to do more than fling themselves onto their couches. Taran would gladly have followed them, but Smoit took his arm and drew him to the Great Hall.
“Count your day well spent, my lad,” cried Smoit. “You’ve spared the cantrev from a war and me from being drubbed into jelly. As for Gast and Goryon, how long they’ll stay at peace with each other I’ll not guess. But you’ve taught me one thing: My dungeons are useless. My body and bones, I’ll have them walled up directly. From this day I’ll try my hand at speaking instead of smiting!”
“And yet, lad,” Smoit went on, furrowing his brow, “my wits are slow. I need no man to tell me that, and I am easier in my mind when I have a blade in my hand. Will you return favor for favor? Stay with me in Cantrev Cadiffor.”
“Sire,” Taran answered, “I seek to learn who my kinsmen are. I cannot …”
“Kinsmen!” shouted Smoit, slapping his great girth. “There’s enough of me to make all the kinsmen you could want! Hear me well,” he added, his voice quieter now, “a widower am I, and childless. Do you yearn for parents? No less do I yearn for a son. When the horn of Gwyn the Hunter sounds for me, there shall be none to take my place, and none would I choose but you. Stay, lad, and you shall one day be King of Cadiffor.”
“King of Cadiffor?” Taran cried. His heart leaped. What need to seek the Mirror when he could offer Eilonwy a royal throne, the proudest gift he could ever lay at her feet? Taran King of Cadiffor. The words rang more sweetly in his ears than Taran Assistant Pig-Keeper. Yet suddenly his joy turned cold. While Eilonwy might honor his rank, could she respect him for abandoning his quest even before it had begun? Could he respect himself? For a long while Taran did not answer, then with fond admiration he turned his eyes to Smoit.
“The honor you would give me,” Taran began, “there is nothing I would value more highly. Yes—I long to accept it.” His voice faltered. “Yet I would rather hold kingship by right of noble birth, not as a gift. It may be,” he went on slowly, “that in truth I am nobly born. If it should prove thus, then gladly would I rule Cadiffor.”
“How then!” cried Smoit. “My body and bones, I’d rather see a wise pig-keeper on my throne than a blood prince who’s a fool!”
“But there is this, as well,” Taran answered. “It is in my heart to learn the truth about myself. I will not stop short of it. Were I to do so, who I truly am would forever be unknown and through all my life I would feel a part of me lacking.”
At these words Smoit’s battle-scarred face fell with sadness and regretfully he bowed his head. But after a moment he clapped Taran heartily on the back. “My breath, blood, and beard!” he cried. “You’ve a will to chase the wild goose, will-o’-the-wisp, looking glass, or whatever it may be; and I’ll say no more to keep you from it. Seek it out, lad! Whether or not you find it, come back and Cadiffor will welcome you. But hasten, for if Gast and Goryon are ever at loggerheads again, I’ll not vouch for how much of the cantrev will be left!”
Thus Taran, with Gurgi and Fflewddur Fflam, set off once more. In his secret heart Taran cherished the hope he might return to Smoit’s realm with proud tidings of his parentage. Yet he did not foresee how long it would be until he set foot in Cantrev Cadiffor again.
CHAPTER SIX
A Frog
From Caer Cadarn the companions made good progress and within a few days crossed the River Ystrad, where Fflewddur led them for a time along the farther bank before turning north-eastward through the Hill Cantrevs. Unlike the Valley Cantrevs, these lands were grayish and flinty. What might once have been fair pastureland Taran saw to be overlaid with brush, and the long reaches of forest were close-grown and darkly tangled.
Fflewddur admitted his roving seldom brought him to these parts. “The cantrev nobles are as glum as their domains. Play your merriest tune and the best you can hope for is a sour smile. Yet, if the old lore is true, these realms were as rich as any in Prydain. The sheep of the Hill Cantrevs—Great Belin, it’s said they had fleece so thick you could sink your arm in it up to the elbow! Nowadays, alas, they tend to be a little scruffy.”
“Aeddan told me Arawn Death-Lord stole many secrets from the farmers of the valley,” Taran replied. “Surely he robbed the shepherds of the Hill Cantrevs as well.”
Fflewddur nodded. “Few treasures he hasn’t spoiled or stolen save those of the Fair Folk, and even Arawn might think twice before trifling with them. Be that as it may,” he went on, “I’d not change the Northern Realms, where my own kingdom is, for any of these. There, my boy, we raise no sheep, but famous bards and warriors! Naturally, the House of Fflam has held its throne there for—well, for a remarkably long time. In the veins of a Fflam,” declared the bard, “flows royal blood of the Sons of Don! Prince Gwydion himself is my kinsman. Distant—distant, it’s true,” he added hastily, “but a kinsman nonetheless.”
“Gurgi does not care for famous sheep or fleecy bards,” Gurgi wistfully murmured. “He is happy at Caer Dallben, oh, yes, and wishes he is soon there.”
“As for that,” answered Fflewddur, “I’m afraid you’ll have hard travel before you see home again. It’s anyone’s guess how long it will take to find your mysterious Mirror. I’ll go with you as far as I can,” he said to Taran, “though sooner or later I shall have to get back to my kingdom. My subjects are always impatient for my return …”
The harp shuddered violently as a string snapped in two. Fflewddur’s face reddened. “Ahem,” he said, “yes, what I meant was: I’ll be anxious to see them again. The truth of it is, I often have the feeling they manage quite well even when I’m not there. Still, a Fflam is dutiful!”
The companions halted while Fflewddur slid from Llyan’s back and squatted on the turf to repair his broken string. From his jacket the bard took the large key which he used to tighten the harp’s wooden pegs, and began patiently retuning the instrument.
A raucous cry made Taran glance quickly skyward. “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.
“So you’ve found us, old friend,” cried Taran, delighted to have the crow with him once again. “Tell me,” he went on quickly, “how does Eilonwy fare? Does she miss—all of us?”
“Princess!” Kaw croaked, beating his wings. “Princess! Eilonwy! Taran!” He clacked his beak, hopped up and down on Taran’s wrist, and set up such a jabbering and chattering that Taran could barely make out one word from another. The best he could understand was that Eilonwy’s indignation at being forced to learn royal behavior had by no means dwindled, and that indeed she missed him—tidings that both cheered Taran and sharpened his yearning for the golden-haired Princess.
In the cavern on Mona, Kaw also managed to convey, Glew the giant had been restored to his original size by Dallben’s potion.
Kaw himself was in the best of spirits. 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.
“His eyes will help our search,” Taran said to Fflewddur, who had left his harp to come and stroke the bird’s sleek feathers. “Kaw can scout the land better than any of us.”
“So he can,” agreed Fflewddur, “if he has a mind to and if you can make him heed you. Otherwise the scamp will have his beak in everyone’s bu
siness but his own.”
“Yes, yes,” Gurgi added, shaking a finger at the crow. “Heed commands of kindly master! Help him with flyings and spyings, not pryings and lyings!”
In answer, the crow impudently thrust out a sharp black tongue. With a flirt of his tail he fluttered to the harp and began rapidly twanging the strings with his beak. At the bard’s cry of protest, Kaw hopped from the instrument’s curved frame and snatched up the tuning key, which he began dragging across the turf.
“He’s brazen as a magpie!” cried Fflewddur, setting off after the crow. “He’s thieving as a jackdaw!”
No sooner did Fflewddur come within half a pace of him than Kaw nimbly hopped away again, bearing the key in his beak. Squawking merrily, the crow stayed always out of Fflewddur’s grasp, and Taran could not help laughing at the sight of the long-shanked bard vainly racing in circles, while Kaw danced ahead of him. When Gurgi and Taran joined the pursuit and Taran’s fingers had come within a hairbreadth of the crow’s tail feathers, Kaw shot upward and flapped teasingly a short distance into the woods. 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. “I’ve tried to teach him to behave,” Taran sighed, “but it’s no use. He’ll bring it back when he feels like it and not before.”
“Hi, hi! Drop it!” called Fflewddur, waving his arms. “Drop it, I say!”
At this Kaw bobbed his head, hunched up his wings, and dropped the key—not into the bard’s outstretched hands but into a hollow of the tree trunk.
“Dropped it! Dropped it!” croaked Kaw, rocking back and forth on the branch, jabbering and chuckling gleefully at his own jest.
Fflewddur snorted. “That bird’s ill-mannered as a starling! He’s had his merriment, now I shall have the toil.” Muttering hard comments about the impudence of waggish crows, the bard flung his arms about the trunk and tried to haul himself upward. Less than halfway, his grip loosened and he came tumbling down to land heavily amid the roots.
“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.
“Gurgi climbs, yes, yes!” cried Gurgi, springing to the oak. With shaggy arms and legs working all at once, in a trice the creature clambered up the tree. While Fflewddur shouted encouragement, Gurgi thrust a skinny hand into the hollow.
“Here is tuneful key, oh, yes!” he called. “Clever Gurgi finds it!” He stopped short. Taran saw the creature’s face wrinkle in surprise and perplexity. Tossing the key down to Fflewddur, Gurgi turned once more to the hollow. “But what is this? What else does Gurgi find with gropings? Kindly master,” he shouted, “here is strange something all set away in hidings!”
Taran saw the excited creature tuck an object under his arm and slide down the oak tree.
“See with lookings!” cried Gurgi as Taran and the bard pressed around him.
Kaw’s prank was forgotten in the moment and the crow, not abashed whatever, flew to Taran’s shoulder, stretched out his neck, and crowded forward as if determined to be first to glimpse Gurgi’s discovery.
“Is it treasure?” Gurgi exclaimed. “Oh, treasure of great worth! And Gurgi finds it!” He stamped his feet wildly. “Open it, kindly master! Open and see what riches it holds!”
What Gurgi pressed into Taran’s hand was a small, squat iron coffer no wider than Taran’s palm. Its curved lid was heavily hinged, bound with iron strips, and secured by a stout padlock.
“Is it jewels with winkings and blinkings? Or gold with shimmerings and glimmerings?” cried Gurgi, as Taran turned the coffer over and over; Fflewddur, too, peered at it curiously.
“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.”
Taran, meantime, had been struggling with the lock which refused to give way. The lid resisted all his battering, and finally he had to set the coffer on the ground where Gurgi held it tightly while the bard and Taran pried at the hinges with the points of their swords. But the coffer was surprisingly strong, and it took all their strength and effort before the lid at last yielded and fell away with a loud, rasping snap. Within lay a packet of soft leather which Taran carefully untied.
“What is it? What is it?” yelped Gurgi, jumping up and down on one leg. “Let Gurgi see shining treasure!”
Taran laughed and shook his head. The packet held neither gold nor gems, but no more than a slender piece of bone as long as Taran’s little finger. Gurgi groaned in disappointment.
Fflewddur snorted. “I should say our shaggy friend has found a very small hairpin or a very large toothpick. I doubt we’ll have much use for either one.”
Taran had not ceased examining the strange object. The sliver of bone was dry and brittle, bleached white and highly polished. Whether animal or human he could not tell. “What value can this have?” he murmured, frowning.
“Great value,” replied Fflewddur, “if one should ever need a toothpick. Beyond that,” he shrugged. “Keep it, if you like, or toss it away; I can’t see it would make any difference. Even the chest is beyond repair.”
“But if it’s worthless,” Taran said, still studying the bone closely, “why should it be so carefully locked up? And so carefully hidden?”
“It’s been my long experience that people can be very odd about their belongings,” said Fflewddur. “A favorite toothpick, a family heirloom—but, yes, I see what you’re driving at. A Fflam is quick-thinking! Whoever put it away didn’t want it found. As I was about to remark, there’s considerably more here than meets the eye.”
“And yet,” Taran began, “a hollow tree seems hardly the safest place to keep anything.”
“On the contrary,” answered the bard. “What better way to hide something? Indoors, it could be found without too much difficulty. Bury it in the ground and there’s the problem of moles, badgers, and all such. But a tree like this,” he continued, glancing upward, “I doubt that anyone but Gurgi could climb it without a ladder, and it’s hardly probable that anyone strolling through this forest would be carrying a ladder with them. If the birds or squirrels nest on top, they’d only cover it up all the more. No, whoever put it there gave the matter careful thought and took as much pains as if …”
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. Toothpick, hairpin, or what have you, there’s something queer about it.” He shuddered. “As I’ve said time and time again: Don’t meddle. You know my mind on that score. Two things never mix: one is enchantments and the other is meddling with them.”
Taran did not answer immediately, but stared for a time at the polished fragment. At last he said, “Whatever it may be, it’s not ours to take. Yet, if there is enchantment, good or evil, dare we leave it?”
“Away with it!” cried Fflewddur. “If it’s good there’s no harm done. If it’s evil there’s no telling what beastly thing might happen. Put it back, by all means.”
Taran reluctantly nodded. Wrapping the bone once more, he replaced it in the coffer, set the broken lid loosely on top, and asked Gurgi to return it to the hollow. 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.
“And good riddance to it,” muttered Fflewddur, striding as quickly as he could from the forest, Taran and Gurgi after him, the latter casting fearful backward glances until the oak was well out of sight.
The companions re
turned to their steeds and prepared to mount. Fflewddur picked up his harp, looked about him, and called, “I say, where’s Llyan? Don’t tell me she’s wandered off.”
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. “Now, what have you been after?”
“I think she’s caught a—why, yes—she’s caught a frog!” Taran exclaimed, catching sight of a pair of long legs with webbed feet dangling from Llyan’s mouth.
“Yes, yes,” put in Gurgi. “A froggie! A froggie with thumpings and jumpings!”
“I should hardly think so,” said the bard. “We’ve seen no swamps or pools, and very little water at all, for the matter of that.”
Proudly purring, Llyan dropped her burden at Fflewddur’s feet. It was indeed a frog, and the biggest Taran had ever seen. The bard, after patting Llyan’s head and fondly rubbing her ears, knelt and with a certain squeamishness picked up the motionless creature.
“Yes, well, I’m delighted, old girl,” he said, holding it at arm’s length between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s lovely; I don’t know how to thank you. She often does this,” he explained to Taran. “I don’t mean dead frogs necessarily, but odds and ends—an occasional mouse, that sort of thing. Little gifts she fancies I might enjoy. A sign of affection. I always make a fuss over them. It’s the thought, after all, that counts.”
Taran, curious, took the frog from the bard’s hand. Llyan, he saw, had carried the creature gently and had in no way harmed it. Instead, the frog had suffered from lack of water. Its skin, splotched in green and yellow, was sadly parched. Its legs feebly splayed; its webbed toes had begun to curl and wither like dry leaves; and its great bulging eyes were tightly shut. Regretfully, Taran was about to return the creature to the bushes when the faint tremor of a heartbeat touched his palm.