“My choosing?” Taran questioned. “Not yours? Yet I believed …” He stopped and raised his eyes to Orddu. “Yes,” he said slowly, “once I did believe the world went at your bidding. I see now it is not so. The strands of life are not woven by three hags or even by three beautiful damsels. The pattern indeed was mine. But here,” he added, frowning as he scanned the final portion of the fabric where the weaving broke off and the threads fell unraveled, “here it is unfinished.”
“Naturally,” said Orddu. “You must still choose the pattern, and so must each of you poor, perplexed fledglings, as long as thread remains to be woven.”
“But no longer do I see mine clearly,” Taran cried. “No longer do I understand my own heart. Why does my grief shadow my joy? Tell me this much. Give me to know this, as one last boor.”
“Dear chicken,” said Orddu smiling sadly, “when, in truth, did we really give you anything?”
Then they were gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Farewells
Through the remainder of the night, Taran did not move from the window. The unfinished weaving lay at his feet. By dawn, a still greater number of Commot folk and cantrev nobles came to throng the fields and hillsides around Caer Dallben, for it had become known the Sons of Don were departing Prydain, and with them the Daughters of Don who had journeyed from the eastern strongholds. At last Taran stirred and made his way to Dallben’s chamber.
The companions were already gathered, even Doli, who had flatly refused to set out for the Fair Folk realm without taking a last leave of each and every friend. Kaw, quiet for once, perched on the dwarf’s shoulder. Glew seemed excited and pleased to be on his way. Taliesin and Gwydion stood near Dallben, who had donned a heavy travel cloak and bore an ash-wood staff. Under his arm the enchanter carried The Book of Three.
“Kindly master, hasten!” shouted Gurgi, as Llyan at Fflewddur’s side twitched her tail impatiently. “All are ready for floatings and boatings!”
Taran’s eyes went to the faces of the companions; to Eilonwy, who was watching him eagerly; to the weathered features of Gwydion, and the face of Dallben, furrowed with wisdom. Never had he loved each of them more than at this moment. He did not speak until he came to stand before the old enchanter.
“Never shall I have greater honor than the gift you offer me,” Taran said. The words came slowly, yet he forced himself to continue. “Last night my heart was troubled. I dreamed that Orddu—no, it was not a dream. She was indeed here. And I have seen for myself your gift is one I cannot take.”
Gurgi’s yelping stopped short and he stared at Taran with wide and unbelieving eyes.
The companions started and Eilonwy cried out, “Taran of Caer Dallben, do you have any idea what you’re saying? Has the flame of Dyrnwyn scorched your wits?” Suddenly her voice caught in her throat. She bit her lips and turned quickly away. “I understand. In the Summer Country we were to be wed. Do you still question my heart? It has not changed. It is your heart that has changed toward mine.”
Taran dared not look at Eilonwy, for his grief was too keen in him. “You are wrong, Princess of Llyr,” he murmured. “I have long loved you, and loved you even before I knew that I did. If my heart breaks to part from our companions, it breaks twice over to part from you. Yet, so it must be. I cannot do otherwise.”
“Think carefully, Assistant Pig-Keeper,” Dallben said sharply. “Once taken, your choice cannot be recalled. Will you dwell in sorrow instead of happiness? Will you refuse not only joy and love but never-ending life?”
Taran did not answer for a long moment. When at last he did, his voice was heavy with regret, yet his words were clear and unfaltering.
“There are those more deserving of your gift than I, yet never may it be offered them. My life is bound to theirs. Coll Son of Collfrewr’s garden and orchard lie barren, waiting for a hand to quicken them. My skill is less than his, but I give it willingly for his sake.
“The seawall at Dinas Rhydnant is unfinished,” Taran continued. “Before the King of Mona’s burial mound I vowed not to leave his task undone.”
From his jacket Taran drew the fragment of pottery. “Shall I forget Annlaw Clay-Shaper? Commot Merin and others like it? I cannot restore life to Llonio Son of Llonwen and those valiant folk who followed me, never to see their homes again. Nor can I mend the hearts of widows and orphaned children. Yet if it is in my power to rebuild even a little of what has been broken, this must I do.
“The Red Fallows once were a fruitful place. With labor, perhaps they shall be so again.” He turned and spoke to Taliesin. “Caer Dathyl’s proud halls lie in ruins, and with them the Hall of Lore and the treasured wisdom of the bards. Have you not said that memory lives longer than what it remembers? But what if memory be lost? If there are those who will help me, we will raise the fallen stones and regain the treasure of memory.”
“Gurgi will help! He will not voyage, no, no!” Gurgi wailed. “He stays always. He wants no gift that takes him from kindly master!”
Taran put a hand on the creature’s arm. “You must journey with the others. Do you call me master? Obey me, then, in one last command. Find the wisdom you yearn for. It awaits you in the Summer Country. Whatever I may find, I must seek it here.”
Eilonwy bowed her head. “You have chosen as you must, Taran of Caer Dallben.”
“Nor will I gainsay you,” Dallben said to Taran, “but only warn you. The tasks you set yourself are cruelly difficult. There is no certainty you will accomplish even one, and much risk you will fail in all of them. In either case, your efforts may well go unrewarded, unsung, forgotten. And at the end, like all mortals, you must face your death; perhaps without even a mound of honor to mark your resting place.”
Taran nodded. “So be it,” he said. “Long ago I yearned to be a hero without knowing, in truth, what a hero was. Now, perhaps, I understand it a little better. A grower of turnips or a shaper of clay, a Commot farmer or a king—every man is a hero if he strives more for others than for himself alone. Once,” he added, “you told me that the seeking counts more than the finding. So, too, must the striving count more than the gain.
“Once, I hoped for a glorious destiny,” Taran went on, smiling at his own memory. “That dream has vanished with my childhood; and though a pleasant dream it was fit only for a child. I am well-content as an Assistant Pig-Keeper.”
“Even that contentment shall not be yours,” Dallben said. “No longer are you Assistant Pig-Keeper, but High King of Prydain.”
Taran caught his breath and stared with disbelief at the enchanter. “You jest with me,” he murmured. “Have I been prideful that you would mock me by calling me King?”
“Your worth was proved when you drew Dyrnwyn from its sheath,” Dallben said, “and your kingliness when you chose to remain here. It is not a gift I offer you now, but a burden far heavier than any you have borne.”
“Then why must I bear it?” cried Taran. “I am an Assistant Pig-Keeper and such have I always been.”
“It has been written in The Book of Three,” Dallben answered, and raised his hand for silence before Taran could speak again. “I dared not tell you this. To give you such knowledge would have defeated the prophecy itself. Until this very moment, I was not sure you were the one chosen to rule. Indeed, yesterday I feared you were not.”
“How then?” Taran asked. “Could The Book of Three deceive you?”
“No, it could not,” Dallben said. “The book is thus called because it tells all three parts of our lives: the past, the present, and the future. But it could as well be called a book of ‘if.’ If you had failed at your tasks; if you had followed an evil path; if you had been slain; if you had not chosen as you did—a thousand ‘ifs,’ my boy, and many times a thousand. The Book of Three can say no more than ‘if’ until at the end, of all things that might have been, one alone becomes what really is. For the deeds of a man, not the words of a prophecy, are what shape his destiny.”
“I understand
now why you kept my parentage a secret,” Taran said. “But shall I never be given to know it?”
“I did not keep it secret from you entirely through my own wish,” Dallben answered. “Nor do I keep it so now. Long ago, when The Book of Three first came into my hands, from its pages I learned that when the Sons of Don departed from Prydain the High King would be one who slew a serpent, who gained and lost a flaming sword, who chose a kingdom of sorrow over a kingdom of happiness. These prophecies were clouded, even to me; and darkest was the prophecy that he who would come to rule Prydain would be one of no station in life.
“Long did I ponder these things,” Dallben continued. “At last, I left Caer Dallben to seek this future king and to hasten his coming. For many years I searched, yet all whom I questioned well knew their station, whether shepherd or war-leader, cantrev lord or Commot farmer.
“The seasons turned; kings rose and fell, wars turned to peace, and peace to war. Indeed, on a certain time, so many years ago as you yourself have years, a grievous war was upon the land, and I despaired of my quest and turned my steps once more toward Caer Dallben. On that day I chanced to pass a field where a battle had raged. Many lay slain, noble as well as humble folk; even the women and children had not been spared.
“From the forest nearby I heard a piercing cry. An infant had been hidden among the trees, as though his mother had sought, at the last, to keep him safe. From his wrappings I could judge nothing of his parentage and only sensed with certainty that both mother and father lay upon that field of the slain.
“Here, surely, was one of no station in life, an unknown babe of unknown kin. I bore the child with me to Caer Dallben. The name I gave him was Taran.
“I could not have told you of your parentage, even had I wished to,” Dallben continued, “for I knew it no more than you did. My secret hope I shared only with two others: Lord Gwydion and Coll. As you grew to manhood, so our hopes grew, though never could we be certain you were the child born to be High King.
“Until now, my boy,” said Dallben, “you were always a great ‘perhaps.’”
“What was written has come to pass,” Gwydion said. “And now in truth we must say farewell.”
The chamber was silent. Llyan, sensing the bard’s distress, nuzzled him gently. The companions did not move. It was Glew who stepped forward and spoke first.
“I’ve been carrying this with me ever since I was so shabbily hustled away from Mona,” he said, drawing from his jacket a small blue crystal which he pressed into Taran’s hand. “It reminded me of my cavern and those grand days when I was a giant. But for some reason I don’t want to be reminded of them any longer. Since I don’t want it—here, take it as a small remembrance of me.”
“He’s still hardly the most generous spirit in the world,” muttered Fflewddur, “but I’ve no doubt it’s the first time he’s ever given anybody anything. Great Belin, I swear the little fellow’s actually grown another inch!”
Doli had taken the handsomely crafted axe from his belt. “You’ll need this,” he told Taran, “and it should serve you well in many tasks. It’s Fair Folk quality, my lad, and you’ll not blunt it easily.”
“It can serve me no better than did its owner,” Taran replied, clasping the dwarf’s hand, “and its metal cannot be as true as your own heart. Good old Doli …”
“Humph!” The dwarf snorted furiously. “Good old Doli! I’ve heard that somewhere before.”
Kaw, on Doli’s shoulder, bobbed up and down while Taran gently ran a finger over the crow’s sleek feathers.
“Farewell,” Kaw croaked. “Taran! Farewell!”
“Farewell to you,” Taran answered, smiling. “If I have despaired of teaching you good manners, I have rejoiced in your bad ones. You are a rogue and a scamp, and a very eagle among crows.”
Llyan had padded up to rub her head affectionately against Taran’s arm, which she did so vigorously that the enormous cat nearly knocked him off his feet.
“Bear my friend good company,” Taran said, stroking Llyan’s ears. “Cheer him with your purring when his spirits are low, as I wish you might cheer me. Stray not far from him, for even such a bold bard as Fflewddur Fflam is no stranger to loneliness.”
Fflewddur himself had drawn near, and in his hand held the harp string he had taken from the fire. The heat of the flame had caused the string to curl and twine in a curious pattern that seemed without beginning or end, constantly changing as from one melody to another even as Taran looked at it.
“I’m afraid it’s all that’s left of the old pot,” Fflewddur said, offering the string to Taran. “Truthfully, I’m just as well pleased. It was forever jangling and going out of tune …” He paused, glanced behind him nervously, and cleared his throat. “Ah—what I meant to say was that I shall miss those snapping strings.”
“No more than I shall miss them,” Taran said. “Remember me as well and fondly as I remember you.”
“Have no fear!” cried the bard. “There’s still songs to be sung and tales to be told. A Fflam never forgets!”
“Alas, alas!” wailed Gurgi. “Poor Gurgi has nothing to give kindly master for fond rememberings. Woe and misery! Even wallet of crunchings and munchings now is empty!”
The tearful creature suddenly clapped his hands together.
“Yes, yes! Forgetful Gurgi has one gift. Here, here it is. From burning treasure-house of wicked Death-Lord, bold Gurgi seized it with catchings and snatchings. But his poor tender head was so filled with fearful spinnings that he forgot!”
With this, Gurgi drew from his leather pouch a small, flame-scarred, battered coffer of unknown metal and held it out to Taran, who took it, studied it curiously, then broke the heavy seal which kept it locked.
The coffer held no more than a number of thin, closely written parchments. Taran’s eyes widened as he scanned them, and he turned quickly to Gurgi.
“Do you know what you have found?” he whispered. “Here are the secrets of forging and tempering metals, of shaping and firing pottery, of planting and cultivating. This is what Arawn stole long ago and kept from the race of men. This knowledge is itself a priceless treasure.”
“Perhaps the most precious of all,” said Gwydion, who had come to study the parchments in Taran’s hand. “The flames of Annuvin destroyed the enchanted tools that labored of themselves and would have given carefree idleness. These treasures are far worthier, for their use needs skill and strength of hand and mind.”
Fflewddur gave a low whistle. “Who owns these secrets is truly master of Prydain. Taran, old friend, the proudest cantrev lord will be at your beck and call, begging for anything you choose to grant him.”
“And Gurgi found it!” shouted Gurgi, springing into the air and madly whirling about. “Yes, oh yes! Bold, clever, faithful, valiant Gurgi always finds things! Once he found a lost piggy and once he found evil black cauldron! Now he finds mighty secrets for kindly master!”
Taran smiled at the excited Gurgi. “Indeed, you have found many mighty secrets. But they are not mine to keep. These will I share with all in Prydain, for by right they belong to all.”
“Then share this, as well,” said Dallben, who had been listening closely and now held out the heavy, leather-bound volume he had kept under his arm.
“The Book of Three?” Taran said, looking wonderingly and questioningly at the enchanter. “I dare not …”
“Take it, my boy,” Dallben said. “It will not blister your fingers, as once it did with an over-curious Assistant Pig-Keeper. All its pages are open to you. The Book of Three no longer foretells what is to come, only what has been. But now can be set down the words of its last page.”
The enchanter took a quill from the table, opened the book, and in it wrote with a bold, firm hand:
“And thus did an Assistant Pig-Keeper become High King of Prydain.”
“This, too, is a treasure,” said Gwydion. “The Book of Three is now both history and heritage. For my own gift, I could give you nothing greater. No
r do I offer you a crown, for a true king wears his crown in his heart.” The tall warrior clasped Taran’s hand. “Farewell. We shall not meet again.”
“Take Dyrnwyn, then, in remembrance of me,” Taran said.
“Dyrnwyn is yours,” Gwydion said, “as it was meant to be.”
“Yet Arawn is slain,” Taran replied. “Evil is conquered and the blade’s work done.”
“Evil conquered?” said Gwydion. “You have learned much, but learn this last and hardest of lessons. You have conquered only the enchantments of evil. That was the easiest of your tasks, only a beginning, not an ending. Do you believe evil itself to be so quickly overcome? Not so long as men still hate and slay each other, when greed and anger goad them. Against these even a flaming sword cannot prevail, but only that portion of good in all men’s hearts whose flame can never be quenched.”
Eilonwy, who had been standing in silence, now drew close to Taran. The girl’s eyes did not waver from his as she held out the golden sphere.
“Take this,” she softly said, “though it does not glow as brightly as the love we might have shared. Farewell, Taran of Caer Dallben. Remember me.”
Eilonwy was about to turn away, but suddenly her blue eyes flashed furiously and she stamped her foot. “It’s not fair!” she cried. “It’s not my fault I was born into a family of enchantresses. I didn’t ask for magical powers. That’s worse than being made to wear a pair of shoes that doesn’t fit! I don’t see why I have to keep them!”
“Princess of Llyr,” said Dallben. “I have waited for you yourself to say those words. Do you truly wish to give up your heritage of enchantment?”
“Of course I do!” Eilonwy cried. “If enchantments are what separates us, then I should be well rid of them!”
“This lies within your power,” Dallben said, “within your grasp, and, for the matter of that, upon your finger. The ring you wear, the gift Lord Gwydion gave you long ago, will grant your wish.”
“What?” Eilonwy burst out, in both surprise and indignation. “Do you mean to say that all the years I’ve worn my ring I could have used it to have a wish granted? You told me nothing of it! That’s worse than unfair. Why, I could simply have wished to destroy the Black Cauldron! Or to find Dyrnwyn! I could have wished Arawn conquered! Without the least danger! And I never knew!”