Lloyd Alexander- Book Of Three

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The Book of Three by Lloyd Alexander

For the children who listened, the grown-ups who were patient, and especially

for Ann Durell.

Author's Note

This chronicle of the Land of Prydain is not a retelling or

retranslation of Welsh mythology. Prydain is not Wales--not entirely, at

least. The inspiration for it comes from that magnificent land and its

legends; but, essentially, Prydain is a country existing only in the

imagination.

A few of its inhabitants are drawn from the ancient tales. Gwydion, for

example, is a "real" legendary figure. Arawn, the dread Lord of Annuvin, comes

from the Mabinogion, the classic collection of Welsh legends, though in

Prydain he is considerably more villainous. And there is an authentic

mythological basis for Arawn's cauldron, Hen Wen the oracular pig, the old

enchanter Dallben, and others. However, Taran the Assistant Pig-Keeper, like

Eilonwy of the red-gold hair, was born in my own Prydain.

The geography of Prydain is peculiar to itself. Any resemblance between

it and Wales is perhaps not coincidental--but not to be used as a guide for

tourists. It is a small land, yet it has room enough for gallantry and humor;

and even an Assistant Pig-Keeper there may cherish certain dreams.

The chronicle of Prydain is a fantasy. Such things never happen in real

life. Or do they? Most of us are called on to perform tasks far beyond what we

believe we can do. Our capabilities seldom match our aspirations, and we are

often woefully unprepared. To this extent, we are all Assistant Pig-Keepers at

heart. -L.A.

Chapter 1

The Assistant Pig-Keeper

Taran wanted to make a sword; but Coll, charged with the practical side

of his education, decided on horseshoes. And so it had been horseshoes all

morning long. Taran's arms ached, soot blackened his face. At last he dropped

the hammer and turned to Coll, who was watching him critically.

"Why?" Taran cried. "Why must it be horseshoes? As if we had any

horses!"

Coll was stout and round and his great bald head glowed bright pink.

"Lucky for the horses," was all he said, glancing at Taran's handiwork.

"I could do better at making a sword," Taran protested. "I know I

could." And before Coll could answer, he snatched the tongs, flung a strip of

red-hot iron to the anvil, and began hammering away as fast as he could.

"Wait, wait!" cried Coll, "that is not the way to go after it!"

Heedless of Coll, unable even to hear him above the din, Taran pounded

harder than ever. Sparks sprayed the air. But the more he pounded, the more

the metal twisted and buckled; until, finally, the iron sprang from the tongs

and fell to the ground. Taran stared in dismay. With the tongs, he picked up

the bent iron and examined it.

"Not quite the blade for a hero," Coll remarked.

"It's ruined," Taran glumly agreed. "It looks like a sick snake," he

added ruefully.

"As I tried telling you," said Coll, "you had it all wrong. You must

hold the tongs--so. When you strike, the strength must flow from your shoulder

and your wrist be loose. You can hear it when you do it right. There is a kind

of music in it. Besides," he added, "this is not the metal for weapons."

Coll returned the crooked, half-formed blade to the furnace, where it

lost its shape entirely.

"I wish I might have my own sword," Taran sighed, "and you would teach

me sword-fighting."

"Wisht!" cried Coll. "Why should you want to know that? We have no

battles at Caer Dallben."

"We have no horses, either," objected Taran, "but we're making

horseshoes."

"Get on with you," said Coll, unmoved. "That is for practice."

"And so would this be," Taran urged. "Come, teach me the sword-fighting.

You must know the art."

Coll's shining head glowed even brighter. A trace of a smile appeared on

his face, as though he were savoring something pleasant. "True," he said

quietly, "I have held a sword once or twice in my day."

"Teach me now," pleaded Taran. He seized a poker and brandished it,

slashing at the air and dancing back and forth over the hard-packed earthen

floor. "See," he called, "I know most of it already."

"Hold your hand," chuckled Coll. "If you were to come against me like

that, with all your posing and bouncing, I should have you chopped into bits

by this time." He hesitated a moment. "Look you," he said quickly, "at least

you should know there is a right way and a wrong way to go about it."

He picked up another poker. "Here now," he ordered, with a sooty wink,

"stand like a man."

Taran brought up his poker. While Coll shouted instructions, they set to

parrying and thrusting, with much banging, clanking, and commotion. For a

moment Taran was sure he had the better of Coll, but the old man spun away

with amazing lightness of foot. Now it was Taran who strove desperately to

ward off Coll's blows.

Abruptly, Coll stopped. So did Taran, his poker poised in mid-air. In

the doorway of the forge stood the tall, bent figure of Dallben.

Dallben, master of Caer Dallben, was three hundred and seventy-nine

years old. His beard covered so much of his face he seemed always to be

peering over a gray cloud. On the little farm, while Taran and Coll saw to the

plowing, sowing, weeding, reaping, and all the other tasks of husbandry,

Dallben undertook the meditating, an occupation so exhausting he could

accomplish it only by lying down and closing his eyes. He meditated an hour

and a half following breakfast and again later in the day. The clatter from

the forge had roused him from his morning meditation; his robe hung askew over

his boney knees.

"Stop that nonsense directly," said Dallben. "I am surprised at you," he

added, frowning at Coll. "There is serious work to be done."

"It wasn't Coll," Taran interrupted. "It was I who asked to learn sword

play.""I did not say I was surprised at you," remarked Dallben. "But perhaps I

am, after all. I think you had best come with me."

Taran followed the ancient man out of the forge, across the chicken run,

and into the white, thatched cottage. There, in Dallben's chamber, moldering

tomes overflowed the sagging shelves and spilled onto the floor amid heaps of

iron cook pots, studded belts, harps with or without strings, and other

oddments.

Taran took his place on the wooden bench, as he always did when Dallben

was in a mood for giving lessons or reprimands.

"I fully understand," said Dallben, settling himself behind his table,

"in the use of weapons, as in everything else, there is a certain skill. But

wiser heads than yours will determine when you should learn it."

"I'm sorry," Taran began, "I should not have . . ."

"I am not angry," Dallben said, raising a hand. "Only a little sad. Time

flies quickly; things always happen sooner than one expects. And yet," he

murmured, almost to himself, "it troubles me. I fear the

Horned King may have some part in this."

"The Horned King?" asked Taran.

"We shall speak of him later," said Dallben. He drew a ponderous,

leather-bound volume toward him, The Book of Three, from which he occasionally

read to Taran and which, the boy believed, held in its pages everything anyone

could possibly want to know.

"As I have explained to you before," Dallben went on, "--and you have

very likely forgotten--Prydain is a land of many cantrevs--of small kingdoms

--and many kings. And, of course, their war leaders who command the warriors."

"But there is the High King above them all," said Taran, "Math Son of

Mathonwy. His war leader is the mightiest hero in Prydain. You told me of him.

Prince Gwydion! Yes," Taran went on eagerly, "I know..."

"There are other things you do not know," Dallben said, "for the obvious

reason that I have not told you. For the moment I am less concerned with the

realms of the living than with the Land of the Dead, with Annuvin."

Taran shuddered at the word. Even Dallben had spoken it in a whisper.

"And with King Arawn, Lord of Annuvin," Dallben said. "Know this," he

continued quickly, "Annuvin is more than a land of death. It is a treasure

house, not only of gold and jewels but of all things of advantage to men. Long

ago, the race of men owned these treasures. By craft and deceit, Arawn stole

them, one by one, for his own evil uses. Some few of the treasures have been

wrested from him, though most lie hidden deep in Annuvin, where Arawn guards

them jealously."

"But Arawn did not become ruler of Prydain," Taran said.

"You may be thankful he did not," said Dallben. "He would have ruled had

it not been for the Children of Don, the sons of the Lady Don and her consort

Belin, King of the Sun. Long ago they voyaged to Prydain from the Summer

Country and found the land rich and fair, though the race of men had little

for themselves. The Sons of Don built their stronghold at Caer Dathyl, far

north in the Eagle Mountains. From there, they helped regain at least a

portion of what Arawn had stolen, and stood as guardians against the lurking

threat of Annuvin."

"I hate to think what would have happened if the Sons of Don hadn't

come," Taran said. "It was a good destiny that brought them."

"I am not always sure," said Dallben, with a wry smile. "The men of

Prydain came to rely on the strength of the House of Don as a child clings to

its mother. They do so even today. Math, the High King, is descended from the

House of Don. So is Prince Gwydion. But that is all by the way. Prydain has

been at peace--as much as men can be peaceful--until now.

"What you do not know," Dallben said, "is this: it has reached my ears

that a new and mighty warlord has risen, as powerful as Gwydion; some say more

powerful. But he is a man of evil for whom death is a black joy. He sports

with death as you might sport with a dog."

"Who is he?" cried Taran.

Dallben shook his head. "No man knows his name, nor has any man seen his

face. He wears an antlered mask, and for this reason he is called the Horned

King. His purposes I do not know. I suspect the hand of Arawn, but in what

manner I cannot tell. I tell you now for your own protection," Dallben added.

"From what I saw this morning, your head is full of nonsense about feats of

arms. Whatever notions you may have, I advise you to forget them immediately.

There is unknown danger abroad. You are barely on the threshold of manhood,

and I have a certain responsibility to see that you reach it, preferably with

a whole skin. So, you are not to leave Caer Dallben under any circumstances,

not even past the orchard, and certainly not into the forest--not for the time

being."

"For the time being!" Taran burst out. "I think it will always be for

the time being, and it will be vegetables and horseshoes all my life!"

"Tut," said Dallben, "there are worse things. Do you set yourself to be

a glorious hero? Do you believe it is all flashing swords and galloping about

on horses? As for being glorious..."

"What of Prince Gwydion?" cried Taran. "Yes! I wish I might be like

him!" "I fear," Dallben said, "that is entirely out of the question."

"But why?" Taran sprang to his feet. "I know if I had the chance..."

"Why?" Dallben interrupted. "In some cases," he said, "we learn more by

looking for the answer to a question and not finding it than we do from

learning the answer itself. This is one of those cases. I could tell you why,

but at the moment it would only be more confusing. If you grow up with any

kind of sense--which you sometimes make me doubt--you will very likely reach

your own conclusions.

"They will probably be wrong," he added. "However, since they will be

yours, you will feel a little more satisfied with them."

Taran sank back and sat, gloomy and silent, on the bench. Dallben had

already begun meditating again. His chin gradually came to rest on his

collarbone; his beard floated around his ears like a fog bank; and he began

snoring peacefully.

The spring scent of apple blossom drifted through the open window.

Beyond Dallben's chamber, Taran glimpsed the pale green fringe of forest. The

fields, ready to cultivate, would soon turn golden with summer. The Book of

Three lay closed on the table. Taran had never been allowed to read the volume

for himself; now he was sure it held more than Dallben chose to tell him. In

the sun-filled room, with Dallben still meditating and showing no sign of

stopping, Taran rose and moved through the shimmering beams. From the forest

came the monotonous tick of a beetle.

His hands reached for the cover. Taran gasped in pain mad snatched them

away. They smarted as if each of his fingers had been stung by hornets. He

jumped back, stumbled against the bench, and dropped to the floor, where he

put his fingers woefully into his mouth.

Dallben's eyes blinked open. He peered at Taran and yawned slowly. "You

had better see Coll about a lotion for those hands," he advised. "Otherwise, I

shouldn't be surprised if they blistered."

Fingers smarting, the shamefaced Taran hurried from the cottage and

found Coll near the vegetable garden.

"You have been at The Book of Three," Coll said. "That is not hard to

guess. Now you know better. Well, that is one of the three foundations of

learning: see much, study much, suffer much." He led Taran to the stable where

medicines for the livestock were kept, and poured a concoction over Taran's

fingers.

"What is the use of studying much when I'm to see nothing at all?" Taran

retorted. "I think there is a destiny laid on me that I am not to know

anything interesting, go anywhere interesting, or do anything interesting. I'm

certainly not to be anything. I'm not anything even at Caer Dallben!"

"Very well," said Coll, "if that is all that troubles you, I shall make

you something. From this moment, you are Taran, Assistant Pig-Keeper. You

shall help me take care of Hen Wen: see her trough is full, carry her water,

and give her a good scrubbing every other day."

"That's what I do now," Taran said bitterly. "All the better," said

Coll, "for it makes things that much easier. If you want to be something with

a name attached to it, I can't think of anything closer to hand. And it is not

every lad who can be assistant keeper to an oracular pig. Indeed, she is the

only oracular pig in Prydain, and the most valuable."

"Valuable to Dallben," Taran said. "She never tells me anything."

"Did you think she would?" replied Coll. "With Hen Wen, you must know

how to ask--here, what was that?" Coll shaded his eyes with his hand. A black,

buzzing cloud streaked from the orchard, and bore on so rapidly and passed so

close to Coll's head that he had to leap out of the way.

"The bees!" Taran shouted. "They're swarming!"

"It is not their time," cried Coll. "There is something amiss."

The cloud rose high toward the sun. An instant later Taran heard a loud

clucking and squawking from the chicken run. He turned to see the five hens

and the rooster beating their wings. Before it occurred to him they were

attempting to fly, they, too, were aloft.

Taran and Coll raced to the chicken run, too late to catch the fowls.

With the rooster leading, the chickens flapped awkwardly through the air and

disappeared over the brow of a hill.

From the stable the pair of oxen bellowed and rolled their eyes in

terror.

Dallben's head poked out of the window. He looked irritated. "It has

become absolutely impossible for any kind of meditation whatsoever," he said,

with a severe glance at Taran. "I have warned you once..."

"Something frightened the animals," Taran protested. "First the bees,

then the chickens flew off..."

Dallben's face turned grave. "I have been given no knowledge of this,"

he said to Coll. "We must ask Hen Wen about it immediately, and we shall need

the letter sticks. Quickly, help me find them."

Coll moved hastily to the cottage door. "Watch Hen Wen closely," he

ordered Taran. "Do not let her out of your sight."

Coll disappeared inside the cottage to search for Hen Wen's letter

sticks, the long rods of ash wood carved with spells. Taran was both

frightened and excited. Dallben, he knew, would consult Hen Wen only on a

matter of greatest urgency. Within Taran's memory, it had never happened

before. He hurried to the pen.

Hen Wen usually slept until noon. Then, trotting daintily, despite her

size, she would move to a shady comer of her enclosure and settle comfortably

for the rest of the day. The white pig was continually grunting and chuckling

to herself, and whenever she saw Taran, she would raise her wide, cheeky face

so that he could scratch under her chin. But this time, she paid no attention

to him. Wheezing and whistling, Hen Wen was digging furiously in the soft

earth at the far side of the pen, burrowing so rapidly she would soon be out.

Taran shouted at her, but the clods continued flying at a great rate. He

swung himself over the fence. The oracular pig stopped and glanced around. As

Taran approached the hole, already sizable, Hen Wen hurried to the opposite

side of the pen and started a new excavation.

Taran was strong and long-legged, but, to his dismay, he saw that Hen

Wen moved faster than he. As soon as he chased her from the second hole, she

turned quickly on her short legs and made for the first. Both, by now, were

big enough for her head and shoulders.

Taran frantically began scraping earth back into the burrow. Hen Wen dug

faster than a badger, her hind legs planted firmly, her front legs plowing

ahead. Taran despaired of stopping her. He scrambled back over the rails and

jumped to the spot where Hen Wen was about to emerge, planning to seize her

and hang on until Dallben and Coll arrived. He underestimated Hen Wen's speed

and strength.

In an explosion of dirt and pebbles, the pig burst from under the fence,

heaving Taran into the air. He landed with the wind knocked out of him. Hen

Wen raced across the field and into the woods.

Taran followed. Ahead, the forest rose up dark and threatening. He took

a breath and plunged after her.

Chapter 2

The Mask of the King

Hen Wen had vanished. Ahead, Taran heard a thrashing among the leaves.

The pig, he was sure, was keeping out of sight in the bushes. Following the

sound, he ran forward. After a time the ground rose sharply, forcing him to

clamber on hands and knees up a wooded slope. At the crest the forest broke

off before a meadow. Taran caught a glimpse of Hen Wen dashing into the waving

grass. Once across the meadow, she disappeared beyond a stand of trees.

Taran hurried after her. This was farther than he had ever dared

venture, but he struggled on through the heavy undergrowth. Soon, a fairly

wide trail opened, allowing him to quicken his pace. Hen Wen had either

stopped running or had outdistanced him. He heard nothing but his own

footsteps.

He followed the trail for some while, intending to use it as a landmark

on the way back, although it twisted and branched off so frequently he was not

at all certain in which direction Caer Dallben lay.

In the meadow Taran had been flushed and perspiring. Now he shivered in

the silence of oaks and elms. The woods here were not thick, but shadows

drenched the high tree trunks and the sun broke through only in jagged

streaks. A damp green scent filled the air. No bird called; no squirrel

chattered. The forest seemed to be holding its breath.

Yet there was, beneath the silence, a groaning restlessness and a

trembling among the leaves. The branches twisted and grated against each other

like broken teeth. The path wavered under Taran's feet, and he felt

desperately cold. He flung his arms around himself and moved more quickly to

shake off the chill. He was, he realized, running aimlessly; he could not keep

his mind on the forks and turns of the path.

He halted suddenly. Hoofbeats thudded in front of him. The forest shook

as they grew louder. In another moment a black horse burst into view.

Taran fell back, terrified. Astride the foam-spattered animal rode a

monstrous figure. A crimson cloak flamed from his naked shoulders. Crimson

stained his gigantic arms. Horror-stricken, Taran saw not the head of a man

but the antlered head of a stag.

The Horned King! Taran flung himself against an oak to escape the flying

hoofs and the heaving, glistening flanks. Horse and rider swept by. The mask

was a human skull; from it, the great antlers rose in cruel curves. The Horned

King's eyes blazed behind the gaping sockets of whitened bone.

Many horsemen galloped in his train. The Horned King uttered the long

cry of a wild beast, and his riders took it up as they streamed after him. One

of them, an ugly, grinning warrior, caught sight of Taran. He turned his mount

and drew a sword. Taran sprang from the tree and plunged into the underbrush.

The blade followed, hissing like an adder. Taran felt it sting across his

back. He ran blindly, while saplings whipped his face and hidden rocks jutted

out to pitch him forward and stab at his knees. Where the woods thinned, Taran

clattered along a dry stream bed until, exhausted, he stumbled and held out

his hands against the whirling ground.

The sun had already dipped westward when Taran opened his eyes. He was

lying on a stretch of turf with a cloak thrown over him. One shoulder smarted

painfully. A man knelt beside him. Nearby, a white horse cropped the grass.

Still dazed, fearful the riders had overtaken him, Taran started up. The man

held out a flask.

"Drink," he said. "Your strength will return in a moment."

The stranger had the shaggy, gray-streaked hair of a wolf. His eyes were

deep-set, flecked with green. Sun and wind had leathered his broad face, burnt

it dark and grained it with fine lines. His cloak was coarse and

travel-stained. A wide belt with an intricately wrought buckle circled his

waist."Drink," the stranger said again, while Taran took the flask dubiously.

"You look as though I were trying to poison you." He smiled. "It is not thus

that Gwydion Son of Don deals with a wounded..."

"Gwydion!" Taran choked on the liquid and stumbled to his' feet. "You

are not Gwydion!" he cried. "I know of him. He is a great war leader, a hero!

He is not..." His eyes fell on the long sword at the stranger's belt. The

golden pommel was smooth and rounded, its color deliberately muted; ash leaves

of pale gold entwined at the hilt, and a pattern of leaves covered the

scabbard. It was truly the weapon of a prince.

Taran dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "Lord Gwydion," he said,

"I did not intend insolence.'' As Gwydion helped him rise, Taran still stared

in disbelief at the simple attire and the worn, lined face. From all Dallben

had told him of this glorious hero, from all he had pictured to himself--Taran

bit his lips.

Gwydion caught Taran's look of disappointment. "It is not the trappings

that make the prince," he said gently, "nor, indeed, the sword that makes the

warrior. Come," he ordered, "tell me your name and what happened to you. And

do not ask me to believe you got a sword wound picking gooseberries or

poaching hares."

"I saw the Horned King!" Taran burst out. "His men ride the forest; one

of them tried to kill me. I saw the Homed King himself! It was horrible, worse

than Dallben told me!"

Gwydion's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Who are you to

speak of Dallben?"

"I am Taran of Caer Dallben," Taran answered, trying to appear bold but

succeeding only in turning paler than a mushroom.

"Of Caer Dallben?" Gwydion paused an instant and gave Taran a strange

glance. "What are you doing so far from there? Does Dallben know you are in

the forest? Is Coll with you?"

Taran's jaw dropped and he looked so thunderstruck that Gwydion threw

back his head and burst into laughter.

"You need not be so surprised," Gwydion said. "I know Coll and Dallben

well. And they are too wise to let you wander here alone. Have you run off,

then? I warn you; Dallben is not one to be disobeyed."

"It was Hen Wen," Taran protested. "I should have known I couldn't hold

on to her. Now she's gone, and it's my fault. I'm Assistant Pig-Keeper..."

"Gone?" Gwydion's face tightened. "Where? What has happened to her?"

"I don't know," Taran cried. "She's somewhere in the forest." As he

poured out an account of the morning's events, Gwydion listened intently.

"I had not foreseen this," Gwydion murmured, when Taran had finished.

"My mission fails if she is not found quickly." He turned abruptly to Taran.

"Yes,"' he said, "I, too, seek Hen Wen."

"You?" cried Taran. "You came this far..."

"I need information she alone possesses," Gwydion said quickly. "I have

journeyed a month from Caer Dathyl to get it. I have been followed, spied on,

hunted. And now," he added with a bitter laugh, "she has run off. Very well.

She will be found. I must discover all she knows of the Horned King." Gwydion

hesitated. "I fear he himself searches for her even now.

"It must be so," he continued. "Hen Wen sensed him near Caer Dallben and

fled in terror..."

"Then we should stop him," Taran declared. "Attack him, strike him down!

Give me a sword and I will stand with you!"

"Gently, gently," chided Gwydion. "I do not say my life is worth more

than another man's, but I prize it highly. Do you think a lone warrior and one

Assistant Pig-Keeper dare attack the Horned King and his war band?"

Taran drew himself up. "I would not fear him."

"No?" said Gwydion. "Then you are a fool. He is the man most to be

dreaded in all Prydain. Will you hear something I learned during my journey,

something even Dallben may not yet realize?"

Gwydion knelt on the turf. "Do you know the craft of weaving? Thread by

thread, the pattern forms." As he spoke, he plucked at the long blades of

grass, knotting them to form a mesh.

"That is cleverly done," said Taran, watching Gwydion's rapidly moving

fingers. "May I look at it?"

"There is a more serious weaving," said Gwydion, slipping the net into

his own jacket. "You have seen one thread of a pattern loomed in Annuvin.

"Arawn does not long abandon Annuvin," Gwydion continued, "but his hand

reaches everywhere. There are chieftains whose lust for power goads them like

a sword point. To certain of them, Arawn promises wealth and dominion, playing

on their greed as a bard plays on a harp. Arawn's corruption burns every human

feeling from their hearts and they become his liegemen, serving him beyond the

borders of Annuvin and bound to him forever."

"And the Horned King...?"

Gwydion nodded. "Yes. I know beyond question that he has sworn his

allegiance to Arawn. He is Arawn's avowed champion. Once again, the power of

Annuvin threatens Prydain."

Taran could only stare, speechless.

Gwydion turned to him. "When the time is ripe, the Horned King and I

will meet. And one of us will die. That is my oath. But his purpose is dark

and unknown, and I must learn it from Hen Wen."

"She can't be far," Taran cried. "I'll show you where she disappeared. I

think I can find the place. It was just before the Horned King..."

Gwydion gave him a hard smile. "Do you have the eyes of an owl, to find

a trail at nightfall? We sleep here and I shall be off at first light. With

good luck, I may have her back before..."

"What of me?" Taran interrupted. "Hen Wen is in my charge. I let her

escape and it is I who must find her."

"The task counts more than the one who does it," said Gwydion. "I will

not be hindered by an Assistant Pig-Keeper, who seems eager to bring himself

to grief." He stopped short and looked wryly at Taran. "On second thought, it

appears I will. If the Horned King rides toward Caer Dallben, I cannot send

you back alone and I dare not go with you and lose a day's tracking. You

cannot stay in this forest by yourself. Unless I find some way..."

"I swear I will not hinder you," cried Taran. "Let me go with you.

Dallben and Coll will see I can do what I set out to do!"

"Have I another choice?" asked Gwydion. "It would seem, Taran of Caer

Dallben, we follow the same path. For a little while at least."

The white horse trotted up and nuzzled Gwydion's hand. "Melyngar reminds

me it is time for food," Gwydion said. He unpacked provisions from the

saddlebags. "Make no fire tonight," he warned. "The Horned King's outriders

may be close at hand."

Taran swallowed a hurried meal. Excitement robbed him of appetite and he

was impatient for dawn. His wound had stiffened so that he could not settle

himself on the roots and pebbles. It had never occurred to him until now that

a hero would sleep on the ground.

Gwydion, watchful, sat with his knees drawn up, his back against an

enormous elm. In the lowering dusk Taran could barely distinguish the man from

the tree; and could have walked within a pace of him before realizing he was

any more than a splotch of shadow. Gwydion had sunk into the forest itself;

only his green-flecked eyes shone in the reflection of the newly risen moon.

Gwydion was silent and thoughtful for a long while. "So you are Taran of

Caer Dallben," he said at last. His voice from the shadows was quiet but

urgent. "How long have you been with Dallben? Who are your kinsmen?"

Taran, hunched against a tree root, pulled his cloak closer about his

shoulders. "I have always lived at Caer Dallben," he said. "I don't think I

have any kinsmen. I don't know who my parents were. Dallben has never told me.

I suppose," he added, turning his face away, "I don't even know who I am."

"In a way," answered Gwydion, "that is something we must all discover

for ourselves. Our meeting was fortunate," he went on. "Thanks to you, I know

a~ little more than I did, and you have spared me a wasted journey to Caer

Dallben. It makes me wonder," Gwydion went on, with a laugh that was not

unkind, "is there a destiny laid on me that an Assistant Pig-Keeper should

help me in my quest?" He hesitated. "Or," he mused, "is it perhaps the other

way around?"

"What do you mean?" Taran asked.

"I am not sure," said Gwydion. "It makes no difference. Sleep now, for

we rise early tomorrow."

Chapter 3

Gurgi

By the time Taran woke, Gwydion had already saddled Melyngar. The cloak

Taran had slept in was damp with dew. Every joint ached from his night on the

hard ground. With Gwydion's urging, Taran stumbled toward the horse, a white

blur in the gray-pink dawn. Gwydion hauled Taran into the saddle behind him,

spoke a quiet command, and the white steed moved quickly into the rising mist.

Gwydion was seeking the spot where Taran had last seen Hen Wen. But long

before they had reached it, he reined up Melyngar and dismounted. As Taran

watched, Gwydion knelt and sighted along the turf.

"Luck is with us," he said. "I think we have struck her trail." Gwydion

pointed to a faint circle of trampled grass. "Here she slept, and not too long

ago." He strode a few paces forward, scanning every broken twig and blade of

grass.Despite Taran's disappointment at finding the Lord Gwydion dressed in a

coarse jacket and mud-spattered boots, he followed the man with growing

admiration. Nothing, Taran saw, escaped Gwydion's 32 eyes. Like a lean, gray

wolf, he moved silently and easily. A little way on, Gwydion stopped, raised

his shaggy head and narrowed his eyes toward a distant ridge.

"The trail is not clear," he said, frowning. "I can only guess she might

have gone down the slope."

"With all the forest to run in," Taran queried, "how can we begin to

search? She might have gone anywhere in Prydain."

"Not quite," answered Gwydion. "I may not know where she went, but I can

be sure where she did not go." He pulled a hunting knife from his belt. "Here,

I will show you."

Gwydion knelt and quickly traced lines in the earth. "These are the

Eagle Mountains," he said, with a touch of longing in his voice, "in my own

land of the north. Here, Great Avren flows. See how it turns west before it

reaches the sea. We may have to cross it before our search ends. And this is

the River Ystrad. Its valley leads north to Caer Dathyl.

"But see here," Gwydion went on, pointing to the left of the line he had

drawn for the River Ystrad, "here is Mount Dragon and the domain of Arawn. Hen

Wen would shun this above all. She was too long a captive in Annuvin; she

would never venture near it."

"Was Hen in Annuvin?" Taran asked with surprise. "But how..."

"Long ago," Gwydion said, "Hen Wen lived among the race of men. She

belonged to a farmer who had no idea at all of her powers. And so she might

have spent her days as any ordinary pig. But Arawn knew her to be far from

ordinary, and of such value that he himself rode out of Annuvin and seized

her. What dire things happened while she was prisoner of Arawn--it is better

not to speak of them."

"Poor Hen," Taran said, "it must have been terrible for her. But how did

she escape?"

"She did not escape," said Gwydion. "She was rescued. A warrior went

alone into the depths of Annuvin and brought her back safely."

"That was a brave deed!" Taran cried. "I wish that I..."

"The bards of the north still sing of it," Gwydion said. "His name shall

never be forgotten."

"Who was it?" Taran demanded.

Gwydion looked closely at him. "Do you not know?" he asked. "Dallben has

neglected your education. It was Coll," he said. "Coll Son of Collfrewr."

"Coll!" Taran cried. "Not the same..."

"The same," said Gwydion.

"But... but..." Taran stammered. "Coll? A hero? But... he's so bald!"

Gwydion laughed and shook his head. "Assistant Pig-Keeper," he said,

"you have curious notions about heroes. I have never known courage to be

judged by the length of a man's hair. Or, for the matter of that, whether he

has any hair at all."

Crestfallen, Taran peered at Gwydion's map and said no more.

"Here," continued Gwydion, "not far from Annuvin, lies Spiral Castle.

This, too, Hen Wen would avoid at all cost. It is the abode of Queen Achren,

She is as dangerous as Arawn himself; as evil as she is beautiful. But there

are secrets concerning Achren which are better left untold.

"I am sure," Gwydion went on, "Hen Wen will not go toward Annuvin or

Spiral Castle. From what little I can see, she has run straight ahead. Quickly

now, we shall try to pick up her trail."

Gwydion turned Melyngar toward the ridge. As they reached the bottom of

the slope, Taran heard the waters of Great Avren rushing like wind in a summer

storm."We must go again on foot," Gwydion said. "Her tracks may show somewhere

along here, so we had best move slowly and carefully. Stay close behind me,"

he ordered. "If you start dashing ahead--and you seem to have that

tendency--you will trample out any signs she might have left."

Taran obediently walked a few paces behind. Gwydion made no more sound

than the shadow of a bird. Melyngar herself stepped quietly; hardly a twig

snapped under her hoofs. Try as he would, Taran could not go as silently. The

more careful he attempted to be, the louder the leaves rattled and crackled.

Wherever he put his foot, there seemed to be a hole or spiteful branch to trip

him up. Even Melyngar turned and gave him a reproachful look.

Taran grew so absorbed in not making noise that he soon lagged far

behind Gwydion. On the slope, Taran believed he could make out something round

and white. He yearned to be the first to find Hen Wen and he turned aside,

clambered through the weeds--to discover nothing more than a boulder.

Disappointed, Taran hastened to catch up with Gwydion. Overhead, the

branches rustled. As he stopped and looked up, something fell heavily to the

ground behind him. Two hairy and powerful hands locked around his throat.

Whatever had seized him made barking and snorting noises. Taran forced

out a cry for help. He struggled with his unseen opponent, twisting, flailing

his legs, and throwing himself from one side to the other.

Suddenly he could breathe again. A shape sailed over his head and

crashed against a tree trunk. Taran dropped to the ground and began rubbing

his neck. Gwydion stood beside him. Sprawled under the tree was the strangest

creature Taran had ever seen. He could not be sure whether it was animal or

human.He decided it was both. Its hair was so matted and covered with leaves

that it looked like an owl's nest in need of housecleaning. It had long,

skinny, woolly arms, and a pair of feet as flexible and grimy as its hands.

Gwydion was watching the creature with a look of severity and annoyance.

"So it is you," he said. "I ordered you not to hinder me or anyone under my

protection."

At this, the creature set up a loud and piteous whining, rolled his

eyes, and beat the ground with his palms.

"It is only Gurgi," Gwydion said. "He is always lurking about one place

or another. He is not half as ferocious as he looks, not a quarter as fierce

as he should like to be, and more a nuisance than anything else. Somehow, he

manages to see most of what happens, and he might be able to help us."

Taran had just begun to catch his breath. He was covered with Gurgi's

shedding hair, in addition to the distressing odor of a wet wolfhound.

"O mighty prince," the creature wailed, "Gurgi is sorry; and now he will

be smacked on his poor, tender head by the strong hands of this great lord,

with fearsome smackings. Yes, yes, that is always the way of it with poor

Gurgi. But what honor to be smacked by the greatest of warriors!"

"I have no intention of smacking your poor, tender head," said Gwydion.

"But I may change my mind if you do not leave off that whining and sniveling."

"Yes, powerful lord!" Gurgi cried. "See how he obeys rapidly and

instantly!" He began crawling about on hands and knees with great agility. Had

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TheBookofThreebyLloydAlexanderForthechildrenwholistened,thegrown-upswhowerepatient,andespeciallyforAnnDurell.Author'sNoteThischronicleoftheLandofPrydainisnotaretellingorretranslationofWelshmythology.PrydainisnotWales--notentirely,atleast.Theinspirationforitcomesfromthatmagnificentlandanditslegends;b...

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Lloyd Alexander- Book Of Three

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