Lloyd Alexander - Chronicles of Prydain 1 - The Book of Thre

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2001-11-20

The Chronicles of Prydain

Book One

THE BOOK OF THREE

Lloyd Alexander

ISBN No. 0-440-40702-8

Published by

Bantam Doubleday

Dell Books for Young Readers

April, 1990

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

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Scannedandfullyproofedby:*¤*nihua*¤*2001-11-20TheChroniclesofPrydainBookOneTHEBOOKOFTHREELloydAlexanderCopyright©1964ISBNNo.0-440-40702-8PublishedbyBantamDoubledayDellBooksforYoungReadersApril,1990Forthechildrenwholistened,thegrown-upswhowerepatient,andespeciallyforAnnDurell.Author'sNoteTHISCHRONICL...

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