The Book of Three: Chapters 10–14

In the course of the restless night, he had reached his decision, though at present he refrained from speaking of it, still unsure he had chosen wisely. For the moment he concentrated on a meager breakfast.

Although jewels studded the hilt and pommel, the scabbard was battered, discolored, nearly black with age. For all that, it had an air of ancient lineage, and Taran was eager to hold it.

“So, of course,” said Taran, nettled by the girl’s remarks, “you’ve made up your mind that I’m not—whatever it is.”

“Sire,” Taran said, “I ask a boon.”
“Please,” said the former king, “Fflewddur will do very well. A boon? Delighted! I haven’t done any boon-granting since I gave up the throne.”

Gurgi, having finished his meal, sidled over and squatted on a hillock to listen.

“There is no doubt in my mind,” Taran went on, “the Sons of Don must have news of the uprising before the Horned King strikes. If he triumphs, Arawn will have Prydain by the throat. I have seen with my own eyes what that means.”

Before Fflewddur could open his mouth, Eilonwy gave an indignant cry and leaped to her feet.

At the head of the travelers strode Fflewddur, stepping out briskly on his long, spindly shanks. The harp jogged on his back; his shabby cloak was rolled over his shoulder.

Eilonwy, hair disheveled by the breeze, the great black sword slung behind her, followed next, with Gurgi immediately after.

When he ventured to unbuckle the cumbersome sword, Eilonwy opened one eye, made an irritated face, and pulled the blade away from him—with more determination than he had expected.

After a hurried discussion with Fflewddur, who looked as ravenous as Gurgi, Taran agreed they might take a little time to search for berries and edible roots.

Clutching his precious mushrooms, Taran hastened to see what had happened, and came upon Gurgi lying in the middle of the grove, writhing and whimpering, a honeycomb beside him.

He put his hand gently on Gurgi’s shoulder. The wet wolfhound odor did not seem as objectionable as before.

Although encumbered by the long sword hanging from her shoulder, Eilonwy ran faster than Taran.

Then, suddenly, Eilonwy tossed her head and sniffed. “Of course, I should have known; it was the spiderweb. You were more interested in that; you didn’t care whether I was in danger.” She strode haughtily back to Gurgi and Melyngar.

“At home,” Taran said—to himself, Eilonwy had already pulled a cloak over her head and was feigning sleep—“nothing ever happened. Now, everything happens. But somehow I can never seem to make it come out right.”

In the morning, Taran saw Gurgi’s leg was much worse, and he left the campsite to search the woods for healing plants, glad that Coll had taught him the properties of herbs. He made a poultice and set it on Gurgi’s wound.

Nevertheless, uneasiness settled over the companions as the gray shapes continued trailing them; and Melyngar, docile and obedient until now, turned skittish.

With the half-conscious Gurgi bound to her saddle, the white horse trotted swiftly ahead at a determined gait.

To his left, on a high shelf of rock, crouched an enormous wolf with golden eyes and lolling red tongue.

The man spoke again to the wolves and the animals crowded around him, whining and wagging their tails. He was a strange-looking figure, broad and muscular, with the vigor of an ancient but sturdy tree.

“I know who you are,” cried Taran. “You are Medwyn!”
“Am I now?” the man answered with a smile that furrowed his face. “Yes, I have been called Medwyn. But how should you know that?”

The bright plumage of birds flashed among the trees.

From behind the cottages, a speckled, long-legged fawn appeared, sniffed the air, then trotted quickly toward Medwyn. The graceful creature paid no attention to the wolves, but frisked gaily at the old man’s side.

Medwyn reappeared in the doorway. He carried an enormous wicker basket laden with jugs of milk, with cheese, honeycombs, and fruits that, in the lowlands, would not be in season for another month.

What the tasks were does not concern us now, except that they were very nigh impossible, and Kilhuch could not have accomplished them without the aid of his companions.

Taran was silent. Medwyn put his hand into the lake and stirred the water. After a moment, a venerable salmon rippled up; Medwyn stroked the jaws of the huge fish.

Fflewddur, though still apprehensive, did not allow his fear to affect his appetite. He ate enough for three, without showing the least sign of becoming full.

But when he asked for another portion of venison, Medwyn gave a long chuckle and explained to the amazed Fflewddur it was not meat at all but vegetables prepared according to his own recipe.

“Listen carefully, then,” Medwyn ordered. As he spoke, his hands moved deftly in the soft earth before him, molding a tiny model of hills, which Taran found easier to follow than Fflewddur’s map scratchings.

At a long cleft protected from the wind, Taran signaled a halt. They had made excellent progress during the day, far more than he had expected, and he saw no reason to exhaust themselves by forcing a march during the night.

Tethering Melyngar to one of the stunted trees that grew in the heights, the travelers made camp.

To Taran’s ear, the melody had its own words, weaving a supple thread among the rising notes.

Home, home, they sang; and beyond the words themselves, so fleeting he could not be quite sure of them, were the fields and orchards of Caer Dallben, the gold afternoons of autumn and the crisp winter mornings with pink sunlight on the snow.

Perhaps,” Fflewddur continued, “that’s why Taliesin thought he was doing me a favor when he gave it to me. Because when I went up to the Council of Bards for my examination, I had an old pot one of the minstrels had left behind and I couldn’t do more than plunk out a few chants. However, a Fflam never looks a gift horse in the mouth, or, in this case, I should say harp.”