Taran Wanderer: Chapters 14–21

When danger threatened the flock, Craddoc turned fierce as a wolf, heedless of his own safety with a courage Taran could only admire. Yet this man held him prisoner, in fetters of blood right.

Until now Craddoc had been hard-pressed to keep the new lambs from straying and, as the sheep roved farther afield seeking better pasture, to gather all into the fold at evening.

Gurgi pleaded to be given charge of them, and the flock seemed as pleased as he was. He gamboled happily with the lambs, clucked and fussed over the ewes, and even the ancient, bad-tempered ram turned gentle in his presence.

As the days grew cooler Craddoc gave him a jacket of unshorn fleece, and as Gurgi moved among his charges Taran could hardly distinguish the shaggy creature bundled in his woolly garb from the rest of the flock.

As for the bard, Taran sensed more than ever that Fflewddur would not return; and as the days shortened and autumn drew closer, he gave up his vigil and looked no longer at the sky.

The planning as well as the doing had been his, and as he stood in the dooryard, the fine snow clinging like chaff to his uncropped hair, it was not without pride that he watched the smoke rising from the rebuilt chimney.

Taran dropped the sheepskin, hurriedly donned a fleece jacket and, as Gurgi moaned and wrung his hands, snatched up a cloak and raced through the open door.

Was there the slimmest hope of saving the stricken herdsman? If not, even Prince Gwydion would not reproach Taran’s decision. Nor would any man. Instead, they would grieve with him at his loss.

Taran’s numbed fingers clutched vainly at an outcropping as a rock gave way beneath his feet.

Puzzling over this farmhold, surely the strangest he had seen, Taran drew closer, dismounted, and as he did so a tall figure ambled from the shed and made his way toward the companions.

Following Llonio’s rambling, halting now and then to cull certain herbs or roots, the day sped so swiftly it was nearly over before Taran realized it had begun.

“Not so, not so!” protested Llonio, hastily scraping away the loam partly covering the stone.

Over the cookfire, the mushrooms, eked out with the leftover griddle cake and a handful of early vegetables the children had found, simmered so deliciously that Taran and Gurgi needed no urging to stay for the repast.

Goewin, without delay, brought out a large stone quern to grind the grain into meal. All took a hand in the task, the children from eldest to youngest, even Llonio himself; Taran did his share willingly, though he found the quern heavy and cumbersome, as did Gurgi.

Looking at his handiwork, Taran felt a stirring of pride for the first time since leaving Craddoc’s valley. But with it came a vague restiveness.

In a voice like stones rattling on a bronze shield he roared out a song in time with his hammer strokes so loudly that Taran judged the man’s lungs as leathery as his bellows.

“It’s not a noble weapon, and thus it suits me all the more,” Taran laughed, glancing at the ungainly sword.

As Gurgi scuttled inside to escape the teeming rain, Taran saw a bent old woman cloaked in gray beckoning him to the hearth. Her long hair was white as the wool on the distaff hanging from her belt of plaited cords.

As Gurgi scuttled inside to escape the teeming rain, Taran saw a bent old woman cloaked in gray beckoning him to the hearth. Her long hair was white as the wool on the distaff hanging from her belt of plaited cords.

Around it were stacked bobbins of thread of all colors; from the rafters dangled skeins of yarn, hanks of wool and flax; on the walls hung lengths of finished fabrics, some of bright hue and simple design, others of subtler craftsmanship and patterns more difficult to follow.

Around it were stacked bobbins of thread of all colors; from the rafters dangled skeins of yarn, hanks of wool and flax; on the walls hung lengths of finished fabrics, some of bright hue and simple design, others of subtler craftsmanship and patterns more difficult to follow.

So saying, she hobbled to the loom, climbed to the bench in front of it, and with surprising vigor began plying the shuttle back and forth, all the while working her feet on the treadles below, hardly pausing to glance at her handiwork.

So saying, she hobbled to the loom, climbed to the bench in front of it, and with surprising vigor began plying the shuttle back and forth, all the while working her feet on the treadles below, hardly pausing to glance at her handiwork.

The size of the task ahead of him made Taran despair of ever finishing, but he and Gurgi started the painstaking work, with Dwyvach herself lending a hand.

At the end of each day Taran’s eyes were bleary, his fingers raw, and his head nodded wearily; yet the old weaver-woman was bright and spry as if the day had scarce begun.

At the end of each day Taran’s eyes were bleary, his fingers raw, and his head nodded wearily; yet the old weaver-woman was bright and spry as if the day had scarce begun.

Chastened by Dwyvach’s words, Gurgi did his best to help, though all too often the hapless creature managed only to tangle himself in the long strands.

“You have skill in your fingers, Wanderer,” she said, with unaccustomed gentleness. “Enough to make you one of the finest weavers in Prydain. And if my distaff and your knuckles met more often than you liked, it was because I deemed you worth reproving. Dwell in my house, if you choose, work at my loom, and what I know I will teach you.”

Crossing a shallow stream, Taran reined up at the sight of a hale old man digging busily near the water’s edge; Beside him stood a pair of wooden buckets on a yoke, and into these he carefully poured spadefuls of pale brown earth.

Crossing a shallow stream, Taran reined up at the sight of a hale old man digging busily near the water’s edge; Beside him stood a pair of wooden buckets on a yoke, and into these he carefully poured spadefuls of pale brown earth.

The potter bent almost humbly to his work, and reached out his hands as tenderly as if he were lifting an unfledged bird.

The pride of forging his own sword and weaving his own cloak dwindled before this new discovery that made him cry out in sudden delight. But his hands faltered and the clay went awry.

Taran’s first vessel was so lopsided and misshapen that, despite his disappointment, he threw back his head and laughed.

"...Today, not long past, I saw horsemen over the rise, and leading them a yellow-haired ruffian on a sorrel mare.”

“What would you have us do?” Drudwas angrily burst out. “Offer tribute and beg them to spare us? Give our animals to their swords and our homes to their torches? Commot Isav has ever been at peace; our pride is husbandry not warfare. But we mean to stand against them. Have we better choice?”

“Nor would I do so, even then, for it would leave Merin ill-defended. No, we stand as we are. Against twelve, seven. My son Llassar,” he began, indicating a tall, eager-faced boy scarcely older than Taran had been when Coll first dubbed him Assistant Pig-Keeper.

The Commot men listened carefully as Taran then spoke of a ruse to make the raiders believe themselves outnumbered, and to attack where Dorath would expect no more than feeble defense.

But one warrior, growling like a wild beast, long knife upraised, raced into the pen as if to wreak all the destruction he could, and Taran grappled with the man who spun about and slashed at him.

At the foot of Meledin wind and weather had carved an arching cave little more than a few paces deep. Rivulets trickled from the moss-grown rocks of its overhanging brow.

Dorath wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Of those who rode from Isav, two cowards fled and I’ve seen none of them. Two were heavily wounded. Those, I myself sped on their journey to the carrion crows, and they burden me no longer. But no matter. I’ll soon find others to join me...."