Kadwyr, however, perched on a branch, rocking back and forth, whistling gaily, daring the invader to catch him. While the smaller, weaker animals hid silent and fearful, Kadwyr hopped up and down, cawing at the top of his voice. And before the crow knew it, the hunter sprang from a thicket.
Garbed in the skins of slain animals, a long knife at his belt, a bow and quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder, the hunter had come so stealthily that Kadwyr scarcely had a moment to collect his wits. The hunter flung out a net so strong and finely woven that once caught in it, no creature could hope to struggle free.
But Kadwyr’s eye was quicker than the hunter’s snare. With a taunting cackle the crow hopped into the air, flapped his wings, and flew from the branch to perch higher in the tree, where he peered down and brazenly waggled his tailfeathers.
Leaving his net, with a snarl of anger the hunter unslung his bow, fitted an arrow to the string, and sent the shaft hissing straight for the crow.
Chuckling, Kadwyr fluttered his wings and sailed out of the path of the speeding arrow; then turned back to dance in the air in front of the furious hunter, who drew the bow again and again. Swooping and soaring, the crow dodged every shaft.
Seeing the hunter’s quiver almost empty, Kadwyr grew even bolder, gliding closer, circling beyond reach, then swooping back to liven the game again. Gnashing his teeth at the elusive prey, the hunter struck out wildly, trying to seize the nimble crow.
Kadwyr sped away. As he flew, he turned his head in a backward glance to jeer at his defeated pursuer. In that heedless instant, the crow collided with a tree trunk.
Stunned, Kadwyr plummeted to the ground. The hunter ran toward him. Kadwyr croaked in pain as he strove to fly to safety. But his wing hung useless at his side, broken.
Breathless, Kadwyr scrambled into the bushes. The hunter plunged after him. Earthbound and wounded, Kadwyr began wishing he had not been so quick to turn down shelter from the squirrels and beavers. With the hunter gaining on him, the crow gladly would have squeezed into any tunnel, or burrow, or rabbit hole he could find. But all had been sealed, blocked, and barred with stones and twigs.
Dragging his wing, the crow skittered through the underbrush. His spindly legs were ill-suited to running, and he longed for the swiftness of the hare. He stumbled and went sprawling. An arrow buried itself in the ground beside him.
The hunter drew his bow. Though this was his pursuer’s last arrow, Kadwyr knew himself a hopeless target. Only a few paces away, the hunter took aim.
The same instant, a cloud of dust came whirling through the trees. Expecting in another moment to be skewered, Kadwyr now saw the hunter fling up his arms and drop his bow. The arrow clattered harmlessly into the leaves. Next, Kadwyr was sure his opponent had lost his wits. Roaring with pain, the hunter waved his arms and beat his hands against his face, trying to fend off the cloud buzzing about his head and shoulders.
The host of gnats swarmed over the raging hunter, darted into his ears and eyes, streamed up his nose and out his mouth. The more the hunter swept away the tiny creatures, the more they set upon him.
“Gwybeddin!” burst out the crow as one of the swarm broke from the cloud and lit on his beak. “Thank you for my life! Did I call you a flyspeck? You and your gnats are as brave as eagles!”
“Hurry!” piped the gnat. “We’re doing all we can, but he’s more than a match for us. Quick, away with you!”
Kadwyr needed no urging. The gnats had saved him from the hunter’s arrows and, as well, had let him snatch a moment’s rest. The crow set off again as fast as he could scramble through the dry leaves and dead branches of the forest floor.
Brave though Gwybeddin and his fellows had been, their efforts did not keep the hunter long from the chase. Soon Kadwyr heard footfalls crashing close behind him. The hunter had easily found the crow’s trail and seemed to gain in strength while his prey weakened with each step.
The crow plunged deeper into the woods, hoping to hide in a heavy growth of brambles or a thicket where the hunter could not follow. Instead, to Kadwyr’s dismay, the forest here grew sparser. Before the crow could find cover, the hunter sighted him and gave a triumphant shout.
Not daring another backward glance, Kadwyr scrambled through a grove of trees. The ground before him lay clear and hard-packed; but while the way was easier for him, he realized it was easier, too, for his enemy to overtake him.
Just then Kadwyr heard a bellow of rage. The crow halted to see the hunter twisting and turning, struggling as if caught in his own net. Kadwyr stared in amazement. Amid the trees, Nedir and all the spiders in the forest had joined to spin their strongest webs. The strands were so fine the hunter had not seen them, but now they clung to him, twined and wrapped around him, and the more he tried to fight loose, the more they enshrouded him.
From a branch above Kadwyr’s head, sliding down a single invisible thread, came Nedir, waving her long legs.
“We spinners and weavers have done our best,” she called out, “but even our stoutest webs will soon give way. Be off, while you have a chance!”
“Granny spider,” cried Kadwyr, “forgive me if I ever made sport of you. Your knitting saved my neck!”
Once again the crow scurried away, sure this time he had escaped for good and all. Despite the pain in his wing, his spirits rose and he began gleefully cackling at the sight of the hunter so enmeshed in a huge cocoon.
But Kadwyr soon snapped his beak shut. His eyes darted about in alarm, for his flight had brought him to the edge of a steep cliff.
He halted and fearfully drew back. Without the use of his wing he would have fallen like a stone and been dashed to pieces on the rocks below. However, before he could decide which way to turn, he saw the hunter racing toward him.
Free of the spiders’ webs, more enraged than ever, and bent on making an end of the elusive crow, the hunter pulled his knife from his belt. With a shout of triumph, he sprang at the helpless Kadwyr.
The crow, certain his last moment had come, flapped his one good wing and thrust out his beak, bound that he would sell his life dearly.
But the hunter stumbled in mid-stride. His foot caught on a round stone that tripped him up and sent him plunging headlong over the cliff.
Kadwyr’s terror turned to joyous relief. He cawed, cackled, and crowed as loudly as any rooster. Then his beak fell open in astonishment.
The stone that had saved his life began to sprout four stubby legs and a tail, a leathery neck stretched out cautiously, and Crugan-Crawgan, the turtle, blinked at Kadwyr.
“Are you all right?” asked Crugan-Crawgan. “That is, I mean to say … you’ve come to no harm? I’m sorry … ah, Kadwyr, there wasn’t more I could have … done. We turtles, alas, can’t run … like rabbits. Or fly … like eagles. But we are, I hope you’ll agree … yes, we are solid, if nothing else. And … very, very steady.”
“Crugan-Crawgan,” said Kadwyr, “you saved my life and I thank you. Steady and solid you are, old fellow, and I’m glad of it.”
“By the way,” the turtle went on, “as I was saying … the last time we met … yes, the snail and I did have a race. It was … a draw.”
The forest was again safe and the rejoicing animals came out of their hiding places. Edyrnion the eagle bore the wounded crow to Medwyn’s valley, to be cared for and sheltered until his wing healed.
“Ah, Kadwyr, you scamp, I didn’t expect to see you here so soon,” Medwyn told the crow, who admitted all that had happened in the woods. “Your wing will mend and you’ll be ready for some new scrape. But let us hope next time you can help your friends as they helped you.”
“I know better than to scorn a spider,” said Kadwyr, crestfallen. “I’ll never taunt a turtle. And never again annoy a gnat. But—but, come to think of it,” he went on, his eyes brightening, “if it hadn’t been for me—yes, it was I! I who led that hunter a merry chase! I who saved all in the forest!”
Kadwyr chuckled and clucked, bobbed his head, and snapped his b
eak, altogether delighted with himself.
“Perhaps you did, at that,” Medwyn gently answered. “In any case, go in peace, Kadwyr. The world has room enough for a rascal crow.”
THE SWORD
When Rhitta was crowned King of Prydain, the great sword Dyrnwyn, fairest ever wrought, was given him in token of his kingship. Its hilt was gem-studded, its blade forged in a secret way of which the knowledge had been long lost. On its scabbard were graven these words: Draw Dyrnwyn, only thou of noble worth, to rule with justice, to strike down evil. Who wields it in good cause shall slay even the Lord of Death. Of Dyrnwyn’s lore and lineage little was known. King Rhydderch Hael, sire of King Rhych, and grandsire of Rhitta, had been the first to bear it, and it was said a deep enchantment had been laid upon it. So Rhitta, in his turn, bore Dyrnwyn as a weapon of power and protection over the land.
One day Rhitta and his nobles rode to the hunt. In the heat of the chase, Rhitta galloped across the field of the old shepherd, Amrys, and by mishap broke the gate of his sheepfold.
In dismay, Amrys called out to Rhitta:
“King, I pray you, mend my gate. My arms are too weak, my hands tremble, and I have no strength to set new posts and raise it again.”
In his eagerness to follow the chase, Rhitta hastily answered:
“Shepherd, this is a small matter. You have my word it will be made right.”
With that, seeing his nobles had gone on ahead, Rhitta spurred his horse after them. All day he hunted and at nightfall rode back weary to his castle. There his councilors awaited him with such pressing business and so many urgent questions that he forgot his promise to the shepherd.
Next morning, however, as Rhitta rode out hawking, at the portal stood the shepherd holding a young lamb in his arms.
“King, mend my gate,” cried Amrys, clutching Rhitta’s stirrup. “Already my sheep have strayed, all but this one lamb.”
“Have I not given you my word?” answered Rhitta sharply, angry with himself at forgetting, but angrier still that the shepherd dared reproach him before his nobles. “Yours are small cares and will be set right in good time. Trouble me no longer with them.”
The hawk on the King’s wrist beat her wings impatiently. Rhitta kicked his stirrup free of the shepherd’s hand, shouted for his hunting band to follow, and galloped on his way.
That night, with plates filled and wine flowing, Rhitta feasted in his Great Hall. Amid the laughter and boasting of his warriors and the music of his harpers, Rhitta had no thoughts for his promise to the shepherd.
Next day, Rhitta held court with all his councilors and his war-leader to consider matters of policy and high state. In the midst of the council, pulling free of the guards who tried to hold him back, Amrys hobbled into the throne room and fell on his knees before the King.
“King, mend my gate,” he cried, holding out the body of the lamb. “I have honored you as a worthy king and upright man, but now my sheep are lost and, for want of its mother, my lamb is dead.”
“Shepherd,” warned Rhitta, “I commanded you to trouble me no more. How dare you come into my council? Grave affairs are being weighed here.”
“Sire,” answered the shepherd, “is it not a grave thing when a king’s promise goes unkept?”
“What, shepherd,” Rhitta burst out, “do you tell me I have been false to my word?”
“No, sire,” the shepherd returned simply, “I only tell you that so far it has not been kept.”
Rhitta’s face reddened at being so reproved, and he rose angrily from his throne to answer:
“Shepherd, mind your tongue! Do you call your king an oath-breaker?”
“You say it, sire, not I,” replied Amrys.
These words of the shepherd so kindled his wrath that Rhitta drew his great sword and struck down Amrys. But then, when his rage lifted and he saw he had slain the old man, Rhitta was filled with remorse; he flung aside the weapon and covered his face with his hands.
However, his councilors gathered around him and said:
“Sire, that was a grievous deed. Nevertheless, the shepherd brought it on himself. He gave you a mortal insult, calling you a liar to your face. This affront to Your Majesty could have grown to treason and open rebellion. You could have done nothing else.”
At first Rhitta had blamed only himself, but the more his councilors spoke, the more their words eased his mind and he saw the matter in their light. So, putting aside his regrets, he willingly agreed:
“Yes, it is true and clear to me now. I did only my duty. Even so, to show I bear no grudge, see to it the shepherd’s wife and family are given each a purse filled with gold and the finest ram and ewe of my own flock; and never are they to want for anything whatsoever.”
All the court hailed Rhitta’s wisdom and generosity. But that night in his bed chamber, when he laid aside his weapons, on the bright scabbard of Dyrnwyn he saw a dark stain, the black of dried blood. Try as he would to wipe the scabbard clean, the dark stain remained.
Next day, his Chief Councilor came and told him:
“Sire, we would have done your bidding, but the shepherd has neither wife nor family. Indeed, he has no kindred to inherit his land.”
Rhitta’s war-leader, hearing this, came forward and said to the King:
“Sire, it has been your custom to reward those who serve you well. Before, when land was left without an heir, you bestowed it on other lords. Will you give this holding to me?”
Rhitta hesitated, weighing the war-leader’s request but thinking, too, how well the shepherd’s land would increase his own domains. Then he said:
“The shepherd affronted me. It is only justice that his land be added to mine.”
“Justice?” retorted the war-leader. “The King’s justice well serves the King’s ends.”
Rhitta turned angrily upon him and exclaimed:
“It will be as I said. How dare you question me? Do you reprove your King? Take warning from the shepherd’s fate.”
“Do you threaten a companion’s life?” the war-leader flung back, his lips white with rage. “Know, Rhitta, you have a warrior to deal with, not a weak old man. You, sire, take warning yourself.”
At this, Rhitta struck the war-leader across the face and cried:
“Be gone! Do you covet more land? For your insolence, your own lands are forfeit. I banish you from court and castle, and from all my realm.”
Seeing Rhitta’s fury, neither the councilors nor any of the nobles dared gainsay the King. So the war-leader was sent away in disgrace and his place given to another.
That night in his bed chamber, when he laid aside the sword, Rhitta saw the stain had not only darkened but spread until it covered still more of the scabbard. Again he tried to wipe it away, but the stubborn stain remained and grew larger. Alarmed, he gave the weapon to his master swordsmiths, but even they could not scour it clean.
Now, at this same time, many nobles, witnesses to the war-leader’s disgrace, began muttering among themselves. The King’s injustice rankled them, and they feared his wrath might fall heavily upon them, too, and strip them of their own lands and honors. So they swore to rise against the King and overthrow him.
But Rhitta had word of their plan, and even as they gathered to do battle, Rhitta and his war band rode out and set upon them, taking them by surprise.
As it happened, the place of battle was none other than the field of Amrys, the shepherd. And Rhitta, leading his warriors, suddenly cried out in horror. There, before his eyes, stood the shepherd, bloody with wounds, holding out the lamb to him.
The King’s warriors, seeing nothing, took Rhitta’s outburst as a battle cry. They galloped to a fierce charge, slew most of those who stood against them, and put the rest to flight.
Rhitta, however, had reined his horse and turned from the fray. With all speed, he rode back to his castle and lay trembling in his chamber, certain the shepherd had meant to work some evil upon him.
When his warriors brought him word of the vic
tory and asked if he had been wounded and therefore had not led the onslaught, Rhitta dared not speak of what he had seen. Instead, he told them he had been stricken with a sudden fever and sickness. But he could not keep the shepherd from his thoughts.
“He deserved his fate,” Rhitta repeated to himself. “As do all who have risen against me. Let their lands, too, be forfeit, and their goods and gold be added to the royal treasure.”
But now the stain spread farther and blotted nearly all the scabbard. Again Rhitta ordered his swordsmiths to find a means of scouring it. They could not.
“The metal is flawed,” Rhitta cried. “The sword is ill-made.”
At the same time, uneasiness filled his mind. Now he believed the sight of Amrys had been an omen and a warning of more treachery. And so he called his councilors, war-leader, and captains of his war bands, saying:
“All our enemies are not yet overcome, and the danger to the kingdom is even greater. The kinsmen of those traitors will surely seek vengeance. It may be they plot against me even now. It may be they bide their time, waiting for a day when they shall rise and strike me unawares. Better that I crush them before they can rally in strength and set upon me.”
So Rhitta commanded his war bands to arm and at dawn be ready to seek out the traitors’ kindred and to slay them.
That night, however, Rhitta turned and tossed on his couch, and long before dawn he woke at the sound of a voice murmuring in his chamber. He started up, sweating in terror, to see the shepherd, holding the lamb in his arms, standing at the foot of the couch. And Amrys spoke and said:
“Remember the broken gate, sire. Remember the lost sheep. The path you follow leads you, too, astray. Mourn the dead by pitying the living.”
The shepherd would have spoken further, but Rhitta, unheeding, sprang up with a great cry, seized Dyrnwyn, and made to snatch the blade from its sheath. But the scabbard held the blade with jaws of iron. In fear and rage, Rhitta clawed at the weapon and tore at it until his fingers were bloodied. He could not draw the sword.
The Foundling and Other Tales of Prydain Page 4