When his guards ran to him with torches, he ordered them away, saying only that he had had a bad dream. But in the morning, while his warriors stood by their horses, awaiting him to mount and ride at the head of the battle host, Rhitta summoned his war-leader and told him:
“I have thought on this, and see it is not fitting for a King to show concern in such a matter. Were I myself to lead the host, there would be those to say I judged the danger greater than it is, or even that I had no trust in my officers. Therefore, go and do my bidding as it seems best to you, in any way you choose.”
Then Rhitta withdrew to his chamber, never daring to tell the true reason behind his words.
It is written on the scabbard, thought Rhitta, Draw Dyrnwyn, only thou of noble worth. Since the blade will not come freely to my hand, my warriors may believe their King is unworthy to rule.
The more he stared at the inscription, the more the words of it mocked him. With a curse, Rhitta seized a dagger and tried to scratch away the graven message. Though he marred some of the letters, the engraving remained and stood out all the brighter against the scabbard. Then Rhitta flung aside the dagger. Clutching the sword, he crouched trembling in a corner of his chamber, his eyes glittering feverishly, his glance never at rest.
Soon his war-leader came to him and said:
“Sire, the kinsmen of our enemies are slain, and all their families, their wives and mothers, their children, and any who might claim blood kinship with them.”
Rhitta nodded vaguely, as if he had not heard, and murmured:
“You have done well.”
Afterward, Rhitta looked again at Dyrnwyn. It had turned altogether black.
That night, although he slept behind barred and bolted doors, he woke to the sound of weeping and once more saw the shepherd, who turned an anguished face upon him and called out:
“Sire, find yourself before you lose yourself.”
Rhitta stopped his ears against these words, but even the coming of day did not dissolve his nightmare, and the empty chamber echoed the shepherd’s weeping.
“Another omen,” cried Rhitta. “Another warning that all my enemies are not yet slain. All must be found and killed, or I shall lose my kingdom.”
So he commanded his war bands to hunt down any who had ever befriended the kinsmen of his enemies; any who spoke in favor of them; and any who did not praise the worthiness of his kingship.
Even this brought him no peace. While Rhitta stayed in his chamber, his warriors roved the kingdom unchecked, putting many to the sword, with or without cause, having more thought now to seizing treasure than finding treachery. However, instead of striking terror in the hearts of Rhitta’s foes, such deeds only enraged them and gave them the courage of despair. Where before there had been few, now arose many who joined to fight against the King. And Rhitta’s nightmares, instead of easing, grew more terrible. He feared to stay alone in his chamber and feared to leave it, sure some hand would strike him down even amid his bodyguard.
So Rhitta commanded new chambers be made for him deep underground, with heavy doors and thick walls. At the same time he ordered his henchmen to stand circling his couch with drawn swords and keep watch over him.
Now, each night, Rhitta slept in a different chamber. Not even his councilors could be certain where to find him. Next he commanded other rooms to be built, with hallways, tunnels, and galleries, winding and crossing, twisting and turning, in a pattern he alone could fathom. Thus the stronghold became known as Spiral Castle.
Even then Rhitta was unsatisfied. He commanded his builders to dig still deeper, until they could go no farther. There they hewed a chamber out of living rock, in which he heaped great stores of provisions, treasures of gold and goods, coffers of jewels, robes of rich fur, and stacks of finely wrought weapons. He raised a high couch where he lay with the black sword at his hand. At last Rhitta was content. No enemy could find him, no battle host breach the walls. Even so, he ordered his warriors to stand about him with naked blades.
That night he went easily to sleep. But soon, as before, anguished murmuring aroused him. There stood the shepherd, his wounds running red, staining the fleece of the lamb he carried.
The warriors, sure no danger was possible, had fallen asleep on the floor. Rhitta would have cried an alarm, but his voice turned to stone in his throat as Amrys drew closer.
“Wretched King,” came the shepherd’s sorrowing voice. “Alas, you would not heed me. You slew me once for a broken gate; but you have slain yourself a hundred times over. King, I pity you as I would pity any suffering creature.”
The shepherd reached out a hand as if he would touch Rhitta’s brow.
Seeing this, fearing that Amrys meant to strike him, Rhitta found his voice again and shrieked in terror. At the same time, bending all his might, straining every sinew in a final effort, he clutched the hilt of Dyrnwyn and strove to rip it from the scabbard. He shouted in triumph as the blade came free.
But he had unsheathed only a hand’s-breadth of the blade when tongues of white flame burst crackling from the hilt and all the length of the scabbard. Where before he had been unable to draw the weapon, now he could not unclench his fists and cast the blazing sword away.
Like a lightning bolt, the flame filled the chamber in an instant, striking down even the guards who staggered to their feet. Then, as suddenly as it had risen, the flame was quenched. Still gripping the blackened sword in his lifeless hands, King Rhitta fell back on his couch. And all was silent.
Because no one could find a way through the tunnels and galleries, Rhitta lay as he had fallen. In time, having no word of him, his councilors and courtiers at last knew him to be dead.
And only the shepherd Amrys ever grieved for him.
THE SMITH, THE WEAVER, AND THE HARPER
There was a time in Prydain when craftsmen were so skillful their very tools held the secrets of their crafts. Of these, the hammer of Iscovan the Smith could work any metal into whatever shape its owner wished. The shuttle of Follin the Weaver could weave quicker than the eye could see, with never a knot or a tangle. The harp of Menwy the Bard sounded airs of such beauty it lifted the hearts of all who heard it.
But Arawn, Lord of Death, coveted these things and set out to gain them for himself, to lock them deep in his treasure-house, so no man might ever have use of them.
And so it was that one day, working at his anvil, Iscovan saw a tall man standing in his doorway. The stranger was arrayed as a war-leader, sword at side, shield over shoulder; he wore a coat of mail whose links were so cleverly wrought and burnished it seemed smooth as satin and glittering as gold.
“Blacksmith,” said the tall man, “the rowel of my spur is broken. Can you mend it?”
“There’s no metal in all this world I can’t mend, or shape, or temper,” Iscovan answered. “A broken spur? A trifle! Here, put it on my anvil. With this hammer of mine I’ll have it done in three strokes.”
“You have a fair hammer,” the warrior said, “but I doubt it can work metal such as this.”
“Think you so?” cried Iscovan, stung by these words. “Well, now, see for yourself.”
So saying, he laid the spur on his anvil, picked up his hammer, and began pounding away with all the strength of his burly arms.
At last, out of breath, his brow smudged and streaming, he stopped and frowned at the spur. It showed not the least mark from his battering.
Iscovan pumped the bellows of his forge, picked up the spur with his tongs, and thrust it into his furnace. There, heating it white-hot, once again he set it on his anvil, and hammered as hard as he was able, to no avail.
“Trouble yourself no more,” the stranger told the puzzled blacksmith. “In my country, armorers shape metal harder than any you know. If you would do likewise, you must use a hammer like theirs.”
With that, he reached into a leather sack hanging from his belt and took out a little golden hammer, which he handed to the smith.
“That toy?” Iscovan burs
t out. “Make sport of me and you’ll have more than a broken spur to mend!”
“Try it, nevertheless,” replied the stranger.
Laughing scornfully, the smith gripped the hammer and struck with all his force, sure the implement would break in his hand. Instead, sparks shot up, there came a roar of thunder, and his anvil split nearly in two. However, after that single blow, the spur was good as new.
Iscovan’s jaw dropped and he stared at the tall man, who said:
“My thanks to you, blacksmith. Now let me take my hammer and go my way.”
“Wait,” said Iscovan, clutching the tool. “Tell me first how I might get a hammer like yours.”
“In my realm, these are treasured highly,” replied the stranger. “You have only seen the smallest part of its worth. With such a hammer a smith can forge weapons that lose neither point nor edge, shields that never split, coats of mail no sword can pierce. Thus arrayed, even a handful of warriors could master a kingdom.”
“Tell me nothing of arms and armor,” Iscovan replied. “I’m no swordsmith; my skill is with plow-irons, rakes, and hoes. But, one way or another, I must have that hammer.”
Now Iscovan had always been a peaceful man; but even as he spoke these words, his head began spinning with secret thoughts. The stranger’s voice seemed to fan embers in his mind until they glowed hotter than his forge. And Iscovan said to himself, “If this man speaks the truth, and no sword or spear can harm them, indeed a handful of warriors could master a kingdom, for who could stand against them? But the smith who had the secret—he would be master of all! And why not I instead of another?”
The stranger, who meantime had been watching Iscovan narrowly, said:
“Blacksmith, you have done me a favor and by rights I owe a favor to you. So, I shall give you this hammer. But for the sake of a fair bargain, give me yours in its place.”
Iscovan hesitated, picking up his old hammer and looking fondly at it. The handle was worn smooth by long use, the iron head was nicked and dented; yet this hammer knew its craft as deeply as Iscovan himself, for it had taken to itself the skill of all smiths. It had well served Iscovan and brought him the honor of his workmanship. Nevertheless, considering what new power lay within his grasp, Iscovan nodded and said:
“Done. So be it.”
The stranger took Iscovan’s iron hammer, leaving the gold one in the hands of the smith, and without another word strode from the forge.
No sooner had the stranger gone than Iscovan, with a triumphant cry, raised the hammer and gave his anvil a ringing blow. But even as he did, the hammer crumbled in his hand. The bright gold had turned to lead.
Bewildered, Iscovan stared at the useless tool, then ran from the forge, shouting for his own hammer back again. Of the stranger, however, there was no trace.
And from that time on, Iscovan drudged at his forge, never to find a hammer the equal of the one he had bartered away.
On another day, Follin the Weaver was busy at his loom when a short, thickset man, ruddy-cheeked and quick-eyed, came into his weaving shed. Follin stopped plying his shuttle, which had been darting back and forth among the threads like a fish in water.
“Good greeting to you,” said the stranger, clad in garments finer than any the weaver had ever seen. His heavy cloak was of cloth of gold, embroidered in curious patterns. “My cloak is worn and shabby. Will you weave another for me?”
“I don’t know where you’re from,” returned Follin, dazzled at the traveler’s apparel, “but surely it’s a rich realm if you call that handsome cloak shabby.”
“It serves well enough to wear on a journey, to be stained and spattered,” returned the traveler. “But in my country this is no better than a castoff. Even a beggar would scorn it.”
Follin, meanwhile, had climbed down from his bench at the loom. He could not take his eyes from the stranger’s cloak, and when he ventured to rub the hem between his thumb and fingers, he grew still more amazed. The cloth, although purest gold, was lighter than thistledown and softer than lamb’s wool.
“I can weave nothing like this,” Follin stammered. “I have no thread to match it, and the work is beyond even my skill.”
“It would be a simple matter,” said the traveler, “if you had the means.” He reached into a leather sack he carried at his belt. “Here, try this shuttle instead of yours.”
Doubtfully, Follin took the shuttle, which looked as if it had never been used, while his own was worn and polished and comfortable to his hand. Nevertheless, at the stranger’s bidding, Follin threw the shuttle across the threads already on his loom.
That same instant, the shuttle began flying back and forth even faster than his old one. In moments, before the weaver’s eyes, shimmering cloth of gold appeared and grew so quickly the loom soon held enough for a cloak.
“Weaver, my thanks to you,” said the stranger, gesturing for Follin to take the new cloth off the loom. “What reward shall you ask?”
Follin was too dumbfounded to do more than wag his head and gape at the work of the wondrous shuttle. And so the traveler continued:
“You have done me a favor. Now I shall do one for you. Keep the shuttle. Use it as it may best profit you.”
“What?” cried Follin, scarcely believing his ears. “You mean to give me such a treasure?”
“Treasure it may be to you,” replied the stranger, “not to me. In my country, such implements are commonplace. Nevertheless,” he went on, “for the sake of a fair bargain, give me your shuttle in trade and you shall have this one.”
Now Follin had never been a greedy man. But the traveler’s words were like thin fingers plucking at the warp and weft of his thoughts. He had used his old shuttle all his life, and knew it to be filled with the wisdom and pride of his workmanship. Even so, he told himself, no man in his wits could turn down such an exchange. Instead of cloth, he could weave all the gold he wanted. And so he said:
“Done. So be it.”
He handed his old shuttle to the traveler, who popped it into the leather sack and, without another word, left the weaving shed.
No sooner had the stranger gone out the door than Follin, trembling in excitement, leaped onto his bench and set about weaving as fast as he could. He laughed with glee and his eyes glittered at the treasure that would be his.
“I’ll weave myself a fortune!” he cried. “And when I’ve spent that, I’ll weave myself another! And another! I’ll be the richest man in all the land. I’ll dine from gold plates, I’ll drink from gold cups!”
Suddenly the flying shuttle stopped, split asunder, and fell in pieces to the ground. On the loom the gleaming threads turned, in that instant, to cobwebs and tore apart in shreds before Follin’s eyes.
Distraught at the cheat, bewailing the loss of his shuttle, Follin ran from the weaving shed. But the traveler had gone.
And from that time on, Follin drudged at his loom, never to find a shuttle the equal of the one he had bartered away.
On another day, Menwy the Bard was sitting under a tree, tuning his harp, when a lean-faced man, cloaked in gray and mounted on a pale horse, reined up and called to him:
“Harper, my instrument lacks a string. Can you spare me one of yours?”
Menwy noticed the rider carried at his saddle bow a golden harp, the fairest he had ever seen. He got to his feet and strode up to the horseman to admire the instrument more closely.
“Alas, friend,” said Menwy, “I have no strings to match yours. Mine are of the common kind, but yours are spun of gold and silver. If it plays as nobly as it looks, you should be proud of it.”
“In my country,” said the rider, “this would be deemed the meanest of instruments. But since it seems to please you, so you shall have it. For the sake of a fair bargain, though, give me yours in exchange.”
“Now what a marvelous place the world is!” Menwy answered lightly. “Here’s a fellow who rides out of nowhere, and asks nothing better than to do me a favor. And would I be so ungrateful as to turn
it down? Come, friend, before there’s any talk of trading this and that, let’s hear a tune from that handsome harp of yours.”
At this, the rider stiffened and raised a hand as if the bard had threatened him; but, recovering himself, he replied:
“Prove the instrument for yourself, harper. Take it in your hands, listen to its voice.”
Menwy shook his head. “No need, friend. For I can tell you now, even though yours sang like a nightingale, I’d rather keep my own. I know its ways, and it knows mine.”
The rider’s eyes flickered for an instant. Then he replied:
“Harper, your fame has spread even as far as my realm. Scorn my gift as you will. But come with me and I swear you shall serve a king more powerful than any in Prydain. His bard you shall be, and you shall have a seat of honor by his throne.”
“How could that be?” asked Menwy, smiling. “Already I serve a ruler greater than yours, for I serve my music.”
Now Menwy was a poet and used to seeing around the edge of things. All this while, he had been watching the gray-cloaked horseman; and now as he looked closer, the rider and the golden harp seemed to change before his eyes. The frame of the instrument, which had appeared so fair, he saw to be wrought of dry bones, and the strings were serpents poised to strike.
Though Menwy was as brave as any man, the sight of the rider’s true face behind its mask of flesh froze the harper’s blood. Nevertheless, he did not turn away, nor did his glance waver as he replied:
“I see you for what you are, Lord of Death. And I fear you, as all men do. For all that, you are a weak and pitiful king. You can destroy, but never build. You are less than the humblest creature, the frailest blade of grass. For these live, and every moment of their lives is a triumph over you. Your kingdom is dust; only the silent ending of things, never the beginning.”
At that, Menwy took his harp and began to play a joyful melody. Hearing it, the horseman’s face tightened in rage; he drew his sword from its sheath and with all his might he struck at the bard.
The Foundling and Other Tales of Prydain Page 5