“Then take my cloak,” urged Fflewddur, doffing his garment and wrapping it about the old man’s shoulders.
“My thanks to you,” said the old man, wistfully fondling the cloak. “But I cannot take what you yourself need.”
“Need?” exclaimed Fflewddur. “Not at all,” he added, though his own lips had begun turning blue and his nose felt as if it had grown icicles. “Take it and welcome. For the truth of the matter is, I find the day uncomfortably hot!”
No sooner had he spoken these words than the harp shuddered as if it were alive, bent like an overdrawn bow, and a string snapped in two with a loud twang.
“Drat that string!” muttered Fflewddur. “The weather’s got into it somehow.”
Knotting up the string, he set out on his way again, shivering, shaking, and playing for all he was worth to keep himself warm.
He wandered on, following the swiftly flowing river. Suddenly he heard a child’s voice crying in distress and terror. Clapping heels to his horse’s flank he galloped down the riverbank. A small girl had tumbled into the water and the hapless child struggled vainly against the current already sweeping her away.
Fflewddur leaped from his mount and plunged with a great splash into the river, flailing his arms, thrashing his legs, striving with all his might to reach the drowning child.
“This would be an easy task,” he gasped, “if only I could swim!”
Nonetheless, he pressed on, choking and sputtering, until he caught up the child. Keeping afloat as best he could, he turned shoreward; at last his long shanks found footing on the riverbed, and he bore the girl safely to dry land.
Comforting her all the while, though water streamed from his nose, ears, and mouth, he made his way to the cottage from which she had strayed. There, the husbandman and his wife joyously threw their arms about their daughter and the bedraggled Fflewddur as well.
“Poor folk we are,” cried the farm wife. “What reward can we give? All we have is yours, and small payment for saving our greatest treasure.”
“Don’t give it a thought,” Fflewddur exclaimed, his face lighting up as he warmed to his tale. “Why, to begin with, it was in my mind to have a dip in the river. As for the rest—a trifle! A Fflam swims like a fish! With only a few powerful strokes—”
The harp twitched violently and a pair of strings gave way with an earsplitting crack.
“Drat and blast!” muttered Fflewddur. “What ails these beastly strings? The dampness, I’ll be bound.”
Taking his leave of the family, for some days he wandered happily to his heart’s content, finding himself at last before the stronghold of a noble lord. To the guards at the gate, Fflewddur called out that a bard had come with music and merriment, whereupon they welcomed him and led him to the lord’s Great Hall.
No sooner had Fflewddur begun to play than the lord leaped angrily from his throne.
“Have done!” he burst out. “You yelp like a cur with its tail trodden, and your harp rattles worse than a kettle of stones! Away with you!”
Before Fflewddur could collect his wits, the lord snatched up a cudgel, collared the harper, and began drubbing him with all his strength.
“Ai! Ow! Have a care!” cried Fflewddur, struggling vainly to escape the blows and shield his harp at the same time. “A king am I! Of the mightiest realm in Prydain! You’ll rue this day when you see my battle host at your gates! A thousand warriors! Spearmen! Bowmen! A Fflam at their head!”
While the harp strings broke right and left, the lord seized Fflewddur by the scruff of the neck and flung him out the gate, where he landed headlong in the mire.
“A Fflam humiliated!” Fflewddur cried, painfully climbing to his feet. “Affronted! Beaten like a knave!” He rubbed his aching shoulders. “Yes, well, it’s clear,” he sighed. “Some people have no ear for music.”
His bones too sore for the saddle, he made the rest of his way afoot, with his horse jogging after him. He had trudged a little distance when the selfsame lord and his train of servants galloped by.
“What, are you still in my domain?” shouted the lord. “Begone, you spindle-shanked scarecrow! If once again I see that long nose of yours, you’ll have a drubbing better than the first!”
Fflewddur held his tongue as the horsemen rode past, fearing more for his harp than his skin. “Stone-eared clot!” he grumbled under his breath. “A Fflam is forgiving, but this is more than any man can bear.” And he consoled himself with delicious dreams of how he would even the score—should he ever have a host of warriors at his command.
Suddenly he realized the clash of arms and noise of battle came not from his imaginings but from a short way down the road. A band of robbers, lying in ambush, had set upon the riders. The servants had fled bawling in terror and the lord himself was hard pressed and sorely in danger of losing his head as well as his purse.
Snatching out his sword and shouting his battle cry, “A Fflam! A Fflam!” Fflewddur rushed into the fray, and laid about him so fiercely and ferociously the robbers turned and fled as if a whole army of long-legged madmen were at their heels.
Shamefaced, the lord knelt humbly before him, saying: “Alas, I gave you a cudgel to your back, but you gave me a bold sword at my side.”
“Ah—yes, well, for the matter of that,” replied Fflewddur, a little tartly now the danger was past, “the truth is, a Fflam is hotblooded! I’d been itching for a good fight all this day. But had I known it was you,” he added, “believe me, I’d have kept on my way—Oh, not again! Drat and blast the wretched things!” He moaned as three harp strings broke one after the other, and the instrument jangled as if it would fall to bits.
More than ever dismayed at the state of his harp strings, Fflewddur left the lord’s domain and turned back toward Caer Dathyl, journeying to stand once again before the Chief Bard.
“A Fflam is thankful,” he began, “and not one to look a gift horse—in this case, harp—in the mouth. But the strings were weak and worn. As for my wanderings, I was dined and feasted, welcomed and treated royally wherever I went. But the strings—there, you see, they’re at it again!” he exclaimed, as several broke in two even as he spoke.
“I’ve only to take a breath!” Fflewddur lamented. “Why, the wretched things break at every word—” He stopped short and stared at the harp. “It would almost seem—” he murmured, his face turning sickly green. “But it can’t be! But it is!” He groaned, looking all the more woebegone.
The Chief Bard was watching him closely and Fflewddur glanced sheepishly at him.
“Ah—the truth of it is,” Fflewddur muttered, “I nearly froze to death in the wind, nearly drowned in the river, and my royal welcome was a royal cudgeling.
“Those beastly strings,” he sighed. “Yes, they do break whenever I, ah, shall we say, adjust the facts. But facts are so gray and dreary, I can’t help adding a little color. Poor things, they need it so badly.”
“I have heard more of your wanderings than you might think,” said the Chief Bard. “Have you indeed spoken all the truth? What of the old man you warmed with your cloak? The child you saved from the river? The lord at whose side you fought?”
Fflewddur blinked in astonishment. “Ah—yes, well, the truth of it is: it never occurred to me to mention them. They were much too dull and drab for any presentable tale at all.”
“Yet those deeds were far more worthy than all your gallant fancies,” said the Chief Bard, “for a good truth is purest gold that needs no gilding. You have the modest heart of the truly brave; but your tongue, alas, gallops faster than your head can rein it.”
“No longer!” Fflewddur declared. “Never again will I stretch the truth!”
The harp strings tightened as if ready to break all at once.
“That is to say,” Fflewddur added hastily, “never beyond what it can bear. A Fflam has learned his lesson. Forever!”
At this, a string snapped loudly. But it was only a small one.
Such is the tale of Fflewddur Fflam, the breaking of the
strings, and the harp he carried in all his wanderings from that day forward.
And such is the end of it.
Author’s Note
Many readers of all ages have asked for a new journey to Prydain, and popular demand makes a splendid pretext for a writer to do what he always wanted to do in the first place. However, the tales offered here are meant to be more than a fond return to the imaginary realm that has been part of my life for some years, not retracing steps but venturing deeper into unmapped territory.
Unlike the adventures beginning with The Book of Three and ending with The High King, these tales deal with happenings before the birth of Taran Assistant Pig-Keeper. Though short in length, they are, I hope, not lacking in substance. While they take up certain threads left unraveled in the longer weaving, each stands by itself and tries to relate matters bearing not only on the history of Prydain but on our own times and concerns as well. Inspired originally by Welsh legend, the tales, for me, have grown to be much more personal than mythological.
Readers visiting Prydain for the first time in these pages may enjoy them without foreknowledge of events to come. Those who already know the chronicles may be pleased to meet some old friends in different circumstances. Dallben first appears here not as an age-worn enchanter but as a baby floating in a wicker basket in the Marshes of Morva. Doli of the Fair Folk is as frustrated and bad tempered as ever. Princess Angharad, mother of Eilonwy, proves herself as clear-sighted and strong-willed as the daughter she is destined to bear. Medwyn, ancient protector of animals, keeps his patience and compassion despite the antics of Kadwyr, the rascal crow. The grim history of the sword Dyrnwyn is finally revealed, along with the terrible fate of King Rhitta in Spiral Castle. Menwy, the harper, is mentioned only briefly in the previous chronicles; but here, when he cries out defiance of the Death-Lord himself, he counts as a hero in his own right, and his affirmation of life reaches far beyond the boundaries of a fanciful kingdom.
It always startles me to realize how many early friends of Prydain are by now grown men and women, and how young the new friends are. But I hope, in any case, calendar years will be no hindrance to enjoyment, and that the reader will find some of the pleasure these tales have given the writer.
The Chronicles of Prydain by Lloyd Alexander:
The Book of Three
Taran the Assistant Pig-Keeper assembles a group of companions to rescue the oracular pig Hen Wen from the forces of evil.
The Black Cauldron
Newbery Honor Book
The warriors of Prydain set out to find and destroy the Black Cauldron, the Death-Lord Arawn’s chief instrument of evil.
The Castle of Llyr
Princess Eilonwy is growing up and must learn to act like a lady rather than a heroine among heroes.
Taran Wanderer
Taran faces a long and lonely search for his identity among the hills and marshes, farmers and common people of Prydain.
The High King
Newbery Medal Winner
The final struggle between good and evil dramatically concludes the fate of Prydain, and of Taran who wanted to be a hero.
Also available:
The Foundling and Other Tales of Prydain by Lloyd Alexander
Eight short stories evoke the land of Prydain before the adventures of Taran the Assistant Pig-Keeper.
The Prydain Companion
A Reference Guide to Lloyd Alexander’s Prydain Chronicles by Michael O. Tunnell
Prydain Pronunciation Guide
Achren AHK-ren
Adaon ah-DAY-on
Aeddan EE-dan
Angharad an-GAR-ad
Annuvin ah-NOO-vin
Arawn ah-RAWN
Arianllyn ahree-AHN-lin
Briavael bree-AH-vel
Brynach BRIHN-ak
Caer Cadarn kare KAH-darn
Caer Colur kare KOH-loor
Caer Dathyl kare DA-thil
Coll kahl
Dallben DAHL-ben
Doli DOH-lee
Don dahn
Dwyvach DWIH-vak
Dyrnwyn DUHRN-win
Edyrnion eh-DIR-nyon
Eiddileg eye-DILL-eg
Eilonwy eye-LAHN-wee
Ellidyr ELLI-deer
Fflewddur Fflam FLEW-der flam
Geraint GHER-aint
Goewin GOH-win
Govannion go-VAH-nyon
Gurgi GHER-ghee
Gwydion GWIH-dyon
Gwythaint GWIH-thaint
Islimach iss-LIM-ahk
Llawgadarn law-GAD-arn
Lluagor lew-AH-gore
Llunet LOO-net
Llyan lee-AHN
Llyr leer
Melyngar MELLIN-gar
Melynlas MELLIN-lass
Oeth-Anoeth eth-AHN-eth
Orddu OR-doo
Orgoch OR-gahk
Orwen OR-wen
Prydain prih-DANE
Pryderi prih-DAY-ree
Rhuddlum ROOD-lum
Rhun roon
Smoit smoyt
Taliesin tally-ESS-in
Taran TAH-ran
Teleria tell-EHR-ya
About the Author
Lloyd Alexander was born and raised in Philadelphia. As a boy he decided that he wanted to be a writer. “If reading offered any preparation for writing, there were grounds for hope. I had been reading as long as I could remember. Shakespeare, Dickens, Mark Twain, and so many others were my dearest friends and greatest teachers. I loved all the world’s mythologies; King Arthur was one of my heroes; I played with a trash-can lid for a knightly shield, and my uncle’s cane for the sword Excalibur.”
During World War II, Mr. Alexander trained as a member of an army combat intelligence team in Wales. This ancient, rough-hewn country with its castles, mountains, and its own beautiful language made a tremendous impression on him, but not until years later did he realize that he had been given a glimpse of another enchanted kingdom.
After the war, while attending the University of Paris, he met his future wife, Janine. They were married, and moved back to Philadelphia, where Mr. Alexander wrote novel after novel. It was seven years before his first novel at last was published. Ten years later, he tried writing for children. It was, Mr. Alexander says, “the most creative and liberating experience of my life. In books for young people, I was able to express my own deepest feelings far more than I could ever do in writing for adults.”
While doing historical research for a Welsh episode in his first children’s book, Time Cat, he discovered such riches that he decided to save them for a whole book. He delved into all sorts of volumes, from anthropology to the writings of an eighteenth-century Welsh clergyman to the Mabinogion, the classic collection of Welsh legends. From his readings emerged such characters as Gwydion Son of Don, Arawn Death-Lord of Annuvin, Dallben the old enchanter, and the oracular pig Hen Wen. The landscape and mood of Prydain came from Mr. Alexander’s vivid recollections of the land of Wales that had so enchanted him twenty years earlier.
The five books in the Chronicles of Prydain are The Book of Three (an ALA Notable Book), The Black Cauldron (a Newbery Honor Book), The Castle of Llyr (an ALA Notable Book), Taran Wanderer, and The High King (winner of the 1969 Newbery Medal). He followed the chronicles in 1973 with a collection of short stories, The Foundling and Other Tales of Prydain.
Henry Holt® is a registered trademark of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.
Copyright © 1965, 1967, 1973 by Lloyd Alexander
Map copyright © 1968 by Evaline Ness
Compilation copyright © 1999 by Henry Holt and Company
Pronunciation Guide copyright © 1999 by Henry Holt and Company
All rights reserved.
Henry Holt and Company, LLC, Publishers since 1866
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010
www.henryholtchildrensbooks.com
eISBN 9781429961974
First eBook Edition : July 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Alexander, Lloyd.
The foundling and other tales of Prydain / by Lloyd Alexander.
p. cm.
Summary: Eight short stories dealing with events that preceded the birth of Taran the
Assistant Pig-Keeper and key figure in the author’s five works on the kingdom of Prydain.
1. Children’s stories, American. 2. Fantastic fiction. [1. Fantasy. 2. Short stories.] 1. Title.
PZ7.A3774Fno 1999 [Fic]—dc21 98-42807
Revised and expanded hardcover edition by Henry Holt and Company, 1999
First Henry Holt paperback edition, 2006
The Foundling Page 7