“Great Belin!” protested Fflewddur, who had crashed into a tree and struggled to free his jangling harp from a bush, “hold up, there! Next thing you know, we’ll be looking for our own steeds as well as for Prince Rhun!”
With difficulty Taran managed to calm the animals who now refused to budge. Despite all his coaxing, pleading, and tugging, the horses stood stiff-legged and round-eyed, their flanks trembling. Taran, himself exhausted, sank to the ground.
“Our search is blind and useless,” he said. “You were right,” he went on, turning to Fflewddur. “We should have gone back. The time I had hoped to save is wasted twice over, and Eilonwy’s danger is greater with every moment we delay. Now Prince Rhun is lost—and so is Kaw, for all we know.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” sighed Fflewddur. “And unless you or Gurgi knows where we are, I rather suspect we’re lost, too.”
CHAPTER SIX
The Potions of Glew
At these words Gurgi set up a wail and rocked back and forth, clutching his head. Taran swallowed his own despair as best he could and tried to reassure the frightened creature.
“We can do nothing now but wait for dawn,” Taran said. “The Master of Horse cannot be too far away. Find him as soon as you can. Above all, do not delay the search for Eilonwy. I shall seek Prince Rhun,” he added bitterly. “I have given my oath to keep him from harm and I cannot do otherwise. But when I find him, I’ll rejoin you somehow.”
He was silent then, his head bowed. Fflewddur was watching him. “Do not wear out your heart with grief,” the bard said quietly. “Magg can’t escape us for long. I don’t believe he means to harm Eilonwy but only bring her to Achren. And we shall catch him long before he can do that. Rest now. Gurgi and I will share the watch.”
Too weary to protest, Taran stretched out on the ground and covered himself with his cloak. No sooner did his eyes close than fears of Achren came to torment him. In rage and vengeance the haughty Queen would slay any of the companions who fell into her hands. And Eilonwy? He dared not let himself imagine her in Achren’s grasp. When at last he dropped into fitful slumber it was as though he slept beneath a millstone.
The sun had barely risen when he opened his eyes with a start. Fflewddur was shaking him. The bard’s yellow hair stood out raggedly in all directions, his face was pale with fatigue, but he grinned broadly.
“Good news!” he cried. “Gurgi and I have done some seekings and peekings of our own. We’re not as badly lost as you might think. The truth of it is we’ve been thrashing around in a circle. Look for yourself.”
Taran sprang to his feet and followed the bard to a low ridge. “You’re right. There’s the alder grove. It must be! And there—I remember the fallen tree where I lost sight of Rhun. Come,” he added, “we shall ride that far together. Then you must go ahead and catch up with the rest of the band.”
Hastily the companions mounted and urged their steeds toward the grove. Before they reached it, Taran’s horse drew up sharply, then bore suddenly to the left. A loud whinny rose from the cover of trees along the shoulder of a hill. In astonishment, Taran slackened the reins and let the horse canter freely toward the sound. In another few moments he glimpsed a pale shape beyond the foliage. As the steed carried him closer, he recognized Rhun’s piebald mare.
“See there!” he called to Fflewddur. “Rhun can’t be far. We must have gone by him during the night.”
Reining up, he leaped from the saddle. His heart sank. The horse stood riderless. At the sight of the other steeds, she raised her head, shook her mane, and whickered anxiously.
Fearing the worst, Taran hurried past the mare while Fflewddur and Gurgi dismounted and raced after him. He stopped short. Before him, in a clearing, stood something that looked at first like a huge straw beehive. Fflewddur by then had come up beside him. Taran raised a hand in warning and moved cautiously toward the strange hut.
The conical thatched roof, he now saw, had fallen away in many places. Rough stones, piled one on top of the other, formed a low side wall, a corner of which had collapsed into a heap of rubble. There were no windows, and the single, heavy door hung askew from sagging leather hinges. He stepped closer. The holes in the thatch stared at him like empty eyes.
Fflewddur glanced about him. “I’m not too fond of going up and rapping on the door,” he whispered, “and asking whoever’s inside whether they’ve happened to see the Prince of Mona. Somehow, it seems the kind of place even Rhun would rather avoid. But I suppose there’s no other way to find out.”
Just then the door was flung open from the inside. Gurgi, with a yell, sought safety by scrambling up a tree. Taran’s hand went to his sword.
“Hullo, hullo!” Prince Rhun, beaming, stood in the doorway. Aside from looking a little sleepy, he appeared quite himself and altogether unharmed. “I hope you’ve got some breakfast with you,” he added, rubbing his hands eagerly. “I’m nearly starved to death. Have you ever noticed how the fresh air sharpens one’s appetite? Most surprising!
“Come in, come in,” Rhun went on, while Taran stared speechless at him. “You’d be amazed how comfortable it is. Surprisingly snug and cozy. Where did the rest of you pass the night? I hope you slept as well as I did. You can’t imagine …”
Taran could control himself no longer. “What have you done?” he burst out. “Why did you leave the searching party? Count yourself lucky that getting lost was the worst that happened to you!”
Prince Rhun blinked and looked puzzled. “Leave the searching party?” he asked. “Why, I didn’t actually leave it. Not on purpose, you understand. It happened when I fell off my horse and had to go chasing after her all over nowhere, until I found her near this hut. By then it was getting dark, so I went to sleep. That’s only common sense, wouldn’t you say? I mean, why sleep outdoors when you can put a roof over your head?
“As far as being lost goes,” Rhun went on, “it seems to me you’re the ones who got lost. Wherever I go, that’s where the search is, if you see what I mean. After all, the one who’s in command …”
“Yes, you command,” Taran flung back angrily, “as you were born to, as a king’s son.” He stopped abruptly. Another instant and he would have cried aloud his promise to King Rhuddlum, and his oath to protect this witless Prince. Taran clenched his teeth. “Prince Rhun,” he said coldly, “you need not remind us we are under your orders. But for your own safety, I urge you to stay close to us.”
“And I advise you to stay away from strange huts,” put in Fflewddur. “Last time I was in one, I almost got changed into a toad.” The bard shook his head. “Shun them—huts, that is,” he added. “You never know what disagreeable thing you’ll run into—and by the time you find out, it’s too late.”
“Changed into a toad?” cried Rhun, not the least dismayed. “I say, that might be interesting. I should like to try it one day. But there’s nothing like that to worry about. No one lives here. And they haven’t for a long time.”
“Hurry, then,” Taran said, resolving never again to let Prince Rhun out of his sight. “We must join the others. We’ll have long, hard riding before we catch up to them.”
“Immediately!” said Rhun, who was wearing nothing but his shirt. “I shall get my things together.”
Gurgi, meanwhile, had clambered down from the tree. His curiosity getting the better of his prudence, he loped across the clearing and thrust his head into the doorway, at last venturing inside with Rhun. Fflewddur and the impatient Taran followed him.
It was, Taran saw, as the prince had told them. A heavy layer of dust covered the wooden tables and benches. A spider had spun an enormous web in one corner, but even the web was deserted. On a broken hearthstone lay the charred remnants of a long-dead fire. Near the hearth, a number of large cookpots, dry and empty now, had been overturned. Earthen bowls and tall jars, shattered into fragments, were strewn about the floor. Through the holes in the roof the leaves of more than one autumn had fallen, nearly burying a stool whose legs had bro
ken into splinters. The hut was silent; the noises of the forest did not enter. Taran stood uneasily while Prince Rhun fumbled with his gear.
Gurgi, fascinated by so many strange odds and ends, lost no time in poking through them. Suddenly he cried out in surprise. “Look, look!” he called, holding up a sheaf of tattered parchment.
Taran knelt beside Gurgi and examined the ragged bundle. The field mice, he realized, had discovered the packet long before. Many of the sheets had been gnawed away; others were rain sodden and blotted. The few undamaged pages were covered with cramped writing. Only at the bottom of the pile did Taran find pages in good repair. These had been carefully bound in leather to make a small tome, and their surface was clear and unmarked.
Prince Rhun, who still had not got around to buckling on his sword, came to peer over Taran’s shoulder. “I say!” he cried. “What have you there? I can’t guess what it is, but it looks interesting. And isn’t that a handsome little book? I shouldn’t mind having it to put down things I’m supposed to remember to do.”
“Prince Rhun,” Taran said, handing the undamaged volume to the Prince of Mona, who thrust it into his jacket, “believe me, if there’s anything that might ever help you do anything, you’re welcome to it.” He went back to puzzling over the parchments. “Between the mice and the weather,” he went on, “there’s not much to make out of this scrawl. There seems to be no beginning or ending, but as far as I can tell, these are recipes for potions.”
“Potions!” cried Fflewddur. “Great Belin, that’s something we’ve little use for!”
Taran, nevertheless, continued to scan and sort the pages. “Wait, I think I’ve found the name of whoever wrote them. Glew, it looks like. And the potions, as it says here, are to”—his voice faltered and he turned anxiously to Fflewddur—“to make yourself grow bigger. What can this mean?”
“How’s that?” asked the bard. “Bigger? Are you sure you haven’t read it wrong?” He took the pages from Taran’s hand and examined them carefully himself. When he had finished, he gave a low whistle.
“In my wanderings,” said Fflewddur, “I’ve managed to learn a number of things, not least of which is don’t meddle. I fear that’s exactly what this fellow Glew did. Indeed, what he sought was a potion to make himself bigger and stronger. If those are Glew’s boots over there,” he added, pointing to the corner, “he surely needed one, for he must have been a little fellow.”
Half hidden by leaves, a pair of well-worn boots lay on their side. They were hardly large enough to fit a child and seemed, to Taran, pitiful in their smallness and emptiness.
“He must have been painstaking,” Fflewddur went on. “I’ll say that much for him. He describes everything he did, and set down all his recipes, quite carefully and methodically. As for his ingredients,” the bard said, making a sour face, “I should rather not think about them.”
“I say,” Prince Rhun eagerly interrupted, “perhaps we should try them ourselves. It would be interesting to see what happens.”
“No, no!” Gurgi shouted. “Gurgi wants no tastings of nasty lotions and potions!”
“Nor do I,” said Fflewddur. “And neither did Glew, for the matter of that. He had no wish to drink his concoctions until he had some hope they’d work—for which I can’t blame him in the least. He went about it very cleverly.
“As I gather from what he’s written down here,” continued the bard, “he went out and trapped a mountain cat—a small one, I should think, since Glew himself was such a small person. He brought her back, put her in a cage, and fed her his potions as fast as he could cook them up.”
“Poor creature,” said Taran.
“Indeed,” agreed the bard. “I shouldn’t have liked to be in her place. Yet he must have grown fond enough of her to give her a name. Here, he’s written it down. Llyan. Apart from feeding her those dreadful messes, I expect he didn’t treat her badly. She might even have been company for him, living alone as he did.
“At last it happened,” Fflewddur went on. “You can see by his writing how excited Glew must have been. Llyan began to grow. Glew mentions he was obliged to make a new cage for her. And still another. How pleased he must have been. I can easily imagine the little fellow chuckling and brewing away for all he was worth.”
Fflewddur turned to the last page. “And so it ends,” he said, “where the mice have eaten the parchment. They’ve done away with Glew’s last recipe. As for Glew and Llyan—they’ve vanished along with it.”
Taran was silent looking at the empty boots and overturned cookpots. “Glew certainly is gone,” he said thoughtfully, “but I have a feeling he didn’t go far.”
“How’s that?” asked the bard. “Oh, I take your meaning,” he said, shuddering. “Yes, it does look rather—shall I say, sudden? As I see Glew, he was a neat and orderly sort. He would hardly go off leaving his hut as it is now. Without his boots at that. Poor little fellow,” he sighed. “It only proves the dangers of meddling. For all his pains, Glew must have got himself gobbled up. And if you ask me, the wisest thing for us is to leave immediately!”
Taran nodded and rose to his feet. As he did, terrified whinnyings and the sound of galloping hooves filled the air. “The horses!” he cried, racing to the door.
Before he could reach it, the door burst from its hinges. Taran clutched at his sword and stumbled back into the hut as a huge shape leaped at him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Lair of Llyan
Taran’s blade went spinning from his grasp and he threw himself to the ground to escape the onslaught. In a powerful spring, the creature passed over his head. The great beast screamed with fury as the companions scattered in terror to all parts of the hut.
Amid the confusion of tumbling stools and benches, and as the dry leaves rose in a whirlwind, Taran saw that Fflewddur had jumped to a tabletop and, in so doing, had plunged into the spiderweb which now covered him from head to foot. Prince Rhun, having tried vainly to climb up the chimney, crouched in the ashes of the hearth. Gurgi had made himself as small as he could and had pressed into a corner, where he squealed and yelled, “Help, oh, help! Save Gurgi’s poor tender head from pawings and clawings!”
“It’s Llyan!” cried Taran.
“You can be sure it is!” Fflewddur shouted. “Now that I see her, I quite believe Glew was gobbled up and digested long ago.”
A long, wavering growl rose from the creature’s throat and she hesitated a moment as if undecided where to attack. Taran, sitting up on the ground, saw for the first time what the ferocious animal looked like.
Though Glew had written of Llyan’s growth, Taran had never imagined a mountain cat so big. The animal stood as tall as a horse but leaner and longer; her tail alone, thicker than Taran’s arm, seemed to take up much of the room in the hut. Heavily and sleekly furred, the cat’s body was golden-tawny, flecked with black and orange. Her belly was white with black splotches. Curling tufts sprouted from the tips of her ears, and shaggy handfuls of fur curved at her powerful jaws. Her long whiskers twitched; her baleful yellow eyes darted from one companion to another. Judging from the white points of her teeth, glittering as her lips drew back in a snarl, Taran was certain Llyan could gulp down anything that suited her fancy.
The giant cat swung her great head toward Taran and moved lithely across the ground. As she did, Fflewddur unsheathed his sword; cobwebs and all, he jumped from the table, shouted at the top of his voice, and brandished the weapon. In an instant Llyan spun around. The lash of her tail sent Taran headlong once more; even before Fflewddur could strike, Llyan’s heavy paw flickered through the air. Its motion was too rapid for Taran’s eyes to follow; he saw only the astonished bard’s weapon fly up and clatter into the doorway, while Fflewddur himself went head over heels.
With a snort and what seemed a shrug of her rippling shoulders, Llyan turned again to Taran. She crouched, thrust out her neck, and her whiskers trembled as she padded closer to him. Taran, not daring to move a muscle, held his breath. L
lyan circled him, making snuffling noises. From the corner of his eye, Taran glimpsed the bard tying to climb to his feet, and warned Fflewddur to stay still.
“She’s more curious than angry,” Taran whispered. “Otherwise, she would have clawed us to pieces by now. Don’t move. She may go away.
“Glad to hear you say that,” replied Fflewddur in a choked voice. “I’ll remember it while I’m being gobbled up. It will be a consolation to me.”
“I don’t think she’s hungry,” said Taran. “If she’s been out hunting during the night, she must have eaten her fill.”
“So much the worse for us,” said Fflewddur. “She’ll keep us here until her appetite comes back. I’m sure this is the first time she’s been lucky enough to have four dinners ready and waiting in her lair.” He sighed and shook his head. “In my own realm I was always putting out scraps for birds and other creatures, but I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be putting myself out, if you take my meaning.”
At last, Llyan settled herself across the doorway. She moistened a huge paw with her tongue and began passing it over her ear. Engrossed in her task, she seemed to have forgotten the companions were there. Despite his fear, Taran could not help staring at her in fascination. Power filled even Llyan’s gentlest movements; beneath the golden fur, glowing in the sunlight from the open door, he could guess at her mighty muscles. Llyan, he was certain, could be swift as Melynlas. But he knew also she could be deadly; and, though she did not appear ill-disposed toward the companions, her mood might change at any instant. Taran cast about desperately for a way to freedom, or at least a means of regaining their weapons.
“Fflewddur,” he whispered, “make a little noise, not too much but enough so that Llyan will look at you.”
“How’s that?” asked the bard, puzzled. “Look at me? She’ll do that soon enough. I’m thankful she hasn’t yet got around to it.” However, he scraped his boots across the floor. Llyan immediately pricked up her ears and turned her eyes on the bard.
The Castle of Llyr (The Chronicles of Prydain) Page 5