Taran Wanderer (The Chronicles of Prydain)

by Lloyd Alexander

  “Fflewddur, the poor thing’s alive,” Taran said. “There may still be time to save him.”

  The bard shook his head. “I doubt it. He’s too much the worse for wear. A shame, for he’s a jolly-looking fellow.”

  “Give poor froggie a drink,” Gurgi suggested. “Give him water with sloshings and washings.”

  In Taran’s hand the frog stirred as in a last, painful effort. One eye flickered, the wide mouth gaped, and its throat trembled like a faint pulse. “Arrad!” croaked the frog.

  “I say, there is life in him yet!” exclaimed Fflewddur. “But he must be desperately sick. I’ve never heard a frog make a noise like that.”

  “Urgghi!” the frog croaked. “Ood!”

  The creature was struggling to make a further sound, but its croaking dwindled to a hoarse and scarcely audible rasping.

  “Elpp! Elpp!”

  “He is an odd one,” remarked Fflewddur, as Taran, more puzzled than ever, held the frog close to his ear. The creature had forced its eyes open and stared at Taran with what seemed a most pitiful, pleading expression.

  “I’ve known them to go ‘chug-a-chug,’” continued Fflewddur, “and at times ‘thonk.’ But this fellow—if frogs could talk, I’d swear he was saying ‘help’!”

  Taran gestured the bard to silence. From deep in the frog’s throat came another sound, hardly more than a whisper but clear and unmistakable. Taran’s jaw fell. His eyes wide with bewilderment, he turned to Fflewddur. Barely able to speak, he held the frog in his outstretched hand and gasped, “It’s Doli!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Friends in Danger

  “Doli!” echoed the astonished bard, falling back a pace. His eyes bulged like the frog’s and he clapped his hands to his head. “It can’t be! Not Doli of the Fair Folk! Not good old Doli!”

  Gurgi had just then come up with a leather water flask and, hearing Fflewddur’s words, began yelping in terror and dismay. Taran took the flask from Gurgi’s trembling hand, unstoppered it, and with all haste began drenching the frog.

  “Oh, terrible! Oh, horrible!” moaned Gurgi. “Unlucky Doli! Unhappy dwarfish companion! But how did this froggie swallow him with gulpings?”

  Under the stream of water the frog had begun to revive, and now kicked mightily with its long hind legs.

  “Skin! Skin!” came Doli’s voice. “Pour it on my skin! Not down my throat, you clot! Are you trying to drown me?”

  “Great Belin,” murmured Fflewddur. “At first I thought it was just a frog who happened to have the same name as Doli. But I’d know that temper anywhere.”

  “Doli!” Taran cried. “Is it really you?”

  “Of course it is, you long-legged beanpole!” snapped Doli’s voice. “Just because I look like a frog on the outside doesn’t mean I’m not myself on the inside!”

  Taran’s head spun at the thought of Doli in this form. Gurgi was speechless, his eyes as round and wide open as his mouth. Fflewddur, as stunned as the other companions, had recovered somewhat from his first shock and now dropped to his hands and knees on the damp turf where Taran had set the frog.

  “You’ve chosen a strange way to travel about,” said Fflewddur. “Did you weary of turning yourself invisible? I can understand how that might be tiresome. But—a frog? Though you do make a handsome one. I remarked on it the moment I saw you.”

  The frog rolled up his eyes in utter exasperation and his green-spotted body began to swell as if it might burst. “Chosen? Do you think I chose this? I’m bewitched, you ninny! Can’t you see that?”

  Taran’s heart skipped a beat. “Who bewitched you?” he cried, aghast at the weird fate which had befallen his old companion. “Was it Orddu? She’s threatened us before. Did you, too, journey to the Marshes?”

  “Idiot! Numbskull!” retorted Doli. “I’ve better sense than to trifle with her.”

  “Who then has done this to you?” Taran exclaimed. “How can we help? Dallben surely has power against such enchantment. Have courage! We’ll take you to him.”

  “No time!” Doli answered. “I don’t know if Dallben can break the spell. I don’t even know if King Eiddileg of the Fair Folk can do it. Right now it doesn’t matter.

  “If you want to help me,” Doli went on, “dig a hole and put some water in it. I’m dry as a bone, and that’s the worst thing that can happen to me—I mean, to a frog. I learned that quickly enough.” He blinked at Fflewddur. “If that giant cat of yours hadn’t found me, I’d be dead as a stump. Where did you ever get such a big one?”

  “It’s a long story,” began the bard.

  “Don’t tell me then,” snapped Doli. “As for what brings you here, of all places, you can explain when there’s more time.” He settled into the muddy basin Taran and Fflewddur had scraped out with their swords and filled with water from the flask. “Ah—ah, that’s better. I owe you my life. Ah—what a relief. Thank you, friends, thank you.”

  “Doli, we can’t let you stay in this plight,” Taran insisted. “Tell us who cast this evil spell. We’ll find him and make him lift it.”

  “At sword point, if need be!” cried Fflewddur. He stopped and peered with renewed fascination at Doli. “I say, old boy, what’s it really like, being a frog? I’ve often wondered.”

  “Damp is what it’s like,” retorted Doli. “Damp! Clammy! If I thought turning myself invisible was uncomfortable, this is a hundred times worse. It’s like—oh, don’t boggle me with stupid questions! It doesn’t matter. I’ll manage somehow. There’s more important work afoot.

  “Yes, you can help me,” Doli quickly went on. “If anyone can help at all. Strange things have been happening …”

  “So it would seem,” agreed the bard, “to say the very least.”

  “Fflewddur, let him speak,” Taran broke in. “His life may be at stake.”

  “Strange things,” Doli resumed. “Peculiar, unsettling. First, not long ago, word reached King Eiddileg in our realm at the bottom of Black Lake that someone had plundered a Fair Folk treasure trove. Broke into it! Made off with the most valuable gems. It’s rarely happened in all the history of Prydain.”

  Fflewddur gave a whistle of surprise. “Knowing Eiddileg, I can imagine he was rather sour about it.”

  “Not for loss of the gems,” replied Doli. “We’ve more than enough. It’s that someone was able to find the trove in the first place; and, in the second, dared to lay hands on Fair Folk treasure. Most of you mortals have better sense.”

  “Could it have been Arawn or any of his servants?” Taran asked.

  “I shouldn’t think so,” put in Fflewddur. “As I remarked only today, even the Lord of Annuvin would be more than cautious with Fair Folk.”

  “For once you’re right,” Doli answered. “No, not Arawn. We were sure of that. But we had only one report, incomplete, from a Fair Folk watcher in the Hill Cantrevs. No tidings from the guardian of the way post here—that, in itself, was very odd.

  “Eiddileg sent a messenger to scout around and get to the root of things. He never came back. Not a word from him. Eiddileg sent another. Same thing. Silence. Dead silence.

  “You can guess who was chosen to go next. That’s right. Good old Doli. Anything disagreeable to be done? Any unpleasant task?”

  Until now, Taran had never been aware that a frog’s face could show such a look of indignation and of being much put upon.

  Doli snorted, as well as he was able in his present shape. “Naturally, send for good old Doli.”

  “But you found who did it?” Taran asked.

  “Of course I did,” Doli retorted. “But I failed in the end. Look at me! Now, of all times, of all the useless things to be! Oh, if I only had my axe!

  “The Fair Folk are in danger,” he went on hurriedly. “Terrible danger. Yes, I learned who found our trove and stole our treasure. The same who cast this spell on me: Morda!”

  “Morda?” Taran repeated, frowning. “Who is Morda? How could he have done so? Why would he dare to risk Eiddileg’s wr
ath?”

  “Why? Why?” Doli’s eyes popped furiously and he began to swell up again. “Don’t you understand? Morda, this foul villain of a wizard! Oh, he’s shrewder than a serpent! Don’t you see? He’s found a way of bewitching Fair Folk! No enchanter has ever been able to cast a spell on us. Unheard of! Unthinkable!

  “And if he’s gained the power to turn us into animals—fish, frogs, no matter—we’re at his mercy. He could slay us out of hand, if he chose. That’s surely what happened to the way post guardian, to the messengers who vanished without a trace. It can happen to any of us. To Eiddileg himself! Not one of the Fair Folk can be safe from Morda. He’s the worst threat ever to fall upon our realm.”

  Doli sank back exhausted by his own outburst, and the companions glanced fearfully at each other. “What his scheme is, I couldn’t discover,” Doli continued at last. “Oh, I tracked him to his hiding place easily enough. He lives in a sort of enclosure not too far from here. I’d gone invisible, needless to say. But it was making my ears buzz so much, worse than a pair of hornets’ nests! In the darkness I thought I could chance turning visible—just for a moment, to escape that awful buzzing. Next thing I knew, there I was, as you see me now.

  “Morda could have crushed me then and there. Instead, he mocked my plight. It amused him to see a helpless frog. Then he threw me down among the rocks. He savored my lingering agony more than the mercy of killing me out of hand. He was sure I’d perish in these dry hills, withering little by little to my death. And if by some chance I didn’t—what difference could it make? How could a frog hope to prevail against a wizard? I crept away, trying to find water. I kept on until I could go no farther. Your cat found me then. If she hadn’t, I can tell you it would have been the end of me.

  “One thing Morda forgot,” Doli added, “one tiny thing he overlooked: I could still speak. I myself didn’t know it at the time. The shock of being turned into a frog quite took away my voice for a while.”

  “Great Belin,” murmured Fflewddur, “I’ve heard of people having frogs in their throats, but never … Forgive me, forgive me, old boy,” he added quickly, as Doli glared at him. “I didn’t mean to ruffle your feelings.”

  “Doli, tell us what we must do,” Taran cried, horror-stricken at the dwarf’s account. It was not Doli’s plight alone that turned his blood cold; he saw clearly the fate in store for all the Fair Folk. “Lead us to Morda. We’ll try to take him prisoner, or slay him if we must.”

  “So we shall!” exclaimed Fflewddur, drawing his sword. “I’ll not have my friends turned into frogs!”

  “No, no!” shouted Gurgi. “Froggies are froggies, but friends are friends!”

  “Attack Morda?” Doli replied. “Are you out of your heads? You’ll end up in the same pickle as me. No, you can’t risk it. Eiddileg must be warned, but before that I must finish my task. Find out more of Morda’s powers and how he means to use them. There’s no hope of Fair Folk standing against him unless we know better what we have to deal with. Take me back to Morda’s stronghold. Somehow I’ll get to the bottom of his scheme. Then carry me to a way post, so I can get word to Eiddileg and spread the alarm.”

  A sudden spasm convulsed him; for an instant Doli seemed about to choke, then a racking sneeze nearly flung him out of the puddle. “Curse this dampness!” he sputtered. “Curse that black-hearted Morda! He’s given me all the bad points of being a frog and none of the good!” Doli began coughing violently. “Blast it! Dow I ab losigg by voice! Bake haste! Bake haste! Pick be up. I’ll show you the way. There’s doe tibe to waste!”

  The companions hurriedly mounted. With Doli clinging to his saddle horn, Taran galloped where the dwarf commanded. But the forest thickened and slowed their pace, and often in the tangle of branches they were forced to dismount and go afoot. Doli had assured them the distance was not great, but his usually unfailing sense of direction had grown confused. At times the dwarf was uncertain which path to follow, and twice the companions reined up and retraced their steps.

  “Dote blade be!” snapped Doli. “I cabe over this ladd crawligg odd by belly. It’s dot the sabe, seeigg it frob up here.”

  To make matters worse, Doli began to shake and shudder. His eyes bleared; his nostrils streamed; and even as a frog he looked altogether miserable. With constant fits of sneezing and coughing, Doli’s voice grew so hoarse he could barely force out a feeble, croaking whisper, which did nothing to improve the state of his disposition or the clarity of his directions to Taran.

  Until now there had been no sign of Kaw. When the companions had first hastened to follow Doli’s orders, the crow had chosen this of all moments to be exasperatingly disobedient. He flapped into the woods, stubbornly refusing to heed Taran’s pleas to come back. At last Taran left him behind, sure the crow would rejoin them when he saw fit; but as the companions made their way deeper into the forest, Taran had grown more anxious for the impudent bird. Thus, when they halted to set Doli on the ground—where the dwarf insisted he could better regain his bearings—Taran was too relieved to scold the crow when Kaw finally appeared. The prankster, Taran saw, had been up to his old tricks, for he bore some glittering find in his beak.

  Squawking proudly, Kaw dropped the object into the surprised Taran’s hands. It was the fragment of polished bone.

  “What have you done?” Taran cried in dismay, as Kaw, over-weeningly pleased with himself, rocked back and forth and bobbed his head.

  “The jackanapes!” burst out Fflewddur. “He’s gone back and rifled the coffer. I thought us well rid of that enchanted toothpick, now we’ve got it again. A sour jest, you magpie!” he exclaimed, flapping his cloak at the bird, who nimbly dodged away. “A Fflam is fun-loving, but I see no joke in this at all. Throw it away,” he urged Taran, “toss it into the bushes.”

  “I dare not, if indeed it’s a thing of enchantment,” Taran replied, though he felt as uneasy as the bard, and heartily wished Kaw had left the coffer undisturbed. A strange thought, vague and unformed, stirred in his mind, and he knelt, holding out the fragment to Doli. “What can this be?” he asked, after briefly telling how the sliver had first come into their hands. “Could Morda himself have hidden it?”

  “Who dose?” croaked Doli. “I’ve dever seed eddythigg like it. But it’s edchadded, you cad be sure. Keep it, id eddy case.”

  “Keep it?” cried the bard. “We’ll have nothing but ill luck from the cursed thing. Bury it!”

  Swayed by Fflewddur’s vehemence yet reluctant not to follow Doli’s counsel, Taran stood uncertain what to do. At last, with strong misgivings, he tucked the fragment into his jacket.

  Fflewddur groaned. “Meddling! We’ll only gain trouble, mark my words. A Fflam is fearless, but not when there’s unknown enchantment lurking in someone’s pocket.”

  As they pressed on Taran shortly came to believe he had decided wrongly and that Fflewddur’s unhappy prediction was well-founded. Doli had taken a turn for the worse; he could gasp no more than a word or two at a time. The frog’s body trembled as in the grip of a painful ague; a sickness, Taran was sure, owing to Doli’s grueling crawl overland. To keep his skin from parching, the companions drenched him regularly; while the treatment, on the one hand, kept him alive, on the other it added to his misery. Under the stream of water he sneezed, choked, and sputtered. Soon he sprawled listlessly, too feeble even to be bad-tempered.

  The day had waned quickly and the companions halted in a glade, for Doli had given them to understand that from now on they must travel with utmost caution. Setting the frog carefully in the folds of a dampened cloak, Taran drew Fflewddur aside and spoke hurriedly with him.

  “He has no strength for his task,” Taran murmured. “We dare not let him go on.”

  Fflewddur nodded. “I doubt he could, even if he wanted to.” The bard’s face, like Taran’s, was drawn tightly with concern.

  Taran was silent. What he must do was plain to him; yet, despite himself, he shrank from facing it. His mind groped for another, better plan, but
found none, returning always to the same answer. What kept him from taking the clear course was not reluctance to help a close companion, for this he would have done gladly. Nor was it fear for his life but terror that he might share Doli’s fate; not only that his own quest would fail but that he might himself be imprisoned, hapless in some pitiful creature shape, captive forever.

  He knelt at Doli’s side. “You must stay here. Fflewddur and Gurgi will watch over you. Tell me how I may find Morda.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Wall of Thorns

  Hearing this, Doli kicked weakly and croaked an incomprehensible protest, though nothing else could he do but agree to Taran’s plan. With Kaw on his shoulder, Taran set off afoot through the woods. Behind him loped Gurgi, who had insisted on going with him.

  After a time Taran shortened his stride and finally halted to glance around him at the forest now thick with brambles. High thornbushes rose amid the trees in a tangled, impassable screen. Taran realized he had found what he sought. The tall bushes were no haphazard growth, but had been craftily twined into a dense barrier, a living wall nearly twice his height, bristling with spines sharper than the talons of a gwythaint. Taran drew his sword and strove to cut an opening in the thicket.

  The brambles were hard as cold iron and Taran blunted both his strength and his blade against them. All he gained for his labor was a tiny hole to which he pressed his eye; he made out nothing more than a dark mound of boulders and black turf surrounded by rank weeds and burdock. What first seemed the lair of a wild beast he saw to be a rambling, ill-shaped dwelling of low, squat walls roofed with sod. There was no movement, no sign of life, and he wondered if the wizard had left his fastness and the companions had come too late. The thought only put a sharper edge to his uneasiness.

  “Somehow Doli forced his way in,” Taran murmured, shaking his head. “But his skill is greater than mine; he must have struck on an easier passage. If we try climbing over,” he added, “we risk being seen.”