Taran Wanderer (The Chronicles of Prydain)

by Lloyd Alexander

  “Or caught on brambles with jabbings and stabbings!” Gurgi replied. “Oh, bold Gurgi does not like climbing walls without knowing what lies in lurkings beyond.”

  Taran took the crow from his shoulder. “Morda surely has his own passage: a breach in the thorns or perhaps a tunnel. Find it for us,” he said urgently to Kaw. “Find it for us, old friend.”

  “And hasten, too,” Gurgi put in. “No jokings and trickings!”

  Silent as an owl, the crow flew upward, circled the barrier, then dropped out of sight. Taran and Gurgi crouched waiting in the shadows. After some while, when the sun had dipped below the trees and dusk had gathered with still no tidings from Kaw, Taran began to fear for the bird. Prankster though he was, Kaw understood the seriousness of his mission, and Taran knew it was more than whim that delayed the crow’s return.

  At last Taran dared wait no longer. He strode to the barrier and carefully began to climb. The branches writhed like serpents and tore viciously at his hands and face. Wherever he sought a foothold the thorns turned against him as with a will of their own. Just below, he heard Gurgi panting, as the sharp points struck through the creature’s matted hair. Taran paused to catch his breath while Gurgi clambered up beside him. The top of the wall was almost within reach.

  With a sudden lashing and rattling among the thorns, a slipnoose tightened around Taran’s upraised arm. He shouted in alarm and in that instant glimpsed the terrified face of Gurgi as loops of finely knotted cords whipped over the creature’s body. A bent sapling sprang upright, pulling the ropes with it. Taran felt himself ripped from the brambles and, dangling on the end of the strong cord, flung upward and over the barrier. Now he understood the words Doli had striven to gasp out: traps and snares. He fell, and darkness swallowed him.

  A bony hand gripped his throat. In his ears rasped a voice like a dagger drawn across a stone. “Who are you?” it repeated. “Who are you?”

  Taran struggled to pull away, then realized his hands were bound behind him. Gurgi whimpered miserably. Taran’s head spun. The guttering light of a candle stabbed his eyes. As his sight cleared, he saw a gaunt face the color of dry clay, eyes glittering like cold crystals deep set in a jutting brow as though at the bottom of a well. The skull was hairless, the mouth a livid scar stitched with wrinkles.

  “How have you come here?” demanded Morda. “What do you seek of me?”

  In the dimness Taran could make out little more than a low-ceilinged chamber and a fireless hearth filled with dead ashes. He himself had been propped in the angle of a low wall. Gurgi lay sprawled on the flagstones beside him. He glimpsed Kaw pinioned in a wicker basket set on a heavy oaken table, and he cried out to the bird.

  “What then,” snapped the wizard, “is this crow yours? He found one of my snares, as you did. None enters here without my knowledge. This much have you already learned. Now it is I who shall learn more of you.”

  “Yes, the bird is mine,” Taran answered in a bold voice, deciding his only hope lay in telling as much of the truth as he dared. “He flew beyond the thicket and did not return to us. We feared some mishap and went in search of him. We journey to the Llawgadarn Mountains. You have no cause to hinder us.”

  “You have hindered yourselves,” replied Morda, “foolish creatures without the wits of a fly. To the Llawgadarn Mountains, you say? Perhaps. Perhaps not. In the race of men is much greed and envy; but of truth, little. Your face speaks for you and calls you liar. What do you hope to hide? No matter. Your paltry store of days you call life is spun out. You shall not leave here. And yet—now you are in my hands, it may be that you shall serve me. I must ponder that. Your lives indeed may have some small use—to me, if not to yourselves.”

  More than the wizard’s words filled Taran with horror. As he watched, unable to take his own eyes away, Taran saw that Morda’s gaze was unblinking. Even in the candle flame the shriveled eyelids never closed; Morda’s cold stare never wavered.

  The wizard straightened and drew the grimy, threadbare robe closer about his wasted body. Taran gasped, for from Morda’s withered neck hung a silver chain and crescent moon. Only one other he knew wore such an ornament: Princess Eilonwy Daughter of Angharad. Unlike Eilonwy’s, the horns of this crescent held a strangely carved gem, clear as water, whose facets sparkled as though lit by an inner fire.

  “The emblem of the House of Llyr!” Taran cried.

  Morda started and drew back. With fingers lean as spider’s legs he clutched at the gem. “Fool,” he hissed, “did you think to gain this from me? Is that why you were sent? Yes, yes,” he muttered, “so it must be.” His bloodless lips twitched faintly as he fixed Taran with his unlidded eyes. “Too late. The Princess Angharad is long dead, and all its secrets are mine.”

  Taran stared at him, bewildered to hear the name. “Angharad Daughter of Regat?” he whispered. “Eilonwy never knew her mother’s fate. But it was you—at your hands,” he burst out, “at your hands she met her death!”

  Morda said nothing for a time, seeming as one gripped by a black dream. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with hatred. “Think you the life or death of one of you feeble creatures should concern me? I have seen enough of the human kind and have judged them for what they are: lower than beasts, blind and witless, quarrelsome, caught up in their own small cares. They are eaten by pride and senseless striving; they lie, cheat, and betray one another. Yes, I was born among the race of men. A human!” He spat the word scornfully. “But long have I known it isn’t my destiny to be one with them, and long have I dwelt apart from their bickerings and jealousies, their little losses and their little gains.”

  Deep in their shrunken sockets the wizard’s eyes glittered. “As I would not debase myself to share their lives, neither would I share their deaths. Alone, I studied the arts of enchantment. From the ancient lore I learned the Fair Folk held certain gems hidden in their secret troves; he who possessed one gained life far longer than any mortal’s mayfly span of days. None had found these treasure troves, and few had even dared to search. Yet I knew that I would learn the means to find them.

  “As for her who called herself Angharad of Llyr,” the wizard continued, “of a winter’s night she begged refuge in my dwelling, claiming her infant daughter had been stolen, that she had journeyed long in search of her.” The wizard’s lips twisted. “As if her fate or the fate of a girl child mattered to me. For food and shelter she offered me the trinket she wore at her throat. I had no need to bargain; it was already mine, for too weak was she, too fevered to keep it from me if I chose to take it. She did not live out the night.”

  In loathing Taran turned his face away. “You took her life, as surely as if you put a dagger in her heart.”

  Morda’s sharp, bitter laugh was like dry sticks breaking. “I did not ask her to come here. Her life was worth no more to me than the book of empty pages I found among her possessions. Though in its way the book proved to be not without some small value. In time a whining weakling found his way to me. Glew was his name, and he sought to make an enchanter of himself. Little fool! He beseeched me to sell him a magic spell, an amulet, a secret word of power. Sniveling upstart! It pleased me to teach him a lesson. I sold him the empty book and warned him not to open it or look upon it until he had traveled far from here lest the spells vanish.”

  “Glew!” Taran murmured. “So it was you who cheated him.”

  “Like all your kind,” answered Morda, “his own greed and ambition cheated him, not I. His fate I know not, nor do I care to know. This much he surely learned: The arts of enchantment are not bought with gold.”

  “Nor stolen through heartlessness and evil, as you robbed the Princess Angharad,” Taran flung back.

  “Heartlessness? Evil?” said Morda. “These words are toys for creatures such as you. To me they mean nothing; my powers have borne me beyond them. The book served to make a fool taste his folly. But the jewel, the jewel served me, as all things will do at the end. The woman Angharad had told me the gem would lighte
n burdens and ease harsh tasks. And so it did, though years I spent in probing its secrets until I gained mastery of its use. At my command it dwindled the heaviest fagots to no more than piles of twigs. With the gem’s help I raised a wall of thorns. As my skill grew, I found the waters of a hidden spring.”

  The wizard’s unblinking eyes glittered triumphantly. “At last,” he whispered, “at last the gem led me to what I had ever sought: a Fair Folk treasure trove.

  “This trove held none of the life-giving stones,” Morda went on. “But what matter! If not here, then would I find them elsewhere. Now all Fair Folk treasure, mines, hidden pathways—all lay open to me.

  “One of the Fair Folk watchers came upon me then. I dared not let him raise an alarm. Though none had ever stood against any of them, I did so!” cried Morda. “My jewel was more than a trinket to lighten a scullery maid’s toil. I had grasped the heart of its power. At my command this Fair Folk spy turned to a sightless, creeping mole! Yes,” Morda hissed, “I had gained power even beyond what I sought. Who now would disobey me when I held the means to make men into the weak, groveling creatures they truly are! Did I seek only a gem? The whole kingdom of the Fair Folk was within my grasp. And all of Prydain! It was then I understood my true destiny. The race of men at last had found its master.”

  “Its master?” Taran cried, aghast at Morda’s words. “You are viler than those you scorn. Dare you speak of greed and envy? The power of Angharad’s gem was meant to serve, not enslave. Late or soon, your life will be forfeit to your evil.”

  The glint in Morda’s lidless eyes flickered like a serpent’s tongue. “Think you so?” he answered softly.

  From beyond the chamber came a shout, a sudden crashing amid the wall of thorns. Morda nodded curtly. “Another fly finds my web.”

  “Fflewddur!” Taran gasped as Morda strode from the chamber. He flung himself closer to Gurgi and the two tore at each other’s bonds; in vain, for within a few moments the wizard returned, half dragging a figure he trussed securely and threw to the ground beside the companions. It was, as Taran feared, the luckless bard.

  “Great Belin, what’s happened to you? What’s happened to me?” groaned Fflewddur, stunned. “You didn’t come back … I went to have a look—feared you’d got caught somehow in those brambles.” The bard painfully shook his head. “What a jolt! My neck will never be the same.”

  “You shouldn’t have followed us,” Taran whispered. “I had no way to warn you. What of Doli?”

  “Safe enough,” replied Fflewddur. “Safer, at least, than we are now.

  Morda had been intently watching the companions. “So it was the Fair Folk who sent you to spy on me. You are leagued with the dwarfish creature foolish enough to think he could escape me. So be it. Did I think to spare you? You will share his fate.”

  “Yes, Doli of the Fair Folk is our companion,” Taran cried. “Unloose him from your spell. I warn you: Harm none of us. Your plan will fail, Morda. I am Taran of Caer Dallben, and we are under the protection of Dallben himself.”

  “Dallben,” spat Morda. “Gray-bearded dotard! His powers cannot shield you now. Even Dallben will bow before me and do my bidding. As for you,” he added, “I will not slay you. That would be paltry punishment. You will live—as long as you are able to live in the shapes you will soon have; live and know, during every moment of your wretched days, the cost of defying me.”

  Morda took the jewel and chain from about his neck and turned to Fflewddur. “Let your boldness in seeking your fellows now be cowardice. Flee at the barking of hounds or the tread of hunters. Crouch in fear at the flutter of a leaf and the passing of every shadow.”

  The gem flashed blindingly. Morda’s hand shot forward. Taran heard Fflewddur cry out, but the bard’s voice died in his throat. Gurgi screamed and Taran, horror-stricken, saw the bard no longer at his side. Kicking frantically in Morda’s grasp was a dun-colored hare.

  With a harsh laugh Morda held the animal aloft and stared scornfully at it a moment before flinging it into a wicker basket near Kaw’s cage. The wizard strode to the companions and stood above Gurgi whose eyes rolled in terror and who could only gibber wordlessly.

  Taran struggled against his bonds. Morda raised the gem. “This creature,” said the wizard, “this half-brute serves no use. Feeble cringing beast, be weaker still, and prey to owls and serpents.”

  With all his strength Taran fought to break the thongs holding him. “You destroy us, Morda!” he shouted. “But your own evil will destroy you!”

  Even as Taran cried these words, the gem flashed once again. Where Gurgi had lain, a gray field mouse reared on its hind legs, then fled squeaking to a corner of the chamber.

  Morda turned his unlidded eyes on Taran.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The hand of Morda

  “And you,” said Morda, “your doom will not be to lose yourself in forest or burrow. My plan fail? Here shall you stay prisoner and see my triumph. But what shape shall I give you? A dog whining for scraps from my table? A caged eagle eating out his heart for the freedom of the skies?”

  Angharad’s gem dangled from Morda’s fingers. Despair choked Taran as he stared at the ornament like a bird fascinated by a serpent. He envied the wretched Gurgi and Fflewddur. A hawk’s talons or a fox’s jaws would shortly put a merciful finish to their days; his own would wear themselves out in the slow agony of captivity, like stone grinding against stone, until Morda was pleased to end them.

  The wizard’s taunts burned like drops of venom; but as Morda spoke, Taran felt a furry body press against his bound wrists. Startled, he almost cried out. His heart leaped and pounded. It was the mouse that had once been Gurgi.

  Heedless of its plight, the creature had scurried noiselessly on tiny paws to the corner where Taran lay. Unseen by the wizard, the mouse flung himself on Taran’s bonds and with his sharp teeth began hurriedly gnawing at the thongs.

  Morda, as if undecided, toyed with the jewel. Gurgi, Taran felt, was chewing desperately at the stubborn bonds; time pressed, and despite the creature’s brave efforts the thongs held fast. Taran strove to draw the leather taut to aid the frantic mouse, but there was no sign of loosening, and now the wizard raised the glittering gem.

  “Hold!” Taran cried. “If my fate is to be a beast, grant me this much: Let me choose which it must be.”

  Morda paused. “Choose?” His bloodless lips tightened in a scornful smile. “What can your wishes matter to me? And yet—perhaps it would be fitting if you chose your own prison. Speak,” he commanded. “Quickly.”

  “At Caer Dallben,” Taran began, speaking as slowly as he dared, “I was Assistant Pig-Keeper. In my charge was a white pig …” At his wrists one strand parted. But Gurgi’s strength had begun to ebb.

  “What, then,” interrupted Morda, laughing harshly, “do you crave to be a swine? To wallow in mire and grub for acorns? Yes, pig-keeper, your choice indeed is fitting.”

  “It is my only wish,” said Taran, “for it may at least remind me of a happier time.”

  Morda nodded. “Yes. And for that very reason, your wish will not be granted. Clever pig-keeper,” he jeered. “You have told me what you most desire. Now I may be all the more sure you will not have it.”

  “Will you not give me the shape I ask?” Taran replied. Another strand gave way as Gurgi, fighting weariness, redoubled his efforts. Suddenly the thongs yielded. Taran’s hands burst free. “Then,” Taran cried, “then I will keep my own!”

  In the instant Taran sprang to his feet. He snatched his blade from its sheath and lunged toward the wizard who, startled, had taken a backward pace. Before Morda could raise the gem, with a shout Taran drove his sword full into the wizard’s breast. He plucked the weapon free. But his shout turned to a cry of horror and he stumbled back against the wall.

  Morda stood unharmed. His gaze never faltered. The wizard’s mocking laughter rang through the chamber.

  “Foolish pig-keeper! Had I feared your sword I would have taken it from
you!”

  The wizard held Angharad’s gem aloft. Taran’s head spun with fresh terror. In Morda’s grasp the jewel gleamed coldly. In the sudden clarity of his fear Taran saw the sharp facets of the crystal and the bony claw that held it. He was aware now, for the first time, that the hand of Morda lacked a little finger; in its place was an ugly stump of scarred and withered flesh.

  “Do you seek my life?” hissed Morda. “Seek, then, pig-keeper. My life is not prisoned in my body. No, it is far from here, beyond the reach of death itself!

  “One last power did I gain,” said the wizard. “As my jewel could shape the lives of mortal men, so could it shield my own. I have drawn out my very life, hidden it safely where none shall ever find it. Would you slay me? Your hope is useless as the sword you hold. Now, pig-keeper, suffer for your defiance. Hound or eagle would be too proud a fate. Crawl in the darkness of earth, least of all creatures, a spineless, limbless blind worm!”

  Light flared in the heart of the gem. Taran’s sword dropped from his grasp and he flung his arm across his face. He staggered as though a thunderbolt had struck him. Yet he did not fall. His body was still unchanged, still his own.

  “What blocks my spell?” cried Morda in a terrible voice. A shadow of fear crossed his face. “As if I struggled against myself.” His lidless eyes stared unbelieving at Taran, and his hand with its lacking finger gripped the gem more tightly.

  In Taran’s mind a strange thought raced. The wizard’s life safely hidden? Where none would find it? Taran could not take his eyes from Morda’s hand. A little finger. The coffer in the hollow tree. Slowly, terrified lest his hope betray him, Taran thrust a hand into his jacket and drew out the fragment of polished bone.

  At the sight of it Morda’s face seemed to crumble in decay. His jaw dropped, his lips trembled, and his voice came in a rasping whisper. “What do you hold, pig-keeper? Give it into my hands. Give it, I command you.”