Taran Wanderer (The Chronicles of Prydain)

by Lloyd Alexander

  “Help, oh help! Kindly master, come with hastenings!” Gurgi’s face was pale as ashes, his hands shook violently as he clutched at Taran’s arm. “Master, master, follow Gurgi! Quickly, oh, quickly!”

  Taran dropped the sheepskin, hurriedly donned a fleece jacket and, as Gurgi moaned and wrung his hands, snatched up a cloak and raced through the open door.

  Outside, the wind caught at him and nearly flung him backward. Gurgi pressed on, wildly waving his arms. Taran bent forward against the gale and ran beside his desperate companion, stumbling across the snow-swept field. At the edge of the pasture they had cleared during the summer the land fell sharply away into stony slopes, and he followed close behind Gurgi as the creature scrambled past a rocky draw, then along a twisting path where he soon halted.

  Taran gasped in dismay as Gurgi, whimpering fearfully, pointed downward. A narrow ledge jutted from the sheer side of the gorge. A figure, arms outflung, lay motionless, one leg twisted under his body, partly covered with fallen stones. It was Craddoc.

  “Gone with stumblings!” Gurgi moaned. “Oh, miserable Gurgi could not save him from slippings!” He clapped his hands to his head. “Too late! Too late for helpings!”

  Taran’s head spun with shock; grief struck him like a sword. But then, beyond his will, terrifying in its sudden onrush, a wild sense of freedom flooded him as though rising from the most hidden depths of his heart. In one dizzying glance he seemed to see his cage of stone crumble.

  The still form on the ledge stirred painfully and lifted an arm.

  “He lives!” Taran cried.

  “Oh, master! How do we save him?” Gurgi wailed. “Terrible crags are steep! Even bold Gurgi fears to climb down!”

  “Is there no way?” Taran exclaimed. “He’s badly hurt; dying, perhaps. We cannot leave him.” He pressed his fists to his reeling forehead. “Even if we could make our way to him, how should we bear him up? And if we fail—not one life lost but three.”

  His hands were shaking. It was not despair that filled him, but terror, black terror at the thoughts whispering in his mind. Was there the slimmest hope of saving the stricken herdsman? If not, even Prince Gwydion would not reproach Taran’s decision. Nor would any man. Instead, they would grieve with him at his loss. Free of his burden, free of the valley, the door of his cage opened wide, and all his life awaited him; Eilonwy, Caer Dallben. He seemed to hear his own voice speak these words, and he listened in shame and horror.

  Then, as if his heart would burst with it, he cried out in terrible rage, “What man am I?”

  Blind with fury at himself, he sprang down the slope and clawed for a handhold amid the ice-covered stones, while Gurgi, panting fearfully, clambered after him. Taran’s numbed fingers clutched vainly at an outcropping as a rock gave way beneath his feet. Downward he pitched, and cried out as a jagged stone drove against his chest. Black suns burst in his head and he choked with pain. Above, Gurgi was sliding down in a shower of ice and pebbles. Taran’s heart pounded. He was on the ledge. Craddoc lay within arm’s reach.

  Taran crawled to his side. Blood streamed down Craddoc’s brow as the herdsman struggled to raise his head. “Son, son,” he gasped, “you have lost your life for me.”

  “Not so,” Taran answered. “Don’t try to move. We’ll find a way to bring you to safety.” He raised himself to his knees. Craddoc was even more grievously hurt than Taran had feared. Carefully he lifted away the heavy stones and shale that pressed against the herdsman, and gently drew him closer to the protecting face of the cliff.

  Gurgi had dropped to the ledge and scurried to join Taran. “Master, master,” he cried, “Gurgi sees a pathway upward. But it is steep, oh, steep, with dangers of hurtful stumblings and tumblings!”

  Taran glanced at where the creature pointed. Amid the rocks and snow-filled crevices he could make out a narrow passageway, free of ice. Yet, as Gurgi had warned, it rose nearly straight up. One man at a time could scale it; but what of two, burdened with a third? He gritted his teeth. The sharp stone had wounded him sorely as a blade, and each breath he drew filled his lungs with fire. He gestured for Gurgi to lay hold of Craddoc’s legs, while he edged unsteadily along the sheer drop and slid his hands under the herdsman’s shoulders. As gently as the companions strove to lift him, Craddoc cried out in agony, and they were forced to halt, fearful their efforts would do him further harm.

  A wind had risen, screaming through the valley, lashing at the companions and nearly tearing them from the ledge. Once more they struggled to bear Craddoc to the upward passage, and once more fell back as the gale battered them. The early twilight had begun deepening and shadows filled the gorge. The face of the cliff wavered before Taran’s eyes. His legs trembled as he forced himself again to lift the herdsman.

  “Leave me,” Craddoc murmured hoarsely. “Leave me. You waste your own strength.”

  “Leave you?” Taran burst out. “What son forsakes his own flesh and blood?”

  Hearing this, Craddoc smiled for an instant, then his face grew taut in anguish. “Save yourselves,” he whispered.

  “You are my father,” Taran replied. “I stay.”

  “No!” the herdsman cried out with all his strength. “Do as I ask, and go from here. Heed me now, or it will be too late. The duty of kinship? You owe me none. No bond of blood holds you.”

  “How then?” Taran gasped, staring wildly at the herdsman. His head spun and he clutched at the ledge. “How then? Do you tell me I am not your son?”

  Craddoc looked at him a moment, his eyes unwavering. “Never have I been false to any man. Save once. To you.”

  “A lie?” Taran stammered in dismay. “Did you lie to me then—or do you lie to me now?”

  “Half-truth is worse than lie,” Craddoc answered brokenly. “Hear me. Hear this part of the truth. Yes, long past, as he journeyed through Prydain, Dallben sheltered with me. But of what he sought he never spoke.”

  “The child,” Taran cried. “There was none?”

  “There was,” Craddoc answered. “A son. Our first born, even as I told you. He did not live beyond the day of his birth. His mother died with him,” he murmured. “And you—I needed your strength to keep what remained to me. I saw no other way. Even as I spoke the lie, I was ashamed, then more ashamed to speak the truth. When your companion left, I could only hope that you would follow with him, and gave you freedom so to do. You chose to stay.

  “But this, as well, is true,” Craddoc said hurriedly. “At first I leaned upon you as on my crutch, because you served my need, but no father came to love a son more dearly.”

  Taran’s head sank to his breast. He could not speak, and his tears blinded him.

  Craddoc, who had half-raised himself, fell back to the stones of the ledge. “Go from here,” he murmured.

  Taran’s hand dropped to his side. His fingers touched the rim of the battle horn. With a sudden cry he straightened. Eilonwy’s horn! Unthinking, he had slung it about his shoulder when he had run from the cottage. Hastily he drew it from beneath his cloak. The summons to the Fair Folk, the call he had treasured! It alone could save Craddoc. He stumbled to his feet. The ledge seemed to sway beneath him. The notes Doli had taught him blurred in his mind and he strove desperately to recall them. Suddenly they rang once more in his memory.

  He raised the horn to his lips. The notes sprang loud and clear and even before the signal faded, the wind caught them and seemed to fling the call through all the valley, where it returned in echo after echo. Then whirling shadows engulfed him and Taran dropped to the ledge.

  How long they clung there he did not know; whether moments or hours, he was only dimly aware of strong hands bearing him up, of a rope lashed about his waist. He glimpsed vaguely, as between the flickerings of a dark flame, the broad faces of dwarfish mountaineers, whose number he could not judge.

  When next he opened his eyes he was in the cottage, the fire blazing, Gurgi beside him. Taran started up. Pain seared his chest, which he saw had been carefully banda
ged.

  “The signal!” he murmured feebly. “It was answered …”

  “Yes, yes!” Gurgi cried. “Fair Folk save us with mighty haulings and heavings! They bind up kindly master’s hurtful wounds and leave healing herbs for all that is needful!”

  “The summons,” Taran began. “Good old Doli. He warned me not to waste it. For Craddoc’s sake, I’m glad I kept it as long as I did. Craddoc—where is he? How does he fare?” He stopped suddenly.

  Gurgi was looking at him silently. The creature’s face wrinkled miserably and tears stood in his eyes as he bowed his shaggy head.

  Taran fell back. His own cry of anguish rang in his ears. Beyond that was only darkness.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Taran Wanderer

  Fever came, sweeping over him, a blazing forest through which he staggered endlessly; tossing on the straw pallet, he knew neither day nor night. Often there were dream faces half-glimpsed, half-recognized, of Eilonwy, of his companions, of all whom he had loved; yet they slipped away from him, shifting and changing like wind-driven clouds, or were swallowed by nightmares that made him cry out in terror. Later, he seemed to see Fflewddur, but the bard had turned gaunt, hollow-eyed, his yellow hair matted on his forehead, his mouth pinched and his long nose thin as a blade. His garments hung ragged and stained. Kaw perched on his shoulder and croaked, “Taran, Taran!”

  “Yes, well, indeed it’s about time you’re waking up,” said Fflewddur, grinning at him. Beside the bard, Gurgi squatted on a wooden stool and peered at him anxiously.

  Taran rubbed his eyes, unsure whether he was asleep or awake. This time the faces did not vanish. He blinked. The sheepskin had been taken from the window and sunlight streamed over him.

  “Gurgi? Kaw?” Taran murmured. “Fflewddur? What’s happened to you? You look like half of yourself.”

  “You’re hardly one to talk about appearances, old friend.” The bard chuckled. “If you could see yourself, I’m sure you’d agree you look worse than I do.”

  Still baffled, Taran turned to Gurgi who had leaped up joyously and clapped his hands.

  “Kindly master is well again!” Gurgi shouted. “He is well, without groanings and moanings, without shiverings and quiverings! And it is faithful, clever Gurgi who tends him!”

  “That’s true,” agreed Fflewddur. “For the past two weeks he’s fussed over you like a mother hen, and he couldn’t have given you more care if you’d been one of his pet lambs!

  “I rode straight as an arrow for Caer Dallben,” the bard continued. “Ah—well—the truth of it is, I got lost for a time; then it began snowing. Llyan plowed through drifts up to her ears, and even she finally had to stop. For a while we sheltered in a cave—Great Belin, I thought I’d never see the light of day again.” Fflewddur gestured at his tattered clothing. “It was the sort of journey that tends to make one rather unkempt. Not to mention three-fourths starved. Kaw was the one who happened to find us, and he guided us along the clearer trails.

  “As for Dallben,” Fflewddur went on, “he was upset, considerably more than he wanted to show. Though all he said was ‘Taran is not the herdsman’s son, but whether or not he stays is a matter entirely of his own choosing.’

  “And so I came back as fast as I could,” the bard concluded. “Alas, I didn’t reach you sooner.” He shook his head. “Gurgi told me what happened.”

  “Craddoc longed for a son,” Taran answered slowly, “as I longed for parentage. I wonder if I would not have been happier had I believed him. Though at the end, I think I did. Gurgi and I could have climbed to safety. For the sake of Craddoc, I sounded Eilonwy’s horn. Had I done it sooner, perhaps he might have lived. He was a man of courage and good heart, a proud man. Now he is dead. I saved the signal to use in a worthy cause, and when I found one it was wasted.”

  “Wasted?” answered Fflewddur. “I think not. Since you did your best and didn’t begrudge using it, I shouldn’t call it wasted at all.”

  “There is more that you do not know,” Taran said. He looked squarely at the bard. “My best? At first I thought to leave Craddoc on the ledge.”

  “Well, now,” replied the bard, “each man has his moment of fear. If we all behaved as we often wished to there’d be sorry doings in Prydain. Count the deed, not the thought.”

  “In this I count my thought as much,” Taran said in a cold voice. “It was not fear that held me back. Will you know the truth? I was ashamed to be base-born, so ashamed it sickened me. I would have left Craddoc to his death. Yes, left him to die!” he burst out. “Because I believed it would have set me free of him. I was ashamed to be the son of a herdsman. But no longer. Now my shame is for myself.” He turned his face away and said no more.

  The companions wintered in the cottage, and little by little Taran’s strength came back. At the first thaw, when the valley sparkled with melting snow and the streams burst from their ice-bound courses, Taran stood silently in the dooryard and looked at the pale green summits, pondering what had long been in his heart.

  “We’ll soon be ready,” said Fflewddur, who had come from seeing to Llyan and the steeds. “The passes should be clear. The Lake of Llunet can’t be too far, and with Kaw to help us, we should reach it in no time.”

  “I’ve thought carefully on this,” Taran replied. “All winter I’ve tried to decide what I should do, and never have I found an answer. But one thing is clear, and my mind is made up. I will not seek the Mirror.”

  “What’s that you say?” cried Fflewddur. “Do I hear you aright? Give up your search? Now, of all times? After all you’ve gone through? Taran, my boy, you’ve regained your health, but not your wits!”

  Taran shook his head. “I give it up. My quest has brought only grief to all of you. And for me, it’s led me not to honor but to shame. Taran? Taran makes me sick at heart. I longed to be of noble birth, longed for it so much I believed it was true. A proud birthright was all that counted for me. Those who had none—even when I admired them, as I admired Aeddan, as I learned to admire Craddoc—I deemed them lesser because of it. Without knowing them, I judged them less than what they were. Now I see them as true men. Noble? They are far nobler than I.

  “I am not proud of myself,” Taran went on. “I may never be again. If I do find pride, I’ll not find it in what I was or what I am, but what I may become. Not in my birth, but in myself.”

  “All things considered, then,” replied the bard, “the best thing would be to pack our gear and start for Caer Dallben.”

  Taran shook his head. “I cannot face Dallben or Coll. One day, perhaps. Not now. I must make my own way, earn my own keep. Somehow, the robin must scratch for his own worms.” He stopped suddenly and looked, wondering, at the bard. “Orddu—those were her words. I heard them only with my ears. Until now, I did not understand with my heart.”

  “Scratching for worms is unappetizing, to say the best of it,” Fflewddur answered. “But it’s true, everyone should have a skill. Take myself, for example. King though I am, as a bard you’ll find none better—” A harp string snapped, and for a moment it appeared that several others might give way.

  “Yes, well, aside from all that,” Fflewddur said hastily, “if you don’t mean to go home, then I suggest the Free Commots. The craftsmen there might welcome a willing apprentice.”

  Taran thought for some moments, then nodded. “So shall I do. Now I will scorn no man’s welcome.”

  The bard’s face fell. “I—I fear I can’t go with you, old friend. There’s my own realm waiting. True enough, I’m happier wandering as a bard than sitting as a king. But already I’ve been too long away.”

  “Then our ways must part again,” Taran replied. “Will there ever be an end to saying farewell?”

  “But Gurgi does not say farewell to kindly master,” cried Gurgi, as Fflewddur went to gather up his gear. “No, no, humble Gurgi toils at his side!”

  Taran bowed his head and turned away. “If the day comes when I deserve your faithfulness, that will be pri
ze enough for me.”

  “No, no!” protested Gurgi. “Not prizings! Gurgi only gives what is in his heart to give! He stays and asks nothing more. Once you comforted friendless Gurgi. Now let him comfort sorrowful master!”

  Taran felt the creature’s hand on his shoulder. “Dallben spoke truth, old friend,” he murmured. “Staunchness and good sense? All that and more. But your comfort stands me in better stead than all the cleverness in Prydain.”

  Next morning Taran and Fflewddur took leave of one another for the second time. Despite the bard’s protest that a Fflam could always find his way, Taran insisted on Kaw’s going along as a guide. Once this task was done, Taran urged the crow to return to Caer Dallben or, if it pleased him better, to fly freely as he chose. “I’ll not bind you to my journey,” Taran said to Kaw, “for even I don’t know where it may end.”

  “Then how do we fare?” cried Gurgi. “Faithful Gurgi follows, oh, yes! But where does kindly master begin?”

  The valley seemed suddenly empty as Taran stood, unanswering, looking at the silent cottage and the small mound of stones marking Craddoc’s resting place. “Times there were,” Taran said, almost to himself, “when I believed I was building my own prison with my own hands. Now I wonder if I shall ever labor as well and gain as much.”

  He turned to the waiting Gurgi. “Where?” He knelt, plucked a handful of dry grass from the turf, and cast it into the air. The freshening wind bore the blades eastward, toward the Free Commots.

  “There,” Taran said. “As the wind blows, so do we follow it.”

  Since neither Taran nor Gurgi wished to leave the sheep behind, the wayfarers departed from the valley with the small flock bleating after them. Taran intended offering the animals to the first farmstead with good grazing land, yet several days passed and he saw no inhabited place. The two companions had started in a southeasterly direction, but Taran soon gave Melynlas free rein and, though aware the stallion was bearing more east than south, he paid little heed until they drew near the banks of a wide, rapid-flowing river.