CHAPTER 12
Little Dallben
TARAN’S JAW DROPPED. Before he could answer, the enchantresses had crowded around the companions and were leading them to the cottage. In wonder, he turned to Fflewddur, who looked less pale now that Orddu had stopped speaking of toads.
“Little Dallben?” Taran whispered. “I’ve never in my life heard anyone talk about him that way. Can they mean the same Dallben?”
“I don’t know,” whispered the bard in return. “But if they think it is—Great Belin, don’t tell them otherwise!”
Inside, with a great deal of joyous bustling that in fact accomplished little, the enchantresses hurried to straighten up the chamber. Orwen, in obvious excitement and delight, brought out a number of rickety chairs and stools; Orgoch cleared the table of crockery by brushing it onto the floor; Orddu clapped her hands and beamed at the companions.
“I should never have thought it,” she began. “Oh, no, no, my duck!” she cried suddenly to Eilonwy, who had drawn closer to the loom and had just bent forward to examine the fabric. “Mustn’t touch. Nasty prickles if you do. It’s full of nettles. Come sit with us, there’s a love.”
Despite the sudden warmth of their welcome, Taran glanced at the enchantresses with uneasiness. The chamber itself filled him with odd forebodings he could not name, which eluded him like shadows. Gurgi and the bard, however, appeared delighted at the strange turn of events, and set heartily to eating the food that soon arrived at the table. Taran looked questioningly at Eilonwy.
The girl guessed his thought. “Don’t be afraid to eat,” she said behind her hand. “It’s perfectly all right, not the least bit poisonous or enchanted. I can tell. I learned how when I was staying with Queen Achren and learning to be a sorceress. What you do is…”
“Now, my sparrow,” Orddu interrupted, “you must tell us all about dear little Dallben. What is he doing? Does he still have The Book of Three?”
“Well… why, yes he does,” Taran said, with some confusion, beginning to wonder if the enchantresses did not know more about Dallben than he did.
“Poor little robin,” remarked Orddu, “and such a heavy book. I’m surprised he would even be able to turn the pages.”
“Well, you see,” Taran said, still puzzled, “the Dallben that we know, he isn’t little. I mean, he’s rather elderly.”
“Elderly!” burst out Fflewddur. “He’s every bit of three hundred and eighty years old! Coll himself told me.”
“He was such a dear, sweet little thing,” said Orwen with a sigh. “All pink cheeks and chubby fingers.”
“I love babies,” said Orgoch, smacking her lips.
“His hair is quite gray,” said Taran, who could not bring himself to believe these strange creatures were indeed speaking of his old teacher. The idea of the learned Dallben ever having pink cheeks and chubby fingers was beyond his imagination. “He has a beard too,” he added.
“A beard?” cried Orddu. “What’s little Dallben doing with a beard? Why in the world should he want such a thing? Such a charming little tadpole!”
“We found him in the marsh one morning,” said Orwen. “All by himself in a great wicker basket. It was too sweet for words. Orgoch, of course…”
At this Orgoch made an irritable noise and her eyes glared from the depths of the hood.
“Come now, dear Orgoch, don’t look so disagreeable,” said Orddu. “We’re all friends together here; we can talk about such things now. Well, I shall put it this way and spare Orgoch’s feelings. She didn’t want to keep him. That is, not in the usual sense. But we did. And so we brought the poor fledgling to the cottage.”
“He grew very quickly,” added Orwen. “Why, it was no time before he was toddling around, and talking, and doing little errands. So kind and polite. A perfect joy. And you say he has a beard?” She shook her head. “Curious notion. Wherever did he find it?”
“Yes, a delightful little sparrow he was,” said Orddu. “But then,” she continued with a sad smile, “there was that distressing accident. We were brewing some herbs one morning, a rather special potion.”
“And Dallben,” sighed Orwen, “sweet little Dallben was stirring the kettle for us. It was one of those kind, thoughtful things he was always doing. But when it came to a boil, some of it bubbled up and splashed out.”
“It burned his poor dear fingers,” Orddu added. “But he didn’t cry, no indeed. He just popped his fingers into his mouth, the brave little starling. Of course, some of the potion was still there, and he swallowed it.”
“As soon as he did that,” explained Orwen, “he knew every bit as much as we did. It was a magical brew, you understand, a recipe for wisdom.”
“After that,” Orddu went on, “it was out of the question to keep him with us. It would never have been the same; no, it would never have done at all; you can’t have that many people knowing that much all under the same roof. Especially since he was able to guess some of the things Orgoch had in mind. And so we had to let him go—really let him go, that is. Orgoch, by this time, was the one who wanted to keep him. In her own fashion, which I doubt he would have liked.”
“He would have been a sweet little thing,” murmured Orgoch.
“I must say we did quite handsomely by him,” Orddu continued. “We gave him his choice of a harp, a sword, or The Book of Three. Had he chosen the harp, he could have been the greatest bard in the world; the sword and the dear duckling could have ruled all Prydain. But,” Orddu said, “he chose The Book of Three. And to tell the truth, we were just as happy that he did, for it was heavy and moldy and did nothing but gather dust. And so he left to make his way in the world. And that was the last we saw of him.”
“A good thing sweet, dear Dallben isn’t here,” Fflewddur chuckled to Taran. “Their description hardly matches. I fear they might be rather startled.”
Taran had been silent throughout Orddu’s account, wondering how he dared bring up the matter of the cauldron. “Dallben has been my master as long as I can remember,” he said at last, deciding frankness was the best way to go about it especially since the enchantresses seemed able to guess when he was not telling the truth. “If you are as fond of him as I…”
“We love him dearly, the sweet thing,” said Orddu, “you can be sure of that.”
“Then I beg you to help us carry out his wishes and the wishes of Gwydion Prince of Don,” Taran went on. He explained what had taken place at the council, what they had learned at Dark Gate and from Gwystyl. He spoke of the urgency of bringing the cauldron to Caer Dallben, and asked, too, whether the enchantresses had seen Ellidyr.
Orddu shook her head. “A Son of Pen-Llarcau? No, my duck, there’s been no such person anywhere near. If he’d come across the Marshes, we’d have been bound to see him.”
“We have a lovely view of the fens from the hilltop,” Orwen put in with such enthusiasm that her necklace bounced and rattled. “You must come and enjoy it. Indeed, you’re perfectly welcome to stay as long as you want,” she added eagerly. “Now that little Dallben’s gone, and found himself a beard, too, the place isn’t half as cheery as it used to be. We wouldn’t change you into a toad—unless you insisted on it.”
“Stay, by all means,” croaked Orgoch with a leer.
“Our task is to regain the cauldron,” Taran pressed, preferring to overlook Orgoch’s remark. “From what Gwystyl told us…”
“You said his crow told you, my lamb,” interrupted Orddu. “Don’t believe everything you hear from a crow.”
“Doli of the Fair Folk believed him,” Taran said. “Do you tell me now that you have no cauldron? I ask you this in the name of Dallben himself.”
“Cauldron?” answered Orddu. “Why, goodness, we have dozens! Cauldrons, kettles, cook pots—we can hardly keep track of them all.”
“I speak of the cauldron of Annuvin,” Taran said firmly, “the cauldron of Arawn and his deathless warriors.”
“Oh,” said Orddu, laughing cheerfully, “you must mean the Black Crochan.”
“I do not know its name,” Taran said, “but that may be the one we seek.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer one of the others?” asked Orwen. “They’re much more attractive than that old thing. And much more practical. What use have you for Cauldron-Born? They would only be a nuisance. We can give you a kettle to brew the most marvelous sleeping potions, or one you can sprinkle on daffodils to take away that bilious yellow.”
“Our concern is with the Black Crochan,” Taran insisted, deciding this was indeed the name of Arawn’s cauldron. “Will you not tell me the truth? Is the cauldron here?”
“Of course it’s here,” replied Orddu. “Why not, since it was ours to begin with? And always has been!”
“Yours?” cried Taran. “Then Arawn stole it from you?”
“Stole?” Orddu answered. “Not exactly. No, we couldn’t say it was stolen.”
“But you couldn’t have given it to Arawn,” Eilonwy cried, “knowing what he meant to use it for!”
“Even Arawn had to be allowed to have his chance,” said Orddu tolerantly. “One day you’ll understand why. For there is a destiny laid on everything; on big, ugly Crochans as well as poor little ducklings, and a destiny laid even on us. Besides, Arawn paid dearly for the use of it, very dearly indeed, you can be sure. The details, my duckling, are of a private nature which does not concern you. In any case, the Crochan was not to be his forever.”
“Arawn swore to return it after a time,” said Orwen. “But when the time came, he broke his oath to us, as might be expected.”
“Ill-advised,” murmured Orgoch.
“And since he wouldn’t give it back,” Orddu said, “what else could we do? We went and took it.”
“Great Belin!” cried the bard. “You three ladies ventured into the heart of Annuvin and carried the thing out? How did you ever manage?”
Orddu smiled. “There are a number of ways, my curious sparrow. We could have flooded Annuvin with darkness and floated the cauldron out. We could have put all the guards to sleep. Or we could have turned ourselves into—well, no matter—let us say we could have used a variety of methods. In any case, the cauldron is here again.
“And,” the enchantress added, “here it will stay. No, no,” she said, raising a hand to Taran. “I can see you’d like to have it, but that’s out of the question. Much too dangerous for wandering chicks like you. My goodness, we shouldn’t sleep at night. No, no, not even for the sake of little Dallben.
“In fact,” Orddu went on, “you’d be much safer being toads than having anything to do with the Black Crochan.” She shook her head. “Better yet, we could change you into birds and have you fly back to Caer Dallben immediately.
“No indeed,” she continued, rising from the table and taking hold of Taran’s shoulders. “Off you ducklings must go and never give a second thought to the Crochan. Tell dear little Dallben and Prince Gwydion we’re terribly sorry, and if there’s anything else we can possibly do… But not that. Oh, my no.”
Taran started to protest, but Orddu cut him short and guided him rapidly to the door, while the other enchantresses hustled the companions after him.
“You may sleep in the shed tonight, my chickens,” said Orddu. “Then, first thing in the morning, away with you to little Dallben. And you shall decide whether you’d rather go on your legs. Or,” she added, this time without a smile, “on a pair of your own wings.”
“Or,” muttered Orgoch, “hopping all the way.”