CHAPTER 16
The River
HIS NIGHT’S SLEEP refreshed Taran but little and hardly blunted the edge of his weariness. Nevertheless, at dawn he roused the companions and with much effort they began roping the Crochan to Lluagor and Melynlas. When they finished, Taran glanced around him uneasily.
“There is no concealment for us on these moors,” he said. “I had hoped we might keep to the flatlands where our journey would be easier. But I fear that Arawn will have his gwythaints seeking the Crochan. Sooner or later they will find us, and here they could fall on us like hawks on chickens.”
“Please don’t mention chickens,” said the bard with a sour grimace. “I had quite enough of that from Orddu.”
“Gurgi will protect kind master!” shouted Gurgi.
Taran smiled and put a hand on Gurgi’s shoulder. “I know you’ll do your best,” he said. “But all of us together are no match for even one gwythaint.” Taran shook his head. “No,” he said reluctantly, “I think we had better turn north to the Forest of Idris. It’s the longest way around, but at least it would give us some cover.”
Eilonwy agreed. “It’s not usually wise to go in the direction opposite to where you want to be,” she said. “But you can be sure I’d rather not fight gwythaints.”
“Lead on, then,” said Fflewddur. “A Fflam never falters! Though what my aching bones might do is another matter!”
Crossing the moorlands, the companions journeyed without difficulties, but once within the Forest of Idris the Crochan grew more burdensome. Although the trees and bushes offered concealment and protection, the paths were narrow. Lluagor and Melynlas stumbled often and, despite their most valiant efforts, they could barely drag the cauldron through the brush.
Taran called a halt. “Our horses have borne all they can,” he said, patting the lathered neck of Melynlas. “Now it is our turn to help them. I wish Doli were here.” He sighed. “I’m sure he’d find an easier way of carrying the Crochan. He’d think of something clever. Like making a sling out of branches and vines.”
“There!” cried Eilonwy. “You’ve just said it yourself! You’re doing amazingly well without Adaon’s brooch!”
With their swords Taran and the bard cut stout branches, while Eilonwy and Gurgi stripped vines from the tree trunks. Taran’s spirits lifted when he saw the sling take shape according to his plan. The companions hoisted up the Crochan and set off again. But even with the sling, and all their strength, their progress was slow and painful.
“Oh, poor weary arms!” moaned Gurgi. “Oh, moilings and toilings! This evil pot is a cruel and wicked master to us all! Oh, sorrow! Fainting Gurgi will never leave Caer Dallben again unbidden!”
Taran gritted his teeth, as the rough branches bit into his shoulders. To him, too, it seemed as if the ugly, heavy cauldron had gained some strange life of its own. The Crochan, squat and blood-darkened, lurched behind him as he stumbled through the brush. It caught on jutting tree limbs, as though eagerly clutching them to itself. Often, at these sudden checks, the companions lost their footing and went sprawling. Then, laboriously, they were obliged to set the Crochan back in its sling once again. Though the weather was chill enough to turn their breath white, their clothing was drenched with sweat and nearly ripped to shreds by the grasping brambles.
The trees had begun to grow more dense, and the ground rose toward the comb of a hill. For Taran, the Crochan seemed to gain weight with every pace. Its leering, gaping mouth taunted him, and the cauldron dragged at his strength as he heaved and struggled along the ascending trail.
The companions had nearly reached the crest of the hill when one of the carrier branches snapped. The Crochan plunged to the ground and Taran fell headlong. Painfully picking himself up and rubbing his shoulder, he stared at the spiteful cauldron and shook his head.
“No use,” Taran gasped. “We’ll never get it through the forest. No sense trying.”
“You sound like Gwystyl,” Eilonwy remarked. “If I didn’t have my eyes open, I could barely tell the difference.”
“Gwystyl!” cried the bard, looking ruefully at his blistered hands. “I envy that fellow in his rabbit warren! Sometimes I think he had quite the right idea.”
“We are too few to carry such a burden,” Taran said hopelessly. “With another horse or another pair of hands there might be a chance. We are only deceiving ourselves if we think we can bring the Crochan to Caer Dallben.”
“That may be true,” Eilonwy sighed wearily. “But I don’t know what else we can do, except keep on deceiving ourselves. And perhaps by that time we’ll be home.”
Taran cut a new branch for the sling, but his heart was as heavy as the Crochan itself. And, as the companions wrestled their burden over the hill and descended into a deep valley, Taran nearly sank to the ground in despair. Before them, like a brown, menacing serpent, stretched a turbulent river.
Taran stared grimly at the choppy waters for a moment, then turned away. “There is a destiny laid on us that the Crochan shall never reach Caer Dallben.”
“Nonsense!” cried Eilonwy. “If you stop now, then you’ve given up Adaon’s brooch for nothing! That’s worse than putting a necklace on an owl and letting it fly away!”
“If I’m not mistaken,” said Fflewddur helpfully, “that must be the River Tevvyn. I’ve crossed it farther to the north, where it takes its source. Surprising, the bits of information you pick up as a wandering bard.”
“Alas, it does us no good, my friend,” Taran said, “unless we could turn north again and cross where the river is less wide.”
“Afraid that wouldn’t answer,” said Fflewddur. “We’d have the mountains to go over, that way. If we’re to cross at all, we shall have to do it here.”
“It seems a little shallower down that way,” said Eilonwy, pointing to a spot where the river curved around a sedge covered bank. “Very well, Taran of Caer Dallben,” she said, “what shall it be? We can’t just sit here until gwythaints or something even more disagreeable find us, and we certainly can’t go back to Orddu and offer to exchange the Crochan again.”
Taran took a deep breath. “If you are all willing,” he said, “we shall try to cross.”
SLOWLY, STRUGGLING under the cruel weight, the companions brought the Crochan to the riverbank. While Gurgi, leading the horses, cautiously set one foot, then the other, into the stream, Taran and the bard shouldered the sling. Eilonwy followed beside them to steady the swaying cauldron. The icy water slashed at Taran’s legs like a knife. He dug his heels into the river bed, seeking a firmer foothold. He plunged deeper; behind him, the straining, grunting Fflewddur did his best to avoid dropping his end of the sling. The chill of the river took Taran’s breath away. His head spun, the branches nearly slipped from his numb fingers.
For one moment of terror he felt himself falling. His foot found a rock and he braced himself on it. The vines creaked and tensed as the weight of the cauldron shifted. The companions were in midstream now and the water rose only to their waists. Taran raised his streaming face. The opposite bank was not far; the ground appeared smoother, the forest not as dense.
“Soon there!” he cried, taking heart anew. Gurgi, he saw, had already led the horses from the water and was turning back to help the toiling companions.
Closer to the bank the river bottom turned stony. Blindly, Taran picked his way through the treacherous rocks. Ahead rose a number of high boulders and he warily guided the Crochan past them. Gurgi was reaching out his hands when Taran heard a sharp cry from the bard. The cauldron lurched. With all his strength Taran heaved forward. Eilonwy seized the cauldron by its handle and tugged desperately. Taran flung himself to dry ground.
The Crochan rolled to its side and sank in the muddy shallows.
Taran turned back to help Fflewddur. The bard, who had fallen heavily against the boulders, was struggling to shore. His face was white with pain; his right arm hung uselessly at his side.
“Is it broken? Is it broken?” Fflewddur moaned as Taran and Eilonwy hurried to lead him up the bank.
“I’ll be able to tell in a moment,” Taran said, helping the stumbling bard to sit down and prop his back against an alder. He opened Fflewddur’s cloak, slit the sleeve of the jacket, and carefully examined the damaged arm. Taran saw quickly that the bard’s fall had not only been severe but that one of the cauldron’s legs had given him a deep gash in his side. “Yes,” Taran said gravely, “I’m afraid it is.”
At this the bard set up a loud lament and bowed his head. “Terrible, terrible,” he groaned. “A Fflam is always cheerful, but this is too much to bear.”
“It was a bad accident,” Eilonwy said, trying to hide her concern, “but you mustn’t take on so. It can be fixed. We’ll bind it up.”
“Useless!” cried Fflewddur in despair. “It will never be the same! Oh, it is the fault of that beastly Crochan! The wretched thing struck at me deliberately, I’m sure!”
“You’ll be all right, I promise you,” Taran reassured the sorrowful bard. He tore several wide strips from his cloak. “Good as new in a little while,” he added. “Of course, you won’t be able to move your arm until it’s healed.”
“Arm?” cried Fflewddur. “It’s not my arm that worries me! It’s my harp!”
“Your harp is in a better state than you are,” said Eilonwy, taking the bard’s instrument from his shoulder and putting it in his lap.
“Great Belin, but you gave me a shock!” Fflewddur said, caressing the harp with his free hand. “Arms? Naturally, they heal themselves with no trouble at all. I’ve had a dozen broken—yes, well, that is to say I snapped my wrist once during a little sword play—in any case, I have two arms. But only one harp!” The bard heaved an immense sigh of relief. “Indeed, I feel better already.”
Despite Fflewddur’s brave grin, Taran saw the bard was suffering more than he chose to admit. Quickly and gently Taran finished making a splint and winding the strips about it, then brought herbs from Lluagor’s saddlebag. “Chew these,” he told Fflewddur. “They will ease your pain. And you’d better stay perfectly still for a while.”
“Lie still?” cried the bard. “Not now, of all times! We must fish that vile pot out of the river!”
Taran shook his head. “The three of us will try to raise it. With a broken arm even a Fflam wouldn’t be much help.”
“By no means!” cried Fflewddur. “A Fflam is always helpful!” He struggled to raise himself from the ground, winced, and fell back again. Gasping with the pain of his exertion, he looked dolefully at his injury.
Taran uncoiled the ropes and, with Gurgi and Eilonwy following, made his way to the shallows. The Crochan lay half submerged in the water. The current eddied around its gaping mouth and the cauldron seemed to be muttering defiance. The sling, Taran saw, was undamaged, but the cauldron was caught firmly between the boulders. He looped a rope and cast it over a jutting leg, directing Gurgi and Eilonwy to pull when he signaled.
He waded into the river, bent, and tried to thrust his shoulder under the cauldron. Gurgi and Eilonwy hauled with all their strength. The Crochan did not move.
Soaked to the skin, his hands numb, Taran wrestled vainly with the cauldron. Breathless, he staggered back to shore where he attached ropes to Lluagor and Melynlas.
Once again Taran returned to the icy stream. He shouted to Eilonwy, who led the horses away from the river. The ropes tightened; the steeds labored; Taran heaved and tugged at the immovable cauldron. The bard had managed to regain his feet and lent what effort he could. Gurgi and Eilonwy took their places in the water beside Taran, but the Crochan resisted the force of all their muscles.
In despair Taran signaled for them to stop. Heavy-hearted, the companions returned to shore.
“We shall camp here for the rest of the day,” Taran said. “Tomorrow, when we have our strength back, we can try again. There may be some other way of getting it out, I don’t know. It is tightly wedged and everything we do seems to make it worse.”
He looked toward the river, where the cauldron crouched like a glowering beast of prey.
“It is a thing of evil,” Taran said, “and has brought nothing but evil. Now, at the last, I fear it has defeated us.”
He turned away. Behind him the bushes rustled. Taran spun around, his hand on his sword.
A figure stepped from the edge of the forest.