The Book of Three

Chapter 13
The Hidden Valley

THE IMPACT OF THE HEAVY, furry body caught Taran full in the chest, and sent him tumbling. As he fell, he caught a glimpse of Fflewddur. The bard, too, had been borne to earth under the paws of another wolf. Eilonwy still stood, though a third animal crouched in front of her.
Taran’s hand flew to his sword. The gray wolf seized his arm. The animal’s teeth, however, did not sink into his flesh, but held him in an unshakeable grip.
At the end of the ravine a huge, robed figure suddenly appeared. Melyngar stood behind him. The man raised his arm and spoke a command. Immediately, the wolf holding Taran relaxed his jaws and drew away, as obediently as a dog. The man strode toward Taran, who scrambled to his feet.
“You have saved our lives,” Taran began. “We are grateful.”
The man spoke again to the wolves and the animals crowded around him, whining and wagging their tails. He was a strange-looking figure, broad and muscular, with the vigor of an ancient but sturdy tree. His white hair reached below his shoulders and his beard hung to his waist. Around his forehead he wore a narrow band of gold, set with a single blue jewel.
“From these creatures,” he said, in a deep voice that was stern but not unkind, “your lives were never in danger. But you must leave this place. It is not an abode for the race of men.”
“We were lost,” Taran said. “We had been following our horse…”
“Melyngar?” The man turned a pair of keen gray eyes on Taran. Under his deep brow they sparkled like frost in a valley. “Melyngar brought me four of you? I understood young Gurgi was alone. By all means, then, if you are friends of Melyngar. It is Melyngar, isn’t it? She looks so much like her mother; and there are so many I cannot always keep track of the names.”
“I know who you are,” cried Taran. “You are Medwyn!”
“Am I now?” the man answered with a smile that furrowed his face. “Yes, I have been called Medwyn. But how should you know that?”
“I am Taran of Caer Dallben. Gwydion, Prince of Don, was my companion, and he spoke of you before—before his death. He was journeying to Caer Dathyl, as we are now. I never hoped to find you.”
“You were quite right,” Medwyn answered. “You could not have found me. Only the animals know my valley. Melyngar led you here. Taran, you say? Of Caer Dallben?” He put an enormous hand to his forehead. “Let me see. Yes, there are visitors from Caer Dallben, I am sure.”
Taran’s heart leaped. “Hen Wen!” he cried. Medwyn gave him a puzzled glance. “Were you seeking her? Now, that is curious. No, she is not here.”
“But I had thought…”
“We will speak of Hen Wen later,” said Medwyn. “Your friend is badly injured, you know. Come, I shall do what I can for him.” He motioned for them to follow.
The wolves padded silently behind Taran, Eilonwy, and the bard. Where Melyngar waited at the end of the ravine, Medwyn lifted Gurgi from the saddle, as if the creature weighed no more than a squirrel. Gurgi lay quietly in Medwyn’s arms.
The group descended a narrow footpath. Medwyn strode ahead, as slowly and powerfully as if a tree were walking. The old man’s feet were bare, but the sharp stones and pebbles did not trouble him. The path turned abruptly, then turned again. Medwyn passed through a cut in a bare shoulder of the cliff, and the next thing Taran knew, they suddenly emerged into a green, sunlit valley. Mountains, seemingly impassable, rose on all sides. Here the air was gentler, without the tooth of the wind; the grass spread rich and tender before him. Set among tall hemlocks were low, white cottages, not unlike those of Caer Dallben.
At the sight of them, Taran felt a pang of homesickness. Against the face of the slope behind the cottages, he saw what appeared at first to be rows of moss-covered tree trunks; as he looked, to his surprise, they seemed more like the weather worn ribs and timbers of a long ship. The earth covered them almost entirely; grass and meadow flowers had sprung up to obliterate them further and make them part of the mountain itself.
“I must say the old fellow’s well tucked away here,” whispered Fflewddur. “I could never have found the path in, and I doubt I could find the path out.”
Taran nodded. The valley was the most beautiful he had ever seen. Cattle grazed peacefully in the meadow. Near the hemlocks, a small lake caught the sky and sparkled blue and white. The bright plumage of birds flashed among the trees. Even as he stepped across the lush green of the turf, Taran felt exhaustion drain from his aching body.
“There’s a fawn!” Eilonwy cried with delight.
From behind the cottages, a speckled, long-legged fawn appeared, sniffed the air, then trotted quickly toward Medwyn. The graceful creature paid no attention to the wolves, but frisked gaily at the old man’s side. The animal drew shyly away from the strangers; but her curiosity got the better of her, and soon she was nuzzling Eilonwy’s hand.
“I’ve never seen a fawn this close,” said the girl. “Achren never had any pets—none that would stay with her, at any rate. I can’t blame them at all. This one is lovely; it makes you feel all tingly, as if you were touching the wind.”
Medwyn, motioning for them to wait, carried Gurgi into the largest of the cottages. The wolves sat on their haunches and watched the travelers through slanted eyes. Taran unsaddled Melyngar, who began cropping the tender grass. Half-a-dozen chickens clucked and pecked around a neat white henhouse. The rooster raised his head to show a notched comb.
“Those are Dallben’s chickens!” cried Taran. “They must be! There’s the brown hen, the white—I’d know that comb anywhere.” He hurried over and clucked at them.
The chickens, more interested in eating, paid little attention.
Medwyn reappeared in the doorway. He carried an enormous wicker basket laden with jugs of milk, with cheese, honeycombs, and fruits that, in the lowlands, would not be in season for another month. “I shall look after your friend directly,” he said. “Meantime, I thought you might enjoy—oh, yes, so you’ve found them, have you?” he said, noticing Taran with the chickens. “Those are my visitors from Caer Dallben. There should be a swarm of bees, too, somewhere about.”
“They flew away,” Taran said, “the same day Hen Wen ran off.”
“Then I imagine they came straight here,” Medwyn said. “The chickens were petrified with fright; I could make no sense at all out of them. Oh, they settled down quickly enough, but of course by that time they had forgotten why they flew off in the first place. You know how chickens are, imagining the world coming to an end one moment, then pecking corn the next. They shall all fly back when they’re ready, have no fear. Though it’s unfortunate Dallben and Coll should be put out in the matter of eggs.
“I would ask you inside,” Medwyn continued, “but the disorder at the moment—there were bears at breakfast, and you can imagine the state of things. So I must ask you to attend to yourselves. If you would rest, there is straw in the byre; it should not be too uncomfortable for you.”
The travelers lost no time helping themselves to Medwyn’s provisions, or in finding the byre. The sweet scent of hay filled the low-ceilinged building. They scooped out nests in the straw, uncovering one of Medwyn’s breakfast guests curled up and fast asleep. Fflewddur, at first uneasy, was finally convinced the bear had no appetite for bards, and soon began snoring. Eilonwy dropped off to sleep in the middle of one of her sentences.
Taran had no desire to rest. Medwyn’s valley had refreshed him more than a night’s slumber. He left the byre and strolled across the meadow. At the far side of the lake, otters had built a slide and were amusing themselves by tumbling down it. At Taran’s approach, they stopped for a moment, raised their heads to look at him as though sorry he was unable to join them, and returned to their game. A fish broke water in a twinkle of silver scales; the ripples widened until the last of them lapped gently at the shore.
Medwyn, Taran saw, had gardens of both flowers and vegetables behind the cottage. To his surprise, Taran found himself yearning to work with Coll in his own vegetable plot. The weeding and hoeing he had so despised at Caer Dallben now seemed, as he thought of his past journey and the journey yet to come, infinitely pleasant.
He sat down by the rim of the lake and looked across to the hills. With the sun resting above the peaks, the wooden skeleton of the great ship stood out sharply against the mound which nearly enveloped it. He had little chance to study it, for Medwyn appeared, walking deliberately across the field; the fawn trotted beside him, the three wolves followed. With his brown robe and white hair, Medwyn looked as broad and solid as a snow-capped mountain.
“Gurgi is more comfortable than he was,” the ancient man said in his deep voice. The fawn danced at the lake shore while Medwyn ponderously sat down and leaned his huge head toward Taran. “He will recover well; there is no longer any danger. Not, at least, while he is here.”
“I have thought long of Gurgi,” Taran said, looking frankly into the old man’s gray eyes. He explained, then, the reason for his journey and the events leading to Gurgi’s accident. Medwyn listened carefully, head cocked to one side, thoughtful, while Taran recounted Gurgi’s willingness to sacrifice his own life rather than endanger the others. “At first, I wasn’t too fond of him,” Taran admitted. “Now I’ve begun to like him in spite of all his whining and complaining.”
“Every living thing deserves our respect,” said Medwyn, knitting his shaggy brows, “be it humble or proud, ugly or beautiful.”
“I wouldn’t want to say that about the gwythaints,” Taran answered.
“I feel only sorrow for those unhappy creatures,’’ Medwyn said. “Once, long ago, they were as free as other birds, gentle and trusting. In his cunning, Arawn lured them to him and brought them under his power. He built the iron cages which are now their prison house in Annuvin. The tortures he inflicted on the gwythaints were shameful and unspeakable. Now they serve him out of terror.
“Thus would he strive to corrupt every animal in Prydain, no less than the race of men. That is one of the reasons I remain in this valley. Here, Arawn cannot harm them. Even so, were he to become ruler of this land, I doubt I could help them all. Those who fell into his clutches would be counted fortunate if they perished quickly.”
Taran nodded. “I understand more and more why I must warn the Sons of Don. As for Gurgi, I wonder if it wouldn’t be safer for him to stay here.”
“Safer?” asked Medwyn. “Yes, certainly. But you would hurt him grievously were you to turn him away now. Gurgi’s misfortune is that he is neither one thing nor the other, at the moment. He has lost the wisdom of animals and has not gained the learning of men. Therefore, both shun him. Were he to do something purposeful, it would mean much to him.
“I doubt he will delay your journey, for he will be able to walk as well as you—by tomorrow, easily. I urge you to take him. He may even find his own way of serving you. Neither refuse to give help when it is needed,” Medwyn continued, “nor refuse to accept it when it is offered. Gwythyr Son of Greidawl learned that from a lame ant, you know.”
“A lame ant?” Taran shook his head. “Dallben has taught me much about ants, but nothing of a lame one.”
“It is a long history,” Medwyn said, “and perhaps you will hear all of it another time. For the moment, you need only know that when Kilhuch—or was it his father? No, it was young Kilhuch. Very well. When young Kilhuch sought the hand of the fair Olwen, he was given a number of tasks by her father, Yspadadden; he was Chief Giant at the time. What the tasks were does not concern us now, except that they were very nigh impossible, and Kilhuch could not have accomplished them without the aid of his companions.
“One of the tasks was to gather nine bushels of flax seed, though there was scarcely that much in all the land. For the sake of his friend, Gwythyr Son of Greidawl undertook to do this. While he was walking over the hills, wondering how he might accomplish it, he heard a grievous wailing from an anthill; a fire had started around it and the ants were in danger of their lives. Gwythyr—yes, I’m quite sure it was Gwythyr—drew his sword and beat out the fire.
“In gratitude, the ants combed every field until they had collected the nine bushels. Yet the Chief Giant, a picky and disagreeable sort, claimed the measure was not complete. One flax seed was missing, and must be delivered before nightfall.
“Gwythyr had no idea where he could find another flax seed, but at last, just as the sun had begun to set, up hobbled a lame ant carrying a heavy burden. It was the single flax seed, and so the last measure was filled.
“I have studied the race of men,” Medwyn continued. “I have seen that alone you stand as weak reeds by a lake. You must learn to help yourselves, that is true; but you must also learn to help one another. Are you not, all of you, lame ants?”
Taran was silent. Medwyn put his hand into the lake and stirred the water. After a moment, a venerable salmon rippled up; Medwyn stroked the jaws of the huge fish.
“What place is this?” Taran finally asked, in a hushed voice. “Are you indeed Medwyn? You speak of the race of men as if you were not one of them.”
“This is a place of peace,” Medwyn said, “and therefore not suitable for men, at least, not yet. Until it is, I hold this valley for creatures of the forests and the waters. In their mortal danger they come to me, if they have the strength to do so—and in their pain and grief. Do you not believe that animals know grief and fear and pain? The world of men is not an easy one for them.”
“Dallben,” said Taran, “taught me that when the black waters flooded Prydain, ages ago, Nevvid Nav Neivion built a ship and carried with him two of every living creature. The waters drained away, the ship came to rest—no man knows where. But the animals who came safe again into the world remembered, and their young have never forgotten. And here,” Taran said, pointing toward the hillside, “I see a ship, far from water. Gwydion called you Medwyn, but I ask…”
“I am Medwyn,” answered the white-bearded man, “for all that my name may concern you. That is not important now. My own concern is for Hen Wen.”
“You have seen nothing of her, then?”
Medwyn shook his head. “What Lord Gwydion said is true: of all places in Prydain, she would have come here first, especially if she sensed her life in danger. But there has been no sign, no rumor. Yet she would find her way, sooner or later, unless…”
Taran felt a chill ripple at his heart. “Unless she has been killed,” he murmured. “Do you think that has happened?”
“I do not know,” Medwyn answered, “though I fear it may be so.”