The Book of Three

Chapter 14
The Black Lake

THAT NIGHT MEDWYN prepared a feast for the travelers. The disorder left by the breakfasting bears had been cleared away. The cottage was snug and neat, though even smaller than Caer Dallben. Taran could see that Medwyn was indeed unused to entertaining human visitors, for his table was barely long enough to seat them all; and for chairs he had been obliged to make do with benches and milking stools.
Medwyn sat at the head of the table. The fawn had gone to sleep, but the wolves crouched at his feet and grinned happily. On the back of his chair perched a gigantic, golden-plumed eagle, watching every movement with sharp, unblinking eyes. Fflewddur, though still apprehensive, did not allow his fear to affect his appetite. He ate enough for three, without showing the least sign of becoming full. But when he asked for another portion of venison, Medwyn gave a long chuckle and explained to the amazed Fflewddur it was not meat at all but vegetables prepared according to his own recipe.
“Of course it is,” Eilonwy told the bard. “You wouldn’t expect him to cook his guests, would you? That would be like asking someone to dinner and then roasting him. Really, I think bards are as muddled as Assistant Pig-Keepers; neither one of you seems to think very clearly.”
As much as he welcomed food and the chance to rest, Taran was silent throughout the meal, and continued so when he retired to his nest of straw. Until now, he had never imagined Hen Wen might not be alive. He had spoken again with Medwyn, but the old man could give him no assurance.
Wakeful, Taran left the byre and stood outside, looking at the sky. In the clear air, the stars were blue-white, closer than he had ever seen them. He tried to turn his thoughts from Hen Wen; reaching Caer Dathyl was the task he had undertaken and that in itself would be difficult enough. An owl passed overhead, silent as ashes. The shadow appearing noiselessly beside him was Medwyn.
“Not asleep?” Medwyn asked. “A restless night is no way to begin a journey.”
“It is a journey I am eager to end,” Taran said. “There are times when I fear I shall not see Caer Dallben again.”
“It is not given to men to know the ends of their journeys,” Medwyn answered. “It may be that you will never return to the places dearest to you. But how can that matter, if what you must do is here and now?”
“I think,” said Taran longingly, “that if I knew I were not to see my own home again, I would be happy to stay in this valley.”
“Your heart is young and unformed,” Medwyn said. “Yet, if I read it well, you are of the few I would welcome here. Indeed, you may stay if you so choose. Surely you can entrust your task to your friends.”
“No,” said Taran, after a long pause, “I have taken it on myself through my own choice.”
“If that is so,” answered Medwyn, “then you can give it up through your own choice.”
From all over the valley it seemed to Taran there came voices urging him to remain. The hemlocks whispered of rest and peace; the lake spoke of sunlight lingering in its depths, the joy of otters at their games. He turned away.
“No,” he said quickly, “my decision was made long before this.”
“Then,” Medwyn answered gently, “so be it.” He put a hand on Taran’s brow. “I grant you all that you will allow me to grant: a night’s rest. Sleep well.”
Taran remembered nothing of returning to the byre or falling asleep, but he rose in the morning sunlight refreshed and strengthened. Eilonwy and the bard had already finished their breakfast, and Taran was delighted to see that Gurgi had joined them. As Taran approached, Gurgi gave a yelp of joy and turned gleeful somersaults.
“Oh, joy!” he cried. “Gurgi is ready for new walkings and stalkings, oh, yes! And new seekings and peekings! Great lords have been kind to happy, jolly Gurgi!”
Taran noticed Medwyn had not only healed the creature’s leg, he had also given him a bath and a good combing. Gurgi looked only half as twiggy and leafy as usual. In addition, as he saddled Melyngar, Taran found that Medwyn had packed the saddlebags with food, and had included warm cloaks for all of them.
The old man called the travelers around him and seated himself on the ground. “The armies of the Horned King are by now a day’s march ahead of you,” he said, “but if you follow the paths I shall reveal, and move quickly, you may regain the time you have lost. It is even possible for you to reach Caer Dathyl a day, perhaps two, before them. However, I warn you, the mountain ways are not easy. If you prefer, I shall set you on a path toward the valley of Ystrad once again.”
“Then we would be following the Horned King,” Taran said. “There would be less chance of overtaking him, and much danger, too.”
“Do not think the mountains are not dangerous,” Medwyn said. “Though it is danger of a different sort.”
“A Fflam thrives on danger!” cried the bard. “Let it be the mountains or the Homed King’s hosts, I fear neither—not to any great extent,” he added quickly.
“We shall risk the mountains,” Taran said.
“For once,” Eilonwy interrupted, “you’ve decided the right thing. The mountains certainly aren’t going to throw spears at us, no matter how dangerous they are. I really think you’re improving.”
“Listen carefully, then,” Medwyn ordered. As he spoke, his hands moved deftly in the soft earth before him, molding a tiny model of the hills, which Taran found easier to follow than Fflewddur’s map scratchings. When he finished, and the travelers’ gear and weapons were secured on Melyngar’s back, Medwyn led the group from the valley. As closely as Taran observed each step of the way, he knew the path to Medwyn’s valley would be lost to him as soon as the ancient man left them.
In a little while Medwyn stopped. “Your path now lies to the north,” he said, “and here we shall part. And you, Taran of Caer Dallben—whether you have chosen wisely, you will learn from your own heart. Perhaps we shall meet again, and you will tell me. Until then, farewell.”
Before Taran could turn and thank Medwyn, the white bearded man disappeared, as if the hills had swallowed him up; and the travelers stood by themselves on a rocky, windswept plateau.
“Well,” said Fflewddur, hitching up the harp behind him, “I somehow feel that if we meet any more wolves, they’ll know we’re friends of Medwyn.”

THE FIRST DAY’S MARCH was less difficult than Taran had feared. This time he led the way, for the bard admitted—after a number of harp strings had snapped—that he had not been able to keep all Medwyn’s directions in his head.
They climbed steadily until long after the sun had turned westward; and, though the ground was rough and broken, the path Medwyn had indicated lay dearly before them. Mountain streams, whose water ran cold and clear, made winding lines of sparkling silver as they danced down the slopes into the distant valley lands. The air was bracing, yet with a cold edge which made the travelers grateful for the cloaks Medwyn had given them.
At a long cleft protected from the wind, Taran signaled a halt. They had made excellent progress during the day, far more than he had expected, and he saw no reason to exhaust themselves by forcing a march during the night. Tethering Melyngar to one of the stunted trees that grew in the heights, the travelers made camp. Since there was no further danger from the Cauldron-Born, and the hosts of the Horned King moved far below and to the west of the group, Taran deemed it safe to build a fire. Medwyn’s provisions needed no cooking, but the blaze warmed and cheered them. As the night shadows drifted from the peaks, Eilonwy lit her golden sphere and set it in the crevice of a faulted rock.
Gurgi, who had not uttered a single moan or groan during this part of the journey, perched on a boulder and began scratching himself luxuriously; although, after Medwyn’s washing and combing, it was more through habit than anything else. The bard, as lean as ever, despite the huge amount he had eaten, repaired his harp strings.
“You’ve been carrying that harp ever since I met you,” Eilonwy said, “and you’ve never once played it. That’s like telling somebody you want to talk to them, and when they get ready to listen, you don’t say anything.”
“You’d hardly expect me to go strumming out airs while those Cauldron warriors were following us,” Fflewddur said. “Somehow I didn’t think it would be appropriate. But—a Fflam is always obliging, so if you’d really care to hear me play…,” he added, looking both delighted and embarrassed. He cradled the instrument in one arm and, almost before his fingers touched the strings, a gentle melody, as beautiful as the curve of the harp itself, lifted like a voice singing without words.
To Taran’s ear, the melody had its own words, weaving a supple thread among the rising notes. Home, home, they sang; and beyond the words themselves, so fleeting he could not be quite sure of them, were the fields and orchards of Caer Dallben, the gold afternoons of autumn and the crisp winter mornings with pink sunlight on the snow.
Then the harp fell silent. Fflewddur sat with his head bent close to the strings, a curious expression on his long face. “Well, that was a surprise,” said the bard at last. “I had planned something a little more lively, the sort of thing my war leader always enjoys—to put us in a bold frame of mind, you understand. The truth of the matter is,” he admitted with a slight tone of discouragement, “I don’t really know what’s going to come out of it next. My fingers go along, but sometimes I think this harp plays of itself.
“Perhaps,” Fflewddur continued, “that’s why Taliesin thought he was doing me a favor when he gave it to me. Because when I went up to the Council of Bards for my examination, I had an old pot one of the minstrels had left behind and I couldn’t do more than plunk out a few chants. However, a Fflam never looks a gift horse in the mouth, or, in this case, I should say harp.”
“It was a sad tune,” Eilonwy said. “But the odd thing about it is, you don’t mind the sadness. It’s like feeling better after you’ve had a good cry. It made me think of the sea again, though I haven’t been there since I was a little girl.” At this, Taran snorted, but Eilonwy paid no attention to him. “The waves break against the cliffs and churn into foam, and farther out, as far as you can see, there are the white crests, the White Horses of Llyr, they call them; but they’re really only waves waiting their turn to roll in.”
“Strange,” said the bard, “personally, I was thinking of my own castle. It’s small and drafty, but I would like to see it again; a person can have enough wandering, you know. It made me think I might even settle down again and try to be a respectable sort of king.”
“Caer Dallben is closer to my heart,” Taran said. “When I left, I never gave it too much thought. Now I think of it a great deal.”
Gurgi, who had been listening silently, set up a long howl. “Yes, yes, soon great warriors will all be back in their halls, telling their tales with laughings and chaffings. Then it will be the fearful forest again for poor Gurgi, to put down his tender head in snoozings and snorings.”
“Gurgi,” Taran said, “I promise to bring you to Caer Dallben, if I ever get there myself. And if you like it, and Dallben agrees, you can stay there as long as you want.”
“What joy!” Gurgi cried. “Honest, toiling Gurgi extends thanks and best wishes. Oh, yes, fond, obedient Gurgi will work hard…”
“For now, obedient Gurgi had better sleep,” Taran advised, “and so should we all. Medwyn has put us well on our way, and it can’t take much longer. We’ll start again at daybreak.”

DURING THE NIGHT, however, a gale rose, and by morning a drenching rain beat into the cleft. Instead of slackening, the wind gained in force and screamed over the rocks. It beat like a fist against the travelers’ shelter, then pried with searching fingers, as if to seize and dash them into the valley.
They set out nevertheless, holding their cloaks before their faces. To make matters worse, the path broke off entirely and sheer cliffs loomed ahead of them. The rain stopped, after the travelers had all been soaked to the skin, but now the rocks were slippery and treacherous. Even the sure-footed Melyngar stumbled once, and for a breathless moment Taran feared she would be lost.
The mountains swung a half-circle around a lake black and sullen below threatening clouds. Taran halted on an outcropping of stone and pointed toward the hills at the far side of the lake. “According to what Medwyn told us,” he said to the bard, “we should make for that notch, all the way over there. But I see no purpose in following the mountains when we can cut almost straight across. The lake shore is flat, at least, while here it’s getting practically impossible to climb.”
Fflewddur rubbed his pointed nose. “Even counting the time it would take us to go down and come up again, I think we should save several hours. Yes, I definitely believe it’s worth trying.”
“Medwyn didn’t say a word about crossing valleys,” Eilonwy put in.
“He didn’t say anything about cliffs like these,” answered Taran. “They seem nothing to him; he’s lived here a long time. For us, it’s something else again.”
“If you don’t listen to what somebody tells you,” Eilonwy remarked, “it’s like putting your fingers in your ears and jumping down a well. For an Assistant Pig-Keeper who’s done very little traveling, you suddenly know all about it.”
“Who found the way out of the barrow?” Taran retorted. “It’s decided. We cross the valley.”
The descent was laborious, but once they had reached level ground, Taran felt all the more convinced they would save time. Holding Melyngar’s bridle, he led the group along the narrow shore. The lake reached closely to the base of the hills, obliging Taran to splash through the shallows. The lake, he realized, was not black in reflection of the sky; the water itself was dark, flat, and as grim and heavy as iron. The bottom, too, was as treacherous as the rocks above. Despite his care, Taran lurched and nearly got a ducking. When he turned to warn the others, to his surprise he saw Gurgi in water up to his waist and heading toward the center of the lake. Fflewddur and Eilonwy were also splashing farther and farther from land.
“Don’t go through the water,” Taran called. “Keep to the shore!”
“Wish we could,” the bard shouted back. “But we’re stuck somehow. There’s a terribly strong pull…”
A moment later, Taran understood what the bard meant. An unexpected swell knocked him off his feet and even as he put out his hands to break his fall the black lake sucked him down. Beside him, Melyngar thrashed her legs and whinnied. The sky spun overhead. He was pulled along like a twig in a torrent. Eilonwy shot past him. He tried to regain his footing and catch her. It was too late. He skimmed and bobbed over the surface. The far shore would stop them, Taran thought, struggling to keep his head above the waves. A roar filled his ears. The middle of the lake was a whirlpool clutching and flinging him to the depths. Black water closed over him, and he knew he was drowning.