The Book of Three

Chapter 15
King Eiddileg

DOWN HE SPUN, battling for air, in a flood that broke upon him like a crumbling mountain. Faster and faster the waters bore him along, tossing him right and left. Taran collided with something—what it was, he could not tell—but he clung to it even as his strength failed him. There was a crash, as though the earth had split asunder; the water turned to foam, and Taran felt himself dashed against an unyielding wall. He remembered nothing more.
When he opened his eyes he was lying on a hard, smooth surface, his hand tightly gripping Fflewddur’s harp. He heard the rush of water close by. Cautiously, he felt around him; his fingers touched only wet, flat stone, an embankment of some kind. A pale blue light shone high above him. Taran decided he had come to rest in a cave or grotto. He raised himself and his movement set the harp to jangling.
“Hello? Who’s that?” A voice echoed down the embankment. Faint though it was, Taran recognized it as belonging to the bard. He scrambled to his feet and crept in the direction of the sound. On the way he tripped over a form, which became suddenly vocal and indignant.
“You’ve done very well, Taran of Caer Dallben, with all your short cuts. What’s left of me is soaked to the skin, and I can’t find my bauble—oh, here it is, all wet, of course. And who knows what’s happened to the rest of us?”
The golden light flared dimly to reveal the dripping face of Eilonwy, her blue eyes flashing with vexation.
Gurgi’s hairy, sputtering shadow rolled toward them. “Oh, poor tender head is filled with sloshings and washings!”
In another moment Fflewddur had found them. Melyngar whinnied behind him. “I thought I heard my harp down here,” he said. “I couldn’t believe it at first. Never expected to see it again. But—a Fflam never despairs! Quite a stroke of luck, though.”
“I never thought I’d see anything again,” Taran said, handing the instrument to Fflewddur. “We’ve been washed into a cave of some kind; but it’s not a natural one. Look at these flagstones.”
“If you’d look at Melyngar,” Eilonwy called, “you’d see all our provisions are gone. All our weapons, too, thanks to your precious short cut!”
It was true. The straps had broken loose and the saddle had torn away in the whirlpool. Luckily, the companions still had their swords.
“I’m sorry,” Taran said. “I admit we are here through my fault. I should not have followed this path, but what’s done is done. I led us here, and I’ll find a way out.”
He glanced around. The roar of water came from a wide, swift-running canal. The embankment itself was much broader than he had realized. Lights of various colors glowed in the high arches. He turned to his companions again. “This is very curious. We seem to be deep underground, but it isn’t the lake bottom—”
Before he could utter another word, he was seized from behind, and a bag smelling strongly of onions was jammed over his head. Eilonwy screamed, then her voice grew muffled. Taran was being half-pushed, half-pulled in two directions at once. Gurgi began yelping furiously.
“Here! Get that one!” a gruff voice shouted.
“Get him yourself! Can’t you see I’ve got my hands full?”
Taran struck out. A solid, round ball that must have been someone’s head butted him in the stomach. There were slapping noises filtering through the oniony darkness around him. Those would be from Eilonwy. Now he was pushed from behind, propelled at top speed, while angry voices shouted at him—and at each other. “Hustle along there!”
“You fool, you didn’t take their swords!”—At this, came another shriek from Eilonwy, the sound of what might have been a kick, then a moment of silence—“All right, let them keep their swords. You’ll have the blame of it, letting them approach King Eiddileg with weapons!”
At a blind trot, Taran was shoved through what seemed a large crowd of people. Everyone was talking at once; the noise was deafening. After a number of turns, he was thrust forward again. A heavy door snapped behind him; the onion bag was snatched from his head.

TARAN BLINKED. With Fflewddur and Eilonwy he stood in the center of a high-vaulted chamber, glittering with lights. Gurgi was nowhere in sight. Their captors were half-a-dozen squat, round, stubby-legged warriors. Axes hung from their belts and each man had a bow and quiver of arrows on his shoulder. The left eye of the short, burly fellow who stood beside Eilonwy was turning greenish-black.
Before them, at a long stone table, a dwarfish figure with a bristling yellow beard glared at the warriors. He wore a robe of garish red and green. Rings sparkled on his plump fingers. “What’s this?” he shouted. “Who are these people? Didn’t I give orders I wasn’t to be disturbed?”
“But Majesty,” began one of the warriors, shifting uneasily, “we caught them…”
“Must you bother me with details?” King Eiddileg cried, clasping his forehead. “You’ll ruin me! You’ll be the death of me! Out! Out! No, not the prisoners, you idiots!” Shaking his head, sighing and sputtering, the King collapsed onto a throne carved from rock. The guards scurried away. King Eiddileg shot a furious glance at Taran and his companions. “Now, then, out with it. What do you want? You might as well know ahead of time, you shan’t have it.”
“Sire,” Taran began, “we ask no more than safe passage through your realm. The four of us…”
“There’s only three of you,” King Eiddileg snapped. “Can’t you count?”
“One of my companions is missing,” Taran said regretfully. He had hoped Gurgi would have overcome his fear, but he could not blame the creature for running off after his ordeal in the whirlpool. “I beg your servants to help us find him. Then, too, our provisions and weapons have been lost…”
“That’s clotted nonsense!” shouted the King. “Don’t lie to me, I can’t stand it.” He pulled an orange kerchief from his sleeve and mopped his forehead. “Why did you come here?”
“Because an Assistant Pig-Keeper led us on a wild-goose chase,” Eilonwy interrupted. “We don’t even know where we are, let alone why. It’s worse than rolling downhill in the dark.”
“Naturally,” said Eiddileg, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You have no idea you’re in the very heart of the Kingdom of Tylwyth Teg, the Fair Folk, the Happy Family, the Little People, or whatever other insipid, irritating names you’ve put on us. Oh, no, of course not. You just happened to be passing by.”
“We were caught in the lake,” Taran protested. “It pulled us down.”
“Good, eh?” King Eiddileg answered, with a quick smile of pride. “I’ve added some improvements of my own, of course.”
“If you’re so anxious to keep visitors away,” Eilonwy said, “you should have something better—to make people stay out.”
“When people get this close,” Eiddileg answered, “they’re already too close. At that point, I don’t want them out. I want them in.”
Fflewddur shook his head. “I always understood the Fair Folk were all over Prydain, not just here.”
“Of course, not just here,” said Eiddileg with impatience. “This is the royal seat. Why, we have tunnels and mines every place you can imagine. But the real work, the real labor of organization is here, right here, in this very spot—in this very throne room. On my shoulders! It’s too much, I tell you, too much. But who else can you trust? If you want something done right…” The King stopped suddenly and drummed his glittering fingers on the stone table. “That’s not your affair,” he said. “You’re in trouble enough as it is. It can’t be overlooked.”
“I don’t see any work being done,” said Eilonwy.
Before Taran could warn Eilonwy not to be imprudent, the door of the throne room burst open and a crowd of folk pressed in. Looking closer, Taran saw not all were dwarfs; some were tall, slender, with white robes; others were covered with glistening scales, like fish; still others fluttered large, delicate wings. For some moments Taran heard nothing but a confusion of voices, angry outcries and bickering, with Eiddileg trying to shout above them. Finally, the King managed to push them all out again. “No work being done?” he cried. “You don’t appreciate everything that goes into it. The Children of Evening—that’s another ridiculous name you humans have thought up—are to sing in the forest of Cantrev Mawr tonight. They haven’t even practiced. Two are sick and one can’t be found.
“The Lake Sprites have been quarreling all day; now they’re sulking. Their hair’s a mess. And who does that reflect on? Who has to jolly them along, coax them, plead with them? The answer is obvious.
“What thanks do I get for it?” King Eiddileg ranted on. “None at all! Has any of you long-legged gawks ever taken the trouble—even once, mind you—to offer the simplest expression of gratitude, such as, ‘Thank you, King Eiddileg, for the tremendous effort and inconvenience you’ve gone to, so that we can enjoy a little charm and beauty in the world above, which would be so unspeakably grim without you and your Fair Folk’? Just a few words of honest appreciation?
“By no means! Just the opposite! If any of you thick-skulled oafs come on one of the Fair Folk above ground, what happens? You seize him! You grab him with your great hammy hands and try to make him lead you to buried treasure. Or you squeeze him until you get three wishes out of him—not satisfied with one, oh, no, but three!
“Well, I don’t mind telling you this,” Eiddileg went on, his face turning redder by the moment, “I’ve put an end to all this wish-granting and treasure-scavenging. No more! Absolutely not! I’m surprised you didn’t ruin us long ago!”
Just then a chorus of voices rose from behind the door of Eiddileg’s throne room. The harmonies penetrated even the walls of heavy stone. Taran had never in his life heard such beautiful singing. He listened, enchanted, forgetting, for the moment, all but the soaring melody. Eiddileg himself stopped shouting and puffing until the voices died away.
“That’s something to be thankful for,” the King said at last. “The Children of Evening have evidently got together again. Not as good as you might want, but they’ll manage somehow.”
“I have not heard the songs of the Fair Folk until now,” Taran said. “I had never realized how lovely they were.”
“Don’t try to flatter me,” Eiddileg cried, trying to look furious, yet beaming at the same time.
“What surprises me,” Eilonwy said, while the bard plucked meditatively at his harp, trying to recapture the notes of the song, “is why you go to so much trouble. If you Fair Folk dislike all of us above ground, why do you bother?”
“Professional pride, my dear girl,” said the Dwarf King, putting a chubby hand to his heart and bowing slightly. “When we Fair Folk do something, we do it right. Oh, yes,” he sighed, “never mind the sacrifices we make. It’s a task that needs doing, and so we do it. Never mind the cost. For myself,” he added, with a wave of his hand, “it doesn’t matter. I’ve lost sleep, I’ve lost weight, but that’s not important…”
If King Eiddileg had lost weight, Taran thought to himself, what must he have been like beforehand? He decided against asking this question.
“Well, I appreciate it,” Eilonwy said. “I think it’s amazing what you’ve been able to do. You must be extremely clever, and any Assistant Pig-Keepers who happen to be in this throne room might do well to pay attention.”
“Thank you, dear girl,” said King Eiddileg, bowing lower. “I see you’re the sort of person one can talk to intelligently. It’s unheard of for one of you big shambling louts to have any kind of insight into these matters. But you at least seem to understand the problems we face.”
“Sire,” interrupted Taran, “we understand your time is precious. Let us disturb you no more. Give us safe conduct to Caer Dathyl.”
“What?” shouted Eiddileg. “Leave here? Impossible! Unheard of! Once you’re with the Fair Folk, my good lad, you stay, and no mistake about it. Oh, I suppose I could stretch a point, for the sake of the young lady, and let you off easily. Only put you to sleep for fifty years, or turn you all into bats; but that would be a pure favor, mind you.”
“Our task is urgent,” Taran cried. “Even now we have delayed too long.”
“That’s your concern, not mine.” Eiddileg shrugged.
“Then we shall make our own way,” Taran shouted, drawing his sword. Fflewddur’s blade leaped out and the bard stood with Taran, ready to fight.
“More clotted nonsense,” King Eiddileg said, looking contemptuously at the swords pointed toward him. He shook his fingers at them. “There! And there! Now you might try to move your arms.”
Taran strained every muscle. His body felt turned to stone.
“Put your swords away and let’s talk this over calmly,” said the Dwarf King, gesturing again. “If you give me any decent reason why I should let you go, I might think it over and answer you promptly, say in a year or two.”
There could be no use, Taran saw, in concealing the reasons for his journey; he explained to Eiddileg what had befallen them. The Dwarf King ceased his blustering at the mention of Arawn, but when Taran had finished, King Eiddileg shook his head.
“This is a conflict you great gawks must attend to yourselves. The Fair Folk owe you no allegiance,” he said angrily. “Prydain belonged to us before the race of men came. You drove us underground. You plundered our mines, you blundering clodpoles! You stole our treasures, and you keep on stealing them, you clumsy oafs…”
“Sire,” Taran answered, “I can speak for no man but myself. I have never robbed you and I have no wish to. My task means more to me than your treasures. If there is ill will between the Fair Folk and the race of men, then it is a matter to be settled between them. But if the Horned King triumphs, if the shadow of Annuvin falls on the land above you, Arawn’s hand will reach your deepest caverns.”
“For an Assistant Pig-Keeper,” said Eiddileg, “you’re reasonably eloquent. But the Fair Folk will worry about Arawn when the time comes.”
“The time has come,” Taran said. “I only hope it has not passed.”
“I don’t think you really know what’s going on above ground,” Eilonwy suddenly exclaimed. “You talk about charm and beauty and sacrificing yourself to make things pleasant for people. I don’t believe you care a bit for that. You’re too conceited and stubborn and selfish…”
“Conceited!” shouted Eiddileg, his eyes popping. “Selfish! You won’t find anyone more openhearted and generous. How dare you say that? What do you want, my life’s blood?” With that, he tore off his cloak and threw it in the air, pulled the rings from his fingers and tossed them in every direction. “Go ahead! Take it all! Leave me ruined! What else do you want—my whole kingdom? Do you want to leave? Go, by all means. The sooner the better! Stubborn? I’m too soft! It will be the death of me! But little you care!”
At that moment the door of the throne room burst open again. Two dwarf warriors clung frantically to Gurgi, who swung them about as if they were rabbits.
“Joyous greetings! Faithful Gurgi is back with mighty heroes! This time valiant Gurgi did not run! Oh, no, no! Brave Gurgi fought with great whackings and smackings. He triumphed! But then, mighty lords are carried away. Clever Gurgi goes seeking and peeking to save them, yes! And he finds them!
“But that is not all. Oh, faithful, honest, fearless Gurgi finds more. Surprises and delights, oh, joy!” Gurgi was so excited that he began dancing on one foot, spinning around and clapping his hands.
“Mighty warriors go to seek a piggy! It is clever, wise Gurgi who finds her!”
“Hen Wen?” cried Taran. “Where is she?”
“Here, mighty lord,” Gurgi shouted, “the piggy is here!”