The Book of Three

Chapter 16
Doli

TARAN TURNED ACCUSINGLY to King Eiddileg. “You said nothing of Hen Wen.”
“You didn’t ask me,” said Eiddileg.
“That’s sharp practice,” Fflewddur muttered, “even for a king.”
“It’s worse than a lie,” Taran said angrily. “You’d have let us go our way, and we’d never have known what happened to her.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Eilonwy put in, shaking her finger at the King, who appeared most embarrassed at being found out. “It’s like looking the other way when someone’s about to walk into a hole.”
“Finders keepers,” the Dwarf King snapped. “A troop of the Fair Folk came on her near the Avren banks. She was running through a ravine. And I’ll tell you something you don’t know. Half-a-dozen warriors were after her, the henchmen of the Horned King. The troop took care of those warriors—we have our own ways of dealing with you clumsy lummoxes—and they brought your pig here, underground most of the way.”
“No wonder Gwydion could find no tracks,” Taran murmured to himself.
“The Fair Folk rescued her,” Eiddileg angrily continued, turning bright red, “and there’s another fine example. Do I get a word of thanks? Naturally not. But I do get called disagreeable names and have nasty thoughts thrown at me. Oh, I can see it in your faces. Eiddileg is a thief and a wretch—that’s what you’re saying to yourselves. Well, just for that you shan’t have her back. And you’ll stay here, all of you, until I feel like letting you go.”
Eilonwy gasped with indignation. “If you do that,” she cried, “you are a thief and a wretch! You gave me your word. The Fair Folk don’t go back on their word.”
“There was no mention of a pig, no mention at all.” Eiddileg clapped his hands over his paunch and snapped his mouth shut.
“No,” Taran said, “there was not. But there is a question of honesty and honor.”
Eiddileg blinked and looked sideways. He took out his orange kerchief and mopped his brow again. “Honor,” he muttered, “yes, I was afraid you’d come to that. True, the Fair Folk never break their word. Well,” he sighed, “that’s the price for being openhearted and generous. So be it. You shall have your pig.”
“We shall need weapons to replace those we lost,” Taran said.
“What?” screamed Eiddileg. “Are you trying to ruin me?”
“And crunchings and munchings!” piped up Gurgi.
Taran nodded. “Provisions, as well.”
“This is going too far,” Eiddileg shouted. “You’re bleeding me to death! Weapons! Food! Pigs!”
“And we beg for a guide who will show us the way to Caer Dathyl.”
At this, Eiddileg nearly exploded. When finally he calmed himself, he nodded reluctantly. “I shall lend you Doli,” he said. “He is the only one I can spare.” He clapped his hands and gave orders to the armed dwarfs, then turned to the companions.
“Off with you now, before I change my mind.” Eilonwy stepped quickly to the throne, bent and kissed Eiddileg on the top of his head. “Thank you,” she whispered, “you’re a perfectly lovely king.”
“Out! Out!” the dwarf cried. As the stone door closed behind him, Taran saw King Eiddileg fondling his head and beaming happily.
The troop of Fair Folk led the company down the vaulted corridors. Taran had at first imagined Eiddileg’s realm to be no more than a maze of underground galleries. To his astonishment, the corridors soon broadened into wide avenues. In the great domes far overhead, gems glittered as bright as sunshine. There was no grass, but deep carpets of green lichen stretched out like meadows. There were blue lakes, glistening as much as the jewels above; and cottages, and small farmhouses. It was difficult for Taran and his companions to realize they were underground.
“I’ve been thinking,” whispered Fflewddur, “that it might be wiser to leave Hen Wen here, until we can return for her.”
“I thought of that, too,” answered Taran. “It’s not that I don’t trust Eiddileg to keep his word—most of the time. But I’m not sure we should take another chance in that lake, and I doubt we could find another way into his kingdom. He certainly won’t make it easy for us to come back, I’m afraid. No, we must take Hen Wen while we have the chance. Once she’s with me again, I won’t let her out of my sight.”
Suddenly the Fair Folk halted at one of the cottages, and from a neatly carpentered pen Taran heard a loud “Hwoinch!”
He raced to the sty. Hen Wen was standing with her front feet on the rails, grunting at the top of her voice.
One of the Fair Folk opened the gate and the white pig burst out, wriggling and squealing.
Taran threw his arms around Hen Wen’s neck. “Oh, Hen!” he cried. “Even Medwyn thought you were dead!”
“Hwch! Hwaaw!” Hen Wen chuckled joyfully. Her beady eyes sparkled. With her great pink snout she rooted affectionately under Taran’s chin and came close to knocking him down.
“She looks like a wonderful pig,” Eilonwy said, scratching Hen Wen behind the ears. “It’s always nice to see two friends meet again. It’s like waking up with the sun shining.”
“She’s certainly a great deal of pig,” agreed the bard, “though very handsome, I must say.”
“And clever, noble, brave, wise Gurgi found her.”
“Have no fear,” Taran said with a smile to Gurgi, “there’s no chance we’ll forget it.”
Rolling and waddling on her short legs, Hen Wen followed Taran happily, while the Fair Folk proceeded across the fields to where a stocky figure waited. The captain of the troop announced that this was Doli, the guide Eiddileg had promised. Doli, short and stumpy, almost as broad as he was tall, wore a rust-colored leather jacket and stout, knee-high boots. A round cap covered his head, but not enough to conceal a fringe of flaming red hair. An axe and short sword hung from his belt; and over his shoulder, he wore the stubby bow of the Fair Folk warrior.
Taran bowed politely. The dwarf stared at him with a pair of bright red eyes and snorted. Then, to Taran’s surprise, Doli took a deep breath and held it until his face turned scarlet and he looked about to burst. After a few moments, the dwarf puffed out his cheeks and snorted again.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Taran.
“You can still see me, can’t you?” Doli burst out angrily.
“Of course, I can still see you.” Taran frowned. “Why shouldn’t I?”
Doli gave him a scornful look and did not answer.
Two of the Fair Folk led up Melyngar. King Eiddileg, Taran saw with relief, was as good as his word. The saddlebags bulged with provisions, and the white mare also carried a number of spears, bows, and arrows—short and heavy, as were all the weapons of the Fair Folk, but carefully and sturdily crafted.
Without another word, Doli beckoned them to follow him across the meadow. Grumbling and muttering to himself, the dwarf led them to what seemed to be the sheer face of a cliff. Only after he had reached it did Taran see long flights of steps carved into the living rock. Doli jerked his head toward the stairway and they began to climb.
This passageway of the Fair Folk was steeper than any of the mountains they had crossed. Melyngar strained forward. Wheezing and gasping, Hen Wen pulled herself up each step. The stairway turned and twisted; at one point, the darkness was such that the companions lost sight of each other. After a time, the steps broke off and the group trod a narrow pathway of hard-packed stones. Sheets of white light rippled ahead and the travelers found themselves behind a high waterfall. One after the other, they leaped the glistening rocks, splashed through a foaming stream, and at last emerged into the cool air of the hills.
Doli squinted up at the sun. “Not much daylight left,” he muttered, more gruffly than King Eiddileg himself. “Don’t think I’m going to walk my legs off all night, either. Didn’t ask for this work, you know. Got picked for it, Guiding a crew of—of what! An Assistant Pig-Keeper. A yellow-headed idiot with a harp. A girl with a sword. A shaggy what-is-it. Not to mention the livestock. All you can hope for is you don’t run into a real war band. They’d do for you, they would. There’s not one of you looks as if he could handle a blade. Humph!”
This was the most Doli had spoken since they had left Eiddileg’s realm and, despite the dwarf’s uncomplimentary opinions, Taran hoped he would finally come around to being civil. Doli, however, had said all he intended to say for a while; later, when Taran ventured to speak to him, the dwarf turned angrily away and started holding his breath again.
“For goodness sake,” Eilonwy cried, “I wish you’d stop that. It makes me feel as if I’d drunk too much water, just watching you.”
“It still doesn’t work,” Doli growled.
“Whatever are you trying to do?” Taran asked.
Even Hen Wen stared curiously at the dwarf.
“What does it look like?” Doli answered. “I’m trying to make myself invisible.”
“That’s an odd thing to attempt,” remarked Fflewddur.
“I’m supposed to be invisible,” snapped Doli. “My whole family can do it. Just like that! Like blowing out a candle. But not me. No wonder they all laugh at me. No wonder Eiddileg sends me out with a pack of fools. If there’s anything nasty or disagreeable to be done, it’s always ‘find good old Doli.’ If there’s gems to be cut or blades to be decorated or arrows to be footed—that’s the job for good old Doli!”
The dwarf held his breath again, this time so long that his face turned blue and his ears trembled.
“I think you’re getting it now,” said the bard, with an encouraging smile. “I can’t see you at all.” No sooner had this remark passed his lips than a harp string snapped in two. Fflewddur looked sorrowfully at the instrument. “Blast the thing,” he muttered, “I knew I was exaggerating somewhat; I only did it to make him feel better. He actually did seem to be fading a bit around the edges.”
“If I could carve gems and do all those other things,” Taran remarked sympathetically to Doli, “I wouldn’t mind not being invisible. All I know is vegetables and horseshoes, and not too much about either.”
“It’s silly,” Eilonwy added, “to worry because you can’t do something you simply can’t do. That’s worse than trying to make yourself taller by standing on your head.”
None of these well-intentioned remarks cheered the dwarf, who strode angrily ahead, swinging his axe from side to side. Despite his bad temper, Doli was an excellent guide, Taran realized. Most of the time, the dwarf said little beyond his usual grunts and snorts, making no attempt to explain the path he followed or to suggest how long it would take the companions to reach Caer Dathyl. Taran, nevertheless, had learned a great deal of woodcraft and tracking during his journey, and he was aware the companions had begun turning westward to descend the hills. They had, during the afternoon, covered more ground than Taran thought possible, and he knew it was thanks to Doli’s expert guidance. When he congratulated the dwarf, Doli answered only, “Humph!”—and held his breath.
They camped that night on the sheltered slope of the last barrier of mountains. Gurgi, whom Taran had taught to build a fire, was delighted to be useful; he cheerfully gathered twigs, dug a cooking pit, and, to the surprise of all, distributed the provisions equally without saving out a private share for his own crunchings and munchings later on.
Doli refused to do anything whatsoever. He took his own food from a large leather wallet hanging at his side, and sat on a rock, chewing glumly; he snorted with annoyance between every mouthful, and occasionally held his breath.
“Keep at it, old boy!” called Fflewddur. “Another try might do it! Your outline looks definitely blurred.”
“Oh, hush!” Eilonwy told the bard. “Don’t encourage him or he’ll decide to hold his breath forever.”
“Just lending support,” explained the crestfallen bard. “A Fflam never gives up, and I don’t see why a dwarf should.”
Hen Wen had not left Taran’s side all day. Now, as he spread his cloak on the ground, the white pig grunted with pleasure, waddled over, and hunkered down beside him. Her crinkled ears relaxed; she thrust her snout comfortably against Taran’s shoulder and chuckled contentedly, a blissful smile on her face. Soon the whole weight of her head pressed on him, making it impossible for Taran to roll onto his side. Hen Wen snored luxuriously and Taran resigned himself to sleeping, despite the assortment of whistles and groans directly below his ear. “I’m glad to see you, Hen,” he said, “and I’m glad you’re glad to see me. But I wish you wouldn’t be so loud about it.”

NEXT MORNING they turned their backs on the Eagle Mountains and began heading for what Taran hoped would be Caer Dathyl. As the trees rose more densely around them, Taran turned for a last glimpse of the Eagle itself, tall and serene in the distance. He was grateful their path had not led them over it, but in his heart he hoped one day to return and climb its towers of sun-flecked ice and black stone. Until this journey, he had never seen mountains, but now he understood why Gwydion had spoken longingly of Caer Dathyl.
His thought led Taran to wonder again what else Gwydion had expected to learn from Hen Wen. When they halted, he spoke to Fflewddur about it.
“There may be someone in Caer Dathyl who can understand her,” Taran said. “But if we could only get her to prophesy now, she might tell us something important.”
The bard agreed; however, as Taran had pointed out, they had no letter sticks.
“I could try a new spell,” offered Eilonwy. “Achren taught me some others, but I don’t know if they’d be any use. They haven’t anything to do with oracular pigs. I do know a wonderful one for summoning toads. Achren was about to teach me the spell for opening locks, but I don’t suppose I’ll ever learn it now. Even so, locks haven’t much to do with pigs, either.”
Eilonwy knelt beside Hen Wen and whispered rapidly. Hen Wen seemed to listen politely for a while, grinning broadly, wheezing, and snuffling. She gave no sign of understanding a word of what the girl was saying; and at last, with a joyful “Hwoinch!” she broke away and ran to Taran, wriggling gleefully.
“It’s no use,” Taran said, “and there’s no sense in losing time. I hope they have letter sticks in Caer Dathyl. Though I doubt it. Whatever Dallben has, it seems to be the only one of its kind in all Prydain.”
They resumed their march. Gurgi, now official cook and firemaker, strode boldly behind the dwarf. Doli led the companions through a clearing and past a line of alders. A few moments later the dwarf halted and cocked his head.
Taran heard the sound, too: a faint, high-pitched screaming. It seemed to come from a twisted thornbush. Drawing his sword, Taran hurried past the dwarf. At first he could see nothing in the dark tangle. He drew closer, then stopped abruptly.
It was a gwythaint.