The Book of Three

Chapter 3
Gurgi

BY THE TIME Taran woke, Gwydion had already saddled Melyngar. The cloak Taran had slept in was damp with dew. Every joint ached from his night on the hard ground. With Gwydion’s urging, Taran stumbled toward the horse, a white blur in the gray-pink dawn. Gwydion hauled Taran into the saddle behind him, spoke a quiet command, and the white steed moved quickly into the rising mist.
Gwydion was seeking the spot where Taran had last seen Hen Wen. But long before they had reached it, he reined up Melyngar and dismounted. As Taran watched, Gwydion knelt and sighted along the turf.
“Luck is with us,” he said. “I think we have struck her trail.” Gwydion pointed to a faint circle of trampled grass. “Here she slept, and not too long ago.” He strode a few paces forward, scanning every broken twig and blade of grass.
Despite Taran’s disappointment at finding the Lord Gwydion dressed in a coarse jacket and mud-spattered boots, he followed the man with growing admiration. Nothing, Taran saw, escaped Gwydion’s eyes. Like a lean, gray wolf, he moved silently and easily. A little way on, Gwydion stopped, raised his shaggy head and narrowed his eyes toward a distant ridge.
“The trail is not clear,” he said, frowning. “I can only guess she might have gone down the slope.”
“With all the forest to run in,” Taran queried, “how can we begin to search? She might have gone anywhere in Prydain.”
“Not quite,” answered Gwydion. “I may not know where she went, but I can be sure where she did not go.” He pulled a hunting knife from his belt. “Here, I will show you.”
Gwydion knelt and quickly traced lines in the earth. “These are the Eagle Mountains,” he said, with a touch of longing in his voice, “in my own land of the north. Here, Great Avren flows. See how it turns west before it reaches the sea. We may have to cross it before our search ends. And this is the River Ystrad. Its valley leads north to Caer Dathyl.
“But see here,” Gwydion went on, pointing to the left of the line he had drawn for the River Ystrad, “here is Mount Dragon and the domain of Arawn. Hen Wen would shun this above all. She was too long a captive in Annuvin; she would never venture near it.”
“Was Hen in Annuvin?” Taran asked with surprise. “But how…”
“Long ago,” Gwydion said, “Hen Wen lived among the race of men. She belonged to a farmer who had no idea at all of her powers. And so she might have spent her days as any ordinary pig. But Arawn knew her to be far from ordinary, and of such value that he himself rode out of Annuvin and seized her. What dire things happened while she was prisoner of Arawn—it is better not to speak of them.”
“Poor Hen,” Taran said, “it must have been terrible for her. But how did she escape?”
“She did not escape,” said Gwydion. “She was rescued. A warrior went alone into the depths of Annuvin and brought her back safely.”
“That was a brave deed!” Taran cried. “I wish that I…”
“The bards of the north still sing of it,” Gwydion said. “His name shall never be forgotten.”
“Who was it?” Taran demanded.
Gwydion looked closely at him. “Do you not know?” he asked. “Dallben has neglected your education. It was Coll,” he said. “Coll Son of Collfrewr.”
“Coll!” Taran cried. “Not the same…”
“The same,” said Gwydion.
“But… but…” Taran stammered. “Coll? A hero? But… he’s so bald!”
Gwydion laughed and shook his head. “Assistant Pig-Keeper,” he said, “you have curious notions about heroes. I have never known courage to be judged by the length of a man’s hair. Or, for the matter of that, whether he has any hair at all.”
Crestfallen, Taran peered at Gwydion’s map and said no more.
“Here,” continued Gwydion, “not far from Annuvin, lies Spiral Castle. This, too, Hen Wen would avoid at all cost. It is the abode of Queen Achren, She is as dangerous as Arawn himself; as evil as she is beautiful. But there are secrets concerning Achren which are better left untold.
“I am sure,” Gwydion went on, “Hen Wen will not go toward Annuvin or Spiral Castle. From what little I can see, she has run straight ahead. Quickly now, we shall try to pick up her trail.”
Gwydion turned Melyngar toward the ridge. As they reached the bottom of the slope, Taran heard the waters of Great Avren rushing like wind in a summer storm.
“We must go again on foot,” Gwydion said. “Her tracks may show somewhere along here, so we had best move slowly and carefully. Stay close behind me,” he ordered. “If you start dashing ahead—and you seem to have that tendency—you will trample out any signs she might have left.”
Taran obediently walked a few paces behind. Gwydion made no more sound than the shadow of a bird. Melyngar herself stepped quietly; hardly a twig snapped under her hoofs. Try as he would, Taran could not go as silently. The more careful he attempted to be, the louder the leaves rattled and crackled. Wherever he put his foot, there seemed to be a hole or spiteful branch to trip him up. Even Melyngar turned and gave him a reproachful look.
Taran grew so absorbed in not making noise that he soon lagged far behind Gwydion. On the slope, Taran believed he could make out something round and white. He yearned to be the first to find Hen Wen and he turned aside, clambered through the weeds—to discover nothing more than a boulder.
Disappointed, Taran hastened to catch up with Gwydion. Overhead, the branches rustled. As he stopped and looked up, something fell heavily to the ground behind him. Two hairy and powerful hands locked around his throat.
Whatever had seized him made barking and snorting noises. Taran forced out a cry for help. He struggled with his unseen opponent, twisting, flailing his legs, and throwing himself from one side to the other.
Suddenly he could breathe again. A shape sailed over his head and crashed against a tree trunk. Taran dropped to the ground and began rubbing his neck. Gwydion stood beside him. Sprawled under the tree was the strangest creature Taran had ever seen. He could not be sure whether it was animal or human. He decided it was both. Its hair was so matted and covered with leaves that it looked like an owl’s nest in need of housecleaning. It had long, skinny, woolly arms, and a pair of feet as flexible and grimy as its hands.
Gwydion was watching the creature with a look of severity and annoyance. “So it is you,” he said. “I ordered you not to hinder me or anyone under my protection.”
At this, the creature set up a loud and piteous whining, rolled his eyes, and beat the ground with his palms.
“It is only Gurgi,” Gwydion said. “He is always lurking about one place or another. He is not half as ferocious as he looks, not a quarter as fierce as he should like to be, and more a nuisance than anything else. Somehow, he manages to see most of what happens, and he might be able to help us.”
Taran had just begun to catch his breath. He was covered with Gurgi’s shedding hair, in addition to the distressing odor of a wet wolfhound.
“O mighty prince,” the creature wailed, “Gurgi is sorry; and now he will be smacked on his poor, tender head by the strong hands of this great lord, with fearsome smackings. Yes, yes, that is always the way of it with poor Gurgi. But what honor to be smacked by the greatest of warriors!”
“I have no intention of smacking your poor, tender head,” said Gwydion. “But I may change my mind if you do not leave off that whining and sniveling.”
“Yes, powerful lord!” Gurgi cried. “See how he obeys rapidly and instantly!” He began crawling about on hands and knees with great agility. Had Gurgi owned a tail, Taran was sure he would have wagged it frantically.
“Then,” Gurgi pleaded, “the two strengthful heroes will give Gurgi something to eat? Oh, joyous crunchings and munchings!”
“Afterward,” said Gwydion. “When you have answered our questions.”
“Oh, afterward!” cried Gurgi. “Poor Gurgi can wait, long, long for his crunchings and munchings. Many years from now, when the great princes revel in their halls—what feastings—they will remember hungry, wretched Gurgi waiting for them.”
“How long you wait for your crunchings and munchings,” Gwydion said, “depends on how quickly you tell us what we want to know. Have you seen a white pig this morning?”
A crafty look gleamed in Gurgi’s close-set little eyes. “For the seeking of a piggy, there are many great lords in the forest, riding with frightening shouts. They would not be cruel to starving Gurgi—oh, no—they would feed him…”
“They would have your head off your shoulders before you could think twice about it,” Gwydion said. “Did one of them wear an antlered mask?”
“Yes, yes!” Gurgi cried. “The great horns! You will save miserable Gurgi from hurtful choppings!” He set up a long and dreadful howling.
“I am losing patience with you,” warned Gwydion. “Where is the pig?”
“Gurgi hears these mighty riders,” the creature went on. “Oh, yes, with careful listenings from the trees. Gurgi is so quiet and clever, and no one cares about him. But he listens! These great warriors say they have gone to a certain place, but great fire turns them away. They are not pleased, and they still seek a piggy with outcries and horses.”
“Gurgi,” said Gwydion firmly, “where is the pig?”
“The piggy? Oh, terrible hunger pinches! Gurgi cannot remember. Was there a piggy? Gurgi is fainting and falling into the bushes, his poor, tender head is full of air from his empty belly.”
Taran could no longer control his impatience “Where is Hen Wen, you silly, hairy thing?” he burst out. “Tell us straight off! After the way you jumped on me, you deserve to have your head smacked.”
With a moan, Gurgi rolled over on his back and covered his face with his arms.
Gwydion turned severely to Taran. “Had you followed my orders, you would not have been jumped on. Leave him to me. Do not make him any more frightened than he is.” Gwydion looked down at Gurgi. “Very well,” he asked calmly, “where is she?”
“Oh, fearful wrath!” Gurgi snuffled, “a piggy has gone across the water with swimmings and splashings.’’ He sat upright and waved a woolly arm toward Great Avren.
“If you are lying to me,” said Gwydion, “I shall soon find out. Then I will surely come back with wrath.”
“Crunchings and munchings now, mighty prince?” asked Gurgi in a high, tiny whimper.
“As I promised you,” said Gwydion.
“Gurgi wants the smaller one for munchings,” said the creature, with a beady glance at Taran.
“No, you do not,” Gwydion said. “He is an Assistant Pig Keeper and he would disagree with you violently.” He unbuckled a saddlebag and pulled out a few strips of dried meat, which he tossed to Gurgi. “Be off now. Remember, I want no mischief from you.”
Gurgi snatched the food, thrust it between his teeth, and scuttled up a tree trunk, leaping from tree to tree until he was out of sight.
“What a disgusting beast,” said Taran. “What a nasty, vicious…”
“Oh, he is not bad at heart,” Gwydion answered. “He would love to be wicked and terrifying, though he cannot quite manage it. He feels so sorry for himself that it is hard not to be angry with him. But there is no use in doing so.”
“Was he telling the truth about Hen Wen?” asked Taran.
“I think he was,” Gwydion said. “It is as I feared. The Horned King has ridden to Caer Dallben.”
“He burned it!” Taran cried. Until now, he had paid little mind to his home. The thought of the white cottage in flames, his memory of Dallben’s beard, and the heroic Coll’s bald head touched him all at once. “Dallben and Coll are in peril!”
“Surely not,” said Gwydion. “Dallben is an old fox. A beetle could not creep into Caer Dallben without his knowledge. No, I am certain the fire was something Dallben arranged for unexpected visitors.
“Hen Wen is the one in greatest peril. Our quest grows ever more urgent,” Gwydion hastily continued. “The Horned King knows she is missing. He will pursue her.”
“Then,” Taran cried, “we must find her before he does!”
“Assistant Pig-Keeper,” said Gwydion, “that has been, so far, your only sensible suggestion.”