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Authors: Lloyd Alexander
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croaked.
Fflewddur turned in surprise. “Well, can you imagine that! He didn’t say ‘kaw’ at all. At least it didn’t seem that way to me. I could have sworn he said something like ‘or-do.’”
“Orwen!” croaked Kaw. “Orgoch!”
“There,” said Fflewddur, looking at the bird with fascination. “He did it again.”
“It’s strange,” agreed Taran. “It sounded like orduorwenorgoch! And look at him, running back and forth on his perch. Do you think we’ve upset him?”
“He acts as if he wants to tell us something,” began Eilonwy.
Gwystyl’s face, meanwhile, had turned the color of ancient cheese.
“You may not want us to know,” said Doli, roughly seizing the terrified Gwystyl, “but he does. This time, Gwystyl, I really mean to squeeze you.”
“No, no, Doli, please don’t do that,” wailed Gwystyl. “Don’t give him another thought. He does odd things; I’ve tried to teach him better habits, but it doesn’t do any good.”
A flood of Gwystyl’s pleading and moaning followed, but the dwarf paid it no heed, and began to carry out his threat.
“No,” squealed Gwystyl. “No squeezing. Not today. Listen to me, Doli,” he added, his eyes crossing and uncrossing frantically, “if I tell you, will you promise to go away?”
Doli nodded and relaxed his grip.
“All Kaw meant to say,” Gwystyl went on hurriedly, “is that the cauldron is in the hands of Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch. That’s all.
It’s a shame, but there’s certainly nothing to be done about it. It hardly seemed worth mentioning.”
“Who are Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch?” Taran asked. His excitement and impatience were getting the better of him, too, and he was sorely tempted to aid Doli in squeezing Gwystyl.
“Who are they?” murmured Gwystyl. “You had better ask what are they?”
“Very well,” cried Taran, “what are they?”
“I don’t know,” replied Gwystyl. “It’s hard to say. It doesn’t matter; they’ve got the cauldron and you might as well let it rest there.” He shuddered violently. “Don’t meddle with them; there’s no earthly use in it.”
“Whoever they are, or whatever they are,” cried Taran, turning to the rest of the company, “I say find them and take the cauldron. That’s what we set out to do, and we should not turn back now. Where do they live?” he asked Gwystyl.
“Live?” asked Gwystyl with a frown. “They don’t live. Not exactly. It’s all very vague. I really don’t know.”
Kaw flapped his wings again. “Morva!” he croaked.
“I mean,” Gwystyl moaned, as the angry Doli reached for him again, “they stay in the Marshes of Morva. Exactly where, I have no idea, no idea at all. That’s the trouble. You’ll never find them. And if you do, which you won’t, you’ll wish you never had.” Gwystyl wrung his bony hands, and his trembling features indeed held a look of deepest dread.
“I have heard of the Marshes of Morva,” Adaon said. “They lie to the west of here. How far, I do not know.”
“I do!” interrupted Fflewddur. “A good day’s journey, I should say. I once came upon them during my wanderings. I recall them quite clearly. Unpleasant stretch of country and quite terrifying.
Not that it bothered me, of course. Undaunted, I strode through …”
A harp string snapped abruptly with a resounding twang.
“I went around them,” the bard corrected himself hurriedly. “Dreadful, smelly, ugly-looking fens they were. But,” he added, “if that’s where the cauldron is, then I say with Taran: go there! A Fflam never hesitates!”
“A Fflam never hesitates to open his mouth,” put in Doli. “Gwystyl is telling the truth for once, I’m sure of it. I’ve heard tales, back in Eiddileg’s realm, of those—whatever you call thems. And they weren’t pleasant. Nobody knows much about them. Or, if they do, they aren’t telling.”
“You should pay attention to Doli,” interrupted Eilonwy, turning impatiently to Taran. “I
Fflewddur turned in surprise. “Well, can you imagine that! He didn’t say ‘kaw’ at all. At least it didn’t seem that way to me. I could have sworn he said something like ‘or-do.’”
“Orwen!” croaked Kaw. “Orgoch!”
“There,” said Fflewddur, looking at the bird with fascination. “He did it again.”
“It’s strange,” agreed Taran. “It sounded like orduorwenorgoch! And look at him, running back and forth on his perch. Do you think we’ve upset him?”
“He acts as if he wants to tell us something,” began Eilonwy.
Gwystyl’s face, meanwhile, had turned the color of ancient cheese.
“You may not want us to know,” said Doli, roughly seizing the terrified Gwystyl, “but he does. This time, Gwystyl, I really mean to squeeze you.”
“No, no, Doli, please don’t do that,” wailed Gwystyl. “Don’t give him another thought. He does odd things; I’ve tried to teach him better habits, but it doesn’t do any good.”
A flood of Gwystyl’s pleading and moaning followed, but the dwarf paid it no heed, and began to carry out his threat.
“No,” squealed Gwystyl. “No squeezing. Not today. Listen to me, Doli,” he added, his eyes crossing and uncrossing frantically, “if I tell you, will you promise to go away?”
Doli nodded and relaxed his grip.
“All Kaw meant to say,” Gwystyl went on hurriedly, “is that the cauldron is in the hands of Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch. That’s all.
It’s a shame, but there’s certainly nothing to be done about it. It hardly seemed worth mentioning.”
“Who are Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch?” Taran asked. His excitement and impatience were getting the better of him, too, and he was sorely tempted to aid Doli in squeezing Gwystyl.
“Who are they?” murmured Gwystyl. “You had better ask what are they?”
“Very well,” cried Taran, “what are they?”
“I don’t know,” replied Gwystyl. “It’s hard to say. It doesn’t matter; they’ve got the cauldron and you might as well let it rest there.” He shuddered violently. “Don’t meddle with them; there’s no earthly use in it.”
“Whoever they are, or whatever they are,” cried Taran, turning to the rest of the company, “I say find them and take the cauldron. That’s what we set out to do, and we should not turn back now. Where do they live?” he asked Gwystyl.
“Live?” asked Gwystyl with a frown. “They don’t live. Not exactly. It’s all very vague. I really don’t know.”
Kaw flapped his wings again. “Morva!” he croaked.
“I mean,” Gwystyl moaned, as the angry Doli reached for him again, “they stay in the Marshes of Morva. Exactly where, I have no idea, no idea at all. That’s the trouble. You’ll never find them. And if you do, which you won’t, you’ll wish you never had.” Gwystyl wrung his bony hands, and his trembling features indeed held a look of deepest dread.
“I have heard of the Marshes of Morva,” Adaon said. “They lie to the west of here. How far, I do not know.”
“I do!” interrupted Fflewddur. “A good day’s journey, I should say. I once came upon them during my wanderings. I recall them quite clearly. Unpleasant stretch of country and quite terrifying.
Not that it bothered me, of course. Undaunted, I strode through …”
A harp string snapped abruptly with a resounding twang.
“I went around them,” the bard corrected himself hurriedly. “Dreadful, smelly, ugly-looking fens they were. But,” he added, “if that’s where the cauldron is, then I say with Taran: go there! A Fflam never hesitates!”
“A Fflam never hesitates to open his mouth,” put in Doli. “Gwystyl is telling the truth for once, I’m sure of it. I’ve heard tales, back in Eiddileg’s realm, of those—whatever you call thems. And they weren’t pleasant. Nobody knows much about them. Or, if they do, they aren’t telling.”
“You should pay attention to Doli,” interrupted Eilonwy, turning impatiently to Taran. “I
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