Taran Wanderer

But the farmer showed no interest in questioning him. "What you seek," replied Aeddan, "is more your business than mine. I saw five set upon two and only put some fairness in the match. Will you heal your hurt? Then follow me."

So saying, the farmer set off down the hillside, Taran and Gurgi behind him. Gurgi turned often to shake his fist in the direction of the departed horsemen, while Taran trudged along the darkening path, speaking not a word, deep in despair over Melynlas, and thinking bitterly that in his quest he had done no more than lose his horse and gain a broken head. His bones ached; his muscles throbbed. To worsen matters, the clouds had thickened; nightfall brought pelting rain; and by the time he reached Aeddan's farmhold Taran was as drenched and bedraggled as ever he had been in all his life.

The dwelling into which Aeddan led the companions was only a hut of wattle and daub, but Taran was surprised at its snugness and neat furnishings. Never before in all his adventures had he shared hospitality with the farmer folk of Prydain, and he glanced around as wondering as a stranger in a new land. Now that he could look more closely at Aeddan, he sensed honesty and good nature in the man's weathered face. The farmer gave him a warm grin and Taran, despite the smart of his wounds, grinned back, feeling indeed that he had come upon a friend.

The farm wife, a tall, work-hardened woman with features as lined as her husband's, threw up her hands at the sight of Gurgi, whose dripping, matted hair had gathered a blanket of twigs and pine needles, and cried out at Taran's blood-smeared face. While Aeddan told of the fray, the woman, Alarca, opened a wooden chest and drew out a sturdy, warm jacket, well worn but lovingly mended, which Taran gratefully took in place of his own sodden garment.

Alarca set about mixing a potion of healing herbs, and Aeddan, meantime, poured onto a table the contents of his sack: hunches of bread, a cheese, and some dried fruit.

"You come to small comfort," he said. "My land yields little, so I toil part of my days in my neighbors' fields to earn what I cannot grow."

"And yet," Taran said, dismayed to learn Aeddan's plight, "I have heard it told there was rich soil in the Valley Cantrevs."

"Was, indeed," replied Aeddan with a dour laugh. "In the time of my forefathers, not in mine. As the Hill Cantrevs were famed for their long-fleeced sheep, so the Valley Cantrevs of Ystrad were known far and wide for the finest oats and barley, and Cantrev Cadiffor itself for wheat bright and heavy as gold. And golden days there must have been in all Prydain," Aeddan went on, cutting the bread and cheese into portions and handing them to Taran and Gurgi. "My father's father told a tale, already old when it was told to him, of plows that worked of themselves, of scythes that reaped a harvest without even the touch of a man's hand."

"So, too, have I heard," Taran said. "But Arawn Death-Lord stole those treasures, and now they lie unused and hidden deep in the fastness of Annuvin."

The farmer nodded. "Arawn's hand chokes the life from Prydain. His shadow blights the land. Our toil grows heavier, and all the more because our skills are few. Enchanted tools did Arawn steal? Many secrets there were of making the earth yield richly, and of these, too, the Lord of Annuvin robbed us.

"Twice in two years have my crops failed," Aeddan went on, as Taran listened with heartfelt concern. "My granary is empty. And the more I must toil for others, the less I may work my own fields. Even so, my knowledge is too slight. What I most need is locked forever in the treasure hoard of Annuvin."

"It is not altogether your skill that lacks," Alarca said, putting a hand on the farmer's knotted shoulder. "Before the first planting the plow ox and cow sickened and died. And the second," her voice lowered. "For the second we were without the help of Amren."

Taran glanced questioningly at the woman, whose eyes had clouded.

She said, "Amren, our son. He was of your years, and it is his jacket you wear. He needs it no longer. Winter and summer are alike to him. He sleeps under a burial mound among other fallen warriors. Yes, he is gone," the woman added. "He rode with the battle host when they fought off raiders who sought to plunder us."

"I share your sorrow," Taran said; then, to console her, added, "But he died with honor. Your son is a hero…"

"My son is slain," the woman answered sharply. "The raiders fought because they were starving; we, because we had scarcely more than they. And at the end all had less than when they began. Now, for us the labor is too great for one pair of hands, even for two. The secrets Arawn Death-Lord stole could well serve us. Alas, we cannot regain them."