Taran Wanderer

IT WAS FULL SPRINGTIME, with promise of the richest summer the farm had ever seen. The orchard was white with fragrant blossoms; the newly planted fields lay light as green mist. Yet the sights and scents gave Taran little joy. To him, Caer Dallben was empty. Though he helped Coll with the weeding and cultivating, and tended the white pig, Hen Wen, with as much care as ever, he went about his tasks distractedly. One thought alone was in his mind.

"Now, my boy," Coll said good-naturedly, as they finished the morning's milking, "I've seen you restless as a wolf on a tether ever since you came back from the Isle of Mona. Pine for the Princess Eilonwy if you must, but don't upset the milk pail." The stout old warrior clapped Taran on the shoulder. "Come, cheer up. I'll teach you the high secrets of planting turnips. Or raising cabbages. Or whatever you might want to know."

Taran shook his head. "What I would know only Dallben can tell me."

"Take my counsel, then," said Coll. "Trouble Dallben with none of your questions. His thoughts are on deeper matter. Have patience and bide your time."

Taran rose to his feet. "I can bide my time no longer. It is in my heart to speak with him now."

"Have a care," warned Coll as Taran strode to the door of the shed. "His disposition rubs a little thin!"

Taran made his way through the cluster of low-roofed farm buildings. In the cottage, at the hearthside, a black-robed woman crouched and tended the cooking fire. She did not raise her head or speak. It was Achren. Thwarted in her scheme to regain her ancient power, from the ruined Castle of Llyr the once-haughty Queen had accepted the refuge Dallben offered; though, by her own choice, she who had long ago ruled Prydain toiled now at the tasks Eilonwy had done before departing for Mona, and at day's end silently vanished to her pallet of straw in the granary.

Before Dallben's chamber Taran paused uneasily, then rapped quickly on the door. Entering at the enchanter's command, he found Dallben bent over The Book of Three, which lay open on the cluttered table. Much as he longed for a glimpse at even one page of this secret volume, Taran kept his distance from it. Once, in boyhood, he had dared touch the ancient, leather-bound tome, and his fingers smarted again at the memory.

"I never cease to wonder," Dallben testily remarked, closing The Book of Three and glancing at Taran, "that the young, with all their pride of strength, should find their own concerns such a weighty burden they must be shared with the old. Whereas, the old"― he waved a frail, bony hand. "But no matter, no matter. For the sake of my temper I hope your purpose in interrupting me is an excellent one.

"First, before you ask," Dallben went on, "I assure you the Princess Eilonwy is well and no more unhappy than any pretty young madcap obliged to turn a hand to sewing instead of sword-play. Second, you are as aware as I am that Kaw has not yet returned. By now, I daresay he has borne my potion to Glew's cavern, and the giant-by-accident who troubled you so much on Mona will shrink to the small stature he once had. But you also know your crow for a rascal and one to linger wherever he finds sport. Finally, an Assistant Pig-Keeper should have tasks enough to busy himself outdoors. What, then, brings you here?"

"One thing only," Taran said. "All that I have I owe to your kindness. You have given me a home and a name, and let me live as a son in your household. Yet who am I, in truth? Who are my parents? You have taught me much, but kept this always from me."

"Since it has been always thus," Dallben replied, "why should it trouble you now?"

When Taran bowed his head and did not answer, the old enchanter smiled shrewdly at him. "Speak up, my boy. If you want truth, you should begin by giving it. Behind your question I think I see the shadow of a certain golden-haired Princess. Is that not so?"

Taran's face flushed. "It is so," he murmured. He raised his eyes to meet Dallben's. "When Eilonwy returns, it― it is in my heart to ask her to wed. But this I cannot do," he burst out, "this I will not do until I learn who I am. An unknown foundling with a borrowed name cannot ask for the hand of a Princess. What is my parentage? I cannot rest until I know. Am I lowly born or nobly?"

"To my mind," Dallben said softly, "the latter would please you better."

"It would be my hope," Taran admitted, a little abashed. "But no matter. If there is honor― yes, let me share it. If there is shame, let me face it."

"It takes as much strength of heart to share the one as to face the other," Dallben replied gently. He turned his careworn face to Taran. "But alas," he said, "what you ask I may not answer. Prince Gwydion knows no more than I," he went on, sensing Taran's thought. "Nor can the High King Math help you."

"Then let me learn for myself," Taran cried. "Give me leave to seek my own answer."