Taran Wanderer

The man turned, wiped his deeply lined brow with a forearm, and looked at Taran with keen blue eyes. "The water your horse is standing in― and churning to mud, by the way― is Fernbrake Stream. The Commot? This is Commot Merin."

Chapter 19 The Potter's Wheel

"I'VE TOLD YOU WHERE you are," the man went on good-naturedly, as Taran dismounted at the bank of the stream. "Now might you be willing to tell me who you are, and what brings you to a place whose name you must ask? Have you lost your way and found Merin when you sought another Commot?"

"I am called Wanderer," Taran replied. "As for losing my way," he added with a laugh, "I can't say that I have, for I'm not sure myself where my path lies."

"Then Merin is as fair a place as any to break your journey," the man said. "Come along, if you'd see what hospitality I can offer the two of you."

As the man dropped a last spadeful of clay into the wooden buckets, Taran stepped forward and offered to carry them; and, since the man did not refuse, set his shoulders under the yoke. But the buckets were heavier than Taran reckoned. His brow soon burst out in sweat; he could barely stagger along under the load he felt doubling at every pace; and the hut to which the man pointed seemed to grow farther instead of closer.

"If you seek daub to mend your chimney," Taran gasped, "you've come a long way to find it!"

"You've not caught the trick of that yoke," said the man, grinning broadly at Taran's effort. He shouldered the buckets, which Taran gladly gave back, and strode along so briskly, despite the weight of his burden, that he nearly outdistanced the companions. Arriving at a long shed, he poured the clay into a great wooden vat, then beckoned the wayfarers to enter his hut.

Inside Taran saw racks and shelves holding earthenware of all kinds, vessels of plain baked clay, graceful jars, and among these, at random, pieces whose craftsmanship and beauty made him catch his breath. Only once, in the treasure house of Lord Gast, had he set eyes on handiwork such as this. He turned, astonished, to the old man who had begun laying dishes and bowls on an oaken table.

"When I asked if you sought daub to mend your chimney I spoke foolishly," Taran said, humbly bowing. "If this is your work, I have seen some of it before, and I know you: Annlaw Clay-Shaper."'

The potter nodded. "My work it is. If you've seen it, it may be that indeed you do know me. For I am old at my craft, Wanderer, and no longer sure where the clay ends and Annlaw begins― or, in truth, if they're not one and the same."

Taran looked closer at the vessels crowding the hut, at the newly finished wine bowl shaped even more skillfully than the one in Lord Gast's trove, at the long, clay-spattered tables covered with jars of paints,          pigments, and glazes. Now he saw in wonder that what he had first taken for common scullery-ware was as beautiful, in its own way, as the wine bowl. All had come from a master's hand. He turned to Annlaw.

"It was told me," Taran said, "that one piece of your making is worth more than all of a cantrev lord's treasure house, and I well believe it. And here," he shook his head in amazement, "this is a treasure house in itself."

"Yes, yes!" Gurgi cried. "Oh, skillful potter gains riches and fortunes from clever shapings!"

"Riches and fortune?" replied Annlaw smiling. "Food for my table, rather. Most of these pots and bowls I send to the small Commots where the folk have no potter of their own. As I give what they need, they give what I need; and treasure is what I need the least. My joy is in the craft, not the gain. Would all the fortunes in Prydain help my fingers shape a        better bowl?"

"There are those," Taran said, half in earnest as he glanced at the potter's wheel, "who claim work such as yours comes by enchantment."

At this Annlaw threw back his head and laughed heartily. "I wish it did, for it would spare much toil. No, no, Wanderer, my wheel, alas, is like any other. True it is," he added, "that Govannion the Lame, master craftsman of Prydain, long ago fashioned all manner of enchanted implements. He gave them to whom he deemed would use them wisely and well, but one by one they fell into the clutches of Arawn Death-Lord. Now all are gone.

"But Govannion, too, discovered and set down the high secrets of all crafts," Annlaw went on. "These, as well, Arawn stole, to hoard in Annuvin where none may ever profit from them." The potter's face turned grave. "A lifetime have I striven to discover them again, to guess what might have been their nature. Much have I learned― learned by doing, as a child learns to walk. But my steps falter. The deepest lore yet lies beyond my grasp. I fear it ever shall.

"Let me gain this lore," Annlaw said, "and I'll yearn for no magical tools. Let me find the knowledge. And these," he added, holding up his claycrusted hands, "these will be enough to serve me."