CHAPTER 6
Gwystyl
DOLI HURRIEDLY PUSHED Eilonwy aside and ducked his head back into the tree trunk. He began shouting again, but the dead wood so muffled the sound that Taran could distinguish nothing of the conversation, which consisted mainly of long outbursts from the dwarf followed by brief and reluctant answers.
At length Doli straightened up and beckoned the others to follow. He set off at a great rate directly across the woodland, and after little more than a hundred paces, he jumped down a jutting bank. Taran, leading the dwarfs pony as well as Melynlas, hastened to join him. Adaon, Ellidyr, and the bard turned their mounts rapidly and were soon behind them.
The bank was so steeply inclined and overgrown that the horses could barely keep their footing. They stepped delicately among the brambles and exposed rocks. Islimach tossed her mane and whinnied nervously. The bard’s mount came near to falling onto her haunches, and even Melynlas snorted a protest against the difficult slope.
By the time Taran reached a shelf of level ground, Doli had run to the protected face of the embankment and was fuming impatiently before a huge tangle of thorn bushes. To Taran’s amazement the brambles began to shudder as though being pushed from inside; then, with much scraping and snapping of twigs, the whole mass opened a crack.
“It’s a way post of the Fair Folk,” Eilonwy cried. “I knew they had them every which where, but leave it to good old Doli to find one!”
As Taran reached the dwarfs side, the portal opened wide enough for him to glimpse a figure behind it.
Doli peered inside. “So it’s you, Gwystyl,” he said. “I might have known.”
“So it’s you, Doli,” a sad voice replied. “I wish you’d given me a little warning.”
“Warning!” cried the dwarf. “I’ll give you more than a warning if you don’t open up! Eiddileg will hear of this. What good’s a way post if you can’t get into it when you have to? You know the rules: if any of the Fair Folk are in danger… Well, that’s what we’re in right now! On top of everything else, I could have shouted myself hoarse!” He gave a furious kick at the brambles.
The figure heaved a long and melancholy sigh, and the portal opened wider. Taran saw a creature which, at first glance, looked like a bundle of sticks with cobwebs floating at the top. He realized quickly the strange doorkeeper resembled certain of the Fair Folk he had once seen in Eiddileg’s kingdom; only this individual seemed in a woeful state of disrepair.
Unlike Doli, Gwystyl was not of the dwarf kindred. Though taller, he was extremely thin. His sparse hair was long and stringy; his nose drooped wearily above his upper lip, which in turn drooped toward his chin in a most mournful expression. Wrinkles puckered his forehead; his eyes blinked anxiously; and he seemed on the verge of bursting into tears. Around his bent shoulders was draped a shabby, grimy robe, which he fingered nervously. He sniffed several times, sighed again, and grudgingly beckoned Doli to enter.
Gurgi and Fflewddur had come up behind Taran. Gwystyl, noticing them for the first time, gave a stifled moan.
“Oh, no,” he said, “not humans. Another day, perhaps. I’m sorry, Doli, believe me. But not the humans.”
“They’re with me,” snapped the dwarf. “They claim Fair Folk protection, and I’ll see they get it.”
Fflewddur’s horse, slipping among the branches, whinnied loudly, and at this Gwystyl clapped a hand to his forehead.
“Horses!” he sobbed. “That’s out of the question! Bring in your humans if you must. But not horses. Not horses today, Doli, I’m simply not up to horses today. Please, Doli,” he moaned, “don’t do this to me. I’m not well, not at all well, really. I couldn’t think of it. All the snorting and stamping and big bony heads. Besides, there’s no room. No room at all.”
“What place is this?” Ellidyr questioned angrily. “Where have you led us, dwarf? My horse does not leave my side. Climb into this rathole, the rest of you. I shall guard Islimach myself.”
“We can’t leave the horses above ground,” Doli told Gwystyl, who had already begun to retreat into the passageway. “Find room or make room,” he ordered. “That’s flat!”
Sniffing, groaning, shaking his head, Gwystyl with great reluctance heaved the doorway open to its full width.
“Very well,” he sighed, “bring them in. Bring them all in. And if you know any others, invite them, too. It doesn’t matter. I only suggested—an appeal to your generous heart, Doli. But I don’t care now. It makes no difference.”
Taran had begun to think Gwystyl had good reason for concern. The portal was barely high enough for the animals to pass through. Only with difficulty did Adaon’s tall steed enter; and Islimach rolled her eyes frantically as the thorns tore at her flanks.
Once past this barrier, however, Taran saw they had entered a kind of gallery, long and low-ceilinged. One side of it was solid earth, the other a dense screen of thorns and branches impossible to see through but with enough cracks and crevices to admit a little air.
“You can put the horses in there, I suppose,” sighed Gwystyl, fluttering his hands in the direction of the gallery. “I cleaned it not long ago. I wasn’t expecting to have it turned into a stable. But go ahead, it doesn’t make any difference.”
Choking and sighing to himself, Gwystyl then led the companions through a damp-smelling passageway. On one side, Taran noticed, an alcove had been hollowed out; it was filled with roots, lichens, and mushrooms—the food stock, he guessed, of the melancholy inhabitant. Water dripped from the dirt roof or ran in rivulets down the wall. An odor of loam and dead leaves hung in the corridor. Farther on, the passage opened into a round chamber.
Here, a small fire of sod flickered on a tiny, ash-laden hearth, and gave out frequent puffs of sharp, nose-tingling smoke. A disorderly pallet of straw lay nearby. There was a broken table, two stools; and a vast number of bunches of herbs hung against the wall drying. Some attempt had been made to smooth the sides of the wall itself, but here and there the twisting fingers of roots poked through. Though the chamber was intensely hot and stuffy, Gwystyl shuddered and pulled his robe closer about his shoulders.
“Very cozy,” Fflewddur remarked, coughing violently.
Gurgi hurried to the fireplace and, despite the smoke, flung himself down beside it. Adaon, who could barely stand to his full height, seemingly paid no attention to the disorder but went to Gwystyl and bowed courteously.
“We thank you for your hospitality,” Adaon said. “We have been hard pressed.”
“Hospitality!” snapped Doli. “We’ve seen precious little of that! Get along, Gwystyl, and fetch something to eat and drink.”
“Oh, to be sure, to be sure,” mumbled Gwystyl, “if you really want to take the time. When did you say you were leaving?”
Eilonwy gave a cry of delight. “Look, he has a tame crow!”
Near the fire, on a tree limb fashioned into a crude perch, crouched a heap of shadows which Taran realized was indeed a large crow. With Eilonwy, he hurried over to look at it. The crow resembled more a humpy ball with straggling tail-feathers, feathers as wispy and disordered as Gwystyl’s cobwebby hair. But its eyes were sharp and bright and they peered at Taran critically. With a few dry clicks, the bird polished its beak on the perch and cocked its head.
“It’s a lovely crow,” Eilonwy said, “though I’ve never seen one with feathers quite like it. They’re unusual, but very handsome once you get used to them.”
Since the crow did not object, Taran gently stirred the feathers around its neck and ran a finger under the bird’s sharp and gleaming beak. With sudden sadness, he remembered the fledgling gwythaint he had befriended—long ago, it seemed—and wondered how the bird had fared. The crow, meantime, was enjoying an attention it evidently did not usually receive. It bobbed its head, blinked happily, and attempted to run its beak through Taran’s hair.
“What’s its name?” Eilonwy asked.
“Name?” answered Gwystyl. “Oh, his name is Kaw. Because of the noise he makes, you see. Something like that,” he added vaguely.
“Kaw!” exclaimed Fflewddur, who had been watching with interest. “Excellent! How clever! I should never have thought of giving it a name like that.” He nodded in pleasure and approval.
While Taran smoothed the feathers of the delighted crow, Adaon set about examining Ellidyr’s wound. From a small wallet at his belt, he drew out a handful of dried herbs, which he ground into a powder.
“What,” said Ellidyr, “are you a healer as well as a dreamer? If it does not trouble me, why should it trouble you?”
“If you do not choose to take it as a kindness,” Adaon answered, unperturbed and continuing to treat the cut, “take it as a precaution. There is hard and dangerous travel before us. I would not have you fall ill and delay us.”
“I shall not be the one to delay you,” Ellidyr replied. “I would have stood my ground when the chance was offered. Now we have let ourselves be run to earth like foxes.”
Gwystyl had been peering anxiously over Adaon’s shoulder. “Do you have anything that might be useful for my condition?” he asked tremulously. “No, I don’t suppose you do. Well, no matter. There’s nothing to be done about the dampness and the drafts; no, they’ll last longer than I, you can be sure,” he added in a dismal voice.
“Stop muttering about the drafts,” Doli ordered brusquely, “and think of some way to get us out of here safely. If you’re in charge of a way post, you’re supposed to be ready in emergencies.” He turned away, furious. “I don’t know what Eiddileg was thinking of when he put you here.”
“I’ve often wondered that,” Gwystyl agreed, with a melancholy sigh. “It’s much too close to Annuvin for any decent kind of person to knock at your door—I don’t mean any of you,” he added hurriedly. “But it’s bleak. Nothing of interest, really. No, Doli, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for you. Except set you on your way as quickly as possible.”
“What about the Huntsmen?” Taran put in. “If they’re still tracking us…”
“Huntsmen?” Gwystyl turned a sickly greenish-white and his hands trembled. “How on earth did you come across them? I’m sorry to hear that. If I had known before, it might have been possible—oh, it’s too late for that. They’ll be all over the place now. No, really, you could have shown a little more consideration.”
“You might think we wanted to have them after us!” cried Eilonwy, unable to curb her impatience. “That’s like inviting a bee to come and sting you.”
At the girl’s outburst, Gwystyl shriveled up in his robe and looked more dismal than ever. He choked, wiped his forehead with a trembling hand, and let a large tear roll down his nose. “I didn’t mean it that way, my dear child, believe me.” Gwystyl sniffed. “I just don’t see what’s to be done about it—if anything at all. You’ve got yourself into a dreadful predicament. How or why, I’m sure I can’t imagine.”
“Gwydion had led us to attack Arawn,” Taran began.
Gwystyl hurriedly raised a hand. “Don’t tell me,” he interrupted with an anxious frown. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear about it. I’d rather not know. I don’t want to be caught up in any of your mad schemes. Gwydion? I’m surprised he, at least, didn’t know better. But it’s to be expected, I suppose. There’s no use complaining.”
“Our quest is urgent,” said Adaon, who had finished binding Ellidyr’s wound and had come to stand near Gwystyl. “We ask you to do nothing to endanger yourself. I would not tell you the circumstances that brought us here, but without knowing them you cannot realize how desperately we need your help.”
“We had come to seize the cauldron from Annuvin,” Taran said.
“Cauldron?” murmured Gwystyl.
“Yes, the cauldron!” shouted the furious dwarf. “You pale grub! You lightless lightning bug! The cauldron of Arawn’s Cauldron-Born!”
“Oh, that cauldron,” Gwystyl answered feebly. “Forgive me, Doli, I was thinking of something else. When did you say you were going?”
The dwarf seemed on the verge of seizing Gwystyl by his robe and shaking him, but Adaon stepped forward and quickly explained what had occurred at Dark Gate.
“It’s a shame,” Gwystyl murmured, with a sorrowful sigh. “You should never have got mixed up with the thing. It’s too late to think about that, I’m afraid. You’ll just have to make the best of it. I don’t envy you. Believe me, I don’t. It’s one of those unfortunate events.”
“But you don’t understand,” Taran said. “We aren’t mixed up with the cauldron. It isn’t in Annuvin any more. Someone has already stolen it.”
“Yes,” said Gwystyl, with a gloomy look at Taran, “yes, I know.”