They reached the Marshes just after midday, though the smell of the fens heralded their proximity long before they saw them. Making their way through a last thick patch of furze, the companions beheld a wide expanse of fetid water, broken by clumps of lank, brown grass. Creeping shreds and ropes of fog slithered over the grey pools. A few brown birds flitted silently between clumps of bare, broken trees, appearing and disappearing in the mist like tiny, forlorn ghosts searching old bones for a place to rest.

Eilonwy shivered. It would have been a bleak and lonely view even under ordinary circumstances. Now, under this cheerless grey sky and chill wind, it was a dreadful prospect. And this was what they had to explore to find these…these…well, there was no knowing what these Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch were! Even Gwystyl hadn't known. What sort of creatures would willingly live in such a place, besides frogs and marsh birds and who-knew-what awful slimy things beneath the muck?

They stood in silence at the edge of the first pool, a silence broken only by the melancholy whisper of the wind through the grass, and a low, thrumming vibration, a thing you felt more than heard. It set her on edge. She started when a high, eerie moan floated to them from somewhere to the south.

Taran felt her flinch and gave her hand a quick squeeze where it rested at his waist. "It's just a loon," he whispered, and she would have been irritated at the implication that she'd been frightened by it, but his whisper was hoarse and his hand was cold, and she knew that he was also afraid.

"You've led us here well enough," she whispered back. "But how do you ever expect to go about finding a cauldron in a place like—"

His elbow gripped suddenly over her arm, and she broke off, sensing him go tight and alert, like a deer scenting a nearby hound. "Don't move," he said, low, and then twisted slowly to look behind them.

Eilonwy froze, waiting, the skin on the back of her neck prickling with a thousand tiny needles of ice. Her stomach churned in cold nausea. Sliding her gaze sideways, she saw Fflewddur and Gurgi both motionless, their breath hung in frozen clouds before their faces.

Taran turned back and faced the Marshes, his tension tangible. "The Huntsmen have found us," he murmured, "but I know what to do. Fflewddur, follow every step I take, but not a motion until I give the signal."

Melynlas, sensing intent in the nervous energy of his master's bearing, shifted beneath them, his feet squelching in the boggy ground, his ears pricked forward and then back, wide nostrils flaring. They stood, Eilonwy felt, like stones at the summit of a mountain, teetering upon a narrow edge, waiting only for a breath of wind.

No, not like stones. Stones didn't tremble like this.

The breath came. "Now!" Taran shouted, and Melynlas leapt forward, plunging into the mire. A splash at their rear: Lluagor had followed; both horses snorted and whinnied their distress at the treacherous terrain, but shouts from behind spurred them onward.

Eilonwy clutched wildly at Taran as Melynlas stumbled through the slimy mess that made up the ground. The bunch and gather of the stallion's haunches as he reared himself out of one pool turned into a sickening drop from beneath her as he ploughed into the next and nearly foundered; cold water churned at his belly. Now above all, she must not lose her seat —dear gods! —she stifled a shriek as she almost did just that, saved only by the fact that her ankle was hooked beneath a saddlebag strap. There were Huntsmen at their very heels, snarling like animals, reaching for stirrups. Taran shouted and Melynlas lunged to the right, nearly unseating her again, and this time she did shriek, but it was drowned out in a hoarse scream from behind them.

Eilonwy whirled to look, and beheld a Huntsman buried to his neck in black muck. Two others grappled one another near him, all mired in the same bog. One stumbled, trampling backwards over the sinking man, landing on his back with a viscous-sounding splash. The third threw himself toward the nearest clump of grass, howling.

The horses forged onward, and clumps of dead brush cut off her view of the scene. But the empty wasteland of the Marshes amplified the shrieks and curses of their assailants, pursuing them until, one by one, they stopped. Then the only sounds were the splashing hooves and panting of the horses, the creak of leather and jingle of tack as they galloped on through a long shallow lake. Eilonwy held on, watched the grey water flash past, and tried not to be sick.

She expected every moment for the horses to founder again, to dump them all into this decaying ooze and meet the same fate as the Huntsmen, but somehow Melynlas's hooves were making contact with something solid beneath the water, and presently they were thundering over firmer ground on the far side of the swamp. They crashed through more patches of furze, and raced toward a high mound that had appeared through the mist.

Taran suddenly threw himself backwards with a shout, reining in Melynlas so hard the stallion nearly sat on his haunches, and Eilonwy shrieked again—great Belin, but she was sick of riding double and never knowing what was coming! What on earth was he—oh.

Now she saw it - a low structure, built into the side of the mound, so concealed with sod and branches that it was barely recognizable at first glance…or at the second or third, for that matter, for it rather defied categorization. It might, with a great deal of liberality, have been called a cottage. At least, it had a window, and a door that large enough for a person to enter. Long grasses waved at its roof, and mushrooms sprouted from nooks and crannies among its haphazard stone walls. Further along the mound there were decaying stables, and a chicken roost that did not appear to have housed a chicken in a considerable time.

So much, Eilonwy took in at a glance, but the little dwelling's oddness of appearance was nothing compared to the strange, invisible power of its presence. Looking at it gave her the dizzying sensation that it was the only fixed thing in the midst of breakneck movement…like a single pin holding tattered banners together in a gale, or the still center of a whirlpool. She tore her eyes away and glanced about them almost in expectation of finding everything changed, but no — there were the grey sky and the brown grass and boggy ground, just so. Back at the cottage and again her senses reeled. What was this place?

Whatever it was, Taran had obviously decided it was dangerous; he backed Melynlas away nervously and ordered, "Quiet, all. We don't want trouble with any—"

Curiosity and compulsion would not allow this —what had they come for if not to find trouble? Eilonwy huffed, threw her leg over the horse's haunches, and slid to the ground. "I shouldn't worry about that," she said. "Whoever lives in there surely heard us coming. If they aren't out to welcome us or fight with us by now, then I don't think anyone's there at all."

She ignored his shouted order to return—let him shout all he liked; he'd been bequeathed a brooch, not supreme authority! This place pulled at her and she meant to know why. Trampling the long grass that obscured the window, she put her nose to the small opening and peered in.

It was dark inside, with no illumination save the bit of light filtering around her head. She could make out a very dusty and cluttered interior, but no sign of life. "I don't see anybody. Look for yourselves."

Ffewddur and Taran had hurried up behind her, and Fflewddur ducked his head to peer in likewise. "For the matter of that," he said, "I don't think anyone's been here for quite some time. So much the better! In any case, we'll have a dry place to rest."

Taran still looked anxious as he took a turn at the window. "I suppose…" he began, and then choked on his own words, as behind them a voice spoke.

"How would you like," it said, rasping like an ancient tree in a wind, "to be turned into a toad? And stepped on?"

All three whirled around in an instant, Taran raising his drawn sword. Eilonwy felt something — a strange, crackling thread through space, and suddenly Taran held no sword but a writhing snake, its long body wrapped around his arm, its deadly head reared to strike. She shrieked as Taran cried out and instinctively flung the thing to the ground; it bounced, and there was his sword again, lying at the feet of…of…what was it?

It appeared to be a person, though like none Eilonwy had ever seen. A small woman, for all appearances, old and wizened, the rounded, sagging shape of her body swathed in a patched, dirty robe of uncertain color. Her face was lumpy and spotted with age, with sparkling black eyes peering from the midst of masses of wrinkles. Long, wiry grey hair sprouted wildly from her head, trailing like clumps of lank seaweed over her rounded shoulders. Jeweled pins and bits of greenery were stuck here and there within it, their presence apparently purely ornamental, for none of it made any headway at controlling the tangle.

The same dizzying effect that suffused the house now emanated from this strange little woman, and Eilonwy held her breath at its intensity, clutched unconsciously at Taran's sleeve to keep from stumbling as he took a fearful step backwards. Only from Dallben himself had she ever felt anything so powerful, and unlike Dallben, this creature was doing nothing to shield it away. This was no ordinary woman, and possibly no woman at all, whatever she looked like.

They collectively shrank back as she shuffled toward them on a pair of very large, very muddy bare feet, smiling a cheerful, snaggle-toothed grin. "Come along, my ducklings! I promise it won't hurt a bit. You can bring your sword if you want," she added, prodding this implement with her toe and kicking it gently toward Taran, "though you won't need it. I've never seen a toad with a sword. On the other hand, I've never seen a sword with a toad, so you're welcome to do as you please."

They were backed against the stone wall of the cottage now, trapped. The little woman's odd gaiety somehow made her all the more frightening…the careless ease of one totally without either fear or empathy, and it made Eilonwy's blood run cold. "We please to stay as we are," she gasped out, "and don't think we're going to let anybody…"

Taran shouldered a little in front of her protectively, but she felt his terror, thumping upon her mind. "Who are you?" he demanded of the woman. "We have done you no harm. You have no cause to threaten us."

The black eyes snapped, sharp as nails, as the bent little figure pointed a gnarled finger at him. "How many twigs in a bird's nest? Answer quickly!"

Taran opened his mouth, tongue-tied with confusion, and the crooked finger shook in the air. "There now, you see?" the old creature croaked triumphantly. "Poor chicks, you don't even know that. How could you be expected to know what you really want out of life?"

The words were nonsense, and yet more than nonsense: they seemed to eat into the mind, bewildering, disorienting; Eilonwy grasped desperately at something certain. "One thing I want is not to be a toad," she retorted, glaring at their captor.

The sharp gaze slid sideways until it locked onto her face, and Eilonwy flinched at the sudden jolt of empathetic magic. "Ah," said the creature, with a twitch of her grizzled brows, "you're a pretty little duck." The creaky voice became sweet, like treacle offered to a fractious child. "Would you give me your hair once you've done with it? I have such trouble with mine these days. Do you ever have the feeling things are disappearing into it and you might never see them again?"

Another flash of that crooked grin, and instantly Eilonwy felt utterly certain of that very thing. With a panicked squeak she clutched her hands to her head, expecting to encounter insect legs, the back of her neck writhing at the sensation of cold slithering things at her scalp. Only her own tousled braids met her palms. With a whimpering growl she smoothed them down, and tore her gaze away from the eyes of the old woman. An enchantress! No doubt of it—but something else, too, something more, indefinable.

"No matter," the creature said diffidently, turning back to Taran, "You'll enjoy being toads, skipping about here and there, sitting on toadstools—well, perhaps not that." She waved a hand, with a chuckle like dry twigs cracking. "Toads don't really sit on toadstools, though it would be adorable if they did. But you might dance in dew circles! Now there's a charming thought."

She had shuffled so near them that any of them could have reached out to touch her. Fflewddur still held his sword in hand; he could have ended her with one swipe. He did not. They stood frozen as she stopped in front of Taran — a full head shorter, she had to look up at him, but not a single one of them questioned who had the upper hand. She was close enough for them to see the tiny hairs sprouting from warts at her chin and temples, to smell a smell like mushrooms and stale mold as she leaned toward them. Eilonwy shuddered as the woman's claw-like hand reached out and tugged at Taran's tunic, pulling him a little forward. "Don't be frightened," the woman whispered loudly near his ear. "You can't for a moment imagine I'd do all I said. Goodness, no. I wouldn't dream of stepping on you. I couldn't stand the squashiness."

She cackled and released him, and Taran took a breath, but she cut him off with a raised hand. "Now, I know! You mightn't like being toads at first. It takes getting used to. But once it's happened, I'm certain you wouldn't want it any other way."

"Why are you doing this?" Taran cried. Eilonwy, twisting her hands into her cloak, found her bauble and clutched it for comfort. Instantly she felt more alert, shaking off the strange confusion, and Taran's words struck her with significance. Indeed, why? If this mad thing really intended to turn them into toads she could have done it by now. Instead, here she stood, taunting them with cheerful threats. As though she were merely toying with them, or…or buying time.

The enchantress reached out and patted Taran's cheek; he turned his head to the side in fear. "Can't have people poking and prying," she creaked. "You understand that much, don't you? Make an exception for one, then it's two, three, and next thing you know, hundreds and hundreds trampling things and getting underfoot. Believe me, this is best for everybody."

Movement drew everyone's attention to the right; from around the side of the hill two more figures had appeared. They resembled the little woman in size and shape, and shared her hobbling gait. One wore a black cloak, its cowl pulled up over her face, the other a necklace of milky white stones.

"Oh!" The little woman broke away and moved toward them with a sprightliness incongruous with her aged appearance. "Orwen!" she called. "Orgoch! Hurry! We're going to make toads!"

Orwen! Orgoch! All gasped at once. "Did you hear those names?" Taran whispered, with a quick, anxious glance at his companions. "We've found them!"

Fflewddur was still pressed against the stone wall, looking green. "Much good may it do us," he exclaimed hoarsely. "By the time they're through, I don't think we're going to care about the cauldron or anything else." He mopped his forehead with a handful of cloak. "I've never danced in a dew circle. Under different circumstances, I might enjoy it, but not now."

Eilonwy, still clutching her bauble, stamped her feet upon the ground for courage. "I've never met a person who could talk about such dreadful things and smile at the same time," she said, shuddering. "It's like ants walking up and down your back."

Taran bent and picked up his sword, a little gingerly, as though he feared it might once again become something else. "We must try to take them unawares," he began.

Eilonwy stared at him, aghast. "Take them unawares! What on earth do you think we can do to them?"

He shrugged miserably. "I don't know! But I don't know what they can do to all of us all at once. We must take the chance, and one or two of us may survive."

Gurgi whimpered. Fflewddur swallowed and said shakily, "I suppose that's all we can do. If it should turn out that I—I mean if I should be—yes, well, what I mean is if anything should happen to me, do pay attention to where you tread."

The three creatures were approaching, chattering excitedly as they looked over the strangers in their midst. "Oh, Orddu," said the one with the necklace, a bit plaintively, "why must it always be toads? Can't you think of anything else?"

"But they're so neat," Orddu explained, "compact and convenient."

"What's wrong with toads?" The voice of the hooded crone sounded darker than the others, somehow — like a creak of old rusted metal from within the hood. "That's the trouble with you, Orwen, always trying to make things complicated."

Orwen looked miffed. "I only suggested something else, Orgoch, for the sake of variety."

A smacking sound issued from the hood. "I love toads," Orgoch murmured, leaning in toward Fflewddur, who was nearest. He drew away in terror, nearly colliding with Orddu, who had moved to his other side.

She smiled benignly upon him. "Look at them, standing here all wet and muddy. Poor little goslings. I've been talking to them, and I think they finally realize what's best for them."

Orwen, toying with her beads, dropped them and clapped her hands delightedly. "Oh! These are the ones we saw galloping across the Marsh! It was so clever of you to have the Huntsmen swallowed up in the bog," she added, with a wink and smile at Taran, "really quite well done."

"Disgusting creatures, Huntsmen," Orgoch put in, elbowing Orwen out of the way and examining Taran in her turn. She leaned toward him, and Eilonwy could have sworn she heard sniffing from the hood, not unlike the sounds Gurgi made when entering the cottage during meal preparation. "Nasty, hairy, vicious things," Orgoch muttered, reaching out to stroke a lock of his hair, as though in appreciation of the contrast between Taran and the creatures under discussion. "They turn my stomach."

Fflewddur looked on in fascinated horror. "They stick to their work," he said weakly, as though compelled to contradict in some way, "I'll say that for them."

"We had a whole flock of them here the other day," Orddu said, "poking and prying around just like you were. Now you understand why we can't make exceptions."

Orwen laughed, a tinkling yet discordant sound like untuned bells. "We didn't make an exception of them, did we, Orddu? Though it wasn't toads, if you remember."

"I remember very distinctly, my dear," came the tart reply, "but you were Orddu, then, and when you're being Orddu, you can do as you please. But I'm Orddu today, and what I say is…"

"That's not fair." Orgoch straightened up from her perusal of Taran and turned to Orddu. "You always want to be Orddu. I've had to be Orgoch three times in a row, while you've only been Orgoch once."

"It's not our fault, my sweet, if we don't like being Orgoch." Orddu shrugged unsympathetically. "It isn't comfortable, you know. You have such horrid indigestion. If you'd only pay more attention to what you take for your meals."

Eilonwy stared from one to the other of them in confusion, trying to follow the conversation, but the swift back-and-forth and incomprehensible talk, combined with the continued dizzying sense of power surrounding them, made it impossible. What on earth were they? Certainly more than three old women —no wonder Gwystyl hadn't been able to describe them.

Taran had clutched at a thread of hope. "If the Huntsmen of Annuvin are your enemies, then we have common cause," he said. "We, too, have fought against them."

Orgoch's hooded head swung toward him. "Enemies," she muttered, in a guttural growl, "friends. It all comes to the same in the end." Her long bony fingers clutched the tattered robe over her stomach. "Do make haste, Orddu, and take them off to the shed. It's been a terribly long morning."

Orddu favored her with a tolerant smile. "You are a greedy creature. That's another reason why neither of us wants to be Orgoch if we can possibly help it. Perhaps if you learned to control yourself better…?"

A growling noise emanated from Orgoch's direction, but it was muffled, and seemed to come from her midsection rather than from within the hood. Orddu sighed and waved a dismissive hand. "Well, if you can't, you can't. But in any case let's listen to what these dear mice have to tell us. They say such charming things. Now, my duckling," she said, turning to Taran, "how did it come about that you're on such bad terms with the Huntsmen?"

Taran hesitated, and Eilonwy knew he was reluctant to give away the full scope of their quest. She suspected he need not bother holding anything back. These creatures were toying with them; they likely knew more about what was happening than anyone. But she could say no word to him that they would not hear.

"They attacked us," he began, and Orddu clucked in sympathy.

"Of course they did, my poor goslings; that's what they do. They're always attacking everyone. But you see? That's one of the advantages to being toads; you needn't worry about such things anymore. It will be all romps in the forest and lovely wet mornings. The Huntsmen won't vex you any more. True, you shall have to keep an eye out for herons, kingfishers, and serpents. But apart from that, you won't have a care in the world."

"But who is 'us'?" Orwen put in eagerly. She tugged at Orddu's robe. "Aren't you going to find out their names?"

Eilonwy's skin crawled in terror, agitated further as Orgoch professed a love of names with the same fervor as one might confess a weakness for roast lamb. She jerked her head at Taran frantically, a silent warning. No names, no names! Don't give them that kind of control!

Orddu's snapping black eyes were on her in an instant, but Taran had caught the gesture and gulped. "Er…this…this…is…Indeg," he stammered nervously, gesturing toward Eilonwy and then Fflewddur, "and…Prince…Prince Glessic…"

Eilonwy's heart sank. It was a valiant attempt, but he was too scrupulous, too unpracticed at deception; Orwen nudged Orddu with a giggle. "Listen to them. They're so delightful when they lie."

Orgoch snorted. "If they won't give their right names, then simply take them."

They dared not suppose by what horrors this would be accomplished, and Taran's shoulders slumped in defeat. "This is Eilonwy Daughter of Angharad and Fflewddur Fflam."

"A bard of the harp," Fflewddur piped up automatically. Eilonwy quelled an exasperated desire to shush him — as though such details mattered in this moment! Then again, it could serve the purpose of muddling his real identity. Come to think of it, she realized suddenly, though the status was technically an untruth, never had a string broken when he claimed it.

She had no time to examine this extraordinary revelation. Taran had moved on to Gurgi, though the creature was doing his best to disappear behind them. Orwen leaned over and peered down at him with interest. "So that's a gurgi," she said. "It seems to me I've heard of them, but I never knew what they were."

"It's not a gurgi," Eilonwy corrected indignantly. "It's Gurgi. There's only one." But was he the only one? The question had never occurred to her.

Gurgi stepped halfway out from behind Taran with the desperate boldness of a cornered wild thing. "Yes, yes! And he is bold and clever! He will not let brave companions become toads with humpings and jumpings!" He flailed a woolly arm, shaking his fist at the enchantresses.

Orgoch loomed toward him. "What do you do with the gurgi? Do you eat it or sit on it?"

Gurgi yelped and resumed his crouch behind Taran. Orddu shrugged. "I should think whatever you did, you would have to clean it first. And you, my duck," she urged, turning her attention back on Taran, "who are you?"

Taran paused, staring at her, and Eilonwy felt him pull from some well of reckless courage; if he had said aloud might as well go down fighting it could not have been more evident. He threw his head back, and she could not help thinking, unwillingly, that he looked rather splendid as he declared, "I am Taran, Assistant Pig-Keeper of Caer Dallben."

The last defense fallen, Eilonwy tensed, waiting for whatever magical assault would be forthcoming. But the old crones made no threatening advance. For a moment of stunned stillness, they stared at Taran in what appeared to be genuine astonishment. Then they looked at each other, gasping in delight, their gap-toothed mouths wide with surprised smiles. Even Orgoch straightened her bent frame, clasping her gnarled hands together like a young, eager girl.

"Dallben!" Orddu exclaimed, infusing the name with the affection of an old Nan discussing her grandchildren. "You poor lost chicken, why didn't you say so in the first place?" She caught up Taran's hands, squeezing them excitedly. "Tell us, how is dear little Dallben?"


This one was a more difficult, and frankly not as interesting, chapter to adapt, as are all chapters in which ancillary characters talk a lot (I had similar issues with the Eiddileg scene in tBo3). Following rapid-fire dialog doesn't give me as much chance to explore Eilonwy's reactions and thoughts without interrupting the pacing of the scene, and so it winds up being really too much like the original for my taste, without adding much that is novel or revelatory. It's also always been a bit of sticking point with me that although Lloyd obviously intends for us to find the Morva witches frightening (judging by the fear they inspire in our heroes), they just aren't, to me. Their dialog and interactions are largely comedic, and the threat of turning everyone into toads just seems a bit farcical and silly when you've grown up watching Disney cartoons. I guess the sword-into-snake trick is supposed to be terrifying, but I'm not scared of snakes, so... In my mind I can imagine the kind of creatures he really intended them to be, and I tried to convey more of that subtle threat here through Eilonwy's sense both of their great power and their total detachment from humanity, but it's hard to get away from the overall whimsical silliness of their dialog.