In a twinkling, the three old crones were herding them all toward the cottage door, with the sort of anxious flurry of a capricious wind that warns of an approaching storm. Bony fingers plucked at their clothes and hair and nudged them playfully but insistently into the dwelling amidst a continual stream of vocal delight. In the midst of the jostling, Taran whispered, "Little Dallben? I've never in my life heard anyone talk about him that way. Can they mean the same Dallben?"

"I don't know!" Fflewddur retorted hoarsely, "but if they think he is—Great Belin, don't tell them otherwise!"

Being ushered over the threshold felt, to Eilonwy, rather like plunging into a pool…a moment of anxious anticipation, a distinct sense of breaching a barrier, and then…immersion. The door admitted them fluidly, without resistance, plunging them all into enchantment so thick you could nearly swim in it. She gasped for breath, resisting the urge to raise her arms in an automatic breaststroke, convinced the air would ripple around them if she did. The room shimmered like the heat over a hearth. She had the impression that the space was much larger than its four walls implied, crammed so full of magic that it leaked out of every crack—magic that crackled and sizzled and hummed just under the range of hearing, magic that tasted like…oh, like everything. Salt and metal, honey and wine, vinegar and woodsmoke and cold, clear ice…

Could not the others feel it? They looked bewildered enough, standing in the midst of a whirlwind of movement as the women bustled about making haphazard efforts to tidy up. Tables and shelves overflowed with old parchments, dirty crockery, and various oddments. The floor was likewise cluttered with tools, bits of weaponry, and the random stick of furniture. A butter churn stood in one corner, wreathed in cobwebs. A spinning wheel perched in another, the thread upon it a hopeless tangle. Nearest her, a weaving loom displayed a wide swath of colorful material. Eilonwy blinked at it in confusion, sensing that there were figures moving upon it, but wherever she looked she saw only snarled threads, immobile. And yet… it changed! didn't it?…every time she moved her eyes to a different spot. No, it couldn't…yes, it did…how…?

"Oh, no, no, my duck!" Orddu darted in front of her just as she stepped closer to the loom. "Mustn't touch!" Gnarled hands took her by the shoulders in a firm grip and steered her back toward the others. "Nasty prickles if you do," hissed the crone, close to her ear. "It's full of nettles. Come sit with us, there's a love."

Eilonwy glanced back, puzzled, but Orddu blocked her view and pushed a rickety chair under her knees until she fell into it. Taran, already seated next to her, was pale and perspiring with unease; his hands were clasped in his lap beneath the table, which had been hastily cleared of its clutter in one sweep of Orwen's arm. Broken crockery and nameless implements littered the floor, but new bowls and platters were now set before them, full of steaming stew; Fflewddur and Gurgi exclaimed in delight and fell to reckless eating at once, as though they'd completely forgotten the danger they'd been so cognizant of outside.

Eilonwy leaned over the bowl before her, recalling that they had eaten nothing but the tasteless contents of Gurgi's wallet for days. Her stomach growled. She smelled no magic from this at least—notable, in a place where everything was so redolent with it! But should they trust anything these creatures offered them? Dare she test it? Dare she not?

She glanced up; the crones were all gathered at one end of the table, whispering and nudging one another. Taran looked at her anxiously as she murmured a few words of an elementary scrying spell. Nothing revealed itself in the bowl, but Orddu broke off whispering and her sharp, glittering gaze turned toward them in a twinkling, fastening knowingly upon her. Eilonwy gulped and picked up a spoon. "Don't be afraid to eat," she whispered, leaning toward Taran. "We might not have another chance for a while. It's perfectly all right, not the least bit poisonous or enchanted."

He gazed into his bowl, radiating doubt. "How can you tell?"

"I did learn a few things from Achren," she whispered ruefully. "And she was always on her guard against such things, for a lot of good reasons. What you do is…"

"Now, my sparrow!" Orddu had moved to the head of the table and seated herself. She propped her elbows upon the aged wood and leaned forward eagerly. "You must tell us all about dear little Dallben. What is he doing? Does he still have the Book of Three?"

Eilonwy stared, and Taran caught her eye again, silently communicating his own startled state. "Well…" he stammered, "yes…yes, he does."

The witches all cooed affectionately, and Orddu clucked her tongue, shaking her head. "Poor little robin. Such a heavy book. I'm surprised he would even be able to turn the pages."

Taran had ventured to take a single bite of his stew, but at this he choked upon it, and coughed violently. Orwen hurried over and whacked his back, crooning as though to a small child. He squirmed to get away from her, finally gasping out, "Uh, well, you see…the Dallben that we know, he…he isn't little. I mean…he's rather…elderly."

"Elderly!" Fflewddur exclaimed. He had frozen with his spoon halfway to his mouth at the beginning of the conversation, as though suddenly awakened from some spell and only then realizing their predicament. Now he stared around indignantly. "He's every bit of three hundred and eighty years old! Coll himself told me."

The women continued murmuring as though they had not heard. "He was such a dear, sweet little thing," sighed Orddu wistfully, "all pink cheeks and chubby fingers."

A gurgling noise came from Orgoch's hood, and then a dark, drawling purr. "I love babies."

What, Eilonwy thought suddenly, is in this stew? She laid her spoon down, feeling ill, and Taran, who had turned rather green, did the same. "His…" he gulped, his voice cracking in a way Eilonwy had not heard in months. "His hair is quite gray. And…he has a beard, too."

The women goggled at this. "A beard!" Orddu repeated blankly. "What's little Dallben doing with a beard? Why in the world should he want such a thing? Such a charming little tadpole!"

An image of a tadpole with a beard popped into Eilonwy's mind. She covered her mouth with her hand, though whether she was about to burst into hysterical laughter or be violently sick was anyone's guess. The magic both beat upon her mind and swathed her in warmth, a gentle assault like a battering ram cushioned in goose feathers. If she stayed here much longer she'd forget her own name. Perhaps that was how they turned people into things. If you could no longer remember what you were, a toad was as good a suggestion as any other.

Orwen was clutching her arms across her bosom as though she cradled an infant. "We found him in the marsh one morning," she sang, "all by himself in a great wicker basket. It was too sweet for words. Orgoch, of course…"

Orgoch made a noise like a snarl and Fflewddur, who was nearest her, dropped his spoon, blurting out an oath Eilonwy had never heard him use as it clattered to the table. Orddu clucked disapprovingly. "Come now, dear Orgoch, don't be so disagreeable. We're all friends together here; we can talk about such things now."

Orgoch regarded her in stony silence and she sighed. "Well, I'll put it this way and spare Orgoch's feelings. She didn't want to keep him. That is, not in the usual sense. But we did, Orwen and I. And so we brought the poor fledgling to the cottage."

"He grew very quickly," Orwen put in. "It was no time before he was toddling around, and talking, and doing little errands. So kind and polite. A perfect joy." She clasped her hands, looking around the chamber wistfully. "Oh, I can almost see him! Don't you remember, Orddu, how he'd sit in his own wee chair just there, and chatter away while we worked!"

"Indeed I do," Orddu affirmed, looking fondly in the direction indicated. "He was so full of charming thoughts. And clever, too. He could always find the things we'd lost. I suppose when one's eyes are so near the ground, it might be easier to see the things that roll away. I miss him every time I lay my shears down and they disappear."

Orwen fluttered her hands rapturously. "And how the dear little sparrow could sing!"

"Sing?" Taran and Fflewddur both gasped.

"Oh, like a skylark!" Orwen enthused. "And such a darling laugh. He loved his bath so, you know, and whenever Orgoch came near he'd splash her like anything and then giggle until he gave himself hiccups."

"A delicious laugh," Orgoch muttered.

"And you say he has a beard?" Orwen said, shaking her head in consternation. "Curious notion. Wherever did he find it?"

"A delightful little sparrow indeed," Orddu broke in, before they could speculate, "but then there was that distressing accident."

There was a collective sigh from the old women, and then a significant silence. Taran and Eilonwy exchanged glances, and Taran stammered, "What…sort of accident?"

Orddu motioned toward a large copper kettle hanging from a rafter. "We were brewing some herbs one morning, a rather special potion."

"And sweet little Dallben was stirring the kettle for us," Orwen sighed. "It was one of those kind, thoughtful things he was always doing. But when it came to a boil, some of it bubbled up and splashed out."

"It burned his poor dear fingers," said Orddu, "but he didn't cry, no indeed. He just popped his fingers into his mouth, the brave little starling. Of course, some of the potion was still there, and he swallowed it."

"As soon as he did that," said Orwen, "he knew every bit as much as we did. It was a magical brew, you understand, a recipe for wisdom."

Eilonwy sat back, pondering this in wonder. So that was it! Not only had Dallben spent his earliest years immersed in magic —wrapped in it, here, practically breathing it! —he'd been worked upon from the inside, too. How careless to allow a mere child to handle such a potion! Almost as if…she frowned to herself. As if they'd wanted something of the kind to happen to him.

Orddu was shaking her head sagely. "After that," she murmured, in a satisfied sort of tone, "it was out of the question to keep him with us. It would never have been the same; no, it would never have done at all; you can't have that many people knowing that much all under the same roof. Especially since he was able to guess some of the things Orgoch had in mind."

They all glanced at Orgoch, who snorted, and wiped something from her chin. "And so we had to let him go," Orddu continued, looking away again with a grimace. "Really let him go, that is. Orgoch, by this time, was the one who wanted to keep him…in her own fashion, which I doubt he would have liked."

"He would have been a sweet little thing," grunted Orgoch.

"But I must say we did quite handsomely by him," said Orddu. "We gave him his choice of a harp, a sword, or the Book of Three. Had he chosen the harp, he could have been the greatest bard in the world; the sword and the dear duckling could have ruled all Prydain. But he chose the Book of Three." She shrugged. "And to tell the truth, we were just as happy that he did, for it was heavy and moldy and did nothing but gather dust. And so he left to make his way in the world, and that was the last we saw of him."

For all their affectionate exclamations, she did not sound regretful, and might have been talking about a thing that had happened yesterday instead of centuries ago. Indeed, her tone convinced Eilonwy even more that the circumstances had been deliberate. These creatures may not have force-fed Dallben a magic potion and shoved the Book of Three into his hands, but they had set things up just so, like a player at a game board, and then waited for the outcome. They had known.

But then how hadn't they known what he had become since then? It was as though they knew nothing of the passing of time, or how people aged…but that was silly; weren't they aged, themselves? Oh, she couldn't think in here…too much magic, so much confusion; how did they even hear one another?

Fflewddur murmured something to Taran and the boy shook his head dazedly, but Eilonwy saw him sit up straight and gulp, in the manner he did when gathering up his courage. "Dallben has been my master for as long as I can remember," he said. "If you are as fond of him as I…"

"Oh, we love him dearly, the sweet thing," said Orddu, "you can be sure of that."

"Then I beg you," Taran said, "to help us carry out his wishes. And the wishes of Gwydion, Prince of Don. We're on a mission, you see—one laid upon us by Dallben himself, at a council held under his headship only days ago."

"A council!" Orddu exclaimed. "Little Dallben with a beard and a council, too! Whatever can he want with such cumbersome things?"

Taran blinked, his thoughts shoved off-course, and Eilonwy could see him struggling to stay on the point as, with several more interruptions from the enchantresses, he explained their quest, their meeting with Gwystyl, their pursuit of Ellidyr. Had the prince come here before them?

"A Son of Pen-Llarcau?" Orddu repeated, shaking her head. "No, my duck, there's been no such person anywhere near. If he'd come across the Marshes, we'd have been bound to see him."

"We have such a lovely view of the fens from the hilltop," Orwen gushed, as one might speak of a wildflower meadow outside one's window. "You must come and enjoy it! Indeed, you're perfectly welcome to stay as long as you want. Now that little Dallben's gone, and found himself a beard, too, the place isn't half as cheery as it used to be. We wouldn't change you into toads." She glanced a question at Orddu. "Unless you insisted on it."

Orgoch leered. "Stay, by all means."

Taran's mouth was settling into familiar, stubborn lines. "Our task is to regain the cauldron," he said. "From what Gwystyl told us…"

Orddu interrupted him, her black eyes mocking. "You said his crow told you, my lamb. Don't believe everything you hear from a crow."

Taran hesitated, but his stare was shrewd. "Doli of the Fair Folk believed him. Do you tell me that you have no cauldron? I ask you this in the name of Dallben himself."

Clever, Eilonwy thought…if these creatures had any sense of loyalty at all, which was solidly in question. But their attachment to Dallben was the only advantage available.

Orddu grinned. "Cauldron! Why, goodness, we have dozens. Cauldrons, kettles, cook pots — we can hardly keep track of them all."

To his credit, Taran betrayed no exasperation at this game. "I speak of the cauldron of Annuvin," he said, "the cauldron of Arawn and his deathless warriors."

All three of the witches laughed at this—cackling from Orddu, giggling from Orwen, a snort of derision from Orgoch—a discordant chorus of disquieting mirth. Eilonwy's scalp crinkled, and she felt Taran lean toward her unconsciously. "Oh," Orddu exclaimed, "you must mean the Black Crochan."

Taran glanced at his companions uneasily. "I do not know its name, but that may be the one we seek."

Orwen looked a little petulant. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer one of the others? They're so much more attractive than that old thing. Not to mention more practical. What use have you for Cauldron-Born? Dreadful creatures; they would only be a nuisance. We can give you a kettle to brew the most marvelous sleeping potions, or one you can sprinkle on daffodils to take away that bilious yellow."

Taran shook his head. "Our concern is with the Black Crochan. Will you not tell me the truth? Is the cauldron here?"

"Of course it's here," Orddu answered. "Why not, since it was ours to begin with, and always has been!"

"Yours?" Taran cried. "Then Arawn stole it from you?"

Orddu looked thoughtfully reminiscent. "Stole? Not exactly. No, we couldn't say it was stolen."

Eilonwy frowned, horrified at the implications. "But you couldn't have given it to Arawn. Not knowing what he meant to use it for!"

"Now, now, my cygnet," Orddu said calmly, holding up a hand and closing her eyes; she looked, for a moment, oddly like Dallben when he was meditating. "Even Arawn had to be allowed to have his chance. One day you'll understand why. For there is a destiny laid on everything; on big, ugly Crochans as well as poor little ducklings, and a destiny laid even on us." Her eyes opened again, glinting. "But give? Oh, no. We never give anything away—goodness, can you imagine? We'd never know a moment's peace. No." Her keen gaze grew faraway, and her wrinkled mouth drew back in a grim smile. "Arawn paid dearly for the use of it. Very dearly indeed, you can be sure. The details, my duckling, are of a private nature which does not concern you."

"I should think not," Eilonwy muttered, with a shudder.

Orddu focused on her again, became brisk. "In any case, the Crochan was not to be his forever."

"He swore to return it after a certain time," Orwen added, "but when the time came, he broke his oath to us, as might be expected."

Orgoch sniffed. "Ill-advised."

"And since he wouldn't give it back, what else could we do?" Orddu demanded. "We went and took it."

Fflewddur gaped. "Great Belin. You three ladies ventured into the heart of Annuvin and carried the thing out? How did you ever manage?"

Eilonwy glanced at him in some bemusement. For a man made so uneasy by magic, he seemed to have little idea of its scope. But the witches smiled upon him tolerantly. "There are a number of ways, my curious sparrow," Orddu answered. "We could have flooded Annuvin with darkness and floated the cauldron out. We could have put all the guards to sleep. Or we could have turned ourselves into—well, no matter—let us say we could have used a variety of methods. In any case, the cauldron is here again. And here it will stay."

Taran made a startled movement, and she raised her palm to him. "No, no. I can see you'd like to have it, but that's out of the question. Much too dangerous for wandering chicks like you. My goodness, we shouldn't sleep at night. No, not even for the sake of little Dallben."

The companions all began to protest, and Orddu cut them off, an ominous note in her voice. "In fact, you'd be much safer being toads than having anything to do with the Black Crochan. Better yet, we could change you into birds and have you fly back to Caer Dallben immediately."

The tone of the whole room had shifted, become ominous and forbidding. The magic around them seemed to swell, pressing in upon them, squeezing as though to force them out. Orddu rose from her chair and took Taran by the shoulders, lifting him effortlessly from his seat and guiding him toward the door. "No indeed," she said, "Off you ducklings must go, and never give a second thought to the Crochan. Tell dear little Dallben and Prince Gwydion we're terribly sorry, and if there's anything else we can possibly do…But not that. Oh, my, no."

Eilonwy found herself being similarly hustled from her seat by Orwen, who in spite of her small stature somehow contrived to seem imposing as she interposed herself in every direction but the one toward the door. Fflewddur was being assailed by Orgoch, and Gurgi stood not upon ceremony. In great dismay at this turn of events, he beat them all to the door of the cottage.

"You may sleep in the shed tonight, my chickens," Orddu told them as they tumbled outside. "Then, first thing in the morning, away with you to little Dallben. And you shall decide whether you'd rather go on your legs," she added, with no trace of a smile, "or on a pair of your own wings."

It was Orgoch who now smiled—a horrible smile beneath the shadow of her hood. "Or hopping all the way," she croaked, just before the cottage door slammed shut, leaving them standing bewildered and forlorn in the dead scrub and chill, dank wind outside.


This chapter was, if anything, even MORE of a challenge than the last, thanks to the rapid-fire dialog of the witches here, who chatter so on top of one another that you can barely tell which one of them is speaking, which is exactly what Lloyd intended, I'm sure. I had to just write out the whole thing and then go back to find small spaces to insert Eilonwy's impressions. It is, despite my adjustments, still an overwhelmingly humorous scene to me - perhaps because the O-trio always seem to be enjoying themselves, whether they are making threats or gushing like teen girls. The idea that they had deliberately set Dallben on his path to Most Magical Enchanter Ever really didn't occur to me until the moment I wrote this, and then it seemed so obvious I wondered why it never had. Fates gonna fate, even in their own home.