Eventually, she must have slept, for the next thing she knew, she was being shaken awake by Taran. He was agitated, turning and shaking Fflewddur in turn, sputtering in a rough whisper, "Wake up! Come —it's the most—I saw them! In the cottage, but they're not—they aren't the same ones at all!"
Eilonwy sat up, blinking blearily. "What do you mean?" she said, muffling a yawn. "Are you sure you didn't stumble on a different cottage?"
Taran scowled in desperation. "Of course I didn't! If you don't believe me, go and look for yourself. They aren't the same! There are three of them, but they're…they're just…different! One was carding wool, one was spinning, and the third was weaving."
Eilonwy and Fflewddur exchanged puzzled frowns. "I suppose, really," said the bard, "it passes the time for them. There's little enough to do in the middle of these dismal bogs."
Taran groaned, "No, not that! I mean they're changed! Come and see!"
"I shall indeed have to see," Eilonwy sighed, scrambling up and shaking straw from her cloak. "There's nothing so strange about weaving, but beyond that, I can't make any sense of what you say."
Fflewddur and Gurgi rose likewise, and they followed Taran from the shed. Night had fallen, and candlelight flickered from the crack of a window shutter. Taran motioned to peek through it; Eilonwy stepped forward and set her eye to the stream of light.
Within the little cottage, three figures moved. But they were not the bent, wizened old crones she expected. Instead, she found she was gaping at tall, slender figures with faces almost aglow with loveliness. They moved as gracefully as a dance, their shimmering robes shifting colors in the warm light. Long, unbound hair, jewel-studded in one case, obscured by a black hood in another, tumbled over their smooth shoulders. One wore a necklace of milky white stones. It was the three enchantresses! But… "They're beautiful!" she gasped.
"They're what, now?" Fflewddur exclaimed, and she moved aside while he took a turn at the crack. He was silent in awestruck surprise for a moment and then stood back, shaking his head. "I've heard of hags trying to disguise themselves as beautiful maidens," he murmured, "but I've never heard of beautiful maidens wanting to disguise themselves as hags. It isn't natural, and I don't mind telling you it makes me edgy." He hesitated, creasing his brow, as though trying hard to remember something. "Strange. I feel almost as though I…no, impossible. Never mind. I think we'd better seize the cauldron and be gone."
Taran nodded. "I don't know who they are, but I fear they are more powerful than we could even guess. Somehow we've fallen on something—I don't know what, and it troubles me." He shivered and backed away from the cottage. "Yes, we must take the cauldron as soon as we can, but we should wait until they're asleep."
"If they sleep," Fflewddur grunted. "Now that I've seen this, nothing would surprise me, not even if they hung from their toes all night, like bats."
They stole back to the shed, and Fflewddur turned to Taran. "See here, you've not slept at all, I'd wager. I'll keep watch to see when their light goes out; the two of you get some more rest."
Taran looked ready to argue, but at a raised eyebrow from the bard, seemed to resign himself. "All right. But not for too long. We can watch by turns. Wake me in a bit."
"Wake me," Eilonwy put in firmly. "I've had a rest, and you haven't." Once again the boy looked disgruntled and took a breath, but she shook her head at him. "No, don't argue. You need sleep as much as any of us. It's that brooch making you think you don't; magic does that to you, but it's draining you all the time and when it finally catches up to you, you'll be half-dead. I know."
Taran blinked as though surprised, and fingered the brooch, looking at her with a glimmering of new understanding. "Is this…" he muttered, "…how you feel? All the time?"
She settled in the straw again, motioning for him to do the same. "I don't know," she admitted. "I don't think it can be nearly the same, because the way you've described it sounds marvelous. And using magic has never felt good to me, though it's begun to be less unpleasant recently. Sometimes." She twisted a wisp of straw in her fingers, thinking of the smooth sweetness of the river, the satisfying sharpness of Gwystyl's fire. "But I do know the way magic —even the good sort — burns me up on the inside and makes it hard to be still or quiet my thoughts. And I know how tired I am afterwards. You think, at the time, that you're using it, but it often feels later that it's been using you."
Taran picked at the straw with a troubled expression. "You've never spoken of this."
Eilonwy shrugged. "There's never been a reason. And perhaps there's nothing to worry about. Maybe that brooch gives you boundless energy as well as prophetic dreams and magical wisdom, and takes nothing at all from you for it. But if it does," she added dryly, "it would be the first thing of the kind I ever heard of. Now, lie down and shut your eyes, or I'll tie a sack over your head."
He gave her a wan half-smile at this insincere threat, which was probably the best she could hope for, and did as ordered. Gurgi curled next to him, resting his gray head on the boy's knee, and Taran absently reached down and scratched his ears. Satisfied, Eilonwy burrowed into her cloak.
"Do you think," he mumbled presently, "that's how it is for Dallben?"
She shivered. "I wonder. If this is what he grew up amidst, who knows what it's like for him? Perhaps he was so soaked in magic that it's the ordinary world that exhausts him."
"That would explain all the meditating," Taran murmured, with his first hint of humor in days, and she smiled to herself. "It's odd, you know," he went on, "I never even wondered about where he came from, or how he became what he is. He's always just been."
"I know what you mean," she said. "It's like trying to imagine what a mountain was before it grew up."
"I wonder why he's never spoken of them."
"So do I. Taran…I think they meant for him to swallow that potion."
He said nothing to this, but she read his disquiet. They spoke no more. When she finally slept, her dreams were dark.
It seemed only moments later that Fflewddur was gently nudging her. "I keep nodding off," he whispered apologetically, "and that blinkered candle of theirs is still burning. It's been hours. You'd think they'd done enough wool for one night! Can you manage a bit?"
Eilonwy nodded, glancing at Taran, glad to see he seemed to be really asleep. She took Fflewddur's place at the door and fixed her eyes on the glowing patch of window, shook off her weariness by casting her mind toward it. But she could sense nothing whatever from the inside of the cottage, and was struck once more by the notion that its interior existed in a completely different place than the rest of the world.
Again she wondered at the nature of the three…women? Witches? Whatever they were. Such power as they seemed to possess should be sufficient to keep the cauldron safe, if only they could be trusted with it. They themselves seemed to have no interest in using it, but…look what they'd done with it! Arawn "had to have his chance"—indeed! What would keep them from handing it over to another wicked individual for the same reason? She chewed her lip anxiously. No, the thing must be destroyed, put out of reach of anyone, permanently and as soon as they could. Certainly, they would not be able to travel with it quickly, and goodness knew what these creatures would do, or send after them, once they discovered it missing; their only hope was to destroy it right away, and then face whatever wrath the act brought.
The night wore on, stars swinging overhead, and still the candle burned. At last she heard Taran stirring, a rustle of straw as he rose and came to stand near her. She felt his dismay before he groaned, "It's nearly morning! I fear it is as Fflewddur said: they must never sleep."
But at that moment, the light flicked out, and Eilonwy almost squeaked in surprise.
Taran gripped her arm. "Hush!—they'll need time to fall asleep. We must wait a bit longer —let's get the others up, ready to move as soon as we know."
By the time all were awake and stretching the sleep from their limbs, loud snoring was rumbling from the cottage. Taran cautiously directed everyone out of the shed, and they stole across the yard in the dim light of false dawn.
They crept into the chicken roost once more. It was worse, by darkness; the horror of the cauldron filled the space, a thing Eilonwy could feel even without seeing it. Her trembling hands groped for her bauble, and its warm, comforting light pushed back the sense of dread, even as it made the object of it visible.
Taran was pale but resolute as he approached the Crochan. He swallowed and reached for its handle, and Eilonwy almost cried out as his hand closed over it, something deep in her heart protesting his touching a thing whose essence was so opposed to his own. And yet they all must touch it, if they were to take it.
"Hurry now," Taran said, as they approached the sides of the cauldron. "Fflewddur and Eilonwy, pick up those rings, and Gurgi, lift the other side. We'll haul it out and rope it to the horses."
She wanted to retch as she forced herself to follow his command, pocketing her bauble and reaching for the ring. The iron was ice-cold in her palms, and scraped itself in its socket with a noise like a groan of pain as she lifted it. Across from her, Fflewddur's face was almost green, and he looked…but she turned her eyes downward, unable to bear how he looked.
"Ready?" Taran said. "All lift together—now!"
They heaved —an expulsion of effort whose utter uselessness brought them all up with a jerk. Taran nearly stumbled. The cauldron sat immobile, mocking.
"Heavier than I thought," Taran panted. "Try again."
Eilonwy made to adjust her grip. Her hands would not move. They gripped the iron ring as though forged of a single piece with it. She stared at them in a moment of frozen, dreadful confusion.
"I say," Fflewddur said anxiously, "I seem to be caught on something."
Panic flooded her, raw and frigid; Eilonwy jerked at her hands until her wrists protested. "So am I!"
A howl arose from Gurgi, similarly affected. A trap—it was a trap! Eilonwy choked on a sob as she flung all her weight away from the cauldron, her grip held fast by invisible bands of ice. The thing was enchanted—how had she not sensed it, thought of this possibility? She should have known it wouldn't be this easy; should have guessed the enchantresses wouldn't be so simple as to leave it unguarded! Her companions struggled and fought in vain; Taran was sobbing, nearly battering himself against the iron sides—a thing she might have prevented if she'd just thought! And now…
Now! Now they were fused to this thing of torture and death, this instrument of terror—would they die here like this?
No. No, please, not like this! The horror of it seized her mind and strength; the cold of the cauldron seemed to spread from her hands into her arms, into her chest; its icy claws flared to reach her heart. She stumbled to her knees, gasping, her hands still stuck fast to the ring.
And then, cutting through the darkness—a tingling burst of magic, no less frightening in its way. She jerked her face up to meet it, and beheld the lumpy shape of an old hag standing in the coop entrance, a sputtering candle in her hands.
"It's Orddu!" Fflewddur cried. "We'll be toads for sure!"
The dim figure raised the candle overhead, its ghostly light illuminating not only Orddu, but Orwen and Orgoch stepping in behind her. They were all sleep-rumpled, dressed in tattered night robes, their hair once again tangling about their shoulders in shades of lank gray. Only their jewelry, and Orgoch's hooded face, connected them to the fair maidens of the past night.
Orddu clapped her gnarled hand to her cheek. "Oh, the poor lambs!" she cried. "What have they gone and done? We tried to warn them about the nasty Crochan, but the headstrong little goslings wouldn't listen! My, oh my, now they've got their little fingers caught!"
Orgoch pushed past her impatiently, eyes glittering ravenous upon each of them. "Don't you think we should start the fire?" she whispered eagerly.
"Oh, do be silent, Orgoch," Orddu snapped. "What a dreadful thought. It's much too early for breakfast."
"Never too early," Orgoch retorted, but Orddu ignored her.
"Look at them," she cooed. "They're so charming when they're frightened. Like birdlings without their feathers."
Taran found his voice. "You tricked us, Orddu! You knew we'd find the cauldron and you knew what would happen!"
In a flash of intuition, Eilonwy saw, in her mind's eye, a splash of viscous liquid upon small fingers, the moment a pair of rosy lips closed upon them. They know, she thought, heart hammering. They always know…always scheming one step ahead. Why?
"Why, of course we did, my chicken," Orddu clucked sweetly. "We were only curious to find out what you'd do when you did find it. And now you've found it, and now we know!"
"Kill us if you choose, you evil hags!" Taran spat back, still throwing himself against the iron pot in vain. "Yes, we would have stolen the cauldron and destroyed it! And so shall I try again, as long as I live!"
Orwen giggled and leaned toward Orddu. "I love to see them get angry, don't you?"
Orddu tsked briskly. "Do take care, or you'll harm yourself with all that thrashing about. We forgive you for calling us hags. You're upset, poor chicken, and liable to say anything."
"You evil creatures!" Taran cried. "Do with us what you will, but sooner or later you shall be overcome. Gwydion shall learn of our fate. And Dallben…"
"Yes, yes!" Gurgi yelped. "They will find us, oh yes! With great fightings and smiting!"
Orddu laid her hands over her heart, like an indulgent parent mildly hurt over some slight. "Oh my dear pullets," she said, "you still don't understand, do you? Evil? Why, bless your little thumping hearts, we aren't evil."
"I should hardly call this 'good'," muttered Fflewddur. "Not, at least, from a personal point of view."
"Of course not," said the crone, with an airy wave of her hand. "We are neither good nor evil. We're simply interested in things as they are. And things as they are, at the moment, seem to be that you're caught by the Crochan."
"And you don't care!" Eilonwy cried. "That's worse than being evil!"
Orwen fluttered near, and reached out to stroke her hair. "Certainly we care, my dear. It's that we don't care in quite the same way you do. Or rather care isn't really a feeling we can have."
"Come now," said Orddu, "don't trouble your thoughts with such matters. We've been talking and talking and we have some pleasant news for you. Bring the cauldron outdoors—it's so stuffy and eggy in here—and we shall tell you. Go ahead, you can lift it now."
They looked doubtfully at one another, but Taran pushed at the cauldron and it moved beneath their hands. Eilonwy found she could free her grip from the ring. It was a relief, albeit temporary; she had to readjust and lift again as Taran directed them out.
The thing was heavy, even with all four of them dragging it, and she was sweating despite the chill by the time they had moved it into the yard. They set it on its squat legs and then, almost as one, backed away from it as if repelled.
Orddu watched them all with glittering eyes. "Now, as I was saying," she said briskly, "we've talked it over and we agree—even Orgoch agrees—that you shall have the Crochan if you truly want it."
They all gaped at her in disbelief. No, Eilonwy thought, no. It's a trick. Another trap. But Taran was already answering.
"You'll let us take it?" he exclaimed. "After all you've done?"
Orddu smiled complacently. "Quite so. It's useless, you see—except for making Cauldron-Born. It used to be quite a different sort of thing! But Arawn has spoiled it for anything else, as you might imagine. It's sad it should be so, but that's the way things are." She shrugged. "I assure you, Cauldron-Born are the last creatures in the world we should want around here. We've decided the Crochan is nothing but a bother to us. And since you're friends of Dallben…"
"You're giving it to us?" Taran gasped.
Fflewddur sighed in relief. "Delighted to oblige you ladies."
The snapping black eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Gently, gently, my ducklings. Give you the Crochan? Oh, goodness, no. We never give anything."
She stepped toward them, and the other two followed her…like wolves, Eilonwy thought, surrounding a drove of hares. A trap. I knew it. She tried to cry a warning, but no words came.
"Only what is worth earning," Orddu continued, "is worth having. But we shall allow you the opportunity to buy it."
Taran froze, uncertain. "I…" he stammered, "…but we…we have no treasures to bargain with. Alas that we do not."
"Oh, well," Orddu acknowledged, waving a dismissive hand, "we couldn't expect you to pay as much as Arawn did. But we're sure you can find something to offer in exchange. Oh, shall we say…the North Wind in a bag?"
They stared, stupefied at this outlandish suggestion. "The North Wind?" Taran said. "But…that's impossible. How could you ever dream…?"
Orddu shrugged. "Oh, very well, we shan't be difficult. The South Wind, then. It's much gentler."
Taran clenched his fists. "You make sport of us! The price you ask is beyond what any of us can pay."
The woman blinked at him for a moment, as though genuinely puzzled. "Hm. Perhaps you're right. Well, then, something a little more personal. I have it!" She clapped her hands once sharply, her lumpy face breaking into a wide smile. "Give us—give us the nicest summer day you can remember! You can't say that's hard, since it belongs to you!"
"Oh, yes," Orwen added enthusiastically, "a lovely summer afternoon full of sunlight and sleepy scents!"
Orgoch made an unpleasant sucking sound against her teeth. "There's nothing so sweet as a tender young lamb's summer afternoon."
Once again, they gaped, and then glanced at one another in consternation. Taran, catching Eilonwy's eye, sent a silent, bewildered question at her; she returned it with a frown and shake of her head. No, I don't know what they mean. Were such requests made in earnest? Did the women really think these fulfillments were possible? Or were the enchantresses merely toying with them?
"How can I give you that?" Taran protested. "Or any other day, when they're—they're inside me somewhere! You can't get them out! I mean…"
Orgoch snorted. "We could try."
"Very well, my goslings," Orddu sighed. "We've made our suggestions and we're willing to listen to yours. But mind you, if it's to be a fair exchange, it must be something you prize as much as the Crochan."
Taran hesitated for a moment, and then took a step forward. "I prize my sword. It is a gift from Dallben, and the first blade that is truly mine. But for the Crochan I would gladly part with it." He began to unbuckle his belt.
"Oh, no," Orddu sighed, shaking her head. "Goodness, no, my duck. No swords. We already have so many—too many, in fact, some of them famous weapons from mighty warriors."
His hands stilled, Taran glanced around desperately. "Then…I offer you…Lluagor," he finished, as his eye fell upon the mare. "She is a noble animal."
Orddu frowned and Taran gulped. "Or…there is my horse, Melynlas, a colt of Melyngar, Prince Gwydion's own steed. None is faster or more surefooted. I treasure Melynlas beyond all others."
The women mumbled to each other, and Orddu said decidedly. "Not horses, that won't do at all. Such a bother feeding them and caring for them. Besides, with Orgoch it's difficult to keep pets about."
Taran went pale; his hand clutched the brooch at his throat and Eilonwy held her breath, but before he had stammered out his next intention, Gurgi scrambled up from behind him, waving his wallet frantically.
"No, no!" the creature cried. "Take Gurgi's own great treasure! Take bag of crunchings and munchings!"
"Not food," Orddu said. "That won't do, either. The only one of us who has the slightest interest in food is Orgoch. And I'm sure your wallet holds nothing to tempt her."
Gurgi's ears dropped. His head bent low, in disbelief that so great a treasure should be refused. "But it is all poor Gurgi has to give," he insisted, and held out the wallet beseechingly. Orddu smiled, not without a certain touch of pity, and shook her head.
Cruel creatures! Eilonwy fumed silently, tears welling in her eyes. If they only knew how precious that object was to him! If worth could be measured by the heart of him who offered it, then Gurgi might as well have handed them the moon itself — he, the wretched creature, willing to give up the first gift he'd ever been given, an occasion that had marked him as worthy as the humans he adored! And he was willing to do it, she knew, not to buy some horrid cauldron that terrified him, but to save Taran from making a harder sacrifice. Oh, if they could only see its worth! Not the wallet itself, but the devotion in its offering!
And that being so, she could do no less. "You must like jewelry," Eilonwy said aloud, and felt all the eyes of both parties turn to her at once. Before she could think too hard, she pulled the moonstone ring from her finger and held it out to Orddu. "This is a lovely thing. Prince Gwydion gave it to me last year. See the stone? That was carved by the Fair Folk."
The gnarled fingers dug into her palm, and Orddu held the ring up to examine. "Lovely," she crooned, "lovely, yes, so pretty. Almost as pretty as you, my lamb, but…so much older. No, I'm afraid not. We have a number of them, too, and we really don't want any more. Keep it, my chick." Her iris suddenly snapped into focus within the golden circle, staring at Eilonwy through it, so hard that the girl felt an uncomfortable jolt of unfamiliar, probing magic that came and went in a flash. "Hm. One day you may find some use for it," Orddu said, her voice oddly declarative, black eyes a-glitter with some secret amusement, as she handed the ring back, "but we surely won't."
Eilonwy slid the ring back onto her finger, for lack of anywhere else to put it; she suddenly felt rather ambivalent toward it. Mouth dry, she reached into her pocket and drew out her bauble. "I do have something else I treasure," she said slowly, angry at her voice for wavering, at her hands for trembling. "Here."
Don't think about it. Just do it. The light flickered and glowed in her hands, in utter disregard of her lack of conviction. "It's much better than just a light," she said, holding it up. "You see things differently in it, clearer, somehow. It's very useful." And it was my mother's, she thought, in spite of her resolve, my mother's, and she was an enchantress of Llyr, and it's all I have of her…but something rose up and choked out her voice, and she could only wait silently.
The three all stood silent for a moment, and she felt a strange sense of…of…reverence, as though everyone had bowed to everyone else while her back was turned and she'd only just missed it. "Indeed," Orddu said gently, "beautiful and old, so very old. Imagine, such a bright little sun in the hands of an owlet like you! It's a fine thing, and very sweet of you to offer it to us, but there again, it's something we don't really need."
Eilonwy swallowed, pushed down the tears jumping to her eyes, and cupped the light, trying not to show her relief; she reached for her pendant, but Fflewddur jumped forward.
"Ladies, ladies!" he crooned, in his most affable tone; they all looked at him in amazement at his sudden confidence. "You've overlooked a most excellent bargain!" Quickly he unslung the harp from his back and set the case on the ground. "I quite understand that bags of food and all such couldn't possibly interest you! But I ask you to consider…this harp!"
With a theatrical flourish, he slid the instrument out and displayed it proudly, turning it side to side for all to admire. "You're alone in this gloomy fen," he said, "and a little music should be just the thing. This harp almost plays of itself."
He plunked himself down upon a rotten log and put the instrument to his shoulder, touching the strings gently. "You see, there's nothing to it!" A melody quivered out, a song like the sparkling ripples on water, like sunlight on the waving grass, like warm breezes through an open window. There, Eilonwy thought, is your Summer day!
For a moment it seemed the crones thought so too; they all listened, their faces dreamy as though lost in time, and even Orgoch's harsh breathing softened a little. "Oh," Orwen sighed aloud, "it is nice! Think of the songs we could sing to keep ourselves company."
They all held their breath as Orddu leaned over to look closely at the harp. "I notice a good many of the strings are badly knotted. Has the weather got into them?"
The bard's fingers stilled on the strings as he fumbled a note, his flamboyance deflating in an instant. "Uh…no. Not exactly the weather." He took a deep breath, his cheeks coloring. "With me, they tend to break frequently. But only when I—only when I color the facts a bit. But I'm sure you ladies wouldn't have that kind of trouble."
The women glanced at each other knowingly, amusement writ clear on their wrinkled faces. "I can understand why you should prize it," Orddu said briskly, "but if we want music, we can always send for a few birds. No, all things considered, it would be a nuisance, keeping it in tune and so on."
"Are you certain you have nothing else?" Orwen piped.
Fflewddur slid the harp back into its case reluctantly. "That's all. Everything. Unless you want the cloaks off our backs."
"Oh, bless you, no!" Orddu exclaimed. "Though it's very like you to offer, my duck." Orwen nudged her, giggling, and Orddu joined her inexplicably, cackling at some private joke, while Orgoch snorted at their mirth, crossing her arms. "It wouldn't be proper in the least for you to go without them," she continued at last. "You'd perish in the cold—and what good would the Crochan be to you then?
She took a final shrewd look around their circle and shook her head. "Oh, dear, I'm terribly sorry, my chicks. It does seem you have nothing to interest us. Very well. We shall keep the Crochan, and you shall be on your way."
And the enchantresses turned, as one, toward their cottage.
Another section where I had to navigate around the ladies' constant chatter - they're exhausting! There are a few more subtle references here to Zosia's Fflewddur backstory I mentioned in the last chapter, so if you're confused about the witches' inside jokes, go read it, or at least the first chapter! A minor spoiler, as an explanation: this is not the first time he's met these ladies, but he doesn't remember, for various reasons we speculated about. I went with the idea that encounters with this trio can be a little like dreams: things that fade over time and become very hazy, eventually disappearing entirely unless something triggers your memory.)
