Taran wondered if any other king in all of Prydain's history had ever given a bath to a pig—let alone, a formerly oracular pig. There was certainly no mention of anything like that happening in The Book of Three. Oh, it mentioned plenty of heroes who had humble origins like his own—stories that, years ago, had captured his youthful longings for greatness. He didn't recall a single one of those heroes continuing to do menial chores once they had risen in rank, however. Yet there he was, High King of Prydain, heading over to Hen Wen's enclosure with wash bucket in hand. His status and title had altered in an instant, but he himself could not change so quickly; he was still far more Assistant Pig-Keeper at heart. And at the moment, that heart craved the familiarity of old tasks.
Besides, Hen Wen needed a bath. If she was so dirty before their upcoming journey to Caer Dathyl, he couldn't imagine how much filthier she would be after weeks of travel. If he was going to earn odd looks for ascending the throne with a white pig in tow, it might as well be a clean pig.
As he slipped through the gate, she trotted up to greet him, grunting and snuffling happily. Her piglets followed close behind, but she nudged them aside to make room for her caretaker. Just beyond the far corner of the pen he noticed her mate, the semi-wild black boar, had wandered up for a visit. Taran stood corrected—it would be several pigs accompanying him to Caer Dathyl: two grown pigs and six piglets. They would make an odd royal vanguard indeed.
"Hello, Hen," he said warmly, stooping to give her an affectionate scratch under her bristly chin.
"Hwoinch!" she replied cheerily.
"Come, let's get you and your little ones cleaned up," he told her. "One last bath before our journey. We will be heading north once again, if you did not already know. Fortunately, it will be under better circumstances than the last time you ventured that way. There will be no Horned King chasing after you—or after me, for that matter."
Hen Wen grunted again, emphatically.
"He was terrifying, wasn't he?" Taran asked as he squatted low and began to scrub her down. The memory of Arawn Death-Lord's onetime champion—with those crimson-stained arms and that antlered skull mask—still sent a shudder down his spine, even so many years on. "I am not surprised you fled from here when you sensed his approach. You set off quite a bit of trouble for us when you did, though," he chided good-naturedly.
She chuffed in response, as if to remind Taran that all had worked out for the best despite the misadventures that had ensued. She had successfully conveyed the Horned King's secret name to Prince Gwydion, giving him the only weapon that could destroy the dread warrior.
Taran's hands slowed as a thought sprang to mind: Hen Wen had set off more than a bit of trouble… she had set everything in motion, like the first tumbling stone that unleashes a rockslide. His life—indeed, the fate of Prydain itself—had taken so many improbable twists and turns, all tied to her initial flight from Caer Dallben. If not for her, would the magical sword Dyrnwyn ever have been found? When the black cauldron, origin of the deathless Cauldron-Born, went missing from Annuvin, would he have joined in the quest to retrieve it? Would he, or anyone, have slain Arawn Death-Lord in the end? Would he have remained an Assistant Pig-Keeper all his life, never traveling much beyond Caer Dallben nor meeting some of his truest companions? Would he have met Eilonwy? Very likely not.
Eilonwy. Involuntarily, he glanced over to the whitewashed cottage where she, too, was preparing for their departure. Had he never met her… Had she never escaped Achren's clutches… Had he never sought to learn his parentage, hoping it would prove him worthy of her, and found far deeper parts of himself in the process… Those thoughts pulled at his heart. Eilonwy's love was the brightest light in his life now—brighter even than the glow that once shone from the enchanted orb she had long carried. If his path had never crossed hers…
An insistent nudge from Hen Wen brought him to task. Distracted, his hands had entirely ceased moving.
"Sorry, Hen," he said. "My thoughts ran away from me as surely as you once did."
He resumed scrubbing the pig's back and flanks, to her chuckling delight, then poured the remaining water over her to rinse her off. Trails of it streamed down her back and dripped from her curled tail. As the water flowed out of the bucket, another notion flowed into Taran's head.
"Did you know all along what would happen?" he asked, half incredulous and half in wonderment. "Did you run not out of fear, but because you knew all that would follow from it?"
Hen Wen gave a self-satisfied snuffle in response, but Taran couldn't be sure that it was anything more than an expression of enjoyment at being clean again. He had never really known how her oracular powers worked: whether she only prophesied when asked, or if the visions came to her spontaneously, or if they were a dull, background awareness like knowing one's own name?
Bath over, Hen merrily trotted off toward the boar, her piglets eagerly scampering to catch up.
Taran stood and let out a sigh. He wished he could see a bit of the future himself—more so now than ever. So quickly, his joy had faded. After the first flush of excitement about wedding Eilonwy had ebbed; after the throngs of well-wishers and cantrev lords pledging fealty had mostly turned homeward; after the last ember of the final celebratory bonfire had turned to ash; his happiness had seemed to drift away with the wisps of smoke that curled and disintegrated into the air above. In the space left behind, a vague, dull, uncertainty had closed in like gray clouds veiling the sun. So soon, he and Eilonwy would leave the only place that truly felt like home. So soon, they must carry the fate of Prydain on their shoulders and strive to fulfill the daunting tasks he had sworn to undertake. So soon, they would be venturing into a future unknown. Seeing even a fragmentary glimpse of what that future might hold could have given him a scrap of peace.
Purposefully, he headed back toward the cluster of thatched-roof farm buildings. He had no time to waste on wishing for the impossible; there was far too much to be done, clearing out their belongings and readying Caer Dallben for its new inhabitants. At least, he hoped there would soon be new inhabitants. He had sent a message to Goewin, offering the land to her if she wished to accept it—pitifully small recompense for the loss of her husband Llonio in battle, but he hoped it would ease her family's strife a little. Llassar, the young shepherd from Commot Isav, had agreed to watch over the farm until she arrived, or until another family could be found if she declined the offer.
Two full score of other people had remained at Caer Dallben as well, to help with the preparations and safeguard the journey to Caer Dathyl. They were mostly denizens of the Free Commots, with a brace of warriors pledged by King Smoit for additional protection. Even with so much assistance, however, there was much Taran and Eilonwy wished to do for themselves.
At first, Taran had hoped the work might provide some comforting distraction. Instead, it had only stirred up wistful memories. In every corner and around every turn lay bittersweet reminders of times past and a way of life lost, never to be relived or regained. He and Eilonwy had attempted to go about their work casually, with a jest here and a sensible reminder there, as if it were all just another spring cleaning. Except, it wasn't. Their hearts knew that, for all that their minds tried to ignore it. Caer Dallben would soon be a place of ghosts—echoes of the people and moments that once filled it, if not actual spirits.
Already, the farm seemed a bit haunted. On his way back from the pig-cote, Taran took in a last view of Coll's gardens and felt another twinge of heart. A scattering of withered stalks poked up through the soil, reluctantly abandoned in the companions' rush to recover Dyrnwyn from Arawn's grasp. The old farmer would have been sorely dismayed to see the land so unprepared for spring. As Taran ducked into the adjacent shed, a fresh wave of grief assaulted him. Racks and shelves of carefully maintained tools stood within, waiting for stout hands that would never return to ply them. Taran could not bear to leave those tools behind. Reverently, he gathered them up in bundles and crates, then carefully loaded them into one of the carts outside. In all likelihood, he would have neither time nor reason to use the tools at Caer Dathyl, but he refused to abandon them to rust.
Clearing out the forge was not much easier on his spirit. It was not quite so inextricably linked with Coll's identity, but the space was still undeniably his. And it, too, was rife with memories so potent that Taran could almost smell the hot metal and smoke, and hear the resounding clang of the hammer reverberating in his head. With the wry amusement of hindsight, he recalled the seemingly endless hours he had spent laboring under Coll's command to make shoes for horses they did not yet have. It had been good practice, of course—he realized that now, though it had seemed a hot and tedious waste of effort at the time. Bored and frustrated with it one particular day, he had managed to wheedle his first swordplay lesson out of Coll instead. How eager he had been, to have a blade of his own and to wield it among the ranks of men. How glorious it had seemed to be a warrior-hero like Gwydion, pitting himself against the forces of evil. He knew better now. Dallben had warned him, of course—as had Gwydion himself. But, typical of a youth, he had paid those warnings little heed. Now that he had endured actual battles, seen scores of warriors and several close comrades fall, made excruciating decisions as a war leader… Yes, he understood now why Coll had urged him to be content with crafting horseshoes and garden tools: the edge of a sword brought more heartbreak than glory.
It was one of the hardest lessons he had learned—and more hard lessons surely lay ahead. He only hoped he would survive them, too. He might not have achieved true wisdom yet, but he was now wise enough to be wary. Knowledge, honor, success… they seldom, if ever, came without cost.
Breathing another sigh, Taran deliberately swept away the musings and memories crowding against him, and returned to sweeping out actual spaces.
Meanwhile, within the cottage, Eilonwy was making one last sweep of the hearth in which so many fires had burned and pots of stew had bubbled. She had spent the morning packing up the contents of the scullery, wrapping the cookware and dishes in towels and odd bits of clothing to spare them from breakage on the journey. As she'd done so, she'd realized with some relief that she could soon turn the task of cooking over to servants—once they managed to employ some, anyway.
Cookery wasn't Eilonwy's most hated chore, but it was no great source of joy either. The warm hearth was pleasant enough to stand beside in winter, but in summer she thought it akin to torture. Too well, she remembered the sweltering midsummer day when Coll had first left her in charge of preparing stew for that night's supper. Why they couldn't have made do with some bread and cheese, she couldn't fathom, but she'd resolved to do what was asked and make the best of it. All too soon, though, she'd grown restless. Sweat had been dripping down her back and loose strands of hair were sticking irritatingly to her forehead. The intermittent stirring required was neither constant enough to preoccupy her, nor infrequent enough that she could do much else in the meantime. It was downright maddening. Her impatience had begun to simmer more vigorously than the contents of her cookpot, and she'd feared it would soon boil over.
So, she'd decided to step outside for a moment. Surely, she'd thought, it wouldn't hurt to snatch a few breaths of fresh air in between rounds of stirring. She'd just head over to the well for a quick splash of cool water and come right back. She hadn't planned on the wildflowers. They'd been at their peak—all purples and yellows and sprinklings of white, with even a butterfly or two flitting among them—and far too splendid to resist. She'd simply had to stop and pick a few blossoms on the way, drinking in the scents of summer. One or two had turned into a bountiful armful…
As soon as she'd set foot back in the cottage, she'd known it was a mistake. The neglected stew had boiled away to a smoking sludge. With a gasp, she'd unceremoniously dropped the ill-fated bouquet on the table and dumped a pitcher-full of extra water into the pot. It sizzled as it hit the hot iron, and sent a bevy of charred flakes floating to the surface. Those were easy enough to skim off, but they didn't bode well for the quality of what remained.
From Taran's first spoonful, she'd known her error would not go unnoticed. His entire face had puckered at the bitter, burnt taste, before he swallowed with painfully obvious difficulty. Thankfully, he'd had the decency to choke the meal down without complaint—as had Dallben and Coll—but she'd flushed beet red with embarrassment all the same. She'd only managed to eat half of her own portion before giving up, preferring to go to bed slightly hungry.
Coll had caught up with her in the scullery afterward, drawn to the racket of clattering earthenware and muttered cursing as she scoured the bowls and scraped out the blackened bottom of the cookpot. When he'd asked what was wrong, she'd blustered accusatorily at him, asking why he hadn't watched over her shoulder to ensure all went well. The old farmer had just given her a gentle pat on the back and, with a kindly twinkle in his eye, reminded her it was only stew—and noted that some lessons were best learned by making mistakes. After swallowing that distasteful mess, she wouldn't soon forget that some pots were worth a bit of attention. She'd had the distinct feeling that he was referring to more than mere cookery.
But that had been Coll. Dallben was wise and generous, and had welcomed her graciously into his home when she hadn't one of her own to go to. It was Coll's quiet good humor and patient guidance, though, that had made her feel like she belonged at Caer Dallben.
Ugh. She brushed away the tears that had willfully escaped down her cheeks and hastily finished sweeping.
That done, she headed to Dallben's study to see if anything was left there that needed gathering up. There wasn't much. The stout work table sat empty now, barely recognizable without the veritable explosion of books and oddments formerly piled atop and scattered around it. She'd sometimes wondered whether the extent of Dallben's clutter had any relation to the extent of his wisdom—as if his knowledge had found it necessary to spill out of his head and into the space around him in order to gain some breathing room. She imagined three hundred and eighty-odd years' worth of learning must get rather crowded in so small a container as a skull. But that was neither here nor there at the moment. Now that she'd had a better look at the table, she judged it far too burdensome to bother carting with them. Benches were simple enough to make that there wasn't much point taking that either—the same with Dallben's old bedframe. No, there was only the washbasin, a few rushlight holders, the wine bowl Taran had crafted, the weaving given to him by the enchantresses of Morva… and The Book of Three.
It was the only tome of all its brethren left standing on the forlornly empty shelves—thick, and worn, and radiating an aura of ancient authority. It contained only history now, from what Dallben had said. There would be no more mysterious prophecies, taunting them with riddles about what might or might not come to pass. She was rather glad of that, actually. What use was knowing the future if you didn't know how to arrive at it? Or if it would even still be there when you reached that point in time? No, that was as pointless as trying to eat soup from a sieve. After all, they'd heard Hen Wen's prophecy about Arawn's defeat, and that foreknowledge hadn't done them a bit of good in making it come true. It had come down to them regardless: their choices; their instincts; their mistakes and accidents, and the efforts they took to correct them.
She was eager to read about Prydain's history, though. Achren had possessed plenty of tomes at Spiral Castle, but most were spell books forbidden to Eilonwy. The few books she had been allowed to read were fairly boring on the whole, save for one intriguing volume that contained diagrams of various castles. That one, she had perused from time to time. It had been a welcome escape to imagine herself wandering the unfamiliar corridors and courtyards depicted, and trying to figure out whether Spiral Castle itself had been constructed in similar ways. Nevertheless, the prospect of now having a book bursting with actual stories—marvelous, intricate, tales of ages past—now that was something to be excited about.
She was sorely tempted to crack the book open right then and there. She could spare a little time… But then Taran was poking his head through the doorway, asking if she would like to make one last visit to the orchard. No, she wouldn't pass that up. The Book of Three could wait. Hurriedly, she placed the hefty tone at the bottom of a half-filled storage chest, then carefully wrapped Taran's wine bowl in the woven tapestry and tucked both beside the book. Then, she rushed to join him.
It was already near the close of day. The light had shifted from the bright clarity of afternoon to muted hues of rose and gold, softening the still rather stark fields. Spring had gained only a tenuous foothold on the land; the evening air was chill enough to make goosebumps stand out on Eilonwy's arms, and the trees wore tightly closed buds that only wandering birds and squirrels would see unfurl into leaf. Taran and Eilonwy knew full well there would not be all that much to see in the orchard so early in the year. Even so, it was one of Eilonwy's favorite parts of Caer Dallben, so they could not leave without bidding it farewell.
"It's a shame we won't be here to see the flowers bloom," she lamented as they ambled beneath the bare canopy. "They're like snow it springtime, all soft and white—but so much sweeter."
"I, too, shall miss it," Taran agreed. "I don't suppose any trees were left standing in Caer Dathyl's orchards after the Cauldron-Born ravaged the place."
Eilonwy's brows knit into a scowl. "Stupid, foul Arawn, ruining everything beautiful," she grumbled. "If he weren't dead already, I'd want to go stomp on him out of spite."
Taran smiled a little at the mental image of that. He had no doubt that she would have stomped upon the evil Lord of Annuvin, given half a chance. It might not have done much good, depending on how strong a form he had assumed, but that wouldn't have stopped her from trying.
When he glanced back over at Eilonwy, her expression had turned pensive. She was gazing up at the purpling sky—or the branches set darkly against it, he couldn't tell which.
"Beginnings seldom seem to come without endings…" she mused aloud. "Sometimes, the thing ending is easy enough to let go—like a pair of shoes you've outgrown, or a field you must clear in order to replant—but this… I do wish we could carry a bit of our old lives into the new. More than a few pots and pans and tools, I mean."
"I know," Taran agreed. "It has been weighing on me all day… All of the memories… I almost wish there weren't so many good ones, so it would be less painful to recall them. Leaving Caer Dallben feels like shuttering up and leaving behind a large part of myself. We've gone away before, of course, but it was always with the intention of returning."
Eilonwy slipped her hand comfortingly into his, and they stood a moment in silence as an evening breeze kicked up from the west.
"Well," she said at last, "there are other parts of you that you will be bringing along. If you left it all behind, you wouldn't very well be yourself anymore, would you? And you're not leaving me behind, either—a fact for which you should be quite thankful, since you very nearly did."
Taran squeezed her hand firmly. "I had no wish to do so. I cannot imagine how much I would be hurting now if I had…"
"Hmph. You might have considered that before you threatened to," she said. The words were sharp, but there was no real edge in her voice. "I shan't hold it against you, though," she added. "Your reasons were admirably noble. Just bear in mind how lucky you are that I don't like letting other people—or silly old prophesies—tell me what to do."
"I know very well indeed how fortunate I am," Taran replied quietly. "Impossibly fortunate."
They walked on a little further, still hand in hand, and soon found themselves staring down yet another reservoir of memory: a very particular apple tree, with a very notable broken branch. Reflexively, Taran grasped Eilonwy's hand a bit tighter. It was a beautiful tree, even leafless and scarred by its old wound. Coll had pruned it well, sculpting it into a well-balanced, open canopy that let in ample light and was ideal for climbing. Taran had taken great joy in it over the years: breathing in the delicate scent of its spring blossoms; finding respite from the summer sun beneath its leafy mantle; reveling in the crisp and juicy apples it bore in autumn; marveling at the rare ice storm that left its barren limbs glinting in the winter sunlight. And yet, the tree also held a darker reminder of near loss within its boughs: of the time when that fateful branch had snapped, sending Eilonwy tumbling to earth; and another time when, under Achren's thrall, she did not even remember that accident—or remember him, catching her. So many times, he had nearly lost her…
Eilonwy reached out and pressed her palm against the rough trunk. "I do still feel a bit sorry about that branch breaking on account of me," she said, as if sensing his mind. "This was always my favorite tree in the orchard, you know, so I hate to have caused it any harm. I mean, I liked climbing all of them in turn, but this one best of all. The way that branch arched out just so—" She swept her arm through a graceful arc in imitation. "It offered the loveliest view of the fields and hills beyond, particularly around sunset. I could sit up there for an hour or more and hardly notice time passing." Her face brightened at the memory. "And its apples always seemed the most delicious, too—just the right balance of tart and sweet."
"Like you," Taran said with a sideways grin.
Eilonwy blushed slightly, although the fading light veiled it. "Flatterer. You don't seem to appreciate my tartness when it's directed at you," she noted. Then, with an air of longing, she looked back up into the canopy. "It's a pity we won't have a chance to taste its fruit again, either… I'm afraid any other apples will seem insipid after growing accustomed to these."
"Yes, that is a pity," agreed Taran. "I see no way to uproot a tree older than both of us combined, though…"
As soon as the words crossed his lips, an intriguing notion sprouted in his mind. What if it were possible to bring the tree with them, after a fashion? He remembered, years ago, seeing Coll take cuttings from one particularly good tree and splicing them onto the roots of others. It had struck him as a curiously beautiful method, merging two living things into one. Yet, the actual undertaking had seemed so fussy, and the results so far off, that Taran had quickly left Coll to his work. He cursed himself now for that inattention. Coll had known so much of farming by heart that he seldom kept any records how he did things. Any skills Taran had not learned firsthand were now as lost to him as the old farmer himself.
Unless… the parchments recovered from Annuvin? Might the information he needed lie somewhere within those tightly written lines? It was worth a look. He would have to pore over them that night, for there would not be much time in the morning. Then, if he rose early enough, he could return to the orchard to collect a few stems before they set out. If he could surprise Eilonwy with a favorite piece of Caer Dallben in their new home… A flutter of excitement stirred within him as they turned back toward the cottage.
"Taran, come to bed," Eilonwy called from the loft above.
"In a moment!" he called back. He began to rifle through the parchments even more quickly, scanning as quickly as his eyes would allow. Smithing… no. Weaving… no. Carpentry and masonry… no, and no. So much useful information was right there at his fingertips, and yet not the knowledge he sought.
"Taran," Eilonwy called again, more insistently. "Come—to—bed."
"I will! In a moment!" he shouted back over his shoulder. In truth, he wanted to go to her that very instant—desperately wanted to—but they were leaving just after dawn the next morning, and he would not have time to look through the papers then…
"I don't hear you coming this way…" Eilonwy chastised from afar.
He heard a rustle of blankets, the creak of the loft ladder, and the patter of footsteps behind him on the hard-packed earthen floor.
"Whatever are you doing down here at this time of night, anyway?" she asked, placing a hand on his shoulder and peering over it. "Reading?!" she exclaimed when she when he caught sight of the parchments. "We have all of the time in the world to look through those, and you'd rather spend your night with them than me?"
"I… I just…" Taran spluttered.
Eilonwy threw up her hands and, with a huff of irritation, stalked back to bed. Taran slumped a little on the bench. Explaining his search would spoil the surprise, but not explaining was clearly going to buy him trouble. Scowling, he resumed his search.
His eyes were bleary, and he'd burned through a small handful of rushlights before he at last found what he sought: a small illustration showing how best to graft scions from one plant onto another. There wasn't much written explanation—a few lines about how to select a promising stem, the angle at which to cut, the season in which to do it, how to place the new joint and hold it steady as it healed. His timing appeared fortuitous, attempting this shortly before the buds burst open... And if he packed the cuttings in moist peat, they should survive the journey… And if there were even just a dormant stump left in Caer Dathyl's orchards, it should suffice… He studied the diagram and notes carefully, committing them to memory.
Wearily, but with a scrap of satisfaction—likely the only sort he would get that night—he carefully returned the delicate parchments to their coffer and headed to bed.
"Eilonwy? Are you still awake?" he whispered tentatively as he entered the loft. She gave no answer. That didn't really tell him much—she could just as easily be awake and silently fuming as asleep. Gently, he lifted the blanket and slid in beside her. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I would much rather have come right away, but I needed to find something in those documents tonight, before we depart tomorrow."
Still, no reply. Taran sighed, gave her a soft kiss on her bare shoulder, then turned away and pulled the blankets around himself. It pained him to anger or disappoint her—he only hoped his plan would bring her some happiness in the end.
