"Your voices― I know them well," Taran stammered, barely able to speak above a whisper. "But your faces― yes, once have I seen them, a time long past, in the Marshes of Morva. Yet you cannot be the same. Orddu? Orwen, and― Orgoch?"
"Of course we are, my gosling," Orddu replied, "though it's true whenever you met us before we were hardly at our best."
"But good enough for the purpose," Orgoch muttered from the depths of her hood.
Orven giggled girlishly and toyed with her beads. "You mustn't think we look like ugly old hags all the time," she said. "Only when the circumstances seem to require it."
"Why have you come?" Taran began, still baffled at the familiar tones of the enchantresses coming from such fair shapes. "Do you, too, journey to the Summer Country?"
Orddu shook her head. "We are journeying, but not with you. Salt air makes Orgoch queasy, though it's very likely the only thing that does. We travel to― well― anywhere. You might even say everywhere."
"You shall see no more of us, nor we of you," added Orwen; almost regretfully. "We shall miss you. As much, that is, as we can miss anyone. Orgoch especially would have loved to― well, best not to dwell on that."
Orgoch gave a most ungentle snort. Orddu, meanwhile, had unfolded a length of brightly woven tapestry and held it out to Taran.
"We came to bring you this, my duckling," she said. "Take it and pay no heed to Orgoch's grumbling. She'll have to swallow her disappointment― for lack of anything better."
"I have seen this on your loom," Taran said, more than a little distrustful. "Why do you offer it to me? I do not ask for it, nor can I pay for it."
"It is yours by right, my robin," answered Orddu. "It does come from our loom, if you insist on strictest detail, but it was really you who wove it."
Puzzled, Taran looked more closely at the fabric and saw it crowded with images of men and women, of warriors and battles, of birds and animals. "These," he murmured in wonder, "these are of my own life."
"Of course," Orddu replied. "The pattern is of your choosing and always was."
"My choosing?" Taran questioned. "Not yours? Yet I believed…" He stopped and raised his eyes to Orddu. "Yes," he said slowly, "once I did believe the world went at your bidding. I see now it is not so. The strands of life are not woven by three hags or even by three beautiful damsels. The pattern indeed was mine. But here," he added, frowning as he scanned the final portion of the fabric where the weaving broke off and the threads fell unraveled, "here it is unfinished."
"Naturally," said Orddu. "You must still choose the pattern, and so must each of you poor, perplexed fledglings, as long as thread remains to be woven."
"But no longer do I see mine clearly," Taran cried. "No longer do I understand my own heart. Why does my grief shadow my joy? Tell me this much. Give me to know this, as one last boon."
"Dear chicken," said Orddu smiling sadly, "when, in truth, did we really give you anything?"
Then they were gone.
Chapter 21
Farewells
THROUGH THE REMAINDER of the night, Taran did not move from the window. The unfinished weaving lay at his feet. By dawn, a still greater number of Commot folk and cantrev nobles came to throng the fields and hillsides around Caer Dallben, for it had become known the Sons of Don were departing Prydain, and with them the Daughters of Don who had journeyed from the eastern strongholds. At last Taran stirred and made his way to Dallben's chamber.
The companions were already gathered, even Doli, who had flatly refused to set out for the Fair Folk realm without taking a last leave of each and every friend. Kaw, quiet for once, perched on the dwarf's shoulder. Glew seemed excited and pleased to be on his way. Taliesin and Gwydion stood near Dallben, who had donned a heavy travel cloak and bore an ashwood staff. Under his arm the enchanter carried The Book of Three.
"Kindly master, hasten!" shouted Gurgi, as Llyan at Fflewddur's side twitched her tail impatiently. "All are ready for floatings and boatings!"
Taran's eyes went to the faces of the companions; to Eilonwy, who was watching him eagerly; to the weathered features of Gwydion, and the face of Dallben, furrowed with wisdom. Never had he loved each of them more than at this moment. He did not speak until he came to stand before the old enchanter
"Never shall I have greater honor than the gift you offer me," Taran said. The words came slowly, yet he forced himself to continue. "Last night my heart was troubled. I dreamed that Orddu― no, it was not a dream. She was indeed here. And I have seen for myself your gift is one I cannot take."
Gurgi's yelping stopped short and he stared at Taran with wide and unbelieving eyes.
The companions started and Eilonwy cried out, "Taran of Caer Dallben, do you have any idea what you're saying? Has the flame of Dyrnwyn scorched your wits?" Suddenly her voice caught in her throat. She bit her lips and turned quickly away. "I understand. In the Summer Country we were to be wed. Do you still question my heart? It has not changed. It is your heart that has changed toward mine."
Taran dared not look at Eilonwy, for his grief was too keen in him. "You are wrong, Princess of Llyr," he murmured. "I have long loved you, and loved you even before I knew that I did. If my heart breaks to part from our companions, it breaks twice over to part from you. Yet, so it must be. I cannot do otherwise."
"Think carefully, Assistant Pig-Keeper," Dallben said sharply. "Once taken, your choice cannot be recalled. Will you dwell in sorrow instead of happiness? Will you refuse not only joy and love but neverending life?"
Taran did not answer for a long moment. When at last, he did, his voice was heavy with regret, yet his words were clear and unfaltering.
"There are those more deserving of your gift than I, yet never may it be offered them. My life is bound to theirs. Coll Son of Collfrewr's garden and orchard lie barren, waiting for a hand to quicken them. My skill is less than his, but I give it willingly for his sake.
"The seawall at Dinas Rhydnant is unfinished," Taran continued. "Before the King of Mona's burial mound I vowed not to leave his task undone."
From his jacket Taran drew the fragment of pottery. "Shall I forget Annlaw Clay-Shaper? Commot Merin and others like it? I cannot restore life to Llonio Son of Llonwen and those valiant folk who followed me, never to see their homes again. Nor can I mend the hearts of widows and orphaned children. Yet if it is in my power to rebuild even a little of what has been broken, this must I do.
"The Red Fallows once were a fruitful place. With labor, perhaps they shall be so again." He turned and spoke to Taliesin. "Caer Dathyl's proud halls lie in ruins, and with them the Hall of Lore and the treasured wisdom of the bards. Have you not said that memory lives longer than what it remembers? But what if memory be lost? If there are those who will help me, we will raise the fallen stones and regain the treasure of memory."
"Gurgi will help! He will not voyage, no, no!" Gurgi wailed. "He stays always. He wants no gift that takes him from kindly master!"
Taran put a hand on the creature's arm. "You must journey with the others. Do you call me master? Obey me, then, in one last command. Find the wisdom you yearn for. It awaits you in the Summer Country. Whatever I may find, I must seek it here."
Eilonwy bowed her head. "You have chosen as you must, Taran of Caer Dallben."
"Nor will I gainsay you," Dallben said to Taran, "but only warn you. The tasks you set yourself are cruelly difficult. There is no certainty you will accomplish even one, and much risk you will fail in all of them. In either case, your efforts may well go unrewarded, unsung, forgotten. And at the end, like all mortals, you must face your death; perhaps without even a mound of honor to mark your resting place."
Taran nodded. "So be it," he said. "Long ago I yearned to be a hero without knowing, in truth, what a hero was. Now, perhaps, I understand it a little better. A grower of turnips or a shaper of clay, a Commot farmer or a king― every man is a hero if he strives more for others than for himself alone. Once," he added, "you told me that the seeking counts more than the finding. So, too, must the striving count more than the gain.