The Prydain Project

Thirty years after first devouring Lloyd Alexander's Prydain books, I'm rereading them to see if the magic is still there. If you've arrived at this blog because you loved Prydain as a kid, I hope you’ll enjoy the chance to revisit it along with me. To read the recaps in order, start here: "The Book of Three," Chapter 1

Monday, November 30, 2015

The Black Cauldron, Chapter 11 – The Cottage – and Chapter 12 – Little Dallben

Taran responds to a sudden voice behind him in his usual manner – by whirling around, sword at the ready – but before he can get to hackin’ and slashin’ at his unseen opponent, the sword transforms into a serpent in his hands. He throws it to the ground (where it turns back into a sword), then looks up to see a dumpy little woman with large bare feet and a tangled mess of hair. She cheerfully promises the companions that being turned into toads “won’t hurt a bit,” and reassures them that she won’t actually step on them: “I couldn’t stand the squashiness.” But she can’t allow people “poking and prying” either, so transformed they must be.

Two more women appear, and the leader addresses them as Orwen and Orgoch, leading to much elbow-jabbing and whispering by Taran and Fflewddur: “We’ve found them!” (I think it’s a little too convenient that the first people they encounter in Morva are the very ones they’re looking for, but then again, maybe the witches are the only residents of the entire marsh, given how very unpleasant it is.) Much like the Fair Folk we’ve met, each of the enchantresses has a shtick: Orddu calls everyone animal-based pet names like “duckling,” Orwen is airheaded and rather vain, and Orgoch is grouchy and always hungry. As they argue over whether to transform the companions into toads or something else, it’s revealed that they each take turns being each of them, though of course no one wants to be Orgoch, given her “horrid indigestion” and all.

Orwen compliments the companions on having drowned the nasty Huntsmen in the marsh. Taran tells the three women that if they consider the Huntsmen enemies, then they are on the same side as he and his companions. He falteringly introduces Eilonwy as “Indeg,” and Fflewddur as “Prince Glessic.” The witches scoff at him and, discouraged, he gives the right names. When he introduces Gurgi, Orwen says, “So that’s a gurgi,” to which Eilonwy retorts, “It’s not a gurgi. It’s Gurgi. And there’s only one.” (How is that possible?) Orgoch wants to know if “the gurgi” is for eating or for sitting on. Heh. Then Taran introduces himself as “Taran of Caer Dallben,” and Orddu exclaims, “How is dear little Dallben?”

Taran is thunderstruck. The enchantresses bustle the companions into the cottage and serve them some food. Eilonwy tries to touch the weaving on the loom and gets a rebuke from Orddu. Taran wonders if the food is safe to eat, but Eilonwy can tell it is – she learned how when living with Achren. But before she can explain her method, Orddu interrupts, wanting to know how “little Dallben” is and if he still owns The Book of Three. Confused, Taran tries to explain that Dallben is not little at all – in fact, “he’s rather elderly.” But to the witches, he’s still the little baby they found floating in a basket in the marsh nearly 400 years ago. They reminisce about how they took him in and raised him (despite Orgoch’s wanting to eat him instead). One day, they were brewing a wisdom potion and Dallben splashed some on his fingers. When he sucked the potion off them, he instantly became as wise as they, so they had to send him away. They gave him his choice of a sword (which would have made him a great warlord/king), a harp (best bard in all the lands), or The Book of Three (which he chose, and which apparently made him the Dallben we all know and love).

Taran tries to use their mutual love of Dallben to his advantage, telling the enchantresses they can help Dallben by helping Gwydion find the black cauldron, which Kaw said was in their possession. Orddu says “Don’t believe everything you hear from a crow” (burn!) but yes, the cottage has tons of cauldrons and cookpots lying about. Taran says firmly that he means Arawn’s cauldron. Orddu says its name is the Black Crochan and that it belonged to them first, before Arawn paid them a very heavy price for the use of it. Arawn was supposed to return the cauldron, but when he did not, they simply took it back. And under no circumstances will they part from it again, not even to help dear Dallben. The witches tell the companions they can sleep in the shed that night and that they must leave first thing in the morning – whether it be in their own forms or “hopping all the way.”

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

The Black Cauldron, Chapter 10 – The Marshes of Morva

Sorry for the unannounced hiatus, folks – to paraphrase Shakespeare, my heart was in the ground with Adaon, and I had to pause ere it came back to me. That, and I’ve been busy. Last weekend, I went to YALLFest in Charleston, which was amazing! And I’ve been attending some great author classes and workshops at Jera Publishing. But I’m back and ready to follow that marsh bird in the direction of Morva!

The companions pause for a rest and a bite of lembas and jerky from Gurgi’s magical wallet. Taran demonstrates his brooch-born clairvoyance twice more: first by accurately predicting that it’s going to rain even though Fflewddur protests – “Great Belin, there isn’t a cloud in the sky!” – and then by knowing that the outcropping under which they’ve found shelter is about to collapse in a landslide. Gurgi is thankful that his poor tender head is spared from both drippings and dashings. That night, Taran dreams that Ellidyr is in danger and he can’t help. He also dreams that they found the cauldron, but “when we found it, I wept.”

They reach the marshes of Morva, and boy, is it stinky, with stagnant pools, dead plants, and ropes of fog. Taran’s dream of the two wolves and the bear turns out to mean that three Huntsmen are on their trail, dressed in animal pelts. The companions plunge headlong into the marshes, and their pursuers drown in the bog. On the other side of the swamp, Taran pulls Melynlas up at a seemingly deserted cottage. Peeking through the windows, he sees piles of clutter, and a loom, with a tangled weaving on it and strands dangling down. Suddenly, an unseen person asks cheerfully how he’d like it “if you were turned into a toad? And stepped on?”

It seems to be a requirement in works of fantasy, from Star Wars to Lord of the Rings to the NeverEnding Story, that marshes or swamps be described as exceedingly unpleasant. But how do they stack up against each other, I wonder? It’s poll time!

Which place is the worst?