Books I Love: "Taran Wanderer", by Lloyd Alexander, Part 2.
Three witches, a prophecy, and a man taking his fate into his own hands. Sound familiar, Billy?
The Marshes of Morva are the Dark Forest of Prydain, a deadly swamp of deadlier reputation filled with…things. Everything in them is dangerous, but nothing at all is more dangerous than Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch1. Grandmotherly and threatening all at once, seemingly dotty and absentminded…but never ever to be underestimated.
No one knows how old the Three Sisters are. As far as anyone remembers, they have always been in their dilapidated cottage, doing…whatever it is they actually do. There’s a big black pot in the corner, never used. A spinning-wheel covered in cobwebs, and spindles, long tangled and burred. Some kind of tapestry is on the loom, but it is so covered in dust one cannot see the colors or shapes on it.
That said.
They know things. Probably everything, if it comes down to it, though they aren’t telling.
Orrdu, Orwen, and Orgoch are in the cottage because they want to be, and if you want something from them, you have to come find them. All expenses your own, my dears. Once you get to them, you still have to pay their price.
Taran has nothing, so Orgoch and Orwen suggest a few summer days…or worse, every memory Taran has of his lovely Eilonwy.
“Taran caught his breath. “Even you would not be so pitiless.”
“Would we not?” answered Orddu, smiling.
“Pity, dear gosling—as you know it, at least—simply doesn’t enter into the question as far as we’re concerned. “However,” she went on, turning to Orwen, “that won’t answer either. We already have quite enough memories.”
After long discussion of what he could do with his current life, filled with ever-more-horrifying turns of fate and possible changes of form, Taran bowls ahead, rashly. He does not want to be changed into a frog, after all. Gurgi would simply never allow it!
“It is true I own little to treasure, not even my name. Is there nothing you will have of me? This I offer you,” he went on quickly in a low voice...“Whatever thing of value I may find in all my life to come,” Taran said, “the greatest treasure that may come into my hands—I pledge it to you now. It shall be yours, and you shall claim it when you please.”
This honesty seems to surprise our three sisters. Orrdu and Orwen even, for a moment, seem sympathetic.2 A rash oath like that would —in any other story— kick off a chain of events that would end with Taran an ancient man, wearing a crown and mourning ever stepping foot outside his door. It definitely seems for a moment that Taran is about to go on such a quest…when Orddu of all people stops him cold.
“The kind of bargain you propose,” said Orddu in a pleasant but matter-of-fact tone, “is a chancy thing at best, and really satisfies no one. Nothing is all that certain, and very often we’ve found the poor sparrow who makes such a pledge never lives long enough to fulfill it. When he does, there is always the risk of his turning—well, shall we say—a little stubborn? It usually ends with unhappy feelings all around. Once, we might have accepted. But sad experience made us put a stop to it altogether. No, my fledgling, it won’t do. We’re sorry; that is, sorry as much as we can feel sorrow for anything.”
…that’s it? The all-knowing, all-seeing prophet-witches can’t tell Taran anything? Or worse, refuse to do so?
If you are the kind of reader who likes neat little prophecies and destiny, this is where you will stop up short. Reader beware. A nice, clean, tidy fantasy story with your Hero’s Path roadmapped and helpfully marked by Campbell, Herbert-Lucas, and Co.3 is NOT what you are going to get. No dragons or talking horses, either, apologies McCaffrey-Lewis Limited and Lackey Enterprises.
We are in Prydain, now, son.
Don’t despair, though. Or, as the sisters put it:
“My dear gosling,” Orddu called cheerily, “that’s not to say there aren’t others to answer your question.”
“Of course there are,” added Orwen, “and the finding takes no more than the looking.”
The sisters throw out a few options, realizing as they go along that at least two of them are no longer possible. There was a bird who knew the news of the world and would stop on a high mountain to sharpen his beak…but he wore down the mountain to a hilltop. He’s out. Same with the oracular salmon that grants wishes.4
There is, however, a Mirror.
The Mirror of Llunet. Something that, perhaps, will tell him the truth of what he is…
The Sisters reveal a frustrating vagueness as to what or where this Mirror might be, but they do know it still exists and that it is real. When Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch say something exists, it exists, by thunder! That said, Taran had best get out of the Marshes quickly.
Orgoch is getting hungry.
Just stay for a while! We’d love to have you for dinner!
Like any good set of oracles, Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch don’t do any fighting, do not actively participate. After all, that is for energetic young folks like Dallben, or a hero. So they kick poor Taran off their front porch with grandmotherly aplomb, waving cheerily5. Once again, Taran is left with more questions than answers…this time, though, he has something to look for.
Deep in the Llawgadarn Mountains, far to the east, where the legendary Free Commots of “the men without kings” live. It will be a long, long road, and take them through nearly every freeholt and petty kingdom in Prydain…so, Taran supposes, maybe an old friend could help?
Next stop: the hall of King Smoit!
If these three old biddies look familiar, they themselves admit they have gone by a bunch of other names in the past…not that they’re saying what names. Ten bucks says Perseus met them before, not to mention Odin, and the cackle will be instantly familiar to any Scot in the audience. Orgoch pricks other people’s thumbs, though.
Orgoch, hooded, cloaked, and muttering, seems more amused. Inasmuch as she hasn’t threatened to eat the two of them, at least. (This instance. There’s still time.)
Trademark pending, of course.
If you hear a weird scraping sound behind you, that’s Orgoch picking her teeth with a very conspicuous fishbone.
Well, Orgoch excepted. Natürlich.