“Oh, very small for clever, valiant Gurgi.”
“There are no more crunchings,” said Taran. “If the Cauldron-Born are still on our heels, you had better worry less about food and more about your own skin.”
“But Gurgi will find munchings! Very quickly ---oh, yes--- he is so wise to get them, to comfort the bellies of great noble lords. But they will forget poor Gurgi, and not even give him snips and snaps for his eatings.”
After a hurried discussion with Fflewddur, who looked as ravenous as Gurgi, Taran agreed they might take a little time to search for berries and edible roots.
“Quite right,” said the bard. “Better eat what we can get now, while the Cauldron-Born give us a chance to do it. I shall help you. I know all about foraging in the woods, do it constantly...” The harp tensed and one string showed signs of giving way. “No,” he added quickly, “I had better stay with Eilonwy. The truth is, I can't tell a mushroom from a toadstool. I wish I could; it would make the life of a wandering bard considerably more filling.”
With cloaks in which to carry back whatever they might find, Taran and Gurgi set off. At a small stream Taran halted to fill Gwydion's leather water flask. Gurgi, sniffing hungrily, ran ahead and disappeared into a stand of rowans. Near the bank of the stream Taran discovered mushrooms, and gathered them hurriedly. Bent on his own search, he paid little heed to Gurgi, until he suddenly heard anguished yelps from behind the trees. Clutching his precious mushrooms, Taran hastened to see what had happened, and came upon Gurgi lying in the middle of the grove, writhing and whimpering, a honeycomb beside him.
At first, Taran thought Gurgi had got himself stung by bees. Then, he saw the creature was in more serious trouble. While Gurgi had climbed for the honey, a dead branch had snapped under his weight. His twisted leg was pinned to the ground with the heavy wood on top of it. Taran heaved the branch away.
The panting Gurgi shook his head. “Poor Gurgi's leg is broken,” he moaned. “There will be no more amblings and ramblings for him now!”
Taran bent and examined the injury. The leg was not broken, though badly torn, and swelling rapidly.
“Now Gurgi's head must be chopped off,” the creature moaned. “Do it, great lord, do it quickly. Gurgi will squeeze up his eyes so as not to see hurtful slashings.”
Taran looked closely at Gurgi. The creature was in earnest. His eyes pleaded with Taran. “Yes, yes,” cried Gurgi. “Now, before silent warriors arrive. Gurgi is better dead at your sword than in their hands. Gurgi cannot walk! All will be killed with fearful smitings and bitings. It is better...”
“No,” said Taran. “You won't be left in the woods, and you won't have your head chopped off--- by me or anyone else.” For a moment Taran almost regretted his words. The poor creature was right, he knew. The injury would slow their pace. And Gurgi, like all of them, would be better off dead than in Arawn's grasp. Still, Taran could not bring himself to draw his sword.
“You and Eilonwy can ride Melyngar,” Taran said, lifting Gurgi to his feet and putting one of the creature's hairy arms about his shoulder. “Come on now. One step at a time...”
Taran was exhausted when they reached Eilonwy and the bard. The girl had recovered noticeably and was chattering even faster than before. While Gurgi lay silently on the grass, Taran divided the honeycomb. The portions were pitifully small.
Fflewddur called Taran aside. “Your hairy friend is going to make things difficult,” he said quietly. “If Melyngar carries two riders, I don't know how much longer she can keep up.”
“That is true,” said Taran. “Yet I see nothing else we can do. Would you abandon him? Would you have cut off his head?”
“Absolutely,” cried the bard, “in a flash! A Fflam never hesitates. Fortunes of war and all that. Oh, drat and blast! There goes another string. A thick
“There are no more crunchings,” said Taran. “If the Cauldron-Born are still on our heels, you had better worry less about food and more about your own skin.”
“But Gurgi will find munchings! Very quickly ---oh, yes--- he is so wise to get them, to comfort the bellies of great noble lords. But they will forget poor Gurgi, and not even give him snips and snaps for his eatings.”
After a hurried discussion with Fflewddur, who looked as ravenous as Gurgi, Taran agreed they might take a little time to search for berries and edible roots.
“Quite right,” said the bard. “Better eat what we can get now, while the Cauldron-Born give us a chance to do it. I shall help you. I know all about foraging in the woods, do it constantly...” The harp tensed and one string showed signs of giving way. “No,” he added quickly, “I had better stay with Eilonwy. The truth is, I can't tell a mushroom from a toadstool. I wish I could; it would make the life of a wandering bard considerably more filling.”
With cloaks in which to carry back whatever they might find, Taran and Gurgi set off. At a small stream Taran halted to fill Gwydion's leather water flask. Gurgi, sniffing hungrily, ran ahead and disappeared into a stand of rowans. Near the bank of the stream Taran discovered mushrooms, and gathered them hurriedly. Bent on his own search, he paid little heed to Gurgi, until he suddenly heard anguished yelps from behind the trees. Clutching his precious mushrooms, Taran hastened to see what had happened, and came upon Gurgi lying in the middle of the grove, writhing and whimpering, a honeycomb beside him.
At first, Taran thought Gurgi had got himself stung by bees. Then, he saw the creature was in more serious trouble. While Gurgi had climbed for the honey, a dead branch had snapped under his weight. His twisted leg was pinned to the ground with the heavy wood on top of it. Taran heaved the branch away.
The panting Gurgi shook his head. “Poor Gurgi's leg is broken,” he moaned. “There will be no more amblings and ramblings for him now!”
Taran bent and examined the injury. The leg was not broken, though badly torn, and swelling rapidly.
“Now Gurgi's head must be chopped off,” the creature moaned. “Do it, great lord, do it quickly. Gurgi will squeeze up his eyes so as not to see hurtful slashings.”
Taran looked closely at Gurgi. The creature was in earnest. His eyes pleaded with Taran. “Yes, yes,” cried Gurgi. “Now, before silent warriors arrive. Gurgi is better dead at your sword than in their hands. Gurgi cannot walk! All will be killed with fearful smitings and bitings. It is better...”
“No,” said Taran. “You won't be left in the woods, and you won't have your head chopped off--- by me or anyone else.” For a moment Taran almost regretted his words. The poor creature was right, he knew. The injury would slow their pace. And Gurgi, like all of them, would be better off dead than in Arawn's grasp. Still, Taran could not bring himself to draw his sword.
“You and Eilonwy can ride Melyngar,” Taran said, lifting Gurgi to his feet and putting one of the creature's hairy arms about his shoulder. “Come on now. One step at a time...”
Taran was exhausted when they reached Eilonwy and the bard. The girl had recovered noticeably and was chattering even faster than before. While Gurgi lay silently on the grass, Taran divided the honeycomb. The portions were pitifully small.
Fflewddur called Taran aside. “Your hairy friend is going to make things difficult,” he said quietly. “If Melyngar carries two riders, I don't know how much longer she can keep up.”
“That is true,” said Taran. “Yet I see nothing else we can do. Would you abandon him? Would you have cut off his head?”
“Absolutely,” cried the bard, “in a flash! A Fflam never hesitates. Fortunes of war and all that. Oh, drat and blast! There goes another string. A thick
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