The Foundling by Lloyd Alexander

T HE F OUNDLING
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    T his is told of Dallben, greatest of enchanters in Prydain: how three black-robed hags found him, when he was still a baby, in a basket at the edge of the Marshes of Morva. “Oh, Orddu, see what’s here!” cried the one named Orwen, peering into the wicker vessel floating amid the tall grasses. “Poor lost duckling! He’ll catch his death of cold! Whatever shall we do with him?”
    â€œA sweet morsel,” croaked the one named Orgoch from the depths of her hood. “A tender lamb. I know what I should do.”
    â€œPlease be silent, Orgoch,” said the one named Orddu. “You’ve already had your breakfast.” Orddu was a short, plump woman with a round, lumpy face and sharp black eyes. Jewels, pins, and brooches glittered in her tangle of weedy hair. “We can’t leave him here to get all soggy. I suppose we shall have to take him home with us.”
    â€œOh, yes!” exclaimed Orwen, dangling her string of milky white beads over the tiny figure in the basket. “Ah, the darling tadpole! Look at his pink cheeks and chubby little fingers! He’s smiling at us, Orddu! He’s waving! But what shall we call him? He mustn’t go bare and nameless.”
    â€œIf you ask me—” began Orgoch.
    â€œNo one did,” replied Orddu. “You are quite right, Orwen. We must give him a name. Otherwise, how shall we know who he is?”
    â€œWe have so many names lying around the cottage,” said Orwen. “Some of them never used. Give him a nice, fresh, unwrinkled one.”

    â€œThere’s a charming name I’d been saving for a special occasion,” Orddu said, “but I can’t remember what I did with it. No matter. His name—his name: Dallben.”
    â€œLovely!” cried Orwen, clapping her hands. “Oh, Orddu, you have such good taste.”
    â€œTaste, indeed!” snorted Orgoch. “Dallben? Why call him Dallben?”
    â€œWhy not?” returned Orddu. “It will do splendidly. Very good quality, very durable. It should last him a lifetime.”
    â€œIt will last him,” Orgoch muttered, “as long as he needs it.”
    And so Dallben was named and nursed by these three, and given a home in their cottage near the Marshes of Morva. Under their care he grew sturdy, bright, and fair of face. He was kind and generous, and each day handsomer and happier.
    The hags did not keep from him that he was a foundling. But when he was of an age to wonder about such matters, he asked where indeed he had come from, and what the rest of the world was like.
    â€œMy dear chicken,” replied Orddu, “as to where you came from, we haven’t the slightest notion. Nor, might I say, the least interest. You’re here with us now, to our delight, and that’s quite enough to know.”
    â€œAs to the rest of the world,” Orwen added, “don’t bother your pretty, curly head about it. You can be sure it doesn’t bother about you. Be glad you were found instead of drowned. Why, this very moment you might be part of a school of fish. And what a slippery, scaly sort of life that would be!”
    â€œI like fish,” muttered Orgoch, “especially eels.”
    â€œDo hush, dear Orgoch,” said Orddu. “You’re always thinking of your stomach.”

    Despite his curiosity, Dallben saw there was no use in questioning further. Cheerful and willing, he went about every task with eagerness and good grace. He drew pails of water from the well, kept the fire burning in the hearth, pumped the bellows, swept away the ashes, and dug the garden. No toil was too troublesome for him. When Orddu spun thread, he turned the spinning wheel. He helped Orwen measure the skeins into lengths and held them for Orgoch to snip with a pair of rusty shears.
    One day, when the three brewed a potion of roots and herbs, Dallben was left alone to stir the