The Foundling by Lloyd Alexander Page A

huge, steaming kettle with a long iron spoon. He obeyed the hags’ warning not to taste the liquid, but soon the potion began boiling so briskly that a few drops bubbled up and by accident splashed his fingers. With a cry of pain, Dallben let fall the spoon and popped his fingers into his mouth.
    His outcry brought Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch hurrying back to the cottage.
    â€œOh, the poor sparrow!” gasped Orwen, seeing the boy sucking at his blistered knuckles. “He’s gone and burned himself. I’ll fetch an ointment for the sweet fledgling, and some spiderwebs to bandage him. What did you do with all those spiders, Orgoch? They were here only yesterday.”
    â€œToo late for all that,” growled Orgoch. “Worse damage is done.”
    â€œYes, I’m afraid so,” Orddu sighed. “There’s no learning without pain. The dear gosling has had his pain; and now, I daresay, he has some learning to go along with it.”
    Dallben, meanwhile, had swallowed the drops of liquid scalding his fingers. He licked his lips at the taste, sweet and bitter at the same time. And in that instant he began to shake with fear and excitement. All that had been common and familiar in the cottage he saw as he had never seen before.

    Now he understood that the leather bellows lying by the hearth commanded the four winds; the pail of water in the corner, the seas and oceans of the world. The earthen floor of the cottage held the roots of all plants and trees. The fire showed him the secrets of its flame, and how all things come to ashes. He gazed awe-struck at the enchantresses, for such they were.
    â€œThe threads you spin, and measure, and cut off,” Dallben murmured, “these are no threads, but the lives of men. I know who you truly are.”
    â€œOh, I doubt it,” Orddu cheerfully answered. “Even we aren’t always sure of that. Nevertheless, one taste of that magical brew and you know as much as we do. Almost as much, at any rate.”
    â€œToo much for his own good,” muttered Orgoch.
    â€œBut what shall we do?” moaned Orwen. “He was such a sweet, innocent little robin. If only he hadn’t swallowed the potion! Is there no way to make him unswallow it?”
    â€œWe could try,” said Orgoch.
    â€œNo,” declared Orddu. “What’s done is done. You know that as well as I. Alas, the dear duckling will have to leave us. There’s nothing else for it. So many people, knowing so much, under the same roof? All that knowledge crammed in, crowded, bumping and jostling back and forth? We’d not have room to breathe!”
    â€œI say he should be kept,” growled Orgoch.
    â€œI don’t think he’d like your way of keeping him,” Orddu answered. She turned to Dallben. “No, my poor chicken, we must say farewell. You asked us once about the world? I’m afraid you’ll have to see it for yourself.”
    â€œBut, Orddu,” protested Orwen, “we can’t let him march off just like that. Surely we have some little trinket he’d enjoy? A goingaway present, so he won’t forget us?”

    â€œI could give him something to remember us by,” began Orgoch.
    â€œNo doubt,” said Orddu. “But that’s not what Orwen had in mind. Of course, we shall offer him a gift. Better yet, he shall choose one for himself.”
    As Dallben watched, the enchantress unlocked an iron-bound chest and rummaged inside, flinging out all sorts of oddments until there was a large heap on the floor.
    â€œHere’s something,” Orddu at last exclaimed. “Just the thing for a bold young chicken. A sword!”
    Dallben caught his breath in wonder as Orddu put the weapon in his hands. The hilt, studded with jewels, glittered so brightly that he was dazzled and nearly blinded. The blade flashed, and a thread of fire ran along its edges.
    â€œTake this, my duckling,” Orddu said, “and you