Authors: Lloyd Alexander

The Foundling (8 page)

BOOK: The Foundling

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It was true, even as Dallben had said. Coll's turnips had never been bigger or tastier. Dallben himself agreed to remain at the farm,
which greatly pleased Collânot only for the honor of it, but for the safety of Hen Wen. And all prospered.

“No doubt about it,” said Coll to Hen Wen. “It is better to be raising things up than smiting things down. And quieter, into the bargain.”

Such is the tale of Coll and the rescuing of Hen Wen, with the help of the owl, Ash-Wing, the stag, Oak-Horn, and the digging and delving of the moles.

And such is the end of it.

T
HE
T
RUTHFUL
H
ARP

T
his is the tale of King Fflewddur Fflam and his truthful harp, as the bards tell it in the Land of Prydain.

And this is the beginning of it.

Fflewddur Fflam ruled a kingdom so small he could almost stride across it between midday and high noon. The fields and pastures grew so near his castle that sheep and cows ambled up to gaze into his bed-chamber; and the cottagers' children played in his Great Hall, knowing he would sooner join their games than order them away.

“My crown's a grievous burden!” Fflewddur cried. “That is, it would be if I ever wore it. But a Fflam is dutiful! My subjects need me to rule this vast kingdom with a firm hand and a watchful eye!”

Nevertheless, one secret wish lay closest to his heart. He yearned to adventure as a wandering bard.

“A Fflam is eager!” he declared. “I'll be as great a bard as I am a king!”

So he puzzled over tomes of ancient lore, striving to gain the wisdom every true bard must have. And he strained and struggled with his harp until his fingers blistered.

“A Fflam is clever!” he exclaimed. “I'll soon have the knack of it, and play my harp as well as I rule my kingdom!”

At last he fancied himself ready to stand before the High Council of Bards and ask to be ranked among their number.

“A Fflam goes forth!” cried Fflewddur. “Gird on my sword! Saddle my charger! But have a care, she's wild and mettlesome.”

All his subjects who could spare the time gathered to cheer him on, to wave farewell, and to wish him good speed.

“It saddens them to see me go,” Fflewddur sighed. “But a Fflam is faithful! Even as a famous bard, I'll do my kingly duty as carefully as ever.”

And so he journeyed to golden-towered Caer Dathyl and eagerly hastened to the Council Chamber.

“A Fflam is quick-witted!” he cried confidently. “Prove me as you please! I've got every morsel of learning on the tip of my tongue, and every harp tune at my fingers' ends!”

However, when the Council and the Chief Bard questioned him deeply, all that Fflewddur had learned flew out of his head like a flock of sparrows. He gave the right answers to the wrong questions, the wrong answers to the right questions; and worst of all, when he fumbled to strike a tune on his harp it slipped from his grasp and shattered in a thousand splinters on the flagstones. Then Fflewddur bowed his head and stared wretchedly at his boots, knowing he had failed.

“Alas, you are not ready to be one of us,” the Chief Bard regretfully told him. But then, with all his poet's wisdom and compassion, the Chief Bard pitied the hapless king, and spoke apart with a servant, desiring him to bring a certain harp which he put in Fflewddur's hands.

“You still have much to learn,” said the Chief Bard. “Perhaps this may help you.”

Seeing the harp, Fflewddur's dismay vanished in that instant, and his face beamed with delight. The beautiful instrument seemed to play of itself. He needed only touch his fingers to the strings and melodies poured forth in a golden tide.

“Good riddance to my old pot!” Fflewddur cried. “Here's a harp that shows my true skill. A Fflam is grateful!”

The Chief Bard smiled within himself. “May you ever be as grateful as you are now. Come back when it pleases you to tell us how you have fared.”

High-hearted, Fflewddur set out from Caer Dathyl. His new harp gladdened him as much as if he were in fact a bard, and he rode along playing merrily and singing at the top of his voice.

Nearing a river he came upon an old man painfully gathering twigs for a fire. Winter had hardly ended, and a chill wind still bit sharply, and the old man's threadbare garments gave no comfort against the cold. He shivered in the gale, his lips were bitter blue, and his fingers were so numb he could scarcely pick up his twigs.

“A good greeting, friend,” called Fflewddur. “Brisk weather may be good for the blood, but it seems to me you're ill-garbed for a day like this.”

“No warmer clothing do I have,” replied the old man. “Would that I did, for I'm frozen to the marrow of my bones.”

“Then take my cloak,” urged Fflewddur, doffing his garment and wrapping it about the old man's shoulders.

“My thanks to you,” said the old man, wistfully fondling the cloak. “But I cannot take what you yourself need.”

“Need?” exclaimed Fflewddur. “Not at all,” he added, though his own lips had begun turning blue and his nose felt as if it had grown icicles. “Take it and welcome. For the truth of the matter is, I find the day uncomfortably hot!”

No sooner had he spoken these words than the harp shuddered as if it were alive, bent like an overdrawn bow, and a string snapped in two with a loud twang.

“Drat that string!” muttered Fflewddur. “The weather's got into it somehow.”

Knotting up the string, he set out on his way again, shivering, shaking, and playing for all he was worth to keep himself warm.

He wandered on, following the swiftly flowing river. Suddenly he heard a child's voice crying in distress and terror. Clapping heels to his horse's flank he galloped down the riverbank. A small girl had tumbled into the water and the hapless child struggled vainly against the current already sweeping her away.

Fflewddur leaped from his mount and plunged with a great splash into the river, flailing his arms, thrashing his legs, striving with all his might to reach the drowning child.

“This would be an easy task,” he gasped, “if only I could swim!”

Nonetheless, he pressed on, choking and sputtering, until he caught up the child. Keeping afloat as best he could, he turned shoreward; at last his long shanks found footing on the riverbed, and he bore the girl safely to dry land.

Comforting her all the while, though water streamed from his nose, ears, and mouth, he made his way to the cottage from which she had strayed. There, the husbandman and his wife joyously threw their arms about their daughter and the bedraggled Fflewddur as well.

“Poor folk we are,” cried the farm wife. “What reward can we give? All we have is yours, and small payment for saving our greatest treasure.”

“Don't give it a thought,” Fflewddur exclaimed, his face lighting
up as he warmed to his tale. “Why, to begin with, it was in my mind to have a dip in the river. As for the restâa trifle! A Fflam swims like a fish! With only a few powerful strokesâ”

The harp twitched violently and a pair of strings gave way with an earsplitting crack.

“Drat and blast!” muttered Fflewddur. “What ails these beastly strings? The dampness, I'll be bound.”

Taking his leave of the family, for some days he wandered happily to his heart's content, finding himself at last before the stronghold of a noble lord. To the guards at the gate, Fflewddur called out that a bard had come with music and merriment, whereupon they welcomed him and led him to the lord's Great Hall.

No sooner had Fflewddur begun to play than the lord leaped angrily from his throne.

“Have done!” he burst out. “You yelp like a cur with its tail trodden, and your harp rattles worse than a kettle of stones! Away with you!”

Before Fflewddur could collect his wits, the lord snatched up a cudgel, collared the harper, and began drubbing him with all his strength.

“Ai! Ow! Have a care!” cried Fflewddur, struggling vainly to escape the blows and shield his harp at the same time. “A king am I! Of the mightiest realm in Prydain! You'll rue this day when you see my battle host at your gates! A thousand warriors! Spearmen! Bowmen! A Fflam at their head!”

While the harp strings broke right and left, the lord seized Fflewddur by the scruff of the neck and flung him out the gate, where he landed headlong in the mire.

“A Fflam humiliated!” Fflewddur cried, painfully climbing to his feet. “Affronted! Beaten like a knave!” He rubbed his aching shoulders. “Yes, well, it's clear,” he sighed. “Some people have no ear for music.”

His bones too sore for the saddle, he made the rest of his way afoot, with his horse jogging after him. He had trudged a little distance when the selfsame lord and his train of servants galloped by.

“What, are you still in my domain?” shouted the lord. “Begone, you spindle-shanked scarecrow! If once again I see that long nose of yours, you'll have a drubbing better than the first!”

Fflewddur held his tongue as the horsemen rode past, fearing more for his harp than his skin. “Stone-eared clot!” he grumbled under his breath. “A Fflam is forgiving, but this is more than any man can bear.” And he consoled himself with delicious dreams of how he would even the scoreâshould he ever have a host of warriors at his command.

Suddenly he realized the clash of arms and noise of battle came not from his imaginings but from a short way down the road. A band of robbers, lying in ambush, had set upon the riders. The servants had fled bawling in terror and the lord himself was hard pressed and sorely in danger of losing his head as well as his purse.

Snatching out his sword and shouting his battle cry, “A Fflam! A Fflam!” Fflewddur rushed into the fray, and laid about him so fiercely and ferociously the robbers turned and fled as if a whole army of long-legged madmen were at their heels.

Shamefaced, the lord knelt humbly before him, saying: “Alas, I gave you a cudgel to your back, but you gave me a bold sword at my side.”

“Ahâyes, well, for the matter of that,” replied Fflewddur, a little
tartly now the danger was past, “the truth is, a Fflam is hotblooded! I'd been itching for a good fight all this day. But had I known it was you,” he added, “believe me, I'd have kept on my wayâOh, not again! Drat and blast the wretched things!” He moaned as three harp strings broke one after the other, and the instrument jangled as if it would fall to bits.

More than ever dismayed at the state of his harp strings, Fflewddur left the lord's domain and turned back toward Caer Dathyl, journeying to stand once again before the Chief Bard.

“A Fflam is thankful,” he began, “and not one to look a gift horseâin this case, harpâin the mouth. But the strings were weak and worn. As for my wanderings, I was dined and feasted, welcomed and treated royally wherever I went. But the stringsâthere, you see, they're at it again!” he exclaimed, as several broke in two even as he spoke.

“I've only to take a breath!” Fflewddur lamented. “Why, the wretched things break at every wordâ” He stopped short and stared at the harp. “It would almost seemâ” he murmured, his face turning sickly green. “But it can't be! But it is!” He groaned, looking all the more woebegone.

The Chief Bard was watching him closely and Fflewddur glanced sheepishly at him.

“Ahâthe truth of it is,” Fflewddur muttered, “I nearly froze to death in the wind, nearly drowned in the river, and my royal welcome was a royal cudgeling.

“Those beastly strings,” he sighed. “Yes, they do break whenever I, ah, shall we say, adjust the facts. But facts are so gray and dreary, I can't help adding a little color. Poor things, they need it so badly.”

“I have heard more of your wanderings than you might think,”
said the Chief Bard. “Have you indeed spoken all the truth? What of the old man you warmed with your cloak? The child you saved from the river? The lord at whose side you fought?”

Fflewddur blinked in astonishment. “Ahâyes, well, the truth of it is: it never occurred to me to mention them. They were much too dull and drab for any presentable tale at all.”

“Yet those deeds were far more worthy than all your gallant fancies,” said the Chief Bard, “for a good truth is purest gold that needs no gilding. You have the modest heart of the truly brave; but your tongue, alas, gallops faster than your head can rein it.”

“No longer!” Fflewddur declared. “Never again will I stretch the truth!”

The harp strings tightened as if ready to break all at once.

“That is to say,” Fflewddur added hastily, “never beyond what it can bear. A Fflam has learned his lesson. Forever!”

At this, a string snapped loudly. But it was only a small one.

Such is the tale of Fflewddur Fflam, the breaking of the strings, and the harp he carried in all his wanderings from that day forward.

And such is the end of it.

BOOK: The Foundling

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