Lloyd Alexander - Chronicles of Prydain 1 - The Book of Thre.pdf

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2001-11-20
The Chronicles of Prydain
Book One
THE BOOK OF THREE
Lloyd Alexander
Copyright © 1964
ISBN No. 0-440-40702-8
Published by
Bantam Doubleday
Dell Books for Young Readers
April, 1990
For the children who listened,
the grown-ups who were patient,
and especially for Ann Durell.
Author's Note
T HIS CHRONICLE of the Land of Prydain is
not a retelling or retranslation of Welsh
mythology. Prydain is not Wales--- not entirely, at
least. The inspiration for it comes from that
magnificent land and its legends; but, essentially,
Prydain is a country existing only in the
imagination.
A few of its inhabitants are drawn from the
ancient tales. Gwydion, for example, is a "real"
legendary figure. Arawn, the dread Lord of
Annuvin, comes from the Mabinogion, the classic
collection of Welsh legends, though in Prydain he is
considerably more villainous. And there is an
authentic mythological basis for Arawn's cauldron,
Hen Wen the oracular pig, the old enchanter
Dallben, and others. However, Taran the Assistant
Pig-Keeper, like Eilonwy of the red gold hair, was
born in my own Prydain.
The geography of Prydain is peculiar to itself.
Any resemblance between it and Wales is perhaps
not coincidental--- but not to be used as a guide
for tourists. It is a small land, yet it has room
enough for gallantry and humor; and even an
Assistant Pig-Keeper there may cherish certain
dreams.
The chronicle of Prydain is a fantasy. Such
things never happen in real life. Or do they? Most
of us are called on to perform tasks far beyond
what we believe we can do. Our capabilities seldom
match our aspirations, and we are often woefully
unprepared. To this extent, we are all Assistant
Pig-Keepers at heart.
-L.A.
Chapter 1
The Assistant Pig-Keeper
T ARAN WANTED to make a sword; but Coll,
charged with the practical side of his education,
decided on horseshoes. And so it had been
horseshoes all morning long. Taran's arms ached,
soot blackened his face. At last he dropped the
hammer and turned to Coll, who was watching him
critically.
"Why?" Taran cried. "Why must it be
horseshoes? As if we had any horses!"
Coll was stout and round and his great bald
head glowed bright pink. "Lucky for the horses,"
was all he said, glancing at Taran's handiwork.
"I could do better at making a sword," Taran
protested. "I know I could." And before Coll could
answer, he snatched the tongs, flung a strip of red-
hot iron to the anvil, and began hammering away
as fast as he could.
"Wait, wait!" cried Coll, "that is not the way to
go after it!"
Heedless of Coll, unable even to hear him
above the din, Taran pounded harder than ever.
Sparks sprayed the air. But the more he pounded,
the more the metal twisted and buckled, until,
finally, the iron sprang from the tongs and fell to
the ground. Taran stared in dismay. With the
tongs, he picked up the bent iron and examined it.
"Not quite the blade for a hero," Coll remarked.
"It's ruined," Taran glumly agreed. "It looks
like a sick snake," he added ruefully.
"As I tried telling you," said Coll, "you had it all
wrong. You must hold the tongs--- so. When you
strike, the strength must flow from your shoulder
and your wrist be loose. You can hear it when you
do it right. There is a kind of music in it. Besides,"
he added, "this is not the metal for weapons."
Coll returned the crooked, half-formed blade to
the furnace, where it lost its shape entirely.
"I wish I might have my own sword," Taran
sighed, "and you would teach me sword-fighting."
"Wisht!" cried Coll. "Why should you want to
know that? We have no battles at Caer Dallben."
"We have no horses, either," objected Taran,
"but we're making horseshoes."
"Get on with you," said Coll, unmoved. "That is
for practice."
"And so would this be," Taran urged. "Come,
teach me the sword-fighting. You must know the
art."
Coll's shining head glowed even brighter. A
trace of a smile appeared on his face, as though he
were savoring something pleasant. "True," he said
quietly, "I have held a sword once or twice in my
day."
"Teach me now," pleaded Taran. He seized a
poker and brandished it, slashing at the air and
dancing back and forth over the hard-packed
earthen floor. "See," he called, "I know most of it
already."
"Hold your hand," chuckled Coll. "If you were
to come against me like that, with all your posing
and bouncing, I should have you chopped into bits
by this time." He hesitated a moment. "Look you,"
he said quickly, "at least you should know there is
a right way and a wrong way to go about it."
He picked up another poker. "Here now," he
ordered, with a sooty wink, "stand like a man."

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