Sunrise

Chapter Fifteen: Traveling

Fflewddur's method of composition turned out to be a process whereby the swing of his long strides provided the beat to which he chanted out the same lines over and over, changing a word here, a phrase there, as he searched for rhyme and meter. It was an amusing thing to listen to, particularly once Taran began to muddle him up deliberately.

"The towers crumbling down and down and the blazing o'er the trees," the bard sang, in an undecided tune halfway between a dirge and a march, "the storm was raging in the heights, and the...hm. Hmmm. Trees. Frees...sees...cheese. The storm was raging in the heights..."

"With a blanket full of fleas," Taran offered, in a logical continuity of tune and without missing a beat. Fflewddur repeated it twice, thoughtfully, before blinking, shaking his head, and bursting into laughter. He picked up a stray pine cone from the ground and hurled it at the boy, who took it on the shoulder and pretended to be mortally wounded. Eilonwy dissolved into uncontrollable giggles; she clung to Melyngar's stirrup and wiped tears from her eyes.

Both the boy and the bard were clearly pleased with themselves at providing so much amusement, and the game continued well into midday. Taran proved surprisingly quick-witted at foiling Fflewddur, though Eilonwy suspected, as the rhymes grew ever more ridiculous, that the wily harper was setting him up on purpose. Fflewddur, for his part, maintained a straight face and feigned great indignation at every interruption. Between the two of them they kept her laughing so much, that by afternoon any remaining trace of irritation she had felt with either had been borne away.

To be sure, it was not an easy day, which made their banter all the more welcome. They kept as brisk a pace as they could manage, spurred on by the knowledge of the enemy army's relentless advance, and their concern over Gurgi kept the mood from being truly lighthearted. Eilonwy found, during one of their brief halts, that when she rose after sitting the world spun and went black for a moment. Fflewddur noticed her groping for a nearby tree trunk, and took her arm to help her up. "It comes from not eating enough," he told her. "Just get up slowly."

"Oof," she sighed, clutching his arm as the darkness cleared. "My head feels like it's floating right off my shoulders. How long does it take for people to starve?"

"Longer than you think." He patted her back. "So long as you have water. Don't worry. We'll be at Caer Dathyl long before you start wasting away, and King Math will no doubt feast us in grand style."

Taran, listening in, brightened visibly. "What are the feasts there like? Is it like the stories, where the tables are piled with venison and roast pig and baked apples?"

Eilonwy's stomach twisted and she looked at Taran reproachfully. "How can you talk about roast pig when you don't know where Hen Wen is? Suppose she's on somebody's table this very minute."

He wrinkled his nose at her and Fflewddur laughed. "Ah, yes, royal feasts, the stuff of legend." He patted his rail-thin middle. "I've made a dent in a table or two there and I won't mind doing it again. Why once, when I was guest of honor..." There was a twang from behind him and he sighed. "That is, I've been invited to a few minor celebrations, most recently for the betrothal ceremony for the son of the Chief Bard."

They had begun walking again. "There's a ceremony for betrothal?" Taran asked, surprised and a little scornful.

"Oh, yes, when you get to that level," said Fflewddur lightly. "There's a ceremony for everything. There's nothing a court likes better than a reason to celebrate, and the common folk like to see the spectacle - particularly as there's always a lot given away - toys and tools and ribbons and such-all; and food, of course, baskets and barrels of food."