Sunrise

Chapter Twenty: Into the Water

Eilonwy awoke with a start, full of a sense of anxiety that she did not understand. But her first breath explained it; above the palpable distress of her companions and the cold, damp weight of the air, the smell gave warning: rain. Not yet, but close, and coming closer.

It was pitch dark, moon and starlight swallowed by thick cloud cover. By the faint glow of the embers of their fire she could see that Taran and Fflewddur were up, tying gear onto Melyngar. Gurgi huddled beneath the horse's legs, looking forlorn.

Eilonwy scrambled up, brushing off her skirts and adjusting Dyrnwyn's straps with chilled, stiff fingers. She was so tired of carrying the dratted thing. It had been silent since their escape from the cauldron warriors, and she wasn't sure she preferred it so or not. While the prickly vibration of its almost-sentience had been unnerving, at least it had made her feel a certain kinship, a resolve and responsibility, however begrudging; now it was so much dead weight, useless in practice but too dangerous to discard.

Fflewddur had noticed her. "Ah, good. You're awake."

"Mmph. You spoke truth about the weather, anyway," she muttered. "What should we do?"

"Stay put," said the bard. "We're just packing the gear to protect it. Leaving this shelter in the dark would be madness."

Eilonwy lit her bauble and squinted at the sky, a jagged streak of black between the underlit rock walls. "It isn't much of a shelter."

"It's all we've got," Taran said shortly, gathering up Melyngar's reins to lead her closer to a concave place in one of the cliff faces. "We're in for it anyway, but at least the wind is a bit blocked."

Following Fflewddur's direction, they huddled against the rock beneath the small overhang, with the horse's broad bulk shielding them from the elements. Overhead, the air had begun to whistle ominously, and a fine mist rode in on wayward gusts that found their way down the crevice. The close quarters provided some warmth, though the comfort of it was somewhat mitigated by the smell. In spite of his bath, Gurgi reeked of wet wolfhound as much as ever. Thank goodness the rest of them had finally gotten the chance to wash a bit, back in Medwyn's valley, although the cold splash of stream water upon her face and arms was hardly the bath she was beginning to crave.

There were chunks of rock digging into her back. Eilonwy squirmed, seeking a better position. She felt Dyrnwyn collide with something and Taran flinched next to her.

"Ouch! You and that blasted sword," he growled. "I wish you'd put it on Melyngar with the rest."

His anxiety was radiating like heat from an oven, and she knew, somewhere deep, that it was this that made him prickly, but her own discomfort overrode any attempt to be patient. "You needn't keep scolding about it," she snapped. "You're worse than a squirrel that's lost its acorns."

Taran made a choked sound of outrage, and Fflewddur snorted and coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like he was suppressing unexpected laughter. "Now, now," he admonished, composing himself, "no telling how long we'll be holed up here like mice. It won't do to snipe at each other. What we need is something to take our minds off the weather."

"Well, you're the bard," Taran retorted, a bit rudely. "What about a story?"

"Or a song," said Eilonwy. "Something you can teach us so we can all sing it."

"Ah, now, there's an idea," Fflewddur said. "Nothing like a song to pass the time and cheer you up. I can't bring out the harp in wet weather, of course, but man's first instrument was his voice, as Teirgwaedd said."

He cleared his throat, and hemmed his way through a line or two of tunes she'd never heard before making up his mind. "Here, then. This one has a chorus you can repeat after every line. Sing it after me." He sung a string of nonsense, rhythmic syllables in a tune that was sweet and vaguely melancholy. She tried it, got tongue-tied, and stopped with a frown.