Duncton Found (110 page)

Nor did Wort look back at him. But as his groans came to her she began to speak her muttered prayers more loudly, as if to drown out the sounds he made.

And so, in the midst of an almost indifferent world, with the muttering of the alien prayers of Wort his only litany, with nomole of his own to watch over him, with no light of sun nor light of hope to shine upon him, Beechen’s suffering on the barb before the Stone of Beechenhill began.

“Stone,” he whispered, “take Buckram to thy Silence, and be my companion now.”

Then from over the fells beyond the fence, flying obliquely to the Stone and some way from it, a pair of mallard flew, birds far out of their territory and habitat. Like dark forms they rushed out of the northern sky and the henchmoles watched them as they went by, not far above the fence, and then southward into the better light. For a moment the head and neck of the drake glossed green, all bright and beautiful, and then they were lost over the fields below and among distant trees.

“Watch it, mate!” whispered one of the henchmoles. “The eldrene’s coming to.”

Slowly Wort turned to face them as they stanced up to seem more on duty, and slower still her eyes lifted up to stare at the Stone Mole. Then with the Stone behind her, and the glorious bright sky in the distance beyond she approached him where he hung.

“Holy Word,” she whispered, “mother and father of us all, bring thy understanding to him, bring him the words of renunciation of the Stone, bring him the wounding vengeance of the Word’s talons, that he feels the evil drained from him as his blood drains from these wounds he has. Thrust thy avenging judgement into him as the barb is thrust now into his flesh and bones, let him feel his pain as the searing of thy great might. Holy Word, our mother and our father, be mother and father to this evil mole that is humbled before you now; holy Word....”

Beechen’s eyes, filled though they were with his growing pain and despair, looked down on her, and then at the Stone.

“Forgive her, Stone, for she is full of fear. Help her, Stone, to see thy light through me. Guide her, Stone, towards thy Silence, which she longs to....”

But Beechen’s prayer ended in a terrible cry, for the henchmole, to silence him, mounted up and struck the wire on which he hung, and his body swung and his own weight pulled against his paw and racked the sinews and muscles of his shoulder.

“No!” said Wort fiercely, her mouth curling and trembling with anger, her eyes wide in what some might indeed have called fear. “Let the Word be his judge and tormentor now.”

She stared at Beechen, hatred in her eyes, and, never taking them from his face, she whispered, “Holy Word, now is the hour of my trial, now is my greatest temptation, give me strength before the evil urge to pity that mounts up about this mole, give me words to fight him, give me power to meet his word.”

Beechen stared at her, and his eyes softened.

“See the light that rises in the sky behind you, mole. It is the coming light of the Stone you fear to love.”

The henchmoles looked at each other and backed away as if they felt they were caught between two moles that fought and either of which might kill them in the war.

“Word, great Word, maker of us all, bring down thy soaring darkness upon him soon, bring down thy fierceness, that we may know thy power.”

Then suddenly Beechen cried out so violently that the wire stirred, and even as he spoke his pain added force to what he said so that it seemed to come from the great and ugly clouds behind.

“It is thine own darkness you see, mole!”

As he spoke the words “thine own darkness” the sky behind him broke open from its highest point down to the distant ground itself in a great and jagged line of lightning that lit the faces of Wort and the henchmoles and seemed to reach a sense of their growing fear into the very air where they were.

Again he cried “Thine own darkness!” and the words seemed to gather about the eldrene Wort and become the cracking burst of thunder that crashed down upon them, as the roof of a great chamber of rock might fall upon a group of moles.

As it died away the maddened eldrene Wort shouted, “Temptation of the Word! I shall not suffer these vile effusions to corrupt my heart.” Then screaming out her words, her mouth distorted and her breath sharp and painful between each word, “I have faced thee all my life, all the filth and infection that thou art, and the Word strengthens me against....”

“Love her, Stone,” the Stone Mole whispered quietly, “and be my companion now.”

The sky darkened above them, the air was heavy at their ears and eyes and mouths, the henchmoles retreated still more as their companions emerged from the ground to stare aghast as Wort retreated too, to stance between the Stone and the barbed mole, from where she screamed her curses on him.

The sky to the south grew brighter than before, but about them now a strange, leaden light seemed carried on a driven breeze, now warm, now cold, and the leading henchmole whispered urgent instructions.

“Get others here, summon guardmoles, I like this not. We shall take this mole....”

Even as he spoke, the sky above the Stone Mole, dark a moment before, seemed to open up as clouds parted and great light shone beyond, and the light on the ground seemed more lurid still.

“... down. We shall take the bugger off the barb and kill him now. I like this not.”

“You shall not!” commanded the eldrene Wort, turning from her stance and rushing over to him to thrust her snout within inches of his own, her eyes red and fierce. “Now, mole, is the temptation, now is our test. See this mole, see the darkening sky, see the corrupting Stone that helps him not!”

“I see
trouble
,” said the henchmole. “Let’s end it now.”

“I am empowered by the Master himself, and if you touch this mole you shall be blaspheming in that act.
This
is the temptation,
this
the corruption. In him does the Word do battle with the Stone, in him shall we find proof of the Word’s might.”

“We’ll get others here,” said the henchmole, “let us at least do that.”

“Aye! Get others here! Get everymole here that you can. Let them witness this mole’s suffering and death, let them see what the Word shall show them!”

She turned from him as the sky above darkened again, and whirled and turned about them.

“Here now, in vile Beechenhill, last bastion, here shall the Stone finally be broken and scattered, and we moles of the Word are privileged to witness it. Watch, listen, see that I am right!”

There was something so powerful in the way she spoke, so fierce and passionate in the stances she made, that nomole there could have gainsaid her.

The most the henchmoles could do was to whisper again that others should be brought here, as if whatever was taking place should be guarded rather than witnessed. Among all the henchmoles there had come a palpable sense of foreboding, and they looked at one another fearfully as the dark wind whipped at the thistles and grass around them; and they looked up at the Stone and the hanging mole opposite it with undisguised apprehension. The sense of unease they gave off was increased by the fact that they were normally strong moles, fierce moles, not prone to fears and doubts. To such moles as these, fear itself is frightening and often masked by anger, and anger overtook them now. They went up to where Beechen hung and began to shout and jeer at him while Wort, who had returned to her stance between the Stone and Beechen, encouraged them.

“Cry out your hatred of him, expel it from yourselves upon him, disgorge the temptation he creates inside you back upon him, let your hatred be your strength, my moles.
Hate
him and purge yourselves of evil.”

As she spoke the moles gathered about her, and like a pack of creatures from the darkness of past times they bayed and roared at Beechen, and willed the Word to take him, and the northern darkness that mounted once more behind him to engulf him in its mighty paws.

And Beechen
was
engulfed, lost in the sterile darkness that they were, lost in their cries of hate, alone and lost; lost in the sense of his own fear.

“Oh Stone,” he cried, “bring comfort to me now, let me know that thy light shall be seen and my life not lost in vain.”

The henchmoles thought it was of physical pain he spoke, not understanding that Beechen’s agony was of the spirit and the mind.

“Comfort he wants, is it?” said one.

“Relief from his suffering? He can have that!” said another.

Then, laughing, they turned to the corpse of Buckram and several of them dragged it towards the spot above which Beechen hung.

One put his shoulder under Beechen’s rear and eased him up a little as the others laid the broken, bloodied body of Buckram beneath him. They let him go so that he gave the appearance of half standing on his friend’s broken back.

“There’s comfort!” they shouted.

“There’s relief!” they jeered.

“Dear me!” mocked one. “Haven’t you got the strength to raise yourself from off the barb? Stone not being friendly to you today?” It was true enough that had he had the strength Beechen might have raised himself and freed his paw.

There was more laughter among the henchmoles, and vile Wort whispered and prayed and said her incantations to the Word, the very mouth of evil.

Then tiring of the sight of him half propped on Buckram’s body two of them ran forward and with a sudden shove pushed Buckram from under him. The effect of this on Beechen was very cruel, for his body and the wire listed over for a moment and then, as all support was taken from him, his full weight was borne by his paw once more.

There was a crack and tear, then Beechen screamed and his left back paw began to shake and his mouth opened into a cry of pain so terrible that it seemed to sear the dark sky.

His suffering was so plain that even that rabble was struck into silence as they stared at him, a kind of fascinated morbid awe in their eyes and about their mouths.

Out of that silence, the first agony of the new pain receding, Beechen whispered, “Stone, comfort me, and show me a sign of thy love that I may have strength to forgive them.”

Even as he spoke one of the henchmoles, the one who had given him food in the night on the journey there, detached himself slowly from the group and went forward towards the Stone Mole. Thinking that he had found a new torment for their victim the others watched him with amusement, but instead, when he reached the hanging body of Beechen, he turned to them and said quietly, “Finish it now. He’s suffered enough. Finish it.” And so it might have been, for several others there seemed suddenly to feel the same.

But detecting the twin dangers of pity and weakness in the hearts of her henchmoles, the eldrene Wort screamed, “See the face of temptation! See the corrupted mole! See the new enemy!”

“He’s suffered enough,” said the henchmole again, his voice beginning to break with emotion.

The eldrene’s words were enough to put fear into the hearts of those who might have agreed with him and he found pitiless eyes staring at him.

“Don’t be a fool, mole,” said the leader among them, seeing a new danger now.

But the mole turned suddenly from them and whispered, “Forgive them, mole, for they are weak and know you not.”

“Mole!” warned the leader once again.

One of the others laughed and with a jeer said, “Forgive us! Why not lift the bastard off the barb if you like him so much? The Stone will help you and the Word might just forgive you.”

Once more the mole spoke, saying, “Forgive me.” He gently put his paws about Beechen and tried to raise him up. But he had not the strength and his struggles only caused Beechen more pain.

“Forgive me, forgive me,” whispered the henchmole as Beechen’s blood coursed down his body and fell upon the mole’s paws.

“Thou art forgiven,” said Beechen, “the light of the Stone shall be thine. Look, mole!”

And the mole turned from his vain labour and looked with wonder in his eyes beyond the jeering henchmoles, beyond the Stone, and saw the clouds all filled with a light so bright that it was across his face, and upon the Stone Mole where he hung.

“Snout this mole!” cried Wort. “He has blasphemed, he has the blood of a blasphemer’s forgiveness upon him! Snout him!”

Then there was madness, and the rise of paws and talons, and a forgiven mole was raised up towards the northern sky and then that mole’s snout was brought down hard upon the barb.

Even as this happened Beechen said, “Stone, let thy light and peace be with him....” Then Beechen cried out the terrible bubbling scream as of a snouted mole and received to his own body the pain of the henchmole who died at the moment he was snouted, and hung at Beechen’s side.

It was a moment that struck terror into those executing the snouting, who jumped back from the dead mole as if they themselves had been hurt, and seemed almost to cower from the scream of pain that came from the Stone Mole.

Though it was still afternoon, such was the ghastly shifting light about the environs of the Stone that it might have been any time, spring or autumn, summer or winter, when the sky and earth appears out of order with itself and clouds and wind and light seem fraught and confused.