Its way was words, its authority the Word, its power that which he invested in himself, his strength their weakness, his weapon their own hypocrisy, his method, attack.
“Blasphemy,” he said quietly, the accusative word whispering about the chamber until it was almost, but not quite, gone, “would be in my death here as sacrifice, great though the honour. Honour for me, moles, yet dishonour for any who took my life.”
He smiled as if to apologise for the trouble his words might cause them, but what menace was in that smile! He flexed his sharp talons too, as if to remind them that, if pressed, then in pursuit of honouring the Word he would kill before being killed. It was enough to intimidate the older members of the Twelve, and a mole as acute as Rune could see which among them was weak and which was not.
“Blasphemy? Dishonour?” hissed Slithe who, had he been a stronger mole and Rune less strong, would have killed him then and there. But no, he weakened as moles usually did before Rune’s gaze and voice.
“Yes, dishonour,” said Rune, and before the stir of dismay among the Keepers could turn to attack he firmly reminded them of the origins of the sacrifice, and that it was only in recent decades that the Keepers had devolved the sacrifice to a mole outside their circle not, he said (as was really the case, as well he knew), for fear but rather because none among them would, for modesty, take so great an honour.
“Whatmole would be so vain as to suggest himself to die?” asked Rune. All the time he watched them closely to find the weakest one, a mole least liked by the others, a mole to whom their dire choice could turn. But before his arguments reached that far he made certain with stares subtle and sinister that each one of them thought that
he
was the one this clever, strong sideem would manoeuvre the others to kill. So each knew fear, and each felt the power of Rune’s threat.
Argument set in, fuelled by dismay and fear, an argument among twelve Keepers the consequence of which was one must die. Upon each other others picked, and vote after vote was tied, until at last the Keepers turned to Slithe to make a nomination. So one was chosen and clever Rune was invited to kill him and join in the feast.
Nor did Rune stop there. Inevitably the remaining Keepers chose him to make up their number and so Rune gained access to ultimate power.
It did not take him long to depose the Master, Slithe himself, and he began to lay his plans for the expansion into moledom of the Word’s great power based on the experience learnt in his travels south. He did not yet take up the Mastership himself for his power was not consolidated nor the moles he needed quite in place. But some time in that period of upheaval and change he brought in Terce as the youngest Twelfth Keeper for many a cycle.
It was in that period that Rune broke the sideem rule of chastity, daring to cite Scirpus himself as the precedent, and took to himself a mate called Charlock. She bore Henbane, and raised her privily to darkness in ignorance of who her father was. Charlock taught Henbane that her first and only loyalty was to the Master and that to his lusts she must yield. Which Henbane, having killed her mother, did, not knowing that to the crime of matricide she now added the violation of incest with her father. There was but one consolation among all this filth, which was that Henbane was never made with pup by Rune. Nor indeed by any of the males she subsequently took, of whom there were many, mercy be upon their shadowed souls.
But for great Tryfan, all who knew the pleasures of her body died, one by one, killed by Henbane after she had suffered them to exhaust their pleasure, then later, when she tired of killing, by the sterile eldrene, Fescue among them, who vented their distorted lusts on those already used by their Mistress. But in that time Henbane learnt the killing arts and it was said that no female ever learned to kill a male more quick than she, and, when she wished, more slow.
All this was Lucerne’s loathsome heritage, and brooding over it that June Henbane saw clearly and ever more clearly how it had infected her rearing of Lucerne, and was the necessary prelude to the freedoms over him she so fatally gave cold Terce.
On much else did maddened Henbane dwell and Whern was thrown into disarray as she wandered its tunnels and seemed to see accusation in every face. For June is a busy month when the sideem prepare for the rite of the anointing at Midsummer of those novice sideem who have survived the trial of the Clints.
All this needed the Mistress’s attention and approval, and in that Henbane held power still, and knew it. For without completion of the Midsummer rite the younger sideem would not be legitimate and any succession Lucerne had plotted for, which depended on such younger moles, would be weakened. Nor had he himself been anointed, though many argued, including Terce, that Lucerne need not submit to the Midsummer test. The risks might be too great.
For all her seeming madness Henbane understood the power she still held, and that the sideem would not accept Lucerne unless he had been anointed. So they put up with her madness as she wandered, scraping her paws against the sacred walls of the High Sideem and shouting out of dark sound, and incest, and two lost pups, and much more that ate age into her.
But as Midsummer drew nigh, and certain preparatory rites had been left undone by her, the Keepers sent Lucerne and Terce to talk to her.
“Mother,” Lucerne began, hypocritical affection dripping from every pore, “you are still Mistress and you have duties to perform, I....”
“Yes, my son?” she said.
“I know not why I struck you —” And though there was no apology in the words, he put it in his voice.
It was Terce she watched as Lucerne spoke these words. Apology? Hypocrisy? Half of one and half of another, that was what she judged. But more than that she saw in Terce’s eyes belief that if not quite mad she was no longer strong. Strong enough, she wondered, for what?
She smiled because she knew. Not strong enough to exploit what Terce had suggested Lucerne do and did no more, which was to suckle her until he was an adult. “It will bind him to thee in ways deeper than words can say,” Terce had said. But now, guessed Henbane, Terce adjudged that
that
was what she could no longer exploit: too weak, too dazed, they supposed, no doubt. But Henbane knew she could. Not now, but one day. Aye, one day; Lucerne still longed for the comfort she could give but which his pride and growing status could not allow him to ask for or to take.
The comfort and potential of that thought would keep her sane, and give her strength and, in some way she could not understand but felt in that remote and tiny part of her that still was whole, would guide her towards something that might take her out of torment yet.
“I have been ill,” she said at last and to their relief, “yet now the Word does give me strength. For now, with thy help, Terce, and thine, dear son, we shall trust the Word to guide us to the Midsummer rite, and make those preparations we must make.”
She was glad to see they did not believe she would survive. She was glad because their mistake would be her saving yet. They would use her to legitimise the novices during the rite to come and then... discard her.
“Come, mother,” said Lucerne, his paw to her flank, “we shall help thee be Mistress once more.”
“You shall?” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
But she knew his hypocrisy better than anymole, for of that art she must now be Mistress indeed, and for the few moleweeks to Midsummer so she must remain.
Chapter Eight
Tryfan proved a tolerant teacher of scribing in those first moleweeks of June in the Marsh End, for though he wanted to get on with his own scribing while Beechen worked hard to learn the tasks he was set, he knew as well as anymole the excited restlessness that overcomes young moles at the approach of Midsummer.
So a few days before the day itself, when the air was warm and the light good and nomole should be stuck in a tunnel with his snout in a text, Tryfan suddenly declared, “Enough! Too much, in fact! We’re going up to the surface to join in the merriment and make a visit or two.”
Beechen was secretly relieved for on his occasional forays to the surface he had fancied he had heard moles chattering nearby and enjoying the June days, and had wanted to join them.
“Where shall we go? What moles shall we see?”
“I have a fancy to show you the burrow where my mother Rebecca raised Comfrey, though whether or not I can find it is another matter. As for which moles to see, well... at Midsummer moles have a habit of going a-visiting, so you never know what moles you’ll meet where except that they’ll be a surprise and in the wrong burrow. Moles gather and talk and have a laugh and then, slowly, their groups growing in number all the time, they make trek to the Stone for the Midsummer rite.”
It seemed to Beechen that a great change had come to the wood in the short time since they had first ventured underground in the Marsh End.
The leaves of the trees were fuller and greener, the undergrowth thicker, the bird song richer, the soil warmer, and evidence of mole – and other creatures, too – greater and more glorious. Emerging into the busy world once more, he felt happier to be alive than he ever had, and ready for whatever the Stone might put their way.
All around there were delights to the eye and the ear, and had not Tryfan been there Beechen might not have turned any way but round, and round again, uncertain of which way to turn to see the best that was there.
“’Tis a grand place, the Marsh End as Midsummer approaches,” said Tryfan, breathing in the clear air. “No need to go searching for mole at this time of year; they find each other and enjoy themselves, or used to! As I said before, we’ll see what comes!”
What came was another mole, and one they both knew.
“Greetings both, I guessed you might be about on a day like this. Where are you going?” Hay asked them.
Tryfan explained they were looking for a burrow his half-brother had been raised in and that it lay somewhere off to the east. Not being a Duncton mole originally, Hay had no idea where such a burrow might be, but he seemed eager to join them, and so all three went on together.
“If we carry on this way,” said Hay eventually, after a pleasant ramble during which Tryfan stopped occasionally in a vain attempt to get a better idea of where Rebecca’s old tunnels might be, “we’re going to come to Borage’s place. He’s all right, but I’m not so sure about Heather... well I mean she’s a bit intense for a summer’s day if you know what I mean. Ever since....”
With a frown and raised paw Tryfan stopped him saying more.
“’Tis nearly Midsummer and we must take moles as we find them, just as the Stone does.” Beechen knew that Tryfan never gossiped about other moles.
They passed the ruined entrances to several tunnels in an area of the Marsh End that had obviously once been heavily populated. Then, turning south-east and a little upslope, the general air of dereliction gave way to a sense of order and life more appropriate to the season. They entered a clearing that was clean, sunny and had an inviting entrance down into a tunnel.
The moles living there must have been aware of their approach, because no sooner had they arrived but a stolid and worthy snout appeared at the entrance and a burly mole emerged.
Beechen already knew something about Borage from what he had heard. He knew him to be a big mole, one who had been tortured and diseased in his time – the evidence for which was still in the scars on his flanks and the patchiness of fur at his rump.
Before Borage had a chance to greet them, another mole came out of the entrance, a fixed and righteous smile upon her face, and eyes that had a disconcerting way of looking past a mole as if some golden land of goodness lay beyond him.
“Greetings! May the Stone be with you all!” said Heather with general good humour, the warmth in her eyes not failing to hide the sense of surprise and worry she seemed to have at being visited by three moles all at once. “The Stone does us an honour!” she went on, without complete conviction, “to bring to our humble burrows no less a mole than Tryfan and....”
“Beechen,” said Beechen.
“So you’re Beechen, are you? A solid-looking mole I must say, and a great credit to Feverfew, if I may say so. Yes, very good, very good. May the Stone be with you, Beechen.”
“Er, thank you,” replied Beechen, finding himself smiling inanely in response to Heather’s continual beatific smile.
“You’ve grown since the night you were born,” said Heather. “May the Stone be praised!”
“He’d look pretty odd if he hadn’t,” said Hay lightly, but Heather ignored his irony and, seeming eager to put a seal on her comments about Beechen, added, “Blessed be the Stone indeed, aye! Welcome to the Good News!”
Tryfan, evidently anxious to avoid too much evangelising, said hastily, “Beechen, Borage here knows more about Buckland, the grikes’ southern base, than most. You should talk with him.”
“I will tell you what I know of Buckland,” Borage said, “but not now. Today is not a day for remembering that dark place.”
“The Stone —” Heather began yet again, but Hay interrupted her.
“We’re in search of some tunnels Tryfan wants to see,” he said. “So we’ll be off now, Borage... Heather.”
“Then I shall come with you,” beamed Heather and before Hay could say anything to stop her Tryfan said, “A good idea, mole. Both of you come. The more the merrier. I want Beechen to meet as many moles as he can.”
“It’s being pupless that has done this,” Borage whispered to Tryfan as they set off. “She means well.”
“It isn’t bad to love the Stone,” Tryfan said soothingly.
The group now comprised five moles, and Beechen had little doubt that soon along the way they would meet others, for there was a sense of infectious adventure about their journey which, it seemed, gave it a life of its own which any individual among them could not control, and certainly, Tryfan was not trying to do so.
As they went along Heather talked loudly to Beechen of the goodness of life and of the Stone, while Hay nudged and winked at Beechen saying, “It’ll get worse before it gets better, and could get very bad indeed if we meet the wrong moles. It only needs... oh no!” Hay looked wildly about with mock alarm as they turned a corner and found, approaching them in a desultory kind of way, an old female. Snouting at the undergrowth she was, and singing tunelessly to herself.