Duncton Found (29 page)

“You won’t find any absolutes with soil,” he said, “for not only does it change its nature constantly, but the way a mole perceives it changes as well. Moles adapt their feelings to where they are and so naturally their scribing changes too, as your voice does if you’re nervous or your snout if you’re unhealthy.”

“So there’s no right way to scribe it?”

“No, no, mole. There’s always a right way, but it’s always changing. The problem is to know the right way at the time you’re scribing it, and that may change from the beginning of a sentence to its end. You will find that in Spindle’s scribing ‘soil’ does not much change its appearance from one place to another. He was not interested in such ideas. But in Mayweed’s scribing the word changes halfway through itself. A mole of the soil, you see, a mole whose whole life is soil. He’s always been a better judge of what’s right at a particular time than I am. Perhaps you should ask him the same question. The trick with such things is to know which mole to ask. It’s a rare mole that is not better than anymole else at
something
, and a scribemole does well to remember it. Nomole has nothing to offer.”

“There’s a lot of variation as well in the word ‘tunnel’,” observed Beechen.

“Well, there would be, wouldn’t there? Be a strange world if tunnels were all the same. Mind you, Spindle once told me that the Holy Burrows had a book in its library-devoted entirely to local variations of the word ‘tunnel’ compiled by a librarian after eighteen years of research through the Rolls of the Systems. This was one of the books lost when the grikes came but not, I think, one of the greatest losses....”

So it was that the earlier sense of frustration and anger that had overtaken Beechen’s mind now began to lift, and he felt as if a storm of rain had passed that leaves the air and land cleaner. There was a shared sense of excited endeavour in the tunnels as they continued their separate work and Beechen now began to discover more and more about the texts around him, and about the nature of scribing.

Sometimes Tryfan would volunteer a thought or make a suggestion about how Beechen should approach it. Stance, he said, was important, for a mole cannot scribe well if his back paws are not firm, and his breathing is not good.

By “scribe well” Beechen understood him to mean scribing words worth scribing, rather than script that simply felt good to the touch.

“I fear my own scribing is not of great elegance, but I never had the training, you see. Spindle’s talon is a neater one than mine, but then he was a neater mole. Neither of us, I fear, have that grace and beauty which it was our privilege to discover in many of the texts in the library of the Dunbar moles. The mole who combines grace of form in his scribing with grace of thought will always make scribing that brings a blessing to moledom.”

Beechen did not notice the way Tryfan gazed at him as he said this, the gaze of a scribemole who knows well the strength of the mole he teaches, but is pleased to see his modesty. If Beechen ever gave thought these days to being the “Stone Mole” he did not show it.

All he said was, “I’d like to see some of those ancient texts which Spindle refers to in some of his scribings, and which you’ve mentioned.”

“Perhaps one day you will, if you don’t waste too much time dreaming! The texts Spindle saved at Seven Barrows, some of which are earlier than the Wen texts, are certainly memorable and include all six of the Books of the Stillstones. I think that perhaps they are moledom’s greatest scribed heritage. Even so, always remember that it is the thought behind the scribing that matters, not the text itself.”

“But are there not
seven
Stillstones?”

“There are, but the Book of Silence, which must accompany the last Stillstone, has never been scribed. Most of us believed that Boswell would be the mole to do it but it was not something he talked of on the journey I made with him back to Uffington, nor when he might have done later with Spindle and myself at Seven Barrows, where we cast the Stillstones for safekeeping.”

“Whatmole will scribe the Book of Silence?”

Tryfan shrugged.

“Not I, that’s for certain. I’m having enough trouble scribing the paltry thing I’m about at the moment. No, Boswell was the mole to do it, and I sometimes think he may have done already and it is but waiting to be found as the Stillstones are! One day they shall be recovered and placed together, and when that day comes then Silence shall be known and perhaps its Book as well. I shall be long gone by then, and maybe you as well, Beechen. Now, mole, I hope you have no more questions for I’m tired and still have work to do....”

“Just one more!”

Tryfan laughed, and settled down. The difficult days were indeed over, and a pleasant companionship and respect existed between the two moles now.

“Spindle mentions “dark sound” occasionally, and your texts do as well.”

Tryfan’s brow furrowed, and his face became grim.

“Aye, there’s a form of scribing called dark sound. Its masters have always been the grikes, though Dunbar himself was adept at it as well, but he used it for good and for prophecy. We’ve a Chamber of Dark Sound in Duncton, though few know it now for ’tis lost high in the Ancient System near the Stone. My father knew it well, and had the strength to go there.”

“What is dark sound exactly?”

“A scribing that gathers sound to itself which a mole makes and sends it out again perverse, so a mole hears the worst side of himself but alluringly well. Hearing dark sound he seems to see himself do evil things and survive, which makes him all the more eager to do them for real.”

In that way Beechen gradually learnt of the light and shadow of moledom, and of the Stone. Yet Tryfan could still sometimes be perverse....

As relations between the two had improved Beechen had taken to lingering rather longer on the surface than Tryfan liked him to, but he enjoyed the fresh air and bird-song, and missed the visits of Mayweed and the others which, lately, had tailed off.

One bright morning, at the end of July, he was very late returning, and when he did Tryfan was waiting for him, eyes narrow.

“Feeling like a change of air, mole? Finding my company tedious, eh?” the old mole said.

“Er, no. I... well... no! I want to learn scribing.”

“Good,” said Tryfan approvingly, “real dedication. A pity, though, for I’m off to the surface myself. Some moles to meet, some matters to attend to.”

“But I...” began Beechen, wondering how he could take back the hollow and over-earnest protestation he had made just before.

“Another time, then!” said Tryfan, stretching his paws out with a contented sigh and then setting off. “On a summer day like this one a mole feels he has done enough work to last a lifetime. I shall enjoy the break!”

With that he was gone, leaving Beechen feeling as frustrated as he ever had and wondering what interesting moles Tryfan was to meet, and what exciting business he was seeing to.

But the mood passed, and Beechen found himself wondering, not for the first time, about what it might be that Tryfan had been scribing with such difficulty and for so long. All Tryfan had ever mentioned was a “Rule” but what that was he did not know.

By the time Tryfan came back, darkness had come and Beechen was half asleep in his own burrow. He did not stir when Tryfan peered in at him and softly spoke his name, but he was touched that Tryfan should whisper a blessing on him before retiring to his own burrow.

When Beechen woke at dawn Tryfan was also stirring, but as if in uneasy sleep. Beechen listened to him for a little time and then, concluding that he was likely to remain asleep for a while longer, rose and went up to the surface to groom and find food for them both. Any irritation he might have felt about not being allowed out with Tryfan the previous day was quite gone, and nor did he feel such a craving this day.

Dawn was no more than a dim, grey light in the eastern sky, and the air of the wood was still heavy and cold, the shadows dark. But over on the eastern edge of the wood a blackbird sang, and somewhere else a wood pigeon stirred and flapped. Beechen felt joy to be part of the beginning day, and purposeful, and then eager to get back to Tryfan. Leaves scurried as he searched for food, and he drank from one of the pools of water that formed in among the boles of the trees nearby. Dead lichen floated there, and the upturned downy feather of a young bird, pale against the dark water.

His task complete, Beechen went back underground and, not caring for the noise he made, nor even hearing the normally confusing echoes of the tunnels, he brought himself quickly to the library chamber.

Tryfan was awake and waiting for him. The light from the hollow trunk behind was already brighter.

“Good morning, Beechen!” said Tryfan. “Another good day for the surface?”

Beechen hesitated so long before replying, knowing that whatever he said might go against him, that eventually both moles laughed.

“If I say one thing you’ll make me do another!”

“No, mole, I shall not. You decide!”

“I shall do whatever you would like,” said Beechen, and he meant what he said.

“Why, mole,” exclaimed Tryfan, clearly much pleased, “I think you need fresh air and company, and to begin once more to learn what you can from the moles in this wood. They each have so much to teach you, and so few of them know it. I have told Hay and Mayweed that you shall be going out into the system, and I’ve no doubt Teasel will hear of it and track you down. Don’t forget to go over to Madder’s patch, for he and Dodder will tell you all kinds of things about plants, and the Word, and much else I dare say.”

“But you... will you be all right alone here?”

Tryfan laughed.

“To tell the truth I need to be alone for a time. I have put off letting you go for a long time now, but only because I’m reluctant to get on with my task. It’s not an easy one! But scribing never is.”

“What
are
you scribing?” asked Beechen curiously.

“It is to be a Rule by which a community might live,” said Tryfan, “such as the moles of the Wen lived by for many centuries. But though Spindle made a record of the Wen Rule, such a thing is not easy to adapt to a different system and different times as we have here.

“In the months ahead I want you to come back to our tunnels here from time to time and discuss with me what you have learnt. I would come with you but you will learn more without my help now. Sometimes you will need to come back and think and meditate alone, and perhaps I shall need your help as well for certain tasks – I’m not as quick as I used to be, and you know I cannot see very well. My sight is getting worse... but no matter, it serves me well enough for this last task of mine.

“So off you go and meet some moles. Take my love and wishes with you, mole, and if they ask of me, tell them good things and that I am proud of the community of which I am part!”

Beechen embraced rough old Tryfan, and said he would come soon to tell him what wisdoms and truths he had learnt.

“Do so, mole,” said Tryfan. “I shall miss you each day you are gone.”

“As you miss Spindle?” said Beechen, looking at the neat burrow he had taken over from the cleric mole.

“Aye, as I miss that great mole, and Boswell, and so many more. But they are here with me, Beechen,
here
.” And Tryfan waved a paw over his great lined and scarred body, as if to say each sign of age and wisdom marked a mole’s passage through his life.

Beechen smiled, and gazed on Tryfan, and was gone. And the scribemole watched after him, tears in his eyes, though they were not unhappy ones, and he whispered, “As those moles were to me, Stone Mole, you shall be to moledom evermore.”

Then he turned back to his burrow, and the deserted tunnels and empty burrows had no sound but that of summer far above, and the scratch of his talons slowly scribing once again.

Chapter Thirteen

As Beechen begins to explore summer in Duncton Wood and prepares himself for the world beyond it, other moles, their names, like his, unknown as yet to the resurging forces of the Word, were making preparations and journeys too.

To each in turn we must soon go, for these are the moles who had made their way that auspicious June day to each of the Stories of the Seven systems, and had been moved to pledge their future to the Stone Mole’s cause.

Caradoc at Caer Caradoc; old Glyder in the shadow of Tryfan’s heights at Ogwen; Wharfe, Tryfan’s son, in Beechenhill; Wort, vile eldrene and torturer of followers in Fyfield – strange one to count among those honoured to pledge themselves to the Stone...; Rampion, daughter of Holm, courageous and faithful upholders of the Stone at Rollright. They shall find their tasks and we shall come to honour them.

Which leaves but one of those six: young Mistle, the only one of them born by the light of the same star that marked the night of Beechen’s birth....

We left her apprehensive and trembling on that June day when she and Violet had stanced before the Stone in Avebury, so close together that their flanks touched. The same day, the same few moments indeed, when Beechen in far-off Duncton had sought help from allmole to touch the Stone and so take up his task.