Duncton Found (31 page)

“Only Cuddesdon would claim a plague corpse as his own flesh and blood!” she heard one of the moles say. “Anyway, your mother died in Buckland years ago. You’re a fool, you are.”

“Where’s some worms, idiot?” said another.

“Ah, yes, they at least survive. Back five paces, right fifty paces and left two paces and you’ll find a nice damp wormy place. But Sirs, you said I could have the next I found.”

“The worms are ours now, mole. If you want food, eat
her.”

They guffawed in a loud, crude way and Cuddesdon said, as if he was offended, “The dead should be as honoured as the living.”

“Honour buggery,” said one of the grikes, laughing, and then, to Mistle’s utter relief, she heard them trek off and out of earshot.

“Their language is quite shocking and disgusting,” said Cuddesdon to himself.

Then he put a paw on Mistle’s flank again.

“
Are
you dead?” he asked.

She tried to speak, and knew that the word she wanted to say was “No!” but it would not come out of her mouth, which only moved a little, and she had not even the strength to brush the ants away. She tried to look at him.

“I’m as good at finding water as finding worms,” said Cuddesdon from out of the bright light of the sky that made such pain in her eyes every time she tried to open them, “but I don’t have the strength to drag you there. If you can’t move you’ll die. And if you don’t die soon they’ll find you when they come back. So all in all it would be better if you concentrated on living, and moved.”

With that he prodded her sharply several times, first in the flanks and then near the snout, so that she started involuntarily and, finding some resource of strength she could not have guessed she had, she rolled over, crouched up with difficulty, and looked at him.

He was definitely male, no older than she was, thin, with inquisitive restless eyes and dirty talons. He had an expressive face, and at that moment it showed watchful curiosity.

“My name’s Cuddesdon,” he said.

“Mistle,” she managed to say.

“As in “toe”?” he said immediately.

“Yes,” said Mistle, for whom words just then were painful things to search for in her brain and were retrieved with difficulty.

“You look as good as dead, which in the circumstances was just as well. Must be a story in how you got into that condition, and being me I intend to hear it. First, water. Nothing like it for resuscitation. Follow me!”

“The grikes...” she began nervously.

“There’s only those three about, and they’re eating, so that will keep them occupied, what with their hypocritical graces to say before and their belches to make afterwards.”

He laughed, and spoke of them as if they were mischievous rather than fearful superiors, and his confidence helped her rouse herself to movement.

He led her by easy paths through growths of soft green wheat among which a dry June sun played. Insects buzzed about, and above their heads the swaying shoots revealed a blue sky in which, unseen, a skylark sang.

Despite the recent proximity of the grikes, and Cuddesdon’s warning of what might have happened to her, she felt ever more safe as they went, and all about her seemed soft and enchanted.

Ahead of her Cuddesdon slowed, turned and stopped.

“Can’t you go a bit faster?” he said.

“No I can’t, and anyway I don’t want to,” she replied, rather surprised at her own contrariness. But she had never felt so weak and yet so content at the same time and everything, even the mole staring at her, seemed so
beautiful
, and she felt as if she had never seen anything like it before, except for Violet at the Stone that day....

“It seems long ago,” she whispered.

“What does?”

“Since I escaped. Has Midsummer been?” She remembered Violet had said that it was not so far off now... but perhaps it had passed.

“And gone,” said Cuddesdon. “Nearly July now.”

“Where are we now?... I mean....”

“Water first, then a nice safe hide, and
then
questions and answers,” said Cuddesdon firmly. But though he was masterful with her it was not done roughly as the guardmoles in Avebury would, and she felt comfortable in his presence and glad, for the time being, to be looked after.

They went through another field of loose sown wheat, and though the ground was dry there was the scent of moisture in the air which suggested water ahead. Cuddesdon paused frequently to let her catch up, but even so she was feeling progressively more tired.

“Is it far now?” she asked.

“Don’t know the place any better than you,” he said, “but water scents near, doesn’t it?”

She snouted about a bit. So it
was
that that made the air seem good. Water! Well if this was water that was coming it was of a different and much better sort than she had ever known at Avebury. Purer, deeper, clearer and not brackish-scenting at all.

They went on, broke clear of the wheat and passed through a hawthorn hedge to find themselves at the top end of a pasture, more verdant and sweet-smelling than any she had seen before. Where she came from the grass was thick and rough, and the soil all chalky. Here the ground seemed to stretch forward into a sun-filled gentleness, all greens and fresh colours, which invited a mole downslope to explore its secrets.

“Further than I thought,” said Cuddesdon, looking back behind them as if to check how far they had come, “but not
too
far. Come on!”

But Mistle was already on her way ahead of him, and trying not to stumble and fall in her weak haste.

“I’m not sure we should go straight across such an open field. If the grikes come...” said Cuddesdon doubtfully from behind.

But with each step that Mistle took she felt more certain that she was safe, and anyway the slope that now rose high behind them felt like a barrier protecting them from the three grikes, and this place she was entering was a new world. Whatever had guided her so far was guiding her on now; and she was thirsty, and wanted to drink!

But she paused to let him catch up with her and, indicating the slope above them, said, “Well I’m too tired to go all the way back up there. I
never
want to go back again!”

“So this is a break for freedom, is it?” he said, more to himself than to her. “Here, now, Cuddesdon takes a step into the unknown. A step to freedom. Oh, all right – I suppose I always knew it would happen in an unexpected way like this. Let’s go then.”

On they went, the field levelling out before them towards a rise of bushes and trees among which they could scent that water flowed. The sun was in the grass at their paws, and the air sweet, and soon there was nothing at all cautious about their progress. Freedom! That was the word Cuddesdon had used and whether it was the idea of it, or something about the day and the place, or both, they seemed intoxicated with it. The dappling light ahead, where water ran, drew them on and on, until they did not bother to watch for other moles, or predators, or even for cows’ feet on the ground.

“Look!” said Cuddesdon.

“Yes...” sighed Mistle.

For they had reached the bank of a stream flowing gently just below them, cool, clear and inviting. Swirls of water passed slowly before them, in quieter spots they saw water weeds swaying back and forth beneath the surface, their flat green ends breaking through into the blue light of reflected sky.

On the far side of the stream plants bloomed of a richness and colour and form that Mistle had never seen before, and she stared at them in wonder. One in particular had serrated and shining leaves and stood boldly out in a great clump; among the leaves were the brightest yellow flowers she had ever seen, each one a little sun unto itself and together a dazzling display. Beyond the far bank another field of wheat rose up, with poppies at its edge shivering in the light wind, and in the distance over it, black wings shining with the day, a rook flew slowly. Her gaze fell back to the flowers.

“But they are like suns,” she said in awe, suddenly feeling very grubby indeed, and all her tiredness and thirst coming back.

“Marsh marigold,” said Cuddesdon. “Splendid I know, but is it worth becoming an outcast for? Yes! Certainly! Why not? Let’s die for the sake of flowers! Now, Mistle, since you’re thirsty, drink; and since you’re filthy, cleanse yourself! And I shall watch out for my former masters, though they’re so lazy that I doubt they’ll follow us this far just after eating. Later perhaps....”

So she drank the cold water, and felt its current rise up against the right side of her snout, and then splash against her paws. She went forward a little into the water and felt its chill come into her as the light of a clear winter morning comes in at a tunnel entrance.

She drank again and felt ever more reborn, and seemed to see again the light of the Stone, and hear an echo of Silence, and felt sure the Stone had sent her here.

She had never in all her life immersed herself in water but she did it now, timidly at first but then totally, out into the slow stream, feeling its cold freshness take her breath away as it penetrated her fur. Then light scattered in flashes about her as her own splashes fell across her eyes and she sighed and gasped with pleasure, rolling and turning as if to let the water wash away not just the grime, but also the recent moleyears of living under the stress of a forbidden faith.

“Mole! Mistle mole! Be careful.”

Mistle pulled herself upright in the water, orientated herself to the bank and saw she had drifted downstream and that Cuddesdon, wary of the water it seemed, was doing his best to run along the rough bank and keep up with her. She tried to touch the bottom of the stream, could not find it, panicked, and then floundered forward towards him until she felt the gravelly bottom and was able to pull herself out, tired and cold, but laughing.

“It was wonderful,” she said simply, turning her face towards the warming sun and closing her eyes.

“Wonderfully silly!” said Cuddesdon. “You might have drowned. At least you could have said you could swim!”

“I didn’t know I could,” she said, shifting her right flank to get the sun full on it. “Where I come from there are no streams to speak of.”

Cuddesdon said, “Ah!” in an abstracted way, looked around to see how much cover from searching eyes they had, and then, seeing that Mistle looked very tired and seemed about to fall into a deep sleep, prodded her gently into moving further along the bank until he got her to a place among deep grass where they would be safe enough for a time, and might burrow if they chose.

“Won’t the grikes come looking for you? Won’t they notice I’ve gone and realise I wasn’t dead?” She asked these questions wearily, as if remembering that she might be in danger.

“Probably. But it’s a sunny day and those lot don’t worry about what they can’t see, and they’ve got other things to think about. I’ve wandered off before and they’ll expect me to be too cowardly not to come back. But this time I think I really will stay away.”

“Ohhh...” sighed Mistle, relieved and too tired to ask more questions. So long as she was safe... she stretched out, letting the warm sun dry her fur, and closing her eyes again so she could enjoy the blissful feelings of peace that were overcoming her. She yawned once, sighed again, and drifted off into a long and dreamless sleep.

When she came to, the sun was still shining, the grass was still warm, and though every limb in her body ached she felt good. She opened her eyes and saw that though Cuddesdon was dozing now he had been busy, for a pile of food was ready and waiting and he had delved a temporary burrow whose earth rose loamy brown behind him.

She stared at him and saw he looked older than he seemed to be when he talked. His face was worry-lined, his brow permanently furrowed, his snout not quite straight. His general appearance was grubby rather than dirty, as if he had better things to think about than his appearance. She noticed unpleasant scars on his flanks and knew what they were, because a lot of moles in Avebury had them: they were where guardmoles had taloned him.

The moment she moved he opened his eyes and said, “Eat, then drink.
Don’t
talk or you might not stop.”

“All right,” she said. And she did, slowly, feeling quite at ease with him.

“Do you know where we are?” she asked eventually.

“I was just pondering that very question and I do believe that we are looking at a stream which becomes a river which leads to the great Thames itself. If so, then this is what moles south of here call the Kennet. I deduced all that from what the grikes have been saying these past few days.”

“Which way’s Avebury from here?” she asked.

He pointed to the north-west.

“And Uffington?”

“Off up that slope to the north-east, over the chalk and then a long, long way.”

“I’m off course then,” she said.

“Why? Avebury’s not where you’re from, is it?”

She nodded and he laughed.

“In that case, mole, you certainly would not have been killed by the grike platoon, assuming they had the intelligence to question you before they killed you. We were on our way to Avebury and only diverted south because the going got rough and somewhat less wormful than it had been. Mind you, they would have taken you back there, which might not have been pleasant. Avebury’s like Duncton: once in, moles don’t easily come out.”