Duncton Found (46 page)

Gowre, evidently tired, did not waste words, or spend time reporting how he discovered what he had. The details could wait, and would make a good tale everymole would hear in time, but meanwhile the facts were clear enough.

“Ginnell is still in charge of the grikes, and his base is where it was before – opposite Troedfach’s position south of Caradoc,” said Gowre. “But for the time being there won’t be any advance or change of position – Ginnell has gone some way north.”

“Do you know why, mole?” asked Troedfach.

“Yes, we know why well enough,” said Gowre immediately, looking round at his companions who nodded their agreement, “or shall I say we know what the grikes know. There have been great changes and all the grikes are talking of them, for in June Whern got itself a new Master of the Word.

There was a flurry of surprise and talk at this news, for Gowre’s brief had been merely to find the strength of the enemy, not to investigate power at the very heart of the Word’s base. He had done well.

“Henbane is deposed. Her son Lucerne has taken her place. We understand he is heading south as his mother did before him, and that a new imposition of the Word is to come. Ginnell has been summoned north to meet this mole Lucerne, and we may presume that when he has his commands they will not include a withdrawal from these parts. We know little of the new Master except that he is greatly feared. That, in essence, is what we discovered, and....”

“And your source is a good one, mole?” interrupted Clun.

Gowre looked at the mid-Wales leader wearily but with confidence. There was a flicker of distaste over his face as he said, “The best. The Stone was with us. We intercepted a sideem of the Word, and one who has met this Lucerne.”

“You took him prisoner?” asked Troedfach.

“We
had
him prisoner,” said Gowre. “He killed one of our number, and unfortunately was killed in his escape. But we got enough out of him before he died to make us think that we who fight for the Stone against the Word still have much to fear, but even more reason to fight on....”

But one other thing Gowre’s mission had made plain: Siabod was not central enough to be the base for any counter-offensive against the grikes. If the grikes could be pushed back from the valleys to its east, and the line along the Marches fully established then not only would Siabod be more secure but the centre of their campaign could more safely move east.

“Aye, it’s what some of us have...” began Gareg impetuously, before Troedfach raised a paw.

There was silence.

“What Gareg was about to say is something older heads than his have said before,” growled the great mole, “and they were right as I believe he is.” He chuckled and said, “Go on, mole, I’ll not take your moment from you.”

“Caer Caradoc is the natural centre,” said Gareg eagerly, “and we in the southern Marches never forget that it was once one of the ancient Seven which in their wisdom the scribemoles of Uffington established along these parts. We all know it’s deserted and poor of worm, and nomole, not even the grikes, seem to think much of it. But that’s because they have their eyes on Siabod and we have our eyes only on defence. If we are ever to move eastward then no better base could be found.”

“I agree,” said Gowre, warming immediately to Gareg, “for we ourselves ventured up there while we were away. It
should
be occupied again.”

“And soon, too, while the weather’s dry. The place’ll be hard as great Wyddfa itself to conquer if bad weather comes and we are on top!” said Troedfach. A new excitement and purpose had come to the conclave and they seemed all to want to talk at once.

If there had been doubt before about whether or not to advance east it was laid to rest now. All agreed that by the time they got their forces moving, so much might have changed in moledom that they would be moving too much into the unknown.

Better to stay in their known positions, to establish even better defences, and concentrate their energies immediately on ousting the grikes from the valleys east of Siabod. While some said that Caer Caradoc could be quietly occupied by contingents of moles from Troedfach’s powerful territory to the south, and Gaelri’s to the north.

“And what...” began Alder, when everymole had had his say and all had agreed that the second day had been a useful one and that on the morrow the details were all that needed to be worked out... “what has our friend Caradoc to say about all of this?” There was a general and affectionate laugh, for Alder was not the only one who had noticed Caradoc listening with his eyes half closed to the mounting tide of the debate suggesting that the system he had patrolled so long alone should suddenly be re-occupied.

“What do I think? I think the Stone will guide us well but I fear the way will yet be hard. You all know I have always believed that one day moles will come back to my Caer Caradoc. But in my dreams their return was peaceful, and the Stones were honoured, and it was a place once more for young moles to be raised in. I still have that dream, and while you younger moles raise your talons for what you think is right there’ll be me and others like me to remind you why we fight at all. For one day the Stone Mole shall come even to Caer Caradoc and I would have him find peace there, and moles who love the Silence of his Stone.”

“’Tis well spoken, Caradoc,” said Alder looking at young Gowre, “and....”

“Aye! ’Tis so!” growled Troedfach with a meaningful glance at Gareg.

“... and let nomole forget that only as long as the Stone is truly in our hearts shall our talons truly strive for peace.”

It was with this timely reminder that the second day of the conclave ended. The moles groomed, and ate, and talked in groups, the younger Siabod moles serving them, listening wide-eyed to their tales of courage and fortitude.

Later, as the evening drew in and the air began to chill, Alder found himself with Caradoc and Troedfach out on the high northern slopes of Moel Siabod alone, looking across the valleys. The sun was setting behind great Tryfan, and its highest part, where the sacred Stones rose proud, was clear.

They watched the evening darkness coming in for a while until Troedfach said, “You spoke well, Alder, when you spoke of the Stone. Some of these young moles....”

Alder laughed.

“We were the same when we were young, or at least I was. But their spirit is what we’re going to need. I’m not sure that I’ll come with you to Caer Caradoc – Gowre’s got things to learn and he can go in my place.”

“No, mole, you’re the one to come, not him.”

“But they’ll follow you, Troedfach, and you know the ground better than I. The centre of the struggle’s shifting, and others must lead it now.”

“Let Gowre prove himself here awhile,” said Troedfach. “Let him help you oust the grikes from the lower slopes and then leave him in charge. He can make his mistakes in safety here – leading a small party’s one thing, fighting a long campaign’s another.”

“Well I’d like to see Caradoc once again at least,” admitted Alder, “and it’s the nearest I’ll ever get to English moledom again. The Stone banished me here to redeem the wrongs I committed as a guardmole.”

Troedfach chuckled and buffeted Alder cheerfully.

“For a southerner you’re not a bad Siabod mole.”

“Well, the truth is I love the place,” said Alder looking across the mountains, “as much even as Caradoc loves Caer Caradoc.”

“More perhaps,” said Caradoc strangely, “for it’s the Stone Mole I love most now.” Troedfach and Alder exchanged glances, but Alder gave nothing away of what was really on Caradoc’s mind.

Dusk came on and as dew formed on the rough grass about them, a light mist gathered in the valley below. Skeins of it drifted across the heather and peat fells that dropped away before them, and lingered where slatey outcrops of rock stood out.

Below them, in the dark valley, a lost curlew called and from somewhere another answered mournfully.

By some instinct that made the moles and place seem one, several youngsters and females came out and stanced near Alder and the others. All stared mutely at the distant peak where the Stones they guarded rose, too far to see, but their presence powerful. One of the females quietly sang, “Help us Stone, for we are troubled and we do not know how best to serve. Help us now.”

Alder heard the words and knew that it was for such moments as these, when there was a holy mystery in the hills to which these proud and secretive moles had never forgotten how to respond, that he loved the place and had made it home.

He watched the running mist below and remembered years before, coming up these very slopes when he had first come to this place, Marram had been at his flank. And waiting for them, where he stanced now, had been... had been....

Movement. More than mist. Sudden movement across the slopes below.

Several of them saw it all at once and hunched forward, staring and tense.

A skein of mist slipped by a rock, and where it went pale movement was again. Then the clatter of loose scree down into the gathering darkness below, and then one of the sharp-eyed youngsters said excitedly, “’Tis mole!”

The mist shifted again and they all saw that the youngster was right: it was mole indeed! An old mole, his fur pale grey and unkempt, plodding up the slope towards them.

He was large, or had been once, and still had the sense about him that he was. He paused and stared up at them, and then, snout down, came steadily on.

It was Caradoc who spoke: “By the mighty Stone ’tis great Glyder himself come back from the dead!”

There was such awe in his voice that two of the youngsters ran back in dismay while the females closed ranks, as if to protect the young from danger.

“It
is
Glyder!” said Alder clearly and with astonishment.

“But that mole’s long dead, isn’t he?” whispered one of the youngsters.

“He looks alive enough to me, bach,” said Troedfach with admiration on his great dark face. Then Alder and Caradoc hurried down the slope to greet the noble and ancient figure who climbed steadily on to meet them.

Slowly to Siabod he had come, climbing the slopes he had once roamed free moleyears before, pausing to ponder perhaps the flow of the years’ changes that had snatched him from the near-death of Rebecca’s birthing on the high slopes into years of combat against the grikes.

Uncertain whether there were grikes about he had taken the western slopes. As he had got near to the main northern entrance to the higher tunnels he had been astonished to see, as he puffed and peered his way up the final stretches, what had looked like a whole army of moles waiting for him, and looking scared out of their wits. Times had changed indeed!

“Old friend,” said Alder, coming downslope with Caradoc and embracing the once-powerful Glyder, “I thought I’d seen the last of you. You said you’d die in Ogwen alone, your body out on the surface for owl fodder.”

“Aye, well I’ll die soon enough, Alder,” said Glyder tetchily, “but the owls don’t seem to want me yet though I’ve given them chances enough coming here. Taken me weeks. You must have known I was coming and thought I was invading all by myself, for I’ve never seen such a tough-looking reception for a solitary old mole.”

“You didn’t know we had summoned a conclave then?”

“Know? Whatmole to tell me? I live alone. Nomole visits Ogwen. None. No, no, I came looking for some moles.”

“What moles?” whispered Caradoc in surprise and then in growing recognition of something that Alder could not immediately see.

Glyder turned his gaze on Caradoc, and for the first time the two looked at each other. Perhaps Alder saw better than either of them what happened next. Wonder, awe, even fear, came into their faces, and then a look of joy and relief he had rarely seen in all his life.

“I have waited long and journeyed far to meet thee, mole,” said Glyder at last.

“And I thee,” said Caradoc.

“Are there others of us here in Siabod?”

Caradoc shook his head. They talked only briefly, but it was enough to confirm that each had experienced the same phenomena of touching and loss at their respective Stones in June.

Glyder looked at Alder as if uncertain.