Duncton Found (89 page)

Then poor Bailey took the text and hurried into the tunnels of the Ancient System and back to the hidden place where his father and Mayweed had long since made their secret library. There he carefully put the text, and sealed the place up once more to make it hard to find.

When he reached Tryfan again he found him only half conscious and muttering, and afraid of some imagining that had come to him. Indeed, when Bailey reached him and touched him poor Tryfan started as if Bailey was his enemy and began to defend himself, thrusting out this way and that.

“It’s only me, Tryfan. It’s Bailey.”

“Bailey?” said Tryfan with relief. “I thought, I thought....”

“It’s
me
,” said Bailey. “I won’t hurt you.”

Tryfan gripped his paw and said, “Bailey, mole, take me down to Barrow Vale, take me there.”

“It’s a long way, Tryfan, and you’re weak.”

“Take me... please.”

The painful, slow journey took a night and half a day, but at last they reached Barrow Vale.

“I’ll wait on the surface, not below.”

“Wait for what?” whispered Bailey.

For the first time since he had found him, Bailey saw Tryfan smile. Then he looked conspiratorial.

“For a mole who’s coming to me,” he said softly. “He always said he would come when I needed him. He will come now.”

“Whatmole, Tryfan?” asked Bailey, looking about the deserted place and knowing in his heart that nomole could come now.

“A mole who is much loved and most loving. He will know that Tryfan needs him.” Then Tryfan shook and shivered and out of his lost eyes there came what might once have been tears, but now it seemed all blood.

Bailey thought to ask Tryfan some questions, to take his mind off his thoughts and fears.

“Tryfan, tell me about my father.”

“Of all moles I have ever known, I loved Spindle most of all. He was a mole I met at Uffington and....”

There on the surface in Barrow Vale, Tryfan began to talk about his life, with Bailey staying close to him as he slowly began to sink towards a place of darkness of which he was afraid. Sometimes he seemed to feel he had slipped into it, and all sorts of images of horror and fearful things came to him, and he fretted, and shook, and tried to fight Bailey away. But Bailey stayed close, and talked to him, and sometimes Tryfan would emerge once more into a safer world where the darkness did not close him in.

Sometimes, too, he would say, “Is he here yet? Is he come? I need him now, Bailey, I need him at my flank to guide me on. Is he come?”

But Bailey could only hold frightened Tryfan close and do his best to comfort him, and whisper his hope that soon that mole would come... soon.

So a long night passed, and then a day, and then another night, a night when owls stooped close, yet still Tryfan would not go underground. The best Bailey could do was cover him with leaf litter to keep him warm, and hope the owls, who scented blood, would not dare come too close to a living mole.

Yet sometimes Bailey had to leave him while he fetched food, and poor Tryfan cried feebly out and seemed to think that he had been utterly deserted. Then when Bailey came back Tryfan would say, “Is it you come at last, mole? I have needed you!” And when Bailey said, “It’s Bailey,” he knew he was not the mole Tryfan meant.

So Tryfan clung on to life, but full of fears and doubts, and the belief that he was lost and in a place of darkness, shaking and crying out and even then, feeble as he had become, stancing vainly up to Bailey.

“Help him, Stone,” prayed Bailey. “Take his suffering from him, bring him safely to thy Silence. Help him now....”

Then in the afternoon of the second day in Barrow Vale, Bailey, only half awake, heard moles coming. Down through the wood from the Stone, more than one mole, but Bailey was almost too tired to care. He felt they must be grikes but he was not afraid now, and if a hundred guardmoles had appeared at the edge of Barrow Vale, he would have stanced in front of Tryfan and defended him to the last.

Indeed, he stanced forward towards the coming moles and, though never a fighting mole, cried out, “Halt! Come no further or I shall... I shall attack!”

It was a brave effort, but words are one thing and deeds another, and poor Bailey knew the moment the great guardmole came into view that he had no chance.

“We’re hurting nomole!” he said, still trying to sound as bold as he could, and keeping himself between Tryfan and the mole. Then another appeared, a female, and stared at him. Then, finally, Mayweed appeared and Bailey’s mouth fell open in astonishment and relief.

“Mayweed,” he said. “Oh Mayweed!” and gesturing to Tryfan with his left paw as he held him with his right, he cried.

Romney and Mistle crouched down some way off and Mayweed went forward quietly to where Tryfan lay near Bailey.

“Bailey, mole,” said Mayweed gently, “I shall look after him now. Go to my friends and rest. I shall guide him now.”

Even as Mayweed spoke Tryfan stirred and snouted weakly up and reached out a rough old paw and felt Mayweed’s face and flanks. The wood was quiet about them as Bailey crept away and stanced with Romney and Mistle.

“Mayweed, I told him you’d come,” said Tryfan.

“Torn and wounded Tryfan, Mayweed is here now and here he’ll stay.”

“I’m in darkness, Mayweed, and cold and much afraid.”

“Much-loved mole, keep your paw on my flank and listen to my voice, and you’ll not get lost.” Mayweed did as Bailey had done and surrounded him with leaf litter to keep him warm. He looked at his torn eyes and shook his head.

Tryfan was quiet for a long time until he said suddenly, “You’ve been gone so long.” His voice was calmer than it had been, and he sounded more secure.

“Humbleness has been rushing about doing things, but didn’t want to be gone so long.”

“Beechen....”

“He has gone north to preach of the Stone.”

“They came and hurt so many moles.”

“Mayweed knows.”

“Even Feverfew, Mayweed, even her. But not one of them renounced the Stone, not a single one. Bailey’s safe, but Marram died and Skint I don’t know....”

“Died fighting, he did, with you-know-who defending his rear.”

“Told him not to fight. Skint never listened. Loved Skint. Smithills too... all of them died. Not you, Mayweed. You know how to survive. I’ve missed Spindle these hours past.”

“Great mole, myself I know that, humbleness knows lots of things.”

There was another long silence, and Tryfan’s breathing grew heavier and more laboured. But then he spoke again.

“What do you know, Mayweed, eh? Tell an old mole what you know.”

“Humble Mayweed knows a thing or three. Knows Tryfan loved and was loved more than most; he knows he loved moles others did not love, like Henbane, like himself. Mayweed knows lots and lots and lots....”

“Mole, don’t leave me,” whispered Tryfan, now frantic again and afraid of something that wasn’t there. “Wanted to be here in Barrow Vale when I left. Nomole now, Mayweed, nomole to carry on. What’s to become of Duncton Wood, who’s to show them the way to go?” Tryfan began to cry, terrible weak sobs.

For a moment Mayweed was at a loss, but then he turned to Mistle and signalled her over.

“Terrific Tryfan, I’ve got a mole with me, one you’d like to know, a female....”

“No,” whispered Tryfan, though whether he was denying something he feared, or saying that he did not want to meet another mole was hard to say.

Mayweed brought Mistle closer and, raising Tryfan’s frail paw to her face, got him to touch her. Slowly, fumblingly, Tryfan felt Mistle’s face, and then her flanks.

“Who is she, Mayweed?”

“She’s Beechen’s love.”

“Ohhh....”

No words can describe the sound of pleasure that Tryfan gave when he heard this, and he said, “Come here, mole, let me touch you again.”

He caressed her face with touching tenderness and said, “Tell me your name.”

“I’m Mistle of Avebury.”

“And you’re Beechen’s love?”

“Yes. He wanted me to come to Duncton Wood because – because he thought... he said my task was here until he comes back.”

“He said your task was here?”

“Yes,” said Mistle.

“Hear that, Mayweed? Beechen’s sent a mole to carry on until he comes back. He
will,
my dear, when his task is done, but you know that.”

Mistle nodded, unable to speak.

“It’s a good system, Mistle, but it’s seen hard times. One day it will be found again.”

“I know,” whispered Mistle, “and Beechen will be here when it is.”

“And you, Mistle?”

“I’ll wait for him always.”

“Is she beautiful, Mayweed?”

“Inquisitorial Sir, she’s a marvel of mind and body. Beechen is a lucky mole.”

“I think he is.”

Tryfan grew tired then and began to sleep once more, and Mistle crept quietly back to the others. Then Tryfan awoke, much troubled, and spoke in a jumbled way of Stillstones and Seven Barrows.

“You must go there, Mayweed,” he said.

“It’s a long way for a humble old mole like Mayweed. Why, it’s beyond Uffington itself.”

“I went,” said Tryfan, “and you must.
She’s
been, I could tell. You’ll find everything there just as Spindle and me left it. The Stillstones are all there waiting to be found. Their time’s coming soon... Seven Stillstones, Seven Books made... soon now. Beechen’s Mistle here, you there. Yes. It’s all coming right now, Mayweed, it’s coming right and Duncton’s trial is nearly over. The Stone guides us well....”

He slept some more and dusk came, bringing with it a cold breeze that whispered through the wood and among the branches above.

With a sudden start Tryfan awoke again and seemed much afraid.

“I’m here, Tryfan.”

“It’s dark and dangerous, it’s always been so dark and it never stops, not ever....”

“Listen to my voice, good Tryfan, great mole, listen....”

“Where are you? Guide me, guide me.”

“I’m close, I’m just ahead. Follow me, Tryfan, you’re nearly there where the darkness ends, follow me....”

Tryfan gripped Mayweed’s paw and seemed to stare up at the sky, and then around, fear on his wounded face and his breathing growing faster.

“The way is so hard but Boswell made me go on it. He did, he did, and I was not worthy. I’m so frightened. How did you learn the way, Mayweed?”

“Great Tryfan, I learned the way from you. You’ve just forgotten it for a moment, that’s all. Now, Mayweed is here, just here, and the darkness is nearly ended, so follow him a little more. You are so much loved, Tryfan, by so many moles.”

Darkness was coming to the wood, and the two moles huddled together right in the centre of Barrow Vale.

“Stone, help him,” prayed Mayweed for his friend, “embrace him with thy Silence.”

“Why, Mayweed, that’s what Boswell prayed when he ordained me scribemole so long ago.” There was a pause and the listening moles were astonished to hear Tryfan chuckle softly and then say, “Mayweed, you’re a
clever
mole. Humbleness my paw! I knew you’d guide me at the end...” His voice sounded young again, and firm, and snouting forward a little he added, “Do you know, I think we’re almost there... yes, it’s just ahead now, isn’t it?”

These were the last words that Tryfan of Duncton, son of Bracken and Rebecca, last scribemole ordained in Uffington ever spoke aloud. His friend and guide, the great route-finder Mayweed, held him close as he neared his end, and whispered, “Terrific Tryfan, you can find your way there now without me. You can, you know the way.” Then, with a contented sigh, Tryfan stirred one last time and breathed his last.

Yet Mayweed held him for some time more until, at last, he was ready gently to lay the scribemole’s head on the leafy floor of Barrow Vale and very slowly, very quietly, went to where the others stanced.

Where Tryfan lay they saw a slow light come in the dark, not powerful like the sun, or shining like the moon, but gentle, soft, and quiet. A great light that came over Tryfan in the heart of Barrow Vale, and gathered him into its Silence.

During the days that followed they were all subdued. Mayweed seemed suddenly to have grown old and grey, as if the death of Tryfan had robbed him of anything to live for.