Duncton Quest (107 page)

For several days after that Tryfan and Spindle found themselves confined in a chamber somewhere above Dowber Gill, whose monotonous roar they could hear all day. The only view out, however, was through a fissure to the sky, up which nomole could have climbed, and the only way out was past a guard of sideem, all young, all tough, all without conversation.

The chamber was wormless and food was brought to them. It might have been uncomfortable but for the fact that somemole had transported heather and dried grass into the place, and there was a small deposit of sand and gravel on one side which meant that they did not have to take stance on bare rock.

The air currents were good, as they generally seemed to be in the High Sideem, and for their natural functions they were allowed, singly, to the surface, but always heavily guarded.

Both moles were better equipped to deal with boredom, which was now their main enemy, than they once were but even so after a few days boredom and its associated restlessness set in. The journeys to the surface were the only relief.

If they wished not to be overheard they were able to talk only in low voices, for the sideem were always near, and the chamber carried sounds easily. Even when they whispered, the sibilants ran harshly about the walls and drowned even the roar of Dowber Gill.

But at least Tryfan was able to report to Spindle all that Boswell had said, and express his fears and doubts about what seemed likely soon to come. After that, the two moles indulged in dreams and hopes of what they might do once they had fulfilled whatever task it was they were to do, and had set off once more to trek south, hopefully with Boswell at their side.

Of his fears for himself Tryfan said little, but Spindle saw them there and sought to reassure him by sharing a dream of a future in which Duncton would be happily occupied once more. There, both agreed, if the Stone granted them the leisure, they would do what they were best equipped to do, which was to scribe. Spindle would uncover the books he had hidden in the ancient tunnels of Duncton Wood, and start once more a Library in the hope that one distant day, long after they both had gone, their texts would tell future moles of their past.

“But differently than at the Holy Burrows,” said Tryfan. “We’ll scribe texts that tell the stories of real moles, and give accounts from which all can learn. For it is my hope that ordinary moles can be taught to scribe and read. Scribemoles must teach others as I have taught you and Mayweed, so that all moles may know the wisdom that was forgotten. Mind you, if I had young of my own I would teach them to scribe second, and to live first. That’s how it would be!”

Then Tryfan smiled a little wanly, and fell silent, while Spindle would think that having young was not what a mole expected it would be, perhaps not ever. And he thought of Bailey, his own son, so close by here, so lost to him.

Then suddenly one day when they were whispering together their conversation was interrupted.

It was Sleekit, Henbane’s right-paw sideem.

“You are to come to Henbane, Tryfan of Duncton,” she said, her face as impassive as ever.

“And Spindle?” asked Tryfan not moving.

“He will be well enough here,” said Sleekit.

Though she was expressionless it seemed to Tryfan that it was as well he went with her without further protest. And anyway, some action was surely better than none.

He joined her by the entrance and the other sideem moved to one side to let him pass. Sleekit said, “The walls here have ears and it is well you have said nothing of consequence to each other in your time in this chamber. You have spoken only of dreams.” She smiled rather primly, and looked for a moment directly into Tryfan’s eyes, as if to say: “Beware of trying to say anything to me even if you believe me to be of the Stone, for others may hear.”

Casting one last glance at Spindle, who watched his leaving with frowning concern on his face, Tryfan turned and followed Sleekit. A sideem went behind and ahead of them and whatever the purpose of Sleekit’s tacit warning there seemed no hope of talking anyway.

But the route they took was rough and tortuous and there were several times when the mole behind lagged a little while the one ahead went too fast, so that Sleekit and Tryfan found themselves together without others to see. But the tunnel was high and galleried and, as always in such places in the High Sideem, Tryfan felt overlooked and watched. Yet hopeful that she herself would choose the best moment, if that was her intention, he stayed close by her and watched for an opportunity.

It came as the tunnel passed by a shoot of water that cleft over the edge of some turning gallery above and thrust down into a pool where the tunnel became a chamber once more. There the route was circuitous about the pools and stalagmites that ranged over the great chamber’s floor. There among that noise and gloom Sleekit stopped, turned ugently, and said, “I have not forgotten Buckland or the Seven Stancing, nor the sense it gave me that I have some task of the Stone.”

“I know it, mole,” said Tryfan.

“It has troubled me always, and I have not known what to do. I heard something in that burrow that I never heard again. I felt a peace near that sick mole, Thyme.”

“The Stone meant it so,” said Tryfan, “but as for your task, find comfort in the knowledge that few moles know truly what theirs is. It is in the truthful search for it that they find the Stone, but the way is hard.”

“I have sought that Silence again all these long years. I have been... alone. And now you are here I am frightened and know not what to do. Henbane will kill you, as she has killed all the others.”

“Others?”

“Males. She needs them. She kills them afterwards, or has them killed. And here, of all places, you could not escape. Do not yield to her, Tryfan, or you are dead. That is all I can say, all the help I can give. I....”

And Tryfan saw a mole in fear, whose eyes were frightened and he remembered again that Seven Stancing, when he found the power to heal and first felt his strength. He felt it now.

“There is something you can do,” he found himself saying, not even knowing what he might say next. “Something only you can do which perhaps the Stone prepared you for as it has prepared me for this day now... The mole Bailey.”

A look of pity and contempt came over Sleekit’s smooth face.

“He is the son of the mole we once helped heal together. Thyme was his mother. Spindle his father.”

Sleekit’s eyes widened.

“But Bailey knows that not. Help him and I think you may help us all. Take him... take him...” And Tryfan remembered a young mole once, innocent as well, who went to the Stone in Duncton Wood and asked for its guidance. Boswell came. Boswell guided him. Tryfan remembered himself. Yes....

“Take him to Boswell, he will know what to do. Take him to the Fall....”

“Trouble, Madam?”

The sideem behind had caught them up.

“Insolence,” said Sleekit, “seeking to persuade me of the error of my ways! These Stone followers live on hope!”

The sideem came as near to laughing as a sideem can.

“I would like to see him evangelise the WordSpeaker!”

The two moles smiled.

“Now, let us continue with no more talk,” said Sleekit coldly.

“So shall it be,” said Tryfan.

“Indeed it shall,” said Sleekit purposefully.

Soon after that they came to Henbane’s den where, languidly, she waited for them.

Henbane looked long at Tryfan, and then indifferently at Sleekit and the sideem accompanying them.

“Leave us,” she purred.

“But WordSpeaker —” began Sleekit.

“Yes?” The word was cold as ice.

“Is it wise?” Tryfan was surprised at how confidently Sleekit spoke. Clearly she had not become the sideem closest to Henbane for nothing.

“Not very,” said Henbane, “but risks are fun. And anyway, I think it unlikely that Tryfan would seek to harm me so long as he knows that his dear friend Spindle is so safe with our sideem. They can have cruel talons in the name of the Word. Is there anything else, my dear, before you leave?”

Sleekit smiled.

“’Tis nothing,” she said.

“Nothing is something,” said Henbane. “Speak it.”

“I can report later what this mole and the mole Spindle spoke secretly to each other.”

“You can, but is it of consequence?”

Sleekit smiled and shrugged indifferently.

“No, amusing that is all. They spoke of Bailey, saying that in their Stone-warped judgement he is not so far changed towards the Word that Boswell, for all his age, could not revive the Stone in him.”

Henbane laughed.

“Did they now?” she said. “Well! Bailey has always wanted to go down to the Fall and now you must give him his chance, Sleekit. But stay near them. I would hear your report of the effect on Bailey of their exciting and learned conversation. Summon him.”

Sleekit went out and they waited then in silence until Bailey, huffing and puffing, appeared with Sleekit at his side.

“Sleekit said you wanted me to do something,” he said with pathetic eagerness. Then, seeing Tryfan, he added petulantly, “Oh! Hello!”

Tryfan nodded but said nothing.

“It’s time you were educated by the wisest mole in moledom,” said Henbane.

Bailey’s eyes widened in fear: “The Master?” he asked.

Henbane laughed outright, and then her eyes turned cold.

“Boswell,” she said. “He is to teach you of the Stone.”

“But I don’t believe in the Stone,” said Bailey. “I worship the Word. I do!”

Henbane looked pained and weary.

“A mole knows the Word, he doesn’t worship it. Perhaps, Sleekit, Tryfan and Spindle are right to have faith in Boswell! But I hope not, Bailey, for your sake. Because I fear that if you are unable to persuade Boswell to Atone and profess the Word then both of you will die.”

“But Henbane...” faltered Bailey, sweating.

“I did not mean —” began Sleekit.

“Thank you, Sleekit! And you, Bailey, shut up. You bore me now. Take him to Boswell, Sleekit, and report on what happens. I would know today but —” She looked at Tryfan sweetly and added, “No, not too soon. Now, leave us.”

For those concerned with the history of Duncton Wood, and the events that formed the context of the coming of the Stone Mole, what happened in the following hours between Henbane of Whern and Tryfan of Duncton, and to Tryfan subsequently, has been the subject of much debate, dispute and controversy. Some attribute blame, others pity. Many still feel anger about it, whilst a few – and there have been a growing number of these in recent years – express understanding and sympathy. No ordinary mole is perfect, none blameless, none can look back on his life without regret for some actions taken or for things left undone.

But what a mole can do when he or she considers the history of Duncton in those times is strive to listen to the truth as it is known, and if judgement must be made let it be in a tolerant spirit, and one which remembers that Tryfan’s life was lived in troubled and difficult times, and the burdens he carried for himself and for others were heavy. Though taken up with reluctance, and carried in the knowledge that much he did he might have done better, yet at least he accepted the tasks that the Stone gave him, and did his best to ensure that there would be worthy followers ready in moledom for the great and triumphant change that he believed would soon come.