Duncton Quest (117 page)

“I’ll show you something better, mole, if you’ll just keep on going for once without stopping every time you see something new,” said Boswell, stirring himself forward through the night for one last effort. “Come on!”

Down a drop, up another rise, the Wen’s light fabulous to their left, the star ever more directly above them, the sky ever brighter and alive, the air cold.

“There!” said Boswell, old mole, White Mole, beloved mole of Uffington. “Look and listen, mole; and remember, for many will ask you what you saw this night.”

Ahead of them was something shining beyond a final stand of trees, so bright the trees were in more than silhouette: some of their branches were lost in the light.

They went on, the light falling from their bodies like drops of brilliant rain, through the trees and undergrowth until they were before it: a great Stone that caught the light of the star that shone in the sky high above it, a Stone that seemed now filled with light.

“Oh it
is
better!” said Bailey in an awed voice, instinctively stopping where he was and letting old Boswell go on up to it. “Much better. Is that where we’re going now?”

“It is.”

“What is its name?” whispered Bailey.

“It has had many names through the centuries, but I think the one Tryfan called it is as good as any ever was. He named it Comfrey’s Stone. Let it be so. It is the only Stone in moledom to be named after a mole.”

“But listen!” said Bailey. “Listen, Boswell!” For there was a kind of Silence in the sky, and beyond it, coming out of it, a distant sound that made all moles that heard it reach forward.

“Listen!” said Bailey.

“I know, my dear, I know,” said Boswell gently as Bailey began to cry at the beauty of what he saw and what he heard.

The Stone where Comfrey died was where the Stone shone brightest in all of moledom that Longest Night, its sides were white, purer than white, and around it, and above, and from it, came that sound from Silence that seemed to fill the sky. Soft it was, and barely heard, and yet scribes say that many heard the sound that night, as Feverfew had heard it before she set off from the Wen. Then the starlight began to fade and the sound to go.

Bailey cried, the tears of anymole who had lost what once he had and still remembers it, and wishes it was his again.

“Is the Stone Mole coming to help us?” he asked Boswell.

“He is,” said Boswell, so tired now, so tired.

“Boswell?”

“Bailey?”

“What shall we do here?”

“Wait,” smiled Boswell, “and while we’re waiting you can find me worms and keep a burrow clear near Comfrey’s Stone.”

“How long?”

“Weeks perhaps. Molemonths maybe.”

“For what?”

“A mole.”

“But why?”

Boswell smiled, the smile of an old mole who understands the impatience of the young.

“Because I need her, Bailey. Because I’m old and have not long to live.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that, Boswell. I don’t like it!”

“Well, ’tis true. But never fear. If there are moles enough with courage and with faith then my journey is nearly done and hers, still yet to come, will not be in vain.”

“Boswell,” whispered Bailey as dawn struck the eastern sky, “where has the light from Comfrey’s Stone all gone?”

“Into the hearts of the followers who saw it to help them hear the Silence when the Stone Mole comes.”

“Did Tryfan see it?”

“Yes.”

“And Spindle?”

“Yes.”

“And Mayweed?”

“Yes.”

“And Henbane?”

“I know not.”

“Boswell?”

“Yes, mole?”

“Did Starling see it too?” said Bailey, crying.

“Yes, she too.”

“When will the Stone Mole come?” asked Bailey, almost asleep now.

Then softly Boswell told him, but Bailey heard it not, for his eyes were closed, and he slept before Comfrey’s Stone with the light of a rising sun upon his face.

As Bailey slept an army of moles moved. From the Carneddau they came and on lost Siabod they advanced, the light of a star in their eyes, and the sun of a new day in their faces. They had seen a star, and taken it for the sign that Alder and their leaders had said it would be, which was that the Stone Mole was coming.

So on the unsuspecting grikes that guarded their former tunnels the Siabod moles came down. Hard. Powerful. Ruthless. Killing. To begin what Alder said must never end until the Stone was moledom’s to cherish as it would and the Word was heard no more.

Hard the eyes of the Siabod moles, hard the eyes of Alder.

But troubled the eyes of Marram. Killing? That again? He trusted it not but had argued against it in vain.

So, as the attack on the grikes was renewed, he turned east towards the distant place where that star had shone. Troubled, friendless now, alone, to the east he would go and seek guidance where it came.

So let our memory of that Longest Night end, not with powerful moles, or fated moles whose names would be scribed in history. Their place is known. But with troubled moles who that new day, uncertain of themselves, with no training, no help, no special hope, their names now mostly forgotten, turned as Marram bravely did and made trek towards where they hoped they might find the Stone Mole and a final easing of their troubled hearts. But courage was theirs, and great purpose: to know the Stone Mole and seek the Silence he would help them hear.

Remember them.

Chapter Forty-Three

Of the days that followed Longest Night many moles would say, like Marram, that they marked a changing in their lives.

Indeed, a mole might chronicle all such memories through moledom, and still not come to their end. It was as if a corner had been turned down a long, dark tunnel and light seen at last; a light that drew moles to it and gave them confidence.

But not all moles followed it with the same simple joy and resolution as Marram showed. Some were irritated by it, some complained, some even cursed the time for what they saw as its insistence that they change their lives and seek out its Silence. Others discovered their new direction as if by accident.

Like old Skint, for example, and his good companion Smithills. Why, had he not made trek north to retire at comfort and old age in Grassington? Had he not sworn never to cross talons again with the grikes, or trouble himself with matters of the Stone or the Word, or whatever nonsense moles talked? He had.

Yet Skint was not a mole for idleness and after Tryfan’s departure into Whern, and November came, he had become restless and irritable and anxious for something to do. He had quickly organised the Grassington followers into some semblance of a force against the day that Tryfan and Spindle returned, but the molemonths passed and interest waned. Well, it could be started up again if ever it was needed.

“’Tis not the dream I dreamed of, Smithills, is Grassington! There’s nothing to do here but dwell on memories, and I’m not much of one for that! I wish now I’d gone into Whern with Tryfan.”

“Aye,” agreed Smithills, “he might have done with help...”

And so the molemonths dragged by.

But perhaps the Stone in its wisdom hears the plaints of such moles as Skint as prayers, for certainly it finds ways to grant them....

One cold and bitter evening in mid-December when the snows had started to come, there had been a scurry of moles at his tunnels’ entrance, and a voice came down to disturb his geriatric boredom which once he would never have believed he might be glad to hear. But now he was overjoyed.

“Aging Skint, mole who has done roaming, listen and guess whose voice this is! Yes, it is humble me, Mayweed, your former annoyance, your grateful but unwelcome servant, myself in the fur and flesh. And more!”

“By the Stone, ’tis Mayweed himself!” cried out Skint. “Come down out of the cold and touch your paw to mine for you are welcome!”

“Sunny Sir,” called out Mayweed from above, “I come with company, and more than one.”

“Let’s start with you then,” said Skint, ever cautious.

So Mayweed came down, leaving Sleekit on the surface with Wharfe and Harebell, thinking that it might be wise to advise Skint that he came in the company of a sideem, and with two youngsters whose identities were matters for which secrecy and tact might be well advised.

But Mayweed had only got as far as explaining Sleekit’s presence before the two youngsters, cold and hungry, came tumbling down, trotting into Skint’s tidy burrow and looking about as if they owned the place, with Sleekit close behind.

“Humph!” said Skint. “And I expect you’ll all be wanting food.”

“Mmm!” said Harebell. “Thank you.”

“Please!” said Wharfe who looked like a mole with an appetite.

“Humph!” said Skint again. “You two can come and help me then.”

So it was not until night was well advanced, and Smithills had been fetched to join in the food and fun, and Sleekit and the youngsters had gone to sleep that Skint turned at last to Mayweed and said, “Well, you’ve been busy. Autumn moles eh? Lucky for some!”

“Deluded Skint, greatly impressed Smithills, they are not mine, nor Sleekit’s.”

“Then whose are they, Mayweed?”

Mayweed looked this way and that, drew near, looked about him again and said, “Sirs both, even the youngsters themselves do not know and Mayweed boldly suggests that this is not the time to tell them. That decision is for better moles than I to make.”

“So... whose are they?”

Mayweed looked apologetic.

“Wondering Sirs, do you want the long version or the short, the full account or the brief one, the saga or the sentence?”

“The short version,” said Skint impatiently.

“Tryfan’s,” said Mayweed.

There was absolute silence.

“Tryfan’s?”

“Sir, you are old but Mayweed is glad to discover your hearing is unimpaired. Try fan I said and Tryfan it was.”

“You’ve got some explaining to do,” said Skint. “Now for a start, where’s Tryfan?”

Mayweed sighed miserably.

“I do not know. A mole cannot be everywhere. Of Boswell I have told you and Bailey too, and if they came not here after their escape that was only because Boswell takes his special scribemole ways that even I, Mayweed, do not know.”