Duncton Quest (126 page)

“Yes... yes...” whispered Boswell, “oh yes, now is moledom’s time, now she is come.”

But Bailey was in fear and sought to run forward and stop her, for her body was caught with sores and her ugliness was coming to take a White Mole, a good mole.

“I love him!” cried out Bailey, and his eyes were blinded by tears and by the terrible light that came down on her, and on Boswell and on them all, a white light too bright for Bailey to bear, too bright for him to stay where he was, protecting Boswell from her coming.

“I love him,” whispered Bailey, and her voice said she knew it, but he saw only light, and then he was gone from the light about the Stone and afraid to see it where it shone down and shone out, and Boswell’s voice and that mole’s voice were one and beautiful and poor Bailey cried because he could not bear the beauty all about.

“Bailey, moule, yow wyl holp me nu, and tak me bak to wher you war fro.”

“Duncton?” he said not daring to look at her.

“Whar Tryfan ys,” she said.

“I will,” he said, and understood then how long and hard his training had been, and what was his task. So he looked at her and asked her name and she whispered, “Feverfew, myn der.”

Then with the star’s light to guide them, and night all about, they left Comfrey’s Stone. They did not look back nor need to, for they knew that by it lay what had once been Boswell, White Mole, white as the snow that lay all about, white as the light of the star that shone above and had returned.

Moledom saw the star that night, when it shone a second time, and many guessed the Stone Mole was near. Marram saw it and wept. Skint and Smithills saw it and slept no more, staring at the star which, from where they were, lay southward, high and bright, in a sky that was filled with light.

Tryfan and Spindle went up to the surface and saw it, and that night in Duncton many more clambered up and stared.

One especially is remembered. Long had she searched for Tryfan, long had she scented and sniffed, smelt and whiffled, for she remembered his kindness.

Teasel her name and that night she found him.

“Mole,” she said, “is that you?”

“It is,” said Tryfan.

“Do you remember me?”

“I do.”

“Fancy a chat, Tryfan? Find me a worm?” But when he said nothing she said, “You’re silent, mole, not like before.”

“There’s a star, Teasel, and everymole is staring at it.”

“Where?” she asked. “Show me.”

Then with his right paw he guided her head towards the eastward sky, and then up, for the star was high indeed.

“Am I looking at it?” she asked, her sightless eyes wide and the star’s light white and glittery on her old fur.

“You are, Teasel. And what do you see?”

“I – I cannot – I —”

“You can, mole,” said Tryfan softly, “you can.”

“I feel it but I can’t see it, I can’t!” And her tears were caught by the starlight as they ran from her eyes which could not see.

“Have faith, mole,” whispered Tryfan, “and you shall.”

“Is it what some call the Stone Mole’s star?” she asked, her flank close to his for comfort.

“It is.”

“When he comes I would see him, Tryfan, I would!”

“Then you shall, mole,” whispered Tryfan.

So Teasel stared and hoped that what she felt in her heart that night was what she might one day see.

Then when she had gone, and while the star was still bright, Tryfan told Spindle, “Soon now I’d like to go to Barrow Vale, and maybe after that to make a trek to the Stone itself. Soon, now, Spindle.”

Which he did, making a trek to the Stone that same night, though whether in waking or in sleep neither he nor anymole ever knew.

But there he came, and there he found an old mole, a White Mole, who spoke gently, saying, “Tryfan, this place is where I found you when you were young. Do you remember?”

“I do.”

“And you asked if you might ever be a scribemole.”

“Yes,” whispered Tryfan, “but I was not worthy.”

“Nomole worthier,” said Boswell, smiling. “Nomole with more courage. Now listen for I am weary. Feverfew is ready to come now, and with her she brings the Stone Mole. Care for her, for each other are you chosen. Stay at her side and help her care for him, and teach him, and know that he is much loved.

“This is the great task for which I have prepared you, the true nature of which you have quested for so long. Do it for me. For now I am tired, and I must sleep and prepare myself in the Silence for my own last task, which is for allmole, now and forever. Pray for me now, Tryfan. Pray for me.”

Then as Tryfan went forward to reach Boswell by the Stone, he faded back into the light and was gone. Then there was Silence and Tryfan saw and heard no more, but the sound allmole had heard the first time the great star showed, which seemed like the distant cry of a pup across the sky.

Chapter Forty-Six

The exciting, warming, reviving changes of spring came close on the heels of the second showing of what moles now openly called the Stone Mole’s star. They began with that moment of year all moles love, when winter’s snow begins to thaw and the first flowers show.

In Duncton, Tryfan and Spindle knew it when the old hollow tree above the centre of the Marsh End Defence began to drip glistening drops deep down into their tunnels.

Then the worms stirred and, almost imperceptibly, the earth became alive. Tryfan’s work became more desultory and sporadic as he touched up texts he desired now to finish, while Spindle, who had rarely left the tunnels in all the time they had been there, found himself fretful at his work and impatient.

“Well, I’m off!” he said impulsively, fed up with scribing, fed up with the tunnels and fed up with Tryfan. So he went forth with Hay to try out the spring sun.

The ground was getting warm and the snow was nearly all gone. But here and there on the surface old grey ice, as tired of the winter it seemed as the moles themselves, lay thick and shiny wet in the north-facing roots and boles of trees where the sun did not reach.

But to the east of the Marsh End, where the trees thin out and the ground runs out over wetlands towards the roaring owl way and the distant river Thames, there were welcoming clusters of snowdrops and yellow aconite and beyond them, where the ground got wetter, the first sharp shoots of yellow flag.

“This is something Tryfan should see, if I can get him this far,” said Spindle cheerfully. “I’ll go back and fetch him.”

Hay made to go with him but Spindle said he went too fast for a mole like him, and he preferred to go back for his friend alone, and take his time doing it.

“Well,” said Hay slowly, “I don’t want you to be disturbed.”

“Disturbed? Attacked you mean?”

“There’s precious little attack left in Duncton now. No, disturbed. When moles know you and Tryfan are about once more there’ll be many come to see you. They’ve heard of you, and many are proud to know you’re here. I’m warning you, there’s many will come.”

Barely believing him, Spindle said, “Leave me all the same, Hay. I’m sure I can cope!”

Hay nodded and left him, and Spindle stared out over the marshy ground and shivered a little. The buds were still tight on most of the trees but the alders’ yellow catkins bristled in the breeze.

Spindle went slowly, the wood seeming strange and a little alien to him. He was a mole of facts and texts and he preferred the chalky heights of Uffington and the stone-filled vales of Seven Barrows. While in Duncton it was to the high, more ancient tunnels that his natural inclination went. But that, but, b —

He stopped, a sharp pain across his chest, utterly unable to move. The pain was constricting and frightened him.

“I – Tryfan – I —” And he tried to speak, but could not. Instead he crouched near a root, the pain intensifying and stronger than the previous attacks he had had, none of which he had ever mentioned to Tryfan. He felt weak and old and his left paw ached.

The pain eased and he stumbled forward to find a spot where the sun came down, south facing and light. Another attack came and he stopped again where he was, near a rotten old branch, long fallen.

“But I have much to do,” he said, and rather irritably, as if to admit to himself that he felt he had little time and it wouldn’t be fair if the Stone came and took him here and now without real warning at all.

“Want to know things,” he mumbled to himself. “Want to know the end, want to scribe the end, want to know Tryfan’s... want to know the Stone Mole came, want to see Bailey again...” Another pain came, worse than all the rest, and he gasped with it and fell a little to one side.

Across the sky between the budded trees above, two mallard flew, hard and fast. The sky darkened and he felt his mouth whispering as the pains engulfed him.

Then the pain eased and he felt tired and not sure where he was. He tried a paw and then another and found he was alive, just tired. Very. No pain now. He looked about him. East Marsh End. He very slowly retraced his steps and made his way back through the morning to the tunnels where he and Tryfan had hidden so long.

Such strange thoughts he was thinking, some peaceful, some urgent. That he must secure the texts they had made, seal them up against discovery, for their time had not yet come. He must get Tryfan to some kindly mole who would watch over him, for his paws were weak and always would be, and delving was hard for him now, and worm-finding too. Tryfan had once been tidy and thorough but he had grown careless and grubby, and needed another nearby to help. Tryfan did not talk much these days, but he did need company. Hay? Perhaps. Borage and Heather more like. Goodly moles they were (as Tryfan would put it). Yes.

“Spindle? You’ve been gone a long time!” Tryfan called to him as soon as he got back.

“I have,” said Spindle.

“Well I had thought I might go out myself but I decided to wait for you and the best of the day is gone now.” Tryfan sounded annoyed.

“There are flowers out, Tryfan, over on the Eastside and a lot to see.”

“Well, let’s go and see them then!”

“Later,” said Spindle, “I feel tired.”

Tryfan stared at him, a frown on his face, and saying nothing more stayed close by Spindle while he slept.

“Are you all right?” he asked when he awoke, and several times after that, and Spindle replied that he was, yes, just tired after the long winter, so very tired.