Duncton Quest (132 page)

“Well, you look like a grike, you are a grike, so behave like one. Go and order those guardmoles back to the cross-under and we’ll just slip up the embankment and none will be any the wiser,” said Skint.

And so it was. The guardmoles argued only briefly when they saw Marram’s size and heard that he spoke with authority, and back towards the cross-under they went. Then Marram went straight up the embankment and Skint, Smithills and Bailey followed him, to the noise and roaring owl fumes. It took a long time before they reached a place where Skint sensed they could cross. Already the owl’s gazes were on, and they knew they must not stare into them as they crossed the way or they would be struck and crushed to death. Nor must they let the fumes dizzy them.

“Run,” said Skint, “don’t stop.”

Which is what they did, two by two, over that fumey way and into its central part where rubbish was. Then on to the far side with the roaring owls thundering past from the other direction, and their gazes terrible.

Then down the far side and by a pipe over the culvert and then at last on to the south-eastern Pastures of Duncton Wood.

“Which way, Skint?” asked Marram.

But it was Bailey who led them now, up the slope towards the High Wood.

It was as they reached the very edge of the great beeches that mark the start of the Ancient System that Bailey stopped and saw a thin mole, dead. But his fur caught the light of the stars and his eyes were open as if he saw beyond them all.

“Why ’tis Spindle,” said big Smithills gently.

“Aye,” said Skint, looking at Bailey.

“I know this mole,” said Bailey. “I saw him in Whern, but he talked to me once in Barrow Vale.”

Smithills and Skint stared and said nothing. They knew the story of Bailey’s parenting.

Then Bailey turned to his companions and whispered as if he already knew the answer to what he asked, “What mole was this Spindle? He was in Whern, he was at Tryfan’s side.”

It was Smithills who spoke, his great face wet with tears.

“Why lad, ’tis your father. Did you not guess it might be so?”

As Bailey nodded, it was Marram who took a firm and comforting stance at his side as that mole, lost so long, who had suffered so much, began to cry.

But it was sturdy Skint who spoke for them all when Bailey’s first tears were done.

“He looked as if he knew you were coming home, mole. Aye, and he looked as if he knew he would have been proud of you. He knew a good future was yet to come, and he would have guessed his Bailey, born of Thyme, would be worthy to be part of it. So leave him where he proudly lies, mole, and come with us, for there’s one born this night who will lead us all to the Silence which Spindle of Seven Barrows has surely already found.”

Then all four turned towards the wood and were lost among the trees, and made their way to the Stone itself.

So the last moles, or almost the last, came near Duncton Stone that night, and as they did one final cry rose up over Duncton as Feverfew gave birth to the Stone Mole.

So tiny he was, mucky with birth as all pups are, but born in the Stone’s shadow cast by the light of his own star. A pup for allmoles’ joy. A pup to pay homage to. A pup born in a dark turbulent time to bring Silence and light.

Then as Feverfew encircled him with joy, and licked him, the moles who watched dared come closer. And as they did they heard that pup’s first mewing cry go up and cross the sky.

Then with joy those pupless moles came to gaze on him, and sigh as his mother pushed him to her and he sucked. The old, the diseased, the unsure; all were allowed to see, all to share. All moledom was represented that night before the Stone where he was born. Even those of the

Word were there, and those with no belief. And some near death, like Thrift, who yet lived to see the Stone Mole born. And even those who could not see came near.

“’Tis I, Tryfan, Teasel. Now show me where to look.”

“But you can see, Teasel. Your darkness is gone.”

The light of the star touched the flank of the Stone Mole, and seemed to shine on Teasel’s face; and so she saw and knew a miracle.

“Why he’s special, he is,” said Teasel with joy, and she passed on to let others take her place and see as she had done. This was the first healing the Stone Mole made.

Hay was there, and Heather, and so many more. A pup had been born to moles who felt they had nothing. That night was a beginning indeed.

Until, when the last had seen, Tryfan spoke to Feverfew and she nodded. She took the pup up and slowly carried him out of the circle and down into the tunnels to a burrow where Rebecca and Bracken had lived; where Tryfan himself was born.

There Feverfew encircled the Stone Mole and said, “Leve us nu, wee ar wel, and welbiloved. Lev us to slep, myn der.”

Which Tryfan did, going back up to the surface, staring at the Stone, and feeling that strange wonder and fear such as a father might feel on a birthing night. Wonder at the life that has come, fear at the beginning and change the birth marks.

Then out of the darkness beyond the Stone more moles came, and their gait he knew, and their voices he had heard before. Smithills, then Bailey, then Marram and finally Skint, who all gathered about him.

Light shone upon the group of moles and though all had their sorrows all felt joy too.

“We shall celebrate as Spindle would have had us do.” said Tryfan, though his voice was a little sad.

Above them that star shone, and in the wood and down the slopes wondering moles went, joyful and glad.

“As I remember there’s as good a communal tunnel here in the Ancient System as we’re likely to find,” said Skint. “Must be worms, must be moles, must be song.”

“Aye,” said Smithills, “and between us we’ve got tales to tell!”

Tryfan thought then of the many moles he and Spindle had met on their journeys. Of them all it would have been hard to say which ones he would have had with him that night in Spindle’s absence.

He was glad to see Bailey, younger than them all and a mole who had travelled far, though he might only know that in time. Glad, too, that of all moles it was good-natured Smithills and reliable Skint who had made their way back to Duncton that night. Content to see Marram, who had been one of those at the Seven Stancing in Buckland, when he had felt that something had changed in moledom and a journey was begun.

He looked about him. Four and himself made five. Five to bless the Stone Mole. It was enough and yet he wished....

Just then there was a rustling among the trees to their right, a certain surreptitiousness. Then silence. Moles snouting about. Moles coming near.

“Sideem!” whispered Skint, taking firm stance.

“Guardmole!” said Bailey going to his side.

“Grike!” said Smithills. “If it’s a fight then count me in,” he added raising his talons for the third time that day.

Then out of the darkness came a voice, a much loved voice, a
needed
voice.

“Misguided and about-to-be amazed Sirs, Mayweed regrets that not for the first time, nor for the last, you are wrong. Humble he is not sideem, or guardmole or grike, but simply humbleness himself.”

Then Mayweed – and the others were indeed amazed – came out into the open by the Stone saying, “He greets you in the fur and flesh and says, “What a night! What a time for a mole to be alive!” He asks you to welcome, too, his comfortable consort Sleekit! And saying that, humbleness finds he has nothing left to say until he is greeted and offered a worm, or two.”

“Why ’tis none other than Mayweed himself!” said Smithills.

“Agedly rotund Smithills, you are perspicacious,” said Mayweed. Smithills laughed and clapped Mayweed on the shoulder.

“Nomole would be more welcome here tonight than you, Mayweed,” said Tryfan, speaking for them all, “and nor is there one to whom each of us owes more.”

“Aye,” said Skint, “every word that Tryfan says is true. Nomole is more welcome to me, or to Smithills here!”

With which, with nods and smiles, both Bailey and Marram agreed.

Mayweed opened his mouth to speak, but the more he saw the moles about him, and the way they stared at him with such love and good cheer, the less did he find himself able to speak. So he turned to the Stone with the light it held shining on him and his scalpskinned flanks, and he bowed his balded head, lowered his snout before it and all he could say as tears came was, “Stone, Mayweed is a happy mole tonight.”

Then he turned back to his friends and as they touched him and Sleekit with affection and love, so they touched the others. Then, looking about them all, Tryfan saw they were seven now, and he knew that the Stone spoke to him, and told him where that night each would know Silence.

“Come,” he said softly, “for we have a prayer and a dedication to make, and when we’ve made that we shall talk indeed, to find out by what various ways we came here, with Mayweed to talk last, for surely his way will have been the most mysterious! Now come....”

Then he led them to the tunnel down which earlier he had taken Feverfew, and took them quietly to the burrow she was in. Softly then they entered, and in their eyes, and on their faces, and over their paws did the light of the Stone Mole shine.

Tiny he was, and vulnerable, but he was moledom’s own to protect and nurture until the day might come when he would show all moles how they might hear the Silence for evermore.

Then those seven moles encircled the sleeping Feverfew and her pup and one to one their shining paws did join.

“Seven moles are we, come to the Stone and the Mole it sent,” said Tryfan. “Seven moles to witness as guardians and friends. Whatever moles we are, whatever moles we were, whatever moles we may still be, we make a Seven Stancing and dedicate our lives to him who has come and the Silence he brings. We remember the moles we loved who had faith that he would come, we think of the moles we have yet to know, whose faith will draw us on. Seven moles are we, come to the Stone and the Mole it sent. Before him we offer what Silence we have found, and wait to hear the greater Silence he will give.”

In the centre of that burrow in the ancient part of Duncton Wood, the Stone Mole stirred, and turned, and was safe. Blind he was, and vulnerable, but nomole ever had better guardians than he as those seven who encircled him; nor a mother who put her paws about a pup with such faith, and gentleness, and trust. Then the seven left his burrow in peace, to talk into the night, and share their memories and speak of their hopes.