There was a shudder of puzzled hope in the chamber, and the moles were silent, listening. Snouting too kind? What then? Has the sideem something even more hurting than that?
“No, not for these moles. Who have caused us trouble, made us search for them, forced us to question them and then given us lies. Yes: not good enough. Easy to snout. Easy to kill that way.”
“So then?” said Eldrene Fescue, who liked snouting and perhaps sensed better than the others that something might be apaw that was going to frustrate them all of having these moles’ lives. Fescue’s eyes glittered and were cold, and she said, half turning back to the grikes for their support, “Surely you’re not suggesting anything less than an immediate snouting?”
There was a hiss of delight among the grikes, and then the beginnings of a chorus of “Yes!” and “Snout them now! The eldrene says it! Yesss’... But before it became uncontrollable, and the guardmoles about Tryfan and Spindle turned on them to do what the mob desired, Sleekit raised her paws sharply, turned them strangely, twisted her body hugely, grotesquely, seeming almost to intertwine with the birch roots behind her as her mouth opened into a snarl and her eyes fixed on the two Stone followers with what seemed hatred. The grikes fell darkly silent, some perhaps were even afraid, and across that silence Sleekit whispered a word that made a mole shudder and withdraw.
“Disease,” she whispered.
“Disease,” she shouted.
“Yes! Disease...” she implored, and the grikes were still, appalled, for the very way she said it seemed an eating on the flesh, and a corrupting of the fur. “Yes, that’s the best punishment, let them begin to die of disease... and where? The Slopeside. Let them go there. Let them be put among the clearers. Let them know the first gnawings of scalpskin...” There was a wave of disappointment among the grikes, who wanted gratification now, here, today, this minute, and the blood of these pathetic moles of no account spilled
now.
The sideem was suggesting something slower, not so good, not such fun....
Disappointment gathered and a wave of dissent began rolling towards the sideem, but Sleekit hunched her smooth dark body forward and turned the wave back on itself, saying, “I say, let them suffer the first touch of scalpskin and then, when Longest Day comes and the WordSpeaker herself is here for the Midsummer ritual, let the clearers be ordered to snout them for us, so their Wordless blood is not on our good talons...” And Sleekit’s voice rose, suddenly hysterical, “Let them be snouted by their own kind after they have known disease. Yes? Oh yes?”
There was silence for a few moments, and grike after grike turned their gaze from the risen, shaking rage of Sleekit and looked appalled at Tryfan and Spindle, as if the two moles were already diseased and untouchable, and revulsion had replaced bloodlust.
“Yes!” cried out one of the grikes.
“Yes, yes!” cried out others.
“Slopeside them, disease them, have others snout them when the WordSpeaker herself is here.”
The shouting continued for a few moments more and then subsided. The grikes looked at Eldrene Fescue. She looked briefly and dismissively at Tryfan and Spindle and then back at the grikes.
“Well, you have decided,” she said a shade petulantly. “Do it. The WordSpeaker may be well pleased that we have restrained ourselves so that she herself may witness the snouting of these two.” Then she turned away and was gone, leaving Sleekit in charge.
Tryfan, whose paw had been on Spindle’s throughout, said, “May the Stone be praised!”
“Praised?” said Spindle astonished, for he was shuddering now at the thought of suffering some terrible wasting disease. “For what?”
“For showing Sleekit what to do,” said Tryfan. “She had heard the Silence, she saved our lives, and the day will come when she will be of us.”
“Really?” said Spindle as guardmoles jostled about them, and, looking cautiously over to where Sleekit was supervising a selection of guardmoles who were to accompany them to the Slopeside, added, “If you say so, Tryfan, I suppose you must be right. Slopeside. Disease. Snouting. Clearing! That’s what we’ll have to do! Clear. Corpses by all accounts.”
“I thought you were the great believer, Spindle,” smiled Tryfan as a dispute broke out among the guardmoles over who was to go with them. There seemed a marked reluctance to do so; nomole liked going near the disease-ridden Slopeside.
“I am,” said Spindle. “But in these circumstances even Boswell himself would have doubts.”
“Have faith,” said Tryfan.
“I’ve faith the Stone’s keeping us alive,” mumbled Spindle, “but for what? More suffering. More misery. More....”
Then Tryfan smiled, for grumbly though Spindle was there was a firmer note to his speech, and a new confidence – that of a mole who has escaped the shadow of an untoward death and can, at least, begin to hope once more.
Around them the guardmoles continued to grumble.
“Silence!” commanded Sleekit’s voice, and silence fell on all moles there. Her smooth form, smaller than the moles’ around her yet still commanding, looked here and there.
“I like not guardmoles who decline their duty. You, mole, do you volunteer?”
A guardmole came forward and took his place next to Spindle.
“And you!” ordered Sleekit.
A second came forward.
“One more is needed!” said the sideem, but the guardmoles were looking everywhere but in their direction.
“You,” she said, “why do you hesitate?”
“Disease,” said the guardmole she had picked on. “You said it yourself, Sideem Sleekit.”
There was something about the voice that was distantly familiar and Tryfan looked up and saw the guardmole she had picked on. It was Alder, crouched next to Marram, the two who had been in the visitors’ burrow when they arrived.
“Well,” said Sleekit harshly, “you had better go and prove me right. I am placing you in special charge of the mole Tryfan, and if anything happens to him, mole, it will be a snouting for you. Now, go, all of you.
Go
!”
She waved them out of the burrow, and there was a general air of relief among the many others there that had not been chosen. Yet as Alder came towards them, seeming not to recognise them, Tryfan could see a hint of pleasure in his eyes and as he passed Sleekit there was a hint, too, of some acknowledgement of a deed done privily and without others knowing.
“Why,” whispered Tryfan in astonishment, “it was arranged. Sleekit arranged it....”
“Come on, mole,” said Alder, giving him a buffet. “On you go. Scum!” And with many others jeering and laughing behind them, and calling ribald remarks after the three guardmoles assigned the unpopular duty, they were taken from the chamber. Alder dawdled a little so the other two guardmoles took the lead with Spindle, while he took position at Tryfan’s side and they started on their way.
Here and there, when Tryfan stumbled, for he was very weak from his long confinement, Alder put out a surreptitious paw to support him, and as they progressed through the spartan tunnels of Buckland the little party became spread out, with the other guardmoles at times well in front.
When Alder could talk without being observed he did so, speaking in a hurried but quiet way.
“Do you know about the place you’re going?” he asked first.
“Little” said Tryfan, “but that it is dangerous.”
“You’ll die there if you stay too long,” said Alder matter-of-factly, “so you’ll have to escape. Soon, too. Moles die of disease there and none will want to see you after or come near. Plague is rife there and the clearers are a vicious Wordless lot. The surface above the Slopeside is patrolled by former Slopesiders who have done their time and survived, or by grikes afflicted with some disease or other, if not of the body then of the mind. They are an unruly and murderous group, feared by the rest of us, and they show no mercy to escapers. But they have undying loyalty to the Word and the WordSpeaker, and escape by the surface will mean death if you are caught. And a terrible death.”
“Do you know of their dispositon?” asked Tryfan.
“You mean where their patrols are? Only that they end at a stream coming from the slopes above. I have seen it myself but it is uncrossable. Beyond it is the derelict system of Harrowdown, but when we took that we did so by a long trek upstream which is a way close-guarded. Across that stream may be your only chance. Try to reach there quickly, avoid contact with anymole in Slopeside, guard your back, and do it before Midsummer for the WordSpeaker will be here and none will forget that you and Spindle are to be found and snouted.”
“Why do you seek to help us?” whispered Tryfan.
“I know not, mole. Only that I have been much troubled since you left the visitors’ burrows, and I would know more of the Stone....”
“What of the others we met?” asked Tryfan.
“Come on, stop dawdling!” cried out Alder, pretending to talon-thrust Tryfan to provide cover for his answer.
“Both well,” he continued in a low voice, “and both agreed to be initiate, both to Atone at Midsummer, but that was to save their lives until they too can find a way of escape. Thyme taught me a little about the Stone but I crave to know more.”
“Then the Stone will guide you,” said Tryfan, “for it loves all moles.”
“Whatmole are you?” asked Alder, seeming in awe of him. “You are surely more than ‘just a mole’. I felt peace come from you in the chamber, and you seemed unafraid, even before such hatred.”
“I am nomole but what others make me. But there is one coming greater than I, and you will know him,” said Tryfan. “So be of good cheer and worry not for us. Now tell me more of Pennywort and Thyme.”
“They have tasks in a system by the Thames, for they are used to wet ground and the eldrenes are dangerously short of good tunnellers. Different ground down here than the North where our tunnelers come from. But they hope to escape... as I do. But I don’t know where to go... Since that healing of yours in the burrow I – I don’t know what to do....”
“You awoke and were blessed, Alder, and blessed shall you remain,” Tryfan said. “Be of faith, try to talk to Thyme for she is a mole of faith, and worthy. Find others like yourself. Trust in the Stone. And as for us... Spindle will see that I survive!” He laughed briefly, and Alder wondered to see him so confident and full of courage, and himself felt stronger.
“What of your friend? He was of the Seven Stancing too. He was chosen by the Stone.”
“Marram? He suspects my Wordlessness yet says nothing. He will not talk of it to me. He may in time be of the Stone. He is a good mole, Tryfan, and strong, well trained in fighting. He likes not the punishments the guardmoles mete out. He is afraid, but he will not betray me.”
They pressed on steadily upslope through tunnels and past burrows which were well ordered. The moles they saw were ordinary enough, healthy and clean, but they looked on Tryfan and Spindle as if they were outcasts, drawing back.
“Moles for the Slopeside!” they called to each other, and they stared. Yet Tryfan could only look at them, and catch glimpses of their good burrows and caches of worms and wonder that such normality could exist at all in a regime of cruelty.
“Are you of the Stone?” one female asked as they passed her by.
“Yes, we are!” said Spindle eagerly, but she spat at him, and drew back. “Blessed be the Word for punishing such evil!” she shouted after them. “May you die in torment!”
The gradient steepened and the soil changed to the lighter, drier soil of sandstone. The tunnels were lighter and high, and the sound of their talons scraping and scuttering on the floor was about them.
Then suddenly the guardmoles ahead stopped where the tunnel widened out and they saw that another was waiting for them there.
While the other two guardmoles talked with this new one, Alder contrived to stay with Tryfan and Spindle, and in the few moments he had left again urged them to escape as soon as they could, for otherwise death was certain to be theirs. Then impulsively he suggested they might try to escape now, with his help.
“That is not my way,” said Tryfan, “for surely you will be killed, most likely snouted, and, weak as we are now, we would be easily caught. I think the Stone has better plans for all of us. We will go to this Slopeside, for it sounds as if moles there need our help, and there will be others of the Stone who may, perhaps, give us help and guidance. As for this plague or illness that kills moles there, well, am I not a herbalist? I think we will not die quite yet! As for you, Alder, perhaps you should follow your own advice and escape this system.”
“But where can I go alone?” whispered Alder, “I am a grike and recognisable.”
Tryfan looked at him and saw his nascent faith shadowed with doubt, and his courage mixed with fear. But he saw too a strong mole and one of purpose and decision, and sensed that Alder was a mole for whom the Stone had a task, perhaps a great one, and that he would find strength to fulfil it.
“Listen now,” said Tryfan urgently, “and tell others of the Stone you may meet what I tell you. Tell Pennywort and Thyme, if you see them. Tell those you trust. Tell them this: there is a system that is chosen, and in its ancient tunnels dwells the light and the Silence of the Stone. It will always be of the Stone, for love of it dwells always in the hearts of moles whose fur has been touched by the sun and wind in the range of its tunnels.”
“What system is this? Tell me its name, and I will try to get there. Tell me...” There was a yearning in Alder’s deep voice, a yearning whose origins lay far, far back before he met Tryfan, before even he left his beloved Northern system. A yearning for love, and light and harmony that deep down a mole feels, however hurt or angry or corrupted he seems to be. “Tell me its name,” whispered Alder.
“Its name is Duncton Wood, and there a great Stone stands, ancient and good. Tell other followers of it, Alder, tell them to seek it out. And when you yourself reach Duncton, ask for a mole called Comfrey. He is my half-brother and nomole is truer, or braver, or has more trust and faith than he. Find him, tell him what you know, and he will teach you to hear the Silence of the Stone.”