Duncton Quest (51 page)

Comfrey nodded but said nothing. The world he knew was quieter and more peaceable than this, and he could see that the Duncton of the future would need a different mole than he to lead it.

“What of the few followers you have brought with you?” he asked. “They seem a varied lot!”

Tryfan laughed. “The Stone has its ways, and I have been blessed to find moles worthy of the great quest that Boswell sent me on. Over the long moleyears of our journey here I have grown to trust each of these moles, as much as I would you yourself, Comfrey. Each is loyal, and each has different qualities and skills.

“Skint, for example, whose history I have told you, has become an expert at roaring owl ways, and leads us across in safety in places other moles would die; Mayweed is as good an underground route-finder as ever there will be, and he has courage and loyalty. Thyme and Pennywort bring good humour and quiet faith to us all, especially Thyme who has that quality a few moles possess of making a burrow where she is a warm place, a comfortable place, and one that calms the moles about her. Smithills uses his great strength to protect the faithful, while Alder seems to understand how to deploy moles to best advantage, and at Frilford certainly saved all our lives by clever generalship.

He is trained as a guardmole, and understands grike ways of fighting.”

“And Spindle?” asked Comfrey.

Tryfan’s eyes softened. “Nomole,
nomole
, has been truer to me than he. Boswell gave him the task of seeing that I kept my faith and purpose and he could not have chosen better.”

For a time they were silent and then Tryfan said, “And what of this mole Maundy? She seems fond of you, Comfrey.”

“Wh-what of her?” said Comfrey mildly.

“Well,” said Tryfan. “Have you not mated with her? She seems always near....”

“Never enough time, Tryfan, so much to do. Too old now for that sort of thing! No
time.”

Tryfan laughed and then fell serious.

“Time is running out, brother,” he said, “and you had best do as the Stone desires.”

“Perhaps,” said Comfrey with a sigh, nervously pushing a pile of thyme-leaved toadflax one way then another. “M-m-maybe I will!”

Then he looked at Tryfan, and touched him affectionately, and said, “What about you, Tryfan? Have you not found a mole to love?”

Tryfan grew more silent, and just a little distant. But at last he said, “Well, when I was ordained by Boswell I took upon myself a vow of celibacy. Not that Boswell asked it of me, and indeed it is more traditional than mandatory in the Holy Burrows. But, well, there is much to do, many places to go, and I must care for the followers of the Stone, as you have cared for the moles of Duncton Wood. No time, Comfrey! No time!”

Comfrey shook his head doubtfully.

“Doesn’t seem right to me for you to be celibate. I’m different, always have been, but you, Tryfan, well, you’re a mole to love and be loved. Don’t you ever —?”

“Yes, I do! And as January passes and February comes I shall think of it more, but celibate I shall stay. Perhaps one day, if peace should come, and the Stone is worshipped once more, then I can take a mate. But for now I shall not.” He frowned and looked irritable and Comfrey changed the subject hastily. At times Tryfan could be intimidating, even to him.

“Now, Tryfan, there was one thing you did not mention on Longest Night, and have never mentioned since: the Stillstone? Tell me of that.”

Which he was about to do when, with a stamp and a shake and a brrr! Maundy joined them, snow melting on her fur: “‘Tis wet and cold and mucky outside,” she declared, “but here I am!”

Tryfan watched with pleasure as Comfrey welcomed her and made her comfortable in his simple way, bringing her food and talking amiably of this and that for a time.

Then he turned back to Tryfan saying, “Maundy can be trusted, she kn-knows the secrets of the system far better than I do! So tell us of the Stillstone.”

Looking at them both then, crouched flank to flank and as trusting as a loving pair could ever be, was a moment Tryfan ever afterwards remembered, because it was then that he understood that though a mole can only ever hear the Silence of the Stone alone, yet it is unlikely that he will ever hear it if he has not known the true love of another mole. In that, he afterwards would say, he first began to suspect the nature of the quest that Boswell had sent him on. Perhaps, too, it was in that moment, that his yearning for a mole like Maundy at his side deepened and became a longing whose frustration might be the greatest sorrow in his life, and whose satisfaction might be the the greatest joy.

So then, asked about the Stillstone, Tryfan settled down, and told Comfrey and Maundy what had happened at Uffington and how Spindle had led Boswell and himself to the stone field near Seven Barrows, and how he had himself hurled that Stillstone out into the night to fall anonymous among a hundred thousand other stones; and there to wait until a mole came who would take it, and the other Stillstones, seven in all, back to their final resting place.

“And then...?” asked Comfrey.

“And then, I think, the work that so many moles have done, and which old Boswell oversees like the White Mole he is, will be done, and well done. But more than that I cannot say!”

“And what d-do you say t-to that?” Comfrey asked of Maundy.

“’Tis a story and a half, and I say that at the end of it all Tryfan should have a mate!” said Maundy bluntly. “As for the Stillstones, they’ll sort themselves out well enough I should think.”

“Humph!” said Comfrey, and left them, a little tetchily, to peer out on to the surface, and burrow a route up to the snow, where he could crouch and say some prayers.

When he was gone Maundy said, “Tryfan, I have heard those followers of yours talking: Skint and Smithills, Ragwort, Alder and that Mayweed.”

Tryfan nodded absently, his mind on the Stillstones yet.

“They talk of evacuating the system, they talk of finding a safer place than this, they talk....”

Tryfan raised a paw to stop her, but she quietly continued.

“I do not doubt that what you will do is right, but when it comes to leaving Duncton, well, we can’t all go, the system must never be deserted of all Duncton mole, and a mole or two should be left behind. If you’re wondering who, leave
me
behind, I can cope alone and look after myself down in the secret places in the Marsh End, which was occupied in your father’s day.”

“I could not leave you to the cruelty of the grikes,” said Tryfan, “you don’t know —”

“Take Comfrey, but not me,” she whispered. “If one of us must stay, just one....”

But Tryfan only shook his head.

Later, when Maundy had gone and Comfrey had returned, and they had eaten, Comfrey said, “Er, Tr-Tryfan. Something I just wanted to say, while we’re alone. N-no need to mention it to anymole else....”

Tryfan, his eyes warm, listened to his half-brother affectionately.

“Well,” said Comfrey, “when – and I know you’re going to have to, only sensible thing to do really – so wh-wh-when you lead the moles to somewhere safe you don’t want me slowing you down. I’ll stay behind. Must have one Duncton mole here, you know. Plenty of places to hide I remember as a pup: Marsh End, Westside... I’ll find somewhere. But of course, you’re to take Maundy, can’t have her risking her snout. You’ll see to that w-w-won’t you?”

“We’ll be guided by the Stone,” said Tryfan carefully, but thinking that there were times when the Stone was use to neither mole nor beast.

January is not a time for travel, nor February either, especially when the weather is as bitter as that long winter’s was. Wise moles stay underground when the ground is frozen and turn their thoughts inward to matters of the mind and heart.

But when, finally, the first stirrings of spring started underground, when the frosts were still hard but the worms and pupae began to stir again in the soil, and root-tendrils to quiver and begin their silent white-green quests, then a few paw-picked moles poked their snouts out into the cold air, and heaved themselves abroad.

These moles had been trained by Alder as watchers, and had volunteered to risk going out beyond the roaring owl way, to watch for signs of grikes, and arrange for other friendly moles to watch out as well. The lessons of Harrowdown had been learnt, and Tryfan and Skint intended never to let themselves be taken by surprise again.

Meanwhile, the Duncton moles, and a few of the followers, chose to get on with what all sensible moles do as spring comes close, which is to find a mate and ready themselves for young. So that pair by pair, responding to the season, began to busy themselves about their tunnels in an exclusive kind of way, and spend time together talking about nothing in particular except the fact that they would prefer not to be disturbed by anymole else (except each other) if you
don’t
mind.

All this being so, in the preceding weeks Thyme had found reason aplenty to talk with Spindle, who, while not overtly encouraging her advances, yet somehow found his way to her tunnels on one pretext or another when the gap between their “chance” meetings seemed too long. But pairing, even
mating
? Spindle denied any intention of such a thing, looking most embarrassed and saying he had task enough being companion and help to Tryfan than to think of
that.

“
Well, Sir, if you don’t mind Mayweed observing this fact, Sir, it’s the sort of thing a mole
does
at this time of the year and nomole would be surprised if you and lovely Thyme, most good-looking Thyme, did, and would be disappointed and surprised if you did not,” said Mayweed, speaking for many a mole who hoped to see the shy Spindle pair.

“Did not what?” asked Spindle, eyes innocent.

“Most cunning, most clever, most unconvincing denial, Sir, Spindle, Tryfan’s friend, clever mole,” said Mayweed with a wide smile. “Secret meetings, that’s what; mating, that’s the thing; love they call it, yes, yes,
yes
!” said Mayweed, who for some reason laughed.

“It’s not funny, and it’s not your business,” said Spindle. “So go away. I suggest you stop talking about it and go and find yourself a mate yourself. That’ll keep you busy!”

At this, Mayweed looked hurt and sad. Then he smiled, but a brave hurt smile, and said, “Cured I may be, denying Sir, but allmole can see that my puny and pathetic body has been ravaged by disease and that my face is bald and my fur patchy. Nomole would have Mayweed, not now nor ever, and your friend Mayweed is to be alone and unloved all his life, such of it as yet he may have. In that respect, Spindle Sir, and only in that disadvantageous respect, am I like Tryfan. Both celibate, both unloved by female mole. Sad is Mayweed, miserable and physically bedraggled to think of it, and therefore uncomprehending why one such as your splendid and revered self should turn his back on love,
especially
with one so desirable to the discerning mole as Thyme.”

“Well, yes,” said Spindle rather contritely, regretting that he had hurt Mayweed. “Anyway, I doubt that Thyme is interested in that sort of thing and certainly not with me!” Mayweed did not miss the query in Spindle’s voice.

“Doubt it do you, Sir? Splendid and predictable. When love is so uncertain, love is on the way! Yes, Sir, good luck, Sir, the system wishes it to be so, Sir, and will be disappointed if it is not.”

“
Go away,
Mayweed.”

“Sorry, Sir!” And he was gone, and Spindle was in a bad mood all day after, and avoided Thyme’s company until the evening, when she found him, and they ate together with barely a word between them, and each wishing they could find a word to say.

Mayweed’s effusiveness about Thyme was not out of place. She had changed a great deal since Tryfan and Spindle had first come across her in Buckland when she had been so ill. Then her face had been gaunt and her eyes rather lost, and her illness had sapped her of energy and life. But the summer of travel and good company had brought a gloss to her coat, and a pride to her face that made her a worthy mole in any company, and a cheerful mole to have about the place. She was liked by the Duncton moles and soon accepted by them, respected for the travelling she had done and the way in which she made a good burrow, and kept visiting moles content, well-fed and cheerful.

More than that, she believed in the Stone, and prayed to it, and though there were plenty of males who cast their eye upon her and pointed their snout in her direction – the more so as February came and the essential femaleness of her seemed indefinably to grow. Yet she was not interested: too few seemed true followers of the Stone.

“I want a mate who not only says he believes in the Stone, but who lives by it and for it, and whose life is in it,” she confided one day to Maundy, with whom she got on very well and near whom she had occupied tunnels and created a charming burrow or two for herself.

“Well now,” said Maundy wisely, “is there not a particular male you have in mind? February is advancing and you can’t dilly-dally the weeks away.”

“Well,” began Thyme, looking shy, “I do have dreams, yes.”

“Dreams?” repeated Maundy. “You mean longings?”