“
What were
you
doing there?” asked Tryfan, smiling. He liked Mayweed, and trusted him.
“Exploring. And there was scent of mole, there was scribble-scrabble of mole; there was Holm. Scared me – didn’t you, Holm?”
Holm nodded, and he snouted about the place they were in restlessly, as if he did not like being in one place too long.
“Where is this tree?” asked Skint, still suspicious.
“And where was Holm going?” added Tryfan.
Mayweed grinned hugely, his teeth showing with pleasure, his head on one side, his quick eyes darting from one to another, appraising them as he considered what to reveal.
“The tree was in the Marsh, Sir, dead as dead can be. And Holm here was going up it, Sir, to see if it would serve him when the floods come.”
“What floods?” asked Skint.
“Next year, year after that, sometime, Sir. Holm is a mole of the future, Sir, makes his plans well. That’s why he’s living, Sir, and others are very dead indeed. Now bold Tryfan and smart Skint, a tunnel I have to show you, very special, very good. Holm found it, I explored it, we finished it. Very good and very clever, Tryfan Sir and Skint Sir; you will be pleased. Won’t they, Holm?”
Holm nodded his weaselly head vigorously, and, looking to Mayweed for support, managed a sickly smile.
“Then take us, for Stone’s sake,” said Skint impatiently.
“Immediately, Sir. Why did I not think of that before?
Silly me! Ridiculous us, Holm! Hee, hee, hee.” And, laughing nervously, or pretend-nervously, Mayweed led them north by tunnels that led out of the roots of the wood and into the Marsh itself.
He travelled so rapidly that it was hard enough just keeping up with him let alone complain, which was what Skint would have liked to do since moles don’t go journeying in marshes if they can help it, and the ground was soggy wet so that their coats picked up wet earth and slime the moment they touched a tunnel wall.
On two occasions Holm stopped, signalled, and they back-tracked, and then they travelled rapidly on, always generally northwards. Then Mayweed came to a sudden stop and said, “We’re nearly at its start, Sirs both! This is very good, very pleasing, a great honour indeed!... and you are both naturally completely lost, clever though you are, but that was our intention was it not, happy Holm?” Holm nodded, and both Tryfan and Skint had to concede that they had little idea where they were relative to anything at all before Mayweed would take them onwards.
Except that the soil was dark and dank, and had the slithy feel underpaw of soil that was near water.
“We’re north of the Marsh End, aren’t we, Mayweed?” said Tryfan.
“‘North” is correct and very precise, oh yes, Sir; north, north, north and almost too north! No, worry not but follow gladly, Sirs, but carefully, tread warily. Holm goes last so you don’t get lost. Mayweed myself goes first. Nasty it is, nasty it will be, but very, very good when you reach the end, which for Duncton moles will be a new beginning. How poetic Mayweed gets, how carried away in his excitement! That’s the good thing!”
Skint looked wearily at Tryfan, whose patience with Mayweed he did not share, and they turned to follow him. Almost immediately Mayweed stopped.
“Dark it gets, Sirs, dark as night.”
“Black mostly,” said Holm suddenly behind them, which was the only thing he said that day.
“Stay close. Holm will see you do.”
The tunnel suddenly dipped down and turned cold, bitterly cold, and its sides were waterlogged and made a mole uneasy. A tiny stream ran along on the right side of the tunnel disappearing ahead of them into darkness, and though they tried to avoid it, from time to time their paws sloshed into it, sending spatterings of muddy water on to the mole ahead, or back to the mole behind.
“Are you sure you know this goes somewhere?” asked Skint, as they progressed downslope and the tunnel got darker and darker as the overhead entrances, such as they were, got further apart until they disappeared altogether so that the gloom ahead was lit only by the fast fading light behind.
“I’m sure, Sir, but unfortunately you’re not. You will be eventually!”
Mayweed’s voice echoed about them, broken strangely by the ominous drippings of water at their side, and sometimes from directly above. And it became even colder. The light finally dimmed into total darkness.
The streamlet at their paws seemed to be growing deeper and spreading wider so that soon they were wading through it, and in darkness so thick that their progress slowed as they snouted their way ahead, Mayweed first, Tryfan second, Skint next and Holm at the rear, evidently taloning Skint in the haunch occasionally to keep him in touch with the two ahead.
Soon Tryfan had lost all sense of where he was and in what direction he was going, his position defined entirely by Mayweed ahead and a grumbling Skint pushing into him from behind.
“Where are —?”
“Ssh, Sir.” Mayweed’s voice echoed back to him. “Best to be silent it is down here. Listen!”
And Mayweed stopped, and they all bunched together, paw to paw and flank to chilled, wet flank, and the silence about them was broken only by the hissing and rippling of water ahead.
“Not far to the beginning of the end, one and all!” said Mayweed from out of the darkness. “But the sound is confusing so stay near to the left-paw wall, near enough to touch it, but don’t touch it too much: wet it is and muddy. Unstable, nasty, not nice to be, eh?” Mayweed sounded annoyingly cheerful. Tryfan muttered, “All right,” Skint grunted and behind them all Holm said absolutely nothing.
They progressed slowly on until, without pausing, Mayweed whispered back to them, “We’ll swim the next few feet. Feels longer but it’s not.”
Then they were up to their bellies in water and with “Brr!” and “For Stone’s sake!” and other grumblings from Skint they were into water thick with silt for what felt like a long time, with pitch blackness all about and only the sound of Mayweed ahead to guide them on.
Then, to Tryfan’s relief, he felt the bottom again, and stumbled up out of the water and found his paws were on better ground than they had been travelling before.
“Gravel and sand now, Sir,” said Mayweed ahead, “and not far to go.” They plodded on until, indefinably, light came slowly back, and Tryfan saw once more, though still very dimly, the form of mole ahead. He turned round and was able to see Skint rather more clearly. The tunnel steepened upward, the ground, as Mayweed had said, was gravelly but the sides were still very wet, and Tryfan felt cold, but relieved. He had never been in so deep and wet a place before and had not liked it. He doubted if other moles would like it much either.
They felt cold air currents at their snouts, and then saw surface entrances above, and the welcome sight and scent of worm and life, and in the roof the first tendrils of fresh roots appeared.
They progressed on now in silence for a few minutes more, the air getting warmer by the second, the light brightening to the point where they could see each other clearly, and the sounds on the surface returning once more. Yet not the sound of Duncton Wood, nor even the danker sounds of the Marsh End.
They heard the click of coot, and the quack of mallard, and the surging sway of wind through mat-rush, whose roots were solid in the alluvial soil about them. And another sound, of roaring owls, near and powerful. Where were they?
“Now Sirs, we can go to the surface,” said Mayweed with triumph in his voice. “Follow!” and they did so, emerging into a sunshine that had not been there when they went underground, and on to ground that might as well have been another world from the one they had left. And four more muddy-looking explorers never appeared on the surface before, for each looked at the other and saw their fur was bedraggled with slime and wet, and their talons caked with sand and mud.
Mayweed led them past a bed of mat-rush on to pasture grass and they saw the great river itself, flowing peaceably along.
“But...” began Skint astonished.
“... it’s flowing to our left!” finished Tryfan, amazed.
“But, but, but, but, yes, yes, yes, yes, brave Sirs!” grinned Mayweed.
Tryfan snouted the direction of the sun, looked again at the flowing of the great river, and said, “You’ve brought us under the Thames!”
“Correct, Sir, agrees Mayweed modestly,” said Mayweed.
“But how did you find such a tunnel? And how can such a tunnel exist?”
“Good question, simple answer, you brace of pleased moles,” said Mayweed. “I snouted about down by the Marsh End and came across Holm here, as I’ve accurately described, up a tree or rather up the inside of a tree, or part of it, and noticed (when he came down) that he was muddy, Sir. Very. He’s a Marsh mole, Sir, capable of going into small wet places and coming out again. His forebears were Marsh-Enders, Sir, who ventured out on to the dangerous marshes and survived, Sir, muddily.
“When the plagues came the Marsh moles were affected like everymole else and Holm here, like me, was left alone, Sir, and did not learn much about the art of talking and what he did learn he did not like.”
Holm crouched up, nodded vigorously at this and then shook his head and crouched down again. Unlike the others, who were grooming themselves as they spoke, Holm was basking contentedly, his snout pointed towards the river, his eyes half-closed, and the mud on his fur drying and cracking in the sun.
“But he talked to me, didn’t you, heroic Holm, full of knowledge Mayweed wanted, full of ways your good friend Mayweed desired to know? Yes you did. And he said he had heard of this tunnel and so we set out to find it. Blocked up, dark, gaseous, dangerous, not the work for a mole working alone. Likely to go mad, Sirs, both, and die in darkness.”
Holm groaned to himself.
“You can imagine, intelligent Sirs, one and both, Mayweed’s delight and surprise when he emerged some days ago as you just have, here on the wrong side of the Thames, and being the first mole within living memory to have trans-tunnelled this great river from one side to another. Mayweed is not an idiot, Sir, and Mayweed said to himself, This is the way the Duncton Wood moles will evacuate the system and not leave a trace behind! That’s what Mayweed thought and thinks and seeing your faces, Skint Sir, and Tryfan, fine mole and leader, he knows you agree with him.”
“But —”
“But how do we get a lot of moles through the pitch blackness, Sir? Mayweed’s moment of glory, Sir. Mayweed will lead them, Holm will follow along behind and others of courage, purpose, resolution and without faint hearts will take up the middle positions while a few with large talons and bullying natures will take up the rear and we’ll harry them through, Sir! Mayweed humbly suggests, Sirs, that you tell nomole, not until they’re here and then make them do it. Democracy, Mayweed boldly avers, on this occasion is not appropriate because anymole with the slightest trace of intelligence would refuse point blank and absolutely to go through the trans-tunnel, brilliant though it is. But fun and excitement it will be for us, Sir, and helpful Holm can’t wait, Sir.”
“Does anymole else know?” asked Skint.
Mayweed looked hurt.
“Mayweed is very well aware, both Sirs, that there are untrustworthy moles about. He repeats: he suggests you keep it in the dark, Sirs... Hee, hee, hee.” Mayweed thought this remark very funny and his thin sides went in and out in a grotesque way and he wheezed laughter. Holm followed suit but in complete silence.
Skint glowered.
“The tunnel. Keep it in the dark. That’s Mayweed’s little joke, Sir,” said Mayweed in explanation. Skint frowned and scowled and glowered. Mayweed said, “Sorry, Sir, not funny, extremely unfunny, Sir, Skint dead right, Sir, nothing to laugh about. Shut up, Holm
now.”
But Holm thought Mayweed’s pun so amusing that he continued to laugh in such complete silence that the effort of it had him toppling over on his side and curling up as if he was dying. Then as suddenly as he had begun he stopped, crouched up, fell obediently still and lowered his snout.
“Holm is back in control now,” said Mayweed.
“And where,” asked Skint, “does this go?” He waved a talon along the river bank towards a rising front of dense willows which grew out of a ditch that ran down into the river.
“Redeem yourself by showing them, Holm,” said Mayweed.
Holm led them quickly along the river bank, which curved off to their right, and then over a wooden plank that crossed the ditch. They saw, rising high above them and curving away, the concrete columns of the roaring owl way and high above them the purr and the roar and the screech of the owls, though no stench, for the only scent they had was that of the river, and the drying mud and sand on their fur.
“Is there a way under it?” asked Tryfan.
Holm nodded.
“Then I think, Skint, and I believe, that Mayweed and this Marsh mole Holm here may have found a way for us to escape from the grikes without the need to fight, and with maximum mystery and confusion for Henbane. I think Mayweed deserves congratulations.”
“Reserve it until he’s got us back under the river alive, if you don’t mind, and don’t over-praise him because he’s going to be even more insufferable,” said Skint, eyes narrowing as they came back to Mayweed, who was now enjoying some food.
“Welcome, Sirs and Holm....”
Skint raised a paw.
“Just say nothing and get us back safely, Mayweed,” he said.
“Indeed, Sir, Mayweed shall. Now!” Which wetly, darkly, and muddily he did.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As Maytime came to Duncton Wood, the final preparations for the coming of the grikes were made amidst growing tension and secrecy. Alder’s watchers had reported a slow massing of grikes at Fyfield, and there were rumours that among the refugees that had come to Duncton were members of the sideem, or Henbane’s spies.
Nomole knew then or ever discovered if it was true, but Tryfan decided to take no chances, and the rest of the preparations were swift and secret. Tryfan himself travelled down again to the Marsh End with Mayweed and went through the tunnel under the river to explore for two days the routes beyond, and be certain that a swift passage east towards the Wen would be possible if they went that way.