Slowly, Skint and his group came to understand what was happening, and for a time thought that they might be able to organise the new arrivals into a force that could overthrow the grikes. But that proved impossible. There was no order to be found among the newcomers, and the more that arrived through October and November, the more chaos and anarchy reigned as moles formed packs and began to kill each other in an effort to establish dominance.
Tundry made them shudder at his memories of the torments he witnessed, of the cruelty of the maddened, diseased and mentally ill moles who settled in Duncton and created a murderous and foul community of their own. They heard snoutings and mutilations, they saw killings and violence, they saw groups of males torment and destroy females, and they found evidence of groups of females retaliating against individual males. The stronger and the fitter began to emerge as leaders, and formed groups of moles which were violent parodies of the groupings that had been in evidence in Bracken’s young days. For just as then the strongest moles were the Westsiders because that was where the wormful soils were, so now the stronger took the Westside, and places there were won hard, with talon and tooth. The chalky Eastside became the place to die, for the diseased moles lived there, and moles ousted from other parts were driven there, or would flee there before they were killed.
Barrow Vale, the traditional centre of the system, became an area where nomole went alone but, rather, went in groups to protect each other. While inevitably the Marsh End became the place for secretive survivors, physically weak moles who had intelligence and resource, and could tolerate the damper conditions and the poor soils of that low part of the wood.
So, quite quickly, a kind of order came to Duncton Wood and Skint decided it would be best to evacuate his small group. The decision was hastened by the loss of two of his moles, Fidler and Yarrow, when they were caught by some of the rough Westsiders and killed. Skint made attempts to parley with those moles, but after being taken he, too, was nearly killed, escaping narrowly and having to lie low for two days before being able to rejoin Tundry and the other three.
November was passing by and Skint wished to get to Rollright in good time to meet Tryfan there. So, using one of the small conduits north of the cow cross-under, the party had left Duncton Wood, unsure whether their stay there had been successful or not. But to the last their tunnels were not discovered, and when they left they did so privily, blocking up the entrances down into the tunnels in which they had successfully hidden for so long.
“The journey to Rollright proved a slow one, Sir,” concluded Tundry, “because the grikes were thick on the ground and we passed more than one party of moles who were being taken to Duncton, judging by the state of them. I tell you, that’s not a system which will be occupied again in our time and I pity the mole who tries it. Nomole would go there now, and by the time those moles started breeding last spring, it must have become a terrible place indeed. To think, Duncton Wood occupied by such poor, tormented and plain ruthless moles as that and no traditions of their own but the violent ones they make! The word we have now is Beake is dead and the grikes have retreated back to a garrison this side of the cow cross-under. She died of disease, and the grikes will not be shaken from that strong point they have reached, nor by the disorganised rabble that those moles must be. And still moles are being taken to Duncton and forced through the cross-under to whatever foul life lives beyond it now.
“As for Skint and those of us who survived, we came here, and, Stone be praised, good Smithills was waiting, and Lorren and Holm too, and told us your news, bad and good. Of the tunnel collapse and of the escape. Skint and he waited for a time and then, as I’ve said, journeyed north, saying that they had a mind you would be doing the same once you heard the last thing I have to tell you which is this: Henbane has gone north to Whern and that mole Weed with her; and we’ve heard that Siabod has fallen and the grikes finally victorious.”
“No word of Alder or Marram then?” said Tryfan.
“None.”
“Nor any other moles who survived the tunnel collapse on the Duncton side?”
Tundry shook his head. Grim news indeed, most of it.
Tryfan was silent for a little until he roused himself and asked again after Skint.
“Aye, he said he’d leave word of where you could find him, at Beechenhill, a system in the heart of the Dark Peak, too small for grikes to bother with. There are worthy moles up there and Skint reckoned that by the time you got there they would know what he was up to.”
This was most of the general news Tundry had, the rest being about his own decision to Atone bravely and admit of the Word and live among the grikes until better days came and his talons would be needed inside the system he had infiltrated.
“Not talons I think, but faith and belief in the Stone,” said Tryfan quietly.
“Yes, well, maybe,” said Tundry. “But talons is what won grikes their territory, talons is what will lose it.”
Perhaps Tryfan saw a look of admiration for Tundry in Holm’s three youngsters’ eyes as they listened to this adult talk in fascinated silence; or perhaps some inner shock and disgust with the rule of violence which seemed to descend finally to everywhere that had lost touch with the Stone, whether it was Duncton Wood or Rollright, Uffington or even the Wen.
Whatever it was Tryfan seemed to grow purposeful then, and powerful, and though he spoke softly nomole doubted he meant what he said.
“The way of the Stone is not the way of the talon; and nor will that be the Stone Mole’s way. I have seen too much violence, and inflicted some myself, with intent and by accident, to wish ever to inflict more. The ways of the Stone will be quiet and mindful, for they are the ways of Silence and of light.
“But they are harder ways, Tundry, than the talon and claw. And demand more courage....”
“More?” said Tundry, flexing his talons and the light catching the scars of battle that coursed across his strong flanks.
“Yes, more,” said Tryfan. “A talon-thrust is easier to make than a piercing thought, a thought is harder to absorb than a talon-thrust. It is easier to make an adult mole scream than to comfort a mewing pup; it is harder for a mole to admit a fault than to assert what he thinks may be a right. The way of the Stone is by thought, by listening to another’s cries, by changes which starts in each mole’s being. These will be the Stone Mole’s ways, and they are the hardest.”
“And what of Skint, Alder and Marram, and moles like me?” said Tundry, suddenly angry. “Such moles use talons for the Stone – are they wrong? Will you tell them they are wrong?”
“I know not what may be right for them,” said Tryfan, “or whether I shall myself ever be able to hold my talons back when I am threatened, or those I love are. I know that if you attacked Spindle here now, or Mayweed, or any of these moles I would defend them to the death. That I know.”
“We were given talons for fighting,” said Tundry.
“No, we were given them for delving, we
choose
to fight with them as well. We choose to believe that talon should fight talon. But I have travelled a good part of southern moledom and I have seen only sadness and loss. I see moles who long for peace, harmless moles like Holm here, forced to hide their lives away for fear of others’ talons. Are there not worms enough for all moles? Is there not earth enough for all their tunnels? I think the Stone Mole will show there is a different way.”
“Is he coming then, and soon?” asked Lorren quietly.
“I think he is. And I think the more moles long for him, and need him, the more certain he is to come. I think Boswell is part of his coming. I think we all are.”
“Well I hope he asks us to attack the grikes when he does, for there’s plenty of moles willing to do that, and many a Stone follower to be made that way!” said Tundry.
“He will ask us to hear the Stone, not attack the grikes.”
“And what if the grikes attack us as they will – as they do – when they find us meeting together?”
“He will ask us to listen harder!” said Tryfan.
“There’s not a mole will follow him if that’s all he really says, Tryfan Sir; and there’s precious few will accept what you say either.”
“Then I must learn to speak with more love, Tundry, and that, I assure you, is a harder thing to learn than using talons more effectively. Now, I think our group is tired and we must eat and sleep. Tomorrow we will go to the Whispering Stoats, and we will give thanks to the Stone that we are all so well met, and ask that we may so meet Skint and Smithills on our journey north to Whern, even if it is to tell them something they may not wish to hear!”
Tryfan and the other two were given food then, and shown a place to rest. While Lorren and Holm watched over them, their pups stared in awe at the great mole and his two companions who had come to their tunnels and spoken of things that in all their long lives those youngsters would never forget.
Whatmole knows how the Stone’s will journeys forth, and where its grace may be felt? Perhaps it is in the longing moles have for such light and peace. But Tundry went abroad later that night, and Lorren too, and whispers went out to followers that here, in Rollright itself, a great mole slept, a mole who knew of the Stone and would give moles a blessing by it. A scribemole no less, and one whose very name it was dangerous to speak, for was he not turned against his own kind, had he not accepted the Word? Was he not captured by the grikes, had he not betrayed his friends? Lies, grike lies, all of it.
The next dawn Tryfan and the other two were quietly led by Holm back to the Whispering Stoats, and there they found others, hushed and waiting. And even as they began their meeting, more came, old moles, young moles, moles in fear for their lives, moles who had heard, and who wished to make witness, so that the enclave around those leaning Stones was thronged with hushed moles as Tryfan said his quiet prayers, and went among them, touching them and blessing them as Boswell had taught him.
Again and again moles asked him, “Is the Stone Mole coming?”
And to some Tryfan said, “Yes, he is coming now, be patient, have faith, the Stone’s Silence will be heard.” While to others he whispered, “If it is the Stone’s will you will know of him and he will make blessings on you. Trust the Stone.” Then he spoke to all of them, saying what he had said to Tundry, that the day of talons was done, the way of mindful peace was come; and before its armies the Word would die.
Then Tryfan took his leave of the moles of Rollright and was led forward by Mayweed of Buckland, who had promised to guide him north and began now to do so. While among the moles they left behind, modest courageous moles of faith, some, just a few, said, “Where he touched me is healing, this mole Tryfan is sent by the Stone! He has healed me!” And so, through those moles, and many others Tryfan was to touch on his long journey north, the Stone spoke its heralding of the coming of the Stone Mole, and spread word of the wonder of which Tryfan of Duncton spoke, and which
would
come.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The heart of a mole travelling north can soon begin to die. For though sometimes his route turns east or west and he finds the sun across his face, yet finally he must always leave the sun behind him, so that only his shadow stalks ahead, pausing and stopping on the many rough rises that approach, as if to warn that a wise mole should turn back.
Yet as far as the Dark Peak there is enough to scent and see to believe it is worthwhile, and wormful, to continue, and though a mole likes not the prospect ahead yet somehow the ground underpaw is rich and good; and if the sun shines not, at least the rivers and streams that flow in those parts babble him an accompaniment, and hint of good life thereabouts.
But then the Dark Peak comes, those high and worm-less moors which have deterred moles through the centuries from venturing further for lack of an easy route or friendly moles to act as willing guides. Friendly? Willing? A travel-wise mole does not say “Dark Peak” and use such words as those in one breath!
There the grey sky darkens with the turn of a sad rook’s wing, and tawny owls hold a sway they have lost in southern moledom, where roaring owl and twofoot spread their fume and noise.
So, surrounded by high moors whose peat is claggy and difficult and leads easily on to a wormless death unless a mole knows his way well and keeps his courage bold, a mole slows down and is liable to attack by creatures whose eyes slant meanly and whose mouths whisper cruelties and tell lies.
Yet a bold mole heading north must go on beyond the Peak and try to find a route through valleys where the last great, bleak spread of twofoots goes, and roaring owls, whose ways there are smaller and light up the country lurid through the night. Narrow those ways, and dangerous, and fox roams and owls sweep and bank rats kill, if roaring owl fails to take a mole first.
The air is chilly, the sun more rare, the rain colder and more heavy, rolling in dank swathes across from the west: this is the rain that drowns the worm. Here a travelling mole sees strange and desperate sights, of black slugs roaming, of moths dying and of bleached worms floating. Warnings all of them. Warnings to turn back, warnings to retreat, warnings whispered in the thick stenchy grass as the wind conspires among it to confuse a mole, and make him better prey.
Tired now, bleak of heart, whatmole would journey on, but one with great faith, or one whose heart is dark indeed, willing to turn from the sun, willing to flee towards Dark Sound?
No need even for moles to make the scribings of Dark Sound to hear it, not
here.
The very rocks have been contorted by a dire fate, rock of grit, rock of burnt rock, rock of slippery shale; rock that catches Dark Sound and sends it forth so that a mole may think the very earth itself attacks him.
Which, perhaps, it does.
No wonder then, that for centuries past none but the scribemoles of doomed Uffington travelled north, taking their courage in their paws and seeking knowledge to scribe into the Rolls of the Systems, that great testimony to a tradition that became sterile, which collected facts of systems and of mole, but finally forgot to listen to the longing in poor moles’ hearts.