Duncton Tales (26 page)

“Hold
him!
roared Maple, pushing Whillan towards one of the nearest of the silent Newborns. “And
him
, Chater, I want to talk to
him
!”

Without questioning Maple’s order Whillan and Chater moved forward to grab the two moles he had pointed at. The others, staring at Maple in growing alarm and fear as if he was the very spirit of an angry Stone come alive amongst them, began to turn and flee. This Maple must have seen would happen and so wanted to hold one or two for questioning. His earlier guess had been right: the Newborns might look tough, but threatened as they now felt themselves to be, and utterly routed, their only thought was to turn and flee, leaving their companions behind without a further thought.

The two secure, Maple went closer to the half-dead moles and gently reached out to help the nearest of them. He had turned and slumped forward, his head low, as he struggled to catch his breath again. But when Maple touched him he managed to raise his head and whisper in a gasping, croaking way, “The others, help them. I’m all right. I’m —” but more he could not say.

He eased himself forward and Maple went to the next, pulling them one by one free of each other, until four of the five were breathlessly struggling to recover themselves, the youthful one now helping the others as best he could. But the fifth, he who stanced against the Stone, moved not at all, until the one nearest him had stumbled away. Then, slowly, terribly, his eyes staring sightlessly in the night sky above to which he had appealed too late, he fell limply forward to where Maple caught him and lowered him to the ground.

The great mole turned silently to his two friends, a look of shock and grief on his face, and mutely shook his head. The mole was dead.

There was a curious mix of gratitude and awe on the faces of the recovering moles. One reached a paw forward as if for balance; Maple grasped it, and thus supported, the mole looked up at him, and then in turn at Chater and Whillan before turning back to Maple again.

But it was the youngest one, who was about Whillan’s age but thin and hunted-looking, who spoke.

“You are Rooster of Bleaklow Moor!” he said, awe and gratitude in his voice.

Whatever any of them might have expected the mole to say, this was not it.

“Nay, mole, my name is —” began Maple before Chater suddenly interrupted him.

“We must leave here!” he said. “If those others come back, cowards that they are, they’ll bring many more with them, and we’ll not be able to pull this same ruse twice.”

“Aye,” said Maple, turning to the mole Whillan held captive and subdued, though in truth the mole was as big if not bigger than himself.

“You!” said Maple, “what’s this all about, eh? What’s this been
for
?”

The mole looked slowly up at him, his eyes curiously blank.

“Rooster is real?” he whispered. “Rooster is here?”

Rooster again!

“Yes,” said Whillan suddenly, ’tis Rooster you face now, mole!”

At that the mole whom Chater held said, “It is a lie, it was a lie.”

Is? Was? Before any of them had time to ask what he meant the first to whom they had spoken said, “This massing was a fitting punishment for what they did. Moles of the truth should not be disturbed at their night-time worship. They broke the curfew and had been warned.” He spoke with subdued outrage in his voice, but all the time stared at Maple with a look in his eyes that could only be described as reluctant belief.

“They’ll not talk, Rooster,” said the recovered Rollright mole, “they never talk but in rules and proscribings. You might as well talk to wormless ground as to them. Except —”

“We do not kill moles, it is against our creed,” said the Newborn, quite unrepentant, and not showing much sign of fear. “We punish through the massing. It is your own foul-bodied crush that kills yourselves. We did not touch
him
with a single talon!” He was straining against Whillan’s hold as he pointed to the dead mole. Then he added, with contempt in his voice, “He killed himself with your help!”

“We must get out of here,” said Chater urgently. “Let’s lose these bastards now.”

“Aye,” said Maple, coldly. Then he grabbed the one Whillan held and lifted him off the ground. Tell them Rooster’s come if you like, and tell them there’s more where he came from, many more. Now get out of here …’ With that he hurled him bodily away.

“And you!” said Chater in disgust, pushing the one he held after the first. Both scrambled up, stared one last time, and were gone.

“That was well said, Whillan!” said Chater with a wink and a quick grin at them both. “Rooster indeed! You’re quicker-thinking than me! Now, what’s the way out of here?”

“I’ll show you,” said the bright youngster with the thin face.

“Right,” said Chater, taking overall command once more, “lead off sharpish. This kind of work is not just a matter of knowing where and when to turn up, you need to know when to scarper too. What’s your name, mole?”

“Fiddler,” was the reply, and off he set.

This extraordinary and frightening incident, early though it was in Whillan’s account of the venture to Rollright, was the most dramatic and telling of all the events and discoveries of their three-day stay in that subdued system.

But before Whillan’s account concluded with the rest of what they discovered of the mysterious Rooster, Stour interrupted him; “This ‘massing’, as they call it, was something they had done before?”

“Yes,” said Whillan, “mole after mole told us about it. The rules of their belief in the Stone, if it can be truly called that, say they cannot themselves kill a mole
with their own paws
. But moles who are deemed to blaspheme may be
punished even unto death
. By performing the kind of massing we witnessed they can claim that the victims effectively killed themselves … It needed only a few massings, always of three or more moles, to subdue the Rollright moles. As for Rooster —”

“Aye, mole, but more of him later,” said Stour. “You have told us enough now for me to think it a matter of urgency that we satisfy ourselves what has happened to Fieldfare, and confirm at least that she is not in the Marsh End. For if she is..

“And if she has been ‘massed’, Stour?” said Chater bitterly. “Where does that put your ideas of peaceful resistance then?”

“It changes them not a bit, Chater,” said Stour sternly. “There will never be peace, never be Silence, for moles who match talon thrust with talon thrust, and killing with killing. Now, Drubbins and myself will hurry down to Barrow Vale in response to the report that there is to be a Meeting. If so, and if it has been invoked by this Chervil and the Newborn moles then we shall ensure that as many of
them
attend as can before the Meeting starts. That will be your opportunity to see what you may find in the Marsh End.”

“I would prefer to go in there now,” said Chater, “for if Fieldfare’s there she’ll be in danger — she’s sure to say or do something that’s seen as blasphemy. She’s a mole who always speaks her mind.”

“No, Chater, give the Master and Drubbins a start before we leave,” said Maple, “what he says makes sense.”

“Well …” growled Chater miserably.

“And you come with us, Whillan,” said Stour. “We may have need of a younger mole.”

At which the two older moles and Whillan turned off downslope to the north-west for Barrow Vale, and the other two slowly made their way northward, to reach the edge of the Marsh End and wait until a little time had passed, and they judged it right to go further on, and try to find out what had happened to Fieldfare if they could.

Chapter Thirteen

Privet’s work with Keeper Husk had soon settled into the companionable routine of two moles who shared a passion for mediaeval texts and molish tales, and for whom ‘working’ at such things was a continual round of enjoyable study and enriching conversation.

Husk had accepted with glad grace the text of tales Privet had brought with her, the more so when he learned that many of them were gleanings from tales that Cobbett himself had told her.

Some of the old rivalry between himself and Cobbett, as well as Stour, might still survive, but he was obviously pleased, even so late in life, to have this addition from the North to his Collection, and one touched by the knowledge of so old a friend.

Had the ages of Privet and Husk not been so disparate, and their inclinations so clearly celibate, others might almost have thought them mates, so much together were they, and so lacking in interest in the world beyond Rolls, Rhymes and Tales. Indeed, so suddenly and completely absorbed was Privet with her new-found task that a mole might almost have thought that she was escaping from something.

As it was, Husk continued his disconcerting habit of sleeping when and where he felt like it — usually for only short stretches of time and with a text or folio clutched in his paws — while Privet delved a small uncluttered burrow near the only serviceable entrance into the tunnels, and retired there at night, usually after a lengthy conversation with the old mole which often ended with him telling a tale or two.

As for their respective tasks, each kept to their agreement in meeting the other’s needs. Privet was allowed to work her way through the texts as best she could, separating out those she felt should be preserved in the Main Library. Initially she approached Husk formally over each one she wished to remove, but this so upset him, and provoked such lengthy and indecisive discussion of the relative merits of one text against another (which he could not quickly find) that both agreed it best she consulted him no more.

The only time she left Husk and ventured over to the Main Library was soon after she started, when she told the Master what she was about, and asked that Pumpkin or some other aide might come routinely and take the rescued texts across-slope to safer sanctuary in the Library.

“Pumpkin it shall be,” said Stour immediately. “As for the relationship of Husk to me …” (for Privet had mentioned Husk’s claim, though without reference to Fat Pansy) “… it was all a long time ago. He has his task and I have mine.”

At first Pumpkin had come only sporadically, but it was not long before Privet had got herself into an efficient routine, and he came daily to see her to remove texts, and found another aide to help as well. But as time went on they rarely saw her, for it seemed she wished to get on with her task uninterrupted and chose to leave what texts were ready for collection set apart for them near the tunnel entrance.

As for Husk’s work with scribing tales, Privet kept her side of the bargain she had made, and for a time each morning and afternoon joined Husk in his inner chamber, and helped him as best she could. It soon became obvious to her that the ‘task’ that he wished her to do regarding his work was very different from the task she felt sure she should be doing, whose nature put her into something of a quandary. For it seemed that so far as his Book of Tales was concerned Husk had been too close to it for too long and had lost his judgement of what should be included, or more particularly, of what should be taken out.

The mystery of the discarded and scored-out folios about his scribing place, and the seeming absence of completed and corrected work was soon sadly resolved. From what he told her and what she observed it seemed that he had long since completed his great work, in which, successively, he had retold the great tales of moledom, extracting them in much the way that Privet had observed Cobbett do in Beechenhill, from the hundreds of tales in his great Collection, made originally by his father, his own work being based on the collecting rather than scholarly zeal of
his
father.

The reason why this great Collection was not in the Main Library was one of inertia — arising from the difficulty of moving it — combined, Privet suspected, with stubbornness on all sides arising from the argument originating over Fat Pansy.

Quite when Husk had completed his ‘book’ — it was less a book than a portfolio of tales — Privet could not find out, but certainly a long time before. However, he himself had not judged it complete, feeling there was too much in and that before he declared it satisfactorily done, and showed it to other moles, he must excise parts to make it ever more simple, more direct, more ‘true’, whatever that might mean.

Privet had arrived at the end of this second stage of his self-appointed task in time only to see the ruins of the great work that had once been — literal ruins, in the sense that the discarded material was all about in the tunnels, or if it was retained in the book itself, was now in the form of scored and broken folios.

It was this hotchpotch of a thing, hardly book at all, over which the now blind Husk huddled painfully every day, and had never shown to anymole, and would not show to her. She saw its battered birch-bark covers, white and peeling, and its crumbling crazy contents, from a distance, but never more than that; and even when he left it on his dais and went up to the surface to groom, and she might have looked at it if she had cared to, it was understood that she would not, and this was a trust she would have preferred to die before betraying.