Duncton Tales (8 page)

“Has he never had a mate?”

“Never to anymole’s knowledge. No, never. Fell in love once they say, but now the only mole who’s old enough to remember the truth, and sensible enough not to exaggerate, is Drubbins.”

The two moles fell into one of those companionable silences, thinking about all they had talked of until Pumpkin repeated suddenly, “‘Texts get in the way’. Odd that.”

“Yes …” said Privet softly. “But not perhaps if it’s the Silence that you’re trying to understand. In fact …”

It was Pumpkin’s turn to look at her quizzically.

“I was just thinking, Pumpkin, that it’s the most sensible thing I’ve ever heard said about searching for the Silence. ‘Texts get in the way’. Yes …”

“Miss, why
did
you come to Duncton? When you first came you asked about the Books of Moledom. I notice that you’ve not mentioned them since, but several times I’ve seen you looking through the copies in the stacks.”

“I came … I came because …”

Pumpkin was suddenly very still, sensing that Privet was about to speak personally for once.

“I came to discover more of Silence. But I thought knowledge of it might be here in Duncton. Does that seem ridiculous to you?”

“No, Miss.”

“I think it
does
exist but we don’t know what it looks like. I think it’s waiting for us to find it and that we
shall
find it …”

“Maybe we shall find it when we need to.”

“Do you really think that, Pumpkin?”

Pumpkin looked around at the stacks in the Chamber they were in, and at the tunnels leading off it. He cocked his head and seemed to listen for a moment to the endless mutter and patter of working moles.

“All this copying,” he said in a low voice. “All this so-called scholarship. All this
busyness
. I watch it and I do as I’m told but I never forget that it will be the Silence that matters in the end and how we reach it. The way I see the Book of Silence is this. There’s six Books so far — I know that for sure. And six is nomole’s number. Seven’s the thing and a Seventh Book there’ll be. You can have all of this, Miss Privet, every last text, because it won’t be anything in the end. But the Book of Silence,
that’s
the one.”

The normal look of good-natured cynicism on Pumpkin’s face had been replaced by a look of awed excitement as he imagined seeing in reality the thing of which he spoke.

“It’s somewhere, as you said, or perhaps waiting to be scribed, but it’s near, it’s near. I would give my whole life for the honour of touching that last Book just for a moment. I mean it! Do you know. I thought there was something more about you than met the eye; a lot more. You’re a bit of a one, Miss Privet, aren’t you!”

“Am I?” she said, a little coyly.

“And I suppose I’d be pushing my luck if I asked you what made you interested in the Book of Silence in the first place?”

“You would, Pumpkin, yes, you would,” said Privet, retreating to her old self.

Pumpkin grinned, so good-naturedly that Privet could not help smiling back. Somehow both of them sensed that they had formed a bond that day, or perhaps more accurately a pact, and that it concerned the Book of Silence, and that if ever the Stone honoured either of them with the task of fulfilling it they would not hesitate to do so, whatever it might cost.

“Miss …’ began Pumpkin, suddenly nervous. A whisper of Dark Sound had come into the tunnel where they stanced. Moles desperate. Moles in fear.

“Miss …’ he said again.

“It’s all right,” said Privet, suddenly strong, “Dark Sound will not hurt you if you have faith in the Stone, or not at this distance. It’s all right, Pumpkin — if ever the Stone asks that of you it will give you the strength you need.”

“Will it?” he whispered, shaking his head. “I’m just an aide. Miss Privet, nothing more and nothing less.”

It was her turn to grin.

“There’s something more about
you
than meets the eye too,” she said. And Pumpkin laughed, and the moment passed, but not the memory of their tacit exchange which had to do with the discovery of the Book of Silence.

January passed into February with Stour still a mystery, and, as she got to know the library and the Duncton system better, other mysteries began making their presence felt as well.

One of these was the curious fact that there were far fewer ancient texts in the stacks than she might have expected, and she realized that if what Pumpkin had said was true then these probably now formed part of Stour’s personal library. But why would he who was so committed to seeing that other moles had texts made available to them, want to make ancient texts unavailable in the Library of which he was Master? It did not make sense. Meanwhile, however, she must continue to make her way in the Library as best she could, getting on with the tedious task of copying texts from Modern which held no interest for her at all, whilst hoping change would come.

But at least in mid-February, when the task of copying for springtime distribution was nearly over, her real skills began to emerge. A question concerning a partially scrivened script came up, to which she was able to provide an answer, and it became apparent that her knowledge of older scripts, particularly those emanating from the north, was thorough and sound.

She began to work as a librarian-aide to Sturne, then the Keeper of Rules, and in that capacity was able to help clear up some problems with the much-copied and corrupted text of the Prendine Rule which, with careful scholarship, she was able to show was a merging of two Rules of different dates, and widely different places.

Obscure though such work was, and unimportant to the main thrust of Modern research in the Library, it established for Privet a reputation for accuracy and dedication, and led her to be chosen to work on the much bigger task of the elucidation of the Farndon Forgery, that brilliant but notorious early Modern attempt to fool scribemoles in Uffington into thinking a contemporary text concerning Stone liturgies was of late mediaeval origin. Unfortunately this work brought Privet into direct conflict with Deputy Master Snyde, whom she had managed to keep clear of since their initial meetings.

The problem was that Rules needed extra aides to help with work generated by Privet’s researches, and Snyde objected to this channelling of resources towards something he saw as irrelevant to the Library’s main work, and in this matter he won — for all but Privet were removed from the task, which left her working on something that most regarded as a waste of time.

Yet she rose to the occasion, working longer hours and arriving near a solution to the problem in late February, when spring was almost come, and even librarians’ inclinations were turning to matters of the heart, and stirrings of the body, rather than dry textual interpretations.

With the coming of March, the days began to lighten, and the soil and undergrowth of Duncton Wood began to stir with new life.

One morning, arriving even earlier than usual, she came upon a thin, gaunt old mole ahead of her among the stacks. He moved quickly, like a weasel investigating an alien creature’s run, and his fur had the thin lack-lustre look of one who has been too long physically inactive and out of the fresh air. Yet old though he seemed, he had a certain vigour, and when he turned to look at her his eyes were sharp and penetrating.

“Ah! Yes! The mole Privet, I think.”

“I am,” said Privet, suddenly in awe, for she sensed that this might well be Stour.

“And you …?” she began, feeling that if she did not ask she might regret it for ever.

“Yes, yes, I am the Master. “Old Stour” as they call me.”

To her surprise he laughed in a thin kind of way, though as he did so she was aware that his eyes continued to appraise her.

Then he said, “I am well pleased with your work, Librarian Privet. The Frandon matter has been one of some embarrassment and I am glad it has been resolved, though the ambiguity remains. You have showed … tenacity.”

“It
is
a forgery, Master, and I think I can say which of the Uffington scribemoles perpetrated it, though why I’m not sure.”

“Boredom I expect. A bigger fact in history than so-called historians give credit for. Been tempted towards forgery myself! In fact …” he permitted himself the briefest of smiles. She knew suddenly she was not afraid of him. But more than that, she saw he was a mole alone. In that momentary smile was a weariness that came from a remembered life when he had not been Master … and not thereby been alone. In that there was something that they shared.

“Master,” she began, daring to take her opportunity.

The smile fled, and he raised a paw to silence her.

“I know,” he said. “You are a mediaevalist and wish for other and more appropriate work. Scribes and scholars always come here expecting something other than I can at first give them. But you shall have what you desire in time. Now, tell me where you were trained.”

She hesitated. She had hoped that after so long here nomole would ever feel the need to ask her.

“Tell me, mole. I shall tell no other. From what I have heard of you it is plain enough you have fled from somewhere. If I am to trust those that work for me I must know they will answer truthfully what I ask of them, and fully if I request it. We live in strange and changing times and a mole must be cautious. You have more than the makings of a scholar, you are one already. But without a history.

We know most moles that come here. Now, whatmole taught you to scribe, and where?”

Even after this Privet hesitated, her face contorted with distress and worry, her mouth open to reply but no words coming.

“Well, mole?” said Stour, coming closer.

She looked into his eyes, and at his austere face, and down at his thin paws, and felt herself in the presence of a mole more clear-thinking, and more dedicated to truth, than anymole she had ever known. If she was wrong in her judgement about this mole, she would be wrong about life itself and in that moment, when Privet trusted her judgement and herself, she turned a corner and began a long journey back towards lost light and love.

“I am of Bleaklow,” she whispered, naming an obscure and outcast system to the north.

“And you learnt scribing
there
?” said Stour, astonished.

She nodded.

“And your teacher?”

“You would not know her, Master,” Privet dared to say.

“Mole …” there was ice in Stour’s voice, and warning. This was a mole who demanded the truth.

“Her name was Shire of Bleaklow Moor.”

“Whatmole was she? How came she knew scribing?” His eyes were sharp bright points of black, his body tense. She knew what he was thinking.

“She was daughter of the Eldrene Wort who was my grandmother.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Stour and utter silence. The Eldrene Wort — but words were not needed. She was the most reviled mole in modern history. She was … and then, in the distance, beyond the main chamber where the entrances were, the sound of early arrivals began.

“Come,” said Stour impulsively, “follow me up to my study cell, for there we can continue undisturbed.”

Without more ado he led her through the stacks and up the slipway to the forbidden gallery above, through an arch where formerly she thought she had seen him talking to one of the Keepers, and there she was in his study cell.

How small it seemed, how spartan, and not a text in sight. But beyond it, through another arch, she caught a glimpse of a few texts neatly arranged, whilst to her right she saw a second arch which led to the gallery from which their Master was said to be able to watch them all unseen. He turned to her and bade her stance down.

“Now, is this connection with the Eldrene Wort the reason why you have stayed silent about yourself? You fear that others might not accept you?”

“They never accepted my mother, Master, when she strove to flee from Bleaklow. Yet she did not commit the crime of
her
mother.”

“This Shire, did she only teach you scribing?”

“I can scriven, Master Librarian. I can transcribe mediaeval scrivening, and scribing too. I … I know most of the common dialects of the north.”