Then, as November gave way to December, the Duncton moles responded to winter by clearing out their deeper runs, shoring them up where necessary, blocking off colder entrances, and crouching still in the cold darkness of a system, and a season, bowed down by gloom. For hours a mole’s only movement might be the shivering of flanks or a sullen search for food, while the only sounds carried in on the wet, cold wind were the crackings and fallings of twigs and branches, or the flap of a magpie’s wings, whose black sheen reflected a grey sky.
* * *
Yet, however bowed down a system may be, nothing can quite destroy the spark of excitement that comes to everymole’s breast with the start of the third week of December and the approach of Longest Night. For even in the darkest hour there is a distant star, a tiny light of hope whose glimmer, though far off, is enough to thrill the most despairing heart.
Longest Night! The time when youngsters grow silly with expectation and adults grow young with memory. The time when a mole may forget the icy months still to come in the knowledge that the imminent passage of Longest Night means that the nights are beginning—however unlikely it seems—to shorten once more. Longest Night! The time when darkness and light hang in a balance and the mystery of life is remembered again.
Then are the old tales told and the ancient songs sung. Of the coming of Ballagan; of the finding of the first Stone, of its splitting into the seven hundred Stones; of Ballagan’s mate, Vervain of the West Stone; of their struggle with darkness on the first Longest Night; of their sons and daughters and the founding of the first system; of Ballagan’s discovery of the first Book, and Vervain’s discovery of the second. But most beloved tale of all, and the one all moles like to hear again on Longest Night, of how Linden, last son of Ballagan and Vervain, made the trek with the Books to Uffington and then learned to read them, and in the course of one Longest Night, became a White Mole, thereby allowing the Stone’s healing power of love and silence to pass through him to all moles.
In honour of Linden at least some moles in every system traditionally trek to the Stone (or whatever feature in their system represents it) on Longest Night. And what an exciting memory that is for those who take part, as jokes, smiles, giggles, whimsies, buffoonery, tomfoolery and games mix with prayers, silence and mystery in an evening of pilgrimage. Then back to the burrows for a feast and a chatter and a tale well told; and then sleep, if there’s time, before waking at last in the knowledge that Longest Night has been survived and the long journey towards spring has begun.
As this particular Longest Night approached, many Duncton moles thought to themselves that one way or another they ought to make the trek to the Stone this time, having been deterred from doing so by Mandrake’s outright threats on the previous Longest Night. This time their fear was greater and morale lower—yet it is just at such times that thoughts turn naturally to the Stone, and the need to ask for its help. So many moles secretly intended to make the trek, though few admitted they were making plans to do so. As December entered its third week, the system began to buzz with excitement and chatter as moles cleaned out their burrows and made their plans, and laughed with pleasure at the prospect of Longest Night.
But there are always moles—and always will be—who, through character or circumstances, decide they cannot join in the gregarious fun at the approach of Longest Night. Bracken was one of them. He could, it is true, have spent a little time with Rue, assuming she would have allowed it, but the spirit was not in him. At the very moment when most moles in the system were finding a little relief from the shadows of winter in the celebration to come, he found himself falling into an uneasy sadness.
Some days he would go to the edge of the wood and look across the pastures and wonder if, after all, his first impulse on coming to the Stone might have been the best—to leave the system altogether and make his way to whatever lay beyond it in the direction of Uffington. Other days he found himself crouched in anguished silence in its shadows, wondering whether, after all, its power was imaginary— demanding then to see the power, to feel it. Or again, he would think about the Chamber of Roots and wonder why he could not cross it—and then ask himself how he could consider leaving the system if he had failed even to explore the system’s most secret part. ‘What will I find out there,’ he would whisper to himself as he looked across the pastures, ‘if I can’t even follow my snout in here?’
He was lonely. He wanted to talk to a mole again as he had talked so long before to Hulver; he wanted to learn something from a mole who could tell him what to learn. He wanted knowledge, but did not know where to find it. And Longest Night, which he knew was near, and when all moles shared a joy together, simply underlined the fact of his isolation from the Stone, from the heart of the Ancient System, and from all other moles.
* * *
‘Rebecca! ’Ere, Rebecca! I’ve got a surprise for you, my girl!’ It was Mekkins, full of the joy of the season and suddenly back in Curlew’s burrow with many a whisper and a laugh on the way down the tunnel to it. He had brought Rose.
She took one look at Rebecca and said, ‘My love, how frail and thin you have become. This certainly will not do.’ She said it kindly but firmly, crouching down snout to snout with Rebecca and examining her with motherly care.
‘I’m sorry, Rose,’ said Rebecca. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’ And faced by Rose’s love, she started to cry as she had never cried, ever before. She tried for a moment to stop, for little Comfrey, who was snuggled up against her, started up frightened, but Curlew took him to her and played a game with him, which had him and Mekkins running out into the tunnel, leaving Rose and Rebecca alone together. So that Rebecca could cry.
Rose was too wise to think that jollying Rebecca along to get her out of her depression would be useful. She saw that much of Rebecca’s spirit had been killed and its rebirth was not something a healer could bring about quickly by herself. As she talked to Rebecca and heard the indifference to life in her voice, Rose saw that the best she could do was to push her in the right direction and trust to the Stone that she would finally be able to find the right way herself.
When Rose watched Rebecca play with Comfrey, she was pleased to see that there, at least, was something she wanted to do, though she saw that even Rebecca’s interest in Comfrey was sometimes little more than dutiful. The sounds of love were there, for sure, but spontaneous love, or trust, or faith, or hope, or life? These were the drives that Rebecca had had so much of before, but which somehow she seemed not to be able to pass on to Comfrey, for they were no longer in her.
The pup was growing well, Rose observed, but he would need to be given much more than food and grooming if he was to reflect in his life some of the quality that Rebecca had once had in hers, and surely still could have.
‘But how?’ asked Mekkins, who understood well what was wrong with Rebecca. ‘What can we do to make her see that, terrible though the death of her litter has been, life, for her, has barely begun?’
‘Mekkins, my dear, you have a good heart, I sometimes think better than anymole I know! But Rebecca’s problem lies deeper than in simply having things to live for. You see, my love, she has experienced evil—she has seen it with her eyes, smelt it with her snout, and felt its dark talons tearing inside her body. It tears at her still. She has felt enough of its power to destroy an ordinary mole but, as the coming of Comfrey shows, she is in some ways graced and surely a special mole. The only power that can heal her lies in the Stone—though you must understand she may never be the same kind of mole that you once knew. If a mole feels evil as she has done, only the light in the Stone can erase its shadow. Then may she continue to grow again.’
‘But how can she be made to see it?’ asked Mekkins. ‘There is no way a mole such as I, or you, can predict how the power of the Stone will be felt, or when. Often we may not even know if it has been. But Longest Night is coming and I think Rebecca should make the trek to the Stone. Perhaps, if she goes near it, something of her
spirit will be reborn…’
‘But what about Comfrey, and how will she get there?’
‘You will guide her there, Mekkins, and Curlew will take care of Comfrey—something I suspect she has prayed she might be able to do—by herself for a while. He is no longer suckling and she can look after him very well by herself. ’ But what seemed a good idea to Rose, and eventually to Mekkins, did not appeal to Rebecca. She simply was not interested. She shook her head. She said she would not leave Comfrey. She said it was too far and Mekkins had done too much. She said there was no point. She grew angry with them all and attacked the idea that the Stone was anything more than mystic nonsense beloved of silly old moles. She had a temper tantrum.
Until, the problem still unresolved, Rose herself had to leave to get back to the pastures in time for Longest Night. Mekkins accompanied her, for she was now growing old and frail. Her last words to him when they came to the wood’s edge on the west side of Marsh End were ‘You must try once more to get her to go, Mekkins. The fact that she is so opposed to going convinces me that she should go—even if you have to drag her there!’ They both laughed a little at the idea, but their laughter was sad.
‘I’ll do the best I can,’ said Mekkins.
‘I know you will, my love,’ said Rose. ‘I always knew you would. The day will come when all moles will remember you and will take heart from the story of your loyalty and of what you did for Rebecca.’
‘Me, Rose? Don’t be silly!’ said Mekkins, adding, ‘Now you take care of yourself on those pastures, and have a good Longest Night.’
‘And you,’ said Rose, running back and nuzzling him. ‘And you, too, my love.’ Then with a smile of affection they parted. And hour by hour Longest Night crept nearer.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bracken knew when the trek to the Stone on Longest Night had begun by the sound of chitter and chatter and laughter coming from the clearing—he could even hear it in his deepest burrow, to which he moved in a sullen irritation. Some moles, who evidently did not know the best way to the Stone, wandered over the surface above his tunnels telling their stories, singing ridiculous songs, racing and dancing about, and generally annoying him. He wanted none of it.
But as the evening drew on, the sounds changed from revelry to reverence—for the first moles there were always the ones who came simply for the fun of the trip and wanted to get it over as quickly as possible so that they could get back to their burrows for the real festivities.
Only later did those who were moved by the mystery of Longest Night and remembered Linden, the first White Mole, with real thanksgiving in their hearts, come in ones and twos and crouch in reverence by the Stone.
By this time Bracken was too restless with annoyance at the disturbance of his peace—or what he considered his peace—to be able to stay still, and so crept as near as he could to the Stone to watch the proceedings. He felt alienated from each mole there, and from the Stone itself, and watched it all almost as if he was not breathing the same air or sharing the same cold frosty December night as anymole else. There was a moon low to the east which, since the night was clear, cast its light into the Stone clearing, the Stone a black silhouette in the centre, the moles forming gently moving shadows around it. The shadow of the Stone ran directly towards Bracken when he arrived, shortening and swinging to the south as the evening passed on when the moon rose and swung to the north in the sky.
Moles continually came and went from the clearing, with a little banter and gentle laughter on the edge, but none at the centre itself.
Bracken heard snatches of their conversation: ‘You here as well this time?’ ‘Why, bless me, I ain’t seen you since July, and what a good time that was…’ ‘Bit bloody parky up here, isn’t it?’ ‘Goin’ to be a cold winter if you ask me…’ Each phrase that came to him reminded him of how alone he was and without a friend. He thought again of visiting Rue, but somehow she wasn’t what he wanted on Longest Night, though what that was he didn’t know. He scratched himself miserably, looked balefully at the moon through the trees and turned his attention to the moles in the centre of the clearing near the Stone. There was silence and a great sense of awe in their communal presence. Some crouched peacefully, occasionally raising their snouts slowly to look up at the Stone, almost as if they thought that something so awesome might suddenly go away. Others intoned prayers to themselves which Bracken could not hear, while some, mainly Eastsiders he guessed (for theirs were the traditions nearest to the ancient ones), half sung, half intoned their prayers in a dialect Bracken could not understand.
Others spoke prayers of unaffected simplicity loud enough for him to hear. ‘Thank you, Stone, for the joys you have given and for the strength I have been blessed with… Take care of Duncton and let it see your light… My heart is in thy silence, Stone, only let me hear it…’ Again and again he heard moles, both males and females, whispering the same final little prayer, ‘Only take us to the silence’—words he had heard Hulver himself say from time to time.
Occasionally several of the moles there would appear to start saying the same prayer simultaneously; their voices would join in unison, creating a kind of spoken song of great power which would, for a moment, take Bracken’s heart out of himself and transport it into something of the mystery of Longest Night.
As the night wore on and grew colder, the moon rising and the Stone’s shadow turning towards the lower part of the wood while growing smaller at the same time, Bracken was touched by something of these moles’ faith, and the Stone began to seem less distant from him than he had thought. He wanted to run out into the centre and ask one of the older ones to explain about the Stone to him; he thirsted for knowledge of it. But he did not have the courage. Sometimes he wanted to join in their prayers, but he did not know the words.
Slowly, the numbers in the clearing declined until he began to have to search its shadows to locate the few moles left, mainly the very old ones, and he realised that the Stone trek was almost over. From down on the slopes even the sound of the songs and revels of departing moles faded, until, as one by one all the moles in the clearing went, Bracken was left quite alone.
A bleak despair began to creep over him, for he felt he had seen a glimpse of some sweet mystery into whose light he wanted to go, but for which he needed a mole to guide him. He had never missed old Hulver so much as at that moment; ‘Surely,’ thought Bracken, through tears that stopped him even seeing the Stone, ‘he would have shared his Longest Night with me.’ Self-pity mixed with a real sense of loss as he crouched in the shadows beyond the clearing, and the night deepened into a still, cold silence all about him.
The moonlight was now strong enough to catch the condensation of his outward breaths into the cold air, and the wood fell very still. The dead brown beech leaves on the floor of the Stone clearing looked pale white, and the surrounding vegetation was black around them.
On impulse, Bracken advanced towards the Stone, out of the undergrowth in which he had been hiding, not sure what he was doing but very conscious of himself alone in the wood. He wanted to say something to the Stone, not a prayer so much as an affirmation that he was there before it, waiting for something to happen. He felt he had been waiting a long time. He also felt unsettled and angry and very conscious of his own lonely existence.
For lack of anything better to do, he went up to the Stone and touched it with his paws to see if, after all, there was more to it than there seemed to be. But there was nothing but its unyielding rough surface, nothing at all.
He waited like this a long time until, somewhere in the darkness beyond, not far off in the shadows by the clearing’s edge, past the great tree whose roots encircled the Stone, he heard a scurry and a slide.
A whispered ‘Ssh!’ came out of the darkness into the moonlight where he lay. He turned his snout towards it aggressively, wondering what it was. Then he sensed a mole.
A deep silence fell as Bracken waited, every sense stretched, his snout poised still as stone and h
is face whiskers stiff as pine needles.
But not for long. For very soon the anger that had been building up all night replaced the defensive care with which he had first responded to the noise.
‘What mole is there, and why?’ he demanded, getting up from where he was and approaching through the moonlight towards the impenetrable shadows around and beyond the tree roots.
A rustle. The sneak of a talon. A whisper again.
‘I said what mole is there!’ Bracken said again, his talons tensing and his body angry beyond his mind.
A movement, a scurry, an intake of breath and as a snout pushed out from the blackness half into the shadow, a voice accompanied it saying, ‘’Ello, Bracken. It’s me, Mekkins. You know! We met…’
‘What do you want?’ demanded Bracken, tensing even more. Mekkins’ friendliness upset him more than if he had been hostile. He wanted no part in friendliness.
‘I’m Mekkins. I met you in Rue’s burrows…’
Bracken was getting more angry by the second, an irrational anger born out of despair. At that moment he would probably have been angry at anything that moved. Bracken could feel anger overtaking him and was almost enjoying the feeling, even though the anger was absolutely real.
‘Look, Bracken,’ said Mekkins, advancing towards him in a conciliatory way, ‘it’s Longest Night and a time for celebration, not…’
‘I don’t care if it’s Longest Minute,’ shouted Bracken. ‘I don’t want you here. There’s been enough moles up here disturbing me…’ He was shaking with anger and began the ritual advance on Mekkins that prefaced a fight—paws stiff, tail high, snout pointed stiffly forward.
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