‘He will,’ said Rebecca, closing the subject.
Rebecca made her own tunnels quite near where Rose’s had been—but how bare her burrow seemed compared with the cluttered, untidy place that Rose’s was! How she missed the scents and smells of a thousand different herbs!
She saw little of Violet, who had a sort of a burrow of her own nearby but was rarely seen near it for she was quickly getting absorbed into the Pasture system and even beginning to speak in the quicker, higher intonation of the Pasture moles. Comfrey stayed near—big enough now to make his own burrow, digging it into a long and winding shape, quite unlike any burrow Rebecca had ever seen before. He preferred her not to enter it, and, like Rose, seemed inherently untidy, though always clean.
The fascination with herbs that Rose had inspired in him persisted, and his first long expedition away from Rebecca and the burrows arose out of it. He heard her say one day that she missed the smells of herbs and looked forward to the day when she could go back to Duncton and get some. The following day he disappeared. He returned two days later with a lot of noise and deposited outside her burrow a pile of fresh light-green leaves.
‘It’s ch-chamomile,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Just the leaves. The flowers aren’t out yet, b-but when they are I’ll get you some. The leaves smell fresh.’
Something else happened that same day that made her feel that at last the clouds that had been above her so long were beginning to lift. There was a timid scratching near her burrow, and when she looked outside, a young and nervous-looking female was standing there in a worried sort of way. She started back when Rebecca appeared and seemed to find difficulty saying anything. She looked very miserable.
‘What is it, my love?’ asked Rebecca gently. The female stayed where she was, dug her talons nervously in and out of the soil of the tunnel floor, and eventually managed to say, ‘Violet said you would help.’
Rebecca went forward to her until they were almost touching and asked ‘Are you a friend of Violet’s?’ The female nodded, but said nothing. ‘What’s worrying you?’ asked Rebecca gently.
For a moment the female swayed back and forth, her eyes fixed in a mute appeal on Rebecca, and then she burst out, ‘I don’t know!’ in a voice of despair and started to cry. Rebecca touched her with her paw, felt that her fur was clammy and cold and her head too hot, and somehow she caressed her, held her, touched her, and the female slowly calmed and settled down. Rebecca found herself whispering healing words softly to her, nothing talk, talk about the herbs she wished she had, talk from one heart to another whose individual words are of no account. Until eventually the female got up, eyes bright, and with barely a word went off down the tunnel, leaving Rebecca quite exhausted.
A few days later a male came, saying, ‘You helped a friend of mine and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me, and I don’t know why I’m here, in fact, I think I’ll go away again, it hurts here, well not there exactly, I don’t know why I didn’t see to it before, for years actually…’ And so, by word of mouth, Rebecca’s work as a healer gently began.
* * *
Rune finally launched his attack on the Pasture system in mid-June in a spirit of cold curiosity. Like every other aggressive mole in Duncton, he was interested in finding out what the pastures, and the moles who lived in them, were like. This factor, coupled with a few well-chosen words to his henchmoles about how ‘Pasture moles periodically murder our females and youngsters’ and how ‘the pride of Duncton Wood is threatened by these cowardly moles’, and so on and so forth, was sufficient to give the henchmoles the motive they needed to pass over the wood’s edge and on to the pastures, and from there to make the trek to find tunnels down which they could mount their attack.
But Rune was no fool and he was well aware of the dangers inherent in leading a body of moles who had no experience at all in warfare. So he was also curious to see how the henchmoles would perform as an attacking group and to find out what lessons he might learn for future, more serious affrays.
His caution was wise. The assault on the pastures might well have been a complete disaster had not the Pasture moles been as ill-prepared for a sudden night attack as he was in making it, and had he not had a superiority of numbers. His objective was to locate and kill a few Pasture moles and this was only achieved by the henchmoles with a great deal of rushing about, shouting, bumping into each other, wounding one another by mistake, and generally inefficient turmoil. They killed four moles, wounded seven and frightened a dozen more.
However, they were also very nearly cut off from the wood by a rapid and efficient counterattack led by Brome, and they retreated, as they had arrived, in disarray. Near-disasters are, however, usually labelled complete victories by cunning leaders and this one was no exception. It was true that the henchmoles lost three of their number, but once back in the Westside with no sign of pursuit by the Pasture moles, they celebrated the ‘victory’ as if they had conquered the whole of the Pasture system in two hours’ work, recalling the deeds of their lost colleagues with relish.
Rune learned many things from this attack, the most immediately applicable being his need to appoint a tough deputy he could rely on to keep the henchmoles in control when he was not around. He gave the task to the trusty Westsider Burrhead, knowing that his loyalty was sound and that he did not have sufficient wit to attempt to lead a coup against him.
He also decided he must quickly and ruthlessly inculcate group efficiency into the henchmoles—which he set about doing immediately, knowing there would be little time to lose before he heard from the Pasture moles.
The repercussions of this attack in the pastures, in the Marsh End and, finally, in Duncton Wood itself, were many and complex. Perhaps the most significant was Brome’s decision to take reprisals against Duncton—a move more or less forced upon him by the anger of the Pasture moles at the savagery of Rune’s attack. Brome was, in fact, reluctant to counterattack, since what little he had seen of the stocky Duncton moles suggested that they were individually far more powerful as fighters than Pasture moles, even though they were not always as big. There was an evil viciousness about the moles of Duncton, whose fur was generally so dark and whose bodies smelt of the dank wood. And who fought with cold ruthlessness.
For this reason, rather than enter into Duncton Wood, his method was to lure them on to the pastures one evening with a deliberately weak attack and spurious retreat by the wood’s edge, where he felt he could outmanoeuvre them. But he was wrong.
Rune had ruthlessly and efficiently disciplined his henchmoles, and they followed the fleeing Pasture moles so fast that they had killed most of them before they had advanced sufficiently to fall into the trap Brome had prepared. Suspecting it, Rune cunningly stopped his forces from advancing directly, circling instead through the unknown Pasture tunnels in the belief that they might outflank the Pasture moles in their own system. At the same time, Rune left sufficient henchmoles to guard the wood’s edge, with various small but very fast runners to keep the two groups in touch with each other.
Rune finally led his henchmoles into a vicious and bloody attack on Brome’s moles, coming at speed from an unexpected direction and moving forward with a solid resolution that took the Pasture moles by surprise.
Brome’s reaction was wise, and unimpressive, but saved the day. He retreated on all sides, using his popularity with the Pasture moles to persuade them to follow his advice and retire quickly so that the Duncton moles would have nomole to fight. The move was so effective that the impetus of the Duncton henchmoles was lost as they found burrow after burrow empty, and tunnel after tunnel echoing only with the sound of their own slowing paws and the groans of badly injured Pasture moles left behind in the flight.
At the same time, Brome sent two of his most trusted moles northeast towards the distant Marsh End to seek out Rebecca and with her help try to win the support of Mekkins. It was a long shot, but Brome saw clearly that a temporary retreat might indirectly win victory while a perman
ent retreat meant defeat. He would soon have to attack again, and the more friends he had, the better.
Rune’s cunning as leader improved every moment, and with his now customary speed of action he withdrew all the henchmoles back to the Westside, much against their wishes.
‘Have I not led you to victory so far?’ he asked the doubters coldly. ‘Trust me to do so now. This trick will bring the Pasture moles back.’
For two days there was an uneasy silence as the normally clear, sparse tunnels of the pastures, now deserted, began to reek of the stench of the dead, whose decay was hastened by the onset of summery June weather. During the day, birdsong filled the wood, skylarks hung in the air above the high pastures, and the fresh green of the leaves of Duncton Wood glistened and danced with sunshine before the warm June breeze.
But underground, moles on both sides were tense and anxious as each waited for the other to make a move.
Brome advanced his moles back to their original positions, at first puzzled by the Duncton moles’ disappearance, then seeing its logic. Rune must have guessed that after the successful killing of so many Pasture moles, their remaining forces would not want actually to enter the wood itself.
In the course of this advance, Brome was unexpectedly visited by Rebecca. She had refused to accompany his moles to the Marsh End, or even to show them the way, without first understanding what was going on. She did not like mass fighting and wanted no part in causing it. And anyway, she felt she should be where she could help. She shivered at the smell of carnage in the tunnels and her first words to Brome were the simple advice that he had best arrange for the dead to be dragged to the surface for the owls ‘or there won’t be a system worth living in anyway’.
This simple advice was to be the cause of one of the many remarkable myths that grew up around Rebecca. For soon after the advice was taken, the surface above the pasture was covered not by a plague of owls but by a mass of bristling, cawing, fighting crows, pecking at the dead moles and putting fear into the advance guards of the Duncton moles, watching out for signs of Pasture movement.
The idea that the Pasture moles ‘had the crows on their side’, as one of the scouts put it, was fearful indeed. While among the Pasture moles the arrival of the crows, simultaneous as it was with the coming of the mysterious, though increasingly popular Duncton healer, created the idea that Rebecca had the power to summon crows!
‘If Mekkins were to support us from the north,’ explained Brome, ‘then it would probably be worth our while standing our ground. We cannot retreat again, but I do not think we have the skill or strength to resist these Duncton moles by ourselves.’
Rebecca was doubtful. Fighting was not something she liked, although she conceded it was sometimes necessary.
‘What mole is leading the moles from Duncton?’ she asked curiously.
Brome shrugged. ‘He’s a good fighter, that’s for sure. Several of our moles report seeing a cunning-looking mole apparently in charge, quite big, very dark and with as evil a glitter about him as you would find in any nightmare.’
‘Rune!’ whispered Rebecca. Yes, in that case she would do what Brome wanted and try to summon Mekkins’ help.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I will go to the Marsh End—let’s hope Mekkins is still secure. I want to go. Things are happening down there, I think. Here too. It’s all changing, Brome, and whatever you try to do, there’s nothing you can do—but you must try.’ She laughed at his bewilderment at her words and added: ‘I only half understand what I’m saying myself. It’s all right!’
As Brome watched her leave, he thought to himself that there were times when she spoke with the same mysterious certainty Rose had sometimes had. As if she saw a world he could not see and there were no words to describe the realities within it. Yet as she left alone, how vulnerable she seemed, and for the first time he saw very clearly how much in need of protection she really was.
* * *
Two days later, as night fell, the battle started up again, first as a skirmish up near the wood’s edge where some Pasture moles went scouting about, and then as a full-scale battle in the Pasture tunnels themselves.
It was bloody and confused as under Brome’s quiet leadership every Pasture mole stood his ground against the brutal assault of the Duncton henchmoles. Brome had sensibly blocked several side tunnels, making it difficult for the henchmoles to advance en masse, and that much easier for them to be picked off one by one. But soon the henchmoles did manage their circling tactics again and the battle raged back and forth from tunnel to tunnel with little pattern except that slowly the Pasture moles began to retreat, moving back steadily towards bigger tunnels where, once the henchmoles were established, they would have room to manoeuvre and crush the Pasture moles with their greater ruthlessness and nerve. It was not that the Pasture moles lacked courage—just the opposite—but somehow they did not have the will to win that Rune inspired in his own moles.
The fighting eventually began to concentrate in a central chamber formed by the crossing of two communal tunnels. The Pasture moles occupied the part that led directly away from the direction of the wood and towards the centre of their own system. Rune’s henchmoles occupied the wood side of the chamber and the side tunnels that radiated north and south from it. Powerful talon thrusts and lunges jabbed out from the dark, moving mass of the henchmoles towards the group of Pasture moles whose light coats showed up the blood from their cuts and wounds more easily. Brome now stood resolutely at their head.
There was a continuous angry growl in the air as the moles fought back and forth, panting and grunting with the effort of staying alive. Gradually, subtly, as Pasture mole after Pasture mole fell and the henchmoles advanced across the chamber, there came the feeling among all of them that a critical point in the struggle had been reached. Brome moved right to the front of his moles, fighting strongly and encouraging them to stand firm. While behind the mass of henchmoles, wounded but not seriously, Rune slid back and forth, encouraging a mole here, warning one there, shouting out orders to them all.
‘Kill their leader… go for their leader,’ he shouted, gesticulating through the fighting talons and noise towards Brome.
Brome stood solid, now surrounded by his most loyal fighters, eyes narrowed with concentration and aggression, his great, strong body and calm stance the central part of the Pasture defence. He had tried pushing forward but the henchmoles were too strong and stolid in their positions, and inch by inch he was retreating. To his left a Pasture mole had rolled over on to his side, blood running from his mouth, and a henchmole was on top of him pushing forward in his determination to reach Brome. To Brome’s right, the henchmoles pulled back and forth, trying to get round one of their own number who had fallen bloodily from an accurate blow to his snout. The talons cut and thrust so fast that had the sturdiest thistle clump suddenly sprouted up between the two camps, it would have been torn to shreds in seconds.
‘Stand firm!’ roared Brome to his forces, but he feared in his heart that the cry was in vain. ‘Hold fast!’ he shouted, pressing suddenly forward in an effort to show his moles that they could make headway if only they would try.
As he did so, the henchmoles wavered very slightly, so subtly that only Brome himself noticed it—but it was enough for him to shout and lunge forward again, the Pasture moles encouraged by his bravery.
And the henchmoles were wavering and looking uncertainly behind themselves as there came confusion in the tunnel from the north. Screams and shouts, different noises, the roar of new moles arriving and a wavering, even by Rune, who turned to see what the commotion was and then found himself pressed back by a retreat of his own forces from the chamber as, with roars and shouts, a gang of Marshenders burst into the chamber.
At their head was Mekkins, swearing and cursing at his own forces, and everymole else’s, flailing his talons before him like the whipping branches of a blackthorn in a thunderstorm.
‘Kill the buggers,’ he was shouting. ‘Give �
��em every bloody thing they’ve asked for!’ He lunged forward and Brome, hardly daring to believe his eyes, saw that among the forces behind Mekkins—as motley and vicious a band of moles as he’d ever seen—were males and females, big and small, all wiry and quick and fighting in a raggle-taggle way but with a resolution that made the rest of them look half asleep.
Then, as suddenly as they had arrived, the henchmoles were in retreat as the harsh cold voice of Rune rose above their heads and he shouted, ‘Fall back in order!’ and, ‘Take it slowly!’ until, fighting every inch of the way, back the henchmoles went to retreat in the direction of the wood, leaving several of their dead and wounded blocking the tunnel up which they ran.
For a moment there was silence in the chamber as the remaining Pasture moles and Marshenders looked at each other in disbelief. Then the noise of relief and cheers as Brome and Mekkins were congratulating each other and there was excited chattering and laughter, drowning the groans of the dying; and the sight of very tired moles, who had stared at death, falling into a fatigue deeper than many of them had ever known as they realised that it was over.
But was it? After the victory cheers had died down and the wounded had been cared for and most moles had fallen asleep, Mekkins remained uneasy, as he had been from the moment Rune had suddenly withdrawn his forces from the chamber. You never could trust that Rune. Nothing he ever did was as simple as it seemed. But in the first flush of victory such doubts were submerged, and only hours later did the doubts come back. He was uneasy. Something was wrong. He didn’t know what.
‘Are you thinking they’ll come back here?’ asked Brome, who had carefully placed some guardmoles higher up the tunnels towards the wood to watch for just such a possibility.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mekkins, thinking and thinking. ‘Unless… unless!’ A shiver of horror ran through him. He looked quickly around to see which of his moles were about and then he was urgently gathering them together, his seriousness putting a pall on the cheer in the tunnels.
Duncton Wood Page 43