Duncton Stone

by William Horwood

  “What’s your name?” asked Rooster.

  “Frogbit,” muttered the young mole, “unfortunately.”

  “That’s what his mother named him before she died. Bit hard to change now.”

  “It grows in water,” said Rooster gently, his great paw resting on Frogbit’s narrow shoulder. “It floats on water. Good for a delver. It’s got three petals. Better for a delver. It’s white like the Stone’s Light. That’s best for a delver.”

  The others were silent, and a little awestruck. They all knew and liked Frogbit, and felt sympathy for him too. They knew how of all the siblings he had been most affected by his parents’ deaths, and how good old Dint had taken him in against his better judgement, because he was the only one with whom the young mole seemed at peace. And they knew how impossible it had been for Dint to refuse to let the youngster come with them that day.

  All this they knew. But now, as Rooster spoke, they realized that in some mysterious way Rooster was aware of it too. As the strange mole spoke, not laughing at Frogbit’s name as others did but making something important of it, they saw on the youngster’s face the look of one who dares think he might be coming out of darkness.

  “That’s good,” said Rooster. “The bad is this: you watch and say nothing; you listen and say nothing; you obey and say nothing. And you learn. All you have now is your name, Frogbit. Good name, but is all; that and obedience. Only that.”

  “Yes,” said Frogbit.

  “You stay near me, or near Dint when I get mad. I do when delving. Watch out!”

  “Yes,” said Frogbit. “What’ll I learn?”

  “How to delve the Newborns away!” said Rooster vehemently. “And how to make the wind-sound clear. Like you said. Can only learn what you want.”

  “Yes, sir,” whispered Frogbit.

  “Saying nothing,” growled Rooster.

  Frogbit opened his mouth to agree, thought better of it and made his way to a spot a little behind Rooster’s left flank, while the others grinned.

  “Maybe Frogbit won’t count,” grumbled Rooster, half to himself. “Maybe he’s not important, so Seven Stancing not affected. Wish I believed it!”

  “So, what do you want us to do?” asked Dint. “These five are all good workers, and all can be relied on to get on and not talk of what we’re about. Tell us what to do and where to begin and we’ll get on with it!”

  Rooster nodded, looking suddenly very serious.

  “Have found lost Stone,” he said, pausing only briefly as the others gasped in amazement. “Have found the first line to delve and will show you. We work hard and fast, and you do as I say and you,” he added, turning to Frogbit, “you’ll find us food, and help clear soil, and keep out of everymole’s way.”

  Frogbit nodded, eyes shining with excitement.

  “Now, follow me,” said Rooster, and he led them across the meadows, far from where he had summoned them when they had come, down from Great Stoke. Under two old fences, across a muddy field, above a dyke and out on to a drier meadow which felt as exposed and as indefensible a place as any Dint had ever been to.

  “But the Stone can’t be here,” said one of the older moles. “It was found those decades ago downstream of there so it must be way down yonder somewhere. At least, that’s where we’ve always looked.”

  “It’s down there,” said Rooster, pointing to a stretch of unbroken grassland.

  “But you’ve not delved there yet to find out!” said one of the moles.

  “Stones speak louder than delves,” Rooster replied. “Let’s start!”

  Today, when allmole recognizes Rooster’s greatness, those simple words, “Let’s start’, are said sometimes as a jest, as moles begin some great and challenging task, so awesome, so intimidating, that repeating the words that Rooster spoke all those years ago on the meadowlands of Nether Stoke somehow gives them courage to begin. If he began so great a delving as that which saved the Stoke moles with such simple words, so might they begin their own task as well.

  As for the Stoke delving itself, in all its wonder and subtlety, others have scribed of it much better than a mere historian, concerned with the facts and events of a spiritual history, can ever hope to do.*

  *See in particular the scholarly The Lost Delvings of Nether Stoke by Bartolf of Evesham; and, for a more personal account of the dramatic Newborn siege of the delvings. Bryony of Rollright’s The Miracle of Stoke has not been bettered.

  It is enough to say here that the lost Stone was found, precisely where Rooster said it would be, and that using it as a centre-point for his tunnel line (though for a true delver “lines” are rarely straight) he created the tunnel and chamber complex into which the Stoke moles were successfully evacuated over the following days, and only just in time. For within half a day of the last moles being brought down from Great Stoke, and the deliberately debauched and inebriated Brother Inquisitor discovering that he was all alone in the system he had been sent to cleanse, the Newborns from Evesham closed in.

  Their bafflement at the disappearance of an entire population was almost as great as their absolute conviction that somewhere across the flat meadows of Nether Stoke moles lay hidden; which in turn was only marginally less than their frustration at discovering that however much they dug and delved across the meadows, and however many tunnels they found – strange tunnels, curiously convoluted, turning back on themselves and yet never conjoined again, mysterious passages and weird chambers where one could swear moles had just been yet where nomole was ever found – they did not find any moles.

  Worse, their own guardmoles, trained and hardened through the years, frequently disappeared for days on end, only to reappear with beatific smiles on their faces, talking of love and the Stone, and utterly unable to remember where they had been or what they had done, but certain that they would like to go there and do it again, and saying followers weren’t so bad after all.

  Little wonder that the “Miracle” of Stoke was out and abroad as a rumour by late June, and that Weeth, ever a mole to probe and enquire, should ponder on it, and through covert means and by devious methods ascertain, or perhaps deduce, that only one mole could have created such sublime confusion amongst the Newborns: Rooster. So he had gone to Stoke as Maple had finally bid him do, and there, with a little bit of luck, and some considerable courage, he had infiltrated the extraordinary and beautiful tunnels that Rooster had created.

  “Thought I would be found,” said Rooster gloomily.

  “Yes,” replied Weeth matter-of-factly, saying no more than that.

  “Will only last until winter floods come,” said Rooster, “and only right they should. Delving not for war.”

  “This is saving lives,” said Weeth, basking in the strange light and ease of the tunnels and chambers centred about the lost Stone in which the Stoke moles now withstood these summer days of siege.

  “Humph!” declared Rooster. “Worms, Frogbit, get some!”

  “You’re hard on that mole,” observed Weeth.

  “He’s learning,” said Rooster, “hard is best.”

  “Learning what?”

  “Rooster can’t live for ever. Once peace won, delvers will be needed to help keep it. Must be trained. Am training him. Why’ve you come?”

  “Tell you in my own time,” said Weeth, who understood Rooster better than most.

  “Why?” repeated Rooster day by day, frowning and disturbed.

  Finally, four days after he had arrived, Weeth confessed. “I hate to say this. Rooster, but you’re needed. Maple sent me.”

  “No,” said Rooster, “you sent you. Maple wouldn’t.”

  Weeth grinned. “Yes, I did send me. I think you’re going to be needed now. Things are changing fast.”

  “Tell me,” said Rooster, and Weeth did.

  “Will come,” said Rooster at last. “Stoke moles can protect themselves now, until winter. By then maybe all right. Maybe not.” He shrugged, not indifferently so much as philosophically; the Stone would see right
done.

  As soon as it was known that Rooster was to leave, all kinds of moles asked if they might come with him: to protect him, to be with him, to watch over him.

  “Can only take one,” declared Rooster.

  “Then take the strongest of us,” cried out Dint, pointing out many a strong and powerful mole among them.

  Rooster shook his head. “Will take one who has a lot to learn, but is learning; lot to give, is giving; lot to discover, is discovering. Will take you, Frogbit. Come here, mole!”

  Trembling from head to foot, scarcely believing his good fortune, terrified even then that Rooster was going to say he could not go after all, Frogbit went to Rooster, his snout low, his eyes down.

  “Need a helper,” said Rooster. “Need a mole knows that soil is soil and rock is rock, and stones are stones. Have tried all ways to stop you even beginning to be a delver, but your spirit won’t be stopped. Once was young myself Once had the delving need like you – unformed, untrained, undisciplined. Didn’t even know its name. You know what I mean.”

  Frogbit nodded, not saying a word.

  “Look at me, mole,” said Rooster.

  Frogbit raised his head and with the greatest difficulty looked into Rooster’s eyes.

  “Will be hard, the journey you make. Harder than you ever dreamed. You may not complete it, or you may, only the Stone will decide. If Dint says you can come with me, you can come.”

  “’Course he can, Rooster, sir, and there’s none more proud than me to see it. You’ve saved our moles and our system, and given us a chance. We view it as an honour that you’re taking one of our own with you on your travels. We’re a bit off the beaten track down here, we know that, but we’re not ignorant moles, and we’re faithful to the Stone. You’ve given us back our heritage and our pride, and if young Frogbit there reminds you from time to time of his home, and you never forget there’s moles here will always honour you, we’ll be satisfied!”

  It was well said, and overwhelming for Frogbit, who could not think of a suitable speech for the occasion, and said so in a faltering voice.

  “Wish I could, but I can’t. I’ll miss you. I’ll do my best. I’ll not forget where I come from. Like my Master says, ‘If a delver doesn’t know where he’s come from, he’ll not be able to get where he’s going to.’”

  “Did I say that?” chuckled Rooster. “Am clever to have said it, and you’re clever to remember it! So... when to leave, Weeth?”

  “Today. Now. Yesterday,” said Weeth, “or, er, tomorrow? At the latest!”

  And, indeed, by the time the farewells were done and the last tales told, and Rooster had entertained his friends with memories of his days on the Moors, the night had passed into dawn, and the morrow had come.

  It was in the convoluted tunnels and chambers around the lost Stone of Stoke that Rooster chose to say his final goodbyes.

  “Stone will protect you until the waters come. Then you go out by this tunnel – all of you,” he said, indicating a strange narrow passage that few used, which twisted and turned under the base of the Stone itself

  “Down there, go there, Dint. You’ll know when. Others must be ahead of you. Tell all to be calm, whatever happens. Stone will protect you! Don’t try to go out by any other way. This way, only this!”

  Dint nodded his understanding. Goodness knows Rooster had told him and others enough times about it: don’t be seen on the surface; don’t be afraid if the waters are rising, or the Newborns approaching. But be prepared to run!

  “Best I can do, very hard delving, might not work. Now Weeth, now Frogbit, we must go! “Bye!”

  Then to the cheers and embraces of their many friends the three moles were gone by routes secret and hidden, which eluded the Newborn guardmoles, and took them south of Evesham and in safety on towards the Wolds.

  “So there you are, moles,” declared Weeth, “that’s how Rooster, Master of the Delve, made his way from Wildenhope to Join us tonight. And, come to that, it’s how his most able, and willing, and obedient helper, Frogbit of Stoke, comes to be among us too!”

  “What I’d like to know is what Rooster was on about regarding the lost Stone of Stoke. All that about only using one tunnel, and waiting until the last moment —”

  Weeth raised a paw to the questioner, and to others eager to hear more.

  “Now, before you ask your questions there’s three moles here could do with some food! And as soon as possible!”

  The addition of Rooster to the forces of resistance was of considerable importance, as Maple instantly understood. He already had warriors of substance under his command, among them Ystwelyn and Arvon and Stow, and they were helping him to mould the disparate mass of refugees and moles of the Wolds into a united and disciplined force.

  The Wildenhope outrage had elevated Privet to an almost mythical status, and certainly a mystical one, for what follower could not empathize with her, and feel that if a thin, middle-aged female could stance up against the Newborns then they themselves could, and to the very death. Now Rooster had come along, and he was not a disappointment. The extraordinary tale of escape and survival Weeth had first recounted to the followers was soon known all across the Wolds, and if it was a little exaggerated here and overstated there, well, nomole was going to gainsay it. But, in fact, such propaganda was unnecessary, for Rooster was so over-sized and extraordinary a mole, and one who in the course of his escape seemed to have found an inner calm and contentment evident to all who met him, that he was now his own best advocate.

  Somewhat against Rooster’s own wishes Maple assigned two of Ystwelyn’s best moles to guard him, for there was little doubt that he would be a target of the Newborn forces when they heard of his survival.

  Three things helped increase the effect his presence made on the followers: first, the fact that he was, or had been, Privet’s companion – “mate” was not a word moles liked to use; second, his delving, an art he now practised as he felt inclined; those who were able to see his work talked about it in tones both hushed and reverential.

  Lastly, regarding the impact Rooster had on others, was the warmth and simplicity of his manner: he said little, but what he said he meant; his furrowed and lop-sided smile was always welcoming, yet when he wished to be alone he made no pretence that he wanted anything else, but said, matter-of-factly, “Leave me, must think, must try to delve.” Then only Frogbit dared go near him, providing him with food, with delving help, and sometimes with silent company.

  So that those who watched over him – and as Maple knew well, there was some truth in the notion that all the followers now massing in the Wolds watched over Rooster, just as they daily prayed for Privet on her difficult and mysterious journey – made sure that Rooster had peace and privacy. When he ambled in among his new-found friends, his fur awry, his paws clogged with soil, his brow furrowed in thought, if he did not wish to talk they did not disturb him, sensing that for one who had journeyed through the dark places he had there were often times when all he demanded of others was that they let him be.

  One of the reassuring things about Maple’s command was the sense he gave those who followed him that he knew what he was doing, and that he did nothing that had not been carefully planned; often what he did seemed obvious and inevitable only when it was achieved.

  A few days after Rooster’s coming he had ordered the followers to disperse into four groups, explaining that to concentrate so many moles at one point was dangerous, and presented practical difficulties with food, water and grooming.

  “As a community disperses itself over its territory to the best advantage,” he said, “so the followers will now do the same, only coming together when its separate commanders under myself decree that it must be so.”

  These commanders, four in number, were not the moles others might have expected him to choose. Ystwelyn, and Arvon, for example, he kept as his immediate subordinates, saying that he needed the former for his excellent advice, and the latter because there was always need of a br
illiant independent leader of smaller groups, and, anyway, “you’re not a mole likes the tedium of day-to-day command, Arvon!” – which the Siabod mole acknowledged was indeed true.

  Stow took overall command of the two groups of Wold moles, with Runnel, his long-term second-in-command, as the leader of the smaller of the two. Stow was the acknowledged expert on how a large number of moles could keep a low snout in a concentrated area, and in the time they had all been together he had willingly imparted his knowledge to those who had been led to the Wolds from Rowton.

  Of these, Whindrell had emerged as a doughty leader, and one others trusted, and though he could not boast the experience of Stow, nor claimed to, he was much liked, and could be severe on those who were lax and ill-disciplined.

  The last of the four commanders was the female Malla, or Maella as some more accurately call her, a mole from the deep south-west who spoke with a burr to her voice; though not large, she was fierce, not to say ferocious, and, as many said, “worth three males at least’. That might or might not have been true, but certainly the band of moles she led up from her own territory at the end of May would have accepted no other leader, and nor, once they were used to the idea, would those whom Maple put under her command, which included his early travelling companions, Furrow and Myrtle.

  Myrtle was no slouch herself when it came to being fierce, but in Maella she found more than her match, and was soon happy to serve as her assistant, in much the same way as Weeth served Maple – a role in which she took great pride yet appeared meek as a Iamb. Furrow her mate, having found his confidence under Maple in the crossing of the two-foot bridge, soon made himself something of a specialist with the ins and outs of roaring owl ways and the territory of two-foots, who now held no fear for him.

  Stow’s and Runnel’s groups stayed up in the Wolds; Whindrell and his motley of moles moved northwards into the lower slopes towards the Midland plain; while Maella’s force was sent eastward to the dangerous and busy vales across which many routes lay; their role was to spy upon the Newborns’ movements, and provoke confusion and incident, from which they disappeared into the night, often along the two-foot ways by which Furrow, and those who trained under him, had led them.