“For now, and in the presence of Rooster on my right flank and Frogbit on my left, with the guardmole clinging on to us like black ivy just behind, we watched as the formidable Newborn army of Thorne gathered in force across the vale, and up the slopes to our right...”
What Hibbott was witnessing, along with scores of other moles who had wisely backed away from the likely place of conflict, yet wished to make their presence felt, was the resolution, one way or another, of the terrible conflict between Newborn and follower.
Thorne’s army had arrived at the cross-under to Duncton Wood, and its relative quiet, its order, its large number, indicated that it was a formidable and disciplined force. Yet it had been stopped in its tracks by the apparent impossibility of breaching the cross-under by force, for now it was filled, as were the slopes on the Duncton side of it, by the serried ranks of Quail’s moles, led by Squilver.
They were considerably outnumbered, but as anymole knows, it is easy for a few moles to hold a narrow defile against an enemy many times its size. On open ground Quail’s remaining supporters would have been overwhelmed in moments, and forced to flee before so great a number. Here, Squilver’s moles needed only to hold their ground and nomole could get through.
Nor could an easy assault be made by way of a route over the roaring owl way. Apart from the dangers implicit in such a crossing Squilver had so disposed some of his force to make such an attempt likely to be dangerous and costly.
An advance guard had long since positioned themselves along the top of the embankment up which attacking moles would need to climb, and if a defile is easily defended by a minimum of moles, so too is the top of a steep and tiring climb.
In short, it was plain to even the most non-military of moles that Squilver had disposed his limited force well, to cause maximum delay and loss to Thorne’s. As a result, nomole was moving on either side, except a few here and there whose task seemed to be to keep watch on one flank or another in case an assault was tried to break the deadlock.
These messengers, who were seen hurrying about, were therefore the main point of interest to the watchers from the bluff, and what they might or might not be conveying in the way of information was the subject of much of the chatter and discussion among them. Much, but not all, for as Hibbott and the others rapidly discovered, there were certain persistent rumours abroad as well, and these added greatly to the mounting tension of the day, and the sense that though nothing was happening now something very soon would. One of these concerned Quail, and the notion that he would be making an appearance later that day.
This idea, so prevalent and simple that it was taken as certain truth, was said to have originated from one of the guardmoles at the cross-under, and was the cause of periodic flurries of interest and heightened expectation whenever a mole appeared on the stretch of pasture below the High Wood visible to the watchers. Not that much could be seen at all, but in crowds of that kind, intermingled rumour and fact travel with the speed of wind across the face of woodland in full leaf, beginning noisily at one end and traversing to the other in no time at all.
The second of these rumours was that Maple was coming up from the south with an army of followers. Allmole appeared to know long before Hibbott, Rooster and Frogbit arrived that Avebury had fallen and, more recently, Brother Commander Sapient had suffered a crushing defeat at Buckland. The knowledge of this was what appeared to have kept Thorne and his force where they were, for to engage seriously with Squilver and become weakened would have provided Maple with the perfect opportunity to attack Thorne.
Such, at least, was the consensus amongst the moles into whose company Rooster had so carefully led them, and amongst whom they now appeared to be but three more ordinary watchers awaiting the outcome of events that were surely far beyond their capacity to influence in any way.
To add to the day’s strange excitement and foreboding, moles seemed to keep arriving from a variety of directions, not in great numbers, but steadily, in ones or twos. Those arriving from the south were directed upslope by the guardmoles lower down, came slogging up to join the others, and were immediately quizzed by the crowd to find out if they had anything to add to what moles already thought they knew.
Usually with such arrivals the interest was brief, and the disappointment great, for they had nothing much to say at all, being more interested in asking questions than in answering them. The day was a mild one, the sky milky blue in parts, and with high pale mauve clouds in others.
Just after midday a mole came upvale from the south and headed straight for the cross-under. He appeared to be Newborn, and part of Squilver’s force, for after a brief inquisition he gained access and was lost from sight. But not long after that moles noticed that the force along the roaring owl way was strengthened and some guardmole watchers posted further along the way from where, it seemed, they had a vantage to see southwards.
Soon after that a group of bedraggled moles appeared from the south, pilgrims all, and these were directed, as the others had been, upslope away from the cross-under, but only after long talks with the guardmoles lower down, and indeed with some of Thorne’s moles.
A few intrepid moles hurried down to meet them and within moments, as it seemed, back upslope came news, simple and exciting, and enough to set the whole crowd abuzz: “Maple is coming, and with him the followers...”
This kept moles chattering for a little while longer before another expectant hush, deeper than any previously, fell upon the crowd. Even Rooster, who had stanced down and dozed off for a while, stanced up once more and peered about, restless, his paws fretting.
“We could go nearer,” said Frogbit, hopefully.
“We could,” said Rooster, not moving a muscle.
“We could’ve,” muttered Frogbit a good bit later, a shade grumpily.
The day grew ominously dark, as if a giant mole had put his paw between the sun and the earth below. Some of the roaring owls’ gazes came on, white-yellow as they approached from north or south, then red as they sped by and retreated once more. There was a further flurry of action by Squilver’s moles along the top of the roaring owl embankment and a few were moved from their position overlooking Thorne’s force above the cross-under to watch the other way, and southwards, as if they saw moles coming.
The crowd, sensing this, surged downslope, looking to the left flank to catch sight of whatever it was.
“Maple’s coming!”
“It’s him! It’s him!”
As the crowd moved downslope Rooster reached out a paw to prevent Frogbit moving with it, yet turned to Hibbott, nodded his great head and said, “You go now. Go and see.”
“I did not want to leave him, or Frogbit,” Hibbott was to scribe later, “but though there was no command in his voice to go, yet there seemed a plea which I must obey. I sensed he wished now to be alone, and that he was ordinary mole no more, but Master of the Delve. I hesitated, the crowd surged down and round us, and suddenly I was moving with them, straining to see over them and through them and beyond them, through the dim light that seemed to have overtaken all of us – and which overtakes something of my memory now.
“Then I saw them, or it, for it was a single entity, small at first, and unformed, then a little bigger and taking shape, and then, suddenly, like a roll of thunder that begins in the far distance and comes rapidly towards a mole and quite overwhelms him, it was there, there below us, potent and powerful, unforgettable.”
Hibbott was right; what came, came slowly. He was right too that it grew bigger, and bigger still, and was finally huge before them all, spreading up from the southern end of the vale below.
“The followers have come! The followers..!”
Maple was leading with several others alongflank him, marching slowly but steadily, appearing above a near horizon, the perspective strange at first as he headed the line of moles that was the first contingent of his army.
Slowly, their black heads and pale snouts bobbing or swaying back and forth, they made
trek as moles who have marched for a long time make trek: steadily, rhythmically, indomitably.
“Maple! Ma-ple! MA-PLE! MAPLE!”
The chant of his name came up from the vale, perhaps from his own forces at first, and then it overtook him like flames across dry moorland, leaping over water to burn yet more fiercely on the other side.
“MAPLE!” the crowd roared as he came on relentlessly, and the moles with him pressed behind, and more behind them, and more and more and more behind even them.
“Maple!” they cried, and even the gentle voice of Hibbott was joined to theirs.
Then, as the crowd surged on down, faster, dangerous, unstoppable, Hibbott sought desperately to turn back, to move against their tide, to reach back upslope and be with Rooster again, where he was, where...
“Rooster, mole!” cried Hibbott, pushed and shoved, turned and forced, hurried and harried and taken, “Rooster!”
And Hibbott had time to see, before he was swallowed up into the crowd that surged down to join the warriors and pilgrims and ordinary moles that were Maple’s great army now... had time to see Rooster: dark and brooding on the slope, and alone now, but for Frogbit, and the dark forms of several Newborn moles, who had come down from above to surround him, and take him to themselves once more.
“Rooster of the Charnel Clough, in the name of the Stone...”
At the sound of the deep, authoritative voice that spoke his name, Rooster turned at last from the extraordinary scene in the vale below, where Newborn and follower armies came snout to snout to confront each other before the cross-under into Duncton Wood, to face the mole who spoke.
“You,” growled Rooster, his paw reaching out to Frogbit to reassure him, and indicate that he must be still, and say nothing now. Nothing at all.
The mole was dark, his eyes darker still, his form smaller than Rooster’s yet still formidable, his paws impressive.
“Yes, it is I,” said Chervil.
“Didn’t know,” said Rooster, “didn’t understand at Wildenhope. Whillan was my son.”
His eyes moved from Chervil to the moles on either flank – his bodyguards Feldspar, and Feldspar’s sons Fallow and Tarn; and another mole, older, wiser, sadder than the others. Frogbit stared at all of them and had never felt so small. Yet he could feel from Rooster’s gentle touch that there was nothing to fear, nothing at all. These moles, whoever they were, were friends.
“Go to him, mole,” said Rooster gently, pushing Frogbit up towards the old greyer mole.
Frogbit scampered upslope and said to the mole who put
out a peaceful paw to welcome him, “What’s your name?”
“Brother Rolt,” smiled Rolt. “I’m a friend of Privet. What’s yours?”
“Frogbit.”
“Delver Frogbit,” corrected Rooster, and a look of joy and pride came to Frogbit’s face.
Then Chervil went down to where Frogbit had stanced and said, “Rooster of Charnel Clough, in the name of the Stone, and for the sake of Privet of Duncton Wood, I ask for your help.”
“Whillan...” whispered Rooster, troubled.
“It was the only way,” said Chervil, his voice a shade softer. Then glancing at Feldspar and his two sons, who had been party to what had happened to Whillan at Wildenhope, he said, “It was the only recourse we had. You lived...”
“Was cold in the waters of the river,” said Rooster with the slightest of grins. Then after a pause, he said, “Have entrusted Whillan to the Stone, as you did. But want him back. Miss him.”
“Yes,” said Chervil non-committally.
“Now,” said Rooster coming closer still. “What help? What shall Frogbit and I do? Delvers only do what others ask.”
Frogbit looked even more joyful at this, as if his promotion to the status of delver was now not only confirmed, but about to be affirmed as well.
“We don’t know what you can do, or anymole,” said Chervil. “Look...”
Chervil put a paw to Rooster’s shaggy shoulder and turned him to look downslope.
The only movement across the vale below, and that somewhat above it, was that of the roaring owls passing back and forth along their way – for the armies of followers and Newborn were more than stationary as they faced each other and contemplated what to do: they were deadly still, but that there was something dangerous and imminent of movement and violence about their stance.
Then, as Rooster and Chervil stared down as one, the moles below seemed to begin a curious swaying, almost imperceptible from above, which was accompanied by an ugly ripping sound, which was of different conflicting chants, mocking shouts and jeering, the sound not of armies but of mobs.
“We need your help I think, Rooster, and we need it now,” said Chervil urgently, his grasp on Rooster tightening. “I cannot speak for Maple, but Thorne desires no conflict and yet cannot give way – his moles would not let him. And judging from the sounds of Maple’s force they may feel the same.”
“Am delver,” muttered Rooster, “am not this, not there, nowhere but here where paws —”
“Mole, we need your help now, we...” began Chervil again, his voice rising just a little, his stance more powerful.
There was movement behind him; Frogbit, breaking free of Rolt, came down the slope between them and tugged at Chervil’s paw.
“He’s thinking. He makes time. Leave him.”
And to everymole’s surprise and consternation, Frogbit pushed at Chervil, to get him away from Rooster, though he would not have moved him had not Chervil wished it.
“Time?” whispered Rooster to himself. “Is where paws are!”
“Paws can move,” said Frogbit, raising one paw after another in an exaggerated way.
Suddenly, and to the further consternation of Chervil and the others, Rooster laughed, and slowly, in parody of Frogbit, he raised his own paws one by one.
Then he said to allmole, “Paws can move. He’s delver all right!”
Then he laughed again, short and deep and loud, so that moles on the slopes below, who were stanced in utter silence watching the escalation of the dangerous scene below, turned and looked up at where Rooster and the others stanced.
“Come on!” said Rooster quietly to Frogbit. “We go! For Privet and for Chervil her son, and for Thripp his father all three.”
Chervil had no time to express his astonishment, for then they did go, slowly and deliberately, downslope, steady and sure.
“And you, you all,” said Rooster, turning back to where the others watched astonished and uncertain, “we go now to Privet most of all. Your mother, Chervil and my...”
But he could find no words to express what Privet was to him, and had been from the day they first met up on Hilbert’s Top, when they were young, so young.
“Time’s come, time’s come,” said Rooster.
Then down they all followed, straight towards the cross-under, straight into the silent, still, terrible waiting gap that lay between one army and another and seemed about to be filled by violence; down amidst the ugly shouting, and the stamping of paws, and the imminent beginning of something that once started would not end until the winter grass was red with blood.
While far across the vale, beyond the roaring owl way, from the edge of the High Wood, two moles also came, running downslope, unnoticed then by anymole, follower or Newborn, hurrying down towards the cross-under. Black, unidentified, breathless, shocked, running and running, the counterpoint to the coming of Rooster.
Meanwhile, outside Duncton Wood, moles began to notice the approach of Rooster, with Frogbit at his flank, and Chervil and Rolt, and the others with them, like a tiny third force, but one that had purpose and a presence far, far greater than its numbers.
The ugly shouts died away, whispers replaced them, and then the whispers changed to a name, and the name was uttered first by one mole and then another, then four, then eight, then sixteen, then...
“Rooster! Rooster! ROOSTER!”
It was a roaring chant, now loud, now s
oft, and if Rooster heard it he showed no sign. His eyes were on the cross-under, which could be clearly seen now, and the line upon line of Squilver’s moles that defended it, five moles deep; and then more beyond on the other side. Impregnable.
But Rooster continued straight at it, the chanting of his name powerful all about him; Thorne to one side and Maple to the other separated from the armies they led to join his march, subordinates at their flanks, watching, astonished, all following. While through the cross-under there was movement amongst Squilver’s ranks. Two moles arriving, breathless and with news. Flurries of activity.
Rooster came on and on, ever nearer, unstoppable, Frogbit to his right, almost running now to keep up, and the others all behind.
Thorne and Maple were together now; and Ystwelyn and Brother Rolt; follower and Newborn, pilgrim and rebel, strong and weak. Not a mob now, nor even a crowd, but moles behind those that led, and in front of them all, Rooster, Master of the Delve, advancing like the spirit of moledom that had been troubled and uncertain, but is troubled no more.
The bark of an order echoed out of the shadowed recess of the cross-under and the first line of Squilver’s force, their talons raised, cold sweat trickling down their faces, fear in their eyes, backed away and parted. Then the second, and then the third: and Rooster advanced in amongst them, certain and unafraid.
Until there, facing him on the grass beyond, the High Wood upslope behind, stanced Supreme Brother Commander Squilver, a look of horrid triumph on his face.
“You’re too late, mole,” cried out Squilver dismissively, his voice sharp and a shade smug, the voice of one who cares not what happens from now on, even to himself, for his task is fulfilled and nomole can change things now.
“Where is the mole Privet?” called out Chervil in a commanding voice from behind Rooster.
“Aye, it’s she we’ve come to protect,” said Maple at Thorne’s flank.
Fear showed in Squilver’s eyes, and not just of moles, but of something that carried these moles towards him, something it seemed he had not ever seen or guessed at before.
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