“The truth is never disappointing, Pumpkin, and anyway, do you think he can smile before he has grieved and wept? He cannot, and will not. Meanwhile, he is quite right; I should complete my task.”
“But Privet!”
“Tomorrow, mole, or the day after,” smiled Privet, whose snout had turned from grey to pink as the day had progressed. “There’s another mole I should see.”
“Shall I fetch him?”
“He’ll know to come,” said Privet, “and until then I’ll sleep.”
“Rooster?” wondered Pumpkin.
Privet’s black eyes shone in the gloom of the January day.
Perhaps Privet had guessed that word would get out that for a time she had emerged from her onerous task of making the Book of Silence and was resting awhile in Pumpkin’s tunnels. For it certainly had, and other visitors came before Rooster did.
Fieldfare for one, sent ahead by Hamble who guessed that the two might want some time alone together to remember once again Privet’s first coming to Duncton, and for Fieldfare to tell of her days up at Seven Barrows. Then, too, they might talk softly of Chater, and Privet repeat the story of how he had died, and Fieldfare tell how she had been guided by the spirit of Mayweed himself among the Stones of Seven Barrows to say her last goodbye to her beloved.
Then Hamble came, and the three talked into the afternoon about everything but the Book, put out of mind for those precious hours. Yet the Book’s shadow was on them, and when other moles came quietly to pay their respects to Privet and crossed the portal, the moles already there felt suddenly uneasy, as if the newcomers’ shadows might be the folios of the Book themselves.
Hodder came up from his temporary tunnels – as he had long called them – down by Barrow Vale, which were near those occupied more permanently by Arliss and Rees. Old friends, old memories, the blood of old wounds dried and gone leaving only scars.
Elynor, she came, fetched over from the Eastside by Pumpkin, but aged she was, and growing blind, and missing Cluniac who had left Duncton in the company of Chervil, Thorne and Ystwelyn, to help bring peace and security to those areas where Newborn doctrines had lingered on, and former Brother Commanders needed to be subdued.
“My dear,” faltered Elynor, “where are you? I cannot see as well as I could. Let me feel your face. You’re thin, too thin. And your paws, worn out with scribing, so I’m told. A Book of Silence should need no scribing!”
There! One of them had dared mention it and then all did, and their voices were a babble of sound, all offering advice, all questioning, all concerned that Privet was working too hard, all relieved now that she had come out among them once again. Those dark moments passed as dusk came and they told each other tales, and laughed, and Privet felt their love.
So much happiness...
“So why do I feel such fear, Stone?” muttered Pumpkin to himself.
So much peace...
“So why do I feel so confused?”
So much light among those friends...
“So why is it the shadows that I see?”
Unable to bear such apparently unnecessary doubts and fears Pumpkin went up to the surface and snouted about, and was surprised to find that since he had brought Elynor, others had come who did not know Privet personally, but felt it was a time to be present, and witness some moment whose importance they sensed, but for which they had no name. They stanced in the shadows near his entrance, silent and respectful.
“Is she well?” one asked eventually, speaking for them all, “we heard that she might be ailing, and that was why...?”
“Never better, moles, never better,” said Pumpkin.
“And the Book?”
“Not yet complete.”
Oh! The moles began to drift away after a time, almost disappointed it seemed. Privet never quite seemed to do what they expected.
“Library Aide Pumpkin?” said a grizzle-furred mole from out of the dusk.
“Yes, that’s me.”
The mole came forward and Pumpkin knew him by sight quite well, and by name too: the pilgrim Hibbott, a worthy mole.
“I was by the Stone earlier today,” said Hibbott, “and I met five moles, all pilgrims like myself. Indeed, I may venture to say that apart from myself they were the only pilgrims remaining in Duncton Wood of those who came when the Newborns left.” Hibbott’s choice of words was delicate. “Now they have departed...”
“Departed?”
“Yes, they were on their separate ways to the Stone when you stopped one and asked him to come here. He brought the others and after their sojourn here they went to the Stone to ask its blessing for their departure. They asked me to join them in leaving the system, saying there was little here for them now, and I confess I was tempted. But... well, when they talked of whatmole they had been with earlier I guessed, though they did not seem to know it, it was to Privet they had talked.
“Something whispered to me. I have journeyed far since my pilgrimage from Ashbourne Chase began, far further than the distance between the Chase and here.”
Pumpkin warmed to Hibbott, and saw the reverence in his face.
“I felt concerned. I felt there was another farewell in the system today, and it was Privet’s. I cannot tell you why, but so it was. I prayed for her by the Stone, and for the Stone’s guidance in the journey she is on. That done I came here with no expectation other than to pay my respects up here on the surface and go on my way.”
“You are leaving Duncton too?”
“No, mole, I am not. I came in pursuit of a dream, which was to see Privet. I saw her and then my dream changed to a desire to see the Book. The Book has not come to ground and so my pilgrimage is not yet complete.”
“Do you want to see Privet?” asked Pumpkin, Hibbott’s words seeming to confirm the growing worries and doubts he had felt all day.
Hibbott shook his head. “From the sound of laughter and talk, she has more than enough moles to keep her company. No, I have made my prayer to the Stone and I shall see her again when it wishes it.”
“Are you the mole who called out her name beyond the cross-under, and came with Hodder and the others?”
“The same, to my regret. But perhaps I shall find forgiveness for my indiscretion.”
“Come now, mole, and she will give it.”
Again Hibbott shook his head. “No, her journey is not done. May the Stone grant that I shall be there to witness the joy when it is complete and the Book comes to ground at last.”
“Mole...” urged Pumpkin, for he did not want to let Hibbott go, as if to do so was to lose Privet all the sooner. For it was the sense of losing her that loomed in the night.
For the third time Hibbott shook his head, and then he turned and quietly left.
Rooster was the last to come, and he was alone.
“Where’s Frogbit?” they all asked, for Frogbit was Rooster’s shadow.
“Sent him to Cuddesdon to learn. Glee and Humlock are there now. Whillan learning and teaching. All discovering. Delving will be good in Cuddesdon.”
All this was said before he greeted Privet, to whom he now turned.
“Better be getting along then!” declared Fieldfare, looking meaningfully about the company, feeling that Rooster and Privet might well wish to be alone. “Come on, Hamble, you re feeling tired, my dear.”
“Am I?” muttered Hamble, who was stanced down most comfortably next to Elynor and sharing a fat worm with her. “Er...”
“You most certainly are tired, dearest!” said Fieldfare, turning for the door.
“He’s comfortable,” said Rooster grinning. “Know his comfort when I see it.”
“It’s all right, Fieldfare, Rooster and I do not need privacy,” said Privet. “We found it long ago within each other’s heart.”
She looked at Rooster, as he at her, with such profound love and ease that none could doubt the truth of what she said.
“Heard you were out of tunnels and here, Privet. Came to say things. Things all can hear.
Time of Silence coming to Privet and me, if...” He paused, and sighed, and stabbed his paws at the floor. “Sturne’s coming. Sturne knows things. We’ll wait.”
They did wait, and somewhat uncomfortably, most of them, since the conversation had difficulty getting started with Rooster stanced down in the middle of the chamber and staring at his paws. Privet, closing her eyes for a time, dozed. There was desultory talk here and there, two or three of them went to the surface to stretch their paws, and all were much relieved when Sturne came, texts under his paw, every bit the busy Master Librarian.
“Make room for him, Hamble, there’s a good mole,” said Fieldfare, who all her life had been impressed and intimidated by texts and anything to do with scribing.
Hamble looked weary, winked at Privet, grinned at Rooster, and made way for Sturne.
“Now then, earlier today Privet asked me a question and I have come to try to answer it,” began Sturne, starting a long dissertation, which nomole dared interrupt, about the early Rolls and Registers of Duncton, and the reliability or otherwise of such texts, not to mention the difficulties in spelling, and reconciling present molish time with mediaeval time, which as allmole knew...
“What it comes to then,” he said finally, and to the great relief of everymole, “is this: in all probability the dead library aide who appears – and I emphasize the word appears – to have been the bringer of the Book to the chamber where Privet found it, almost certainly made the Book, for that was part of aides’ tasks in those days.”
“It still is, mole,” said Pumpkin, grumpily.
“Ah! Quite so. Also the mole was almost certainly the personal aide to Dunbar himself, which narrows the field to two, one of whom, Cheyne of Fulham, we can immediately discount, since a reference to him as living and dying in retirement at Uffington in later years is beyond dispute.
“Therefore, the second contender, if I may call him that, is a mole who came to Duncton when quite young and served Dunbar for several moleyears at the end of that great mole’s life. This library aide was named Collis of Sedlescombe.”
There was a blank silence.
“What do you know of him?” asked Privet finally.
“Ah, yes, I thought you might ask that. We know nothing of him, nothing at all. Just his name, and that of his home system, which is in the south-east.”
“Nothing else?” asked Privet.
“No, nothing. Except, of course, that he knew how to make a book, if not a Book!” A glimmer of a smile stirred on Sturne’s face at what he obviously thought was a nice conceit, but it was shared by nomole-else, and it soon died.
“Nothing, we know nothing,” said Privet mysteriously. “It makes my task a little easier then.”
The conversation turned to everyday matters for a time until Rooster raised a paw and said, “Want to say this. Not much, but something. Privet leaving us now. All has been preparation for what’s to come. Have said before and say again: I delve with paws, she delves with words. What do I make? I make places where nothing seems to be until moles come, except wind-sound. True? I made this chamber here with Frogbit, but it wasn’t until Privet came, and you all now. And after she has gone? Nothing? Or many things, each in your memory. True? When we die and memory of this chamber now is gone? True? Was it ever?
“So I delve now, not yesterday and not tomorrow. Most delving in Duncton’s done now, so I sent Glee and Humlock and Frogbit to Cuddesdon, where delving waits to be. That’s why Whillan’s there with his love, to delve. He is a Master now...”
There was a stir at this, for whatever a Master of the Delve might be, most there had assumed there was only one.
“No, no, no, many Masters, living and dead. Masters live on in the delvings they made. Gaunt was my mentor, but Hilbert was my Master though long dead. But Privet, what-mole is her Master?”
He shrugged, for having asked the question it seemed the answer did not matter.
“Listen. For many moleyears I did not delve. Hamble knows. When I began again I was better, simpler, because was delving in my mind all that time, clearing – cleansing! Ha!”
He laughed as he often did these days at some joke he saw in what he said. And moles about him laughed as well, less at the joke, which often they did not see, more that he was so at peace.
“Not chance that Privet and me came to be same time, or that we love. We love because we know each other’s heart. I knew her heart on Hilbert’s Top, and she knew mine. Wanted to love her then with everything but was not to be. Too timid, eh Privet?”
“Too timid, Rooster,” she agreed.
“So... trouble, sadness. Lust. Fear. Dark searching ways. Yes, Privet?”
“All of those things and more, my dear.”
“Long long time ago Privet said to me, ‘Delve me tunnels, delve me a place’ and I promised that I would. My whole life is working towards that place of Silence which shall be ours and all. Nearly there. Have missed you very much, Privet. Have missed you with my heart and body. Have missed your love. Yes, yes, have been to lonely places.
“But Gaunt said, ‘One day you will delve the Master’s way, and when you do all past hurts and all future longings will be gone, and you will only know the bliss of now. So Rooster, delve each day with discipline of heart and mind and spirit, and that day eternal may come.’
“Ha! May come, not will. Certainty isn’t delving but staying still. Certainty is dying because it takes life out of now and tries to fix it then or in time to come. So, have come to tell you Privet all these things. My words jumbled up but true.
“Hurry, Privet, hurry. But take time! Winter’s a good time to delve with words. All before you to start with, all the words that ever were, like untouched earth. When you choose some and cast out many others which you didn’t choose. That’s the earth I cast up with my paws. Then you choose more, but cast out even more. So delving begins and words get less. First was all words, finally is no word. None. Hurry and find it Privet, that last word and cast it out for us!”
He had finished in a burst of words and strange gesticulation, breathing heavily, stomping at the ground, and finally bearing down on her and staring into her eyes, which softened as she reached to him and he to her.
“Now,” he whispered, and grinned, and grimaced in mock madness; chuckling, he turned from the chamber and was gone.
Hamble sighed, words utterly failing him.
Fieldfare shifted, peered about, started to speak, and then thought better of it.
Elynor got up and taking Pumpkin’s proffered paw, said, “I’ll be off to somewhere comfortable.”
Then, without more said, except goodbye and farewell, they all drifted away until Privet, in Pumpkin’s absence, was alone.
She smiled, and slept; and in the morning, in her own time, and asking Pumpkin not to come until a little later, she went back into the tunnels of the Ancient System, back to the Book, and back into Silence.
Pumpkin resumed his daily visits to Privet, to bring food, to clean the chamber, to tidy the folios, to tend to things. In the short intervals when he was not there, he was over in the Library to share Sturne’s quiet company; or in his own tunnels at peace; or fretting at his prayers by the Stone.
For all of them he prayed, especially two moles: Privet and Maple. The rest, it seemed to him, with the possible exception of Sturne, could help themselves, though he hoped an occasional word to the Stone on their behalf would not go amiss.
The weather stayed mild as Privet had hoped, at least long enough for Maple and Weeth to have the chance of getting a good way to the Redditch Stone. Then, in February, cold snapped down again and put hoar frost in the trees. Snow fell, thawed, and foul rain drove down. The High Wood became a shivery, bitter place. And still Privet worked, scoring out more than she scribed. Casting out words, as Rooster had put it, and seeking the last.
“Stone, there’ll be no Book left if she continues the way she is,” grumbled Pumpkin to the Stone. “Or no words left at least. She scores it all out like Husk u
sed to do at the end of his long life, scribing, re-scribing, scoring and finally unscribing. It’s not the way it should be, and she began so well! Oh dear, oh dear – I suppose she knows what she’s doing, but I don’t!”
Rooster’s words had given Pumpkin comfort initially, but as time went on, and the winter grew steadily worse, and a mole did well not to stay on the blizzardy icy surface for more than a moment or two, all Pumpkin’s doubts returned. She was growing more tired, she was eating too little, there was nothing left on her flanks at all so her ribs were beginning to show; and her eyes had the gleam of a dying mole about them.
Her cough had become a steady rasp, and was the first sound that greeted him as he entered the tunnels near the chamber, and the last he heard as he left. That and her groans and mumblings as she scratched and scored and scrivened.
Then early in March she began to clutch the Book to her thin chest when he came in, and to speak to him – or rather shout at him, in a thin and frightened way – in Whernish; and she laughed sometimes. Her eyes grew frightened and when he came near she would often stab at him with her talons.
“Take him away!” she cried out one day, breaking her silence and pointing a paw at the dead aide. “Collis speaks to me and tells me... there is no Silence.”
“Privet...”
But his words she did not hear; and he did not remove the dead mole.
“Privet, come to my barrow and rest again, come —”
“Noooo!” she screamed, “I shall never be able to start again if I do.”
“Privet...”
And she wept like a pup, her voice so weak it was no louder than the scribing of her talon on birch-bark. Then she forced him to leave her. Day after day passed like that.
Heavy snow, a sudden thaw at night and waking to the drip, drip, drip of water in the tunnels.
Even as Pumpkin lay aburrow, the wind shifted and the cold returned, and deepened into the crippling thrall of the worse freeze in Duncton in living memory. He begged Privet to leave her icy chamber. She refused. He begged her to let him stay. She refused – and followed him, shouting and railing when he tried to hide in the tunnel outside the chamber that he might keep watch on her.
Duncton Stone Page 80