His words were carried out before him, booming and resounding with the great notes from the Stone behind. He stared for a moment longer, saw Weed turn away in confusion and then with Spindle at his side, Tryfan entered the worn area of grass at the ancient Stone’s base, and reached out to touch the Stone itself.
It rose out of sight to the sky, worn and pock-marked with time, the strange holes and fissures in it that were the source of its sounds were black in its grey-green mass.
A peace and silence came on them. Spindle said, “I’m tired – and scared!”
“You did well, Spindle, and we are safe now. The grikes will not venture here. We will rest and then leave Uffington.”
So there, in the shadows and dry grass at the Stone’s base, Tryfan and Spindle squeezed into shelter, and with their minds whirling with tiredness and relief, wonder and fear, they watched out over the slopes.
The wind died, the notes sounded no more, and from the ground through his paws Tryfan could feel the vibrations of frightened moles, escaping moles, until he felt them no more. Then as the day advanced they crept into the darkest recesses of the Stone’s base, with still-wintering ladybirds in the cracks above their backs, and fell into a deep sleep, safe in the Stone’s protection, flank to flank, snout to snout.
Chapter Seven
When Tryfan awoke in the dark shelter of the Blowing Stone, he knew immediately that something had gone, something familiar and disliked. Even something feared.
He stirred and snouted about in puzzlement, going out from beneath the edge of the Blowing Stone into the light. And, oh! he sighed, breathed deeply, and stretched out as if to touch the world about him with each of his four paws in turn.
For where the day before – no, the months and moleyears before – there had been cold, and bitterness, and withered vegetation beaten by a wuthering wind, now there was warmth and the scent of spring. Not the hint of it in distant light, which they had seen a few days before, but spring itself, all around, in scent, and sight and smell and excited growth and busy callings of birds, and the scurrying of insects; here, now!
He snouted higher into the air, his eyes alight, not knowing which way to turn so promising did every scent and sound seem to be; so very welcoming was everything to mole.
Then he called out, “Spindle, Spindle!” to wake his friend and show him things to give a mole pleasure.
But Spindle slept deeply, and though he stirred and groaned comfortably at Tryfan’s call, Tryfan fell silent once more to let him sleep on and turned back to the springtime.
The dawning sun was casting its warm rays over the slopes about him. Early morning mist clung to the deeper, danker hollows of Uffington Hill and drifted up weakly from among the beeches on the slopes far below.
From somewhere down there he heard the busy cawing of rooks and then, as the sun gained in strength, and the mist cleared to reveal a world of life and gentle colour that stretched as far as the eye could see, there was a rising of wings nearby, and he heard the first sweet shurrlings of skylark overhead.
Yet even as he relaxed into it there came over him, for the briefest of moments, dark panic as he remembered Henbane and Boswell and all of it, all that darkness and trouble. He snouted in the direction of Uffington Hill above him, then crouched back again, and knew that his task was not there now.
Boswell had told him to journey away, to seek others’ support and to teach them what he knew. What he had seen of the grikes, and what Spindle had told them, was enough to make Tryfan believe they had had a lucky escape, and one that was not of their own doing but the Stone’s. That same Stone that ordained the seasons, and the compass, if not quite the direction of moles’ lives.
Now...? Now they had little time. The grikes would be after them again, and the best way he could help Boswell was to do what he had told them to and be guided by the Stone.
He moved a few steps further away from the Blowing Stone and turned to face it. As he did so, and the sun began to warm his fur pleasantly, he felt the distant vibration of mole and knew he and Spindle must soon travel down-slope to the Vale of Uffington and from there make their way to safety.
Spindle stirred, looked up, saw Tryfan, came out and settled his snout on his paws for a moment and declared, “Blessed be, but the spring has come!” Then, humming with a kind of tuneless good cheer, he busied himself looking for some food, quietly leaving Tryfan to his contemplation of the Stone.
Tryfan looked up at it, composed himself as Boswell had taught him, and whispered, “Stone, Boswell made me a scribemole but I am not worthy. He entrusted me with the task of leading moles towards the Silence, but I have not Silence. He told me to journey, but I know not where.
So now I ask for your guidance and entrust my life to you.”
Then he lowered his head humbly and prayed to the Stone to give them both strength and purpose.
Nomole knows now how long his meditation lasted, but he felt no fear as he heard the grikes approaching from across the slopes. Before the Stone a mole’s time is his own.
Tryfan finished his contemplation and muttered, “Well if I’m a scribemole I had better start scribing!”
“Have some food,” said Spindle behind him, where he had been patiently waiting, and they ate the food he had found.
Tradition has it that it was after that, in the shadow of approaching danger, that Tryfan scribed the first of his great invocations, using the bare earth on which he stanced, since he had no better. He scribed fast, with great concentration, and when he had finished he ran his talons quickly over the words repeating them to himself.
Spindle meanwhile watched with excitement and awe, for he had never seen scribing done in the open under the sky. The scribemoles of Uffington did it in burrows and tunnels, in shadows, secretly, as if it was something to keep to themselves and show nomole else. But here Tryfan seemed almost to rejoice in scribing in the open before the sun, and sharing it with another. It seemed to him as if Tryfan was talking to the earth itself and that if the Stone had given him the task of helping this mole of all moles then it was one he wished to do well.
“What’s your scribing say?” he asked, crouching back in silence, and Tryfan spoke the words he had scribed:
Oh Stone,
In our deeds
In our words
In our wishes
In our reason
And in the fulfilling of our task
In our sleep
In our dreams
In our repose
In our thoughts
In our heart and soul always
May the wisdom of love,
And thy silence, dwell always in our heart
Oh in our heart and soul always
May thy love and thy Silence dwell.
They stayed in silence some moments more before Tryfan turned to the Stone, stared a final time up at its great heights, which were now golden in the morning sun, and then with a nod to his companion, led them off out of the eastern reaches of Uffington to start the journey Boswell had commanded that they make.
“Whither are we bound?” asked Spindle, who had taken a position just a little behind Tryfan.
“To Buckland near the Thames where the scribemole Brevis first went, and from there we must, before continuing our greater journey, make for Duncton, for I would see it once more before we travel onward. Moles there can be trusted, and they are led by my half-brother Comfrey and he should know our purpose. Perhaps there we may find moles to help us on our quest, for then it is northward we must go, where evil and disruption come from, to there we must take the healing lessons of Silence.”
Without saying more, they moved on quietly down-slope away from the Holy Burrows, leaving the scurryings and searchings of the grikes behind them, never looking back, but trusting that the Stone would protect Boswell whom they left behind, as it would protect them as they journeyed on.
A short time later, as the great shouts of searching mole played harshly over the hill, a solitary mole, dark and female, her gr
eat shadow a menace to that spring morning, her cold black eyes an enemy of light, reached the Blowing Stone and approached it without fear.
Her talons shone blackly in the morning sun, her fur glittered like coal, her gait was calm and smooth. This was Henbane, dread Henbane of Whern, daughter of Rune. Out of evil cometh evil.
Behind her, to her right side, came a mature male of presence: Wrekin. To her left was a mole of turning snout and cunning eye: Weed of Ilkley, mole of influence.
“The mole Tryfan and that cleric made straight for this Stone fearlessly,” said Weed. “Our guardmoles could not pursue them, and nor, for that matter could I.”
“Boswell’s strength must have been with them,” replied Henbane with soft menace. “Yet are you sure this Tryfan is not a scribe?”
“I am sure as a mole can be,” said Weed, who did not have it in his watchful nature ever to reply “yes” or “no” to a question when ambiguity would do as well. But it was true enough: he was as sure as a mole could be that Tryfan was not a scribemole. Then, by way of explanation, he added, “He was still too young, and anyway there would have been no time or opportunity to ordain him. Now there are no scribemoles left to do it but for Boswell, and he is in our sway now.”
Henbane went forward and saw the scribing Tryfan had made.
“Well, it seems that Boswell must have come this way for he left scribing on the ground.”
She read it, curve by curve, paw touch by touch, eyes alert. Weed watched her for any reaction: his life was service to Henbane, his pleasure was knowing her mind and influencing it, at which he was better than anymole living.
“What is it? What does it say?” he asked. “A curse perhaps?”
“Nothing so dramatic. You should know by now that scribemoles don’t curse! These scribings are but weak dreams and frail hopes.” She laughed, the same laugh Tryfan had heard. Wrekin laughed in dark sympathy with her; and their laughs together were like the menace of nightshade and its shadow, and in their way as deathly beautiful. Weed’s eyes and yellow smile never left Henbane. Wrekin, a heavy mole with lines of anger and purpose to his face, looked out over the Vale of Uffington.
“What have you to say, Wrekin?” asked Henbane.
“I say the mole Tryfan is cursed and that he and his weak friend will be found. They will Atone; the Word’s will be done. I have already deputed guardmoles to send descriptions and warnings out so that, if they escape us here, they will be found when they venture to other systems. I like not to know that moles have been to the very centre of our activity and gone free.”
“It is well, Wrekin. Your thoroughness pleases me. And what of Boswell? What say you now a night is past and torture seems to pain him not?”
“I say you should eliminate Boswell without further delay. Kill him while he is in our power. Living he is something the Stone followers can yearn for, dead he will be forgotten.”
“And you, good Weed, what do you think?” She moved nearer to Weed, her eyes softening a little. It was plain that while she respected Wrekin she liked Weed more.
“That Boswell be kept alive of course,” said Weed promptly. “Turn him from the ways of the Stone, make him Atone, and if my judgement of what a White Mole means to these southern moles is right then you could do nothing to dispirit them more.”
“You’re wrong, Weed,” said Wrekin angrily. “Alive, a mole like Boswell will always be a threat. Dead, he —”
“Will be a martyr,” said Weed dismissively. “You warriors see things too simply in dark and light, in life and death. But let the WordSpeaker decide.”
Henbane turned and looked briefly at him, pleased at the deference to her power. She liked flattery, she glowed before it as quickly as she slid into destructive anger when she was denied. Weed smiled at her, enjoying the sight of her. Despite the evil that she was, Henbane’s dark grace has become legendary among moles, and though by then the fur round the corners of her eyes was creased yet she still had the grace of mature youth, and there was about her, hidden deeply it is true, some touch of a shattered innocence – as if even as an adult, and a malevolent one, some part of her had not quite let go of the good spirit of a mole who was once very young and, if only for a moment, has had a glimpse of good light she could never quite forget.
But as it was, only Wrekin was there, and twisted Weed, who saw other, darker things. For indeed Henbane’s fur had a curious shining darkness to it, as if reflecting the ominous light that fills great storm clouds after their rain has passed and the sun is behind them, trying to break out; when she turned, darkness seemed to turn with her, and imminent murderous storms to be returning again.
At that moment, to loyal Weed, Henbane looked as harmless as she ever did. As she reared up and stared down the slopes towards Uffington Vale, her instinct correctly told her where the fugitives had gone, and said, “We will find this mole Tryfan soon enough. He cannot go far without discovery. He will be a goodly catch who may show us ways of trapping Boswell himself into Atonement so that the Word may be known to all moles.” Then her tone changed into command: “Silence now,” she said, “I wish to scribe the Word.”
Weed backed away, smiling; Wrekin stood respectfully to one side.
For a moment Henbane stared up at the Stone. There was no fear in her eyes, nor a fur’s hair of doubt in her stance. Then she laughed and with one mighty sweep of her talons she scratched down the full length of Tryfan’s words again and again and again, her eyes red with sudden anger, and destroyed them.
Then she looked up fearlessly at the Stone and scribed these words:
Wherever the Stone rises the Word rises higher.
The Word is more powerful than the Stone.
The Word is truth, the Stone was dreams.
The Word is
the Stone was.
The Word will be for evermore.
Then she added one last line:
Henbane scribes it
“Blessed be the Word,” she said.
“Blessed be!” intoned the other two obediently.
But Wrekin was bored: a fanatical believer in the Word, yes, but in the Word as action, not ritual. There was something wild and unruly about these rituals of Henbane, something emotional, something that had no place in the regular routine he followed at sunrise and sunset, of repetition of familiar words of the Word; something that set his mouth in the grim line of unspoken distaste. All the shouting, all the crying, all the bloodied talons and the snouting. Unruly. Inefficient. Unmilitary. The job could have been done as well without all that.
But Weed did not think so. He watched Henbane now, as he so often had in the dramatic moleyears past, and wondered at the dark, destructive energy in her that had driven guardmoles south and all but destroyed faith in the Stone, which had once dominated all of moledom. Of the so-called seven Ancient Systems two only now remained unravished by the agents of the Word. One was Siabod, which was judged to be of no account – judged, that is, by Wrekin and the other fighters who had decided their time was better spent where there were more moles to fight.
The other system was Duncton Wood of which all moles knew, for a great tradition seemed to attach to it, and there were stories of the moles there being chosen of the Stone, to lead and resurrect its glory. Henbane had left that system until last, principally because access to it was difficult since it was surrounded on three sides by the River Thames and on the fourth by a roaring owl way. It was, too, the most easterly of the Seven Systems and until the recent takeover of Avebury and the Holy Burrows, the forces Wrekin led were too dispersed to mount an attack so far to the eastside of moledom.
Nor was there much to conquer beyond it, for there the desert of the Wen lay, whose only interest for grikes was that into its deepest interior the mole Dunbar, a one-time supporter of Scirpus himself, had gone into retreat. For modern grikes there would be nothing there except legends of survivors and a few abject and snivelling ignorant moles of the kind who know no better than the marginal territory they choose t
o inhabit. The Wen was of the twofoots now, and closed forever to mole; and Dunbar’s descendants, if there had been any, must long since have died, or been dispersed.
So Weed stared at Henbane as she meditated, smug in the privilege he felt to be so close to the mole so many held in awe. Yes, yes, privileged: she had powers and energies more than he had ever had, and, though he could outface her when he needed to, he knew that she must never know – or be certain – of the awe and fear he sometimes felt in her presence. She had a ruthlessness at times that took his breath away – and might one day take his life as well, as it had taken the life of many a mole who had offended her.
Since she had come south, Henbane seemed to be fascinated by these great stones, though he personally felt uneasy in their presence, and just the memory of the sound of the Uffington Blowing Stone – which had confused him the day before – set his teeth on edge and had him worrying now that the wind might start up again. It hadn’t seemed to disturb Wrekin quite so much: no imagination that mole, just a fighter. Well, the fighting time would be over one day and Wrekin would find he had less power when Henbane had less need of him. Yes, yes.
Meanwhile, Weed had been worried by Henbane’s awe of the Stones and had sent word northward by way of the sideem, to great Rune himself. Revered Rune, indestructible Rune: Weed’s real master.
But now, in the presence of this Stone, Weed was thinking that Henbane seemed peaceful and there is something about her... something... But how can a mole as turned and slanted, askew and twisted as Weed hope to see aright the light of the Stone in so dark a mole as Henbane? Weed could not understand the nature of that distant thwarted light in Henbane he only dimly saw; for it was this that gave him unease, and had decided him to send reports North, and to think that the time was surely coming when Henbane must be persuaded North once more. Now they had captured old Boswell, whom Rune had expressly ordered should be brought to Whern alive, there was little enough to hold them back – except the taking of Duncton Wood, and perhaps an assault by some of Wrekin’s more stupid guardmoles upon the distant Siabod.
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