But whatever mole was to come was slow doing it for Mayweed approached them backwards, apparently urging a creature towards them until, eventually, they were astonished to see a thin and wiry mole reluctantly following him.
“Well!” declared Tryfan.
“Most brilliant, most clever, most splendid, am I not?” said Mayweed, coming as near as a mole can to patting himself on the back. “This worthy mole found me!” he declared.
The mole stared at them.
“Stainree,” he said, rather loudly, as if they were deaf.
They looked at each other.
“Stainree,” he repeated, yet louder.
“Says only that,” said Mayweed.
“Stainree,” shouted the mole, looking expectantly at each of them in turn.
Then some distant memory, some strange connection, came to life in Tryfan, and as it did something similar came to Spindle, and each of them instinctively went forward as if they knew they had to say something, but knew not quite what.
“Stainree!” repeated the mole, shouting so loud that his paws lifted off the ground with the effort of it.
“He’s saying... he’s saying....”
“He’s saying ‘Steyne ree’,” said Tryfan, whispering the words which are the start of a scribemole’s greeting, and which he had last spoken when greeting Brevis at Buckland.
“Yes,” said Spindle, all fatigue from the day’s travel replaced now by fascination. “He is greeting us formally.”
The mole came nearer to them.
“Stainree,” he said yet again.
“Oh yes,’said Tryfan.’Yes. Staye the hoi and seint...” and his voice was deep as he gave the ancient response which, he had thought, only scribemoles knew.
But the mole seemed not to understand and he merely repeated the word, “Stainree”.
“Staye the... Staithee!” said Spindle, corrupting the proper response.
Then the mole relaxed, looked at each in turn, and then said, “Follow!”
“We shall!” said Tryfan.
With no more ado the mole led them out across the open scrub, gave a contemptuous glance at some black-headed seagull that came wheeling and squealing out of the bright-dark sky overhead, and then after taking a way that was all surface, and lasted a good half hour, they dropped into tunnels the like of which none of them had ever seen before.
“Rubbish!” said Spindle finally. “Twofoot and roaring owl rubbish! That’s what this is...!”
The tunnels were only occasionally of earth, for the rest they were made up of all those materials which the moles had been discovering all summer and autumn past, but squashed and flattened, turned and torn, jumbled and shoved together so that the tunnels were now walled with glas, now with thinbark, and now with long lines of wood to give them astonishing straightness, now with rusting metaille.
The sounds were extraordinary, all loud and vibrating.
The other moles looked at Spindle and he smiled that smile that moles do when they have solved a problem others have only just started formulating.
“I wondered why so many things were in the tunnels, for surely the creatures that had them must want them. But no, they were discarded. Here we have what a mole might call a place of total discard: rubbish, in short, such as a mole might dispose of outside his burrows when spring comes.”
They had paused briefly while the mole guiding them had gone on ahead. Now he came back, and, shouting above the noise all about them, said, “Come on and meet Corm!”
On they went, round a corner, and there in a chamber defined by angled metaille mesh, with a ceiling high above them, was a fat and dirty mole. His mouth was full when they arrived and his right talon clogged with the food he was eating, much of which was on the floor before him. It looked like oval orange beetles without legs covered in a thick orange juice. It smelt sweet.
He looked up at them from piggy eyes and grinned, his teeth orange with whatever it was he ate.
“Stainree!” he shouted in a friendly way, spitting globs of orange muck on Tryfan and Spindle’s fur.
“Staithee!” said Tryfan, as Spindle fastidiously groomed his fur clean.
“And welcome you are. Damn me, we haven’t seen stranger moles in... how long is it, Murr?” he said to the gaunt mole who had led them there.
“Long enough to make it remarkable,” said Murr, “but not so long that I have forgot! They came by the western pipe bridge.” There were muttered explanations of surprise at this, and Tryfan presumed they were referring to the awkward passage Mayweed had found for them over a waterway that morning, and deduced that Murr must have been watching them for some hours.
“And did they now? Stone me!” said the mole, looking at them with obvious respect. “Well, my name’s Corm, and Murr you’ve met already...” Their voices were so loud! Tryfan looked at the others: perhaps they would start talking loudly when they had been long enough surrounded by such continual noise.
Tryfan introduced himself and the rest of them one by one, and gave a guarded explanation, mentioning grikes only in passing as to why they had come. He was never comfortable telling even a half truth, but felt it best, initially at least, to be careful of what he said. These moles might easily be of the Word for all he knew....
“Grikes? We’ve heard of them, all right!” said Corm. “Pains in the arse they are, from what little we’ve heard. Stoneless aren’t they?”
Tryfan and the others nodded, relaxing.
“Well, you’re safe enough here because they’ll not get through without persistence, like you lot seem to have, or with help, and that they’ll not get... As for us, we don’t go westward out of the Wen. Dangerous out there, what with plagues and fires and grikes and all.”
“If you don’t go out there, how do you know about it then?” asked Spindle reasonably.
“You’re not the only ones daft enough to come avisiting, mate! Especially since the troubles started. There’s easier routes than the one you took. When you leave tomorrow, Murr here’ll show you. Myself, I don’t travel much, and nor do most moles round here.” He patted his ample stomach and grinned.
“We’re... er... not leaving tomorrow,” said Tryfan. “At least, not back westwards. We’re going on.”
“Here we go again, Murr. I told we was about due for some more intrepid explorers.” He raised his eyes with resignation, tucked into some more of his food and then let out a loud and smelly belch. He patted his stomach again, as if to push it into a more comfortable position and made a smaller, softer belch, a gentle echo of the first. Then when he was quite comfortable, and Spindle, a prim mole about such things, had shifted about uneasily, he said, “Don’t tell me, just... don’t... tell... me. You’re searching for the very heart of the Wen. You’re hoping to find moles there who will guide you on to something or other.”
“You know a lot,” said Tryfan.
“I know bugger all, chum,” said Corm, pushing Murr’s paw away from what little remained of the food he had been eating and muttering, “I haven’t finished yet.” He nibbled a bit more, as if to establish his right to the whole lot if he wanted it, turned away, waved magnanimously for Murr to eat what he liked and said, “What I do know is that you’ll not find whatever it is you’re looking for. You’ll get yourself killed, and you’ll get these moles killed, and nomole will be any the wiser. Waste of everymole’s time.”
“You’ve tried it?” asked Tryfan.
“Me? Come off it! Only thing I’ve ever taken any risks over is food, but round here... well, you’d be daft not to. Very interesting this place for a mole who likes food.”
“Is it where the twofoots of the Wen bring all their rubbish?” asked Spindle.
“Oh clever, very clever. Took me a long time to work that out. But no, it’s not. This place is just one of the places, there’s dozens of them, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. The Wen is big, big, which means bloody ginormous. That’s one good reason why you’ll never get to the heart of it. There isn’t one.<
br />
“You are looking at a mole who was once thin. This mole you are looking at decided to take a risk and set off as you have for the heart of the Wen. He got here and started eating. He has not stopped eating since. He has travelled no further. He has found happiness.”
“Fat and obese Sir, mole of amplitude, Mayweed, a humble mole but one with curiosity will ask you a question, no?”
Corm’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as Mayweed suddenly spoke. He raised his paw and turned to Tryfan and said, “What’s he on about?”
Tryfan grinned and shrugged.
“Rotund vagrant,” said Mayweed, coming closer and peering into Corm’s eyes, “have you travelled east of here?”
“No,” said Corm, “but I know a mole who has.”
“Magnificent Murr?” asked Mayweed turning to Murr with a wonderful and engaging smile.
“Give over,” said Murr. “I never go east if I can help it. Nasty things happen east.”
“Then who, tubby and ample Corm, is the mole who has travelled east?”
“Comes here to feed up a bit and then goes back again.” Corm yawned. Talking was an effort, and his eyes flicked this way and that as if his mind was beginning to drift back to the subject that occupied most of his waking thoughts: food.
“Yes, comely Corm?” said Mayweed, obviously enjoying himself. Starling was giggling, but only because Corm seemed fascinated by Mayweed’s adjectives and was muttering some of them to himself as his eyes half closed with sleep... “Comely... Obese... what else?”
“Rotund,” repeated Mayweed.
“Mmm,” said Corm patting himself again and smiling. “Yes, rotund.”
“Well, hungry Sir?” nagged Mayweed.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, but there is a mole a few miles on, and I mean miles, who has ventured further than any other I know into the Wen and lived to tell the tale. The poor idiot’s name is Rowan.”
“Why...?” began Spindle.
Corm waved a paw impatiently.
“He’ll tell you, tell you everything and be glad too. Ask him. He’ll warn you off, but as I can see you’ll not listen to anything a mole will say I can only suggest that you go and chat to him. Goodbye and good luck. Don’t say I didn’t tell you.”
“We’ll wait until morning if you don’t mind,” said Tryfan.
“Not if you’re going east, you won’t. I don’t mind, but you will. Go in the morning and the dogs’ll eat you alive, go now and you’ll avoid them. They come out in the morning. Very nasty. Murr, show ’em!”
“But I never go east. Hate it.”
“Murr!” warned Corm.
“Oh, well, all right, I suppose so. Regret finding you but will take you there.”
“Words of advice,” said Corm as they left. “One: watch out for cats. Give them a good talon-thrust on the nose and tunnel away. They don’t kill with one bite like a dog does. Two: ignore Rowan’s tears and tell him you’re in a hurry or otherwise you’ll be crouched there till Longest Night listening to him.”
“Longer,” muttered Murr.
“Three: if you find out anything interesting and survive to tell the tale I’ll be glad to hear of it, very interested in fact.”
“Where will we find you?” asked Tryfan politely.
“I don’t move much,” said Corm.
It took them all night to travel to where Murr wanted to take them, but they might have been quicker had not Mayweed stopped him from time to time to check out directions, for the route was through complex tunnels and surface ways and Mayweed liked to remember such things.
So it was dawn before they arrived, though nomole was immediately in sight.
“He’ll come,” said Murr, looking about uneasily. “I’ll leave you here.” As he went he tapped Mayweed on the shoulder and said, “See you later, Mayweed mate!”
“’Mayweed mate,’” repeated Mayweed with great delight. “Very droll, very jokey, and Mayweed likes that! He says in reply, “See you later, chum Murr!’” And Mayweed laughed himself silly as Murr left them.
“Shut up, Mayweed,” said Tryfan, irritable with tiredness.
Dawn came, and then dogs. Yapping, barking, spooring, sniffing, sniffling, pulling twofoots with them. The place was grass and concrete, and there were great concrete walls near and far, all very high. But Tryfan’s group were well hidden in tunnels, and nearby, flowing in a channel in the ground, very wide and grubby, was a stream which went to the northern edge of the grass and then under a huge arch and into deepening darkness, where it boomed and sounded frightening.
It was a dull day. The dogs and the twofoots went, and roaring owls sounded all about but quite unseen. Then a snuffle, and a shake, and from out of a crack in the concrete, near where they had taken refuge a mole appeared and made straight for them. He rushed into their tunnel, puffing heavily, and stared at each of them in turn.
“Greetings wanderers, greetings one and all. Rowan, that’s me. And you are...?” They told him their names in turn and he muttered words like “Good!” “Yes!”, “Well then!” and “Splendid!”
Though his voice was young and his looks eager, he was an old mole, wrinkled and grey. Like Corm, he did not look short of food, but he was unfit rather than obese. From the first he had stationed himself near the entrance to the burrow from where he could see right down to the archway into which the stream disappeared. He looked that way very frequently, as if he was expecting a mole to come any moment. His attention was taken up so much by this archway that Tryfan asked him, before they said anything more, if he was expecting anymole.
“Any moment, minute by minute,” said Rowan, frowning and worried. “Yes, any moment now they’ll come. Or I think they will.”
“Who?” asked Spindle.
“Moles I once knew,” said Rowan, but in such a way that the word “once” was suggestive of a very long time ago indeed.
“Where have they gone?” asked Tryfan.
“Where I once went,” said Rowan. “Oh, I did! Once. Long time ago.”
There was a terrible sadness in his voice, and a longing, as of a mole who has lost most of his life down a high arched tunnel, and is waiting for it to return.
“What were their names?” asked Starling softly. She went close to him and for a moment he turned to her, interested in a way he had not been before as if this mole among them all would understand what he had to tell them.
“Haize was my sister, Heath was a friend. Shall I tell you?”
He looked away from them, back towards the archway. His voice was diffident, as if he had no real hope that they would wish to hear.
Tryfan remembered Corm’s warning and looked around at the other three. He saw in each of their eyes sympathy for this old mole, and kindness, and curiosity too. He saw no impatience, no condescension. He saw the eyes of moles he had learned to trust and respect, he saw three moles that he had learned to love. He knew that he could find no other three with whom he would be more willing and confident to travel into the depths of the Wen, through the archway and down the tunnel at which Rowan gazed so longingly.
“I think we’d all like you to tell us,” said Tryfan with a smile.
“Really?” said Rowan, rather surprised.
“Please,” said Starling.
“Yearning Sir,” said Mayweed, “it would be this mole’s privilege to hear you.”
“I’m sure we all would like it,” said Spindle.
“Well then!” said Rowan, “I shall.” And he turned from his eternal watching, settled down, and told them of how he came to be where he was that day and every day and would be for evermore until that special day came – and he knew it would! – when the moles he waited for came back out of the Wen.
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was during that same wet and windy month of November, as Tryfan and his moles were finally poised to enter the most dangerous part of the Wen, and when moles look irritably for shelter and despair that good weather will ever return, that Alder and Marram f
irst came near the last stages of the journey to dread Siabod.
They knew little of Siabod but what Tryfan had been able to tell them of his parents’ own account of the place, and what they had picked up from other moles on the final stages of their journey.
They had travelled steadily and well, not using their own names, and the fact that they were grikes counted in their favour, for most of the systems they passed through were entirely grike-controlled and guardmoles were inclined to trust their own kind. All knew that a final assault on Siabod had been planned for many months and, though the main forces had gone on ahead, Alder and Marram were able to convince guardmoles they met that they had special skills and duties that might be needed in Siabod and had been sent up from Buckland to provide them. So they had no trouble getting help towards their destination along the way.
A few eldrenes had been suspicious, a few grikes unhelpful, but on the whole their passage was easy and they were glad, as autumn gave way to winter, that they had travelled fast and before the snows had come, for Siabod is not a place to be out in when ice and snow are about, let alone the blizzards that rage there when December comes.
“By Longest Night we’ll make it and have billets as comfortable as a home burrow in summer,” Alder had been saying cheerfully all the journey long. Marram was less certain and by himself might not have had the persistence that Alder showed. He was a mole like many who, given a lead, will perform great things, but without leadership may do nothing.
It is hard to say now whether already in the back of Alder’s mind were some of the possibilities for battles and campaigns which he would one day plan and seek to execute, as one of the great mole commanders of his time, if not the greatest. Some would suggest that the journey he took to Siabod was a deliberate way of gathering information about the state of moledom which was later to stand him in such good stead.
However that might have been, the fact was that on their long journey he was indeed able to learn a great deal about moledom in general, and some systems in particular, which he was later able to use successfully to the advantage of the moles of the Stone.
Duncton Quest Page 55