Duncton Quest

by William Horwood

  So it was not until March that Mayweed had started going off once more to explore tunnels long since abandoned by the Wen moles themselves, and set as his objective the task of finding the burrows, if they still existed, of the great Dunbar himself.

  The Wen moles put up some token resistance to this enterprise but soon gave up, and some even offered suggestions to him as to where these might be. It was a sign of the system’s decline that none had ever bothered to look, and that even when they thought about it, none was much interested. But one thing seemed certain, and all agreed about it, that Dunbar’s burrows would be on the westside, facing in the direction of Uffington.

  The reason for Mayweed’s interest, which soon overtook the earlier enthusiasm he had shown for the texts of the Library, was the haunting memory he had of the sounds – calls and summons, more like – carried by the walls in the ancient tunnels they had found on their way into the Wen, where Rowan’s sister Haize had died.

  “Mayweed remembers that, Mayweed thinks there might be more of that, Mayweed desires to hear that again!” he had told Spindle.

  So off he went into the Wen tunnels to explore and find out what he could. As tunnels went they certainly had a style of their own. They were smaller than the tunnels in more modern systems, and sometimes a mole had to duck low to get into a burrow off a tunnel. They were well made and must once have had remarkable windsound for even now they still carried an echo well and gave a mole a sense of where he was, as good tunnels should. Other mole movements travelled like well-made whispers, clear, distinct yet not intrusive.

  They were quite complex, turning here and there, splitting off into high and lower levels, making use of the gravel and flint of that soil in an archaic way, so that a mole felt he had travelled back in time.

  The communal tunnels had clearly once been well used and, though dusty and ruinous now, their corners were well polished from the passage of moles’ flanks, and the steps from one level to another rounded and worn.

  As Mayweed explored he found that the tunnels to the north of the westside were older, and even found some seal-ups which, when broken into, revealed that single moles had been sealed in where they died. With mounting hope he had explored that area and yet had finally found nothing.

  It was on such a day of disappointment when Mayweed must have wandered near Feverfew’s burrows and that Tryfan and he met for the first time for several days. Tryfan was glad to see him, for he was growing tired of the pupping process, Squail’s meddling, and the expectation that he should crouch down and patiently do nothing.

  “Paternal Sir, nearly, humble old me can’t do much that’s useful at the moment either. Overextended Starling has no use for me now, Spindle can’t see further than his snout as he learns old mole from Paston, and you and fecund Feverfew are otherwise engaged! So Mayweed wanders and seeks a dream.”

  “When you find it, Mayweed, let me know. I would like to see Dunbar’s burrows if they exist – which I doubt.”

  “Mayweed will, terrific Tryfan, Mayweed will!”

  “Feverfew is near to pupping now,” said Tryfan, heavily.

  “Mayweed wishes her well,” said Mayweed grandly, “and hopes pups will be a fitting prelude to your long years with her.”

  “Prelude? Bit late for preludes.”

  “Mayweed may be single, auspicious Sir, and Mayweed may be humble, but he is not a fool. Mating is a prelude.”

  “To what?”

  Mayweed shrugged. “Something better,” he said. “Mayweed would definitely like to know what, but doesn’t. Mayweed is exceedingly ignorant about such things but intends to improve in time.”

  “Got your eye on a female then?” said Tryfan with a grin, and feeling better for Mayweed’s company.

  Mayweed smiled in a confident way.

  “Long term is Mayweed’s way, like life itself. You put a paw forward on the Slopeside one day and you find yourself in a tunnel in the Wen the next day, as it were. That’s long term. Now Mayweed thinks of pairing and tomorrow it may happen. Long term, very. As for your droll question, grand Tryfan, the honest answer is “No!” I have not the precise female in mind as yet. But when I meet her I shall know, and you’ll be the second to be told.”

  Later that same day, when Tryfan had gone back to Feverfew’s burrows to see if he was needed, Heath ambled over to see Mayweed and said, “I know what you’re looking for.”

  “So does your humble servant,” replied Mayweed, “but it doesn’t help. Knowing is not quite the same thing as finding. Mayweed wishes it were.”

  “Well chum, what I’m trying to say is I know where there’s some old tunnels. Very old, very comfortable. I know because I lived in them and would be still if I had not been discovered minding my own business and having a quiet worm out on the surface and enjoying the prospect of spring when your friend and mine, Starling, came along.”

  “Is the magical Madam near to her big day, wonders Mayweed delicately?” said Mayweed.

  “If you mean is she near pupping your guess is as good as mine since I can’t get a snout into her tunnels edgeways but that some grinning old female comes up and tells me to get lost.”

  “Then take me, hapless Heath, to these old tunnels you found and let’s see what humbleness himself can make of them!”

  “You’re on,” said Heath, turning eastwards.

  “Forgive me Sir, twice over, but you’re going eastward.”

  “That’s where the tunnels you want to see are.”

  “Describe them, hopeful Heath.”

  Heath did so, telling Mayweed that they were almost identical in form to the remnant of the other ancient system in the Wen, and that they had chamber after chamber of wall scribings which made strange sounds.

  “Er – ahm – Mayweed wishes briefly to thump his head very hard on this tunnel roof, Sir.” Which he did, and then looked ruefully round in a generally westward direction as if to take in at one glance all the myriad of tunnels he had wasted his time exploring. “Mayweed is now ready, Sir, though if the tunnels you lead him to are definitely the right ones, which they sound to be, he may well be moved to thump his stupid head again.”

  They went on a long perambulating sort of route which took in several stops for food and a laze in the sun before plunging below ground on the far eastside and then by various twofoot ducts, culverts and ancient tunnels, to another stretch of grass wasteland overlooking the Wen.

  The moment Mayweed went down into its tunnels he saw he was much nearer something very old, and, even better, that the shape and cut of the tunnels was indeed almost identical to those in which they had found Haize’s body. But since they were not overlain by a twofoot structure, and since evidently Heath had lived up there for a season or two, the entrances were open and the tunnels lit.

  “There’s plenty of them,” said Heath, “and they’re pretty old....”

  But Mayweed was hardly listening. Instead he was staring here and there eagerly, fascinated by what he saw. The tunnels linked a series of chambers and the further into their gloomy depths he went, the more fascinated he became.

  “If you don’t mind, Mayweed, I’d prefer not to come with you....”

  Heath’s voice receded in the distance behind him, echoing strangely among the ancient corrugations and scribings on the wall of the chamber he was in. The tunnel was curiously contorted and confusing, and Mayweed had to pause and focus fully on where he was before he realised he had taken a turn left and gone down a level and had to retrace his steps very carefully to get back to where Heath was.

  “Ah! I was saying,” said Heath, relieved to see him, “that I don’t much like the tunnels you’re going into now. They make strange noises at strange times – I know because I could hear them sometimes. So I just stayed up near the surface in the tunnels where we came in, and very comfortable they were too.”

  “You never explored, helpless Sir?” said Mayweed.

  “No way,” said Heath. “It’s the simple life for me, no complications.
Anyway you’ll get lost, I nearly did.”

  “One thing, Sir, one thing only, is Mayweed certain of: humble he does not get lost. Mislays himself occasionally, scares himself rigid often, but lost never. So hesitant Heath had better stay here while Mayweed goes exploring. He will return.”

  “Well, let’s hope he does. Heath won’t hesitate to bugger off if he feels like it.”

  Mayweed smiled unctuously: “Heath, Sir, will do as Heath must, Mayweed will do as he must, but if all moles did likewise moledom might as well not exist. Pathetic Mayweed suggests Heath thinks about that before he leaves, as Mayweed would like his companionship on the way back!”

  With that Mayweed disappeared into the tunnels while Heath, grumbling now and then about freedom and liberty, settled down to wait.

  Dusk came, and with it the sounds of ancient moles singing down in those tunnels. Night came, and the sound of females laughing. Early dawn came and youngsters called, anxious. Morning came and a tired female’s paws dragged among those chambers as if she was making her final journey to the birth burrow. Heath felt hungry, but he waited. Late morning came and a mole’s pawsteps came out of those tunnels and then, a little later, Mayweed finally reappeared.

  “Mayweed is grateful to Heath for waiting, Mayweed is tired, very; Mayweed is moved, very; Mayweed thanks Heath because this is not a time Mayweed wishes to be alone. Mayweed is very tired. He is.” And with that Mayweed settled down, and with a devotion and care astonishing for him Heath stayed exactly where he was, hungry and restless though he felt. While from out of those tunnels, over the sleeping form of Mayweed, came tired and restless sounds of moles from old to youngster, from youngster to newborn.

  Mayweed awoke in the afternoon, ate, and slept once more. Not until the following dawn did he say, “Mayweed must return now to the westside and tell Tryfan what he has seen and touched and heard. Mayweed may have found, with Heath’s help, what it was that Tryfan of Duncton was sent here to find. Mayweed must make his report.”

  But as they went up to the surface a heavy vibration suddenly ran through the tunnels, which stopped and then started again. Mayweed paused.

  “Twofoots,” said Heath,’and yellow roaring owls.”

  “Handsome Heath will explain to Mayweed now,” said Mayweed.

  “North of here, saw them myself, last summer, huge roaring owls all yellow and with twofoots, big ones. Crunch in the gravel, splodge in the mud.”

  “What mud, what gravel? Explain, dauntless Sir!” demanded Mayweed impatiently.

  Since words seemed inadequate, Heath showed him, though it took them a good time to get there travelling north. A huge area laid waste, the grass all gone, gravel spread, and mud. A roaring owl, huge and yellow and with pale gazing eyes, and the cries of twofoots. The two moles peered about a bit before Heath said, “They’re nearer than they were last summer. Coming in this direction.”

  “Mayweed wonders if Heath can surmise what all this is about,” said Mayweed.

  “Bloody obvious, mate. It’s a roaring owl way, or will be. Twofoots make them, roaring owls use them. They all go into the Wen don’t they? This one will as well. These yellow ones come and pup ones all colours. Must do.”

  “And you think this way will go straight over the tunnels I’ve got to tell Tryfan about?”

  “Over, through, one day. Won’t be any of those old tunnels left at all. Though the rate they’re moving Heath here feels that there’s a couple of summers to go before they clear him out of the way. By then, what with Starling making her demands and one thing and the next, Heath will be so knackered that Heath won’t care much.”

  Mayweed laughed appreciatively.

  “Heath Sir, you are making Mayweed laugh by speaking like him; Mayweed prefers you not to do it, Mayweed’s sides will ache.”

  Heath grinned.

  “You know what I missed all those years I’ve been alone? A laugh. That’s what a mole’s usually missing when he feels he’s missing something but doesn’t quite know what: a bloody good laugh.”

  “Humble Mayweed, who is more of an explorer and route-finder than anything else, will think hard and come up with a joke for Heath so that when he is alone he can tell it to himself and laugh. That will be Mayweed’s gift to Heath for the tunnels he has helped him find.”

  Heath looked quite touched, and said rather gruffly, “Come off it, you silly bugger, you don’t have to think of a joke to make me laugh or smile. You’re one of life’s naturals as it is. Now let’s get you back to Tryfan.”

  Tryfan was only too glad to hear Mayweed’s news, and willing enough to come with him since Squail assured him that “Yf povre Feverfewe (blessid may she bee) yaf nat ypuppe by none wil nat pup thise day springe afore.”

  “Brilliant Sir,” said Mayweed, “what did the cronish Madam say?”

  “We’ve to be back by dawn. Feverfew will not pup before then.”

  “Then, harried Sir, Mayweed will take you to see what he has found, and will guide you back again before day breaks. Later on, perhaps, you will have more time on your paws and you and scholarly Spindle may return to look at those strange tunnels and chambers again.”

  But scholarly Spindle, who had an unerring sense of when he should be at Tryfan’s side, appeared just then and, learning where they were off to, joined them.

  It was just as the afternoon sun began to thin and glance weakly across the grass of the eastside an hour or so before disappearing over the brow of the west, that the three moles descended into the tunnels Mayweed had found.

  “With respect, expectatious Sirs both, I suggest you stay near me and avoid wandering. These tunnels are deceptive, very, and in my modest judgement were made by a mole wise and clever who wished to disorientate and misdirect prying snouts without harming them. Let me demonstrate. Now where, towering Tryfan, do you imagine we go from here?”

  After a steady plod along an old tunnel they had reached an intersection of three routes.

  “This one,” said Tryfan confidently, pointing at the tunnel that continued the way they had been going and slanted downwards. “You can hear it goes deeper and these other two carry surface noise and must go up.”

  Mayweed, grinning, went the way Tryfan suggested, and in moments, as it seemed, they were back on the surface and decidedly confused.

  “Worse is to come, deluded leader,” said Mayweed. “Try going back the way you’ve come.”

  Which Tryfan tried, only to find himself, after a very confusing run, underground somewhere quite different to where they had been before.

  “Mayweed has made his point,” said Mayweed, “abject though he is. Mayweed has a feeling that his entire life has been a preparation for these very tunnels here, and, as he has already recently observed to that unkempt mole Heath, lost he doesn’t get. But that requires skill and concentration so if your splendidnesses could refrain from talking he will attempt to get us back to where we began before Tryfan offered us this exploratory parenthesis.”

  Which he was forced to do by taking them back to the surface and starting the descent from where they first began all over again. But once down they travelled quickly enough, using marks which he had left from his previous journey.

  The tunnels were dry and dusty, and here and there had fallen in, but then they deepened and were untouched. The echoes in them were strong and very confusing, making it seem that there were moles ahead coming towards them, and moles behind running away.

  Then they came to a chamber, lit gloomily from a shaft, and they could see scribings on its walls. In places they were thick, in others there were none; altogether it looked as if the chamber was in some way incomplete, as if the scribemole making the marks had not finished his work.

  “Try them, Tryfan Sir,” said Mayweed.

  Tryfan reached up a taloned paw and touched the scribings lightly. A strange confusion of sounds came, like a hubbub of moles, as if all were talking but one was trying to be heard most of all. The sounds stopped as the scribing stopped, and Tryfan w
ent to another on the same side of the chamber. They heard the sound of muttering and mumbling, a solitary mole. They might almost have fancied that he was behind them, and Spindle even looked around nervously in the gloom as if expecting to see him there.

  The sound receded and they moved on, coming soon to a second chamber, the same size as the first. Once again the walls were scribed only in part, and Tryfan touched the first one he reached. Again an old mole’s voice, and still unclear, calling; then another scribing and another voice, but old again. Unformed.

  Spindle touched the first scribing Tryfan had sounded and though the sound that came out from it was similar it was not quite the same; nor was the second when Spindle touched it.

  “It seems to me that whatever mole made these was trying different scribings out,” said Spindle.

  Mayweed, nodding his head eagerly, looked at Tryfan for confirmation of this.

  “Or perhaps he was searching for something,” said Tryfan. “Do these chambers go on a long way, Mayweed?”

  “Inquisitive Sir, they do. They branch off. They split and they divide. There are some deeper, perhaps, more than limited me has found. And I can save you time and energy by telling you this: they become more complex, the sounds become more distinct, and they become more absorbing.”

  “Is there a pattern to them?”

  “Mayweed is not sure. The tunnels become younger, if Mayweed can put it like that. From old mole voices to youngster voices, and then on to pups.”

  “Take us there then,” said Tryfan, “for we can’t stay here too long. I want to get back to Feverfew by dawn.”

  They travelled on, but were waylaid sometimes as the chambers grew ever more completed and rich. In some, they discovered that Dunbar – they assumed it was him – seemed to have tried to carry the theme of age to youth in a single chamber so that a mole, by touching the scribings in a spiral around the chamber’s side from the roof to the floor, could bring forth sounds of ever-increasing youth. The scribings did not work the other way, from floor to roof, sounding only harsh and conflicting when they tried it. Which was strange since moles start young and grow old. What was Dunbar trying to describe or achieve with these scribings?