“What help? I’m as much a prisoner as you.”
“Here? In Whern? No, no, the prison is everywhere. It is in moles’ minds. Your help is in readying other moles for what is soon to be. At least I hope it will be! Spindle, Alder, Mayweed, everymole. They’re ready now and I have one last thing to do and then I can do no more.”
“But...” began Tryfan.
“Always ‘but’. But nothing.”
“How will you get out of here?” said Tryfan. “The place is guarded and impregnable, the sideem are all about, and Spindle and I are prisoners though you make light of it.”
Boswell held up his paw and said quietly, “You have already done all you need to get me out of here. You can do no more, and if I were you I would stop striving to help me. Believe me, you have. No, Tryfan, from all you have said, from all I know of you, you have laid the foundation for the Stone Mole’s coming, just as I hoped you would. Now you must find Silence, and I fear it will be especially hard. It always is for moles who lead, for they cannot so easily forget themselves. Trust me, Tryfan, and trust the Stone, and know that Spindle will be there when you need him, know that....”
Tryfan felt fear then, for Boswell’s eyes were sad on him, as if he knew more than he said, or at least feared more.
“Can’t you guide me, Boswell? Can’t you tell me what I should know?”
Boswell shook his head.
“Did I ever guide you, mole?” he said. “I think I never did. I showed you how a life should be as parents must show their pups. Being is the only way. If I taught you anything at all it was to listen to what your heart tells you, and to trust yourself, and if you have made mistakes, as you have, then others will forgive. Trust your heart in the days ahead, trust that I shall be safe, because without knowing it you have made it so, and when you are ready Spindle will see that you return home safeguarded.
“Now, I am tired, and there are things to do soon. Did I tell you about Henbane? No, no I didn’t. I can’t. Nothing to say. Too late, perhaps. But don’t try to fight Rune, Tryfan. Your talons are not sharp enough. Leave him to her. Go now, go....”
“Boswell, will I see you again?” Even as he asked it, Tryfan knew it as a strange question, but he felt its answer might comfort him in the darkness that lay before him, and of which he was afraid.
Boswell stared at him and seemed to look at him for a long moment not as if he were Tryfan, but as if he were anymole, or allmole. But it was to Tryfan, the Tryfan that he loved, that he replied: “Yes, you’ll see me, and I shall see you, and I shall love you always as I love you now and as your parents loved you. For remember, Tryfan, you were much loved and such a mole shall always be loved to the end of his days. The darkness is not knowing it. Oh yes, you shall see me, by the Stone you shall see me and you shall know at last that your darkness was a passing thing. And in knowing that you shall know how to love me, that moledom shall know such love as well. You are a blessed mole, Tryfan, for Rebecca loved you, and Bracken did, and they put you on the way towards the Silence you may hear, where light is and from where the sound that touches all moles’ hearts comes forth.”
Then Tryfan turned from Boswell, and made his way among the rocks, and the damp moss and ferns, past the roots of old trees and back to the river that surged and was sucked to nothingness. There Weed and the sideem waited, and Spindle too.
None of them spoke, but they turned and left that place, where Boswell waited to depart, and where, unseen but felt, an evil mole watched down.
For several days after that Tryfan and Spindle found themselves confined in a chamber somewhere above Dowber Gill, whose monotonous roar they could hear all day. The only view out, however, was through a fissure to the sky, up which nomole could have climbed, and the only way out was past a guard of sideem, all young, all tough, all without conversation.
The chamber was wormless and food was brought to them. It might have been uncomfortable but for the fact that somemole had transported heather and dried grass into the place, and there was a small deposit of sand and gravel on one side which meant that they did not have to take stance on bare rock.
The air currents were good, as they generally seemed to be in the High Sideem, and for their natural functions they were allowed, singly, to the surface, but always heavily guarded.
Both moles were better equipped to deal with boredom, which was now their main enemy, than they once were but even so after a few days boredom and its associated restlessness set in. The journeys to the surface were the only relief.
If they wished not to be overheard they were able to talk only in low voices, for the sideem were always near, and the chamber carried sounds easily. Even when they whispered, the sibilants ran harshly about the walls and drowned even the roar of Dowber Gill.
But at least Tryfan was able to report to Spindle all that Boswell had said, and express his fears and doubts about what seemed likely soon to come. After that, the two moles indulged in dreams and hopes of what they might do once they had fulfilled whatever task it was they were to do, and had set off once more to trek south, hopefully with Boswell at their side.
Of his fears for himself Tryfan said little, but Spindle saw them there and sought to reassure him by sharing a dream of a future in which Duncton would be happily occupied once more. There, both agreed, if the Stone granted them the leisure, they would do what they were best equipped to do, which was to scribe. Spindle would uncover the books he had hidden in the ancient tunnels of Duncton Wood, and start once more a Library in the hope that one distant day, long after they both had gone, their texts would tell future moles of their past.
“But differently than at the Holy Burrows,” said Tryfan. “We’ll scribe texts that tell the stories of real moles, and give accounts from which all can learn. For it is my hope that ordinary moles can be taught to scribe and read. Scribemoles must teach others as I have taught you and Mayweed, so that all moles may know the wisdom that was forgotten. Mind you, if I had young of my own I would teach them to scribe second, and to live first. That’s how it would be!”
Then Tryfan smiled a little wanly, and fell silent, while Spindle would think that having young was not what a mole expected it would be, perhaps not ever. And he thought of Bailey, his own son, so close by here, so lost to him.
Then suddenly one day when they were whispering together their conversation was interrupted.
It was Sleekit, Henbane’s right-paw sideem.
“You are to come to Henbane, Tryfan of Duncton,” she said, her face as impassive as ever.
“And Spindle?” asked Tryfan not moving.
“He will be well enough here,” said Sleekit.
Though she was expressionless it seemed to Tryfan that it was as well he went with her without further protest. And anyway, some action was surely better than none.
He joined her by the entrance and the other sideem moved to one side to let him pass. Sleekit said, “The walls here have ears and it is well you have said nothing of consequence to each other in your time in this chamber. You have spoken only of dreams.” She smiled rather primly, and looked for a moment directly into Tryfan’s eyes, as if to say: “Beware of trying to say anything to me even if you believe me to be of the Stone, for others may hear.”
Casting one last glance at Spindle, who watched his leaving with frowning concern on his face, Tryfan turned and followed Sleekit. A sideem went behind and ahead of them and whatever the purpose of Sleekit’s tacit warning there seemed no hope of talking anyway.
But the route they took was rough and tortuous and there were several times when the mole behind lagged a little while the one ahead went too fast, so that Sleekit and Tryfan found themselves together without others to see. But the tunnel was high and galleried and, as always in such places in the High Sideem, Tryfan felt overlooked and watched. Yet hopeful that she herself would choose the best moment, if that was her intention, he stayed close by her and watched for an opportunity.
It came as the tunnel passed by a shoot o
f water that cleft over the edge of some turning gallery above and thrust down into a pool where the tunnel became a chamber once more. There the route was circuitous about the pools and stalagmites that ranged over the great chamber’s floor. There among that noise and gloom Sleekit stopped, turned ugently, and said, “I have not forgotten Buckland or the Seven Stancing, nor the sense it gave me that I have some task of the Stone.”
“I know it, mole,” said Tryfan.
“It has troubled me always, and I have not known what to do. I heard something in that burrow that I never heard again. I felt a peace near that sick mole, Thyme.”
“The Stone meant it so,” said Tryfan, “but as for your task, find comfort in the knowledge that few moles know truly what theirs is. It is in the truthful search for it that they find the Stone, but the way is hard.”
“I have sought that Silence again all these long years. I have been... alone. And now you are here I am frightened and know not what to do. Henbane will kill you, as she has killed all the others.”
“Others?”
“Males. She needs them. She kills them afterwards, or has them killed. And here, of all places, you could not escape. Do not yield to her, Tryfan, or you are dead. That is all I can say, all the help I can give. I....”
And Tryfan saw a mole in fear, whose eyes were frightened and he remembered again that Seven Stancing, when he found the power to heal and first felt his strength. He felt it now.
“There is something you can do,” he found himself saying, not even knowing what he might say next. “Something only you can do which perhaps the Stone prepared you for as it has prepared me for this day now... The mole Bailey.”
A look of pity and contempt came over Sleekit’s smooth face.
“He is the son of the mole we once helped heal together. Thyme was his mother. Spindle his father.”
Sleekit’s eyes widened.
“But Bailey knows that not. Help him and I think you may help us all. Take him... take him...” And Tryfan remembered a young mole once, innocent as well, who went to the Stone in Duncton Wood and asked for its guidance. Boswell came. Boswell guided him. Tryfan remembered himself. Yes....
“Take him to Boswell, he will know what to do. Take him to the Fall....”
“Trouble, Madam?”
The sideem behind had caught them up.
“Insolence,” said Sleekit, “seeking to persuade me of the error of my ways! These Stone followers live on hope!”
The sideem came as near to laughing as a sideem can.
“I would like to see him evangelise the WordSpeaker!”
The two moles smiled.
“Now, let us continue with no more talk,” said Sleekit coldly.
“So shall it be,” said Tryfan.
“Indeed it shall,” said Sleekit purposefully.
Soon after that they came to Henbane’s den where, languidly, she waited for them.
Henbane looked long at Tryfan, and then indifferently at Sleekit and the sideem accompanying them.
“Leave us,” she purred.
“But WordSpeaker —” began Sleekit.
“Yes?” The word was cold as ice.
“Is it wise?” Tryfan was surprised at how confidently Sleekit spoke. Clearly she had not become the sideem closest to Henbane for nothing.
“Not very,” said Henbane, “but risks are fun. And anyway, I think it unlikely that Tryfan would seek to harm me so long as he knows that his dear friend Spindle is so safe with our sideem. They can have cruel talons in the name of the Word. Is there anything else, my dear, before you leave?”
Sleekit smiled.
“’Tis nothing,” she said.
“Nothing is something,” said Henbane. “Speak it.”
“I can report later what this mole and the mole Spindle spoke secretly to each other.”
“You can, but is it of consequence?”
Sleekit smiled and shrugged indifferently.
“No, amusing that is all. They spoke of Bailey, saying that in their Stone-warped judgement he is not so far changed towards the Word that Boswell, for all his age, could not revive the Stone in him.”
Henbane laughed.
“Did they now?” she said. “Well! Bailey has always wanted to go down to the Fall and now you must give him his chance, Sleekit. But stay near them. I would hear your report of the effect on Bailey of their exciting and learned conversation. Summon him.”
Sleekit went out and they waited then in silence until Bailey, huffing and puffing, appeared with Sleekit at his side.
“Sleekit said you wanted me to do something,” he said with pathetic eagerness. Then, seeing Tryfan, he added petulantly, “Oh! Hello!”
Tryfan nodded but said nothing.
“It’s time you were educated by the wisest mole in moledom,” said Henbane.
Bailey’s eyes widened in fear: “The Master?” he asked.
Henbane laughed outright, and then her eyes turned cold.
“Boswell,” she said. “He is to teach you of the Stone.”
“But I don’t believe in the Stone,” said Bailey. “I worship the Word. I do!”
Henbane looked pained and weary.
“A mole knows the Word, he doesn’t worship it. Perhaps, Sleekit, Tryfan and Spindle are right to have faith in Boswell! But I hope not, Bailey, for your sake. Because I fear that if you are unable to persuade Boswell to Atone and profess the Word then both of you will die.”
“But Henbane...” faltered Bailey, sweating.
“I did not mean —” began Sleekit.
“Thank you, Sleekit! And you, Bailey, shut up. You bore me now. Take him to Boswell, Sleekit, and report on what happens. I would know today but —” She looked at Tryfan sweetly and added, “No, not too soon. Now, leave us.”
For those concerned with the history of Duncton Wood, and the events that formed the context of the coming of the Stone Mole, what happened in the following hours between Henbane of Whern and Tryfan of Duncton, and to Tryfan subsequently, has been the subject of much debate, dispute and controversy. Some attribute blame, others pity. Many still feel anger about it, whilst a few – and there have been a growing number of these in recent years – express understanding and sympathy. No ordinary mole is perfect, none blameless, none can look back on his life without regret for some actions taken or for things left undone.
But what a mole can do when he or she considers the history of Duncton in those times is strive to listen to the truth as it is known, and if judgement must be made let it be in a tolerant spirit, and one which remembers that Tryfan’s life was lived in troubled and difficult times, and the burdens he carried for himself and for others were heavy. Though taken up with reluctance, and carried in the knowledge that much he did he might have done better, yet at least he accepted the tasks that the Stone gave him, and did his best to ensure that there would be worthy followers ready in moledom for the great and triumphant change that he believed would soon come.
As for those few critical hours in the company of Henbane, until now the truth of them has remained obscure, and what should be the best source, and generally the one it is the wisest to follow – which are the texts left us by Spindle the Cleric who was witness to so much that happened in those days – is on this one subject not to be entirely trusted. Great historian that he was, Spindle was, after all, but a mole like any other, and on some things perhaps less of a judge than others. He was fortunate to have a successful mating in his life, with doomed Thyme, and after that not to need, as others might, anything more than the pursuit of texts and learning, and the company of good friends.
So perhaps his account judges rather too harshly what occurred between Tryfan and Henbane in Whern. And, too, it was scribed before the full truth of the coming of the Stone Mole was known, and before anymole could hope to understand his purpose.
But we are now able to turn to another source than Spindle’s, though some might say that it, too, is biased and uncertain, and they would no doubt be right: fo
r that new and so-far unrecorded source is Tryfan himself.
He has left an account of that time with Henbane, though how he came to do so, and why, it is not yet our task to recount. But tell of it he did, and so many of its details are now confirmed by other sources that we have good reason to think that this version is as near to the truth – the terrible truth – as we are ever likely to get.
So, this explanation made, we who would continue our journey at Tryfan’s side and help him with our prayers, must travel back to that strange and beautiful chamber that it pleased dread Henbane to call her den, and know what took place after Sleekit had so cleverly arranged, at Tryfan’s urgent suggestion, Bailey’s meeting with Boswell at Provident Fall....
After they had gone, Henbane stared at Tryfan a long time, saying nothing but seeming to put herself into thoughts that troubled her, and made her seem weak and vulnerable. Whatever Tryfan might have expected it was not that.
For there, unprotected before him, the leader of the grikes stared at him until her eyes filled with tears and the chamber they were in seemed almost overcome with the power of her grief. And grief for what?”
“You dislike me,” she said, “and yet I have no such feelings towards you, and nor have I ever had towards anymole of the Stone. But you do, Tryfan of Duncton, and I feel that dislike as a pain here!” And she thumped a paw to her chest and, as it appeared to Tryfan, burst into a paroxysm of tears.
“I am not loved!” she declared. “I am alone!”
If there was something Tryfan should have said he did not know what it was. Whatmole would have done? Easy now, looking back, to think what might have been said, but at the time? Tryfan himself reports that such was the potency of Henbane’s grief that it was like a natural force about him, and he felt it as he had felt the power of her attraction at their first meeting in Whern some days before and the confusion of his senses that accompanied it.
Duncton Quest Page 75