“And Mayweed?”
“Yes.”
“And Henbane?”
“I know not.”
“Boswell?”
“Yes, mole?”
“Did Starling see it too?” said Bailey, crying.
“Yes, she too.”
“When will the Stone Mole come?” asked Bailey, almost asleep now.
Then softly Boswell told him, but Bailey heard it not, for his eyes were closed, and he slept before Comfrey’s Stone with the light of a rising sun upon his face.
As Bailey slept an army of moles moved. From the Carneddau they came and on lost Siabod they advanced, the light of a star in their eyes, and the sun of a new day in their faces. They had seen a star, and taken it for the sign that Alder and their leaders had said it would be, which was that the Stone Mole was coming.
So on the unsuspecting grikes that guarded their former tunnels the Siabod moles came down. Hard. Powerful. Ruthless. Killing. To begin what Alder said must never end until the Stone was moledom’s to cherish as it would and the Word was heard no more.
Hard the eyes of the Siabod moles, hard the eyes of Alder.
But troubled the eyes of Marram. Killing? That again? He trusted it not but had argued against it in vain.
So, as the attack on the grikes was renewed, he turned east towards the distant place where that star had shone. Troubled, friendless now, alone, to the east he would go and seek guidance where it came.
So let our memory of that Longest Night end, not with powerful moles, or fated moles whose names would be scribed in history. Their place is known. But with troubled moles who that new day, uncertain of themselves, with no training, no help, no special hope, their names now mostly forgotten, turned as Marram bravely did and made trek towards where they hoped they might find the Stone Mole and a final easing of their troubled hearts. But courage was theirs, and great purpose: to know the Stone Mole and seek the Silence he would help them hear.
Remember them.
Chapter Forty-Three
Of the days that followed Longest Night many moles would say, like Marram, that they marked a changing in their lives.
Indeed, a mole might chronicle all such memories through moledom, and still not come to their end. It was as if a corner had been turned down a long, dark tunnel and light seen at last; a light that drew moles to it and gave them confidence.
But not all moles followed it with the same simple joy and resolution as Marram showed. Some were irritated by it, some complained, some even cursed the time for what they saw as its insistence that they change their lives and seek out its Silence. Others discovered their new direction as if by accident.
Like old Skint, for example, and his good companion Smithills. Why, had he not made trek north to retire at comfort and old age in Grassington? Had he not sworn never to cross talons again with the grikes, or trouble himself with matters of the Stone or the Word, or whatever nonsense moles talked? He had.
Yet Skint was not a mole for idleness and after Tryfan’s departure into Whern, and November came, he had become restless and irritable and anxious for something to do. He had quickly organised the Grassington followers into some semblance of a force against the day that Tryfan and Spindle returned, but the molemonths passed and interest waned. Well, it could be started up again if ever it was needed.
“’Tis not the dream I dreamed of, Smithills, is Grassington! There’s nothing to do here but dwell on memories, and I’m not much of one for that! I wish now I’d gone into Whern with Tryfan.”
“Aye,” agreed Smithills, “he might have done with help...”
And so the molemonths dragged by.
But perhaps the Stone in its wisdom hears the plaints of such moles as Skint as prayers, for certainly it finds ways to grant them....
One cold and bitter evening in mid-December when the snows had started to come, there had been a scurry of moles at his tunnels’ entrance, and a voice came down to disturb his geriatric boredom which once he would never have believed he might be glad to hear. But now he was overjoyed.
“Aging Skint, mole who has done roaming, listen and guess whose voice this is! Yes, it is humble me, Mayweed, your former annoyance, your grateful but unwelcome servant, myself in the fur and flesh. And more!”
“By the Stone, ’tis Mayweed himself!” cried out Skint. “Come down out of the cold and touch your paw to mine for you are welcome!”
“Sunny Sir,” called out Mayweed from above, “I come with company, and more than one.”
“Let’s start with you then,” said Skint, ever cautious.
So Mayweed came down, leaving Sleekit on the surface with Wharfe and Harebell, thinking that it might be wise to advise Skint that he came in the company of a sideem, and with two youngsters whose identities were matters for which secrecy and tact might be well advised.
But Mayweed had only got as far as explaining Sleekit’s presence before the two youngsters, cold and hungry, came tumbling down, trotting into Skint’s tidy burrow and looking about as if they owned the place, with Sleekit close behind.
“Humph!” said Skint. “And I expect you’ll all be wanting food.”
“Mmm!” said Harebell. “Thank you.”
“Please!” said Wharfe who looked like a mole with an appetite.
“Humph!” said Skint again. “You two can come and help me then.”
So it was not until night was well advanced, and Smithills had been fetched to join in the food and fun, and Sleekit and the youngsters had gone to sleep that Skint turned at last to Mayweed and said, “Well, you’ve been busy. Autumn moles eh? Lucky for some!”
“Deluded Skint, greatly impressed Smithills, they are not mine, nor Sleekit’s.”
“Then whose are they, Mayweed?”
Mayweed looked this way and that, drew near, looked about him again and said, “Sirs both, even the youngsters themselves do not know and Mayweed boldly suggests that this is not the time to tell them. That decision is for better moles than I to make.”
“So... whose are they?”
Mayweed looked apologetic.
“Wondering Sirs, do you want the long version or the short, the full account or the brief one, the saga or the sentence?”
“The short version,” said Skint impatiently.
“Tryfan’s,” said Mayweed.
There was absolute silence.
“Tryfan’s?”
“Sir, you are old but Mayweed is glad to discover your hearing is unimpaired. Try fan I said and Tryfan it was.”
“You’ve got some explaining to do,” said Skint. “Now for a start, where’s Tryfan?”
Mayweed sighed miserably.
“I do not know. A mole cannot be everywhere. Of Boswell I have told you and Bailey too, and if they came not here after their escape that was only because Boswell takes his special scribemole ways that even I, Mayweed, do not know.”
“Aye,” said Smithills, “that would be likely.”
“But magnificent Tryfan and great Spindle, there I failed. The Stone guided me another way and I found his youngsters instead.”
“But what of the mother?” said Skint.
“Sirs both,” said Mayweed slowly, “there are only two moles I could tell this to in the whole of moledom, and they are you. Mayweed and Sleekit cannot be expected to keep it only to themselves. They might die and somemole should know. The mother of those good and sturdy and loving youngsters is none other than Henbane herself.”
There was shock on Skint’s face and simple disbelief on Smithills’.
“I said you had some explaining to do, and now I know you have. You better begin at the beginning, Mayweed, and tell us all you know.”
So he told them, simply and well, and for confirmation they fetched Sleekit and she affirmed that it was so. They told them everything, right to the frightening scenes by the Rock of the Word. Then when they had finished Skint said, “Moles, I know not what to do or what to say. A mole must think on a matter like this before he says a
thing. That’s always been my way, as Smithills here will confirm. As for him, he’ll say too much too quickly, so give him a worm and tell him to keep quiet!”
Smithills grinned ruefully, and engaged them in other things while Skint, much affected and amazed at what he had heard, went up to the surface and thought. For hours he was there, and only when dawn came did he seem to start making up his mind what to do. He believed what he had heard and that the youngsters were Tryfan and Henbane’s own. That they knew it not he approved. But what to do with them he had not been certain.
But as dawn came he thought of that last conversation he had had with Tryfan, and remembered two things the scribemole had said. The first had been, “Have strong talons at your command, but remember they are not for killing but for authority’. Aye, well, Skint had seen enough of killing to want to see no more. And he had heard enough stories of Tryfan’s preachings on his way to Whern since then to know his views were the same. Peace must be the Stone’s way now.
The second thing Tryfan said had often given Skint pause for thought: “There’s a place we visited on our way here, a place you know: Beechenhill.” And when Skint had asked him why he mentioned it, Tryfan had simply replied, “Remember it... remember that for one day of my life I was happy there. The moles there have great faith and trust and gave me courage to come on. Remember it!”
Now, thinking of Tryfan’s youngsters who had come so unexpectedly into Skint’s tunnels, he remembered that conversation and decided what to do.
He went back down and joined the others and repeated what Tryfan had said to him.
“Beechenhill is as good and safe a place as we’ll find for the rearing of the two youngsters. It’s a hard place to get to, and Squeezebelly’s a clever leader who keeps the system little noticed. Also, it has a Stone, and moles who’ll remember those two youngsters’ father with affection and respect. When the time comes that they learn who they are, for good and ill, it may be as well that they are at Beechenhill.”
It did not take long for the others to agree.
“We shall leave here without fuss and we’ll tell nomole where we’re going or why. If the youngsters can stand it we’ll travel in two groups, so that if the sideem do come searching they’ll hear stories of only one youngster and not easily put one and one together to make two. But of that Mayweed and Sleekit must decide.”
The day was well advanced before the two moles would agree to the part of Skint’s plan that would split them up, but agree to it they did.
That same day they left, Mayweed and Skint with Wharfe, and Sleekit and Smithills with Harebell. Quietly they went, and no Grassington mole was told, but those that noticed anything saw nothing, for they held Skint and Smithills in great respect and trusted what they did.
As for the “strong talons” Skint had got ready, they were told to watch out for Tryfan and Spindle, to say nothing to anymole, to humour the grikes and pay due homage to the
Word when it was asked of them. In short, to raise no suspicions.
Then they were gone, southward towards the Dark Peak, by hill and vale, by river and wood, trusting that the Stone would protect them all and bring them safeguarded to Beechenhill.
Both groups saw the star on Longest Night, and the youngsters were in awe and listened to what their elders said of the Stone Mole and his coming. They travelled on until, in early January, they came to Beechenhill, Mayweed’s group a few days ahead of the others, but all were welcomed by those good and faithful moles and their leader, Squeezebelly, asked no questions of the youngsters’ birth but understood there was more to their parentage than met his eye.
Mayweed and Sleekit decided that their task lay now at Beechenhill, to watch over Tryfan and Henbane’s young, and to rear them ready for whatever task the Stone might give them. Perhaps, too, after molemonths of closeness without time for intimacy, and with spring approaching, they felt the need to have time to themselves and relax and enjoy life.
But Skint, restless as ever now the excitement of getting to Beechenhill was over, hesitated for days over his return to Grassington. Then one day, grumbling about life and old age, Smithills said, “You know, Skint, you’re such a misery you’ll never be happy unless you’re doing something. Has it occurred to you what Tryfan would have done if he saw that star on Longest Night?”
“He’d be away to the south, to Duncton Wood itself as like as not, whatever the difficulties.”
“Aye, that’s what I think, and do you think he’d have need of two old moles if they could drag themselves there?” said Smithills.
“Smithills, you’re a fool, and more than that you’re a tempting fool. We’ll start this very day. I’ve not been happy with myself since Longest Night. I’m not saying I believe in the Stone, mind – it’s all nonsense as I’ve always said it is – but by the talons on my paws if I was ever to hear there was a Stone Mole and I never had a go at seeing him, why, I’d grumble about it the rest of my life!”
They would have liked to leave there and then, but Squeezebelly, a cheerful mole who liked an excuse for a feast and a song, insisted that they stay a day longer and say a proper farewell. And more than that, he made them touch the Beechenhill Stone so that, if the day ever came that they saw the Stone Mole, they could touch him with the same paw, as if that would bring luck to Beechenhill.
So it was that in mid-January, with the winter sharp and cold and more snow yet to come, two old moles with scarred bodies and wrinkled skin, but hearts as good as any mole’s could be, left Beechenhill with many a message in their ears, and with stories for Tryfan, should they ever find him, that would bring tears to his eyes, and cheer to his heart.
Mayweed went a mile or two with them until he felt he must turn back.
“Good Sirs,” he said with tears in his eyes, “humbleness is sad and will crouch down and cry his eyes out when you’ve gone. But before you go, and before he does, he asks that you tell Tryfan that he has not forgotten a promise he made.”
“And what was that?” asked Skint.
“Magnificent Tryfan will remember, Mayweed knows that to be so. So just tell him, Sirs, that for now Mayweed’s task is here with Wharfe and Harebell. But when that is done, and Sleekit is content, then Mayweed will set off once more to do what he dors best of all, which is to find routes where darkness is, and guide moles through them. So to Tryfan he will one day return, and if there’s darkness about, and confusion, Mayweed will be Tryfan’s mole. Tell him that, and say... and say...” but poor Mayweed could say no more. He lowered his snout and cried.
Skint comforted him on one side and Smithills the other and they said that they would repeat all that Mayweed had told them to. But as for that final thing, which he could not quite say, why if the Stone existed and had a heart then one day it would grant that Mayweed could say it to Tryfan himself!
Then with a buffet and a laugh, and a final smile, Skint and Smithills set off for Duncton Wood.
Yet in the days that followed, Mayweed was restless and discontented to think that in some way he might be needed by Tryfan in the south – for he had no doubt that Tryfan would finally be safe, and when he was that it would be to Duncton he would go.
The truth was, too, that Wharfe and Harebell were growing up and found good companionship with Squeezebelly’s youngsters Bramble and Betony who, though a little older, were young at heart. Even then Mayweed would have stayed but that one day the ominous word came that sideem and grike were about, and searching for a mole called Sleekit....
“I must leave, my love,” said Sleekit the moment she heard this grim news, “for my presence here endangers not just Tryfan’s young, but everymole. If I travel privily south, and I arrange that I am seen, then that will draw the hunt from here for ever.”
“Madam mine,” said Mayweed, “me, I, myself, agree. And if cuddlesome Squeezebelly is agreed, and the youngsters can be made to understand, then I shall come with you. You will need guidance and humbleness will give it.”
Sleekit looked re
lieved.
“Where shall we go to hide?” she asked.
Mayweed smiled.
“To hide. Us? We? Both? Together? As one? Romantic but mistaken. Mole should never hide for life is good! So not “to hide” but to Duncton Wood! Clever? See it?”
They smiled together, and agreed it was a time to travel wisely and fast. So, saying their farewells and entrusting Wharfe and Harebell to the capable, firm and kindly paws of Squeezebelly, they too turned from Beechenhill, and set off south in the pawsteps of Skint and Smithills.
A great good change came over Tryfan after Longest Night and he seemed once more to find an interest in life and living, and to notice again the simple things about him that for so long he had retreated from. Again and again he would pause on their long trek and look with pleasure on the simplest thing.
“It’s a root, and the grey light’s shining on it!” he might whisper, or, “See how where the orange bracken’s stem makes a hole about itself in the snow. See, Spindle! My father’s name was Bracken and I wish he was here now. A mole appreciates his parents too late!”
Yet still he was often in pain, his eyes hurt and his paws grew stiff with the cold and throbbed, and on those days he felt unsociable, and Spindle, patient but wise, went on ahead and let him grumble to himself.
They came near Rollright just into January, but Tryfan refused to try to contact followers there for fear, he said, of meeting grikes. Not that they any more expected to be attacked, for their story was as good as it was true: Tryfan they said, because of his injuries, was outcast and was making for Duncton Wood to claim sanctuary there. Grikes did not touch such travellers, fearing perhaps they had disease as well as injuries.
Yet when it came to it, Tryfan did make trek to the Whispering Stoats, using the route Mayweed had led them on before, and there, having made their obeisances, they might have got away with nomole seeing them but that as they left they came upon a female watching them.
“Followers?” she asked.
“Seeking healing,” said Spindle.
“May the Stone protect you!” she replied. “He looks as if he was in a fight and a half!”
Duncton Quest Page 82