It was Skint who mainly kept such fears, and precautions, alive, for he was always distrustful of the grikes, however certain it seemed they would now leave Duncton alone.
“The day the Word is forgotten is the day we can stop being on our guard, and that day is a long way off,” he would say. “As long as I’m alive I’ll keep half an eye open for its dangers.”
Skint used various moles for watching duties, with Marram and Hay in the fore, and Mayweed and Sleekit as formidable roving sources of intelligence. Teasel, who had survived the original anarchy that followed the system’s outcasting by spying and passing information from one rival outcast group to another, was a useful ally, and her loyalty to Tryfan and natural good sense made her a mole Skint trusted.
Smithills’ role was one of companion and support to Skint, but those who knew him did not doubt that should the need ever arise Smithills would give all that remained of his aging strength to the mole who had journeyed at his flank for so long.
Skint had long since confided to Tryfan that he believed it would be after Midsummer that danger from the grikes would loom once more. They would be free of whatever young they had reared by then and eager for action in the summer years. More than that, summer was the time when, traditionally, the sideem postings were changed, guardmole patrols were rearranged, and what had been static and unchanging since the previous winter was liable to be upset as sideem and guardmoles, eager to impress their superiors and show they could do better than their predecessors, poked their snouts about and caused trouble.
“I’ll warrant that the day will come when somemole or other of ours down at the cross-under will blab about Beechen’s presence in the system, and some over-eager sideem or other’ll hear about it,” said Skint. “Well, if there’s need for a warning I’d like to be the mole to give it!”
Tryfan was content to leave such arrangements in Skint’s capable paws, and knew that such was the good feeling among the moles in Duncton now that nomole would betray them but by accident caused by infirmity or senility. A mole could not prevent such things. In any case, the Stone would ordain when word of Beechen’s presence went forth, and when it did he knew that Skint’s watchers would do as good a job now as they had in times past, and all must hope that Beechen stayed well hidden until able to make good his escape. But if, on the other paw, they were spared grike interference until the autumn years then Tryfan had no doubt that Beechen would be ready to slip safely away from the system, and that some among them would be able to help guide him on his way.
Meanwhile, both Tryfan and Skint knew that one reason for the system’s being left alone was the dread reputation it had gained for violence and infection – indeed, it was part of Skint’s strategy to encourage the more diseased-looking moles, if they were able and willing, to wander down to the cross-under and let it be plain that disease was indeed still rife in Duncton Wood.
Such ventures were not, however, without danger for two or three such moles had failed to return, and the body of one of them had been found murdered next to the cross-under, presumably by bored grikes doing guard duty who were, perhaps, less afraid than they once had been of infectious disease.
So Skint’s precautions seemed sensible and he found just enough willing watchers to maintain an adequate cover of the cross-under and neighbouring areas.
Of all this Beechen was either not aware or not interested, but even then, as later in his life, he showed scant regard for his own personal safety as far as moles of the Word were concerned. He had grown to be a strong mole, not over-big nor especially aggressive, but physically more than competent, and with a grace and beauty that even in a system of normal moles, and not one in which age, infirmity and the ravages of disease were the norm, he would have been striking.
His fur was now more grey than pure black and it lay naturally well, and had such a good sheen that it seemed to glow with light. His snout was sure, his paws and talons well set, his voice male but gentle.
Yet, though others found strange peace in his presence, he was not himself untroubled, and at times seemed distressed as he had been in the last months of his puphood. Those who knew him well knew that in some way he felt that the demands the Stone would one day make of him would be too great, while the strangeness of his conception at Comfrey’s Stone, and the mystery of Boswell’s death there, seemed as something he could not resolve.
Tryfan scribed of his attitude to the Stone then in this revealing way:
I know that when he spoke to others he spoke not of the Stone. I know it because they told me, and told Feverfew, and were enough surprised by it to mention it especially. Several times I heard that moles asked him about the Stone and to this he would invariably reply, “Tell me what you know of it yourself, and would say no more than that.
The truth is that in the very period when so many moles thought Beechen was showing little interest in the Stone his thoughts were almost constantly upon it, and profoundly so. In his periods of retreat with Tryfan their conversations were much concerned with matters of the Stone, arid the indefinable problem the memory of Boswell seemed to present to him. Again and again Beechen quizzed Tryfan on all that he could remember of what Boswell had done and said, and he worked at those texts in which Tryfan and Spindle had recorded Boswell’s words.
We know of this as well from a record scrivened by the former sideem Sleekit, Mayweed’s consort, of conversations she had at this time with Feverfew, which include this brief memory:
She told me once that when Beechen visited her he often wanted to know about his father and his making at Comfrey’s Stone, but that she could not remember much. She said it was as if he half remembered his father but that the memory eluded him and he wanted to capture it again. “Boswell-moule was as yff an dreme to hym thatte hadde ben trewe and wych he gretely soughte yet gretely was afeard to knaw another time. Yette Strang was hys nede to knaw, poore moule, ytt peyned hym muche.”
Moles tend to forget how remarkable Sleekit was. Not only was she one of the few female sideem who had survived the rite of Midsummer, but she was probably the only one in all the long centuries since the time of Scirpus to escape the cold teachings of the Word and turn her heart truly towards the Stone. From her, surely, Beechen had much to learn, not just of faith in the Stone, but something of the true nature of the Word as well; and more than that, of dark sound.
Beechen, then, was seen and known throughout the system that summer, and at some time almost everymole must have met him, and shared time with him. His worries and concerns were as well known as his delights, and his sense of burden and self-doubt where the Stone was concerned must have been general knowledge. The few healings that he did – some called them miracles – before he left Duncton had not yet occurred when, at the end of August, the first incontrovertible evidence of Beechen’s powers of control over matters beyond himself was witnessed by two moles. The incident began almost casually, when to her great surprise Sleekit discovered Beechen stanced quietly up by the Stone.
“Why Beechen, you look as if you’re not so much praying before the Stone, as waiting for somemole to come.”
“Perhaps I was,” replied Beechen, turning to her with a smile.
“But I thought...”
“... I didn’t like this place? You’ve heard the Stone worries me?”
“Something like that, yes,” said Sleekit, reflecting that while it was true that a mole always felt better for Beechen’s direct and open gaze, there was some personal discomfort in the fact that he did not make idle conversation, and was willing to gaze on in silence such that other moles were inclined to babble on to fill the silence until, stopping at the sound of their own nonsense, they found themselves speaking to this young mole whatever was deepest in their hearts.
But Sleekit stayed silent, and at peace. She was a mole who had found her way, and knew it, and throughout Duncton had gained great respect, as much for this quiet restraint and sense of having arrived at spiritual peace as for the fact that she liv
ed with Mayweed, the most eccentric and strangely beloved mole in the system.
Beechen looked ruefully behind him at the Stone, and, going to her in acknowledgment of her seniority said, “Curiosity brought me here, not reverence! I was just wondering if all the rumours about the Ancient System of Duncton are true and there really are old tunnels down there, and dark and dangerous places. Tryfan’s the only mole I know for sure who has been down there, but he would never talk about it when I was a pup, and certainly won’t now. I was sort of hoping to find a mole who might, well, guide me down there...” He grinned ingenuously.
Sleekit laughed and said, “The Stone has granted your request sooner than it is reasonable to expect. Mayweed has sometimes taken me into the periphery of the Ancient System, and I see no reason why I should not guide you there myself – not that there’s much to see these days. Though why you need me I don’t know, since from what Mayweed’s told me you’re already as good a route-finder for your age as any he’s known. Mind you, I would not recommend going into the deeper central tunnels of the old system.”
“Is it dangerous then?” asked Beechen.
“To a mole that lets it be, and one who allows dark sound to kill his spirit, very. But... it’s wise to be cautious. Even Mayweed is reluctant to venture down into those tunnels.”
“Dark sound? Tryfan has told me of it but I have never heard it.”
For the first time Sleekit looked discomposed. Her intelligent eyes went blank as she remembered her own most striking experience of dark sound, which was at Midsummer when she was a novice sideem, and she barely survived the swim over Whern’s deep lake to scriven at the Rock of the Word.
Beechen’s eyes were deep on her, and she sensed that now, today, she was being tested by the Stone, and that in the hours ahead she might – no she would – need all the self-discipline and courage at her command.
It was not Beechen the young adult before her, but Beechen the Stone Mole. It was his eyes that gazed on her, and continued to gaze on her, challenging her to lead him into the Ancient System, even to its deepest parts, and there to hear dark sound. Sleekit trembled and was afraid. But....
“Come,” she whispered finally, and she led him down into the Ancient System, to a place that seemed far away from the light and safety of the rustling summer surface above.
It was in the course of that same day that sturdy Marram, doing a turn of duty with another mole as watchers down on the south-eastern slopes near the cross-under, first gained proof that Skint’s fears of a grike resurgence of interest in Duncton, and general aggression towards followers, might be justified.
It began harmlessly enough when Sorrel, the second mole, the same Sorrel whom Beechen had come by in Tryfan’s company when he had first entered the Marsh End, wandered past the hidden Marram and into the cross-under itself. By this device, and the grike reaction, they had often gained information about what was happening beyond the cross-under, for the grikes were not necessarily unfriendly, or unforthcoming.
Generally, it was the guardmoles’ habit on these occasions to warn the Duncton wanderers back and, since they were invariably infirm (though less so than they seemed), to give them time to get clear. Often the guardmoles would laugh and ridicule the vagrant, and venture towards him and point him back in the right direction with friendly oaths if it was a male, and scurrilous ones if female. Brave Teasel, who had become well known to the guardmoles over the moleyears, invariably gave back as good as she got, and as a result gained time to see if there were new guardmoles about, or any change in number or attitude.
That day, as Marram covertly watched, it was plain that things were very different indeed.
As Sorrel approached the cross-under, two new guardmoles, not known before, came marching out towards him as another mole, young, slight and mean of appearance, watched coldly from the shadows of the concrete uprights of the roaring owl way.
“Name and origin?” demanded the larger of the two guardmoles.
It was unfortunate that it was Sorrel and not Teasel playing decoy that day for she might have known better than he how to deal with the challenge. A laugh, feigned stupidity, even silence might have been enough to get him away from the danger; but he did none of these things. Perhaps he was feeling tired and ill that day – certainly his scalpskin looked livid and his limping painful indeed – for to Marram’s horror he replied aggressively, “And what’s your origin, mole? Malicious and murky. And your name? Filth.”
Even then another guardmole, one perhaps used to the occasional intransigence and madness of these outcast moles, might have ignored Sorrel’s outburst blaming it on the irascibility of old age. But the new guardmole who had confronted him took the old mole’s words as, in truth, they were intended and grew angry. Yet despite everything he might still have preferred to do nothing and avoid further contact with a diseased mole but that the vicious-looking one in the shadows nodded a quick order to apprehend Sorrel – an order the hidden Marram saw, and one which the guardmole obeyed.
He advanced on Sorrel, and looming over him thrust the points of his talons under his snout.
“Did I hear what you said right or was it a trick of the wind?” he said menacingly, eyes narrowed.
“You heard right, filth,” said Sorrel, speaking with some difficulty because of the guardmole talons in his chin. “It was bastards like you killed my kin in Fyfield.”
At this the other guardmole came forward and, without warning, taloned and buffeted Sorrel several times in the side until he collapsed, bloody and winded. Then together they dragged him, breathless and only half conscious, to the watching mole.
Brave Marram crept forward to hear and see better, and perhaps find an opportunity to intervene.
As the third mole approached the gasping Sorrel and moved into the light, Marram recognised from his youthful authority and the humourless intelligence of his cold eyes that he was sideem, and not one he had heard of at the cross-under before.
With mounting concern Marram watched from the gully that runs parallel with the roaring owl way as the sideem circled Sorrel with distaste, waiting for him to recover from the beating he had had.
“Your name?” whispered the sideem as Sorrel came to. Then, when Sorrel did not immediately answer, he thrust a single vile talon in Sorrel’s ear, and twisted it until that mole screamed.
“To make you hear the better... your name?”
“Sorrel,” whimpered the old mole, eyes wide in fear as the sideem’s talon poised barely a hair’s breadth from his vulnerable snout. He was not acting any more.
Then the sideem made a statement and asked a question which sent a chill of apprehension through Marram’s body.
“Sorrel,” he said, with false and loathsome friendliness, “followers of the Stone persist in coming here to try to enter your system. Do you know the mole they’re searching for? Eh? Eh?” Now his talons were on Sorrel’s snout and the other moles had come closer and were resting their own talons on him to prevent him breaking free, or attacking the sideem, though either course seemed an unlikely option for so infirm a mole, which made their precautions seem grotesque as well as cruel. The sideem suddenly, and expertly, applied sharp and pointed pressure to Sorrel’s snout, and the old mole screamed again.
Though Marram was very near to intervening, he held himself back a moment more to see if the sideem revealed anything further.
“Yes, Sorrel,” continued the mole, “they think there’s a mole in your Duncton system called the Stone Mole. Well? True?”
Marram, who knew the torturing ways of the sideem too well to doubt that it would not take long for them to find something out from poor Sorrel that might give away Beechen’s presence, now showed all his courage and resource.
Instead of rushing blindly forward to the rescue, he went quickly down the gully away from the cross-under to where he could climb up on to the Pasture and turn back towards where the moles were as if he had happened by. He limped and went slowly, to make himself less dan
gerous-seeming, and indeed it was not until he had almost reached the three moles of the Word, intent as they were on getting information from Sorrel, that they heard him.
The bigger of the guardmoles swung round, but even as he came forward Marram limped past him very fast and gained the far side of the cross-under as if he was trying to escape the system altogether. In fact his purpose was simply to see what other guardmoles might be near to give these three support, and the happy answer was that none was near enough to undermine Marram’s purpose.
Even as the guardmole called after him, and the others paused in their assault on Sorrel, Marram swung back suddenly towards them, still maintaining his pretence of limping, and came directly at the guardmole as if he could not hear what he was saying.
It had been a long time since Marram had last fought, and not since his departure from Siabod had he wished to fight again, for his way was peaceful now, just as Tryfan’s was. He knew that physically he was no match for three younger moles, and could not hope to rescue Sorrel, and prevent the news of Beechen’s presence leaking out, by force. But he had not forgotten the value of boldness and surprise.
Judging his moment well he suddenly surged forward and, in what could easily have seemed an accidental and lucky thrust, taloned the larger of the guardmoles painfully on the snout. As he did that he stumbled, or appeared to, and let his left paw buffet the sideem away hard against the concrete wall behind him, where he slumped winded and furious.
In the moment of confusion he had caused he was able to put a powerful paw under Sorrel’s shoulder, raise him up and thrust him bodily back towards Duncton’s slopes, then he turned and faced the astonished remaining guardmole, and with a smile said apologetically, “No harm meant, not by him nor me. No harm...” and he backed hastily away.
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