Duncton Found

by William Horwood

  “I shall,” she said, her mouth curled to a cruel smile, her eyes warm upon her Master.

  “The Word shall be with you,” he said.

  “And I?” said Terce.

  “It shall be with thee as well!” joked Lucerne. But his smile was brief as that which Terce tried out. “You shall stay with me, Tutor Keeper, and watch over this migration south. Do it with ritual, do it with pomp. Make moles know it is ordained of the Word, and the Word shall guide us.”

  In such a way, thoroughly and with decision, were the first orders of the great crusade of the Word given and final preparations put in paw.

  By the end of August all those leaving on tasks had gone, including most of the Keepers and sideem who would help establish the new centre in the south.

  Those that remained were a body of picked sideem and guardmoles who would garrison Whern and seal it against incursion from anymole but those come with permission of Lucerne and Terce only.

  It was a clear, sunny day, with the colour of autumn spreading over the bracken of the fells, and the heath in mauve bloom in the distant parts.

  Lucerne had made his final obeisances at the Rock, and gone to the surface and slowly made his way, in the company of his faithful guardmoles, down to the limestone scars on the western slopes through which the ways lead on to Kilnsey, Grassington and the south.

  The river Wharfe wound its way southward in the valley below them, and parts of the trees along its banks were already turning brown.

  “The Word be with thee, Master!” said one of the faithful who was staying at Whern to Lucerne as he finally left.

  Lucerne deigned to smile.

  “I am not Master yet, mole. But with the Word’s guidance and the support of moles such as thee then may the day come swift when the Stone is shattered into a thousand pieces across moledom. Then I shall return to this hallowed place and hear once more the wind across its fells and in its tunnels.”

  “Then shall you be made Master and all of us able to rejoice in your triumph?”

  “May it be so, mole. The Word be with thee.”

  With that Lucerne left Whern at last, accompanied by Terce and a pawful of sideem, and the great crusade began.

  Chapter Sixteen

  September came to Duncton as it did across all moledom, with rain, grey weather, and day after day of blustering winds. Moles poked their snouts out of their burrows, scented at the wet in the air, scurried up to surface exits, peered at the swaying branches above and scatters of wet leaves below, and sighed.

  The peace of a long summer was over and the restlessness of autumn had come back again. Tunnels to delve, entrances to repair, burrows to clear and clean, realities to face once more.

  If, as the September winds blew on, most moles in Duncton became resigned to this, they sensed as well that, from the moment of the coming of Marram and old Sorrel back to Barrow Vale to tell of their near escape at the cross-under, all of them were on the verge of change. Their time with Beechen was nearly over and, as all youngsters must (for that was how so many of them still thought of him), he would soon be gone.

  As if to confirm the truth of this, and to prepare them for his parting, Beechen retreated from them. To Madder’s place he went first of all, but then down to the Marsh End to be with Tryfan. When, as on some days he did, he went to the surface, it was plain that he needed to be alone, and moles left him so, to think and meditate as he wished. Yet often when his thoughts were done and he rose from the meditating stance he had taken and turned to go back underground, he would find an offering of food left for him; or some old mole, a friend, watching over him, and saying he had stayed, “Just to make sure you weren’t disturbed... just to be sure.”

  Then he would go to them, and gaze on them, and touch them with a smile of strange sadness, and go on his way.

  Some dared asked him to bless them, and this he quietly did. Others, probably more than we now know, asked for a healing; but they had no need to ask, for those that needed healing or comfort found it came in the touch of his paw, in the warmth of his eyes. But always, always, he whispered, “Speak not of this, it is between thy heart and the Stone; others need not know.”

  Perhaps too, a tender few, when he had gone from them, cried and whispered after him that the Stone might give him strength, and show its mercy. Then the September wind would rattle the branches and a gust of rain come down and they would turn to find shelter and think of that summer, and the young mole who had touched their hearts.

  Many such in Duncton, old now, infirm, their joints aching with the damp air, knew that they would not see a summer ever again. A few blessed days yet, perhaps, when the rains cleared, but not such a long time of warmth and time for friendship. But then... there would be moles like Beechen to live after them, and with the Stone’s help their shoulders would be broad enough to carry the care that youngsters never dream of, and in their turn teach their pups what they had learned.

  With such thoughts as these Duncton prepared itself for the harder moleyears to come. But so far as we know only one, and that was good and sensible Teasel, upon whom old age had settled with a smile, took it upon herself to trek all the way to the Stone one brighter day to pray for him.

  She had seen him up on the surface of the Marsh End one recent day past, and thought at first it was just the imminence of leaving that oppressed him. But then she had passed the time of day first with one group of old moles, and then with another, and finally with a third, and she’d thought suddenly, Why, Beechen’s lonely here. We’ve given him what we could, and he’s given back more than many might; now he needs to find others younger than us who will give him, why, yes, who’ll... well I hope they will. Or one will at least!

  It was then, with humour and care in her eyes, she had trekked to the Stone and petitioned it in her homely way.

  “Stone, he’s pining for something of which he doesn’t know the name! It’s a mate he needs to finish off his education, for the words of others can never give the secret wisdom a mate’s touch brings. Stone, if you’re listening to me, you send him a love for himself alone, for he’ll be a better mole to serve your purpose if he’s known a female’s touch. And make her sensible and strong, like me! No airy-fairy nonsense now! Why if I was younger I’d offer him myself, but these young moles don’t know a good thing when they see one. Remember, Stone, it’s a mate he wants!”

  It was a prayer as good as any other, and lest mole think that the Stone does not respect such prayers, nor listens with pleasure to such good laughter and chuckles as old Teasel then allowed herself, let him know that the Stone was brighter for her prayer, and passed into her paws the sense of being young again, and sent her scampering through the wood, not noticing the greying sky at all but knowing only the warm pleasures of her own good-natured thoughts and, though the summer days were all but done, that a mole could still enjoy herself!

  But there were few moles able to be as cheerful as Teasel. The sense that a time of trial was coming was too strong for them and they were oppressed by it, and frightened. Which being so they said among themselves that they hoped old Tryfan would show his snout again, and maybe the Rule he had been scribing for so long could now be shared with them, and it would bring some comfort.

  “Is Tryfan ill?” they asked one another, and those closest to him in the Marsh End.

  “Is he ill?” a few asked Beechen. “You would know.”

  “No, no, he’s well. He’s nearly ready now, nearly done. He’s slower than he was, but my mother’s with him all the time these days, and helping him. He wants to speak of the Rule he’s scribed. Have patience, he’ll do it soon enough....”

  “Just asking, mind, just wondering.”

  Then Beechen smiled and whispered, “It’s all right, I’ll tell him that you cared,” as he went on his solitary way through the wood he loved and which had been his only home.

  It was the autumn equinox, when the moon is slight and September’s end is near, and the sense of darkness drawing in
is on all moles, that Tryfan came out of the Marsh End to tell of his Rule.

  Nomole could quite say why they knew to go to Barrow Vale, for no announcement was made, and the only change of note was that the weather cleared towards a final few warm days even as, almost as a mole looked, the last of the beech leaves turned and the high wood was cast in golden brown.

  However it was, moles seemed to know and one mole said to another, “Tryfan wants us at Barrow Vale, he’s to talk to us and speak his Rule.” Even as moles said this others whispered, “Beechen will be leaving us now. The leaves are only hanging up there because the weather’s calm again. Come a new wind and they’ll all be down and he’ll be gone.”

  Such was the strength of feeling that they must be there to hear Tryfan speak that even moles so old now that they had not been out on the surface for molemonths past bestirred themselves, and groomed their fur, and polished their frail talons and called out, “If there’s anymole can hear me, come and help an old mole up! I’ll be no trouble... oh, you heard! It’s only me! Bit past climbing up to the surface, just need a push and shove....”

  While others, hearing from friends who knew they could not make it alone, asked that somemole come by and give them a paw, and early, mind, for they wouldn’t miss hearing Tryfan talk, not for the world, and would be fretted if they were late.

  So that mild autumnal day the wood was astir early with moles wending their way to Barrow Vale from north and south, from east and west. Few went alone, for if they did not meet friends along the way they stopped by to help others, and slowly came by tunnel and by surface routes, supporting the lame, or guiding the blind.

  “Is my fur straight? Eh? What did you say? Oh, it is... is it? Are you sure? Eh?” So on they went, some blind, some unsteady on their paws, most very slow, but all with hope and purpose in their gait, and determination to reach Barrow Vale and hear what they would hear.

  When they reached the great root-riven chamber of Barrow Vale, they paused, looked timidly or boldly about according to their natures, found a place and crouched down to wait, excited and restless.

  Occasionally one would say to another, “Where are...?” And search about and, failing to find them, would send a fitter or more able mole off to fetch them. Teasel collected several in this way, and Hay as well, while, to everymole’s astonishment, even strange, pupless Heather appeared helping some old mole along.

  Though there was no sign of Tryfan by noon, Beechen came by and went among them, saying he was sure that the old scribemole would not be long and that Feverfew was bringing him. He had not been so well and was working at his Rule until the very last.

  “A scribemole’s work is never done,” he said, “and even if it is he thinks it’s not and might be better!”

  The old moles hearing him smiled and looked shy, not knowing what a scribemole did exactly, but glad that Beechen at least understood. He was a clever mole, a credit to them all to have made him, and a mole could hope that Tryfan, when he came, would say as much. And a great deal more, perhaps! Anyway, he’d be here soon enough and they’d find out.

  Bailey came, and Marram, who brought old Sorrel with him and made him comfortable near some friends of his. Then, when noon was over and the sun’s shafts angling back another way at the entrances, Beechen looked concerned, and went to one mole after another and softly spoke to them. Some shook their heads, others looked about and pointed out other moles as if they might know... but they, too, when Beechen went to them, shook their heads.

  Then voices, and several arrived at once – first Madder, then Dodder after him, with Flint close behind, all talking at once.

  “Ssh!” commanded Dodder when they came into the chamber. “Don’t talk so loud.”

  “It’s not me who’s talking,” replied Madder.

  “It was, and knowing you that’s no surprise,” said Dodder.

  Beechen saw them, came to them, and asked if they had seen Crosswort.

  “Unwell,” said Madder.

  “Unfit,” said Dodder.

  “Unwilling,” explained Flint.

  Beechen gazed silently at them, and they looked guiltily at each other.

  “I’ll get her,” said Flint.

  “By the Word you won’t!” declared Dodder.

  “While you’re arguing I’ll....”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Crosswort, coming up behind them. “As for you,” she continued, addressing Beechen, “you’ve got other moles to worry about than me! But where’s Tryfan? Late? Or just slow?”

  “He’s coming,” said Beechen with a smile, “and he won’t be long.”

  He looked about the chamber, and could not remember so many of the moles being all together, and he tried to see if any weren’t there, if any were missing. There were some, a few, but even as he thought of them they seemed to arrive by surface or tunnel, or one of their friends, reading his mind, said, “I know she’s on her way, wanted to take it slow and by herself, wanted to enjoy the wood. Don’t fret, she’ll soon be here.”

  Skint was among the last to come, explaining that Smithills and two other moles would not be along since they had agreed to stay over on the south-eastern slopes as watchers for the day.

  “Got to have watchers all the time now,” said Skint, the only thing said all day that cast a doubt into the chamber.

  “Aye...” sighed Sorrel, “’tis wise to be prudent now, as I know to my cost....”

  “He’s going to tell us about his nearly getting killed at the cross-under again,” said a mole.

  “Let him, it gets more exciting every time!” replied another.

  The morning had passed by with surprising speed, but then new moles were always arriving, and there was plenty to observe and moles to greet. But when, during early afternoon, the sun came out, moles stretched and some went back out on to the surface, and a mutter of impatience went about the place.

  But suddenly everything changed once more as Mayweed and Sleekit arrived, and a buzz of welcome greeted them. Mayweed was a mole who knew where to be at the right time, and they guessed that Tryfan would be along soon now.

  “Sirs and Madams,” said Mayweed with a cheery leer, “greetings to you all and everymole from each of us; me Mayweed and my loved one. Seen us lately, no? Not at all! Been unseen, haven’t we?”

  “You certainly have, Mayweed!” shouted out a mole. “Where have you been?”

  “Canoodling,” said Mayweed. “Giving Sleekit all of humbleness’s time!” He grinned and Sleekit smiled with pleasure at his side. There might have been a ribald joke or two in younger company, but perhaps not even then, for there was such great peace about them both, and a certain sense of unspoken intimacy that it did a mole good to see it. Not much of that about in Duncton Wood these days, love and... canoodling.

  Several moles, and not all females, could not help whispering among themselves thoughts which summed up to one pithy sentence might have been, “Mayweed’s looking older than he did, and Sleekit younger: that’s what love can do to moles.”

  “We’re all older than we were,” the more judicious replied. “Everymole of us but Beechen there.”

  They might have added Bailey too, who, at that moment hurried out of the tunnel that was the most direct route to Barrow Vale from the Marsh End, and from where everymole expected Tryfan himself to come.

  Only Beechen was younger than Bailey, and ever since he had lost contact with his sisters, Starling and Lorren, so many years before he had worn a permanent look of frowning puzzlement and loss on his face, but he still looked like the pup he had been then. Unlike most he erred to plumpness, and this, perhaps, gave him a more cheerful look than some of the cadaverous aged moles could manage.

  Bailey looked around at the assembled company, grinned briefly, and said, “They’re coming now. Won’t be long. I’ll stance by you, Skint, if I may.”

  Excitement mounted and suddenly a hush of expectation fell as from that same tunnel the sound of aged pawsteps came, slowly, and l
ow voices, one gruff, the other soft.

  Then a shadow fell across the tunnel’s entrance arch as a mole reached it, and seemed to fill it up as he paused and gazed out on the assembled moles. Behind him another shadow moved and all light was blocked out in the tunnel behind them both.

  There was silence as they felt Tryfan’s eyes upon them. Then he came out slowly and light fell across his face and a hushed whisper went among them before they settled once more into expectant quiet.

  The scars over his eyes seemed deeper than they had ever been, and his eyes were shadowed and unfathomable as he stared at them. His head shook a little as he looked about, and his paws were great before him, their talons thick, lustreless and worn. His breathing was heavy and rasping and he seemed uncomfortable, as if in pain.

  He carried a slim bark text pressed against his body under his right paw but it was beginning to slip and Feverfew, who was at his right side and half supporting him, pushed it back to where it was more secure.

  Tryfan said nothing but peered about among them as if looking for somemole but was not able to see him. Feverfew came forward and whispered to him, and pointed a talon to where Beechen had stanced halfway round the great chamber. Tryfan looked that way, muttered to himself, nodded his head, and then slowly went round the edge of the chamber.

  Moles shuffled as he passed, some smiling, some reaching forward to touch him, some lowering their snout in shyness or in awe. He seemed to see none of them, but rather to be concentrating on getting himself to Beechen’s side.

  When Tryfan reached him the two moles touched each other with such affection, and Beechen helped Tryfan turn and face towards the centre of the chamber with such obvious love and care, that there was an audible sigh among the watching moles. Some, like Teasel and Madder, did not mind that others saw them shed a tear or two.

  The place where Tryfan had taken stance was near a surface entrance, and light flooded on to him. They saw then that his fur hung loose now at his flanks, for he had lost weight and his sides were thin. Where the light caught his ragged fur it showed that it had turned grey in places, and even white in others. Here and there his rough old skin had no hair at all. He looked like a mole near his time.