The mole said nothing.
“Or at least where you are from,” added Bramble.
The mole seemed to think about this and finally made a positive decision to reply. But it was clear he felt neither threatened nor under duress.
“I’m from Mallerstang,” he said, watching Wharfe for a reaction.
Mallerstang... a name a mole would not easily forget, and one that stirred a memory in Wharfe of something told him once. Mallerstang! Aye, a memory of something Squeezebelly once said.
“You know the name, or have been told it,” said the mole matter-of-factly, as if he could read Wharfe’s mind. “Then let me speak another name: Medlar. Mallerstang and Medlar. What stirs in your memory now?”
Bramble, whose love of legend and history was well known, whispered something to Wharfe who listened, nodded, asked a question, and looked at the Mallerstang mole with surprise.
“I see the names mean something to you,” said the mole to Bramble.
“They do,” said Bramble. “Medlar was a mole from your system who came this way long ago. He came with another whose name we cannot remember.”
“Roke,” said the mole.
“That’s it!” said Bramble. “Roke!”
At the mention of this name the mole’s look softened and he smiled with pleasure. He turned from them and called out, “Come, it is safe, these moles shall not harm us.”
To the surprise of Wharfe and the others, all used to trekking and the arts of hiding, two moles who had seemed but shadows in the grass rose up and came forward and stanced one on each side of the mole’s firm flanks.
“My name is Skelder,” said the mole. “This is Ghyll,” he said of the mole on his right, a younger male of two Longest Nights. “And this is Quince.”
Though little smaller than the other two, she was more slight, and like them had about her a peaceful air and open, honest look combined with purpose and intelligence. She was about Wharfe’s age.
“Roke was my kinsmole,” said Skelder, “and as your friend may know he travelled south with Medlar as far as a system called Beechenhill. There they stayed for a time before Medlar travelled on and Roke returned to Mallerstang. He had good memories of Beechenhill and said it was a blessed place and worshipped the Stone most truly.”
“What is it you want?” asked Wharfe.
It was Quince who spoke, her eyes on Wharfe’s.
“Sanctuary,” she said. “Do you know where Beechenhill is?”
“We are of Beechenhill,” said Wharfe not moving. “Why do you seek sanctuary?”
“The grikes have destroyed our system,” said Ghyll, “and we are the last survivors.” Wharfe stared at them horrified, a horror made all the worse by the resignation in their eyes.
“We have travelled far to get to you,” said Skelder. “We knew of no other system to go to. We thought your system might be safe. We thought...” He spoke with such sincerity and lack of self-pity that Wharfe knew he spoke the truth and was deeply of the Stone. Indeed, all of them were moles for whom faith had put into their faces, and into their stances, all that was noble in moles, all that anymole might trust. He had been doubtful and kept them talking while he assessed them, but neither he nor his companions would question them more.
“Come, we shall guide you to Beechenhill,” he said. “It is two days from here by the route we shall take to avoid grikes.”
But luck was not with them, for though they passed Ecton and the river safely, on the slopes of Ecton Hill they ran into a patrol of grikes. It was an ambush and well planned and Wharfe thought ruefully that perhaps they had talked too long in the open when they first met these moles and had been seen.
The grikes, five in all, followed their normal strategy and charged suddenly and violently. Strike first, ask questions after was their usual tactic and one before which Beechenhill moles were inclined to retreat if they could, and if they could not then to act stupid and escape later. Each was a tactic that had worked for generations, but on this occasion it could not work. The grikes were large and fearsome to a mole, and perhaps because they were outnumbered seemed intent on causing injury. When the questions came, if they ever did, it might be too late. On the other paw the only route for fleeing was downslope back towards Ecton, and Wharfe knew that there were plenty of moles there he would not like to meet.
But as all these thoughts flashed through his mind and he prepared to meet the onslaught of the approaching grikes, the three Mallerstang moles, as if impelled by a common mind, began to move as one. The effect was, Wharfe afterwards remembered, most odd, as if he and all the other moles but those three were not moving at all, while the Mallerstang moles seemed to drift forward in a movement so fluid that between its beginning and its end there seemed barely nothing at all, but for a paw striking a grike here, a talon caressing a grike snout there, and a shoulder buffeting a grike over there. All in silence. Then normality returned, and everything was still but for the sound of the breeze in the moorland grass, and the heavy, pained breathing of grikes.
Two of the grikes were unconscious on the ground, a third was lying still and staring as if made mute and quiet by what he had seen, a fourth was picking himself up and beginning to flee, and the fifth was fleeing already, long past them down the slope.
“They are not hurt, and will come to very soon,” said Skelder calmly. Ghyll and Quince moved to his flank. “Come, lead us from here quickly before they do so.”
Soon they reached tunnels Wharfe knew and then moved on swiftly to Beechenhill. In the rare moments they paused, Wharfe tried to get Skelder and his comrades to explain how they had stopped the grikes, but they only shrugged and said they did not like to hurt moles, it was not their way.
Their arrival at Beechenhill caused considerable excitement, and as soon as they had eaten and rested they were brought before Squeezebelly in the main communal chamber of the system near the Stone. When Squeezebelly heard who the moles were he greeted them warmly.
“Mallerstang?” he boomed. “Of course I know of it! Medlar and Roke? They came here before I was born but my father spoke of them. But....”
Wharfe told him briefly of how it was the three had come to Beechenhill and he looked at them sombrely.
“I could have wished your visit here to be in very different circumstances,” he said. “Tell us what happened.”
Skelder told them, slowly and terribly. Of how the peaceful Mallerstang moles, whose system lies on the slopes above Horton-cum-Ribblesdale, had heard of the coming of a group of grike guardmoles and sideem, led by a mole of Whern called Clowder. Of how their elders had been tricked into meeting these moles and trapped in a place where they could not defend themselves at all, and all killed.
Of how the other Mallerstang moles, who though adept at individual and small-group combat, were not experienced in group warfare and were successively massacred.
“Face any one of us with two or three of those moles and we will disable them without hurting them,” said Skelder with feeling, “but face us with such a disciplined and ruthless force as that and we will always be defeated.” His account wore inexorably on....
Chamber by chamber the grike guardmoles massacred the Mallerstang moles, who made the mistake of massing where they could be caught. Unused to group confrontation, not willing to flee into alien country, they stayed where they were and, in tunnels now struck down by an eerie silence, were killed as if paralysis had overtaken the whole system.
“But didn’t more of you flee?” asked Wharfe appalled.
“It is not our way,” said Quince simply. “We talk, we retreat, we tire those who oppose us. Then we let them live among us, and they see our way is right. There are – were – many moles in our community who came from grike stock, and many other kinds of moles besides. We do not fight, we do not flee; we show. In the face of such absolute violence we did not know what to do.”
“Then how come you three survived?” said Bramble.
“Chance. The turn of shadows. As the random fall of rai
n across a field may leave a patch dry, so we three were missed. We heard the killing, we stayed still when we realised the numbers involved, and we were missed. We were not even together, but separate, in places overlooked. When the grikes went we found each other, and when they came briefly back with moles of Horton, we hid. That was the worst moment. We heard them killing prisoners. That was the worst.”
Skelder shook his head, resigned.
“Moles cannot stop the rain, or the sun, or the cycle of the seasons, or death. Death has come to our system and so it was long ago forecast. We three are the survivors, and that too was ordained. It was meant to be.”
To Wharfe it seemed astonishing. Why, if such a catastrophe happened to Beechenhill, he would... he would....
“What would you do?” asked Quince, her paw on his, her gaze penetrating.
“Weep,” he said.
“We have,” she said. “And when the tears were done, and we saw there was nothing we could do in Mallerstang, we resolved to come to Beechenhill because of what Roke said of this system long ago when he returned to us.”
Nomole said a thing, none dared look at another. What could a mole say in the face of such events?
It was Quince who broke the silence, wanting, it seemed, to move on from memories which hurt so much. She turned to Squeezebelly and asked, “Did your father tell you what happened to the mole Medlar?”
“Oh yes, I know what happened to him, though it was not my father who told me, but a mole of Duncton Wood called Tryfan. His father met Medlar, and indeed was trained in fighting by him.”
“Defence,” corrected Quince. “Medlar would have called it ‘defence’, not ‘fighting’.”
“Defence then,” said Squeezebelly with a wry smile. “Medlar was a great mole, and he went on to Uffington and there became Holy Mole.”
A look of great joy came to the faces of the three Mallerstang moles.
“Did you not know this?” said Squeezebelly.
“We could not,” replied Skelder, “but Motte, one of the greatest elders of Mallerstang, who prophesied much that has happened, including the survival of three moles from such a massacre as we witnessed, also said this: ‘A mole shall come out of Mallerstang, and into moledom go, and shall rise to wisdom in the greatest of the systems of Stone and Word.’”
“Then his prophecy came true,” said Squeezebelly. “You shall all be welcome to stay here for as long as you wish,” he continued. “Beechenhill has benefited greatly over the years from such fugitives as yourselves.”
But if the news these moles brought was grim, the next that came brought the threat of grikes much nearer home.
One evening in October Squeezebelly was enjoying a chat with Skelder, Wharfe and Harebell when they were interrupted suddenly by the urgent arrival of a watcher, one of those who had gone with Betony and two other moles to patrol the south end. He was obviously tired from his journey, and had been injured in a skirmish. In his eyes was a look of great concern.
“What is it, mole?” said Squeezebelly, his normal good cheer fading from his face.
“’Tis your daughter Betony,” said the mole. “She’s taken by grikes.”
Betony! A mole they all knew and all loved. Sweet Betony.
The watcher’s story was soon told. The four of them had come upon a solitary vagrant female on the slopes above Ashbourne. She said she was of Tissington and was seeking passage into Beechenhill with two other moles who were in hiding nearby... It sounded like a simple ambush and they kept her talking while vetting her, much as Wharfe had done when he had met Skelder. She was most convincing and gave a name the watcher later had good reason to think false.
Then, quite suddenly, the group had been attacked by several grikes at once, the female herself being the first to strike a blow. No amount of courage, faith, or attempting to see the shadows of those attacks had saved them. The watchers had been caught, one killed outright, and then they were all interrogated. In this the female, far from being harmless, proved the cruellest of them all and soon seemed to sense that Betony might be especially knowledgeable of the system.
They used the vilest tortures on the other watcher and soon Betony could not bear to see his agonies any longer.
“She tried to lie, telling untruths to save him, but that female seemed able to detect the subtlest lie, the subtlest truth. My friend was hurt more when she lied, and it was not long before they discovered that Squeezebelly was her father.”
The listening moles looked at each other, horrified.
“Then the female ordered that my friend be released and Betony was taken away. Even as they turned from us I saw the remaining grikes were preparing to kill us. I shouted to my friend and turned and ran for the tunnels. They chased us but we were in ground we knew. We were able to pick one off, and then they turned back. I... I turned to follow them, but there were too many... I could not save her, Squeezebelly. I could not. I would have given my life for Betony.” He lowered his snout and wept.
Squeezebelly, Wharfe and Harebell stared at each other blankly. Then Squeezebelly barked out orders to some moles to go to the south end and see what they might find... but all knew it would be no use.
“What were their names, these grikes?”
“There were so many... but the female’s name I heard, a different name from that she gave us first.”
“Yes, mole?” growled Wharfe.
“She was called sideem Mallice.”
“May the Stone protect her if she harms Betony,” said Wharfe angrily. “I shall lead the search for her myself.”
“She knows so much,” Squeezebelly said softly. He stared dumbly at Wharfe and Harebell, the possibilities too terrible to speak aloud.
Chapter Twenty
Like an old mole who knows how to pace himself on a long journey, the River Thames gathers its strength but slowly as it travels across southern England from its source in the high Cotswolds to the distant eastern sea marshes and flats which lie beyond the dark Wen.
Before twofoots came and made their crossing points, the great river was a barrier which few moles crossed, and those that did remain as giants in the legends of the past. Of these, none is better known than Balagan, first White Mole, bringer of the knowledge of the Stone out of the dereliction that lies north even of Whern itself, who crossed the river in one single mighty leap; and where his seventh leap thereafter took him he founded Uffington.
But although the Thames flows generally eastward all moles know that in the centre of its course it makes a great meander north, whose loop forms the north and eastern boundaries of the great vale of Uffington. Duncton, bounded by the Thames and using an outcrop of chalk to rise clear of its more marshy ground, marks almost the northern limit of this great meander; while the Holy Burrows of Uffington watch over the vale from its southern side, perched on the chalky Wessex uplands wherein, yet further south, lies Avebury.
Between these two is that magical and secret country, verdant and fluvial, whose quiet and gentle systems were the homes of the first scribes of Uffington. Charney and Stanford in the vale, Shellingford and Grove, Marcham and Lushingmarsh... Fyfield, another of the Ancient Systems, is there and from these places, and many more about them, came the great scribes of the past.
It was not by chance that Rune ordained that in this hallowed vale Buckland should become the very centre of the southern grike campaign. Where better to base the campaign of terror and repression that, by Tryfan’s young adulthood, had all but destroyed the gentle and ancient culture of the Stone?
Yet though the spirit of the Stone may have been driven from many of these ancient sites, topography does not change. When October comes, and the seasonal fruits are rich and the hedges and the trees are all russets and yellow brown, thought of the Word’s darkness easily slips away from a mole positive enough to see the light about him. For then the Thames is at its most gracious and fulsome, and all across the vale there flows and drifts that easy sense of the misty autumn beauty that living water
always brings.
While jays and squirrels build their stores, and soft fungi emerge stiffly from the dew-wet grass and leaf litter, then after tunnel-clearing is done moles venture out and snout at the fresh moist air. They peer at the huddles of earwig and ladybird in fallen bark, and leave them be, content that the worms will be food enough when they flee the coming frosts to deeper ground and be on paw when they’re most needed.
It was as such an October started that Beechen, together with Mayweed and Sleekit, found his way into this great vale.
Even with Mayweed to guide them they had not found escape from Duncton Wood as easy as they had hoped. Mayweed had done as Tryfan thought he should, and climbed the embankment of the roaring owl way planning to take a northern course until a safe crossing point could be found. Safe, that is, from roaring owls and grikes waiting on the far side. Once this had been accomplished Mayweed had intended to take route to the north, using one of the smaller cross-overs to reach the far side of the great Thames, and thence by quiet paths to Rollright, which is not too far beyond.
Rollright was Beechen’s choice because it was his great desire to visit first another of the Ancient Systems and, though not the nearest, Tryfan knew it to be not too difficult of access – or so he and Spindle had found when they had come down from the north. It seemed a sensible choice, and all the more so from Mayweed’s point of view for his old route-finding friend Holm lived there and would make them welcome.
But it had not worked out like that.
Once up the embankment of the roaring owl way, Mayweed had twitched and quivered his snout north and not liked what he sensed at all.
“Grikes Sir, grikes lurking, grikes nasty very much. Waiting for such a break-out as this. And since humbleness has two responsibilities today, bold Beechen and sensuous Sleekit, he prefers to proceed with especially extreme caution.”
For the most part Mayweed had to shout this over the screech of roaring owl which raced past them in a never-ending stream of noise and fumy wind. Beechen and Sleekit had been forced to find cover as best they could among the grass and debris by the way, with strict instructions not to look at the roaring owls.
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