More talked to him as they went, or to Sleekit, and there was scarcely a mole among the many who had come who could not go back to their communities, or families, and say they had not talked to the Stone Mole himself, or the warm and loving female at Ms side; hardly a one who could not tell a story or a wisdom he bad told.
At first as the moles went on their way they stayed close, but gradually as they descended the hill those in front seemed to go faster, those behind slower, and those in the middle to spread out and become even more spread as fences and ditches split them up, and some took longer than others to negotiate obstructions along the way.
Beechen had told them to go peacefully, and there seemed no reason why they should not, for the sun was rising across the frosted fields and glinting on the ice that had formed in ditchwater and puddles, and the day was beautiful. Yet somewhere along the way, perhaps at that moment when most of the moles had lost contact with the group of which Beechen, Buckram, and Sleekit were the centre, hurry and even panic seemed to set in.
It was enough for one mole, fancying that in those northern-facing hollows where the cold and frost was deepest he saw dark movement, to say, “Grikes!”
“Grikes coming?”
“Attacking!”
So mole thought, or heard, and began then to hurry and rush towards what seemed the safety of the trees of Hen Wood. While others far behind, hearing shouts and thinking the dangers were ahead of them, went cautiously, and more slowly still.
While where Beechen was Buckram loomed ever nearer, ever more watchful, until, when the wood was but a short distance ahead, he disobeyed Beechen’s wish and, with a great paw at his side, hurried him towards the wood and, hopefully, away from any danger.
Buckram was well advised to be so watchful. For ahead of them on the south end of the wood, waiting with mounting impatience for the first moles off the hill, grike guardmoles lay hidden, forming a long line across the wood, with others beyond to east and west at less popular alternative routes. Centrally placed along this formidable line, at the common way by which many of the moles had first come up from Pickett’s Heath to the south, stanced Wort, her henchmoles at her flanks, watching the wood ahead, listening for sound of mole.
All along the line the guardmoles glowered and looked irritable for they did not like the instructions Wort and her henchmoles had given them in the middle of the night.
“No aggression, no retribution, let moles pass unharmed. Stop only the three I have described to you, and when you stop them do it discreetly and let nomole see you. Get them underground, keep them there, send a messenger to one of us. On pain of death do not harm the three moles if you take them. They probably won’t be among the first to come, but be alert to allmole.”
So now they waited, and moved back and forth to keep warm, for they had been in position since before dawn and the night had been chilly, leaf litter was freezing around them, worms going deep.
“Wish the buggers would hurry up, been up half the night already.”
“Aye, dragged from off the hill before that Stone-fool finished all his words. Eerie as a Stone up there, I was glad to get away.”
“Sssh! Sssh....”
“What is it?”
“Mole approaching. Now remember what Wort said. No violence.”
The guardmoles eyed their thick black talons and one looked at another and said, “What, me? You must be joking. I wouldn’t hurt a fly.” The other chuckled unpleasantly, and they turned to watch the way moles might soon come.
And come they did, all along that line, some going so fast because they thought they were pursued that they did not see the grikes in front until they were upon them.
“It’s all right, you silly buggers, we’re just making sure there’s no trouble, no punishments here.”
So, relieved, the first moles went through the line, and the others followed thankfully along behind, pausing only to look back and see the grikes were speaking true and letting allmole through.
So the exodus from Hen Wood began. Sometimes a follower would stop and think and go back, realising that perhaps the grikes were waiting for the Stone Mole who, unless he was warned, would come straight into the trap.
But these the guardmoles gave short shrift to, turning them back south, telling them to keep moving until they got to Pickett’s Heath where they could go unmolested.
So on they went, their uneasiness clearing, for the day was bright, Hen Wood was behind them, and in their hearts were the Stone Mole’s words: to be fearless and trust the Stone; hurt nomole and take what they had learnt back to their communities.
As these first ones broke out of the wood and headed down the slopes to Pickett’s Heath, Mistle and Cuddesdon, after an early start from a night in a sandy burrow on Boar’s Hill, headed on up towards Hen Wood half expecting that moles might come down towards them that same day.
They knew where the Stone Mole must be, for the day before they had run into a couple of those moles who, losing patience, had left Cumnor Hill before Beechen had got there. They had, of course, been negative, saying he had not come and did not seem likely to, but Mistle was not to be dissuaded and insisted they press on.
In truth Cuddesdon had not wanted to, for at last he had had positive directions to Cuddesdon Hill and knew now, from a mole who had been near it not a molemonth before, that it lay but a week or two’s journey away.
“You go on, Cuddesdon, and I’ll find you there,” Mistle had said. “If the Stone Mole is not at Cumnor then I’ll give up my search for him and follow after you to Cuddesdon Hill.”
But Cuddesdon dismissed this idea. Had they come so far towards Duncton Wood that he would now turn away from it without her? No, they had not. He would accompany her into Duncton itself, and would stance with her by the Stone and give thanks for the day they had first met, and the protection that the Stone had so long given them. If, after that, she chose to come to Cuddesdon Hill then he would not stop her, but in his heart he knew it would be only as a friend, though a much loved one. He was ever an honest mole and knew he was not the mating kind and, even if he was, Mistle was not for him. It was a different mole than him she needed, one who could give to her as much as she would bring to him – if such a mole existed, which he doubted.
So they had set off that morning over the frosty ground and begun the climb towards Hen Wood, beyond which they knew Cumnor Hill rose, where Beechen might still be found.
But, at Pickett’s Heath, they had been disappointed to meet the first moles to have come out of the wood and to hear that the Stone Mole’s meeting was over, all moles had begun to leave, and nomole should go up into Hen Wood because the grikes were there.
“But they’re not attacking moles?” said Mistle.
“Not yet they’re not. But I’ve heard Wort herself is there, and she’s not a mole to stance with idle talons while followers drift by. I wouldn’t go up there, mole. There’s bad trouble apaw.”
“Did the Stone Mole say where he was going next?” asked Mistle.
“Strange, that. He said he would not be this way again, he had his task to fulfil, but we would know. Said we were to go back to our communities and burrows and hurt nomole, but live out our faith in the Stone. But we’re not dawdling here. We got off quick and we’ll go on quick....”
“How shall we know him?” Mistle called after the mole.
“By the older female with him, and by Buckram, former guardmole and as big as a tree. As for the Stone Mole, why, it’s his eyes. They make a mole want to be close to him.”
Even as the mole spoke to them others hurried by, and poor Mistle, disappointed, stared upslope, uncertain what to do.
“It would be safest to stay here and wait for him. He’s sure to come this way,” said Cuddesdon.
“But the further upslope we go, the more likely we are not to miss him,” said Mistle. “Cuddesdon, you go off to the east, both of us shouldn’t risk ourselves, but for me... for me....”
“What’s for you?” said C
uddesdon.
“I want to see him. I feel so close now, I must find him.”
“Come on, mole,” said Cuddesdon, taking the lead. “Come on!”
So on they went, Mistle hurrying for once, and others hurrying down past them to left and right, none of them looking like how Mistle imagined the Stone Mole to be.
The higher they went, the nearer the trees of Hen Wood became, the stranger the looks they got, and Mistle’s need to go on became more urgent.
They had taken the most central route, which moles at Pickett’s Heath had said was the quickest into the wood, and they followed it now, having sometimes to move aside when more than one mole came towards them.
“We’re near,” said Mistle, “I can feel we’re near. It’s like it was at Avebury, that same calling, oh Cuddesdon, come on....”
Old oak tree branches closed over them as they entered the wintry wood at last and they seemed to leave the bright sun on the frosty ground behind.
“He may be somewhere here,” said Cuddesdon running behind, “but there’s grikes as well. Mistle, we must be careful!”
But Mistle was not listening, for the track was clear and easy, the slope not quite so steep and she was rushing forward now, eager, hope in her eyes, for she felt him close, he was....
The way turned, Mistle was not looking, the floor of the wood seemed to rush up at her, and she tumbled forward, straight into the paws of a henchmole.
“Well,” he growled in surprise. “Well!”
He stared coldly at her, and then loomed over her as Cuddesdon came up.
“Look what we’ve got here, eldrene Wort!” he said, holding on to her and calling over his shoulder.
The undergrowth at the side of the way parted suddenly, and out of it came Wort. Not small but spare, a round, innocent face spoilt by cold, narrow eyes, middle-aged, inclined to stance too close to a mole for comfort.
“What have we got? A female!”
Snout to snout, Wort and Mistle stared at each other.
“Why mole,” said Mistle softly, “I thought you...” It was not the way anymole spoke to eldrenes and the henchmole looked surprised, but strangely Wort did not; and nor did she react angrily but rather, for once, she seemed not quite to know what to do.
“This is not one of the moles I am seeking,” she said dismissively, though her gaze lingered on Mistle’s face, as did Mistle’s on hers. “Nor is this male. Let them be.”
“But they’re going the wrong way,” said the henchmole, letting Mistle go.
“Come on, Mistle,” Cuddesdon whispered urgently, “let’s get away from them.”
“But she’s one of them,” said Mistle. “At Avebury, she was one of them.”
“Mole...” began Wort, turning back to her, beginning to look at Mistle again, curious, hesitant, yet threatening. “Why are you going that way?”
Even as she spoke, two other followers came down the way, out of the centre of the wood, as if to affirm the oddity of what Mistle did. Yet it was enough to divert Wort’s and the henchmole’s attention from them, and to allow Cuddesdon to say, “We’ve lost one who was with us, we’re just going back to find him.” And, with a paw to Mistle’s rump, he quickly pushed her on and got her away from more questions and further up into the wood.
“You looked as if you had seen that mole before,” said the henchmole.
Wort frowned and her eyes glittered.
“The Stone is evil, many its subtle ways,” she muttered. “I think I have seen her before, yes I think I can place her.” Then she said with sudden urgency, “Henchmole, go after her. Bring her back but do not harm her. Quickly!”
But Mistle and Cuddesdon were not the only moles who had gone through the line the wrong way. Ahead of them a brave follower, who had already passed through the line out of the wood and seen the grikes, had felt so uneasy about going on without trying to give a warning to the Stone Mole that he had crept back and, in the confusion of so many moles, successfully gone up into the wood to warn Beechen.
He had found him and Buckram halfway down the wood, poised at a point where the floor fell away steeply, while waiting for Sleekit to recover her breath from a rush that had been too much for her.
The follower struggled up the slope, and described what he had seen.
“Is Wort there?” asked Buckram immediately, for he knew that mole all too well, and she ruled these parts most powerfully in the name of the Word.
“I don’t know what she looks like, but I know there’s guardmoles right across the wood – it took me a time to find a way back through.”
“To right and left across this route we’re taking?” asked Buckram.
The follower nodded.
As they had talked, other moles had come on from behind until Buckram suddenly found himself in a melee of moles, none quite sure what was happening as some were convinced they were pursued from behind, while others, hearing something of what the follower said, thought that now the dangers lay ahead.
“Right,” said Buckram loudly, his guardmole training coming to the fore as he imposed his will on the group, “except for the Stone Mole, Sleekit and me, the rest of you continue the way you were going. It’s for the best for you to go on and the safest. If guardmoles come this way, jostle them but don’t attack. That will give me time to get the Stone Mole out another way.” There was ominous-seeming crashing from below and Buckram responded to it by ordering, “Now go, the Stone Mole’s life may depend on it!”
Which they bravely did, turning from him and skeltering off downslope even as two moles began climbing upslope before them, a female and a male: Mistle and Cuddesdon....
Poor Mistle. Just at that moment when she had seen at last a mole so big among some moles upslope that he must be Buckram, and therefore the Stone Mole must be near, most of the moles with him detached themselves and ran confusingly towards where she and Cuddesdon laboured up the slope. Both were tired, for they had pressed on fast, rightly concerned that the henchmoles were following.
They watched helplessly as the crowd of moles pushed into them and they found themselves stopped in their tracks and even for a moment knocked backwards.
It was in those few vital moments of disarray on the slopes that Mistle saw the mole she had been seeking for so long. He was in profile, talking to a female – Mistle guessed it might be the one called Sleekit – and then she saw him turning to Buckram who at that same moment was pointing westward across the wood away from all of them.
Mistle called out, and for the briefest of moments the three moles looked their way, thinking, perhaps, that she was one of those moles who had been sent running down the slope. The mole she thought – she knew – was the Stone Mole looked directly at her then for the first time, but at that same moment Buckram looked past her and Cuddesdon, and seemed to see something further down the slope below them, something that alarmed him: a pursuing henchmole.
He turned back to the Stone Mole, pointed again westward, and, putting a paw against his flanks, almost bodily turned him that way, shouting to Sleekit to follow them. Mistle saw all this as if the moles were moving very very slowly, and she as well, so slowly that the glance she exchanged with the Stone Mole seemed to go on a long time.
Then she saw him struggle against Buckram’s paw, and that he wanted to turn towards her, to come downslope to talk to her. But again Buckram turned and urged him on. She saw his gaze on her faltering and she tried desperately to push herself on, to call to him to say, to say....
“Mistle!”
From beyond the silence of the long moment she seemed locked into – a desperate moment in which she seemed unable to do anything but watch passively all about her – Cuddesdon’s voice urgently came.
“Mistle, one of the henchmoles is coming! Run now!”
She turned to look behind her, and saw the rush of moles that had now passed them reach one of the big henchmoles they had met before. Fortunately he too was stopped in his tracks, for the moles were jostling him, but he was buf
feting them out of the way and pushing himself on up the friable slope and leaf litter of the wood, gaining ground on them.
“Come on, Mistle!”
Cuddesdon had run ahead and now, as she turned back to flee upslope, she caught one final glimpse of the Stone Mole, hurried westward by Buckram, looking at her as desperately as she did at him, and then he was gone from her sight.
“Mole! Stop, mole!” the henchmole roared from among the trees below.
“Mistle! Up here, this way,” called out Cuddesdon from above.
Then other followers crashed down from the slopes above, heading straight for her, and she turned first to right and then to left to avoid them.
“Mistle!” Cuddesdon’s voice was further off now and she was not sure where he had gone, for there were fallen trunks and branches to get round, undergrowth, a hollow in the ground, and behind her the inexorable crash of the henchmole closing on her and shouting for her to stop.
Panic overcame Mistle then, and she ran blindly on, going left round a fallen branch knowing that if Cuddesdon had gone the other way it would be hard to find him again for she could not cut back on her tracks without going towards the henchmole.
“Mistle...” His voice seemed far, far away, but wherever he was the henchmole was nearer, and she must flee and escape from him. On she went, on... until her breath gave out and she desperately scurried in among the leaf litter by a branch and hid, and heard the rushing, chasing, terrible shouts of the henchmole all about and tried not to let her desperate panting be heard.
He came running up nearby and stopped. She dared not move but could see his flank through foliage, going in and out with the effort of chasing her. She stared transfixed, and utterly afraid.
“Shit!” he said.
Then he cocked his head on one side, listened and muttered, “The bitch is probably hiding...” and began to snout about the surface, checking among fallen branches and undergrowth, coming so near that she could hear his heavy breathing and almost count each individual hair of fur as he moved past her hiding place.
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