Duncton Found

by William Horwood

  “Mayweed is unhappy,” said Mayweed.

  “Come, my dear, this bodes ill. We must fetch the others and decide what to do.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes, because no, no, no, no, no, Mayweed is not happy.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  By the time Mayweed got back to Beechen and the others, dusk was beginning to fall on Longest Night. The wind hissed on the high grass hills around Rollright, and the moon showed low on the horizon beyond thin trees.

  The moment Beechen heard from Mayweed that a large and powerful body of grikes had gone through Rollright and on towards Duncton Wood, a striking change came over him.

  “You say the Master-elect was among them?”

  “They said, agitated Beechen, they did,” said Mayweed.

  Beechen suddenly shed that youthfulness and lightness Mistle had brought out in him, and seemed to take on once more the burdens of leadership and spiritual resolve. He moved apart from them, and looked somehow bigger, and strangely menacing.

  When Mistle tried to speak to him he seemed not to hear. Instead he ignored them and snouted slowly all about as if in search of something. He seemed angry and tense, and as they watched him, they saw he grew distressed as well. Mistle went to him.

  “Mayweed, guide me,” he whispered. “Mistle... and you, Sleekit... and Buckram. Guide me.”

  They all went to him, and to their alarm he broke down and wept, though why he would not say. But as they sought to comfort him he finally whispered, “Father, guide us, for we are so few, and the light we bear so weak against the darkness that shall fall this night. Stone, help me, for you have made me but mole and I am weak.”

  Then he reached out a paw to Mayweed, and snouting south said, “Which of the Seven Systems lies there?”

  “Duncton,” replied Mayweed, “and Uffington far beyond. And Avebury to the south-west.” For a long time

  Beechen stared that way. “And there?” he asked, turning north-westward.

  “Caer Caradoc and Siabod, where the holy Stones of Tryfan rise.”

  “Yes, oh yes,” he said. Then the Stone Mole slowly turned to the north.

  “And there, Mayweed?”

  “Why, bold Beechen, strange Stone Mole, not one of the Ancient Seven lies in that direction.”

  “What is there?” whispered Beechen.

  “Beechenhill, Stone Mole, proud Beechenhill is there.”

  “Beechenhill,” whispered Beechen, and it seemed to be spoken like stars across the sky. But then, “How dark the northward way seems, how dark,” he said.

  He turned back to face the direction in which he had started, towards Duncton Wood, and Mayweed said, “Stone Mole, if the grikes, and the Master-elect Lucerne, and even the eldrene have gone to Duncton Wood then... then what shall we do? I must go there myself, for they shall be defenceless and Tryfan will need me. But you....”

  “Did Bablock and its moles teach you nothing, Mayweed?” Beechen said fiercely. “Tonight is Longest Night, the most holy of nights. You shall not leave us tonight but go as we all must to the Rollright Stones and pray for Silence. It is what all moles should do tonight. Only that, for it is enough.”

  He stared the Duncton way some more and then, seeming to gain his strength said, “Mistle, Sleekit, Buckram, come now. Mayweed, guide us to the Rollright Stones for we are needed there. Come now.”

  The trek was a rough one because Mayweed chose to go by the surface and the last stage was upslope. But if they had wished to prepare themselves reverently for the rituals to come, they could not. Long before they reached the Stones they came upon followers indulging in wild revels and ribaldry, laughing and singing, and playing jokes.

  “Greeting, mateys!” one shouted to them, though Beechen tried to go on by, serious and forbidding.

  “Oh! Sorry I spoke! Some moles...” The mole called out again, but he fell silent when Buckram loomed out of the shadows and glowered at him.

  More moles were making merry at the Whispering Stoats, that sombre group of three stones that lean into each other a little to the south of the Rollright Stones themselves. Laughter, innuendo, males and females chasing each around, and even, so it seemed, a guardmole giving up trying to control the rabble of moles and joining in their lewd celebration.

  “Look at them lot! Dear, oh dear! Hey, give us a smile then!”

  The moles paused and stared as Beechen and the others went by, their quiet order in contrast to all the moles about.

  “The Stones are not far ahead,” said Mayweed, “let me just...” He went to a group of revellers and asked, “Have you seen Holm or Lorren?”

  “Up by the Stones I should think, doing his nut,” was the immediate reply. “He was down here just now trying to lay down the law, the little runt, and we told him to piss off. Which he did! Ha, ha, ha....”

  The mole turned away from him, others stared, laughter broke out again, and Mayweed and the others moved unhappily on.

  The noise up at the Stones themselves was so great that they heard it from a long way off, and when they reached them they saw a pandemonium of milling moles. Some played games even among the Stones themselves, some sang songs, the odd fight or two had broken out, and some even sought to mate in public.

  Appalled, Mayweed stopped at the edge of the circle and simply stared in horror and disgust. In Rollright it seemed the holiest of nights had become the unholiest of feasts.

  So busy were the moles enjoying themselves, along with at least three guardmoles they could see, that nomole saw the group in the shadows just outside the circle. None saw Beechen staring blankly, nor Mistle shocked. None saw Buckram, all protective behind Beechen and muttering fiercely to himself.

  There is a place for revelry on that special night which marks the seasons’ greatest change when darkness gives way once more to light. But first let moles be reverent, let them give thanks for what they have had, let them turn to the Stone and be silent for a time. Only then let them make their way graciously with the rest of their community and enjoy what grateful revels they may make.

  But not this, not the blasphemy the Stone Mole saw at Rollright. Never that again.

  “Look!” said Sleekit quietly to Mayweed, pointing through the noisy throng, “Oh look, my dear.” But she could not bear to look more and turned to Mistle and Beechen for comfort.

  Yet Mayweed looked, and saw, and knew what he must do.

  For there in the midst of that assembly of so-called followers of the Stone, stanced by the greatest Stone of that great circle, was a grubby mole. Small he was, his fur dusty, his talons dirty. He was staring up at the Stone and trying, despite all that went on about him, to say a prayer. Which was hard, for he seemed unable to say anything. Anything at all. And mute tears were on his face, and he was unable to find the words of prayer, and at last he lowered his snout as if he dared not look at the Stone any more.

  While at his flank, vainly trying to console him, was a female, grubby too, and though small herself she was bigger than her mate. Her paws were on him as if vainly trying to protect him from the noise all about them, and she was turning this way and that, shouting at the moles to be still and be quiet.

  “’Tis Holm,” said Mayweed blankly. “’Tis Lorren at his side.”

  Then telling the others to stay where they were, Mayweed moved into the circle and among the moles, and slowly, resolutely, began to cross towards where his old friends stanced.

  Quite when Lorren first saw him would be hard to say, but suddenly her hopeless shouting stopped and she stared across the circle and was still. There was surprise on her face, and then hope, and then, as Mayweed got nearer, incredulous relief.

  She turned to Holm, whispered something to him, and he too turned to look.

  At first he seemed perplexed, but then his eyes filled with joy, and as swiftly as they did, his face fell with grief and shame and, like a mole gone mad, he shook his head as if to say, “Not, not now, this is not how I would meet you again.” But Holm was never one for words, and
so he shook his head, and cried.

  As Mayweed went near enough to greet them both, Holm made such a helpless gesture of despair that Sleekit gasped and gulped for the pity of it.

  Mayweed reached out to them both, talked with them, and then as the revels went on unabated around them, slowly turned towards where Beechen stanced, still unseen.

  Mayweed whispered more, and then a look of disbelief came over Holm’s face, and he reached to hold Lorren close, and his look turned to wonder. For out of the shadows, slowly, mightily, as if one of the Stones themselves was on the move, Beechen came.

  There was no gentleness on his face, no kindliness.

  Nor did he look at anymole in judgement, but rather in a terrible despair at the great Stone before which Holm and Lorren had been so pathetically stanced.

  His eyes seemed to catch the shining lights of stars and moon, his fur to glow with a fearsome light, his talons to shine. Buckram, Mistle and Sleekit came behind him, and as he advanced a hush began to fall. Moles fell back from him, moles who had not seen him and still sang or argued or made a noise were shushed by those who had. Moles crept about to see him better, moles stared at him in awe.

  Then as he came closer to Holm and Lorren a light seemed to cast itself across their faces, and then up on to the great Stone.

  One of the guardmoles began to remonstrate, joking and wondering what was going on, but a mole who moments before had been laughing and shouting turned on him and he fell silent.

  “There is no shame in joy,” said Beechen, “unless it be the false joy of those that hide a frightened heart, or mask a fear of their own emptiness. Therefore if you be unafraid, and if your life be full, dance, sing, and I shall join you now.”

  He looked about him, first at one mole and then another. He reached out his paws, and smiled. But his smile was bleak. Nomole danced, nomole sang.

  “This is moledom’s holiest night,” said Beechen, so softly that it was no louder than a breeze across the face of a wind-smoothed Stone. “It is the night we of the Stone give thanks for what we have, the night we pray for those who need the Stone’s help in the dark winter years ahead, and a night to be reverent of ourselves.”

  The moles were utterly still, and one who could not quite see or understand what was going on, muttered, “Who is he? What’s he saying?”

  Then Beechen said, “Your brothers and your sisters in Duncton Wood are enshadowed by the Word tonight. Across all moledom darkness has fallen, yet here in Rollright I hear but one prayer spoken tonight.”

  Beechen rested a great paw on Holm’s shoulder.

  “But how can moles pray for others who are not still themselves? This mole is praying that the Stone forgives him for he feels he has failed it. He has not failed it, for the Stone hears well a prayer from a mole whose voice is weak, whose voice is drowned by a thousand who dance and sing when they should pray. Yes, the Stone hears his prayer well.”

  “Who is he?” muttered a mole again.

  “What’s he on about?” said another.

  “I am what you shall make me,” cried out Beechen suddenly. “I am the Stone Mole come amongst you. Your weakness is my burden, your faithlessness is as talons on me, the shadows you cast are as black to me as the shadow of the Word. Is it then for you I have come?”

  A terrible silence had come to the Rollright Stones, and it seemed to have spread to the Whispering Stoats nearby, for the sounds of revelling had ceased there as well and the hurried pattering of pawsteps told that moles were coming to see what was going on.

  “It is well that you are quiet. For tonight, the holiest of nights, I shall speak the prayers and rituals of our faith as they have been taught us from Balagan’s time. The liturgy was taught me by Tryfan of Duncton, and they were taught him by his parents, and by Boswell of Uffington who is my father. We shall start our vigil now, and cast out from ourselves the noise that is within us, and discover once more the reverence that should be in a mole before the Stone.

  “If there be any here who would not pray with me then let them go in peace.”

  There was silence until a mole, an older female, pointed a talon at one of the guardmoles and cried in a strange, half-hysterical voice, “What about him then? He’s not one of us, he’s of the Word, he is.”

  Others began to shout the same thing, pointing towards the other two guardmoles there, who began suddenly to look very afraid. The follower’s cries grew louder and full of hatred, and some of the stronger ones crowded forward to try to strike the guardmoles, and others jeered.

  “Strike them and you strike me,” cried out Beechen. “Strike me and you strike the Stone.”

  He pointed a talon at the great Stone whose light seemed so strong about them.

  Then more gently, his voice calming them, he said, “The mole that strikes the Stone is like a hunted vole and much afraid.” As he said that he quietly moved over to the guardmoles and said, “Would you pray with us?”

  One of the guardmoles nodded his head, too afraid it seemed to speak.

  “And you, mole, would you pray with us? And you?”

  The other guardmoles nodded.

  Then Beechen smiled, and to one of those who had been loudest in their shouts said softly, “And you?”

  And then, softer still, “And you?”

  In the peace of the night the anger was gone. Then Beechen said, “Know that all of us are one in our intent before the Stone, which is to share our sorrow and our joy, to release our fears and find our strengths. Before the Stone it matters not whatmole you are, but only that you truthfully seek to open up your heart. And in that silent place what word is there for “Word”? What word for “Stone”? No words at all but only the wordless cry of blind pups caught up in all the confusing fears and wonders of the life they have begun.

  “Therefore as you would help a pup to grow, help each other now and know that as you help each other you shall help yourself; and as you love each other you shall love yourself, which is the Stone’s great joy. As a parent would see its pups grow whole, so would the Stone see you grow whole. As a parent flinches and feels the hurt of its pups, so does the Stone feel your hurts and, all the more, your hurting of each other.

  “Now, let us begin to rejoice at last, for tonight is most holy.

  So began Beechen’s teaching and rituals before the Rollright Stones, and the moles who heard him knew him to be the Stone Mole come among them, and were glad.

  Already for days before Longest Night, Skint and Smithills had warned Tryfan that the long-feared move of the grikes into Duncton Wood was imminent.

  The few watchers Skint still had available were old now, and nearly all the few who had been active in the summer years had died in the cold of late November. Nevertheless, thin on the ground though the watchers were, they had succeeded in confirming a strengthening of the patrols at the cross-under as December began.

  Sometimes now the guardmoles dared come inside the system, and the watchers would peer out at them and wonder at how young the guardmoles seemed, how strong, how formidable a force to keep such old moles confined.

  But the guardmoles had not only become more inquisitive and courageous about entering the system, but more aggressive as well. Where once they mocked and chased the old moles in the wood, now they hurt them if they could, as they had hurt Sorrel. In December a “hurting” led to another death, and Tryfan advised that the watching activity cease.

  Yet the guardmole training of Skint and Smithills was too ingrained to let them do nothing at all. A system needs watchers, as a mole needs eyes, they said. But unwilling to embroil other moles with watching they moved their quarters down to the Pasture slopes, and took it in turn to watch the cross-under with only Marram occasionally keeping them company.

  Skint said little these days, Smithills was getting slow, but watching was one thing they could do – though what they would do if they saw something threatening neither knew any more.

  In truth both hoped, Skint especially, that before their d
ays were done they might one day see the impossible, and a party of grikes come through the cross-under and up the slope to say that the struggle was over now, nomole had won, none lost, the Word was, and the Stone was, be at peace now!

  It was old moles’ dreams, no different in quality than the longings they often shared for Grassington, and the River Wharfe, where once they had been pups, and the Word and the Stone were all the same, which meant nothing at all. They had been happy then.

  But the truth was very different than the dream, and they knew it. The grikes were massing, the patrols were getting tougher in the way they looked each day. Great trouble was apaw.

  Yet concerned though they were for the system, Skint and Smithills were strangely untroubled for themselves by the growing threat. They had begun to tire and to leave fear behind them, and now it was more the anticipation they disliked, rather than any violence yet to come.

  Indeed, one said to the other more than once, “Well, old friend, if they come I’ll go down fighting. Let’s take some of the bastards with us!”

  To which the other replied, “My feelings too, but don’t let Tryfan hear you say that!”

  But in any case, their warnings of the grike threat did not disturb the growing calm that spread throughout Duncton in the wake of Beechen’s departure. Moles talked to moles, worship at the Stone increased, and comfort was given as best it could be to those who were taken by the November cold. A community, Tryfan had told them, cares for its dying as much as for its living.

  There was good spirit in the system, and some said that no sight expressed it better than the way grumbling Dodder, a diehard mole of the Word, followed Madder and Flint up to the Stone from time to time, and crouched outside the clearing, watching his friends say their prayers. Afterwards, very slowly, helping each other along, they would pick their way back down through the wood to the Eastside, and resume their noisy but amicable enmity once more.

  Tryfan never went back to the Marsh End after his declaration of the Rule, but stayed close by Feverfew in the southern burrows where they had reared Beechen.