Duncton Found

by William Horwood

  It was then that Ginnell had finally forbidden it, and yielded up Caer Caradoc to a force which at that time he might have destroyed, but soon, if it was increased and well deployed, a grike force five times as strong would find difficult to displace.

  “But Sir...!” cried Haulke, coming back and trying one last time.

  “No!” said Ginnell, “it is too late.”

  And by the end of the first day after Longest Night it was.

  Thus did the first Battle of the Caradoc Stones come to an end, and a stirring tale it is, often told by moles of the Stone to keep their beleaguered spirits up. For what a contrast it is to the tragedy that befell the moles of Tryfan in Duncton that same night. Yet, when all is said, a mole must think and ask: whatmole did right? Tryfan, who did not raise a single talon to defend himself, or encourage others to do so? Or Gareg and Troedfach? Which of them was closer to the Stone? Which most in the spirit of the Stone Mole’s teaching?

  What might a mole lose if he kills others to save himself? What does a mole gain if he saves his enemy yet lets himself and his own be killed? Which is the way to Silence?

  These questions old Caradoc asked himself as he wandered among the bodies strewn across the ground he loved.

  “Not like this,” he whispered and wept. “Not like this, Stone. Bring peace to this place and send thy Stone Mole that I may know thy peace will stay. Grant it to an old mole who has faith in thee, Stone.”

  The wind took his words, and blew them about the Stones, and then out across moledom’s darkened land.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Word may have prevailed in Duncton Wood on Longest Night, but it had not won the hearts of all the guardmoles who witnessed the deaths by the Stone, and by their presence were a part of them.

  One guardmole, Romney of Keynes, the same who had witnessed the brave struggle Skint and Smithills had put up against such overwhelming odds and had muttered their rough epitaph, “You brave bastards”, had been more appalled than awed by the bloody rite of ordination.

  Not that Romney was a weak mole, or one who until that night had ever faltered in the Word. But it happened that one of the moles he saw killed that night was one he knew and had special reason to be grateful to – Dodder. So he had tossed and turned all night in deep distress by the cross-under, quite unable to join in the celebrations that accompanied the new Master’s triumphant exit from Duncton Wood.

  For Romney had served with Dodder in days gone by and knew the old rascal well, knew him to be true to the Word and true to everymole under his command. More than that, Dodder had once saved Romney’s life. So, seeing that old mole appear suddenly among the other moles put a face and personality to moles which until then he, like most others there, saw as mere fodder for the Word and for a rite.

  Romney knew Dodder did not deserve such a death, and guessed that if such a mole as him stanced unflinchingly by the others then they did not deserve it either. Nor was Romney the only one who felt that way, for he heard others mutter their doubts, and had not moles like Drule and the eldrene Wort been about they might have muttered more.

  But of them all, Romney was the only one so upset that the following morning he took advantage of the confusion and euphoria that followed the ordination, and wandered off to be by himself.

  It is at such moments that a doubting mole gets confirmation of the truth that the Stone, silent though it usually is, is about us all the time, and sees what we do, and directs us to its way. When a mole prays “Guide me! Help me!”, the Stone, almost always, brings him help through another mole as much in need of help as he. Romney did not pray to the Stone for he was of the Word. But yet he gave out a heartfelt prayer for help to whatever power might help him, and a curse of anger against the Word that had just wreaked vengeance on a harmless mole he had once loved. Unable to get the sight of Dodder’s final moment of defiance and of Drule’s talons out of his mind Romney wandered bleakly about not knowing what to do with himself.

  Of the moles from Rollright who had travelled with the mass of the sideem to serve their needs of food and tunnelling, there was one we know: Rampion, Holm’s daughter, and one who had been witness to the touching of the Stone across the seven Ancient Systems that day in June with her father at the Rollright Stones.

  Her father and she had made their escape from the guardmoles that distant day and, the system being lax and the summer languid, had succeeded in the course of time in returning to their different tunnels and resuming their life once more, sharing the common hope that one day the Stone Mole would come and the Word be put into retreat at last.

  The experience in June had strengthened her and increased her faith, and, despairing of the Rollright followers who compromised themselves for favours from the eldrene and a comfortable life, she felt isolated in her faith. She served the guardmoles, she abased herself, she watched, and most of all she waited: for one day the Stone Mole would come, he really would, and moles must be ready then, and strong, and knowledgeable.

  So in her own way, with but her father Holm believing in what she did, she debased herself and curried favour with the guardmoles, and knew her time would come.

  But the way it came took her by surprise. For when the eldrene Wort came to Rollright Rampion briefly saw her, and had that same shocked sense of recognition that Mistle had had in Hen Wood.

  But Wort travelled on, Lucerne and his entourage came and Rollright bulged with guardmoles and sideem. It was a simple thing for trusted Rampion to have herself chosen as one of those to travel on to Duncton Wood to serve.

  But such moles as she, though they knew the ordination was to take place, were not allowed near the cross-under itself. Nor were they told what had really been involved in the rite of ordination. But when dawn broke and they heard what some of the guardmoles were saying, they knew something bloody and evil had been apaw at the ritual. There was a look of violence in the eyes of the guardmoles, a wildness, and Rampion who had never been to Duncton Wood, nor knew much – though her father had come from there – beyond that it was outcast, feared something dire had happened.

  She was curious and worried, and in half a mind to try to find a way past the sideem and the guards into the system itself. It was in the course of this abortive search for a route into Duncton that she saw the guardmole Romney, and sensed immediately that far from challenging her he was upset and needed help.

  She knew enough to know that such moles talk.

  “Mole, you are troubled. Was it...?”

  It needed no more than that. Romney saw a female, a server from Rollright, he saw her sympathetic stance, and he began to talk. And talk. The world grew still about her as she heard, for the implications of what she heard were plain enough. These same moles who had, it seemed, massacred Duncton moles by the Stone on Longest Night, would very soon return to Rollright. There, she surmised, they might easily massacre a second time. She must escape and return at once to Rollright.

  She stared at the troubled guardmole, she saw his loss of faith, and the Stone guided her.

  “What are you going to do, mole?”

  “I don’t know... I shouldn’t have spoken. I cannot ever forget. I should not have spoken. If you....”

  “Mole,” said Rampion, and though her voice was gentle her spirit was firm, her purpose resolute, and she sensed that the Stone was giving her a task, “I have no reason to speak of what you have told me, indeed I have a special reason not to. Well then, mole, let me tell you something that I should not: I am of the Stone.”

  Romney looked surprised at such a confession, as well he might, for at the least it would normally mean an Atonement, at the worst it could mean death.

  “Aye, it is so,” continued Rampion. “Now listen. I am leaving here. I am going back to Rollright and I am going to warn the followers there that what this Drule and others did here in the name of the Word may soon be done in Rollright.”

  “It was a rite,” said Romney defensively. “They won’t do it again so soon.”
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  Rampion laughed cynically.

  “I am going anyway.”

  “What do you want of me? To let you go without restraint? Of course I shall....”

  “No, I want you to come and bear witness for me. You saw what happened with your own eyes, I did not. They’re a weak lot in Rollright and though my father would believe me most would not – or if they did they would not act on it. Therefore mole, if you would serve the memory of the mole Dodder you saw killed, come with me! But now, for we must travel fast so that we are there before anymole from here.”

  At such a moment the direction of a mole’s life may change for ever.

  “Come with me, mole!” urged Rampion again, “and you may once more find the peace that you have lost.”

  “I... I shall!” said Romney with sudden resolution, and within the hour they had set off for Rollright.

  Nor was Lucerne idle. For one thing he did not much like the cross-under as a place for moledom’s business. He had lost all interest in Duncton Wood and nor did he like the clay vales he had had to cross on his way there, or the sense that roaring owls were all about the south, day and night.

  His original intention, which was to press on to Buckland, now seemed much less appealing than before and yet he knew he needed a strong presence there. Matters could perhaps be left in Clowder’s capable paws a suggestion already made by Terce, who had warned that Clowder was under-used and could provide the strong, military-minded mole needed to impose the kind of rule the south had not had since Henbane’s departure from it.

  Wyre, it seemed, had been a disappointment, and the more relaxed policy against the Stone that Henbane had introduced through him was failing.

  “No, Terce, I like it not, not at all. If I turn north again now I may not come this way again. I know so many of these systems from the scrivenings that I would like to see them with my own eyes. Mallice has a mind to see Uffington.”

  “It may be wise, if unpalatable. The south does not suit me well either, but if Clowder is to be left in charge we should take a few weeks to see what it is he will be administering.”

  “In any case this is the Stone Mole’s heartland and the eldrene Wort’s view is that he is most likely to be hiding hereabouts. It would be amusing to make his acquaintance.”

  “It would,” agreed Terce.

  The whereabouts of the Stone Mole was taxing Terce considerably, and thus far Wort had not tracked him down, though in fairness the ordination had diverted her as it had everymole else. Yet Wort was confident, and had done the right things. They had been here but a few days but already trusted henchmoles of hers had gone out in all directions to ensure his whereabouts might be found.

  There had been no sighting of him in her absence and she regretted now her decision to order the Cumnor moles to lie low. A mistake, she now agreed, but then she could not have predicted the success the Word would honour her with. But one thing she had succeeded in doing was to persuade Lucerne that she would be better operating by herself and without Drule and Slighe. The Master surely had better things for them to do?

  The Master had. He missed Slighe’s efficiency, and Drule’s usefulness, for there were all sorts of services that that mole could perform.

  “Well, eldrene Wort, we have considered your request and grant it willingly and with amusement. It seems that Slighe here and my friend Drule are quite exhausted by your sincerity and zeal. Your task does, I agree, need the flexibility that one mole can have working for herself. But do not take any major decision about this Stone Mole without my permission, and know that at all times you shall have my ear.”

  “My Master, I am most grateful and praise the Word for giving us a Master so able to decide so fast.”

  This business done, Lucerne gave himself only one day to decide which way to go, and finally the south-west seemed best, but only as far as Buckland. Mallice would have to forgo Uffington. They would travel fast, and when they got there he and Clowder could review the plans for the next strike against followers. But Terce had been right – Clowder needed a task, and the south was more than enough. With him down here, Ginnell in the west, and himself back at Cannock, moledom would be primed for a final assault or crusade upon the followers which would make this brief business in Duncton seem like nothing.

  Before he left, Lucerne briefed the sideem who had travelled with him and told them what the Word would expect them to say about Duncton: how the Stone was outfaced and bloodied by the Word.

  “Did we not come in good faith, could we not have ended the outcasting of Duncton and brought it back into the community of moledom?” Lucerne declaimed to the willing sideem. “The moles’ pride, the moles’ failure to Atone and renunciate, killed the system. Let it be known wherever you go.”

  These lies sown, Lucerne left for Buckland, while other sideem and guardmoles travelled back towards the midlands once more, to return to their systems and prepare for the final assault on the Stone.

  But Wort stayed where she was, free now to act entirely on her own authority without the wimpish Slighe and doltish Drule to concern herself about. She would visit Fyfield and the area about it, but be ready to set off once again the moment one of her henchmoles sent news of which way the Stone Mole had gone. She felt well pleased... and yet, so guilty to feel well pleased and in need of the special chastisement her henchmoles gave her.

  “Holy Word, my mother and my father, punish me for the pride I feel, drive the wickedness of vanity from my heart...” And her henchmole serviced her with his talons, that the pain might be penance for the sin of conceit she knew she sometimes felt. And as she suffered the penitential talons of her henchmole she sighed and gasped with pain, and thought of the Master of the Word, Lucerne, and imagined the beauty of him in her mind.

  It was not until the evening after Longest Night that Beechen was able to escape the attentions and demands of the moles into whose presence he had come with such extraordinary effect.

  Not all the Rollright moles were glad to see him, for he had spoilt their revelry; nor did all believe that he was the Stone Mole, or any other special mole come to that.

  But there were enough there, including those three guardmoles whose lives he might well have saved, who felt that in his words, and presence, something that had been missing from their lives had at last been found.

  Many of these found it hard, impossible indeed, to take themselves from him, and simply hung about and stared as if to leave him was to desert themselves. Others sought his help for problems of healing and comforting, and everymole that came to him he talked with, and many he touched, turning none away.

  So many indeed that Sleekit and Mistle, seeing he had grown tired, tried in the course of the mid-morning after Longest Night to get him to rest, and Holm offered to lead him to a burrow where he might find privacy.

  But no, he could not leave moles who still needed him, and continued to talk gently with some, and pray with others, and even to debate issues of the Stone with a few.

  He declined to speak of Duncton Wood, or of the danger of grikes, or whether it was safe for him to stay in Rollright for very long, though Mayweed and Buckram, concerned as one was for Duncton and the other for Beechen himself, tried hard to make him. But Buckram was discovering what Mayweed already knew, that when Beechen was ministering to moles he seemed to disregard all else and especially his own needs. When moles that cared for him tried to make him talk of these things it was as if he did not hear what was said to him.

  “Yes, yes, Buckram,” he would say absently, “but I must just talk to this mole here and I must do it now. Now is the time, Buckram, not later... now.”

  Only in the afternoon, when the crush had eased and moles who still sought his counsel began themselves to say, “Stone Mole, you are tired, what I wished to ask can wait”... Only then did he agree to rest.

  It was to Holm and Lorren’s lowly burrow, downslope and muddy, that he went and there settled down and ate. Even then Buckram found it impossible to make him addr
ess the matter of his safety until he had spoken at length with Holm and Lorren, and enjoyed listening to Mayweed and Holm together, a one-sided conversation if ever there was one.

  “Mute mole,” said Mayweed to his old and dear friend, “you have been missed.”

  Holm stared with wide eyes at Mayweed and said nothing.

  “Much missed, slovenly Sir. As humbleness was saying to messy Madam here, ‘There’s only one Holm in all of moledom,’ and me myself would have liked to see more of him these years past.”

  Holm opened his mouth to speak, thought about things a bit, and then closed it again.

  “Mayweed surmises that Holm is pondering an utterance. He hopes it will be made, for Beechen the Stone Mole would like to hear your voice. And Mistle here, Beechen’s much-beloved; and Sleekit, too. We wait, we pause, we scarcely dare to breathe. Be eloquent, dusty mole, speak out!”

  Holm stared at them all, eyes even wider, and then at Lorren, and blinked. Lorren shook her head, seeming to understand what it was he wanted to say but not wanting him to.

  Then Holm looked desperately about, from floor to ceiling, from mole to mole, from light to shade, and then, as if grabbing it quick and placing it down in front as if it might otherwise throttle him, he spoke a word; a name.

  “Bailey!” he said.

  Then, that being greeted by blank silence, and seeming to gain his courage, he spoke four more words by way of explanation: “Lorren needs to know.”

  “I miss him,” said Lorren. “And Starling too.”

  For once Mayweed was stuck for words. Only days before he would have smiled and declared in a great many words how well Bailey was when he last saw him, one of the youngest moles in Duncton Wood. But now... but now? Sleekit, understanding Lorren’s need better, took over.

  “Bailey’s your brother, isn’t he?”

  Lorren nodded bleakly.

  “My dear, how long is it since you’ve seen him?”

  Lorren stared at Sleekit but if she knew she could not speak, but only stare at them both.