There he stanced down and stayed still, listening, very afraid, unable to move more. Finally he dozed off, only to wake when new sounds came: moles laughing and joking, their voices guttural. He knew them to be grikes.
He realised that they were leaving, but he did not dare move. Fear of them had been replaced by fear of what they had left behind. It was not until two long, wretched days had passed that thirst and hunger finally drove him out of the chalky burrow and from among the bark texts where he had felt safest, and up on to the surface. He crept about, gulped down some water he found in the interstices of a tree root, and grubbed timidly about for some food, starting at every slightest sound.
The wood was silent, the trees still, the place felt dead. Eventually, not knowing what else to do, he went timidly to the Stone, and what he found there was unspeakably worse than anything he could have imagined. It seemed that everymole he had ever loved was lying there, cold, stiff, frosted over, taloned and crushed to death before the Stone.
He stared numbly about him, at the wide empty clearing, at the bodies, at the Stone, and at the bodies again. Feverfew, Madder, Teasel all crumpled... they were all there, all dead.
“Bailey...?”
For a moment his heart seemed to stop and he half screamed in fear.
“Bailey....”
The voice was familiar and yet unlike anything he had heard before, coming from a place Bailey had no wish to go.
“Bailey,” it said. And if Bailey could have died himself he would have done so then, so fearful was he of turning and peering into the shadows from which that voice came. But then he heard the slow drag of steps behind him in the gloom and terror made him turn and stare in horror at the bloody apparition that came.
Tryfan, blinded. His face and what had been his eyes all open and raw, his face fur no better than gore, his paws bespattered with his own blood.
“Is it Bailey?”
“Yes,” whispered Bailey. “What have they done to you? What have they done to Duncton?”
“I knew you were safe, Bailey. I knew you were hiding. Where did you go?”
How could he speak so calmly? Bailey answered him, not knowing where to look. Blankly he told him about Marram, and about how he had hidden in the Ancient System.
Only after that did Bailey come to himself sufficiently to ask of Tryfan himself, and what had happened.
“I am in pain, though not as much as it was. The cold has helped me, Bailey. I have found food, for my snout is unharmed, but I could not find water. Take me somewhere I can drink. You must guide me....”
Slowly, pathetically, still barely aware of what was happening, Bailey led Tryfan along to where he himself had found water and helped the old mole drink.
“Now keep me warm, Bailey, for I must sleep, and then I shall need your help. Do not be afraid, mole.”
“I feel ashamed,” said Bailey suddenly.
“No, mole, there is no time for that now. The Stone has protected you as, in its own terrible way, it protected me. We still have our tasks.”
“But you can’t do anything,” said Bailey bitterly.
“There is one thing I can do, and I shall need your help to do it, but I must sleep first... Now keep me warm....”
Bailey did his best for the mole who had given so much of his life to so many, and for the next few hours he felt each painful breath, each suffering shudder as if it were his own.
Once during that first night, Bailey found himself crying for Tryfan and the old mole stirred and woke and said, “Bailey, do not cry for me. I can bear this pain and darkness. I bore it before when Rune’s sideem hurt me in Whern; oh yes, I can bear it... weep not for me.”
Dawn came and Tryfan stirred and said, “Now find me food and lead me to the place to drink again.” When Bailey had done that, Tryfan said, “Now listen, mole, and do as I say. You have seen the texts hidden in the Ancient System and on what they are scribed. Go now to the Eastside and find me some bark of silver birch. Do it now. I shall not move, but wait for you impatiently. Go now....”
Bailey went, and got the bark, and came back and found Tryfan stanced where he had been before.
“Now, mole, guide my paw to the bark and keep it still for I must scribe one last time. Why, I thought the Rule I made was the final thing but it cannot be! One day moles shall live in this place again, one day a community will be here. They must know what happened, and be warned of what can be. They must know that not one single mole who lived here renounced the Stone. Not one! Scribing of it is what your father Spindle would have done. Then help me, as he would, and if my talons slur off the folio, buffet me and keep me to my task.”
Then, despite everything, Tryfan found the strength to scribe a final text, so that future moles might know of the events that had led up to that Longest Night, and on the night itself. In all of scribemole history, perhaps, no text is more moving or more fearful for the mole who snouts it than that one, scribed, it seems, from the heart of a dying mole. Rough, hard to make sense of in places, torn, scribed out of pain by a mole who believed in the future.
With passion and anger was it scribed, and yet, strange as it has seemed to some, it never once scribes badly of the Word or even of the grike guardmoles. Rather it talks of a mole called Lucerne, and one named Drule, and how they lost their way, led others astray, and why that might have been.
It tells of moles who would not renounce the Stone even in the face of death, and names them all, one by one, and describes each affectionately, their good parts and their bad. It finally commends the mole Bailey, who helped the scribemole make his final testament, and asks for the prayers of those who follow. It counsels moles to reflect that even when all seems lost to mole, all hopeless, the Stone may yet bring comfort and encouragement to moles with faith; and as Bailey had come out of the darkness to help him, so others struck down may hope that they are not abandoned.
For two days Tryfan made a scribing which got progressively more slow, and Bailey knew him to be a dying mole, for towards the end he could barely move his paw and Bailey had to hold his talons as he scribed.
“... And you shall not be abandoned, for the Stone is with you and at your flank, and attends you. Wait and you shall hear its Silence. This was scribed by Tryfan of Duncton, ordained by Boswell in Uffington.” So ends the final testament of Tryfan.
When it was done, Tryfan said, “Now, mole, I have completed it and it is well. Take it to that hiding place you know, and then return to me, for I have one last request to ask of you. Hurry, mole, for the darkness comes on my mind and I begin to be afraid. Hurry now.”
Then poor Bailey took the text and hurried into the tunnels of the Ancient System and back to the hidden place where his father and Mayweed had long since made their secret library. There he carefully put the text, and sealed the place up once more to make it hard to find.
When he reached Tryfan again he found him only half conscious and muttering, and afraid of some imagining that had come to him. Indeed, when Bailey reached him and touched him poor Tryfan started as if Bailey was his enemy and began to defend himself, thrusting out this way and that.
“It’s only me, Tryfan. It’s Bailey.”
“Bailey?” said Tryfan with relief. “I thought, I thought....”
“It’s me,” said Bailey. “I won’t hurt you.”
Tryfan gripped his paw and said, “Bailey, mole, take me down to Barrow Vale, take me there.”
“It’s a long way, Tryfan, and you’re weak.”
“Take me... please.”
The painful, slow journey took a night and half a day, but at last they reached Barrow Vale.
“I’ll wait on the surface, not below.”
“Wait for what?” whispered Bailey.
For the first time since he had found him, Bailey saw Tryfan smile. Then he looked conspiratorial.
“For a mole who’s coming to me,” he said softly. “He always said he would come when I needed him. He will come now.”
“What
mole, Tryfan?” asked Bailey, looking about the deserted place and knowing in his heart that nomole could come now.
“A mole who is much loved and most loving. He will know that Tryfan needs him.” Then Tryfan shook and shivered and out of his lost eyes there came what might once have been tears, but now it seemed all blood.
Bailey thought to ask Tryfan some questions, to take his mind off his thoughts and fears.
“Tryfan, tell me about my father.”
“Of all moles I have ever known, I loved Spindle most of all. He was a mole I met at Uffington and....”
There on the surface in Barrow Vale, Tryfan began to talk about his life, with Bailey staying close to him as he slowly began to sink towards a place of darkness of which he was afraid. Sometimes he seemed to feel he had slipped into it, and all sorts of images of horror and fearful things came to him, and he fretted, and shook, and tried to fight Bailey away. But Bailey stayed close, and talked to him, and sometimes Tryfan would emerge once more into a safer world where the darkness did not close him in.
Sometimes, too, he would say, “Is he here yet? Is he come? I need him now, Bailey, I need him at my flank to guide me on. Is he come?”
But Bailey could only hold frightened Tryfan close and do his best to comfort him, and whisper his hope that soon that mole would come... soon.
So a long night passed, and then a day, and then another night, a night when owls stooped close, yet still Tryfan would not go underground. The best Bailey could do was cover him with leaf litter to keep him warm, and hope the owls, who scented blood, would not dare come too close to a living mole.
Yet sometimes Bailey had to leave him while he fetched food, and poor Tryfan cried feebly out and seemed to think that he had been utterly deserted. Then when Bailey came back Tryfan would say, “Is it you come at last, mole? I have needed you!” And when Bailey said, “It’s Bailey,” he knew he was not the mole Tryfan meant.
So Tryfan clung on to life, but full of fears and doubts, and the belief that he was lost and in a place of darkness, shaking and crying out and even then, feeble as he had become, stancing vainly up to Bailey.
“Help him, Stone,” prayed Bailey. “Take his suffering from him, bring him safely to thy Silence. Help him now....”
Then in the afternoon of the second day in Barrow Vale, Bailey, only half awake, heard moles coming. Down through the wood from the Stone, more than one mole, but Bailey was almost too tired to care. He felt they must be grikes but he was not afraid now, and if a hundred guardmoles had appeared at the edge of Barrow Vale, he would have stanced in front of Tryfan and defended him to the last.
Indeed, he stanced forward towards the coming moles and, though never a fighting mole, cried out, “Halt! Come no further or I shall... I shall attack!”
It was a brave effort, but words are one thing and deeds another, and poor Bailey knew the moment the great guardmole came into view that he had no chance.
“We’re hurting nomole!” he said, still trying to sound as bold as he could, and keeping himself between Tryfan and the mole. Then another appeared, a female, and stared at him. Then, finally, Mayweed appeared and Bailey’s mouth fell open in astonishment and relief.
“Mayweed,” he said. “Oh Mayweed!” and gesturing to Tryfan with his left paw as he held him with his right, he cried.
Romney and Mistle crouched down some way off and Mayweed went forward quietly to where Tryfan lay near Bailey.
“Bailey, mole,” said Mayweed gently, “I shall look after him now. Go to my friends and rest. I shall guide him now.”
Even as Mayweed spoke Tryfan stirred and snouted weakly up and reached out a rough old paw and felt Mayweed’s face and flanks. The wood was quiet about them as Bailey crept away and stanced with Romney and Mistle.
“Mayweed, I told him you’d come,” said Tryfan.
“Torn and wounded Tryfan, Mayweed is here now and here he’ll stay.”
“I’m in darkness, Mayweed, and cold and much afraid.”
“Much-loved mole, keep your paw on my flank and listen to my voice, and you’ll not get lost.” Mayweed did as Bailey had done and surrounded him with leaf litter to keep him warm. He looked at his torn eyes and shook his head.
Tryfan was quiet for a long time until he said suddenly, “You’ve been gone so long.” His voice was calmer than it had been, and he sounded more secure.
“Humbleness has been rushing about doing things, but didn’t want to be gone so long.”
“Beechen....”
“He has gone north to preach of the Stone.”
“They came and hurt so many moles.”
“Mayweed knows.”
“Even Feverfew, Mayweed, even her. But not one of them renounced the Stone, not a single one. Bailey’s safe, but Marram died and Skint I don’t know....”
“Died fighting, he did, with you-know-who defending his rear.”
“Told him not to fight. Skint never listened. Loved Skint. Smithills too... all of them died. Not you, Mayweed. You know how to survive. I’ve missed Spindle these hours past.”
“Great mole, myself I know that, humbleness knows lots of things.”
There was another long silence, and Tryfan’s breathing grew heavier and more laboured. But then he spoke again.
“What do you know, Mayweed, eh? Tell an old mole what you know.”
“Humble Mayweed knows a thing or three. Knows Tryfan loved and was loved more than most; he knows he loved moles others did not love, like Henbane, like himself. Mayweed knows lots and lots and lots....”
“Mole, don’t leave me,” whispered Tryfan, now frantic again and afraid of something that wasn’t there. “Wanted to be here in Barrow Vale when I left. Nomole now, Mayweed, nomole to carry on. What’s to become of Duncton Wood, who’s to show them the way to go?” Tryfan began to cry, terrible weak sobs.
For a moment Mayweed was at a loss, but then he turned to Mistle and signalled her over.
“Terrific Tryfan, I’ve got a mole with me, one you’d like to know, a female....”
“No,” whispered Tryfan, though whether he was denying something he feared, or saying that he did not want to meet another mole was hard to say.
Mayweed brought Mistle closer and, raising Tryfan’s frail paw to her face, got him to touch her. Slowly, fumblingly, Tryfan felt Mistle’s face, and then her flanks.
“Who is she, Mayweed?”
“She’s Beechen’s love.”
“Ohhh....”
No words can describe the sound of pleasure that Tryfan gave when he heard this, and he said, “Come here, mole, let me touch you again.”
He caressed her face with touching tenderness and said, “Tell me your name.”
“I’m Mistle of Avebury.”
“And you’re Beechen’s love?”
“Yes. He wanted me to come to Duncton Wood because – because he thought... he said my task was here until he comes back.”
“He said your task was here?”
“Yes,” said Mistle.
“Hear that, Mayweed? Beechen’s sent a mole to carry on until he comes back. He will, my dear, when his task is done, but you know that.”
Mistle nodded, unable to speak.
“It’s a good system, Mistle, but it’s seen hard times. One day it will be found again.”
“I know,” whispered Mistle, “and Beechen will be here when it is.”
“And you, Mistle?”
“I’ll wait for him always.”
“Is she beautiful, Mayweed?”
“Inquisitorial Sir, she’s a marvel of mind and body. Beechen is a lucky mole.”
“I think he is.”
Tryfan grew tired then and began to sleep once more, and Mistle crept quietly back to the others. Then Tryfan awoke, much troubled, and spoke in a jumbled way of Stillstones and Seven Barrows.
“You must go there, Mayweed,” he said.
“It’s a long way for a humble old mole like Mayweed. Why, it’s beyond Uffington itself.”
“I went,” said Tryfan, “and you must. She’s been, I could tell. You’ll find everything there just as Spindle and me left it. The Stillstones are all there waiting to be found. Their time’s coming soon... Seven Stillstones, Seven Books made... soon now. Beechen’s Mistle here, you there. Yes. It’s all coming right now, Mayweed, it’s coming right and Duncton’s trial is nearly over. The Stone guides us well....”
He slept some more and dusk came, bringing with it a cold breeze that whispered through the wood and among the branches above.
With a sudden start Tryfan awoke again and seemed much afraid.
“I’m here, Tryfan.”
“It’s dark and dangerous, it’s always been so dark and it never stops, not ever....”
“Listen to my voice, good Tryfan, great mole, listen....”
“Where are you? Guide me, guide me.”
“I’m close, I’m just ahead. Follow me, Tryfan, you’re nearly there where the darkness ends, follow me....”
Tryfan gripped Mayweed’s paw and seemed to stare up at the sky, and then around, fear on his wounded face and his breathing growing faster.
“The way is so hard but Boswell made me go on it. He did, he did, and I was not worthy. I’m so frightened. How did you learn the way, Mayweed?”
“Great Tryfan, I learned the way from you. You’ve just forgotten it for a moment, that’s all. Now, Mayweed is here, just here, and the darkness is nearly ended, so follow him a little more. You are so much loved, Tryfan, by so many moles.”
Darkness was coming to the wood, and the two moles huddled together right in the centre of Barrow Vale.
“Stone, help him,” prayed Mayweed for his friend, “embrace him with thy Silence.”
“Why, Mayweed, that’s what Boswell prayed when he ordained me scribemole so long ago.” There was a pause and the listening moles were astonished to hear Tryfan chuckle softly and then say, “Mayweed, you’re a clever mole. Humbleness my paw! I knew you’d guide me at the end...” His voice sounded young again, and firm, and snouting forward a little he added, “Do you know, I think we’re almost there... yes, it’s just ahead now, isn’t it?”
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