Indeed, within hours of the curiously sudden cessation of the discussions, Beechenhill watchers reported that guardmole patrols had been doubled, and even obscurer routes to north and west were over-watched at their far ends where a mole must exit.
It was most frustrating and strange.
“There must be some way of getting out!” said Harebell.
“There is,” said her brother drolly: “Go to Ashbourne, and you’ll get out right into the paws of the guardmoles and that will be that.”
“It might be the quickest way of finding out where Betony is,” said Harebell with that mock light-heartedness with which she tried to hide the agony she felt.
“When the spring comes, Harebell, and the ground’s thawed, I’m afraid that my patience is finally going to snap and I’ll leave the system and find out about Betony once and for all.”
It was plain that if he ever did so, Harebell was not going to try to stop him and she said, “At least we know that the mole who took her was called Mallice – it’s not a name a mole forgets and I’m sure the sideem does know who Mallice is. She must be senior.”
But at such a time, and in such conditions, what could moles do but talk, and hope, and plot their dreams of love, or change, or journeying? But it was small consolation that in such conditions it was unlikely that the grikes would mount an attack.
Older moles than Harebell and Wharfe let the days drift by and stayed quiet and by themselves, and tried not to think too much. Hoping was a young mole’s game. Best to take things slow, best not to think much at all. Beechenhill had survived well enough for a very long time and as long as Squeezebelly was alive all would be well, so why waste energy getting agitated?
Then, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, one mid-February night, when the wind battered at the ice-bound entrances, and moles sought out the warmest part of their burrows, a brave mole appeared in the system as if by magic, having come to one of the north-east approaches in the night, and the news he brought changed all their lives. And Squeezebelly discovered that he had been right, and what it was the Ashbourne sideem hoped he and other Beechenhill moles might never hear.
The mole was no more than a cycle old, strong and tough, and tired and breathless though he was, worn and bleeding though his paws, he would not rest or answer any questions until he was taken to great Squeezebelly himself.
News of his arrival got about, and Wharfe and Harebell, Skelder and Bramble and many others hurried to Beechenhill’s communal chamber to hear him speak.
The mole bore himself with strength and purpose, and yet to his eyes there was wildness, and to his speech great passion.
“Mole, I am told you will not even speak your name,” said Squeezebelly, “and yet you inspired enough trust in our watchers and those you’ve met to get this far. So tell us your name, and your purpose, and then have rest and sleep before you speak more.”
“Well!” declared the mole, nearly in tears. “I never thought I’d be in your presence, Squeezebelly. You and the moles you lead are respected far and wide beyond Beechenhill. We who are followers of the Stone in other systems know you as a great light for our faith and...” Then he stopped and looked suddenly distressed. “But no other moles have reached you? You have not been told?”
“You have a chamber of moles hanging on your every word. If you don’t want rest and food, tell us your name and tell us why you’ve come.”
“My name is Harrow, son of Winster, snouted eldrene of Ashbourne.”
A hush fell across the chamber, for most of them knew of Winster’s death, and that she had been a brave and privy friend of Squeezebelly and Beechenhill, and of the Stone; she had lived a dangerous double life of faith for many years. Her death, and those of moles close to her, had been the beginning of the closing of the outside world to Beechenhill.
“My mother had suspected that when Lucerne of Whern took over as Master-elect in June, her days at Ashbourne might be numbered.”
Squeezebelly nodded and said, “Aye, Harrow, I heard as much from moles she sent.”
“Well, fearing that, and knowing how much I was of the Stone, she sent me to Tissington, a safer system than Ashbourne, though it too has since had its troubles with grikes. But she felt it was far enough off not to be affected if she was suspected at last, and punished.
“She did not tell me all the routes into Beechenhill – I think you are too careful for that – but she spoke of some of them, and other moles helped me as well. In this weather, if a mole can stand it and risk attack from rooks and owls, guardmoles do not watch the surface too well. The only hurt I had was to my paws when I slipped down icy slopes. But this is of no consequence.” He spoke well and clearly, and without false modesty.
“I asked if others had come because several of us have tried, and two have been lost, caught, I fear by the grikes. Outside we know you are beleaguered, and my mother Winster was always aware of it, and charged me to do all I could to keep you informed when matters of importance arose. Well, something has arisen, something you must know.”
He looked around at the assembled moles, and if there had been a hush before, there was dead silence now.
Then Harrow said, “Moles of Beechenhill, a glorious time may soon be on us. We have news all followers wish to hear. The Stone Mole, for whom we have waited for so long, is come at last to moledom. He is alive, he is among us, his day has come.”
Before Harrow could say more he was interrupted by shouts of incredulity and exclamations of joy.
“What is more, this is more than just a rumour or wishful thinking by followers. We heard it through the grikes in Ashbourne, for though my mother died and others too, yet some followers remain there secretly and pass much on to those of us in Tissington who still struggle for the Stone.”
“But where and whatmole is he?” asked Harebell, her eyes gleaming, for in the Stone Mole’s coming she felt much would be resolved.
“His name is Beechen, and he was of Duncton born.”
“But we heard Duncton was outcast,” said Squeezebelly doubtfully, “and that the grikes had put their own diseased and miscreant there.”
“Well, so it was, but the Stone’s ways are wonderful and mysterious. The mole Beechen was born there. He is not in that system now, but coming north, and the grikes are much perturbed by it. They say he is not the Stone Mole but an imposter, a Stone-fool with madness in his head. Some among the followers say the same, but the stories that we’ve heard tell of healings and miracles he has made. Everymole is confused by it all, not knowing what to believe.
“What is certain is that the sideem of Ashbourne is much worried that if you Beechenhill moles hear of it you will rise up and go forth to meet the Stone Mole. They have recently strengthened their complement of guardmoles at Ashbourne and I think secretly they hope you will make a break out their way, for they would be on their own ground. I have come to warn you of that, and that their numbers are great now and you would certainly be crushed.
“Nevertheless, if this mole is the Stone Mole as many of us believe, then this may be the hour for us followers to prepare ourselves to fight....”
“Harrow! Our system is not, and has never been, aggressive,” said Squeezebelly immediately, “and it is because of that we have survived so long, even through this long time of the Word. One day it will end, but it shall not be ended by fighting, for that is not our way.”
He spoke sternly, and a mole might have thought that none there would have dared contradict him. But there was an immediate rumble of discontent, and Bramble dared give voice to it, saying, “There comes a time when a mole may have to fight for what he believes, and when it comes I hope that moles here will not be cowards!”
“Aye!” said many others.
“They’ll do so over my dead body,” said Squeezebelly angrily, his normal calm leaving him for a moment. “But we shall not argue at a moment like this, but hear more of this mole Beechen, and ask Harrow what else he knows. And of other news, too.”
&nbs
p; Then to change the subject, and to divert the gathering’s attention from the question of whether to fight or not, Wharfe quietly asked if Harrow had heard anything of Betony, explaining who she was and how she had been lost.
Harrow shook his head, but when Harebell said the mole who had taken her was thought to have been called Mallice, he said sharply, “When was this?”
When they said it had been in October he said cautiously that there had been a mole called Mallice in Ashbourne at that time.
“Do you know who she is?” asked Squeezebelly.
“Oh yes, everymole who has had to do with the sideem knows who she is. Mallice is consort to Lucerne of Whern; she is not a mole moles love. I have heard that moles she takes end up in Cannock, Lucerne’s new system to the south-west.”
Squeezebelly had no wish to extend what might now become a painful conversation in public, nor to risk resurrecting the calls for fighting which the Stone Mole rumour had provoked. So using his desire to ask further but private questions about Mallice and Betony as his excuse, he took Harrow to his own chamber, not even allowing Wharfe, Harebell or other senior moles there for a time.
“Get Harrow some food,” he said. “Let him have a little conversation with me and then, once he has rested, I’m sure he’ll be willing to answer more questions.”
But the moment Squeezebelly had Harrow alone, he said, “Well, mole, and why have you really come?”
Harrow looked surprised and impressed.
“My mother said you’re not a mole easy to fool, and she was right.”
“Well, this business of the Stone Mole is still a rumour when all’s said and done, and you might have guessed that we knew grike numbers have been increased, so it didn’t strike me as a reason why a mole might risk his life getting here. Nor would the news you have of Mallice been that important, even if you had known we needed to hear it.”
“Well, as for Mallice, nomole will get near her unless they wish an audience with the Master of the Word himself. Not something to be recommended, I would think.”
“So why did you come?” said Squeezebelly.
“Because something has occurred which I do not know what to do about. Something I dare tell nomole, whether of Word or Stone, unless I can trust him. Before she died my mother said that you are a mole to trust.”
“If ’tis a matter of the Stone, or a matter on which lives of moles depend, then you can trust me. I shall do nothing, nor allow those I command, to do anything against the Stone or its code. What knowledge do you wish to entrust me with which is so dangerous that so few moles must know it?”
“’Tis knowledge that you will scarcely believe. I did not myself at first. But now I am convinced it’s true, more so by far than I am about the Stone Mole, and in the struggle with the Word which I think is coming – whether or not we fight with talons, and I can see you’re against that, Squeezebelly! – it is knowledge that may prove valuable for the side that possesses it. Have you ever been to Tissington?”
“In my younger days, yes. My father sent me out on such escapades, saying it was good for my education. Forgive me, but it seemed a nondescript sort of place.”
“Exactly. Not a place moles much remember, not having the advantages of site and location which systems like your own and Ashbourne have. But that very anonymity makes Tissington a good place to hide, which is why my mother sent me there.”
“A good place to hide?” said Squeezebelly sharply.
“Yes,” said Harrow, “to hide. Sometime before Longest Night a follower came to me with a story so incredible that at first I dismissed it. Very fortunately he was not only persistent but intelligent, and had told no other mole. He told me because he knew I was strongly of the Stone. He said that he had found a mole nearly dead of hunger and exhaustion, and as strange a mole as ever he had seen.”
“What was the mole’s name?”
For a long time Harrow said nothing but simply stared at Squeezebelly. Then he looked behind at the burrow entrance, and came close and spoke low.
“The mole is Henbane. Henbane of Whern.”
“Henbane?” whispered Squeezebelly aghast. “Henbane?” Then he shook his head dismissively. “But she’s dead, mole. Surely Lucerne would not have taken over Whern unless she was. The Master of the Word is not going to tolerate a former Mistress wandering around moledom. No, it cannot be.”
“My reaction exactly,” said Harrow. “Nevertheless it seemed sensible to see her because if the grikes got to hear of it they’d have come crawling all over Tissington. I therefore talked to her myself, and more than once. She is... remarkable.”
“A remarkable liar I should think.”
“I think not,” said Harrow, “and I risked my life coming here because I think not.”
“In what way is she remarkable?”
“In many ways, but most of all because although she had been ill and malnourished when I first met her she radiated the kind of spirit that defies death.”
“She must have a reason for living, then, whoever she is. It’s what I’ve got. Mine’s a desire to see the Word leave Beechenhill alone. What’s hers?”
Squeezebelly spoke lightly. It was plain he still scarcely believed what he was hearing.
“Her reason is because she desires to see two pups taken from her at birth. I came here because I believe they may have been reared in Beechenhill.”
Harrow had fixed an unwavering stare on Squeezebelly whose face, for once, betrayed more than he wished it to.
“I see I am right, or if not right I am near the truth.”
“Something about you, Harrow, restores my faith in moles, moledom, and the new generation. You are right, and if this mole is Henbane then you have already met her young who are now rather older than yourself. Both were at the gathering you spoke to. But first you had better tell me the whole story, and before that you had better eat....”
At that moment Harebell appeared with some food.
“Well timed, my dear.” She seemed to want to stay, indeed she seemed more than interested in talking with Harrow, but Squeezebelly firmly cut that short, saying they still had things to discuss.
When she had left Harrow said, “That mole! Who was her mother, Squeezebelly?”
Squeezebelly shrugged noncommittally.
“There’s a mole I know, in Tissington, very old, clinging on to life, who has an aged version of that mole’s fur and eyes,” said Harrow. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”
Squeezebelly grinned, a lot nearer to being convinced.
“It certainly seems so. Eat your food and tell me the story of the mole who says she’s Henbane.”
Squeezebelly heard how Henbane – for soon he did not doubt that it was her – had come to leave Whern, and travelled south in long and fruitless search of her young. She had kept to high and desolate places and avoided mole. Bit by bit she had come southward until, in the place Tissington moles appropriately call Hunger Hill, she had fallen ill and weak, and barely survived.
It was there the follower had found her, and to him she had told something of her tale one night. The follower, understanding something of the significance of what she had told him, went to find Harrow in Tissington, and Harrow had succeeded in gaining the trust of Henbane, and offered her his help.
She had given much evidence of her identity, and revealed much of Whern, and of other things that only a most powerful mole could know. But when she had said that the purpose of her journey was the seemingly hopeless task of finding her lost pups, Harrow remembered rumours he had been told by his mother of the identity of two moles in Beechenhill – rumours first told by watchers tortured by the grikes.
Harrow realised that if they were true and this mole was Henbane, and what she had told him of her rejection of the Word was true as well, then her importance to moles of the Stone might be very great. He did not need to say much about Squeezebelly to Henbane, for she knew of him already through her sideem and she was prepared to trust him....
“In fact,
she’s prepared to trust anymole if it means she gets a sight of the two pups she lost at birth,” said Harrow.
Squeezebelly heard all this with a growing realisation of its implications. At the simplest level they would be profound for Harebell and Wharfe; at the level of his system he might have further problems with those keen to set off and fight the grikes in the name of the Stone Mole. But there was also the risk that the knowledge that Henbane was involved in any way with Beechenhill would surely precipitate a full-scale invasion by the grikes. It was becoming increasingly plain to Squeezebelly that this was not something they could easily combat.
“I shall sleep on this, Harrow, and so shall you,” he said eventually. “Meanwhile, say nothing to anymole, least of all Harebell. It is not my nature to hide things from others in the system, but nor is it wise to reveal everything until they have been thought about. Timing is what running a system’s all about. But Henbane, Mistress of the Word! Remarkable indeed! Quite remarkable.”
It took no more than a few hours for Squeezebelly to decide that Henbane ought to be brought to Beechenhill. But he felt he owed his first loyalty to Harebell and Wharfe and they must be asked their opinion.
“You shall tell them yourself, Harrow, just as you told me. Let me summon them....”
When he came back, and while waiting for Wharfe and Harebell to come, he said, “The Stone speaks to us in this, but I know not how. These are strange times, times for moles to watch to their beliefs and stay by them, time to trust the Stone. But this Stone Mole rumour... is it really true, do you think?”
“I’m not sure. I like no rumour that comes first from grikes. As you say, these are times when a mole must be cautious, but there’s something about it that rings true.”
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