“If they mean no harm they are welcome,” said Mistle calmly, and asked Romney to go and meet them. As he went he remembered wryly the first time grikes had come and how Mistle had dealt with them. Now it was him she sent. She was not the mole she had been then and he wished he knew how to bring her out of the lonely place in which she had lost herself.
The grikes, three in all, were not unfriendly, indeed they seemed a little intimidated by Romney’s bold and unexpected appearance at the wood’s edge as they came up the slopes. But then Romney was skilled in such things, and knew that sometimes a bold appearance at the right time is enough to keep trouble at bay.
“This is Duncton, isn’t it, chum?”
Romney nodded.
“Just wondering where the Stone was. Just curious, that’s all, and as we were passing by....”
“It’s not far,” said Romney. “I could show you.”
“Many living here?” one asked as they went.
“A few,” said Romney cautiously. “Where are you off to?”
“Buckland. Replacements. Shouldn’t be here really.”
They were not talkative, and indeed the deeper among the beech trees they went the more nervous and uncomfortable they became.
“You sure this is the way?” said one.
“It isn’t an ambush if that’s what you mean. Duncton isn’t that kind of place.”
“Bit of a spooky kind of place, isn’t it? How far’s this Stone now?”
“Not far.”
Nor was it. When they got there they went to the Stone but seemed hardly to want to stay, peering hurriedly up at the Stone, and around the clearing.
It was at this moment that Mistle appeared.
“Welcome,” she said.
“Yes, well, thank you,” said one of the moles. They looked almost guilty.
“Is this what you wanted to see?” asked Romney. “Just this?”
“This is where that mole Beechen came from, isn’t it? The one they called Stone Mole?”
“Yes,” said Romney quietly. He dared not look at Mistle. “Why?”
“Just curious, after all the stories about Beechenhill. As we were passing we thought we’d have a look.”
“What stories?” said Mistle. Her face was expressionless.
The grikes looked increasingly uncomfortable.
“Well, when he was barbed and that, and he made the weather change and brought moles out of the ground where he hung; and how after the barbing the Stone sent the Master mad. A mole dreads to think what’s happened since. We just wanted to see Duncton for ourselves.”
Mistle seemed to sway where she stanced and then smiled briefly and said, “Tell my friend what you know. Tell him.”
Then she was silent, and the grikes did not know what to say, and she said to one of them with a shaky laugh, “You’re stancing just where the Stone Mole was born.”
“Oh!” said the mole, moving back sharply. “Well, there’s a thing!” They all stared stupidly at the spot near the Stone, and Mistle turned and left.
“She’s a funny one. Say the wrong thing, did we, chum?”
Romney shook his head and decided to explain nothing but to get them to talk instead.
“Nothing much to add. Thought everymole knew about Beechenhill,” one of them said. “Since then the Master’s been wandering all over the place and nomole knows where to look for him next. They say he’s mad and Clowder will be Master now, but he’s gone off up to the Marches to deal with some trouble there. We got orders from Slighe in Cannock to go to Buckland but by the time we get there they’ll be changed again! In some systems it’s been murderous but we’re just looking for a cushy task. Keep your snout low at a time like this, eh? But you look as if you know the score, mate!”
They turned from the Stone and wandered slowly back across the High Wood, and told Romney a little more about Beechenhill, basing their account on what a friend had been told by another mole who had seen it with his own eyes.
“The Stone Mole was killed, was he? You merely said ‘barbed’ before.”
“‘Barbed’ or ‘killed’ – same thing in the end. He didn’t get down off the wire and dance, no. You can take it he was killed, though they never found his body. Funny, that. Then the Master went spare, chasing after his mother Henbane. Shouldn’t of never left Whern, not the Master’s job to go round the place. That’s for the likes of Clowder.”
“Are followers still being killed?”
“Died down, that has. Weren’t many left. Mind you, they seem to come out of thin air, do followers. Like all the followers in Duncton was meant to have been killed but here you are. It proves my point: killing will never get rid of followers, even if you wanted to, which I don’t!”
They did not speak aggressively at all, and Romney saw that things had changed more deeply than moles knew.
They reached the cross-under and looked upslope towards the wood.
“Nice place you got here,” one of them said.
“Come again,” said Romney.
“You’re on there, mate. In my old age I’ll come and put my paws up here.”
“You do that,” said Romney.
But that news of Beechen... Romney hurried back quickly to Mistle and found her in the High Wood, stanced still and quiet.
“He will come back, won’t he Romney?” she said immediately she saw him.
Never had he found it so hard to say what he said, for everything about Mistle, and about the community they hoped to build, had to be based on truth. The Stone Mole had been barbed: how could he come back? Yet he had promised her....
“Yes,” he said, “he’ll come back.”
She came to him, leaned against him, and said, “Thank you, Romney.” And then, a little later, “He will, you know. He will.”
Despite himself, despite everything, sometimes when he went about the wood he almost could believe it.
She was gone from her normal haunts for days after that and he wondered if she would remember to go down to see Wren’s youngsters, and decided she would not.
I’ll go myself, he thought, though what I’ll say I just don’t know. A mole of the Word preparing moles for the Stone’s Midsummer! What a place Duncton is becoming!
Yet when he got to where he knew Wren and Whortle lived, they were all gone. And so were the others, all of them. He waited a night, snouted towards the Marsh End, and then on a hunch went west to Barrow Vale, and even before he reached it he knew his hunch was good.
For there in the centre of Barrow Vale was Wren and her family, and the other youngsters too, all gathered around Mistle who had them silent and rapt in some story she told.
“Ssh!” said a youngster as he approached. “Ssh, ssh!”
So he settled down as Mistle finished her tale.
“She taught us a rhyme, and told us about a mole called Balagan,” said one of the younger ones from the late litter.
“And about Tryfan, who used to live here long ago,” said one of the older ones.
“And about Midsummer!”
“And what did the mole who lives by the Stone tell you about Midsummer?” asked Romney, as one of the smaller ones settled comfortably against his great paw.
“She told us that her grandmother Violet said that if you close your eyes and say a prayer for somemole else you’ll get a good surprise.”
Romney laughed.
“Are you going to?”
“Of course we are.”
He glanced at Mistle, and though she looked tired still, yet something in her was coming free again.
“It’ll be a good Midsummer, Mistle, won’t it?” he said.
“I think so,” she said.
Midsummer came, and perhaps the youngsters did close their eyes and make a prayer for another mole; for certainly a surprise came a few days later.
Whortle brought it to Mistle, the youngsters and Romney when they were working to clear part of the communal way that ran from Barrow Vale up to the Stone.
“T
here’s a strange mole asking for you, Mistle, up in the High Wood. I said if I saw you I’d tell you.”
The youngsters looked up, excited. A new mole to meet!
“Did he tell you his name?” For the briefest of moments Romney thought of Beechen, and he looked over to Mistle. He saw that she seemed resigned now to the fact that he was not coming back, even if she would never say so.
“He said he was called Cuddesdon,” said Whortle.
“Oh!” said Mistle, her paw going to her mouth in delighted surprise. “Romney! It’s Cuddesdon!” And then....
“Mistle’s crying!” said one of the youngsters.
“No, she’s laughing,” said another.
“Let’s go and meet him then!” said the third.
Then up through the wood they went, almost all the new inhabitants of Duncton Wood, the youngsters running ahead, Mistle explaining to Wren who Cuddesdon was, Romney chatting to Whortle. Upslope they came, through the trees to the clearing, and then all together bursting out towards the Stone where a mole, an odd mole, a friendly mole, a quickly grinning mole, was stanced.
“Welcome!” said one of the youngsters. “You know what you are, don’t you?”
“A surprise I should think,” said Cuddesdon.
“Not half,” the youngster replied.
“Mistle’s crying again,” said his sibling.
“Moles do, and so will I shortly,” said Cuddesdon, who with the youngsters milling all around embraced Mistle and was quickly introduced to the others.
“This is the mole who I travelled with nearly from Avebury itself, and we haven’t seen each other for a long time. He’s called Cuddesdon because that’s where his family originally came from, and he was going back there.”
“Sounds like a good tale!” said one of the youngsters.
“A rattling good tale,” said Whortle.
What was it then about them all at the clearing? About the light upon them, and the Stone, and the sounds of the wood all around? What rediscovery did Mistle make in the time between the telling of her first stories to the youngsters in Barrow Vale, and Cuddesdon’s coming?
She looked at the adults, and at the youngsters playing, and there came back to her at last that same excitement and purpose Romney had seen when they had first come, and which he had missed so much.
“Duncton’s beginning again,” Mistle suddenly said. “It’s here and now where we are. Can’t you feel it?”
The same old impatience was there, too, the impatience that had once scolded Romney, and the confidence that had sent the first grikes running. The belief that life was there to live, not there to die. Romney saw that Mistle had come out of darkness into light again and he knew that she was stronger for it. He knew that she was the mole that Duncton would need if... if what? If Duncton was to be the place to which the Stone Mole would want to come back, that’s what!
“Well, can’t you?” Mistle almost shouted. “Can’t you feel it?”
“Yes!” said Romney with a laugh.
“Certainly!” said Cuddesdon.
“Yes, Ma’am!” said Whortle, grinning. “This is the place to be all right, isn’t it, Wren?”
Wren wasn’t listening, but was stanced enjoying the company of her youngsters by the Stone, and they did not look so young any more.
“Did you find Cuddesdon Hill?” asked Mistle.
“I found the place but not the spirit I was looking for. I don’t think I was ready for that task so I thought I’d come and find you.”
“How did you know she’d be here?” asked Romney.
“Mistle? She was always coming here from the first moment that I met her. Weren’t you, Mistle?”
Cuddesdon nudged her in a friendly way, and Romney warmed to see her close to another mole like that.
She looked around at the rising beeches, she listened to the sounds of the wood, she scented the summer air. She touched a paw to Cuddesdon and then one to Romney.
“Yes, yes, I was always coming here,” she said. “This is the place where moles will always find themselves.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
It was in July that suddenly and quite unexpectedly the breakthrough at Caer Caradoc came. Just when Troedfach and Gareg were beginning to have difficulty keeping the morale of their secret army of moles up, one of the small volunteer patrols that had crossed the line came back in June with real news for a change, and not just rumour. Sensational news that would change everything for them all the moment it was heard.
Better still, they brought with them a mole who knew the news was true, or most of it at least. He had been there.
The leader of the patrol, his eyes alight with excitement, told Gareg, “Sir, you’re going to want everymole in the Marches to hear this mole’s story. It’s not all good, and it’s not all bad, but it makes a mole’s talons itch for action!”
A meeting with Troedfach, Caradoc and Alder was quickly arranged, and then all the senior commanders nearby, and many others were hastily summoned, and the mole came to speak to them: a mole we know....
“Ghyll’s the name, and I am of Mallerstang in the north,” he said clearly, eyeing the moles carefully. “I don’t know much about you here except that you’re of the Stone, and the war you’ve waged has gone on for many a year.”
“That’s true, at any rate!” said Troedfach with a smile. “A whole lifetime in some cases.”
Ghyll nodded and said quietly, “Where does a mole begin? From what the patrol that picked me up tell me, you’ve been cut off from what’s happening in moledom and not much has filtered through.”
“Not much,” said Gareg. “That’s why we sent out patrols.”
“You don’t even know about the Stone Mole then?”
They shook their heads, and went very quiet indeed.
“Well,” said Ghyll, “I’d better begin with him because I’ve a feeling he’s where it all begins, and where it all may end.”
“And did he come then, the Stone Mole?” said Caradoc.
There wasn’t a mole there but Ghyll who did not understand how important Caradoc’s question was to him.
Ghyll looked at him in that clear, direct way the Mallerstang moles had, and he seemed to sense something of Caradoc’s faith and trust.
“Greetings, mole,” he said, lowering his snout respectfully.
“My name’s Caradoc of Caer Caradoc,” said Caradoc formally, pleased to be well greeted, “and I’ve waited all my life for the news you bring this day.”
“And I!” said Alder.
“Aye, and all of us here!” said Troedfach.
Ghyll was moved by their faith and eagerness and he said, “Then moles of the Marches, I’ll tell you this: your wait has not been in vain. I have seen the Stone Mole with my own eyes.”
There was a clamour of questions, and Ghyll raised his paw and the hubbub slowly quietened. But most remarkably it was not the moles’ eagerness to know that truly quietened them, but something about the way Ghyll stanced, and the look of faith in his eye. A hush fell.
“The Stone Mole is dead,” said Ghyll. “I saw him barbed by the moles of the Word with my own eyes. But the Stone Mole lives, and shall live in everymole’s heart.”
“Tell us your tale, mole,” said Caradoc in a compelling voice, “and tell us it slow. From its beginning to its ending as you would tell it to youngsters on a Midsummer night, for are we not pups who must learn the Stone Mole’s ways? We must know of his coming, and of his ministry among us, and of his end.”
“Then know that the Stone Mole, as moles call him, was born of a mole called Feverfew in Duncton Wood,” responded Ghyll, “and his name was Beechen, and if he died – aye, I said if he died – then it was at Beechenhill. But first....”
So it was that the moles of the Marches first learnt of the Stone Mole, and of Beechenhill, and of those teachings that Ghyll had heard Harebell and Sleekit talk about when they returned to Beechenhill.
Quietly he spoke, and with reverence, telling what he
knew for fact, what was hearsay and what was his surmise. Through the evening he spoke, and halfway into the night, and he ended by telling them of that terrible night of death and the barbing by the Stone of Beechenhill.
“Before then I was one of those who had come to believe that fighting was the way – and I a mole, as I’ve explained, who had come from a system where non-violence was the code. But years of pressure from the grikes at Beechenhill changed that, and I’m not proud of it.
“Nor was Squeezebelly, I’m sure, as he led the charge on the grikes at the Beechenhill Stone. But is a mole to stance idly by while his own kin and ones he loves are killed? You answer me that, for I never have!
“Yet I know this too: I’ve seen an extreme of violence that I never want to see again. As I crossed moledom from the north-east where Beechenhill lies, counting myself lucky I had escaped and fulfilling Squeezebeily’s hope that those who did would spread word of what they saw, I have felt the violence that still waits to erupt across moledom. There’s anger, there’s vengeance and there’s confusion. Perhaps violence must have its place.
“But if you must fight, and I think you will, then moles of the Welsh Marches I beg you to do it swiftly, and to stop it soon. And when you stop it, stop it for good.”
“Aye,” cried out Caradoc, “that’s how a mole should speak!”
And later, when Caradoc got Troedfach and Alder alone, he said, “Let me take Ghyll of Mallerstang to talk to the moles who wait so impatiently behind the lines. He’ll instil respect for the Stone Mole’s way in them.”
“I had thought of it and so had Gareg,” said Troedfach. “But you, Caradoc, what of you and the news he brought?”
“What of me?” said Caradoc sharply.
“He said the Stone Mole was barbed to death,” said Alder. “And you’ve always said....”
Caradoc stared up at Caer Caradoc.
“He’ll come,” he said fiercely, “and I’ll be there to greet him when he does. He’ll come, see?”
It was but a few days after this that the grikes began the assaults along the line that Gareg had so long ago predicted they would do, and the new war they had prepared for finally began.
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