Duncton Found

by William Horwood

  These strange words Mistle remembered and repeated often in later years, and it seemed to Romney that she associated them with the return of Beechen to Duncton Wood. She would go out onto the slope, and the little promontory where years before Skint and Smithills had fought their last and died was where she would stance.

  She liked to be there of an evening because then the gazes of the roaring owls began for the night, and she watched as they passed on their endless missions north and south.

  There Romney would join her during that last summer, stancing nearby and watching over her, and knowing when to go to her and say softly, “Come, my dear, I think it’s time we went back to the wood. Moles worry about you staying here.”

  Mistle would nod, and permit herself to be supported on one side as Romney, himself grown frail, took her back across the High Wood to her tunnels.

  It was a time of day younger moles would seek them out, waiting for them in the dusk, and quietly accompanying them for a while in the hope that Mistle might relent for once and tell them a story before she went below.

  June passed to July and that exciting time came when the young leave their home burrows, and travellers set off and others arrive came upon the wood. How bustling the tunnels were, how much was discussed and debated there, and how busy Barrow Vale seemed. Yet subtle, rarely spoken, was that sense of waiting that beset Mistle, and which permeated the wood and, in a way, unsettled it. It seemed as if all was hanging fire for something nameless and mysterious that soon might be.

  All knew, or thought, that whatever it was it had to do with the return of the seventh and last Stillstone. A few thought it might be more even than that. A quality of tranquillity was sometimes with Mistle now, despite the doubts and fears of age that troubled her. Beyond that was a growing light, a sense of holiness.

  The trouble was that “Stillstones” were forever coming to the wood, brought by hopeful moles whose only claim to fame was that they had been to Seven Barrows; and truth to tell, even that was sometimes in dispute. But moles trusted Mistle, ailing though she was, and knew that if the last Stillstone came to the wood in her lifetime she would know it.

  It was one warm July evening, then, that a travelling mole passed through the cross-under and set his paw, with a curious mixture of curiosity and doubt, upon the southeastern slopes.

  A mole or two who were there greeted him, but he was silent, even morose. He was past middle age, and somewhat lined and grey, his eyes a little watchful, his brow a little furrowed, and his gait slow and steady, like that of a mole who has travelled far and conserves what strength he has lest he finds he must soon travel on.

  Up the slopes he went, up to the very promontory upon which Mistle still sometimes stanced but nomole was there that day as the woods rose beyond, all full of rustling leaves and the hollow drifting sounds of wood pigeon.

  The mole stopped still and stared for a long time at the High Wood, and then he turned and looked back down the slopes, and across the way where the roaring owls were gazing their first gazes of the dusk.

  He took from under his paw a stone and placed it on the ground. For a long time he stanced there, staring out and sometimes looking at the stone. Then, with a sigh, he moved a little from that place and delved. And there he placed the stone, and covered it again, and stared about the place some more before setting off up into the High Wood.

  Somewhere there some young moles saw him coming and, as was the Duncton way, came up to greet him, and ask where he was from and where he was going. But he answered them rather brusquely and they, intimidated by his size and dark presence, retreated and found other things to do.

  Yet he called after them and, striving to put a smile across his face, said, “The Stone. Where is the Stone?”

  “It’s that way,” they said, pointing and watching as, with a brief nod of thanks, he turned from them and went his lonely way among the trees.

  It was Romney who found him by the Stone, stanced still and staring at it. The mole tried to move away but even in old age Romney was not a mole to be put off, and he had a ready smile which few moles could resist.

  “Come far?” he asked, sensing that the mole was not easy of conversation.

  “Far enough,” was the dour reply.

  “My name is Romney, I...”

  The mole nodded quickly, and said, “Romney of Keynes”, almost as if it was scribed before him and he was speaking it out.

  “There’s not many know that!” said Romney in surprise.

  “Not many been to Keynes either,” said the mole with the flash of smile. “Not much there these days.”

  “How did you know?” said Romney curiously, but he saw immediately that the mole was not inclined to say. It seemed a lifetime ago that anymole had called him “Romney of Keynes”.

  “Long time ago,” said the mole as if he read his thoughts.

  “It is!” said Romney. “But I can remember it now as if it was yesterday....”

  Then he found himself talking to the strange mole and telling him about his puphood, and the terrible circumstances in which he had first come to Duncton Wood.

  “Was it here that the massacre took place?”

  Romney nodded. Even now it was not something he liked to talk about.

  “And where was Tryfan when Drule blinded him?”

  “I had left the clearing by then. None of us saw that. It was Lucerne and Drule alone that did it.”

  “I never knew that,” said the mole. “I thought you must all have been here then.”

  Romney shook his head.

  “And apart from Tryfan only one survived,” he said.

  “Aye, that was Bailey,” said the mole, “and he’s one of the moles I was hoping to see.”

  “He left us last winter,” Romney said, “but his sons are alive, and Dewberry, his mate.”

  A look of real disappointment and loss came over the mole’s face.

  “So, I’ve come too late, then, for Bailey. But I’ve heard he made a library here.”

  “In the Ancient System, and there’s moles will show you that. Whatmole are you then, and what’s your interest?”

  “My name’s Woodruff of Arbor Low,” Woodruff said shortly.

  It was neither a name nor place Romney knew.

  There was an awkward silence, then Romney said, “You’re interested in the past, I take it?”

  Woodruff nodded and asked, “Are there any other moles from Duncton’s past here now, or have they all gone?”

  “Mistle knew them all, and I myself, but there’s not many of the old ones left. You’ll find a few down in the Marsh End who knew Holm and Lorren well. The past soon goes, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Woodruff tersely. “I think it always lingers on. Would anymole mind if I tarried a little in Duncton Wood and talked to a few moles here and there?”

  “No, mole, none will mind. You could try Kale down near Barrow Vale, he’s always been interested in the past and was one of the first pups born after Mistle and myself first came.”

  “I’d like to meet Mistle as well,” said Woodruff.

  “She sees few moles now...” Romney began.

  “She was mate to Beechen of Duncton.”

  “Why mole, few moles know that!”

  “My mother heard the Stone Mole preach at Kniveton, and was there when he was taken by eldrene Wort of Fyfield.”

  Many moles came through the wood who told of how one or other of their parents had heard the Stone Mole preach.

  “I would like to meet Mistle,” said the mole again. He was as persistent in his uncomfortable way as Romney was cheerfully in his.

  “Well, if she has had a good day and you’re near, then perhaps....”

  “I’d really like to,” said Woodruff. “Tell her that I was in Bablock Hythe, and there’s moles there who speak her name to this day with pleasure, and that of Beechen too. Will you tell her that from me?”

  For the first time Romney found Woodruff gazing straight at
him, and he saw his gaze was strong yet troubled, and that he was a mole who had travelled alone too long and never quite found himself.

  “I’ll tell her that, mole,” said Romney, “and if she was here she’d want to welcome you and say that Duncton is a place these days where travelling moles may rest their paws, and feel under no pressure to stay or leave.”

  “That’s well said, Romney,” replied Woodruff with a sudden smile that lit up his creased face, and warmed his eyes. “And thank you for it.”

  From time to time in the weeks ahead Romney heard of the mole Woodruff who was about the wood and asking questions of the past. Moles seemed to notice him, for he had a strange ability, despite his seeming awkwardness, to make moles talk about themselves, and remember things they did not think they knew. Yet he rarely talked himself, or of himself.

  The only mole he seemed to strike up a friendship with was Kale, and more than once the two moles travelled about the system and Kale expounded on his favourite topic, which was who had lived where, and when. But for Woodruff of Arbor Low it never seemed enough.

  “You must have some idea where Bracken was born!” he would say in exasperation, “and where Rue’s burrows were. She was the mother of Comfrey.”

  But Kale shook his head and said, “It’s all too long ago, long before my time. I’ve never even heard of half the moles whose names you know.”

  “Well, I could tell you sometime....”

  But with most other moles Woodruff was not so outgoing as with Kale. He was not quite rude when some of the more inquisitive moles of the Eastside tried to get him to tell them more about himself, but his eyes grew cold and his manner distant, and they did not persist.

  “He’s a funny mole, that one! Gives nothing away at all!”

  Yet one evening, in Barrow Vale, when moles were gathered round chatting of times past, Woodruff did give something of himself away. Enough, indeed, to make Romney, who heard it, realise that there was more to Woodruff than there had at first seemed.

  It had grown late and the moles, mostly males, some of whom had been north when young, were exchanging tales real or imaginary about the days of the Word’s great power in Whern, and all it stood for.

  Woodruff was listening with Kale, as he sometimes did, when the subject of Henbane came up.

  “She was a right bitch, she was,” said one of them, “and it’s hard to think she was ever in Duncton Wood. But this is where old Bailey, bless him, got caught in her clutches, though it wasn’t something he ever talked about. Of course, she got her come-uppance! She was killed by her own son Lucerne, who subsequently died lost and mad in the tunnels of Whern.”

  “She caused more trouble to moledom than anymole before or since. She...” said another.

  “She wasn’t all bad,” growled Woodruff suddenly, “and as for Lucerne, he did not die in Whern. He never even got back there.”

  “Oh!” said one of the moles. “That sounds interesting. Lucerne didn’t die in Whern when everything I’ve ever heard, including from a mole who knew a mole who was there at the time...” There was a pause for meaningful and significant looks around to emphasise the strength of his evidence, “... suggests that’s precisely what happened to Lucerne!”

  “Well it wasn’t,” muttered Woodruff, obviously regretting he had spoken.

  Romney saw all this and was intrigued.

  “I must say that there have always been those who said that Henbane had good qualities which belied her bad reputation,” he said, hoping perhaps that this sympathetic remark would persuade Woodruff to say more.

  But immediately another mole, who liked such arguments, said, “Ah, but that was part of her genius for evil, that she made moles think she was better than she was. No, that mole was wickedness incarnate.”

  “Yet Tryfan loved her, didn’t he?” said Woodruff quietly.

  “Humph! Fooled by her more like!” said one of the others dismissively. “It was only by his force of character and prowess that he got away from her grikes without more injury.”

  “I don’t think either Tryfan or Henbane ever fooled each other,” rejoined Woodruff. “And he didn’t get away by his ‘prowess’ and nor did Henbane’s grikes have anything to do with it. It was Rune’s sideem that inflicted injuries on Tryfan, and it was Rune that let him leave alive and Spindle leave unharmed. It was one of many mistakes that Rune made.”

  There was silence at this, for it was plain to them all that Woodruff knew more than they did on the subject, even if what he said was not anything like the stories they usually heard.

  “You are well informed, Woodruff,” said Romney quietly, “and we in Duncton like to hear the truth. Would you...?”

  “No, I wouldn’t!” said Woodruff brusquely. “I do not wish to speak of those times.”

  It was a strange moment, of the kind by which a system or community is sometimes put to a test without quite realising it. A group of moles debating, a sudden outburst by one of them, and then, too often, a retreat to blandness or unforgiving silence on all sides.

  But a true community responds in better ways at moments such as that. Duncton had long since become strong, and sensitive, in its groups as well as its individuals, and many of the moles in that chamber understood immediately that Woodruff’s ill temper ran deep to something that mattered much to him. Perhaps they knew that better than he did.

  Silence followed his remark. Not an uncomfortable silence but rather a waiting silence, in which a mole can come closer to himself if he is allowed, and can speak his heart without fear of rebuff.

  Woodruff had been in the process of stancing up to go, but so quiet was the burrow, and so friendly – so warm – that he stayed himself and settled back and stared at the ground.

  Still nomole spoke.

  The mole Woodruff had said “I do not wish to speak of those times”, then let the mole Woodruff say what it was he did wish to speak of!

  “Henbane loved Tryfan,” he said eventually and very quietly, into the deep and caring silence in the chamber below Barrow Vale. “To her he was the greatest light in her whole life. I believe that to him she must have been the same, and certainly she believed so – or so I have been told.”

  The hasty addition of “Or so I have been told” achieved the opposite effect than that intended, which was perhaps to distance Woodruff from what he was saying, and make it seem that his information was at second paw. But the trembling passion in his voice and the conviction with which he spoke could not but make a mole think that he had knowledge of Henbane few moles had.

  There was a continuing silence, and one it was plain nomole would interrupt.

  Woodruff throught some more, hesitated, and then suddenly seeming to decide to talk, said, “Few moles know the truth of Henbane’s puphood and how she was raised by her mother Charlock on Rombald’s Moor. If they knew that they would understand how it was that Tryfan’s love was such a revelation to her, and, too, what great courage she must have needed to turn her back on the Word and on Whern as she did that grim Midsummer.”

  His voice both deepened and softened as he spoke, and Romney, who sensed the importance of the moment, was touched that the mole nearest Woodruff turned to him with a smile and said, “There’s not a mole here, Woodruff of Arbor Low, who would not feel it a privilege if you’d tell us more of what you know of Henbane. It’s been a puzzle to me for years that a great mole like Tryfan loved a mole we have been taught to hate. So if you will, tell us what you know, mole.”

  Woodruff seemed to find it hard to respond immediately to this, not because he had nothing to say – it was plain he had a great deal – but because the gentle way the mole had spoken, and the atmosphere of care and interest in the chamber was not something he was used to at all. Indeed, he looked round at them for a time, his mouth opening as if he wanted to speak so much, but was not quite able, and tears were in his eyes.

  “’Tis all right, mole,” said Kale, “you take your time, we can wait.”

  “Aye, fetch a
worm or two for Woodruff over here!” said another. In this way that awkward moment passed, and it was so plain that the moles were as much concerned for Woodruff as the story he had to tell that nomole could not have felt warmed and cheered by their response. Indeed, he was not the only one with tears in his eyes. Romney had them too. For what he saw before him that night was indeed a community of moles, and one which knew well how to take into its heart a mole who some might have said was not of their number. But there they were and there he was among them, feeling safer, Romney suspected, than he had ever felt in his life. And feeling valued too.

  The task that Mistle set herself finds a fruition here tonight, he thought.

  Then Woodruff chewed some worm, unashamedly touched a paw to his tears, and said in the old way, “Of Henbane of Whern, born of Charlock and Rune, former Mistress of the Word, shall I tell as best I can, and from my heart to your heart I shall tell it that you know it to be true.”

  So then began the first telling of a tale by Woodruff of Arbor Low in Duncton Wood, and the whisper soon went out that a great tale was being told by a mole who knew what he was telling, and others came quietly to the chamber, and settled down into the silence there, and listened as, once more, Henbane of Whern came alive in Duncton Wood. But now it was through a mole who had loved her and who, it was plain the more he spoke, and the more he told, and despite all appearances to the contrary, loved all moles.

  A long tale it was, and the night was late when it was done, and many a mole went up to Woodruff afterwards and said, “That was an evening I’ll never forget, I hope you’ll tell us more when you’ve a mind to.”

  “I shall,” said Woodruff, looking surprised and embarrassed by how warm the moles were towards him. “Yes, I think I shall!”

  The following day Romney went to Mistle and said, “There’s a mole came to Duncton Wood some weeks past whom I think you should meet. His name is Woodruff of Arbor Low.”