Quite a lot, in fact. With his gawky paws and quick, direct manner, Cuddesdon was not a mole others could ignore, and like Mistle herself he was unselfconscious in his belief in the Stone; he liked to say grace before eating, and tried to spend time every day in contemplation by himself.
Sometimes Mistle would join him and, as time went on, others would do so too, particularly Dewberry, who liked to be silent in company near the Stone.
In this way Cuddesdon began, by force of his own example, to establish a pattern of worship in Duncton Wood, but one to which no other moles were forced in any way to subscribe: some did, many didn’t, and of those that did there might be long periods when they did not. But without Cuddesdon building the pattern in the first place, moles with less purpose and will than his own in such matters would never have thought much about the Stone at all.
He lived rather roughly, and wherever he took a fancy to, but there he was, rain or shine, soon after dawn each morning when the wood was waking, to whisper a morning prayer in the Stone clearing, such as one he first learned from Mistle:
‘This dawn
Let us honour you.
Stone, you have raised us freely from the black
And from the darkness of last night
To the kindly light of this new day.
Let your light lighten our heart,
Let your light lighten our desires,
Let your light lighten our actions,
Let your light lighten our faith.
Stone, you have brought us freely to your light
To travel with us through the day
In heart, desire, action, faith, this new day.
Let us honour you
This dawn.’
Yet despite the fact that it was Cuddesdon who was the outward face of the quiet worship of the Stone in the newly established system, it was Mistle who remained its inner heart. All moles sensed her faith, and from the tales she told and prayers she often made, the description of her as ‘the mole who lives by the Stone’ was a potent and true description of not just where but how she lived.
Slowly but surely she was becoming the mother and father of the new system, and was the mole about whom so much so subtly and quietly seemed to revolve.
But if those who grew to know her realised that neither Romney nor Cuddesdon was likely to be her mate, they naturally wondered who might be, not quite believing the rumour that it was, in some strange way, the return of the Stone Mole she was waiting for.
By the autumn all had heard of the Stone Mole’s barbing, and knew he must be dead. Could Mistle then be waiting for him? Surely not! She was too attractive and sensible to wait on a dream! No, the truth really was – so moles said – that there was a mole who had been out in the wars of moledom and would one day return, a mole of faith who had gone fighting for the Stone.
Gradually then, as young pups like Dewberry and Rush grew to adulthood, this notion of Mistle waiting for a mole to come back took a hold on the system’s collective imagination and the truth of Beechen and Mistle, so far as it had ever been known (and Romney was never one to talk about it), receded and the Stone Mole was no longer directly associated with Mistle. Her mole was much more real than that. Indeed, Wren and Dewberry enjoyed themselves describing him, and supposed him to be large and strong and purposeful, brave and good, and yet he had about him (they said) that touch of ruthless dedication which had taken him so far and so long from a mole as beautiful as Mistle!
‘He’ll come back one day,’ Wren would say, ‘and that’ll put Romney’s snout out of joint.’
But moles, inclined as they are to get hold of the wrong end of the worm in their haste to make deductions about other moles, were wrong about Romney. It was he who found a mate, not Mistle.
In mid-October, when the winds were beginning to blow lustily and the beech leaves to fly in droves through the wood and deliver a sharp shock to a mole’s snout, there was a sudden influx of more moles. Unlike the ones who had come through the summer, these were older moles and travellers, who often came from afar, having obeyed the instinct that overtook many in moledom after the defeat of the moles of the Word by the Welsh moles.
Like Holm, like Starling, like Bailey indeed, they too had felt an urge to find somewhere that, after so many moleyears of displacement and disarray, might be a home for them. Some of those who now came to Duncton Wood, like Mallet of Grafham, came because they had heard Beechen preach on his way to Beechenhill, and having been much affected by his teachings and being appalled by his barbing, set off for Duncton Wood to dedicate their lives to his precepts.
Others who had met Beechen, like Poplar of Dry Sandford where the great Buckram had been healed, now made their way with their families to Duncton because they began to hear good reports of it, and felt that to find a home in the system in which the Stone Mole had been born would make sense.
A few were descendants of the survivors of the ill-fated evacuation from Duncton led by Tryfan, who had heard tales of Old Duncton, and wished now to see where their forbears came from.
These new moles found the system already established but brought with them experience, their own histories, and a willingness to occupy other parts of the system than the Eastside. Now it was that the wormful Westside began to attract moles, and the slopes between Barrow Vale and the High Wood where Kale, Wren’s son, was already established, and he became an advisor and help on tunnels and territory to many a new mole.
But the Marsh End remained unoccupied, for few moles saw its attractions and many were positively frightened of it, as if, each system needing its darker place, this northern part of the wood fulfilled that need.
Mistle, who knew that in the old days the Marsh End was a community rich in lore and its own rituals, would have liked to encourage more of the newcomers down there, but though a few tried it none yet stayed.
‘They will in time,’ she said, ‘for the Stone likes to see a system well occupied. But we have still got far to go before we’re ready.’
‘Ready for what, Mistle?’ Romney asked.
Mistle smiled, and Romney guessed: ready for him when he came back. But of that, by then, they did not speak, for whatmole but Cuddeson perhaps would understand?
* * *
It was at the end of October that Romney’s life changed, and moles like Wren came in for a surprise, for that was when Lorren, formerly of Rollright, came to Duncton Wood and with her, her daughter Rampion. We who have journeyed through the Chronicles already know their tale and unlike the new inhabitants of Duncton will not be surprised that the first thing Lorren did when she was through the cross-under and up the slopes was to say, ‘Rampion, take me north! I’m not going to talk to a single solitary mole until I have snuffled my snout in the moist Marsh End soil, and scented its once familiar air!’
So down there they went, with Rush for company since he had come to greet them and liked their down-to-earth manner.
When they reached the Marsh End Lorren sniffed and said, ‘What memories it all brings back! We should have come here years ago, Rampion. I think I’m going to cry.’
‘So you lived here before?’ said Rush.
‘Born and raised here I was, in the days of Tryfan and Comfrey, and would have been back sooner if travelling had been safer around Rollright. Now let’s go and look at the Marsh itself …’
They wandered on, and Lorren had to be supported when they got to the northern edge of the wood and looked at where Holm had been born and raised.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rush, ‘but I think a lot of your generation lost mates.’
‘“A lot of our generation lost mates”? Humph!’ said Lorren, looking up at Rush with indignation. ‘Holm was never lost in his life. As for “our generation”, young mole, we’re doing very nicely and we don’t need moles of your generation, or even Rampion’s here, to suggest anything otherwise, thank you very much.’
Rampion and Rush exchanged a grin.
‘As for Holm,’ said Lorren more quietly,
‘he’ll be coming back now the troubles are easing. He said he would and he will, and since we’ve moved from Rollright and wandered about a bit avoiding guardmoles and saving ourselves he’ll not find us where he left us. Now I know my Holm and he knows me, and where he’ll come when he finds I’m not in Rollright is where he thinks I think he’ll come! Which is here, to this Marsh where he was born and which he loved and where Mayweed first found him. And here in the Marsh End, within sight of it, is where I’m going to stay until he does, and a lot longer after that!
‘However, Rush, before I talk about myself, Rampion and I want to know everything you can tell us about the moles in Duncton Wood, don’t we, Rampion? Starting, because Rampion won’t ask and she’s itching to know, with the important question of whether or not a mole called Romney is still here.’
‘He is,’ said Rush, ‘and very much so, and if it’s half helpful, he doesn’t have a mate.’
‘That’s a relief,’ said Lorren, ‘isn’t it, dear?’
Rampion smiled with the loving but weary look of a mole whose mother cannot help but tell all and sundry about their family’s affairs.
Nevertheless Lorren’s instincts were right because the romance of Romney and Rampion was the talk of the autumn, and they all watched as Mistle ‘lost’ Romney to an older mole (and was left all alone), and then agreed that as Romney had been a guardmole and Rampion was definitely of the Stone there would be problems … But even before all the ins and outs had been fully discussed, possibility became reality and the two moles took tunnels together on the slopes. ‘As far from that Lorren as she could be!’ every mole pointed out and said that Lorren would be lonely.
But Lorren was not having any of that sort of nonsense. The friendship she soon developed with Wren, and the willingness with which she talked to younger moles like Kale about the old days, soon diverted them to other topics of the moment.
But in truth the gossip and back-biting that many systems develop was not prevalent at Duncton Wood, and there was a good reason for it: if there was one thing Mistle did not and would not do it was to gossip about others behind their backs. Moles tried it once with her, and got a very sharp reply. From the first Mistle set the example that the system came to live by.
Aye, Mistle could be sharp if she needed to be and nomole was going to get her to do something she didn’t want to do. She could be relied on to stance up to a mole even when others didn’t, or couldn’t.
Like the time in early December when two pairs of Cumnor moles who thought they were the bee’s knees came up the slopes and, without a good morning or a please and thank you, made their way straight across the wood – and ‘right across Romney and Rampion’s patch without even a greeting’ – to the wormful Westside, and proceeded to occupy some tunnels.
A noisy, mucky, bullying lot they were, but moles must live and let live, and that’s what the new moles of Duncton did. But then there was a bit of an argy-bargy when Poplar was going a Whortle near their tunnels and it might have been worse if Poplar hadn’t quietly stanced his ground and stayed passive. A lot worse! Nor was that the first time. But the next time … Mistle herself went down all alone.
There was neither sight nor sound of her for three days during which, it seems, she decided to go and live with them. ‘Hello!’ says she, ‘I thought I’d join the fun!’
Dirty, wasn’t she? Noisy, wasn’t she? Intrusive, certainly! They didn’t seem to have the nerve to throw her out and it was not long before they got the message loud and clear: think of others or you’ll find others don’t think of you, like me.
There she stayed and wouldn’t give in though they threatened, shouted and pleaded with her to leave their burrow. On the evening of the third day some of her friends, including Whortle and Wren, turned up and had a bit of a singsong which went on, and on. And on.
That was the end of three of those four Cumnor moles, because they upped and left saying that Duncton moles were an unfriendly lot, but the fourth, crafty Cheatle, said, ‘It looks like you’re having a better time here than we’ve been having. I’m staying.’ And he did, right there where he was, and he even had the nerve to ask Mistle to join him, seeing as he was alone now and so was she as far as he could tell, and maybe they could get it together for the winter months?
‘No thank you,’ said Mistle-who-lived-by-the-Stone, ‘but you’re welcome to stay. I like a mole who changes his mind for the community’s sake.’
‘Community be buggered,’ said Cheatle. ‘It’s you I want, Mistle my mole!’ But he didn’t get her then, and didn’t get her later, and nomole at all did either. But that was Mistle, wasn’t it? Knew what to do at the right time to make moles delve for the sake of all.
* * *
In December, too, the saga of Lorren (who by then was well established in the Marsh End with a few others of her generation, all of whom she had got on the watch out for Holm’s return, which she said was bound to be any day now) took a new turn.
Wren it was who first heard the news, and Wren it was who hurried down to the Marsh End to break it to Lorren, who emerged from her burrow as dusty and grubby as ever she had been when she heard Wren’s hurried pawsteps.
‘There’s a mole here!’ gasped Wren, barely able to catch her breath.
‘A mole?’ said Lorren. ‘Here?’
‘Asking for you up on the slopes.’
‘It’s him, he’s home!’ says Lorren, running round in circles and trying to tidy up herself and her tunnels both at once and making them all the worse.
‘Holm’s back!’ goes the cry through the Marsh End as all Lorren’s friends run about and look at each other in astonishment, and pretty themselves up a bit because they imagine from all Lorren has said that Holm is a large, handsome mole like none have ever seen before.
‘He’s really back, is he? Well I never! Where is he?’
‘No, no, no,’ says Wren. ‘I’ve been trying to say it’s not Holm, it’s …’
‘Starling?’ says Lorren in astonishment, looking at a mole who’s come with Wren. This wrinkled mole, fur thinner, paws and talons worn, is she really Starling?
Oh yes, she is …
‘Starling!’ Large as life, the same eyes, her fur clean, neat and tidy like it always has been.
Then …
‘Lorren?’ This nearly old mole, this little grey mole, this dusty mole, is she Lorren?
‘Oh Lorren!’ Plumper now, happier, untidy still, looking like a stranger.
But whatmole cares what who looked like? Not them! They weren’t any younger, but they were alive, and suddenly the years rolled back and all that talking they had missed, all that chat and sharing and the things an older sister talks to a young sister about, all of it was coming out, and paws were touching faces, and questions were tumbling into answers, and a celebration started that seemed to go on for days.
Then Heath appeared with Rampion, and they had soon got to know each other, and there was Romney grinning to be part of a family that had suddenly grown, and all of them went off to meet Mistle who lived by the Stone and whom Starling would find a most interesting mole! And Cuddesdon, must just mention him, there’s so much to tell … and how Lorren told it, and how Starling was glad to listen, for her own long journey through the Wen, how Heath and she helped each other along, could wait until another day, for they were here now and that was past.
Then when they met Mistle, and all said a prayer of gratitude, there were more tears for Starling, because she discovered at last that Bailey did survive the flooding under the river, and survived the grike invasion, and survived much else.
So where was he?
Then Mistle had to tell Starling what little she knew of Bailey, namely that he had gone off with Mayweed to Seven Barrows, which is a holy place, and she thought it was for his own good.
‘One day he might come back, like Holm will,’ said Lorren.
‘One day Bailey must come back,’ said Starling, and it was more an order or directive than a hope, the kind that
older sisters often make …
* * *
So Duncton Wood became an exciting living place as December passed and Longest Night loomed once more. The community of moles delved itself in against the coming winter months, and the upper slopes were busy with moles for days before Longest Night itself, all come to hear what Mistle and Cuddesdon and Mallet of Grafham had to say about the meaning of that time of renewal for all moles of the Stone.
Mistle set the tone for those few days of preparation as somewhat sombre days, for she did not forget, nor did Romney, that here in Duncton Wood, a cycle of seasons before, the Master Lucerne had come with the grikes, and where the beech leaves now blew in the wet winter winds in the clearing before the Stone, many moles had died in the name of the Stone.
‘None renounced the Stone, not one,’ said Romney, who was witness to the truth of the terrible tale he told. ‘Yet in their courage that night moledom surely saw the true beginning of moral resistance to the Word, and now here we are, free of its talons; free to worship and rejoice.’
They were serious days and yet, intermingled with them, was that growing cheer and excitement all moles feel come on them at that time, knowing that Longest Night will give way to longer days once more and the season’s turn.
It is traditionally a time when moles come home, but if all the moles who lived in a system once have died, what moles are there to come back? Not many, it seemed, to Duncton Wood, whose slopes were empty of returning mole in those last days before Longest Night. All gone, all dispersed, so many dead: the hope, surely, lay in the new ones here, and the spring to come, when more pups would be born and the tunnels sound once more with new life.
Yet why, the day before Longest Night, did moles drift, by themselves, over to the edge of the High Wood, and stare for a time down the slopes towards the deserted cross-under and sadly shake their heads and go away again? What loved ones did they remember and dream might come up the pasture slopes whole, alive, and make a mole feel he could reach back and touch his past again? Many then, many.
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