We have already seen that tunnels at the northern edge of the High Wood were used as the Library of the system. Of how this came about we shall have more to learn, but for now it is only necessary to say that the chambers and tunnels taken up with these texts (which also gave room to the copiers who serviced other systems and who formed an important daily function of the place), vast though they always seemed to newcomers, were in fact only a small part of the Ancient System as a whole.
The rest of it, the greater part covered by the High Wood, consisted of the unknown and long-deserted tunnels which once, before scribed history began, must have been a great system indeed. Of how it came to be deserted moles were, are, and always will be told fanciful tales. But we may guess that the real explanation for its desertion lay in some change of climate and soil that had robbed the area of its worms. For there were few of them about, and those thin and sour of taste, and even hungry moles avoided them.
So apart from the chambers and tunnels of the Library, the Ancient System remained barren and deserted of mole, and its tunnels, filled as they were with the sinister carvings which generated Dark Sound to confuse moles who ventured there, were visited by no sensible mole.
Although in Bracken’s and Tryfan’s day there had been some venturing down into these old tunnels, in the decades of peaceable content, since then they had become forgotten and feared once more. The very existence of the famous Chamber of Roots which protected the Stone’s base, and into which nomole but those with a true heart and absolute faith dared venture, was known to none but a very few, except as legend, and a place that once was great. But there was something fitting in the fact that the Stone rose through tunnels now empty of mole, and silent of daily busyness, toil and strife. Ghosts there were, and shadows to frighten a mole, and strange sounds from the few entrances that still remained.
Moles chose to travel only the surface of the Ancient System, and that in awe, and they reached the Stone Clearing with gratitude, properly reminded that life is but short when set against a mole history in which whole systems of moles could be lost and forgotten.
Another area that was much as it had been in Bracken’s youth, when the Chronicles began, was the low-lying Marsh End to the north. For such grubby and worm-poor ground, the Marsh End attracted extraordinary loyalty in its moles. The present occupants indeed were mostly descended from moles in whose hearts the memory of Duncton had been kept alive by those who succeeded in escaping the scourge of Henbane and her grikes in Tryfan’s day, and who had come back to their ancestral home.
Thus far, then, was Duncton as it had been at the time of Bracken and his kin. But there were differences. In those days of which the Chronicles tell, the tunnels of Duncton were heavy with the threat of Mandrake and Rune, and loud with the rude laughter and mocking jeers of their henchmoles. Such debates as there were then were conducted in a Barrow Vale ruled by fear, for blood was ever on the paws of those that had ascendancy, and behind the chilling smiles of Rune and others of his kind (though thank the Stone there never was another quite like him) were eyes that saw innocent pups as things to kill, and they killed them even at their mothers’ teats.
How different Duncton had become in the decades since those fateful days! Laughter and merriment had been the way since then, of moles whose lives were lived with respect for others’ space and wish. Moles reared in a tradition of listening; moles who knew that whatever task they have, whatever skills or weaknesses the Stone and their own endeavours give them, they may find a worthy place in their community.
Through those great decades Duncton honoured its inhabitants, and opened its paws to any who came, giving them a welcome and a place, asking only that they were tolerant of others, whatever their faith or inclination might be. For make no mistake, there was many a mole who came to Duncton Wood (and some reared in its tunnels too) who were not especially of the Stone, and were willing to argue the night away with moles of faith, and prove what points they could.
Such is true freedom, and everymole in moledom knew that Duncton moles would hear another out and argue and share as hard as they could without bearing grudges or making judgements and condemnations.
Another way in which Duncton had changed somewhat since former times was that it no longer had the traditional system of elders which even now many systems have, by force of habit and molish inclination, despite the fact that such a system was not part of Tryfan’s famed Rule.
Indeed, the absence of official elders was a source of wonder to visitors from systems run by a selected few. It was precisely that abrogation of communal responsibility that Tryfan was so much against in formulating his Rule, since in it he saw the beginnings of the very corruption of power that had so dominated his life.
Certainly it was plain to outsiders that Duncton ruled itself successfully without the help of elders. There was no council, no assize, nor any formal routine regular meeting of a minority whose task was, to put it at its simplest, the ordering of the majority. What the system did have was an irregular Meeting down in Barrow Vale, held when moles felt moved to call one, and attended by as many moles as wished to come, but presided over by nomole. Such was Duncton’s unique government, and it was the wonder of moledom.
But naturally, at any particular time there were moles in the system who by virtue of their intelligence or persistence, cunning or good diplomacy, were recognized by others as having something more than average to contribute and so were elders in all but name. Sometimes an individual emerged who combined the right qualities in such balance and good measure that he or she adopted a role that was near to being the very thing Tryfan so disliked: the role of leader.
Such a mole was the great and wise Drubbins, about whom many a tale has been told, and will continue to be told so long as moles enjoy accounts of moles who know how to be both decisive and judicious in a crisis. Drubbins was a large rough-voiced Westsider, with a liking for lobworms and a legendary and abiding loyalty to his gentle mate Lavender for whom he would have moved the earth (and often did!). At the time Privet came to Duncton Wood, though Lavender was already infirm with age and Drubbins was beginning to lose his former energy, this pair was regarded as the first and most important in the system.
But if Drubbins was still first among equals there were other moles in Duncton at this same time whose special qualities put them amongst those to whom others willingly turned in times of doubt or argument, or for leadership. And since these moles shall have their part to play in the story of Privet’s quest, their names and characters should be swiftly scribed down.
There was, for example, Drubbins’ younger brother, Chamfer, who had the same gravelly voice as his sibling, and the same large, rough, companionable frame, though not, it must be said, the same acuity. But what he lacked in perception he more than made up for in good intent and strength when strength was needed, which it was all those times when moles are inclined to fight, which is mainly in the spring over mates, and in the autumn over winter territories. Chamfer’s easy confidence, and benign but firm manner, had often kept the peace in the Westside and Barrow Vale.
The Marsh End at that time had at least two moles who held sway in their different ways over moles of their generation. One of these was the forceful Bantam, pre-eminent among the fecund Marshend females. For a small mole Bantam was remarkably overbearing, interfering, and unlikeable, but she had a way of making moles defer to her and thus had a following. She had in recent moleyears, and following the arrival in Duncton Wood of missionaries from Caradoc, become Newborn, and helped the Caradocians establish the only paw-hold they had in Duncton, which was down in the Marsh End.
The second well-known mole from those parts was Snyde, a clever mole with sharp eyes and a head bent unnaturally low by a slight crook-back, which made him always look as if he were peering and prying about. He had the quick malevolent wit of one whom life has made bitter, but who knows how to make the majority laugh at the minority’s expense. He studied others as an owl studies its prey
before it strikes, and had a voice that was thin, high and snoutish. He was the kind of mole who, in a system of elders and factions, would have known how to rise far and fast, playing one off against another and emerging not as leader but as the power and malign intelligence behind a more physically charismatic mole — though only one himself malign would have given Snyde much time.
Since Duncton lacked any hierarchy culminating in a system of elders up which Snyde could climb, he early chose to enter the one institution in the system in which such an opportunity existed: the Library. Here was a hierarchy of aides, scriveners, scribes and Keepers that an ambitious mole could exploit, and that is what this most ambitious Marshender of his generation had successfully done. By dint of hard work, manipulation, and sheer persistence, Snyde had risen to his present position as Deputy Master, second only to Stour, and was in line to succeed as Master when the time came; which, since Stour, like his good friend Drubbins, was ageing, seemed likely to be sooner than later.
Snyde’s work prevented him living any longer in the Marsh End, for the daily trek would have been too great, and he had taken burrows on the slopes below the High Wood and uncomfortably near (from her point of view) those of Fieldfare, who though not a mole who easily disliked others, disliked Snyde.
“He has a sneezley, snoately, insinuating way has Snyde, and when Chater’s away he comes avisiting, and prying, and touching,” she told Privet.
Privet had wriggled in discomfort at this description and asked what special expertise Snyde had in the Library, a question Fieldfare could not answer. But the truth was he had chosen the academic study of modern history and, later, the arcane world of Word, Sect and Schism, because he believed these would serve him better in his insatiable ambition to reach the pinnacle he desired. To this end Snyde, unlike Privet, was an indefatigable creator of monograph studies on the fields in which he specialized, including the only recent work on that traditionally dangerous and controversial subject, Dark Sound.
But while Fieldfare had nothing good to say about Snyde, she had nothing but praise for a younger mole called Maple, who came from burrows near Barrow Vale itself. He had all the best attributes of a mole who would in the old days before peace came have been a fighter for justice and right causes: physical strength, common sense, and decisiveness. His manner was open and easy, his form fairer than most of his generation, and his fighting ability — so far only for territorial skirmishes and the occasional settling of disputes between others — had developed into something widely respected. Moles said of Maple, who was a nephew of Lavender and a mole Drubbins had taken to his heart, that it was a pity that the system had no need for warriors, for he seemed wasted where he was.
Since he had no opportunity to fight, or lead others in battle, Maple had made it his interest to study such matters in Library texts and had kenned every text on warfare ever scribed. Drubbins said of him that if ever the need for battle or war arose — and Stone forfend that it should — Duncton would be well served by Maple’s leadership.
These, then, were the moles who in their different ways, and different areas, held sway in Duncton Wood at the time of Privet’s coming. Most, indubitably, were moles whose nature and background led them to thoughts and actions for the good of the community and towards the light of the Stone, but a few, like the infuriating and powerful Bantam and the cunning Snyde, seemed turned towards darkness and trouble.
We have one more mole to describe, though his domain was not the Wood itself, where, though he was known, he was very rarely seen, but the great Library. This was old Stour, Master Librarian, and arguably the best-known Duncton mole in moledom. In his younger days he had been fierce and fearsome, equalled in reputation and respect within the Wood only by Drubbins himself, and unequalled outside it, where his reputation as the mole who had promoted scribing and books far and wide was unrivalled.
But those days were long gone, and Stour had not set paw outside the system for nearly two decades. Now he was old, and in recent moleyears, since October, had gone into retreat in the Library itself, and even there he was almost never seen.
This was the mole that shy Privet — perhaps naive Privet! — was most eager and most excited to meet once she had slept off her long night’s chatter with Fieldfare, and felt ready at last to begin the first day of what she hoped, for unspoken reasons of her own, would be a new and very different life.
Chapter Three
“The Master? You want to see him? Every new visitor who fancies themselves half a scribe wants to see him, but very few succeed!”
With these unpromising words Privet learned from the first aide that she met in the Duncton Library who was not too busy to talk that it might not be as easy as she had hoped to meet Master Librarian Stour. Since the prospect of such a meeting had borne her onward for so long through the moleyears of her trek to Duncton Wood, she could not hide her disappointment.
“But I have a text to give him I have brought all the way from Beechenhill.”
The aide, a mild and elderly male, was sympathetic, and added in a gentler way, “You’re not the only one, believe me, looking for tasks in the Library, who brings some text or other in the hope it will win them favour. It’s been near impossible for anymole to see him since November, when he went into retreat. He never seems to come out of his study cell these days and some even say he’s dead, or languishing. So I very much regret to tell you that it’s Deputy Master Snyde you’ll have to see, may the Stone help you. No doubt he’ll put you to work on some mundane task to see what you’re worth.”
It seemed that enthusiasm and knowledge were not enough, nor even a burning mission to find out about the Book of Silence: persistence was needed too.
Though a good deal older than Privet the mole gave the impression of vigour and intelligence, talking quickly, and seeming restless. He had short grey fur, and a lean wiry body gained through years of moving texts about, one of which he carried as they talked.
“My name’s Pumpkin, and if you need help in the future don’t hesitate to ask. I presume you will be over-wintering with us? This place is run peculiarly, and there are books and texts here that nomole would ever find if he or she didn’t know where to look in the first place! What’s your speciality?”
“Mediaeval and Whernish work,” said Privet.
“Really? Oh!” said Pumpkin doubtfully. “You can scriven then?”
Privet nodded. She knew that down here in southern moledom, scrivening, as the ancient scribing of moles of the Word centred on grim Whern was called, was little known, and she had hoped that it might be a useful skill in Duncton. But what Pumpkin said next dashed her hopes about that as well.
“At least you’ll not pose a threat to Snyde, who has not the least interest in scrivening. Just as well — he doesn’t like moles who know more than he does about something he thinks important. You should have been here when Old Duckett of Cannock turned up last October. He’s the one did the work on the modern role of elders in the Midlands which Snyde had ripped to bits and said was a load of old rubbish, to put it somewhat inelegantly. Well! Right to-do that was! Duckett accused Snyde of withholding important texts and the Master had to intervene. Dear me! What academic moles do in the name of truth! Ha ha ha! I wouldn’t give this job up for all the worms in the Westside! No, it’s a laugh a minute down here. You can rely on Pumpkin here never being anything other than an aide, Miss Privet.”
“Well, as you say, my own interests are hardly likely to conflict with those of scholars like Snyde,” said Privet a little ruefully.
“I’d call him Deputy Master Snyde if I were you,” said Pumpkin with a wink. “He likes moles to respect his rank. You’ll find him down there somewhere in Modern, through this part which is called the Small Chamber, to the Main Chamber itself. No, down there … As for mediaeval and Whernish work I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll ask about and see if I can’t find some texts that have not been looked at in a while that might interest you. Anything you’re thinking of in
particular?”
Privet hesitated and then said, “The Books of Moledom, where are they kept?” Her voice fell to a hush at the mention of these awesome texts, copies of which were in all the main libraries of moledom, but the originals of which were held somewhere in Duncton Wood. Of the seven Books only six existed, for nomole had ever proved the existence of the Book of Silence, the last of these mysterious Books.
“Them? Everymole asks about them! They’re kept in deep-delved chambers beyond the Master’s study cell into which nomole but the living Master may go — daren’t go, because the place is protected by Dark Sound. Mind you, once in a while the Master will bring one of the Books out for study, and I’ve seen them then myself, even had to carry one once. The Book of Healing it was, and I felt queer for days afterwards. Put the fear of the Stone in me I can tell you!
“But fat chance you’ve got of seeing the Books at the moment. Best to wait until the Master dies, get on the right flank of Snyde, and hope for the best. Of course there are copies, and he’ll expect you to study those first.”
“I’ve studied all of them,” said Privet.
“Have you now,” said Pumpkin with renewed respect, for it was a well-known fact that moles said they were going to study them but few ever did. There was something about the Books of Moledom that burdened moles not yet ready for them. But a mole who claimed she had studied them was probably telling the truth, and anyway there was the ring of sincerity about all that Privet said and did.
“Well then perhaps if you’re lucky —”
“Pumpkin!” called a voice from a nearby chamber, “stop chattering and bring that text to me!”
Duncton Tales Page 3