Duncton Tales

by William Horwood

  “Now, I have no doubt that moles who openly resist the Newborn way will soon find their life intolerable here in Duncton Wood, as Fieldfare’s recent experience in the Marsh End shows. For this reason I believe that discretion is the better part of valour now, and that most of you should leave the system for a time. This has been the way of its defenders in the past who, when danger has threatened, have found support and wisdom in traveling out into moledom, and there discovering a way to return and see the system through into the ways of the Stone once more.”

  The seven had fallen silent again, very silent, almost as if each awaited the sentence of an elder after some wrongdoing.

  “I mentioned your recent experience, Fieldfare, so let me deal with you first —”

  “I’m not going to leave my Chater, and that’s flat!” declared Fieldfare. “Not me, not ever again. When I was almost caught by those Newborns and he and Maple here rescued me I decided then and there never ever to leave him, whatever the circumstances! As for leaving the system, a mole like me? At my time of life?”

  Stour raised a paw to silence her.

  “I was about to say, Fieldfare, that I have no intention of suggesting you and your beloved Chater part company. If the Stone did not already want you to be together I am sure you would see that it did! No; but what I shall ask of you will be hard and difficult, and you will need a mole of experience in journeying at your flank. In short, you will need Chater.”

  Fieldfare looked at once relieved and puzzled.

  “But certainly you cannot stay here now in safety, and the sooner you go the better. Now, there is a system that long ago provided us with a mole who brought back love and security to Duncton Wood. I speak of Mistle, and her system of Avebury. You’ve taken texts there once before, I believe, Chater …”

  “I have Master, and it’s not a hard journey but for the crossing of the Ridge.”

  “You could get Fieldfare there in safety?”

  “I could,” said Chater with determination, “and will do so gladly if it will make her safe. But there are Newborns there too, Master.”

  “Aye, that I know. But I believe that great system’s Stones are likely to be the harbingers of moles who will have the spirit to resist the Newborn threat. They are moles glad to have bred Mistle in decades past, and they will surely know how to protect refugees from Duncton and give support when it is needed in the future. But it is not just to escape that you will go there, Fieldfare. For you, more than any of us except good Pumpkin here, are of the very essence of our system. You know its ways, its lore, its traditions, its character.”

  “But I’m not a scribemole, Master!” declared Fieldfare.

  “You’re something more important than that, my dear — you’re a true mole, whose paws have been rooted firmly where you were born, whose values are of the essence of all that is good and true in the moledom of the Stone. Let Chater guide you to Avebury, or at least to moles in those parts if the Newborns make it impossible to enter Avebury safely. Find a scribe there unaffected by the Newborns who will scribe down all you know of Duncton, and much that you do not know you know. Make a Book for all our pups, Fieldfare, and their pups, and their pups after them. Give through that Book to future generations what daily you have given to all who have known you through your life.”

  “Me make a Book?” whispered Fieldfare in awe, eyes wide and looking at Privet for support. “Me?”

  “You, my dear,” said Stour with a smile. “It shall be a Book of Duncton more loved by moles than any scholar’s work. And when a scholar’s day is done he, or she, will turn to the Book that Fieldfare made and know what it is to be true mole.”

  “Yes, Master!” said Fieldfare faintly.

  “I’ll get her over that way and find a scribe if I have to push her the whole way!” said Chater purposefully, and for once his sweet, his beloved, the mole he loved and who loved him more than any other in the world, responded not a word.

  “Next,” Stour continued, “the question of the Convocation in Caer Caradoc summoned by Thripp of Blagrove Slide. You already know my doubts of that and it is with trepidation that I speak the name of those who should represent us there. I wish to condemn no mole to travel to a place of danger, deceit and death, which is what I believe Caer Caradoc could become.” He looked gravely now on Privet. “Yet, it could also be a place of opportunity, the last we may have if we are to avoid a repetition of a war such as that between Stone and Word. It is you, Privet, who must represent our interests, which is to say the interests of the Stone, at the Convocation. I shall travel with you in spirit as I would have done in body had I been younger — as I travelled once to the Conclave of Cannock so many decades ago.” He smiled wryly and continued, “Of course, whilst it is not my wish to mislead anymole, perhaps a mole of my professed doubts may be allowed a certain casuistry regarding my journey with you, Privet.”

  “Your journey, Master?”

  “It will do no harm if Deputy Master Snyde were to think I have travelled with you. It may serve most usefully to confuse the issue …”

  His wry smiled changed to one of kindly mischievousness and then his voice quickened and became more urgent.

  “In short, it will be put about that I am of the party to the Convocation, and that we have gone by the shorter and more usual route of Rollright. But unless Chater disagrees, I think the better route is the obscure one which, if my memory of history serves, was once used very effectively by moles in Tryfan’s day.”

  “You mean Swinford?”

  “That’s it, Chater. You will lead Privet and Fieldfare that way, and once Privet is across the Thames, you can turn south to Avebury with Fieldfare.”

  “But, Master,” interposed Maple, “Privet cannot travel alone.”

  “Indeed not, Maple. Whillan will go with her, and you as well, Maple, to give them protection along the way, and learn what I think you will need to learn about moledom and the moles who live in it before you are needed for a task of greater protection.”

  A look of satisfaction came over Maple’s face, and determination too. None there could doubt that Privet and Whillan could have no better protection than he would provide.

  “That way is somewhat obscure, Master,” observed Chater.

  “An advantage I think,” said Stour. “The larger systems will already be quite overrun with Newborns and I am sure that Privet’s party will find more interest, and more education, in the smaller, humbler systems, where the spirit of the Stone will still be strong, and which may as yet be untainted by the Newborns. But I do not advise you to travel covertly — say whatmoles you are and that you are the Duncton delegation to Caer Caradoc.”

  “But the Newborns will soon hear of us!” said Maple.

  “I wish them to. For I have no doubt that Deputy Master Snyde, on learning that I am myself on the journey and therefore out of harm’s way, will choose to follow “us” and join the delegation. You see, the Newborns are poised to attempt the destruction of the Library as we know it, and it will be convenient for all concerned if Snyde is out of the way and so not tainted by blame for the destruction by any inquisitions that may follow. I have no doubt that nomole will have expected an old fool like me to travel abroad so far, and that therefore I am expected to stay behind and appoint him my representative, rather than go myself and leave him in charge. Yes, yes, we must confuse them as best we can.

  “But doubt it not, Privet, Snyde will follow you, and catch you up, and on discovering (to his seeming dismay but enormous satisfaction) that I died along the way and ended up as owl fodder, he will assume command of the delegation, and lead you all with due pomp to Caer Caradoc to win the approval of Thripp.”

  There was a murmur of surprise that the Master could be so devious as this.

  “Meanwhile, none shall know that I am all the time where I should be, here, near our greatest texts, with unseen work to do in peace and anonymity to protect the holiest of them all. Which leaves you, Drubbins, and you, Pumpkin. Drubbins
I have spoken with already, and it is best his tasks remain known to him alone. You, Pumpkin, will stay here and simply be what you have always been — until this night. A worthy aide, who obeys without question the Master’s edict. It will not be an easy task. When I have gone into my retreat Snyde will be your Master until such time as he leaves in pursuit of myself and Privet, and I would not wish that on anymole, but there it is. If, as I expect, he follows Privet to Caer Caradoc then Keeper Sturne will be acting Master for a time and you, Pumpkin, Stone bless you, will be as meek and mild with him, and as obedient, as you always were with me.

  “He is not an easy mole, I know, and one cannot predict how well or ill he will resist the Newborns’ pressure, which will be considerable. I rather fear that a taste of power will go to his head, and if supporting the Newborns means he can hold on to power then no doubt he will do so. The study of history makes a mole realistic.”

  “Master!” cried out poor Pumpkin, who did not like at all the role he was being assigned or this overt criticism of a mole he had so often defended against the censures of others. “I can’t say I like Snyde much, but Keeper Sturne has always been fair to me and the other aides, and considerate, but pretending to be Newborn …?”

  “Obedience, mole!” said Stour sharply, though with a slight gleam to his eye. The Stone will not mind a little exploration of other sects by its followers, and if this pretence saves your miserable and humble life so that you can later perform the for greater tasks that I believe it has in store for you, then being a Newborn for a time is a small sacrifice to make.”

  For a moment Pumpkin was about to expostulate further, but then he remembered his position, and he saw that the covert task he was being given now was all of a piece with that. He! Pumpkin! So trusted! Well, then, let him be obedient and let his strength be the knowledge that his Master Stour so trusted him that he was of this seven.

  “Yes, Master,” he said meekly.

  That’s better, Pumpkin. Now, go and summon Keeper Sturne. I must give him a duty to take him from here to allow time for us all to go our separate ways. For now the moment has come when we must part and begin these great tasks which our lives have been leading us towards.”

  Sturne was soon fetched and ordered to some obscure part of the Library on an even more obscure task, well out of the Main Chamber and away from the route to the surface. From the sharp way in which Stour spoke to him, and the irritated way in which Keeper Sturne obeyed, none could have guessed the most secret trust the Master had earlier placed in him. But so it was, and so that time of change continued. Once Sturne was gone it was plain that Stour felt there was little need, or time, for further talk.

  “We must shortly go our separate ways and may the Stone be with us all, in its Light and in its Silence. For my part I feel the same apprehension and excitement I felt the very first time I came into this great Library. Now my task has changed and I turn from this life with gratitude that my work here is done and that what remains, great as it will be, is in the paws of seven moles such as yourselves. You are all worthy of the Stone’s trust, and of that great tradition of service before self for which our system is famed. I believe that when each one of you is tested, and you will be, you will find strength in the remembrance of our stancing here together. In community is strength. Now, I pray you, accompany me to the start of my journey.”

  He turned from them, and ducking through the portal, led them into the tunnels which none of them had ever entered before. Dark, arched, sonorous with wind-sound strange and beautiful; but from beyond came those darker sounds that chilled a mole’s blood, and filled his mind with confusion and his heart with fear.

  “Be not afraid …” whispered Stour as one by one they went forward, snouts low, eyes only on the rumps and back paws ahead, pawsteps echoing about them, before mounting like great shadows that held sound, giant sound, fearsome, dark, far beyond their strength to bear for long.

  They went on long enough to feel that they had passed with Stour from an outer to an inner place, when the tunnel opened out into a chamber where on a few racks and shelves and in untidy piles, books and texts had been placed. They were of many kinds, representative of the library’s great collection and Whillan and Privet had time to see many were originals of familiar texts such as a scholar might choose to Ken to call himself a scholoar.

  “Place those discarded folios you have brought here,” said Stour to Pumkin, pointing to a place in the middle of the collection of texts. They saw that where he pointed was the Book of Tales that Privet had commanded Pumkin to deliver up to the library while she had been with Husk. As he did so the others became aware that there was a group of six, texts of differing sizes and age, which judging from their battered covers and loose folios were originals.

  “The Books of Moledom,” whispered Master Stour, looking at them.

  “The Books?” declared Pumpkin, astonished and awed and peering more closely, but not daring to touch them. “Indeed there are six of them, as there would be since the seventh is lost. Bless me, but they look as if they could do with a bit of tender attention!”

  Stour laughed. “Well, mole, I doubt that there are any books in moledom’s history that have had more attention than those, or journeyed more — buffeted and battered by the changes of history, and the forces of darkness and light. Yet here they are, together, in a system that has honoured the ideals they represent. But they cannot stay here in this chamber much longer, for I believe that it will not be long before the Newborns seek to take them for themselves. I fancy that Thripp of Blagrove would like nothing more than to hold these books himself, as evidence that his way to the Stone is the only one.”

  “Why are they here,” asked Whillan, staring at them with awe, “where they can be so easily reached by others? Why have they not already been placed somewhere safer, as the Stillstones were placed beneath the Duncton Stone decades ago?”

  “We have been awaiting the discovery of the last Book, the Book of Silence,” explained Stour. “We, and by we I mean Masters of the Library past and present, had thought that the last Book should come to ground before we tried to move these texts. You see, they are not easy to move.”

  “But they’re just texts,” said Whillan, going forward and reaching out to touch one of them.

  He did so despite Privet reaching out a paw to stop him, but as he touched it he started back, as if his paw had been burnt, and Dark Sound flared up about them for a moment, like flames in a fatal fire.

  “You see,” said Stour, philosophically. “But now … I am no longer certain that the last Book can be found. I fear it may be too late, and that moledom has not been able to trust itself to go on into the Light of the Stone’s Silence enough, before the ever-present forces of darkness engulf it once more. So I have taken it upon myself to try to move at least these six Books and Husk’s Book of Tales, to take them into the Ancient System and with the Stone’s help place them fer from prying eyes and paws, and there stance in retreat over them as best I may.”

  As he talked Dark Sound rumbled angrily about the chamber.

  “Before we part I wanted you to see these books, and know something of what it is the life of our system has been dedicated to for so long,” said Stour. “Pumpkin, you can help me take them down.”

  “Me?” said Pumpkin in alarm, staring at the Books with trepidation.

  “You,” said Stour firmly. “Are you not a Library aide? Are these not books? Am I not your Master here?”

  “Well, yes, you are,” said Pumpkin, “but —”

  “Help me!” said Stour.

  It was then that one by one the Master Librarian, with Pumpkin’s help, reached up to the shelves nearby and took down the six great Books of Moledom. Poor Pumpkin! How he struggled with each one, as if it were the heaviest thing he had ever carried, as indeed each felt to him: heavy, powerful, burdensome beyond belief. He panted with exertion and sweat glistened in his fur as he struggled to move the texts to positions indicated by Stour on the floo
r of the chamber.

  “Master,” he gasped, struggling with the last but one, which either eluded his grasp, or was simply too heavy for him — small though it looked. “I cannot, I cannot do more. These texts are not normal texts at all!”

  Indeed they are not, Pumpkin. Many lifetimes of experience lie between the folios of each one, and the one you are struggling with now is perhaps especially difficult to move, let alone carry. That is the Book of Healing. You see, with each of these Books, a mole who is not of the Silence of the Stone will feel the sufferings which first drove moles to scribe them … all in all I feel you have done quite well!”

  He took the Book from Pumpkin’s trembling paws and holding it carefully, repeated the names of the Books he had already begun to lay out in a circle on the ground before them.

  “Seven books made … of Earth, of Suffering, of Fighting, of Darkness, this of Healing …”

  It was plain that he too found the Book hard to hold for long, and as if struggling with a great boulder that a delving mole must lift to one side if he is to continue his work, Stour placed the book down in its rightful place to continue creating the circle.

  He turned to the only book that now remained on the shelves and waved Pumpkin back as the aide loyally, though with considerable trepidation, came forward once more to try to help. He stared at the Book and its scratched, worn cover as if preparing himself for a great effort — as indeed he was.

  “This last is the Book of Light, but it is not easy …”

  Without more ado he reached up and with a struggle took it down, and as he did so the chamber seemed to glimmer towards a greater gloom and darkness, and the rumbling and roaring of Dark Sound grew louder again, like the first growls of thunder far beyond a wood where a mole waits for a coming storm.