Duncton Quest (131 page)

So those moles went, and at their head was Tryfan, the first to the circle of trees, the first to see that star’s pure light shining down from above upon Duncton’s silent Stone.

There, at the base of the Stone, where good Spindle had led her, lay Feverfew and she called out for her love to come near now. He who had encouraged others to come now hesitated, watching where she lay, afraid of the light by the Stone. “Go to her mole,” an old female said gently, and so he went. Feverfew whispered of a silence that had been between them in the Wen, not one of the Stone but one of loss; she said that soon it would be filled with the coming of the Stone Mole.

She sighed and shifted, and felt pain, and sighed again.

“Tryfan,” she whispered.

“Yes, my love?”

“Owr taske is grete.”

“Not so great that the Stone does not trust us with it.”

“Yt ys hys sonne.”

“I know it,” said Tryfan.

“Myn luv, I am afeerd.”

“And I, Feverfew, but the Stone is near.”

“Of Boswell wyl I tell myn der, he is the Stane yn moledome furste cum, hys sonne the seconde her, that Silence wyl be laste and alwey... I am afeerd, myn luv.”

“And I.”

What words did those two then speak. None knows. What touches of comfort did they make? None knows. What prayers of welcome and invocations of joy did they whisper? None knows.

But where they were together by the Stone moles watched from the shadows of the circle of the trees. For none but those two dared enter into the full gaze of that light.

Yet at the very base of the Stone, to which Feverfew now moved with Tryfan at her side, was a kind of gentle shadow, a softness of the light, as when on a bright day the branches of beech tree spread out and shelter from the fullest light that place directly below. So the Stone seemed to shelter Feverfew now.

There in that dappled starlit place, beyond which the full light of the star beat down, Feverfew let out her first birthing cry. A cry not like that of an ordinary mole confined to some secret birth burrow in the dark, but one that came out strong, over the pupless system of Duncton, among the trees, about the starlit vales, as wide and great over Duncton as the night sky itself.

And it was answered!

By moledom’s faithful it was answered.

Starting with those females who witnessed that first cry and who had longed for young themselves. They now took her cries as their pain, her love as the love they always had to give, her strength as theirs to give and more; and as that fabled birthing at Duncton’s Stone began it seemed to cast its cries across the sky, and all of moledom stopped and heard; and knew the Stone Mole was near, so near at last.

Alder knew, up in the high reaches of Siabod once again; Wharfe and Harebell at their secret place in Beechenhill, and Squeezebelly watching over them; so many knew and heard the birthing across the sky beyond the star they saw.

Starling knew, where she turned to stare towards where Duncton lay, and Heath. So many knew, and many whose names in time we will know. Moles like Troedfach of Tyn-y-Bedw, who gazed at the strange arcing skies that night and knew to where his way was set. The sideem Lathe knew, as he stared bewildered at a sky whose light seemed thwarting to the greatest beauties Whern might have. Lorren knew, and Holm; and others born since Duncton’s flight, whose heritage was a system whose tunnels they had yet to know:
they
knew. Their eyes lit up to know the Stone Mole came that night.

And Henbane. She knew. And her one remaining young.

Dark he was, of the seed of Tryfan but with the mutant nature of warped Rune. His name? Lucerne.

“What is it?” he asked when Henbane took him out of the High Sideem to see.

“It is your challenge, Lucerne my sweet. It is the light of your life! Look at it. It is for that light to darken you were made. It marks the coming of the Stone Mole.”

Lucerne looked at that same sky that moles like Lathe stared up at, but he was not awed.

“I like that I like it not,” he said.

“And I too, my love,” said Henbane. “Now come, my dear..., for despite his age yet still she suckled him, for so can a mole be to deviant darkness bound. Then Lucerne turned and took her teat, but his eyes turned to the sky to stare at that star while he suckled Henbane’s teat with dark joy in his heart.

Skint and the others knew even as they made their way up in to the system’s Woods. They knew, and came. Earlier all three had gone along the edge of the roaring owl way, but though there were ways up they were all guarded. They might have killed a guardmole or two but somehow that evening killing was not in the air, and Skint was concerned that they got into Duncton unnoticed.

So stealthily they went, too stealthily perhaps, for in staring over at where the guardmoles were they stumbled straight into the path of grike. Hiding grike. Dangerous grike.

Smithills reared up in the gloom, and the grike reared up too, large and formidable.

“Whither are you bound?” he said, which was a strange thing for a grike to say. Too polite by half.

Skint came forward.

“We travel in peace, mole —” But if he was about to say more he did not do so because the mole ahead gasped, dropped his talons and came forward with relief and delight.

“If it isn’t Skint then I’m not Marram!”

“Praise be!” said Skint.

They quickly exchanged their news and circumstance, barely surprised anymore at the wonders of that night. Marram, like the others, was trying to get across the roaring owl way.