Duncton Quest (33 page)

“You haven’t,” he said.

“I have a reason to live!”

“What’s that?” asked Tryfan.

“Wouldn’t you like to know? Not telling. Never told nomole. Never will. Got a reason.”

“Well we’ve got a reason to live, too,” said Tryfan with a smile.

“Clever again! Tell Mayweed, Mayweed won’t tell anyone. Tell him now!” He seemed eager as a pup to know.

“No,” said Tryfan. “And now if you don’t mind I’m going to sleep.”

“Not fair – tempting a mole and then going to sleep. Not fair. Won’t get worms for you. Won’t help you, not never again.”

But Tryfan had closed his eyes and before long had fallen into a deep, untroubled sleep.

Mayweed disappeared back down a tunnel, and Spindle tried to sleep as well, but was restless and fitful, and unable to settle.

“Hiss! Psst!”

“Yes?” said Spindle.

“What’s his name?”

“Tryfan,” said Spindle.

“And yours, Sir?”

“Spindle.”

“What’s his reason, Sir, you can tell me. Won’t tell a single soul, just want to know.”

“I expect he’ll tell you,” said Spindle, rather less afraid of the mole and his condition than he had been before, though quite why he did not know. It was to do with Tryfan not being afraid. And this reason! Well, presumably that was the Stone.

“There’s a worm for him, Sir,” said Mayweed, impulsively producing a worm from his tunnel. “Don’t tell Skint.”

“Thank you!” said Spindle.

“What’s his name? Tryfan, is it?”

Spindle nodded wearily.

“Where’s he from then?”

“Duncton Wood,” said Spindle, being careful not to give anything else away.

“Big system, is it?”

“One of the Seven.”

“He’s a Stone follower then.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Tryfan’s a good name. Funny name though. Tryfan!”

“Ssh!” whispered Spindle. “Don’t wake him.”

“He wasn’t afraid of my scalpskin.”

“There aren’t many things Tryfan is afraid of.”

“Last lot were afraid. Afraid of everything, they were. Went mad, chewing corpse bones and all sorts. Tried to get away and were caught and snouted although I warned them, yes. Still hanging up there. But Tryfan wasn’t afraid.”

“Why should he be?” said Spindle gently.

“’Cos it’s catching.”

Tryfan stirred and opened his eyes.

“Fear’s catching,” he said.

“Ha, ha, ha! laughed Mayweed with genuine delight. “Clever that! “Fear’s catching!” Too right, brilliant Sir!”

Spindle was tired now and his eyes closed, and Tryfan seemed to have fallen asleep again.

Mayweed looked at them in some wonder, and then gone was the smile, gone the cunning, gone the effort to please. And he looked suddenly very young, and very afraid.

“Won’t mind if I sleep near, kind Sirs? Not mind, will you? Just near, where I can see you. Like the company. Don’t like being alone and asleep. I like you, Sir. You’re good, Sir, yes you are. You touched me you did and that was....”

Whatever it was he did not say for he settled down, his snout along his front paws, contemplating Tryfan and his eyes closing as if, after a long time, he had found a measure of safety and wanted to enjoy it.

Much later, when the burrow was in deep silence, Tryfan awoke and saw him there and was pleased. There were moles around him who were lost, and who suffered; others who knew not where to go; others who waited to find something they did not know they sought. And others, like Mayweed, who were good, deeply good. And such moles a scribemole could love, whatever else they might be.

Through others, he was beginning to see, if he was only able to survive, he would find his task, if only the Stone would grant him strength and wisdom to fulfil it. He touched the strange lost mole Mayweed, where his sores were, and where his fur had withered and he whispered invocations of the Stone that this mole might know no fear, and might be blessed and find healing.

For a moment Mayweed stirred, his eyes looking up at Tryfan in apprehension, but Tryfan’s voice was as gentle as his touch, and the mole settled again, dreaming perhaps that a mole protected him, touched him, watched over him, a great mole, a mole beyond his dreams, an ancient mole, kind like Tryfan; and Mayweed found good sleep for a time.

Chapter Fourteen

Tryfan and Spindle quickly discovered that the fear Alder had had for their safety was founded on the grim and frightening reality that the Slopeside was no more nor less than an extensive and complex system of tunnels, separated from all others, into which a mole, once confined, must work until he died. Or, if he survived, until he was moved on to clear another system. Few survived two such terms, none three.

The first impressions they had, of moles engaged in hard and dangerous tasks in poor conditions, and under threat of instant punishment and snouting, was correct. But there was more to the Slopeside than that, more that was subtle and unseen, more that was evil; and something that was doomed, something that allmole scents in time where there is no hope, purpose or faith. But
that
it took the two moles a little while longer to find.

The day following their arrival, and after Skint had berated Mayweed for insinuating his way into their burrows, he began to instruct them. Skint looked rather less friendly in the light of the new day than he had seemed the evening before, but he was obviously a mole to respect. He peered at them from small dark eyes set deep in a sturdy face. His fur was healthy and his manner brisk. He had a wrinkled snout and was lithe and muscular, and rather smaller than they had at first thought. His eyes affected lines of meanness and distrust, as if he felt he should suspect all moles of cheating and robbing him, and yet there was a certain twinkle to them, and grace to his movements, that made a mole think he might not be quite as ill-tempered and untrusting as he made out. His voice was thin and accented similar to Alder’s and he spoke in quick, sharp bursts, as if used to being in charge.

“The last lot Eldrene Fescue sent were useless as legless fleas so I don’t have much hope for you,” he began. “
I
get little thanks for training you, so don’t expect much of my time. Words cost effort, and effort requires food, and food is scarce so listen well because I’m not in the habit of saying things twice.”

They nodded their heads and settled down to listen.

“First some history. The Slopeside is the worst clearing job we’ve ever had, and the biggest. The original moles must have died like flies here because their bodies are packed three or four high in some seal-ups. Hundreds of corpses, and only the surface to put them on. They died of buble-plague, infectious plague, malodorous murrain, self-cannibalism and swelling starvation. The moles downslope must have been a nice bunch: they abandoned them and sealed them all in and they killed a lot more who tried to break out. They forced others up here who came in panic from other systems, so that today we are left with burrow after burrow of unappealing death. Not nice.

“We came here from Rollright in January, which is a fair while to be clearing one system, but the WordSpeaker herself has decreed that this is to be the central system of the whole of the south so a lot of accommodation is needed – though not as much as we’ve got here I would have thought. But there you are. Orders! It’s taken longer than we expected because this place generates virulent scalp-skin and —”

“What exactly is scalpskin?” asked Tryfan.

“It’s what that mole Mayweed’s got. Most seem to get it in the end. First there’s the itching over the scalp. A mole can’t think of anything else for a while: drives some mad. Then where they itch the fur goes, the skin dries and sores develop. Then sores develop down the neck and along the belly, sometimes even when a mole doesn’t itch. But itching speeds things up. Once those sores turn bad and smelly, that’s the end. No cure. Mind you, a lot linger on: moles don’t like losing their life, but they go in the end. The end is not nice and not pretty, worse than the plague itself. Eyes go, snout ulcifies, terrible aches. We put such moles out of their misery unless they’ve taken themselves up on to the surface and the guardmoles kill them.”

“
You
haven’t caught it.”

“No,” said Skint, smiling grimly. “Lucky that way. Had itching, but didn’t give into it. Not once. Got discipline. The itch went and no sores, yet. Most get it quickly, a few don’t. Tell you one thing: those zealot grikes who are meant to be in charge of us get it quicker than anymole. Don’t ask me why – unless it’s because they want to die quick for the glory of having their name on the Rock of the Word.

“Now, back to business: our task. Get rid of the corpses and remake the tunnels by Midsummer, which gives us little more than a few weeks. The worst is over. It was bad here in the first months, very bad; not many survivors from that, I can tell you. I’m one, Smithills, who you’ll meet in time, curse him, is another though he’s got it starting, Munro has done well, no sign of scalpskin at all; Willow’s got it bad, but she’s a mole and a half, she is, and if we can get her out of here she might survive.” Tryfan noted his voice had softened a little at the mention of this mole’s name; and his eyes stayed soft beneath the scowling expression as he added a last name: “Oh, aye, and that Mayweed. He’s survived, but his scalpskin’s getting worse. Don’t give
him
long.”

“Now, I’ll let you into a secret. Eldrene Fescue made a promise to Smithills back in Rollright after he did her a favour that when this job was finished he was to be allowed to travel back to his home system. And I’m to be set free after Uffington.”

“Uffington?” said Tryfan sharply.

“Not many corpses there now,” said Spindle, regretting immediately he had said it. But Skint did not pick him up on it, saying instead, “We won’t be
clearing
there.”

“What then?” asked Tryfan.

“Ruining more like. As long as there’s Holy Burrows, Stone followers will have a place to yearn for, won’t they? That’s the theory. They don’t ask idiots like me, of course. If they did I’d say they were daft: you don’t kill a belief by killing a tunnel, do you?”

“No,” agreed Tryfan. “You kill it by showing there’s a better one.”

“That may be,” muttered Skint. “Yes, that may be. Now, to continue with this briefing. We’ve got to make a final push to finish up here before Midsummer so that the eldrenes and the rest can move in and establish a guardmole stronghold here. Henbane was going to make Rollright the centre but the Word told her different; the Word said this was to be the one. When our work’s done and the guardmoles can move up here in safety, the sideem will come from the north and make the lower tunnels and burrows worthy of being a stronghold for the Word. From here all southern moles will be taught and the good times will come.”

“Why don’t they just leave this system sealed up and start another one?” asked Tryfan. “Wouldn’t it be safer?”

“Ours is not to reason,” said Skint darkly. “The WordSpeaker says it must be for ’tis written in the Word that moles will dig and delve that all might know the Word. Moles dug this place, moles must save it. And all signs of the plague must be driven out forever.”

Tryfan noted that as he reached this part of his “instruction” he spoke, for the first time, with little conviction.

“You’ll be with me for several days,” Skint continued, “while I show you how to clear corpses economically, as the eldrenes put it. There’s ways and means to shift a corpse, some for speed, some to avoid contamination. I’ll show you how. As for you, Spindle mole, you’ll have your chance of tunnelling and if you prove yourself the zealots’ll use you.

“Now listen. I’m boss. I’m in charge of worms. You eat no worms in these quarters without my permission. Did Mayweed come and give you more food?”

“Yes” said Tryfan, deciding honesty was the best policy.

“Thought he might. Nuisance that one. Well, when you have your own beat you’ll have your own worms. Eat them then as fast as you like and more fool you. Food gets scarce and the indulgent die. Moles eat too much anyway. Meanwhile, while you’re with me, there’s to be one at waking, three at rest, two at sleeping: that’s all a mole needs.

“Which brings us to... cleanliness. Dirtiness is death. Cleanliness is life. My life is clean, my fur is good. Other moles are dirty, their fur is bad. Look at Mayweed. Dirty. Look at Smithills when you meet him, dirty. Always has been, and I’ve known him since a pup. Now he’s got scalpskin and I haven’t. Draw your own conclusions and act on them. Too many moles here don’t take into their brains what their eyes see. Idiots!

“So... rules of cleanliness. Groom before and after each and every corpse removal, with especial attention to talons. Do not eat maggots. Avoid fleas. Eat no dead worms. Clear out your burrow once every four days. Defecate on the surface – the guardmoles won’t hurt you – or do it in separate tunnels. Sort out airflow in your home burrow. Avoid physical contact with dirty moles. Have no sex with female clearers. Any questions? No? Right! Get moving then and I’ll take you to an easy enough section where you’ll not find it too hard if you do as I say.”

He led them busily off down a tunnel until they arrived at a burrow whose seal had been only roughly broken so that they had to clamber over debris to get inside. What they saw there was grim and pathetic.

“A mass seal-up,” said Skint. “The moles here were probably prevented from burrowing out by healthy moles in the tunnels and on the surface, and held captive until they were too weak to do more than climb desperately on top of each other.” He eyed the mound of corpses impassively, letting Try fan and Spindle take in the sight in their own way. Spindle’s snout lowered in misery at what he saw, but Tryfan, though shocked, still stared numbly around the burrow and took it in.

Despite the poor light, they could see it was large and crudely dug, the walls rough and dusty. The centre and one side of the burrow were entirely taken up by a confused tangle of mole corpses. There were few there that were not dried and desiccated beyond facial recognition. Most were skeletal but with skeins of fur and skin hanging from them and entangling with other moles. A large skeleton lay across the top of several beneath, its left paw dangling loosely down and into the skull of a juvenile, whose head consequently looked as if it was being taloned to the ground. Another, smaller, and probably a female, had somehow become inverted and her talons curled upwards in a gesture of submission. Beyond her two corpses seemed obscenely meshed together in an act of skeletal mating, the pale skull of the male caught in the act of biting the central vertebrae of the female beneath him. All were packed tight, and covered by a light brown dust from the roof above. The more he looked about him, the more Tryfan came to understand the reality of the plague years, which had come to his own home system of Duncton moleyears before he was born, and nearly destroyed it. Indeed, the lower slopes of Duncton Wood had been abandoned by survivors in favour of the higher Ancient System, the opposite to what had happened here at Buckland.