Duncton Quest (44 page)

Thames, and knew that their days at Harrowdown were nearly at an end. Troubled he was, for the sky that evening had been deep blood-red, and the Harrowdown Stone had been cold to the touch. That night it was that he called them near and warned them that their time there was done. That night too, perhaps, moles crept unseen over the stream on the eastern boundary of the Slopeside, sly and sneaking moles, curious and suspicious, and finding tracks that led up towards Harrowdown.

“Searched there?” said one grike to another.

“Think not,” said a second.

“Mmm,” mused the one in charge.

But of this the moles at Harrowdown were unaware, and they felt safe enough for there were always watches out, and Mayweed had found ways they could escape if an attack ever came.

But that evening all were gathered to hear, and no watches were kept, for what Tryfan had to say was important.

Skint said, “You have told us much of the Stone, and of its rituals and powers. What shall we remember?”

For a long time, beneath that dark, starry sky, Tryfan was silent, and then he breathed deep, and talked with them, giving then the sayings that are known as the Three Tenets of the Stone.

“First,” he said, “a follower must find discipline, for without it he or she will never solve the problems that arise from the simple truth that a mole’s life is difficult. Many avoid such problems and so they never truly live, for living is in the solving; restlessness is in the avoiding.

“Discipline is in dwelling on what is, rather than living in a self-made dream of what is not; it is in accepting that there is risk in the way ahead, yet taking it; it is in telling truth whatever the loss may be; it is in learning to live in the darkness while always seeking the light.

“Second a follower must give love, which means he must know it. Love is not desire for oneself. Such a thing is lust, or greed, or fear. Love is the desire to lead another on the way of the Stone, selflessly. It is to put the other before oneself. And yet it is to put oneself first as well. A mystery! A follower must have a sense of humour! A mole learns love at puphood, but if he learns it not then, and many do not, he learns it later from others who know it; or from the Stone itself.

“Thirdly, a follower must live, conscious of himself as he is conscious of others. The Stone helps him, the Stone helps her, and knowledge of the Stone deepens with knowledge of other moles: with them, by them, through them, away from them. Living is in all of that. Remember that its nature is open, and free, and full of light; it is not secret, nor imprisoned, nor in dark. Trust before you condemn.

“So a follower will yearn for discipline, will yearn to love, will yearn for life; as hunger yearns for satisfaction. Not easy! Never easy!”

Tryfan’s voice was warm, his final words a shout, and the final sound he made in that teaching a laugh, for a follower, as he said, must have a sense of humour.

Yet there was a shiver in the air, and an uneasiness, and Tryfan said, “We will leave tomorrow, yes tomorrow!” But all there felt uncomfortable as the darkness beyond the wood that night seemed ascurry and fractious, though there was no sound in the warning tunnels or out on the surface where Smithills and Skint, for safety’s sake, made a patrol.

“Don’t like it,” were Skint’s last words that night.

“We leave on the morrow,” said Tryfan.

Spindle set off for his burrow but on his way turned west, scurried on to the surface, and then down again by a fallen branch, seeking out a tunnel so well hid that though he had been there many times he always had to search for it. It was the deep chamber Smithills and Skint had built to preserve the scribings they had made in the weeks past. He began to seal it up, then stopped. Re-emerged, went to Brevis’s burrow, and, despite Brevis’s protests that the text was only half complete, he took a book the old scribe had been working on. Then back to the secret chamber he went, carefully put the last text in, and, backing out, sealed the place up, not once, not twice but thrice. Nomole would find that place without being told exactly where it was. Then he went back to his own burrow and, tired out, slept.

Meanwhile, Tryfan, restless still but satisfied that all were now aburrow, took stance out in the open above the northern vales and for a moment it seemed that the whole of moledom turned round the heights of Harrowdown, and the Thames far beneath seemed briefly to catch alight, its meanders shining as if caught by stars. He shivered again and went aground, wondering if he should have led them away that night, but feeling tired and believing that the morrow would do.

That night, while they were asleep and unwatching, moles of darkness came, moles of death. So that when dawn came with the grey flap of a heron’s wings the grikes were there too, unseen and creeping. Moles nameless, approaching. Moles so quiet that evil guided their talons. Moles led by Weed.

A mole hard to see in light, was Weed; impossible at dawn, for his coat held that special grey which is the twilight of insinuation.

But he was there.

So were others whose names in time would be known, as if massing about Harrowdown were the moles who in the long struggle to come of Word and Stone would meet again, and again, fortunes changing and volatile.

So filthy Smaile was there, and Pewle his friend, and Fescue, eldrene notorious.

A single signalling thump, then the silent, creeping, secret expedition to surround Harrowdown was ready and alert. Two others were there who can be named. One was Sleekit, sideem and trusted, but to be trusted ever by whom? The other was Henbane, sensing a light beyond the light of stars and seeking now to put it out.

Yes, she was there, not directing but present and essential, as fear is the essence of a frightened group, or darkness is the essence of night. That mole was there, choosing a stance apart to watch and feel and know, awaiting her time. Oh yes, she was there that dawn on Harrowdown.

As sunrise came they closed finally in, expertly seeking out the entrances the hiding moles had made and waiting there. Careful not to go too close and to stay windside, lest scent or air current warn the sleeping moles.

Yet Tryfan stirred uneasily in his burrow, and as he did he was wakened by a sharp and urgent whisper.

“Wake up! Tryfan! Wake.”

It was Skint, crouched down alert, his head on one side. Smithills was by his side.

Tryfan was suddenly alert and listening, snouting into the air for movement or scent.

“Nothing,” he said, but stayed absolutely alert.

“Something,” said Skint.

“Yes, something,” agreed Smithills.

“Spindle and the others, get them,” said Tryfan. And silently they left to muster the group together.

By a dawning light they assembled, the last coming being Mayweed. “Danger Sir, I smell it, I heard it, I feel it: grikes, Sir. But Mayweed’s not afraid, he knows a route away.”

“If they come, they’ll come quick and violent and resistance won’t be much use,” said Skint. “I knew we should have gone....”

It was true. The tunnels were built for hiding not fighting, for there was not much seven moles could do in such a location against resolute guardmoles.

They looked at Tryfan.

“We should have left before. But now that is past, so listen. I trust Skint’s judgement, and Mayweed’s. I cannot hear or sense danger, but they can and that is enough for me. If we stay here we cannot fight because there is no room, nor have we any chance of escape, If we attempt to escape together we shall certainly be heard. The best is to confuse, and that means dispersal.”

Skint and Smithills nodded at this.

“Each go silently by his own tunnels which he will know best. Stay underground. Surface and meet on the north side of the wood where the day will still be darkest. Brevis will come with me.”

“But...” began Spindle, for he had no wish to be separated from either of them.

“Do it now, fast and silently. It would need many moles to guard all our exits, even if they could find them. Get to the north side.”

“Mayweed knows a way by badger route and fox path. Down, down, down it goes for he has done it, Sirs and Madam. Follow it and trust it and you will be at the Thames’s side itself. Mayweed advises and hopes you’ll listen.”

But no sooner had he said this than there was a rushing in the tunnels, distant at first, but all around. Dangerous now, very.

They said no more. Above ground they heard a rustle, and the gentlest of thumping signals, but audible enough for all of them to know that danger was near. Skint’s instincts had been right.

Then they turned and left, and the burrow where they had been was suddenly empty, echoing only with retreating pawsteps, each going his way, with Skint taking Willow at his side.

Tryfan, directing Brevis to stay right behind him, crept away along the tunnels he himself had made, the surface above creeping now with menace. He was angry with himself for having delayed at Harrowdown too long, angry... but now it was too late, and moles were going to suffer.

It was not long before, from the tunnels behind, he heard commotion and fighting and it was all he could do not to turn round and help. But dispersal and flight is often the best for a small group which believes itself surrounded, and guardmoles will tend to take prisoners of single moles, but kill several together, so this way survival was more likely.

Brevis and he ran on, the commotion continuing north of them on the surface. Skint or Smithills must have been taken. Then pattering above, crouching still, and any sense of what was happening elsewhere in the system was gone as the tunnel ahead was filled with a huge guardmole, and the roof behind collapsed as two more tunnelled down.

“Resist and you’ll be taloned but not killed,” said the guardmole ahead of them.

“Resist and you’ll be maimed,” said the ones who had come behind.

“Resistance is folly,” said another above, whose voice Tryfan knew, for he had heard it giving orders on Uffington Hill.

He surfaced, and Brevis with him, and they found themselves surrounded by moles, and Tryfan was looking into the face of the one he had last met at Uffington.

“Well, well, well,” said Weed, with a grim smile. “I wondered when we’d meet again. I knew we would. Outcasts do not escape the discipline of the Word. You did well to survive this long. And you as well,” he added, looking at Brevis with menace. “How nice.”

He came nearer, his twisted snout giving the curious impression that he was circling them though in fact he came straight to them. He peered at Tryfan.

“Tryfan of Duncton, which means the mole Spindle will be nearby, and Brevis, late of our burrow-cells.”

Tryfan nodded.

“How many of you are there here?” asked Weed, unblinking.

He doesn’t know, thought Tryfan. Or if he does he wants to catch me out. It doesn’t matter....

“Four,” lied Tryfan, taking a gamble. It was the least he could say: Brevis and himself, and the one they had heard the fighting about, and another one nearby... must be four.

“Four? We shall see. Bring them,” Weed ordered the guardmoles, who were not slow to use talons if either of them lingered for one second.

They took them by surface to the south side of the wood where others had been gathered. Skint was protesting loudly when Tryfan arrived: “Take your dirty talons off me, lad, or you know what’ll happen. You’ll get plague....”

Tryfan smiled to himself. Trust Skint to resist. Then Smithills was brought in fighting hugely, and it needed four guardmoles to subdue him. At a word from Tryfan he was still.

Willow was there, wounded, though not badly. And then they brought in Spindle who must have been talking too much because as they arrived with him one of the guardmoles was saying, “If you say another bloody word you’ll get a talon-thrust you’ll not forget.”

“I was only....”

“Spindle!” and Spindle was silent at Tryfan’s command.

They were herded together by the barbs of the fence at which the original Harrowdowners had been snouted.

“All in?” asked Weed, his quiet, hard voice bringing an instant silence to the crowd of moles.

Nomole said a word. All looked around. Each of them saw that one only had not been found, and that was Mayweed. Everymole was silent.