Duncton Quest (101 page)

“I wish I knew,” said Tryfan.

“Isn’t it to teach us?”

“Teach you what?”

The youngsters looked uncertain.

“Don’t know,” said one shyly.

“About the Stone,” said the other.

“Have you a Stone in Beechenhill?” he asked.

“Of course we have. It’s the best in the whole of moledom. Didn’t you know
that
?”

“Well I do now,” said Tryfan. “Would you show it to me?”

“Come on then,” said one of them. And off they went, leading Tryfan in the way youngsters will, by places they like, by things they want to show, through time that is their own.

“There!” they said much later. “That’s our Stone.”

Tryfan stared up at it, and then at the views beyond the pastures in which Beechenhill’s Stone stands.

“Well? It is the best, isn’t it?”

Tryfan went to it and touched it with his paw. It rose proud and golden in the sun, warm and a little rough to his touch, and it seemed to him that day that the whole of moledom radiated from it.

“Today it is the best,” he said.

“Not always?”

“When you’ve touched other Stones and prayed by them, then you must decide that for yourselves.”

“You don’t really think it’s the best, do you?” grinned the female wickedly.

“I’ll tell you what I do think,” said Tryfan confidentially. “I know a Stone that I think you would like as much as this.”

The other youngster nodded his head knowingly.

“You mean the Duncton Stone, don’t you? Everymole says that’s a very special one, but how could we ever go
there
?”

“Why not?” said Tryfan.

“Too far and dangerous,” said the female.

“Grikes,” said the male.

“Well, I got
here
all right.”

“You’re an adult.”

“So will you be one day, and anyway I don’t think it makes much difference.”

“You would if you were us!”

Tryfan laughed.

“Would you like to see our tunnels?” asked one of them.

“I would,” said Tryfan, “but it seems a pity while the sun’s so good. I seem to have been in shadow for a long, long time, and today I found a way out of it.”

“We can wait till the sun goes in,” said the female.

Tryfan nodded and said, “Meanwhile, you can tell me your names.”

“I’m Bramble,” said the male.

“And I’m Betony,” said the other.

“What are you going to tell us?” said Bramble, settling down with pleasant expectancy.

“Yes, what
are
you?” added Betony, impatiently.

“Well, there’s lots of things to tell you about, but perhaps I should start at the very beginning,” Tryfan said.

“That’s a very good place to start,” said Bramble, making himself even more comfortable.

So then Tryfan did, and told those two youngsters about things he thought he had forgotten which seemed so long ago now. And as what he told them went on, he only gradually became aware that other moles had joined them, adult moles, old moles, searching moles, moles who had lost their way as Duncton Wood had, as he felt he had; moles with a longing to hear, and a longing to hope.

But it was to Bramble and Betony that he spoke, for they were young and still had so much to do, and he thought that if they thought it hard to get to Duncton Wood then they might never try to go anywhere, and
then
they would make a great deal less of their lives than they might have done.

Tryfan spoke to them until the sun was setting on Beechenhill, and the grass was cooling, and only the Stone that rose among them retained the day’s warmth, and a hint of the beauty it had had.

Spindle and Mayweed were among those moles who heard Tryfan that day, and while some would call it a teaching, most would remember it differently than that, as a day when a true mole of the Stone opened his heart to them, and told them his hopes and fears through the troubled story of his life, and made his testimony.

As he reached the end of what he had to say his voice grew quiet and all there sensed that he spoke like a mole who feels he might not have the opportunity to speak of such things again. All grew close to him then, sensing he needed the promise of a future that their hopes might give. Until, at the end, he led them in prayer to ask the Stone that the Stone Mole might come and show them how a mole who feels he has lost his way may find it once again, whatever he is, however humble he feels, wherever his failures may have taken him.

Then Tryfan blessed the moles of Beechenhill and they quietly dispersed to their burrows and to sleep.

Morning came, grey weather, the journey onwards once again, and news of Skint.

“Grassington,” whispered a mole. “You’ll find him there with Smithills. In the very shadow of Whern. May the Stone’s Silence be with you, mole, and remember: you and yours will always find sanctuary here!”

The mole’s gaze was direct, his manner cheerful. He was large of girth, but strong and there was something about him that made Tryfan ask his name, and Spindle to record it.

“Squeezebelly I’m called. Bramble and Betony are my young. They and I, as all moles here, are enemies of the grikes and therefore forever your friends. Remember us in your prayers, Tryfan of Duncton, for we shall always remember you in ours.”

Then, with that friendship affirmed with a touch, Tryfan turned to Mayweed and said that they must leave.

“Sirs both, Mayweed will get you there! To elusive Skint’s burrows and good Smithills’ laughter he will take you, and himself as well. So follow, and find!”

And he did! Crossing the Dark Peak in safety, getting confirmation of Skint’s message from the moles of Kinder Scout, puzzling still that the grikes troubled them not, pressing on through August and into September before they reached Grassington, the last system before dread Whern itself.

Skint had aged, and Smithills too, and in seeing them again Tryfan realised that he must have aged as well, and all his friends.

But what a greeting they had, what news to share, how tempting to stay in Skint’s clean tunnels (or even Smithills’ grubby ones) and pass the time in idleness or chatter! A temptation to which they yielded!

They found time, too, to travel a few molemiles to see the burrows where once Willow had been a pup, and to honour that old mole’s memory, whose death at Henbane’s command they would never forget. There Skint recalled the anger that he felt, and Tryfan observed that there was a stronger feeling among them now, of pity and of anguish. Perhaps anger is a young mole’s emotion, and anguish something only older moles can bear. They turned from Willow’s former burrows and stared on north to where the ground rises towards Whern and felt that anger was not now enough.

“When do we leave?” asked Skint. He was as brave as ever he had been, but now his voice had a tremor in it, and they could see he did not want to leave his home again. Nor Smithills, though he offered his help too, and would have come and faced Henbane’s talons straight.

“We three will travel on alone,” said Tryfan. “Spindle and I led on by Mayweed here. You have said you knew we were coming....”

“Aye, there’s been talk of nothing else for weeks now. Allmole knows you’re going into Whern, and the guard-moles have instructions to leave you be,” said Smithills. “They say Henbane wants to talk to you, and even Rune himself, but nomole knows what to make of it, but that things are changing when moles of the Stone can visit Whern unharmed.”

“Changing or not changing, I don’t like it,” said Spindle.

“Nor I,” said Skint. “A mole that snouts old females like Willow doesn’t change, and don’t you forget it!”

“We won’t,” said Tryfan. Yet Spindle silently shook his head and fretted his paws restlessly, as if troubled by more than he could find words to say.

Then, as Spindle and the others talked, Skint took Tryfan to one side and said, “But what are you going there
for
? To talk with a mole who commanded the cruelties Henbane did? The mole I trained in clearing at the Slopeside of Buckland has more sense than that.”

“To seek Boswell,” said Tryfan. “He
is
there, and he is waiting, and our coming has been long waited by him, so very long. I don’t know, Skint, why we must go, nor why I know that Spindle and Mayweed will be unharmed, but so it is; so worry not of them....”

“But you, mole? What of you? Eh?” said Skint softly, touching him.

“I don’t know,” said Tryfan, shaking his head. “I think I don’t matter now. I think that all those moleyears ago Boswell trained me for this, but I don’t know how or why. I think the Stone knows and I hope in time we will.”

“You’re shaking, mole! Let us come with you – an extra few paws may be useful. We’re not so old yet there’s not a use for us!”

“No, Skint,” said Tryfan, “not this time. It’s not with talons that we’re fighting now. I have the best defences I shall need in Spindle here and Mayweed. They’ll know what to do.”

“Well... if there’s any way we can help....”

“Pray for us,” said Tryfan.

“In my own way I will, every day until I know you’re safe. You come back to us and tell us you spat in the eyes of Rune himself! You will, won’t you?”

Tryfan smiled wearily.

Then after a moment’s thought he said, “We will return this way, and perhaps when we come we will have need of help. Be ready, Skint. Have strong talons at your command, but remember they are not for killing but for authority. Watch out for us and if we come not ourselves then news of us will.”

Skint nodded.

Then after a moment Tryfan added, “There’s a place we visited on our way here, a place you know. Beechenhill.”

“Aye, what of it?”

“Remember it, Skint. Remember that for one day of my life I was happy there. The moles there have great faith and trust and gave me courage to come on. Remember it!”

“I will,” said Skint, much moved and troubled, “I’ll not forget.”

Then Skint and Smithills accompanied their three friends on the last part of their northward way, with the moorlands that precede Whern beginning to rise darkly to their left and right, and the river flowing past and away downslope behind them towards the sun, and all the life they had ever known.

Until a great overhang of dark rock loomed on their left and Skint and Smithills muttered that it was as far as they would go.