Duncton Quest (127 page)

It was a day or two more before the two moles ventured out together. The warm weather had continued and the ground was pleasantly astir.

They went slowly at first, snouting down the odd tunnel or two, and though they saw nomole, they could sense mole about: quiet mole, wondering mole, mole uncertain and unsure, as if the winter had been so long that the first touches of true spring could not yet be believed.

“Yet it’s quiet, Spindle, quieter than in my day when these tunnels would have been scurrying with pups or preparation for them. None of that now, nor ever will be again perhaps.”

A mole, thin and worried, popped her head around a corner and stared at them for a while.

Tryfan inclined his head in a friendly way, but the mole just stared and said nothing, and then came a pawstep closer.

“Hello!” said Tryfan.

The mole dashed away. But she was soon back, with two more, staring as well, and though both Spindle and Tryfan tried to get them to talk they would not.

They were a sorry, unkempt looking bunch, all middle aged, all bearing signs of incipient illness and rough treatment.

“Where shall we go?” whispered Spindle, who was not one who much enjoyed an audience.

“Why, where should a Duncton mole go in spring?” said Tryfan. And though he did not notice it, for his sight was poor and restricted, Spindle did: those watching them leaned nearer to catch every word Tryfan said.

“In spring,” said Tryfan cheerily, “a mole of these parts may go to one of two places: to the distant Stone to give thanks that winter’s over, or to Barrow Vale to acknowledge that he or she is of a community of moles, and that is a place where they may meet without fear or favour.”

The three moles listening had been joined by another and all hung on Tryfan’s words, and when he paused or finished what he was saying, they turned to each other and whispered, “‘Barrow Vale” he said,” and “‘The Stone’, would you believe? That’s where he’s off to!” And some – and now yet another had joined them – seemed deaf or short of sight, and peered and nudged others to say what was apaw and what had been said.

“To Barrow Vale he be going, aye and that other one too! You know who they are, eh? That’s
Tryfan,
the one with the scars, and the gawky one is Spindle....”

Tryfan, seeming not to notice the interest he was causing as he sniffed and snouted at the tunnels, nodded again to one or two of the moles, and set off along the tunnel with the confidence of one who knows his way.

Spindle followed, and wherever they went moles seemed to be gathering and watching them, some quite out of breath with running, their eyes wide, most afraid to speak.

But a few cried out greetings from the safety of their groups: “Pleased to see you!” and, “Watch your paws up that bit, it’s muddy,” and “Good day, Sir!” All of which Tryfan greeted with a smile or a nod as he went slowly, limping on his right paw a little.

He moved with the grace of a mole who, though aware of others near, yet makes his own way and is unconcerned and unafraid of others or of life. There was about him the gravity of a mole who has travelled and suffered, and he did not hesitate to pause and look at mole cast down or linger near one too weak to raise her snout.

These he saw, and others too, others more belligerent. Oh yes, they came that day, they had heard that Tryfan had come out. Up they hurried, along they came, around the corners they peered, yet Tryfan went on his way, with Spindle at his side or just behind, stopping once when a couple of large, distorted males gibbered and grinned and threatened not to let him by, crouching down when another shouted some obscenity from out of the wildness of his maddened mind.

As they went, a few grew bolder and dared come closer to him, whispering his name, glancing at each other with pleasure and a little awe that he had seen them, or smiled at them. A few blind moles seemed confused but others whispered to them saying, “It’s Tryfan himself, come out of his Silence and he’s going to Barrow Vale like they said they did in the old days before... before...
before
! You follow me and you’ll get there. Yes, he’s just ahead, come on!”

Until there were so many moles behind, in side tunnels and ahead, and such general bustle and excitement that Tryfan led the way to the surface, and for the final part of their journey trod his way among the leaf mould of the autumn where the green shoots of Spring had started.

Sometimes he paused, still barely conscious, it seemed, of the many about him, and he stared up at the budding trees and over at the clusters of aconite among the surface roots.

“See,” he told Spindle, “spring always comes in the end, and I do believe it has come here at last. Yet look, see that burnt tree? That was from the fire that caused this part of the system to be deserted, though before my time.”

“He says that these trees were marked by fire before his time...” shouted some moles to their aged ailing friends, as the chatter increased about the two moles and others said, “Sh! We want to hear him speak!”

Then Tryfan paused, and many paused with him, and, looking ahead among the trees to where there was a dip in the ground and an open space surrounded by older trees, he said, “Look, Spindle! Barrow Vale!”

Not a single mole there but did not stop quite still when he said that, and stared ahead where he stared, at that circle of trees which defines what, for so many decades, had been the true heart of the system. All stayed still as Tryfan went forward from them, his hurt paws a little clumsy, his form heavy now and his fur rough and in places grubby.

Forward to the very edge of Barrow Vale, to stare up at the trees about him, where no leaves yet showed but much life seemed certain. Then to look across that secret place and see the shoots of dog’s mercury rising, and all over the green shiny leaves that soon, when April came, would open out to frame the bluebells they still hid.

Nomole spoke, all were hushed, all seemed to understand the meaning of that moment for Tryfan.

“A mole forgets,” he said quietly, “how beautiful his home system can be. Here to this place, when I was young, my mother brought me and she told me of the system that she loved. Here my father led me, and showed me which entrance was his favourite. Here we ventured as siblings from the Ancient System, whispering because the place was so deserted, peering down tunnels where we should not be.

“Here too,” he continued, signalling to Spindle to join him, “a mole I learned to trust, and respect and love, this mole here, first spoke his love for Thyme, and here mated. A mole I call as good a friend as anymole will ever have.” There was a sigh among the many there, and that sense of trust and love that seemed a palpable thing between Tryfan and Spindle was among them all.

Then, as if reluctant to tread on memory, yet purposefully, like a mole who knows he must make his way, Tryfan of Duncton, Spindle at his side, passed through the circle of trees about Barrow Vale, stopped in its centre and slowly turned full circle to take in the beauty of the place.

Then softly, quietly, and looking about them as if there was a magic in the air they must not disturb, the following moles joined them.

“Speak to us, Tryfan!” several shouted out. “Tell us of the past here, and what will happen to us.”

But Tryfan said only that he would not, and preferred to go among them, and touch them, and ask that they did the same this spring day, that they felt the ground beneath them and knew they were as one. Which they did, talking quietly among themselves as Tryfan spoke to each in turn, and met for the first time those old, despairing moles who had been his unseen companions through the long mole-months of winter.

Heather was there, and Borage; Hay and Teasel, and many others.

“Will we go to the Stone?” asked several.

“Aye, we’ve never been there.”

“Westsiders won’t have that!” warned a mole.

“They’ll talon you if you try!” predicted another.

Even as they talked they saw that the Westsiders, warned of what was happening, had come in force and had taken stance on the far side of Barrow Vale. A grim silence fell.

Although there were fewer of them than those who had gathered about Tryfan, they looked a good deal stronger mole for mole. It was plain that many were grikes, presumably the survivors among those guardmoles who had first come to Duncton and been under Eldrene Beake.

Although many of those in Barrow Vale were plainly intimidated, and backed away, or disappeared down tunnels, others took stance and stayed their ground, calling out threats on the one paw and whispering to Tryfan and Spindle on the other that they would cover them until they escaped.

But Tryfan would have none of it, and nor would he allow any but Spindle to accompany him as he disengaged himself from those who had been with him and slowly approached the front line of Westsiders.

“We are here in peace,” he said clearly, “and invite you to join us.”

“Invite us, does he?” said one.

“Who does he think he is. Invites us!” jeered another.

“Talon the bastard!” said a third.

Tryfan moved nearer and took a bold stance.

“Which is your leader?” he said. His voice betrayed no nervousness at all, and at his side Spindle crouched firm.

“What’s it to you, mate?”

“I would talk with him.”

“Oh, would you now?” said a large mole near Tryfan who seemed beside himself with rage. “What about? This?” With that he pushed forward and taloned Tryfan in the face, a blow that caused a terrible gasp and sigh among all those who had followed Tryfan to Barrow Vale, and which made Spindle come quickly forward to attack the mole, which he might have done had not Tryfan stopped him.

“There has been enough bloodshed in moledom these past years, we have no need of it here,” he said, wiping a run of blood from his face fur.

He moved forward again, staring hard at the mole who had struck him, and said with authority, “Your leader, mole?”

“He’ll come when he wants to, mate, and meanwhile you bloody back off or you’ll get more talon-thrusts like that last one.”

Tryfan shook his head and then, as the moles behind him began to call out aggressively and move nearer, and the Westsiders to rear their talons and get ready for a fight, Tryfan astonished everymole there by turning his back on the grikes. Then, facing the moles who supported him, as the Westsiders looked on and felt foolish, Tryfan said, “I have seen enough fighting in my time never to want to see more, or to have moles raise their talons on my account. I ask that not one of you, not a single one, comes forward to protect me now, whatever may happen. My protection is my faith in the Stone. These moles that threaten me have suffered as we all have. Their anger is ours. Is there anymole among you would raise his talons if they strike me? – for if there is I would rather he strike me than hurt another.”

So strongly did he speak that there was not a single mole in Barrow Vale who did not lower his talons and crouch down peacefully, and the only sound they made were mutterings and whisperings to the Stone.

Tryfan ordered Spindle to join them, which he did most reluctantly, and then he turned back to face the Westsiders.

“Come,” he said, “take me to your leader.”

“We’ll take you to our frigging leader, chum!” said one of the grike Westsiders aggressively, buffeting and taloning Tryfan forward among them. With each buffet and hit there was a groan from the moles in Barrow Vale, and a few started to rear up in anger, but Spindle’s stance calmed them, and none came forward.

Then they saw Tryfan taken, and shoved down an entrance into the Westside. As he went, many told the ailing ones what was happening and a single female voice, cracked and old, broke into a chanting song. Old it was, and of the Stone, and gradually others joined in and its rhythmic sound followed Tryfan down as a kind of comfort into the Westside tunnels.

There are several accounts of what happened that day in the Westside, and most tell of how Tryfan subdued the Westsiders and by the power of his personality alone converted them to the Stone. But sensible moles seek a more realistic version than that, and it does exist as it was recorded not by Spindle but by a mole Tryfan had perhaps forgotten, but who had reason to be grateful to him, and who was there in those Westside tunnels that day, though not involved in the initial attack on Tryfan.