Duncton Quest (129 page)

It was in this atmosphere of doubt and excitement that Skint and Smithills now travelled on. Their hope was to find a way into the system other than by the cross-under which, they had no doubt, was heavily guarded.

The nearer they got the stranger their passage became. There were other moles about, mostly followers too, for many moles had taken it into their heads to travel eastward after the appearance of the Stone Mole’s star and now found themselves converging on Duncton Wood.

Perhaps the grikes had a warning this might happen, perhaps Wyre was as clever and far-sighted as Henbane must have hoped. However it was, it was he who made sure that there was a strong presence of grikes about Duncton, something he evidently considered as important as retaking Siabod, though he could not have had much to do with the fact that it was augmented by sideem, young moles who rarely smiled and who took ascendancy over the guardmoles.

There was no violence, nor any killing, for the sideem’s solution to the flocking of moles who suddenly claimed they wished to be outcast into Duncton was to insist that all males move on. After all, they argued, any one of them might be the Stone Mole.

It was in this busily suspicious atmosphere that Skint and Smithills arrived at the cross-under.

“You’re to get out of this vicinity fast, you two,” a harassed guardmole soon told them after they had been examined by the sideem.

“But we’re old and can’t hurt a flea,” said Skint, “and we have come a long way to be outcast in the one system where there is freedom. That was promised by Henbane herself!”

“The only moles allowed through are females and they’ve got to be so far gone they’re a danger to others,” said the guardmole wearily, for he had said the same loo many times before. “You ought to be grateful we’re not letting you in that place.”

“But —”

“Look, mate, if you expect to find this bloody Stone Mole, forget it. You can see for yourself the sideem will take him if he so much as shows his snout round here.”

“They know what he looks like, do they?” asked Skint.

“Everyone’s got a different story but I’ve heard he’s as tough a male as they come, like that Tryfan used to be.”

“
He’s
dead, isn’t he?” asked Skint, testing.

“Now get along, get along!” said the guardmole turning from them to a female in the throng, “And what’s your name, mole, and where are you from?”

As Skint turned away with Smithills to ponder their next move he heard only her voice, and that almost unconsciously.

“Myn nam ys Feverfew. I wyl to Duncton go....”

Her accent and idiom were strange, and most beautiful, and so he turned back to look at her and saw... what? A female, scalpskinned, travel-stained, obviously weary, and... something more he could not place.
He
felt strange, staring like that to see something he felt was there but could not see. Most strange.

Then a guardmole came and pushed them further off and they had no chance of talking to her. Instead they watched as the female began talking to the first guardmole. Then a sideem came over and with obvious disgust curtly questioned her. With barely a nod he let her pass by and slowly, and obviously very tired, she approached the cross-under.

But what was it about her that made a mole look? Why did a hush momentarily fall on moles as she passed them by, moles who looked twice as Skint had done, and seemed puzzled? Was she not, but for the dialect of which Skint had caught only a snatch, just another diseased outcast?

Even the sideem who had let her through so quickly, broke off from the next interview he was conducting and looked round distractedly to where the female had gone and took a few steps in that direction.

At which Skint found himself urging her on, as if some inner voice told him that of all moles there she must get through. There was something about her, something that made a mole pause. Something....

“What is it, Skint?” asked Smithills, who wanted to go back along the roaring owl way and find another route into Duncton Wood since they were not going to get in at the cross-under and the obvious, though dangerous, routes over the roaring owl way nearby seemed well guarded.

“Don’t you see something about her as well?” said Skint lowering his voice, for there were a good many moles nearby.

“She’s a female, she’s scalpskinned, and...” said Smithills watching her as she reached the cross-under guards.

“And?” said Skint.

“I don’t know...

“That sideem evidently thinks so too, he’s going to go back to stop her now.”

Skint suddenly turned to Smithills urgently

“Hit me, Smithills!” he said. “Go on, hit me.”

Smithills looked at his old friend in blank amazement.

“Make a diversion! Hit me!”

But before Smithills could make out what Skint meant a mole near them stepped forward and lunged noisily at Skint.

At which Smithills, so far slow in his reactions, came to the rescue of Skint and, turning on the mole with a mighty roar, talon-thrust him out of the way.

“Coward!” shouted the mole picking himself up and thrusting forward again. “Hitting this geriatric mole smaller than yourself!”

“Me?” shouted Smithills in rage. “
You
hit him!”

“A liar as well!” cried the mole.

“I may be old but I’m not geriatric!” yelled out Skint suddenly, lunging viciously at Smithills.

“By the Stone I’ll have you both now,” said the normally genial Smithills, almost apoplectic with rage.

Below them, the sideem who had been heading for Feverfew heard the rumpus and turned to look. He and a guardmole came running. Behind them, at the cross-under, Feverfew looked back briefly at the fuss, and then turned and hurried out of sight and beyond recall into the system of Duncton Wood.

Safe, thought Skint, even as Smithills continued the fight. She’s safe, but from what? Skint did not know.

It was several minutes more before the sideem and guardmole sorted out the fuss, and sent Skint, Smithills and the third mole on their way. Smithills continued to grumble, but as soon as they were out of earshot the

stranger said, “Did she get past the last guardmole all right?”

“She did, mole,” said Skint, “and now you had better explain what is going on.”

“I thought she wouldn’t get through.”

“She’s a diseased female”, said Skint. “They seem to think that anymole else might be the Stone Mole. Now, why would you think she’d not get through?”

“You didn’t think her strange?”

“I thought her very strange. There was something about her that made a mole look at her and want her to get on. There was... Well, mole, what was it? You obviously know. Now what’s your name, and what’s your story?”

The mole grinned and said, “I don’t know much but I know my name. I heard you say yours and recognised them. I’m Bailey.”

“Stone me!” said Smithills.

“But Mayweed told us you were fat!”

“I lost weight,” said Bailey. Skint and Smithills looked at him with respect, and saw and liked his grin and the natural innocence and warmth of his eyes.

“There’s much to discuss.”

“There may be,” said Bailey with resolution, “but what I want to do is get into Duncton Wood. I promised I’d watch over her. I —”

“Mole, we’ve talking to do,” said Skint taking control as he did in the old days. “You can come with us and tell us what you know of Boswell, of the Stone Mole and everything else. But you can start with that female. What mole was she and what was it about her made moles stare but not know why? Because there’s
something
special about her, or I haven’t learnt anything in my long and mainly useless life.”

“Her name is Feverfew and she is of the Wen. But more than that,” added Bailey with wonder in his voice, “she is of the Stone. As for what is strange about her, well... nothing much, but these days moles don’t expect to see scalpskinned females who are with pup.”

With pup!
With pup!
He looked over at where the sideem and guardmoles were stopping and talking to other moles who seemed, like them, to have converged on Duncton as if they expected something but knew not what.

“She’s with pup?” repeated Smithills.

“I think the pup she bears is one allmole has waited for,” said Bailey.

“The Stone Mole!” exclaimed Skint in an awed voice, and staring in wonder towards the way Feverfew had gone.

“Yes,” said Bailey softly, “I think that’s how the Stone Mole is to come.”

“Then we must find a way in to Duncton Wood,” said Skint with purpose and resolution, “for Smithills here and I have not travelled so far to lurk on the outside when wonders happen. Eh, Smithills?”

“Right, Skint!”

“Nor I,” said Bailey, following them.

Chapter Forty-Seven

All that day poor Spindle had been unsettled, going this way and that in the tunnels, fretful, returning again and again to where the texts they had made were ranged, touching them, thinking he had so much to do, but doing nothing.

Meanwhile Tryfan had decided to work at something he had been putting off, which was to scribe the last few folios of his book on Boswell’s teachings,
The Way of Silence,
but he found it hard and his mind was unsettled. Nor was he helped by the restlessness of Spindle who went about and snouted here and there, and sighed, and seemed upset.

But though Tryfan tried to talk to him, his friend would not say much, only that he felt tired, and perhaps there were things he had left undone.

“You have time, Spindle, time for all of that....”

But Spindle shook his head and his eyes wandered and he said, “I would like to see if those texts we hid up in the Ancient System are all right. You remember where they are, Tryfan?”

“You and Mayweed hid them, you never told me where. Didn’t trust me I expect!”

“No, no,” said Spindle, “you had no time, and now....”

“I’ll come up with you to find them,” said Tryfan.

“Today? Now?” said Spindle, glad to have something to do.

Tryfan laughed.

“There’s time, Spindle! Tomorrow. Work to finish here.”

“I’ll go with Hay,” said Spindle, disappointed. “He doesn’t have to come all the way, for only you should know where the texts are, and then other moles when we can trust them.”

“Well, I will come, but tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes,” said Spindle, leaving. “I’ll find Hay.”

But Hay was not to be found, or at least that is what moles said afterwards, for more than one saw Spindle going by, heading southwards through the Eastside, and alone.

“Looked as if he knew where he was going,
hurrying
he was,” said one. “I called out to him but he didn’t seem to hear me.”

Spindle did go alone, taking the surface routes, too impatient to seek Hay out and perhaps happier to make that particular journey by himself. The less moles knew about such things as hidden texts the better. He had left clues enough in the other caches he had made for moles to trace the other places where texts were hidden. Some of them would survive, and the story of those times be known.

“Yes, yes,” said Spindle, hurrying along, scarcely looking at where he trod, breathless, his chest beginning to hurt again. The pains suddenly sharp.

“I must... I will...” he muttered to himself, trying to ignore his pains. “Please help me, Stone, I must....”

Somemole later reported seeing Spindle alone and still, as if he was resting, but when he went over to him Spindle looked around as if he did not see him and then set off again. They saw him break out of the Eastside trees and on to the Pastures to the south east, below which the roaring owl way goes.

That mole followed him, worried for him, and found him staring at the distant way whose roars were muffled and slow and whose gazes, being day, were only occasional.

“Spindle, what are you doing here?”

“Waiting!” he replied. Then he said, “See? They’re just like us.”

“Who are, Spindle?”

“Don’t know,” said Spindle vaguely. “Not sure. Moles’ll find out one day.”

Then, as Spindle started off again, up towards the ancient part of Duncton Wood, the mole cried out cheerfully after him, “You won’t find out up there, not about roaring owls!”

Spindle did not immediately look back, but as the mole went his own way, towards the Eastside, Spindle called back to him saying. “Mole, go to Tryfan, tell him he must go to the Stone. I don’t think I can go back all that way myself to tell him, so you do it. Hay will know where to find him. Others must do things now.”

The mole nearly ran upslope to Spindle, for there was something strange about him that held a mole’s attention, but the command in Spindle’s voice was strong, and set that mole’s paws going back to the Marsh End.

“I shall,” he said, “I shall.” But yet he did look back once more and saw Spindle climbing, and he looked old and went slow now.

Each step was painful for Spindle, and sometimes his thin paws slipped in the grass, as he wearily heaved them up, breathless, the pains strong again. He was muttering to himself, “I must scribe it, moles must know, I shall scribe it....”

Above him, right across the sky, the promising light of an April afternoon shone, and its best parts were caught in the shining of the beech leaves which were coming out across the ancient part of the system.