Duncton Quest (40 page)

With afternoon came the frightening stomp of the guard-moles in the Slopeside tunnels, and the voice of Eldrene Fescue in a rage, directing a search for... themselves. A search which still brought out a few last survivors, cleverer moles who had suspected something was amiss and had taken refuge in some corner or burrow they thought might go unnoticed. Sometimes one was found, and was dragged screaming to a surface entrance, beyond any help that Tryfan and his huddled band could give against such numbers, and there murdered with a talon-thrust.

“No prisoners, no witnesses, for these are traitors to the Word and blasphemers, and deserve to die!” So under the evil Fescue, the willing grikes performed the noble work of the Word.

The guardmoles were thorough and occasionally came near to the escapers’ high and obscure hideaway, and all huddled still as death lest the smallest sound should give them away. Until, by mid-afternoon, all the tunnels seemed to have been explored, and the last clearers found and killed.

“I know they are here somewhere near, for the place is surrounded and they would have been seen getting away!” Fescue cried, ordering the search to continue, even to the most unlikely places. “I will have them found.”

“’Tis that Henbane she’s afraid of,” whispered Spindle, “for I’ve heard she’s displeased with this and that at Buckland, and it is said some think the Slopeside moles should have been killed weeks ago.”

“But the clearers have only just finished clearing the main part of it, and on time for Midsummer too,” Skint protested. Even now he took a pride in a job well done.

“They didn’t want to
use
the tunnels, not for guard-moles, not for living, Sir,” smiled Mayweed. “Never wanted that. Oh no... not for
using
.”

“What do you mean?” growled Smithills.

“Nothing, Sir, and no harm please,” said Mayweed.

“He means,” said Spindle heavily, “that the Slopeside has been a way of keeping the clearers in one place and under control until Henbane was confident there was no further use for them; at least, that’s what I heard. It was a useful way of getting rid of unwanted moles as well, like Stone followers – like us. She never had any intention of using it, did she, Mayweed? A few were going to be kept for snouting at Longest Day, including Brevis here, of course....”

“Yes, Sir, correct very much so, very exactly so,” agreed Mayweed.

Skint and Smithills were appalled.

“Why didn’t you
say?”
they said together.

“Mayweed wasn’t sure, Sir, couldn’t be certain, didn’t want to tell no lie nor partial truth, he didn’t. No, no, no, no. Mayweed only guessed too late, only knew too late again. Mayweed’s sorry, Sirs and Madam. Mayweed’s frightened, too.” His voice had become a whimper.

But as they talked a strange silence seemed to have fallen in the Slopeside tunnels, and there was a sense of change and chill, as if the sun had gone in on a warm day, and a northern wind sprung up.

“Don’t like it,” whispered Skint. “It’s time we thought of leaving, Tryfan.”

But as Tryfan started to reply he was cut short by the beginnings of a thumping, at first quiet and then louder, of the kind they had heard when Weed and his guardmoles had been chasing them at Uffington. The tunnels vibrated with the frightening sound, and occasional deep shouts and orders; then absolute silence, then thumping again.

The moles looked at each other with fear in their eyes, except for Tryfan, who gathered them near to him.

“I think another mole is in charge. Weed, perhaps. Or...” and the same thought occurred to all of them:

“Henbane!”

“Aye, ’tis likely she’s taken charge,” said Smithills. They looked around uneasily. Outside on the surface the sun was beginning to set on the long, warm day, inside their burrow the urge to run out and try and escape was strong. The thumping was so ominous a mole could hardly bear to crouch still.

“We’ll not move yet,” said Tryfan firmly. “That’s probably what they want. It’s what such a mole as she
would
do: frighten us out to the surface. Then she’s got us. No doubt guardmoles are ready higher up, or lower down if we went that way, to get us. So we’ll crouch it out and wait till dusk. Easier to get clear then, less danger, too, of gull and rook and possible, perhaps, for us to creep unnoticed out on to the pastures.”

He looked around at their party, studying each in turn for signs of panic or weakness. Skint was crouched low and relaxing, experienced at crises; Smithills was scratching himself and looking here and there. Munro was grinning, frightened of nothing – too foolish, perhaps. Willow had stayed closed to Skint, half asleep and looking old and ill. Sometimes she snouted about a little but Skint would still her and she seemed content with that. Brevis was meditating, his snout a little to one side, but a muscle in his left flank twitching. He looked thin and grey, older than his years. Spindle had taken stance near him, and his eyes were open and his face upset. The massacre had shocked him deeply: he was the only one who had gone up to near the surface more than once to see what was going on. The last was Mayweed, who grinned nervously all the time. One of his scabs was weeping and he gnawed at the raw flesh of a sore just above the talons of his right paw. Nomole looked more nervous than he. Yet all kept silence.

As for himself, Tryfan was calm and resolute, determined to keep the spirits of his friends high, but knowing that they could not stop here for long and that he must time their departure well. There would be no second chance. He was pleased with the positive way most of them had taken stance, not realising that it was his own confidence and purpose that gave them hope. Skint and Munro could be relied on as fighters, along with himself; Smithills was tired now, but loyal and dependable; Spindle would hold his own and had shown cunning and courage in equal measure these past weeks. Willow was weak and confused, and Brevis very tired, but both could be got away with help and encouragement. Which, with Mayweed, made eight of them, an awkward number which could not safely be split up.

“Please, Sir,” said Mayweed, interrupting his thoughts and seeming to read them, “Mayweed doesn’t want to go where you’re going. Mayweed is safer here, which is his home. Mayweed won’t ever be caught here by guardmoles... but if Mayweed leaves he will be caught and if he’s caught he will be hurt and if he’s hurt he doesn’t know what he’ll do.”

“Or say,” muttered Skint. The others shifted uneasily at Mayweed’s outburst.

“It’s best you come,” said Tryfan quietly.

“But, Sir...” whined Mayweed.

“But nothing,” said Tryfan. “Falter and I will not hesitate to kill you, Mayweed. If you are caught your end will be painful and I do not doubt you would tell them what you know of us first.”

“Know, kind Sir? Mayweed knows nothing.
Nothing.
Not your name, not your sex, not your intention, not your destination, no nothing! At all, at all!”

“Now remember, we will move swiftly as one, hoping there will be better cover by the stream across the slopes above. Do you know how far it is, Mayweed?” he asked.

“Honoured to be asked, privileged to reveal: two flaps of an owl’s wings, two hundred of a pigeon’s, confident Sir, name of Tryfan.”

“What’s that in moleyards?” growled Smithills.

“Can’t do it in one run, wise Smithills, might do it in two if you didn’t have a mole as venerable as Willow with you and another as weak (through no fault of his noble self) as Brevis. Yes. About that.”

“The guardmoles won’t be expecting us to go that way, and might not even see us,” said Tryfan, talking to Skint more than anymole else. “But if they do they will hesitate to follow singly, for fear of owl, and we will gain some time.”

He looked at them all and instinctively they became more alert. He had made a decision. The time to leave was nearly on them.

“Skint and Smithills: you will take the front flanks; Brevis, Willow, Spindle and Mayweed: you will be in the centre. Munro and I will take the rear, and if we have to we will talon you forward....”

“Sir —” began Mayweed.

Sudden sound, nearer, and a single look from Tryfan shut Mayweed up.

“We’re going to have to surface it,” whispered Tryfan, starting to brief them for their attempt at escape. The others looked at him in surprise, except for Skint and Smithills who had made escapes of their own. They nodded approvingly. On the surface an escaping mole could run fast, was less easily trapped, and had the advantage of surprise.

The steady thumping mounted again... and faded. Guardmoles hurried this way and that, sometimes unpleasantly near, and harsh shouts sounded, but Tryfan kept them all calm and resisted the impulse to flee too soon. Yet how slowly the sun seemed to sink, how slow the light was to fade. But fade it did, the colour draining from the roots and walls about them, and the trunk above turning pink and then dulling down as the sun set to the west. To the northwest, which was the direction they were going, the sky now steadily darkened, giving them the promise of better cover.

Thump, thump, thump... “Try higher up,
this
tunnel has not been checked yet...” and they knew the guardmoles were near now, and heard a new voice in charge, and one that was strong and full of authority.

“Weed!” whispered Spindle. “And they seem to have found the tunnel here.”

Silently Tryfan looked around at each of them in turn, nodding purposefully, giving encouraging touches, and letting Skint and Smithills past him, as they would lead them out. From the tunnel behind them they heard talon scrapings and heavy pawsteps.

“Still want to stay behind, Mayweed?” asked Skint grinning.

“Mayweed’s changed his mind, Sir, Mayweed’ll go with you, Mayweed wants to go
now,”
whimpered Mayweed. “
Please?
”

With a nod from Tryfan they took their positions. Skint breathed deeply, thrust a front paw up on to the nearby surface, heaved himself up and, after a quick look above, whispered back down, “All clear for now, come on!” And then they did, rapidly, and as soon as they were assembled in the dusk beneath the old tree they turned, snouted the quickest way towards the stream whose running dampness they could sense clearly, and set off....

Today story-tellers make much of that desperate journey across the fields of carnage which the Slopeside had become. One after another they ran, with the stronger helping the weaker, and with each playing his own part. Of the owls that swooped they tell, and how Munro warded them off: of the guardmole patrol that reared out of the gloom, the very same four who had abducted and nearly killed Skint... and how Tryfan and Smithills took them on, and Munro too, brave Munro, who in that skirmish for other moles’ lives took the blow that was so soon to lose him his own. Of how they lost their way after the guardmoles fled, turning too soon to the west and hesitating as other moles came up behind. Yes, lost! Then Mayweed, strange Mayweed, suddenly ran to the fore and said, “Please, Sirs, please Madam, please to follow me for Mayweed has a snout that finds out ways that others never know! Follow!” And despite Skint and Tryfan’s curses, for surely the mole was going the wrong way, he led them, led them in those crucial minutes back on the path they needed, then below ground, and out, suddenly, on to the bank of the raging stream.

Then, of all moles there, it was Willow who went forward, saying she liked a stream, especially a rushing one, and this must be the Wharfe itself to be so fine! (Though it looked dark and dangerous indeed to the southern moles.)

So forth she went, and Skint with her, then Smithills, the other northern mole, took a stance midstream, and helped the others, pulling poor Mayweed, who was terrified of the water, and bodily got him across.

But Munro did not cross that stream alive. As the others began their passage over he heard more guardmoles coming, and bravely went back and led them another way. But he was weakened by wounds, and when he reached the stream, far lower down, the grikes off-scent now, all he could do was hurl himself into the water and it took him, and turned him, and drowned him dead. The first mole to die on Tryfan’s long and terrible march towards the Silence of the Stone.