Duncton Quest (42 page)

“For some of us the way towards light and Silence is the way of the Stone. We make that choice and we follow it as best we can. For a few, like Brevis here, who is a scribemole, the way they go is hard indeed, and disciplined; for others it may be easier, but the end may finally be further away. So my friend Boswell told me.”

“So this Stone of yours does not demand to be followed, or have rules and rituals a mole must see to?” asked Skint.

Tryfan shrugged. “Rules for scribemoles, perhaps, rituals for allmole as well, such as we have at Midsummer and on Longest Night. But if you mean
must
we do them, as a Word follower must or risk punishment, then no, that is not the way of the Stone. But I think acceptance of the difficulty of life means that a mole must have some discipline, and perhaps rituals help him with it at times of doubt or special darkness.”

“That’s right is it, Brevis?” asked Skint, turning from Tryfan as if he did not quite respect his word enough.

Brevis smiled briefly and then nodded. “Yes, Tryfan is right, he speaks well.”

“Mayweed has a question and a query he has, Sir and Sirs. A question difficult and doubtful, and a question he longs to ask.”

“Yes?” said Tryfan.

Mayweed grinned and then looked slyly about and then smiled (as he thought) winningly.

“If it is better for a mole of the Stone to be a scribemole to reach the Silence and the light, then Mayweed wonders what hope there is for humble and pathetic bodies such as he, Mayweed, me, myself? Or is Sir saying, magnanimous Sir, and very wise too, that a diseased mole such as Mayweed, born in the darkness of Slopeside and forcibly taken from it with the best of intentions by Tryfan himself, might aspire to scribemoledom?”

It was a strange moment and in the way that Spindle understood, a historic one. Tryfan sensed it too and paused, and looked about and then took a few paces northwards to have a better view of the north and eastern vales, and then beyond, further than mole could see, to the northward expanse of moledom itself.

“There is nothing of the Stone that prevents a mole learning scribing,” he said, “nothing at all. He need only find a scribemole and ask.”

“Well, Sir! Incredible! Wonderful!” declared Mayweed.

Tryfan laughed but Brevis did not.

“And what would you scribe?” asked Tryfan. There was sufficient seriousness to his voice that the others did not laugh.

Mayweed wrinkled his brow and for once seemed short of words. Then, in a way that was touchingly humble, he looked at his talons and his diseased flanks.

“Mayweed would scribe his name, that’s what he’d do. Then he’d show it to other moles to prove that he was a mole worth knowing because he could scribe his name from its beginning to its end.”

Tryfan spoke softly to Spindle and was gone, leaving Mayweed to ask what he had said.

“Something good, something bad, sublime Spindle?”

“He said you are a mole worth knowing already. You don’t need to scribe your name for a mole to know that.”

“Oh!” said Mayweed, very surprised. “Did he?”

“Yes he did and he meant it,” said Spindle.

“Oh!” said Mayweed. “Oh!”

The moles had soon made some comfortable burrows and established a basic system of tunnels such that they might get warning of mole approach, and have routes of escape. Skint and Smithills did part of the tunnelling to the north and west, solid worthy tunnels in the northern style. Spindle worked part of the east and south, making less straight tunnels that made idiosyncratic use of the few flints and stones in the soil, and had an air of pleasing vagueness with fits and starts and niches of great comfort. While Tryfan’s, the first he had made for many a month, were of the Duncton style, tunnels of a powerful mole, with room to breathe, a sense of purpose, and well made for entrances and exits. These Mayweed liked best, and took up his own quarters near Tryfan, who soon gave up trying to control Mayweed’s wanderings, realising that he had his own way of making his space, and there was never a mole who knew better how to find out strange routes and hiding places.

Spindle made a burrow for his former master Brevis between his own and Tryfan’s at a place that faced south and caught the sun all day, for Brevis was weakened by imprisonment and the stress of the escape and needed long days of rest.

On the ninth day at Harrowdown, Skint announced that he and Smithills intended to sing a few songs the following evening because it marked Midsummer, and whatever moles of the Stone might do, moles where he came from had a good laugh then. And a song helped.

“And a story!” said Smithills.

“Each can make his own ritual, and all can share,” said Tryfan. And so the moles went their separate ways, to prepare something for the morrow and share it. From Skint and Smithills came singing and laughter, from Willow a tuneless humming as she practised a Wharfedale tune; from Brevis the mutterings of some invocation from the Holy Burrows. Spindle practised a story and Tryfan crouched silently, enjoying the warmth of that month and the sound of life about him. Only Mayweed look troubled, his brow furrowing and his talons fretting, and he went off by himself, route-finding and wandering, staring at the stars as if he had lost something but he did not know what it was, or where he might find it. And the morning of Midsummer he stayed in his burrow and said nothing at all.

Midsummer began with as beautiful a dawn as ever was, the sun rose slowly at Harrowdown. Each mole readied himself for the evening to come, and none went near the Stone for they knew that whatever it was each would do, all would end up near the Stone as night came, and that Brevis or Tryfan perhaps would say a prayer or two, and they could listen even if they did not join in.

So a day of lazy leisure passed, and evening came; and far below in the vales the sun caught the surface of the Thames which turned this way and that among the trees and fields far below; then, too, twofoot lights twinkled and the eyes of a roaring owl stared briefly and turned away, and as another came dusk travelled into Harrowdown.

“Where’s Mayweed?” asked Tryfan softly, for all but he had gathered, and were waiting now.

“Haven’t seen him all day,” said Smithills.

“He looked unhappy yesterday,” said Spindle.

“In his burrow this morning, gone now,” said Skint.

Tryfan looked worried and said, “Well, he’ll come soon enough so we’ll wait.” But he did not come, not even when night fell and the new moon rose, and not even when the others went calling for him.

“We had best begin. He’ll come,” said Tryfan looking beyond the circle of their cheerful faces to the shadows where another hid, wanting to join them but not knowing how to. “He’ll come,” said Tryfan gently.

So they began, singing and joking and telling stories, making up their own celebration of Longest Day to mark Midsummer as they went and watching the moon rise beyond the trees. What a song Smithills sung, what a tune Willow remembered, and what fine prayers for the future old Brevis spoke. As for Spindle, well, he told them of this and that he had heard about Brevis’s younger days at the Holy Burrows and that made them laugh. Then Tryfan smiled, and looked beyond the circle again, and said loudly enough that somemole might hear who was not near, “I
wish
Mayweed was here, I miss him!”

“Hear! Hear!” said the others.

But still Mayweed did not join them, and the shadows in the wood turned, and whatever Tryfan had seen earlier was gone.

Then Tryfan told them about Duncton Wood and the moles who had lived there before the plagues. Dramatic stories, those! Good to remember the past! Then, as night deepened, some food and some more singing, and the moles gathered closer to the Stone, talking and laughing that good night away. So much so that they did not notice Tryfan creep away, or if they did they thought it was for just a moment.

But it was more than that, for he looked concerned, and went to the western edge of the copse, which is in the direction of the Slopeside. He snouted the ground, looked ahead, and then went swiftly downslope, snouting now and then as if following a scent until he reached the banks of the stream. The water was lower now, but very dangerous still.

“Mayweed!” he called out softly in the dark. “Mayweed, I know you’re there!”

But no answer came. So Tryfan went down the bank to the edge of the stream and, very worried now, snouted here and snouted there, calling softly and quartering back and forth up and then downstream.

“Mayweed!”

He found the mole, though more by luck than judgement, for Mayweed was huddled and hiding by a rotten branch that had been brought down by winter thaws. He was wet, and shivering, and muddy, and his snout was as low as a mole’s could be. And he had been crying.

“Mayweed,” said Tryfan, and the care and concern in his voice made Mayweed cry some more.

Tryfan let him, his paw gently on his shoulder, until he was ready to speak.

“Mayweed’s very... bedraggled,” said Mayweed at last. “Very, very bedraggled.”

“What were you trying to do?” said Tryfan, who only half guessed.

“Trying to go home, humble though it is, and diseased, and dangerous; Mayweed was trying to go home. Mayweed wanted to go home.”

“But
why
?” asked Tryfan.

“Mayweed was sad,” was all Mayweed could manage to say before he wept again, terribly, and then, “Very, very sad.”

“But why didn’t you say something?”

“Couldn’t. Didn’t dare Tryfan, Sir. Frightened.”

“What of?”

“Being sent away. Mayweed thought he’d go before he was sent.”

“But what have you done that would ever make us do that? You saved our lives when we escaped, you were the only mole who knew the way. You are one of us, Mayweed.” Which only made Mayweed cry the more.

Then, finally, he said, “Mayweed wanted to join in but Mayweed couldn’t. Skint and Smithills had their song, and Willow had her tune, and Brevis had his prayer, and Spindle had his stories and you, Sir, good Tryfan, had Duncton Wood to tell of. But Mayweed had nothing to give, Sir, Mayweed
has
nothing, no memory but darkness and tunnels and nothing.”

Then Tryfan was silent and ashamed, for he felt he should have seen this suffering of a mole in his care. But then he was still, for there was something more, something worse.

“What else is it, Mayweed?” he asked.

“That, and something else. I... I’m frightened, very. My – my —” But he could not speak. Never in his life had Tryfan known a mole so broken as Mayweed was then. Wet from his abortive and dangerous attempt to swim the stream, ashamed of himself because he felt he had nothing to give, and now something more, something that frightened him.

“Tell me,” whispered Tryfan.

“It hurts now, Sir. My scalpskin hurts, it hurts and hurts and hurts Mayweed, it does, it does...” and he stared at Tryfan, and everything was gone from his eyes but fear and hopelessness. “Mayweed’s dying,” he said. And over them the moon was strong, its light fierce and white, and it shone on Mayweed’s flanks where his sores were, and Tryfan saw they were raw and black and bad. And that when Mayweed said it hurt him, he meant it, and he talked of mortal, fearful pain.

“Wanted to drown, Sir, not go home, wanted to die. Life was
too
difficult for Mayweed, Sir,” he said finally.

“Well then,” said Tryfan, not sure what to say. “Well then! I think your hurting had better stop.”

“Yes Sir, sensible Sir, but
how
? Mayweed knows, Mayweed has seen death. Mayweed didn’t know it hurt so much.”

“Come on Mayweed, you come with me.”

“Can’t Sir, won’t Sir, you’ll take him to that Stone where the others are and Mayweed’s nothing to give. He smells now, he’s dying now, he wants to die...” Then Mayweed made a terrible lunge for the stream and Tryfan grabbed him, which in a way was worse for he must have caught his sores and maybe caused some internal damage too, for Mayweed screamed and shuddered and wept, and as Tryfan felt him, he knew how ill he was. Not with a disease as Thyme had been, but with a sickness through and through, deep and dark inside him, and one he had fought until now with a terrible courage and told nomole about.

“You should have said something,” whispered Tryfan holding him.

“I would have been sent away, back to being alone.”

“Come,” whispered Tryfan, “you are not alone any more. I have something I want you to hear, something that will help you.”

“But I have nothing to give,” cried out poor Mayweed.

“Yes you have, as all moles have.”

“What?” Mayweed asked, trembling.

“The Stone will show you, trust it. So come now.”

Then Mayweed let himself be taken back upslope, slowly, step by painful step, leaning against strong Tryfan, the thin light of the solstice moon throwing their shadows before them as they went back to Harrowdown.

They were met halfway there, first by Spindle who had become concerned, and then by the others, even old Willow, and each of them touched Mayweed in their way when they knew what was wrong. And somehow in their touch it was as if Mayweed’s sickness got worse not better, and the more he saw they were not going to send him away, the more he allowed his pain to feel. So that when they reached the Stone he could not place one paw before another without suffering, and they saw that the mole they had come to know was racked and hurt beyond imagining, and his eyes were full of fear, and he was young, so young, and so alone and hurt.