Duncton Quest (47 page)

Rumour. The Stone and the Word; the light and the dark; a mole is caught between them and needs a steady paw and a faithful heart to know which path to tread.

As Tryfan and the others ran, the ground below Harrowdown stream became progressively wetter and more difficult to travel. The air was heavy with the moisture of the nearby Thames, but its great width they could not yet see. The ditches they now had to start traversing were filled with sedge and reeds which rose high, and whose base was not yet dry with high summer. They swayed softly in the sky above them.

The sounds were strange to them, though less so to the northern moles who had travelled much and already crossed the great Thames, though by a roaring owl way. But here, in wide damp fields, the wind in the high reeds, the sound of coot scuttling in the sedge, and the croak of unseen frog, made them all uneasy. The scents, too, were heavy and threatening, of water vole and fox, and above them wheeled blackheaded seagull and once a heron darkened the sky.

They fell into silence as evening came slowly on them, each thinking grim thoughts of the escape they had had and the deaths they had been witness to. They stopped by a ditch, borrowed the abandoned tunnels of a weasel, and rested. Thin mist hung a few feet over the grass and caught the light of the setting sun, mysterious and quiet.

Then Tryfan spoke.

“I cannot think I did well as your leader,” he said, voice and snout low. “Brevis and Willow are dead and Mayweed is lost and probably in great danger, if not already discovered and snouted. May the Stone protect him and forgive me.

“No doubt guardmoles will have stayed to watch over the wood they found us in, especially as Weed never seemed quite certain they had found us all. When Mayweed emerges he will be found and I cannot leave him up there alone, and I will not. Yet I cannot ask you to accompany me back....”

“No use going back, Tryfan,” said Skint firmly. “That Mayweed’s more of a survivor than any of us.”

“No” said Tryfan, “I must go...” and for a time Smithills had to restrain Tryfan from leaving them to climb the long way back to Harrowdown. But eventually he saw sense and said, “If he
has
escaped, then the problem is knowing what Mayweed might do and where he might go —”

“Beats me how he avoided being found,” said Smithills, shaking his head in wonder and admiration. “I’ve never been so nervous as I was when they were looking for him.” The others nodded their heads.

“That mole has more to him than mole might think,” said Tryfan, aware only now of how, in such a short space of time, he had grown fond of Mayweed, as of them all. “Now, if I had been him...” Tryfan fell silent.

“
He
would go to the river eventually, I think,” suggested Spindle, “because that’s what he told us to do, and what he’ll expect us to do.”

Tryfan agreed. “We might wait for him or at least leave a sign we have been this way, as we agreed... But it’s probably best to rest until the morning and see if he comes by, and if he does not then we must move on. Now you others rest a little, I’m going to watch and think,” said Tryfan, going out a little into the open.

He turned over in his mind what Mayweed might do if he had survived: come to the river, that seemed certain. But where would he go from there? Downstream to the east, towards Duncton Wood, presumably. Mayweed knew that was where Tryfan had already decided to go. That being so, and Mayweed being a sensible kind of mole when it came to routes, he would head downstream to a point where a passing mole could easily be observed: a way over the river, perhaps. Yes....

As Tryfan thought like this he began to feel more hopeful. There was something about that mole Mayweed that seemed like life itself. No, no... But Tryfan’s thoughts were brought to a stop by a beam of yellow-orange light which arced into the sky from the east, was still and then disappeared. He focussed his senses in that direction, and heard the soft rumble of roaring owl, now louder, now softer. And lights, roaring owl lights; then suddenly arcing again over the valley and going out. A crossing place.
The
place which Mayweed would find. Yes....

Tryfan rejoined the others, some of whom were already asleep.

“We’re leaving,” said Tryfan urgently. “We’re leaving now.” He rapidly explained his belief that they would do well to stop near a crossing place for roaring owls because it was as clear a spot as any for Mayweed to seek out. That’s where he would go when he escaped and Tryfan would go there too.

“Grubby places, roaring owl haunts,” grumbled Skint. “But maybe you’re right. How far off is it do you think, and how long will we have to wait?”

“It’s not far, but we may have to wait days. We must give him every chance.”

“And if he doesn’t come? If he hasn’t survived?”

Tryfan’s face went serious.

“We will decide that when it happens. He is a worthy mole.”

They regrouped and set off immediately, approaching the river cautiously where, to their surprise, they found an easy surface route well shielded by grass. Here and there they left markings of their passing in the hope that Mayweed might find them and follow on.

There was much life about – badger by the smell, and rustling hedgehog, but nothing ominous. There was also mole, for they came upon more than one hill, fresh dug as well. They decided to pass these by, making their pawfalls heavier to disguise the fact to those below that they were moles. After what Henbane had said, the fewer who knew they were about the better.

As they progressed the lights of the roaring owls got brighter, and their turning across the landscape gave the grass and trees above them a lurid magnificence which disturbed Tryfan and Spindle more than it did the others, who had seen it before.

“Just don’t look into the eyes of roaring owls,” warned Skint, “because they mesmerise you, and keep as shielded as you can when they pass close by for the vibration is so great they can leave a mole senseless for a moment or two, and vulnerable to attack.”

The noise got louder, and the route yet closer to the river, which flowed dark and deep beneath them and on ahead, catching the great yellow lights that hung above the roaring owl way where it crossed over a stone bridge.

“Where shall we go from here?” asked Skint. “There’s no more sign of mole.” The ground was flat and grubby, covered by soggy grass which smelt unpleasantly of dogs and twofoots. They kept to the peripheral shadows and Tryfan led them round towards the base of the bridge.

“I think this is the place to which Mayweed will come: the first clear mark on the river downstream of where we were. Let’s explore first and then find a suitable place to wait.”

Above them the bridge rose high and noisy, twofoots came and went, roaring owls turned and lit up, and left their heavy smell. Skint looked about uneasily.

“Never did like this kind of thing. Never got used to it. Hard for mole to live here.”

“Well, we’ll have to wait here a day or two at least,” began Tryfan. Then he paused and stopped, and snouted.

“Mole!” he said. “Look!”

Ahead, on the worn and dirty grass, was a fresh hill.

“Solitary,” said Skint, “and just begun. Shall I explore?”

But it took only a moment.

“This is not a real hill. Just the semblance of one....”

It was an old mole trick to attract a mole to where he could be seen, and then attack him. Even as Skint and Tryfan turned from the hill a voice said from the shadows: “Don’t move!”

“Who...?” began Tryfan rearing up to fight.

“We are not your enemies. Go to the bridge. Do it. Now.” There was something authoritative and sympathetic in the voice and they obeyed, not looking back.

The bridge loomed nearer and its base was in deep shadow and beyond it the river was a moving blackness. As they reached the buttress of the bridge, the air became dank and cold and the ground was wet. Then it became hard and unburrowable: concrete. Nomole likes that.

“Further in, out of the light,” the voice behind said.

Above them, where the bridge arched high, there was a sudden echo of the pattern of their pawsteps on the ground.

Tryfan stopped. Ahead of them there was the shifting of paws and then a shining of snouts. Moles. Friendly it seemed.

“Right, this is as far as any of us goes until we know who you are and what your purpose with us is,” said Tryfan, bunching instinctively with the others lest they were attacked.

“Good,” said the mole, “very good. You are welcome.”

As Try fan’s eyes adjusted to the light he saw that the mole looked familiar, though it was hard to say quite how. But even as he thought this, one of the moles ahead came forward and said, “Hello, Sir! Pleased to see you, Sir, most welcome and glad I am and you are. Surprise for you, pleasing it will be!” and he laughed.

An appealing voice. An unctuous voice. A most beloved voice!

“Why, it’s Mayweed!” cried out Tryfan going forward with pleasure and surprise.

“It’s more than Mayweed, Sir” said Mayweed, “and not just me!”

“But how... what...?” the others asked in admiration.

“Mayweed hid, Sir, and then Mayweed ran when the searching started. Mayweed ran fast as a hare, didn’t he? All the way over to the stream, nasty and wet
that
was, and on to the Slopeside and there Mayweed stopped and had a think and ate a red worm. Mayweed said to himself, Tryfan won’t die, not meant to. Tryfan will go down to the river by the badger runs, and over the tumbling stream, oh yes, Mayweed knows, no need to say! It was so?”

Tryfan nodded with a smile.

“Then Mayweed thought: no time at all to lose, none whatever. Get going while Henbane and the others are away. So Mayweed went off down the tunnel to the Slopeside and Mayweed remembered moles you talked of and moles you liked named, if he remembered right, Pennywort, Thyme and a guardmole you trusted named Alder and Mayweed got those moles, didn’t he? All by himself he got them!”

Tryfan’s heart leapt! Thyme! Alder! Pennywort! Mayweed had brought them?

They’re here?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir, tired but free.”

Out into the light they came, timid Pennywort, then Thyme, and then Ragwort, the mole who had been deputed to guide them to the visitors’ burrows.

Then from behind them the mole who had commanded them to come under the bridge, and who Tryfan had half recognised, came forward. It was....

“Alder?” asked Tryfan, uncertain.

“Aye Sir, me Sir. Doing my best and nervous, but Mayweed here said you would see us right, Sir.”

Tryfan looked at them all, welcomed them, and then Alder, reading his thoughts said, “My friend Marram wouldn’t come, though we tried hard to persuade him. But he won’t report us, Sir.”

Tryfan was dumbstruck. All these moles safe, all followers now, all depending on him, looking to him to lead them.

“We are well met,” he said, “and our cause is right. Now for the moment I would like to collect my thoughts alone, and then we can discuss what we shall do...” and he went to the river’s edge and looked into its dark flowing depths and thanked the Stone that so many were safe.

Thyme went close to Spindle.

“Well!” she said. “I thought I would not see you again!”

“Er, no,” faltered Spindle, embarrassed by her direct gaze, and surprised at the transformation in her since they had first seen her. She had fattened out and was comely.

“Um... you’ve changed,” was all he could say.

She laughed. “And you’re even thinner, if that’s possible. Spindle’s a good name for you!”

“Yes,” sighed poor Spindle, who had always found it hard speaking to females. They took his breath away, especially ones like Thyme. “I suppose I am. Not the best of diets in the Slopeside, and up on Harrowdown.”

“I hoped I might see you again,” said Thyme softly.

“Well here I am then!” said Spindle looking this way and that.

At which Thyme laughed.

“Better see if Tryfan’s all right,” muttered Spindle turning from her. Then he went off awkwardly and she watched after him, smiling.

It seemed an age that Tryfan stared into the darkness of the great river. Above them the roaring owls quietened, and fewer showed their shining eyes into the night. Then the great yellow lights over the bridge suddenly faltered and went out. Occasionally the voices of twofoots sounded for a moment or two, and one came down to the shadows of the bridge to leave its spoor there, and show what its territory might be.

Its breathing was heavy, its step clumsy and heavy, and the moles shrank and backed away into deeper shadow sickened by its smell. Then it was gone, a roaring owl roared and shone, and went away into the night. And all was silent.

Tryfan turned and faced them, and they came to him, staring at him in the dim light of stars and masked moon.

“Outcasts are we now,” said Tryfan, speaking slowly and deliberately, “with little strength but that we make for ourselves as one. But I believe that if we trust each other, and have faith in the Stone, then what was started today at

Harrowdown will be known in time throughout moledom, and will begin the ending of the Word.

“But long will the struggle be, and much suffering will we have to bear.” He paused and looked at them one by one, to see if they faltered or were irresolute. He saw only trust and faith.