Duncton Wood

by William Horwood

  But he could only wish he could conjure up before these young tradition-killing moles what it was once like, when fighting and worms and territory weren’t everything. But finally all he had strength to say, and then really only to himself, was, ‘We must go on the Midsummer trek to the Stone and speak the ritual as our fathers have, as their fathers did, as we always have. This is not a thing to talk about but to do!’ Then, looking at each in turn, an upright pride replacing the despair in his stance, he added: ‘Let anymole who doubts my word go up to the Stone now and crouch in its shadow and feel its strength. Feel, as you crouch there, that far beyond this stricken system, as I believe it has now become, there are other systems—wiser and better than ours. Feel, if you have the strength to do so, that…’

  But not a single elder, not even Bindle, was listening any more, for as Hulver spoke these words Mandrake stirred; as Hulver’s wise old voice carried the pride of his challenge to go to the Stone, the massive form of Mandrake loomed forward and up, until it seemed to hover above old Hulver like an owl above its prey. Each mole there crouched in frozen fear, snout still and almost senseless, for they felt the power of Mandrake like owls’ talons on them. Each seemed to feel an anger and terrible rage emanating from him and directed at him personally. Hulver stopped in mid-sentence and looked round, then up at Mandrake. And Hulver backed away, his words seeming suddenly nothing but dry beech leaves in the wind. ‘There will be no trek to the Stone,’ said Mandrake in a voice they were to get used to as time went on, a voice that made a mole absolutely certain that what it said would be would be. A voice that shrivelled opposition in the bud. A voice whose impulse seemed evil itself.

  ‘Nomole will go, not one. If any try, I shall crush them against the Stone itself. Their blood will dry on the Stone as a warning to any others who might try, in their foolishness, to do what some of you already realise has no purpose. The Midsummer trek will not be.’ Then he raised his talons massively above old Hulver as if about to strike him dead. The silence in the elder burrow at that moment was broken only by a gasp of horror from Bindle, while Rune gazed with pleasure at the scene.

  But Mandrake only spread his poised talons wide in what suddenly seemed to be a blessing on them all, a friendly gesture, and he chuckled deeply as if the whole thing were but a minor difference between friends. ‘Come now, Hulver,’ he said, his talons resting hugely for a moment on the old mole’s shoulder, ‘let us not argue any more. All here respect you, most of all myself. But times change and traditions must go, and I think all of us but you now agree that the Midsummer trek should be held no more, for good and honourable reasons.’

  He looked round at them all and they nodded, though it would have been a brave mole indeed who shook his head at that moment. ‘Good! Then let us talk of this no more and proceed to other things.’ With that the argument was over and the other elders sighed with relief. Some even laughed or chuckled as Mandrake had done, so great was their sense of release.

  Hulver returned to his place next to Rune, muttering and miserable, the only one there without a smile in his voice. No younger mole was going to jolly him into accepting something he disagreed with and which seemed like a death in the system. But he had no more strength to argue. Bindle, too, was unhappy, but not so much because of the loss of the Midsummer trek as that, in some way, he felt he had let his friend down. ‘Times change,’ he kept saying to himself, but his eyes stayed clear of Hulver’s. The others chattered, carried along by Mandrake’s dark will and their own weakness, and phrases like ‘Of course he’s right’ and ‘The soil is very worm-scarce, as Burrhead says’ and ‘The trek was always a bore, anyway’ filled the burrow. Even Bindle began to think this, adding as his own particular justification: ‘If we are going to build up the system, we’ve got to create new rituals, haven’t we?’

  Of them all only one, Rune, saw Mandrake’s intervention for what it truly was: a demonstration of power rather than persuasion. He welcomed it, for here at last was a mole strong enough to bring the kind of trouble to the system that he would need himself to gain the power he had always wanted. Rune knew that what they had just seen was the end of Hulver as a force in the system, and it was done without a talon scratch. As the other elders chattered together in their relief that the crisis seemed over, Rune took his opportunity to leave his place next to Hulver, where, many meetings ago, he had stationed himself, and crouched down next to Mandrake, in whose shadow he now began to thrive; an evil coupling of moles whose power and ruthlessness now began to spread through the system like black ivy on a dying elm.

  So Mandrake came to power in the system. By the time Bracken was born the following spring, his power was absolute and unquestioned, Inevitably other, weaker moles clustered to his support, enjoying the prestige and power that allegiance to him gave. Moles like Burrhead, who under a strong, true leader might have been a force for good, now became some of Mandrake’s toughest henchmoles. Burrhead’s dominance of the Westside made him especially useful to Mandrake, who flattered him with words, asked his advice (or seemed to) and even visited him in his burrow; Dogwood willingly gave his support, too, telling Mekkins pragmatically, ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.’

  Bindle never became a Mandrake henchmole but slipped away from the elder burrow and relinquished his rights as an elder, deliberately making his peace with Mandrake so that he would be left alone. ‘I’m getting old now,’ he told Mandrake, ‘and you need younger moles as elders these days.’ Bindle went back to the Eastside and kept out of everymole’s way. He felt ashamed and had neither the courage nor the heart to go and see his friend Hulver. So it was through weakness that Mandrake’s evil spread, souring even the love between two old and harmless moles.

  As for Hulver, Mandrake let him live. He might have lost power at the June elder meeting, but Mandrake knew that many still loved and respected him and there was no virtue in killing him yet. Better to wait and choose a time when Hulver’s death would be seen as a natural end to the Ancient System and its ways, whose end seemed to be Mandrake’s main intent. They even let Hulver say the Midsummer Blessing that June, though he said it alone, for no other mole joined him—except Rune, who watched secretly from the shadows.

  Rune stayed outside the Stone clearing—being too near the Stone disturbed him—but near enough to watch Hulver, solitary and old, go through the ancient celebration of Midsummer Night. He whispered its magic words for the Stone to hear, raising his paws so that the strength of the Stone could come into him for another year.

  A soft wind ran among the trees, shaking the beech leaves so that their shiniest side caught the moon’s light like rippling water in the sky. The moon shone, too, on Hulver’s fur, which seemed new and smooth in the light. But where Rune crouched, in the twisting crook of a huge grey beech tree root that ran like a thick snake into the chalk soil, there was thick, black shadow, which only thickened when he stirred. His talons dug into the beech root as he watched Hulver, for he itched to kill him there and then.

  Somewhere in the moonlit trees high above them a tawny owl called, and Rune shivered. But Hulver, safe in the circle of trees around the Stone, seemed not to notice and carried on his chant. Midnight passed as Hulver raised his paws in a final supplication to the Stone, saying with happiness the last words of the Midsummer ritual.

  He was relieved that for another twelve moleyears, at least, its words had been spoken.

  But Hulver had not quite finished. He turned from the Stone and faced the west, towards the Holy Burrows of Uffington. He might never go there himself, he might never have had the courage to try, but he hoped his prayers might reach that holy place. So now, with the Stone behind him to give him strength, he added a final petitionary prayer to the ritual, whispering it urgently into the night, over the tops of the Westside trees and out over the pastures beyond: ‘Send us a scribe,’ he prayed, ‘for somewhere in this lost system he will find moles who will honour him. So send us a scribe, for now we need one. Send us the strength to fight
this Mandrake and Rune, whose evil I fear.’

  Rune heard the prayer, and also heard the owl calling again, uncertain if it was the prayer or the owl that upset him. He wished again that he could kill Hulver, sensing that he was in some way more dangerous to them than he or Mandrake had realised.

  Still, prayer or no, Mandrake extended his power by threats, intimidation and, occasionally, by exercises in black charm. Even the independent Eastsiders fell easily under his spell, for none of them—not even Bindle—gave him any trouble.

  Occasionally he would provoke a fight somewhere and savagely kill his opponent as a reminder of what he was capable of. More often he would encourage henchmoles to kill each other, watching the slaughter with ghastly satisfaction.

  So, by the time Bracken was born, Mandrake’s power was total, and every new young Duncton mole soon shuddered at his name and knew that nomole was more powerful. In Bracken’s case rather more than most, since his father, Burrhead, was one of Mandrake’s most important henchmoles.

  Yet Rebecca had far more to fear than Bracken, far more. Mandrake was her father.

  Chapter Four

  The system under Mandrake changed as a wood changes when dirty fog invades it; the trees are still there, the flowers still have colour, but everything looks different and feels sinister.

  So it was in Duncton Wood. The Westsiders still fought and struggled in the usual way; the young moles went to Barrow Vale to go on to the surface as they always had; Dogwood carried on finding worms where no other mole could; owl talons still cut through the evening air to kill the careless young and weakening old; and the wood itself still swayed and stilled to the passing of the days.

  But under Mandrake’s thrall, the tunnels seemed darker and burrows far less safe. Males felt threatened even in their own home burrows, while the females became dissatisfied and bitchy, wondering what mole it was that could so terrify their mates. Moles had to watch what they said, too, because Mandrake’s henchmoles seemed everywhere. Sadly, the one way of getting any security and the freedom to travel in the system was to do what Rune and Burrhead had been the first to do—declare yourself a supporter of Mandrake and do his bidding.

  Not that his bidding was very specific, which was one reason there was so much doubt and suspicion in the system, even among the henchmoles. Nomole ever quite knew what Mandrake wanted. He did, at least, make clear that there were certain things he did not want. He did not like moles who went too far from their home territory, for example, because ‘it makes for confusion and uneasiness’. So a henchmole who found an adult wandering too far from his home burrow felt he had Mandrake’s sanction to ask the reason why, and if he wasn’t satisfied, to fight and, if necessary, kill. In this way, each area in the system became more insular and suspicious of outsiders, ready to drive away a wanderer by force with the righteous confidence that they had official sanction to do so.

  What was worse, as his first winter in Duncton approached, Mandrake let it be known that he did not like a mole to go on to the surface unless it was for a good reason. ‘Too many of us are being taken by owls and badgers, so this is in the interest of everymole and the strength of the system,’ was the way he put it to Rune, who was beginning to act as his main agent.

  But it happened that a great many moles went on to the surface for no other reason than that they liked the sun on their fur, or the sound of wind in the trees, or to get a breath of fresh air outside the oppressive atmosphere that the tunnels seemed increasingly to possess.

  Now moles had to be going somewhere specific or grubhunting for food or seeking a herb for some ailment or other. And if they did just crouch in the wood, their snouts warmed by the sun, or watching the texture of moss by an exposed root, their enjoyment was marred by having to be ever ready with an excuse in case an inquisitive henchmole happened by.

  Mandrake also let it be known that he did not want any contact with the Marshenders: ‘They bring disease to the system and have never contributed very much,’ was the way Rune explained it to the others. Adding, with distant menace, ‘The day may well come when they must be driven out of Duncton altogether, for they have no rightful place here.’

  This put Mekkins, half Marshender himself and an elder, into something of a difficulty, but he got round it with characteristic cunning by pretending to become Mandrake’s spy in the Marsh End camp and offering to bring back news of their doings—while still convincing them that he was their only hope with Mandrake and the other elders. But the position made him unhappy.

  Mandrake’s decision to isolate the Marshenders was carefully thought out. He sensed early on that if there was going to be opposition to him from any quarter, it would be from their grubby, muddy, dank little part of the wood—as he thought of it. As time went on, he could blame things on them—a spread of disease here, a shortage of worms there—and isolate them further.

  He was right, for Marshenders, though frightened of Mandrake, were not as generally struck dumb by him as other moles were. It was true that the males had been too frightened to attack him when he visited them, but it was equally true that one of the females at the time had commented, ‘Bloody load of cowards you lot were,’ which spoke of a spirit of resistance that did not live elsewhere.

  One thing that made Mandrake even more unpopular was that he liked to keep his mates as his own. Not that he created a harem for himself, a string of females ready to do his bidding. Instead, having found a mate, he would fight and kill any male he found trying to consort with her, watching over each he had taken until their litters were born.

  The curious thing about it all was that the females he had mated with did not seem to mind. Long years after, they would remember the time they had lain in the power of Mandrake, the cruel, evil Mandrake, and a light would come to their spirits and a terrible excitement to their souls. For they knew (which others who never came near him never did) that beneath the murderous bloodlust of his mating lay a passion and love that cried out to be cherished.

  It seemed to possess him for only a moment when they mated, but it was of such tenderness that they could never forget it. For a moment, in the wild darkness of a burrow filled with Mandrake’s menacing presence and massive body, the same paw that maimed or killed a rival could caress as gently as a June wind and pass on the passion of a heart that ached to be loved. And sometimes in such moments Mandrake spoke out in Siabod, his own language, words of love that seemed addressed less to his mate than to all the creatures he had ever harmed.

  Yet he did not like his mates themselves to try and caress him or whisper back comfort. For then his love would be gone in an instant, replaced by contempt or terrible anger.

  What he did like, he told a group of henchmoles once when he was tired and nearing sleep and his stomach was full of food, ‘is the kind of female who has a spark of life in her and makes you feel proud to be a male. They make you want to kill and make life at the same time.’

  Sarah must have been one of those females with the spark of life in her that made Mandrake feel a male, for he guarded her for himself more than any other mate, and she was loyal to him. Her fur was fairer than most, in some lights almost a gentle grey, and though bigger than most females, she was graceful and slim. She came from an old respected mole family that held territory next to Barrow Vale itself and who, as one of the leading families in the system, had often produced elders in the past. Mandrake knew all this—his henchmole Rune told him everything—but it was not what attracted him to Sarah one summer’s day after his arrival in the system. It was the fact that she was one of the very few females still able to mate at the end of summer. He could tell it, as could other males, and he wanted her.

  Some say he killed the males in her home burrow to get her, others that Sarah prevented any slaughter by approaching Mandrake directly herself. But perhaps it was as simple as the fact that she was one of the finest females of her generation and he the strongest male.

  However it was, they mated and she stayed with him through
the long, evil years of his sway over the Duncton system. It is from her, or rather from what she told close friends whose memories are recorded in the libraries of Uffington, that we know something of the gentler side of Mandrake and the terrible tragedy of his struggle with Rebecca.

  For many it is a mystery that Sarah stayed loyal to Mandrake and yet never seemed corrupted by him—always preserving her grace and goodness, as a snowdrop does in the bitterest weather. The answer may lie in one word: compassion. None can ever know if she knew the terrible origin of Mandrake in the grim system of Siabod in North Wales, but if she did not know its details, perhaps she guessed that something like it had happened. No poet could make a verse of Mandrake’s birth, no singer sing it as a song, no taleteller add it to his stories without his listeners covering their ears for horror. Only one account of it remains, written down as it was told directly to Boswell, the blessed scribemole, by an inhabitant of Siabod. Let his words tell the tale:

  ‘Mandrake was born and survived in conditions beyond even the nightmares of the toughest Siabod moles. At the time of his birth—May—conditions around the mountain of Siabod were severe. A mild February and March had been followed by the coldest April any Siabod mole could remember, and that’s saying something! When you’re as high and exposed as we are, you get used to the cold. A lot of lowland moles would die just being here. Anyway, by mid-May, there were still many patches of ice and snow on Siabod’s sides. In such conditions most moles keep below ground, securing themselves in a snug burrow with a worm supply that would survive the cold, or be driven down into the lower winter tunnels they had dug.

  ‘No doubt Mandrake’s mother had prepared a nest, yet for some reason that will never be known, she was out on the surface when her litter started—maybe seeking nesting material. It coincided with yet another sudden terrible change in the weather, which switched from pure clear cold to a terrifying blizzard that swept over from the heights of Snowdon, the Glyders and Cnicht to dash against the flanks and falls of Siabod. Perhaps the sudden weather change upset her rhythms and brought on the birth sooner than she expected.