Duncton Wood

by William Horwood

  Bracken rubbed his paw, which was still itching. He had the impulse to scratch out the pattern from the stone on the burrow floor, but some deep instinct told him that much though he wanted to, he must give nomole any clue of what he and Rebecca had seen. It was something they had shared, for some reason he didn’t know, but it would be wrong to the Stone itself to talk about it.

  He looked at Boswell and, just as Boswell had felt that his destiny was in some way tied to Bracken, so now in his own turn Bracken sensed that this strange Boswell, so full of information and knowledge, was a precious mole, a mole to protect; and he understood why the Stone had protected him from the certain death that surely went with his being crippled, and as he did so he saw, or felt he saw, that in some way the burden of protecting Boswell had passed to him.

  * * *

  As February passed into March and the heavy, bitter gloom of the past long weeks gave way to changeable cold winds and rain, with an odd hour or two of watery sun, Mullion grew increasingly restless.

  He had kept very much to himself since they had arrived in the field, not out of any hostility but because the winter months are a time when Pasture moles lie still, not having the protection of a wood or its undergrowth overhead. But then, as the weather began to improve, he started burrowing at a shallower level, throwing up a new set of molehills in place of the ones he had created when they first came, and which had now been beaten down into muddy remnants of themselves by the weather.

  Occasionally he came over for a chat—principally to try to satisfy his curiosity about Duncton Wood, in whose shadow he had lived through two Longest Nights. Bracken’s monosyllabic answers about it confirmed his belief that the Duncton moles were a silent, secretive lot, prone to keeping things to themselves—a theory he expounded to Boswell one day.

  ‘No doubt about it, Boswell. Those Duncton moles are shifty and dangerous, like what we’ve always been told by our elders. They do strange rituals in that wood of theirs, and weave evil spells. They’d turn a mole into a root as soon as look at him. You wouldn’t get me within a long tunnel’s length of that place.’

  Suddenly afraid that Boswell might pass all this on to Bracken who, though younger, had beaten him in a fight, he added: ‘Mind you, I’ve got nothing against Bracken—look at the way he got us out of that channel! I admire a mole with what my father used to call “resources”. Know what I mean?’

  Boswell did and smiled. Mullion yawned and stretched himself.

  ‘We’ve got to have a talk about where we’re going. Can’t stay here much longer, that’s obvious. I mean, there’s nothing here, is there? Maybe a few moles about somewhere, but I haven’t seen signs of any yet. And anyway, there’s somewhere I want to go to…’

  Boswell listened, as talking with Bracken had taught him to. Now that Mullion had fattened up, he had lost some of the aggression he had shown when they had first found themselves imprisoned together in the channel and Boswell got on well with him. He was a big mole, as Pasture moles generally were, but a little clumsy. Inclined to bump into entrances when he entered burrows and throw out molehill soil a bit too enthusiastically so that it fell in a mess. But he was good-natured with it—which made the objective he had in mind when he had first left the pastures slightly comic.

  It seemed there was a story current in the pastures that there was a mole come from the north who now lived in the nearby system of Nuneham, a fighter who taught other moles to fight. Nomole knew his name, but the story was that he was not staying in the Nuneham system for long. Several Pasture moles had left to join him to see what they could learn, and Mullion, who had been undecided about whether to join them, had changed his mind and set off later on his own.

  ‘Then I came a cropper in the channel and thought that was it. But now, what with spring coming along soon and this being only a temporary place for the winter, I reckon it would be good to see if we could get to the Nuneham system.’

  ‘What you mean is that you want us to go with you because three is safer than one,’ said Boswell.

  ‘That’s about it,’ Mullion agreed. ‘Unless you’ve got a better suggestion.’

  Boswell knew what he, personally, wanted to do, what he must do, but he also realised that Bracken was not yet ready even to think about returning to Duncton. At the same time, Mullion’s story interested him, for (as he explained to Bracken when Mullion had put his plan to him himself) there were many accounts of such wandering fighters in the records of Uffington. Indeed, the Book of Fighting had been written by one of them after he had taken his vows, among them the vow not to fight again.

  ‘Seems a funny thing to do then—write a book about it!’ declared Bracken.

  ‘The book is not about fighting but about how not to have the need to fight,’ said Boswell mysteriously.

  ‘Where is this place, Mullion?’

  Mullion hesitated, then admitted he wasn’t sure. One of the elders in the system had told him to ‘keep his snout to the Stone’ but he was not sure what he meant and the explanation was not very clear.

  ‘Is there a Stone at the system of Nuneham, then?’ asked Bracken. Mullion did not know.

  The Stone, always the Stone. Bracken remembered the pull of the Stone, the power on its line between Duncton and Uffington. He knew what the elder meant.

  ‘Do you know what direction it’s in?’ persisted Bracken.

  ‘The story was, and it came from the mole who came to the pastures and had been to this Nuneham place, that it was towards the north.’

  ‘If there is a Stone there, I may be able to snout it out,’ said Bracken, surprised at his own audacity. He left them in the burrow and went up on to the surface and out into the field, where he crouched in some grass by a stand of last summer’s thistles, wondering quite what he was doing. It was midmorning and cold but the grass in the field, unlike the thistles, was just beginning to have a bit of life in it again, while from up in one of the bushes among the trees where his tunnels were, the shrill song of a blackbird, powerful and urgent, came across the field.

  Bracken thought of the Stone, the Duncton Stone, and looked automatically towards where he knew, without knowing, it must be. Its pull had been there all the time, only he had not bothered to think of it before. But he did not face it directly—it made him feel too desolate and lost to do that.

  He turned his back to it and snouted out again, seeing if he could feel any other pulls. Well, of course, there was Uffington; he could feel that. Deep and distant but always strong. He crouched silent and still, letting his mind wander out of his body and around the horizon in the circle. It was hard not to be continually pulled by Duncton and Uffington, the two Stone pulls with which he was familiar, but slowly he forgot them, putting them in the background of his body and mind and seeing what else he could feel.

  Nuneham. He tried to reach out to it somehow. If it had a Stone, then surely he would feel it as well! But he suddenly grew tired and ran back for cover again.

  For several days Bracken was irritable and wandered about on the surface alone, confirming once more Mullion’s prejudices about Duncton moles generally.

  But Boswell understood well what he was trying to do, and realised that few moles had the ability to follow the Stones, and that it was sometimes hard for them. He had already seen how, if they talked about Uffington, Bracken unconsciously aligned himself to its direction and when they referred to Duncton, he would look over his shoulder in what Boswell imagined to be its direction, though Bracken never aligned himself directly to it.

  ‘Leave him alone to his own thoughts for a few days, Mullion,’ advised Boswell, knowing how impatient and restless the Pasture mole was becoming. ‘He got us out of the channel—he may be able to find the way to Nuneham.’

  ‘He’s so secretive he won’t even say if he’s willing,’ complained Mullion, ‘and I want to get going.’

  Four or five nights later, Boswell was wakened by Bracken well past midnight. ‘Here. Wake up and come outside!’ said Bracken urge
ntly.

  Boswell followed him on to the surface.

  ‘I think Nuneham’s over there,’ said Bracken, pointing a talon to the northwest and aligning his body as well. ‘I woke up a short time ago and could feel it in my body. I know it’s there. There’s a Stone there, though it’s not nearly as strong as Duncton’s. I can feel it.’ He sounded happier than he had for days and Boswell could sense and share his excitement with him.

  ‘We’ll go there,’ said Bracken. ‘I’ll lead you there.’

  He looked out into the night and then swung back towards Uffington. ‘I’ve always felt the pull of Uffington from the moment I first went to the Stone,’ he said. He glanced briefly over his shoulder to the east where Duncton lay, and then back, with relief, to where he said Nuneham was. Boswell could almost feel the pulls of the Stones that Bracken felt. Involuntarily he ran forward and touched Bracken’s shoulder with his good paw.

  ‘We’ll all go there, together,’ said Boswell.

  ‘I wouldn’t leave you here,’ said Bracken seriously, misunderstanding him, adding lightly to hide the way he felt: ‘Anyway, you haven’t told me all you know about Uffington yet!’

  Boswell understood what Bracken meant and felt suddenly warmed by the power of his protection. It had been a long, cold journey from Uffington but now, watching Bracken returning to his burrow through the night ahead of him, Boswell felt that at last he had arrived.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Rebecca’s escape with Comfrey and Violet from Duncton was made possible only by Mekkins’ intricate knowledge of the Marsh End, which allowed them to elude the henchmoles who sighted them almost immediately after Bracken’s departure into the marsh.

  Even then they were not safe, for they were found trying to make their way to Rose’s tunnels by a group of Pasture moles who very nearly killed them. The only thing that saved them was Rebecca’s pleas that they at least be allowed to see Rose—whose name the Pasture moles seemed to respect— and also the audacity of Mekkins’ defence of the three of them.

  ‘You bloody well take your paws off of me, and let us talk to Rose the Healer! And don’t give me any of your lip, chum, because otherwise I’ll get really narked.’

  The Pasture moles did not understand all the words, but they could make sense of the sentiment—and even the biggest of them quailed slightly at the sight of Mekkins in a rage. Duncton moles had a reputation for being brave and cunning fighters.

  When Rose finally came, brought by an uneasy Pasture mole, the first thing that Mekkins said was, ‘’Ere, Rose, tell this bleeding lot of Pasture moles that we’ve not come ’ere to take over the Pasture system all by ourselves. We’re not bloody stupid. And anyway,’ he added, looking contemptuously around, ‘and begging our pardon, but this ain’t exactly the place I’d choose to settle down!’

  Rose smiled at them all, though she knew that this was an escape and not a visit. She had long suspected that this might happen.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘This is Mekkins of the Duncton system and other moles I know. He is an elder and an honourable mole, even if he does seem a little rude at times.’

  ‘Yes—well—sorry,’ muttered Mekkins, shaking his shoulders and looking chastened. ‘But they needn’t have been so rough with Rebecca and the youngsters. This is Rose, you two,’ he added, turning to Comfrey and Violet, ‘so you say hello.’

  ‘Hello!’ said Violet, running up to Rose immediately.

  Comfrey just looked at her, moving to hide behind Rebecca.

  ‘Hello, my dears,’ said Rose. ‘Now Mekkins had better tell me what has happened.’

  Rose quickly insisted on installing Rebecca and the youngsters in a burrow near her own, though the Pasture moles muttered that it wasn’t right, and they’d better not get up to any of their Duncton Wood hanky-panky here. And to make sure they didn’t, they said they would post some guards by the burrow, while they went and conferred with one of their elders.

  Mekkins found this hard to take, especially as he was now very anxious to get back to the Marsh End, but did not want to risk leaving Rebecca here until he was sure it was safe for her. He suggested that he go with the Pasture moles to see their elders for himself.

  ‘No way, mate,’ said the toughest of the Pasture moles. ‘No way. We’re not having you spying on us, casting those spells and rituals you get up to in Duncton Wood. No! You stay right here and just shut up until we decide what to do. And think yourself lucky that Rose knows you, otherwise…’ He stabbed a talon into the air to indicate what would otherwise happen.

  However, after two days of complaints and anger, Mekkins was finally summoned to meet a Pasture elder somewhere deep in the Pasture system. By then Rose had made it quite clear that she felt that Rebecca must stay with her, and Comfrey and Violet, too, until they were more independent.

  ‘Which won’t be all that long, my love, by the way they’re already settling down,’ she said. And it was true, for Violet was beginning to get on with even the Pasture moles and Comfrey was finding new questions to ask Rose every hour, now that he had got used to her.

  * * *

  The place that Mekkins was taken to by four of the toughest male moles he had ever seen outside the Westside of Duncton (‘guardmoles’, they called themselves) was way down in the pastures through a series of long, sparse tunnels with far fewer burrows off them than he was used to. The Pasture moles seemed thinner on the ground—but then he could see that worms were not so plentiful out here either.

  Finally they reached a structure that Mekkins had heard of but never seen—a fortress, a massive molehill with burrows on several levels, both above and below ground, connected by linked tunnels. There was a big, round central burrow that was wider but not so high as the elder burrow in Barrow Vale. Its walls were dry and well burrowed, and its floor covered in comfortable nesting material, mainly dry thistles and grass. He was ushered none too gently into the burrow where, at one end, a big, dark-grey mole crouched, his talons splayed loosely before him and his snout sleepily lowered over them. His eyes were half closed, but his voice, when he finally used it after a long silence, was wide awake.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘My name’s Mekkins, and I…’

  ‘System?’

  ‘Don’t be so daft!’ said Mekkins, more than irritated. ‘I’m from Duncton, aren’t I?’

  The guardmoles moved heavily forward at this rudeness, but the big mole raised one paw to stop them.

  ‘Just answer my questions,’ he said. ‘Purpose.’

  ‘What do you mean, “purpose”?’ said Mekkins.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘The moles I brought—that’s Rebecca and her two youngsters—had a spot of bother. They were being attacked. I knew Rose would help them so I brought them.’

  ‘Why should we let them stay here?’

  Mekkins opened his mouth to answer, but couldn’t think of anything to say that would make any sense to a mole that didn’t know Rebecca.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Because Rose trusts her; that’s the best reason I can give,’ said Mekkins.

  Suddenly and unexpectedly the mole smiled. It was a slow, warm smile which took the aggression right out of Mekkins.

  ‘A very good reason, if I may say so, a very good reason. Very good.’ The mole got up and came over to where Mekkins was crouched between the guardmoles. With a pleasant nod he dismissed them, leaving himself alone with Mekkins.

  ‘My name’s Brome,’ he said, ‘and despite appearances, I’m glad to see you. Rose warned me that there was trouble coming and she even mentioned your name as a mole to trust. I did not think we would meet so soon. Sorry about my guardmoles, but you can’t change generations of hostility overnight and there’s no reason why we should. Except that if you believe Rose, which I do, the time is coming when hostility isn’t going to matter much one way or another. Now, since you are on Pasture territory, I think it is reasonable that you tell me about your system first. All these warnin
gs by Rose are fair enough, but I have to run a system and I can’t do it on vague guesses and surmises. So what’s happening?’

  He spoke pleasantly but with great authority, treating Mekkins as an equal and instilling in him a sense of trust that Mekkins, well used to judging moles quickly, was prepared to accept. These were funny times and the more friends a mole had the better, as far as he was concerned. So he told Brome exactly what the problem was and how the system had changed and been corrupted under Mandrake—a mole, it turned out, who had done a great deal of damage in the pastures en route to Duncton. Mekkins described how Rune was in the process of taking over Duncton and what the implications were for his own Marsh End.

  Mekkins told him something too about Rebecca, saying there was no reason the Pasture moles should suddenly take her into their system except that he, Mekkins, believed she held some kind of destiny in herself for more than just a couple of youngsters. And so did Rose.

  Brome listened to this with great interest, for it seemed to him to have a lot to do with what he wanted to say to this first senior mole of Duncton he had met. But first he had to decide if he could trust Mekkins.

  ‘Tell me, Mekkins,’ he said quietly, ‘what do you know of the Stone?’

  Brome noticed that Mekkins’ manner changed. It became more personal, less weighted by the many considerations a leader has, even if only of part of a system like Marsh End.

  ‘Do you mean the Stone generally?’ asked Mekkins, looking around in a quiet way. ‘Or the Duncton Stone in particular?’

  ‘Is there a difference?’ asked Brome.

  Mekkins hesitated. He had never talked about the Stone to another mole in his life, not even since he had gone to it for Rebecca’s sake and it had answered his prayers. Since then he had been in deep awe of it and hesitated now to talk to another mole who might not understand his words. Finally he said: ‘The Duncton Stone has great power and may still be the true heart of our system, as it once was the heart in reality—when moles lived only on top of the hill. We’ve been cut off from it, though, by the likes of Mandrake and Rune, who I’ve told you about.’ Then he added in a rush: ‘If you want to know what I think, the Stone is the most important thing Duncton’s got.’