‘We’ll approach slowly and silently, because I don’t know who may be up here tonight. If Mandrake has gone and Rune has taken charge, then he may be here. Rune doesn’t like the Stone, especially at this time of old rituals. He’ll want to see that no ritual is said.’
They crept forward so silently that the first Rebecca knew of them was when she saw the shadow of a mole sliding out of the darkness on the far side of the clearing to stand, in bold silhouette, looking at the Stone. Then another mole, smaller, came out, and even in the moonlight Rebecca could tell that he was limping as his snout moved forward and up with each sequence of steps. Then two more moles, one very large, who looked around the clearing a little uneasily before stopping and settling his gaze on the Stone also.
‘Well, I’ve got to say it! You’ve got us here, Bracken!’ said the big mole.
The world seemed suddenly an unreal place to Rebecca as the name Bracken came across the clearing to her. She looked in wonder at the four moles, trying to make out from the confusion of their silhouettes whether one of them was indeed her Bracken.
Then the small mole spoke, his calm, clear voice full of awe and reverence as he broke away from the other four and went right up to the Stone. ‘So I have finally reached the Duncton system,’ he said. ‘So many moleyears in the travel and all of them survived only by the Stone’s grace.’
Rebecca watched him fascinated, while her heart raced for Bracken, if Bracken it was. The small mole put a paw to the Stone, touched it, and then turned and faced the other three and said quietly, ‘You know there is nothing else but the Stone. Finally, there is nothing else.’
His head turned a little towards Rebecca, where she crouched in the shadow of the wood, and for the first time she saw his face. His fur was grey in the moonlight; seeing him for the first time, his eyes clear and soft, his face filled with the peace of the Stone, Rebecca felt she had never before seen anymole who made her sense the wonder of the Stone so much. The three in the clearing seemed to sense it too, for they all stayed quite still, though she could not tell if they were looking at the small mole or at the Stone that soared so high above him.
‘Am I glad to be back!’ said one of them, moving out clearly into the light. ‘I never would have known how much!’ And Rebecca saw that it was Bracken, it was her Bracken, safe and well, and back in the wood they both loved. She had come unknowing to the Stone and he had come as well as, if she had thought about it, she should have known he would on Midsummer Night.
In the shadows, the youngsters’ eyes peered at her, trying to see what she wanted to do, wondering if these moles were enemies from whom they should run. She turned to them and smiled, touching the one nearest her, and as they relaxed in her confidence, she turned back to the clearing and started out into the moonlight towards Bracken, her shadow running before her.
It seemed to Bracken, and to the others as well, that Rebecca appeared out of the night and before the Stone as if she was part of a mystery in which all things—the moonlight, the trees in silhouette against it, the wood, the Stone, her presence and the darkness behind her—were at one with each other. It was as if, for a moment, he was able to see beyond Rebecca to the powers of life, and death, that had brought her there at that moment and which she was not separate from but a part of.
‘Rebecca,’ he said, for there was no other word.
‘My love,’ she said, saying what he felt.
‘Rebecca?’ he said again, advancing towards her, all sounds and sights of the night but her quite gone from him.
‘Yes,’ she said softly. Then they nuzzled each other as softly as the softest fur, because he almost thought she was a dream and she knew he was her love, and their touching again was as precious as life. They nuzzled each other’s neck and face, she smiling and he serious, she purring and he growling, his body strong and big to her at last, no more the fugitive mole she once had seen. ‘My love,’ they said together, ‘where have you been? Where have you been?’
Their greeting took no longer than it takes to see the beauty in the moonlit Stone; then she was laughing in the night and saying, ‘Boswell? From Uffington? From Uffington!’ and, ‘Stonecrop, dearest creature,’ and then speaking to Mullion, shy before her, whom she cuffed gently because there was no need to be shy. And back to Bracken, who was looking at the Stone, touching the Stone as Boswell had done and understanding that there is no love but in the Stone. And thinking that there was nothing that could disturb a love strong and clear as theirs. Nothing!
Nothing? There was a crashing through the wood from the pasture’s edge, a running and drumming of mole paws, and each one of them was suddenly tense and separate, turning to face the noise, with great Stonecrop moving to their front. Moles were coming, but the nearer they got to the clearing, the more Stonecrop relaxed, as Medlar had made him understand he must. Boswell was the same, his eyes clear into the darkness of the rustling sound, while Bracken sighed and stepped forward to be beside Stonecrop. The three had learned their lessons well. Behind them Mullion stood more tensely, uncertain what to do, while Rebecca silently crossed the clearing to where the youngsters lay, staying in the light and unable to see them, but signalling with a smile for them to stay still and feel safe.
The advancing moles came quickly and, without even a pause, broke cover from the wood into the clearing, only then stopping to look at where Bracken and the others stood ranked by the Stone. There was silence on both sides as each took a moment to recognise the other.
It was Brome and Mekkins, come from the pastures with Pasture and Marsh End moles, but it was one of the Marsh End females in the shadows behind Rebecca who broke the silence.
‘And where the ’ell have you been, Mekkins my lad!’ she said ironically, breaking cover herself.
Mekkins smiled but ignored her, turning instead to Brome and saying, ‘There you are, Brome, me old mate. I said they’d be here, and they are. And where’s Rebecca? Come on, she’s not normally bashful!’ Rebecca moved forward and laughed and everymole relaxed. And then Mekkins was surprise itself when he saw Bracken, and Brome was lost in delight when he saw Stonecrop and Mullion before him.
There was relief and reunion, levity and laughter, but not for long. It was Mekkins, speaking in a whisper to Bracken, Stonecrop, Brome and Rebecca, who gave them the warning that, in his heart, Bracken had feared.
‘There’s a bloody army of henchmoles coming up here with you-know-which mole leading them. Brome put a couple of his moles over by the wood’s edge at dusk, just to see if they could learn anything and they did. Them henchmoles are the worst blabbermouths you could wish to meet and they found out that, sure enough, Rune is planning to bring the whole lot of ’em up ’ere to see that there’s no way anymole can celebrate Midsummer Night.’
Mekkins looked round at them all and grinned. ‘Well, of course there ain’t no way I’m going to leave ’ere, and since by some miracle of the Stone’s magic we seem to ’ave none other than Bracken ’imself come along ’specially for the occasion, the only mole in Duncton who knows the blessing, I suggest we sit tight, get rid of Rune when ’e comes, get on wiv the ritual blessing and show these Marsh End youngsters what tonight’s all about.’
They all turned to Bracken who, not for the first time, was surprised to find that they were looking to him for some kind of lead. It was as if, by virtue of his having lived near the Ancient System for so long, they regarded him as in some way the guardian of the Stone and all its secrets. It was a role he felt inadequate to play, since he did not think he knew enough about the Stone, and was very conscious that what little he did know came from Hulver, who had known so much more. Boswell sensed his doubt, and to encourage him said ‘What do you think we should do, Bracken?’
Bracken looked up at the Stone for a moment and then said simply ‘We must say the blessing. Hulver said it twelve moleyears ago, with only Bindle to help him and myself— though I was too young to protect him, just as these youngsters are too young to protect us, though one d
ay theirs will be the strength to decide and to do what must be done. May the Stone give them its help as it has helped each one of us.’
He looked slowly at them all in turn, his eyes falling finally on Rebecca’s and staying there longest. As he spoke, his voice had gradually grown more powerful and now, as he continued, its strength and force brought all the moles gathering around him in silence.
‘In another hour or so, when the moon is at its peak, it will be the moment to say the blessing before our great Stone. Its power travels to all the other stones set up in the chosen systems by Ballagan, the first Holy Mole. This is not a night for fighting, but for peace and blessing. But the time in which we live is strange and troubled.’ He turned and pointed up at the Stone, whose crevices and facets seemed infinitely complex in the moonlight. ‘Look at our great Stone,’ he said, feeling as he did so its power flowing into him, and his ideas, his very voice, taken over by it as they had been once before when he had spoken to Cairn about Rebecca, and found his words flowing from a source beyond himself.
‘Look at the Duncton Stone! It should stand straight and tall like the trees around it. But see how it tilts over towards the west, where Uffington lies! The system of which it is so much a part is decayed, and it tilts for weakness at the knowledge, seeking the help of Uffington. I tell you that the day will come when by our strength this Stone will stand aright again, proud of the system from whose strength it will soar to the sky and whose power we will not question or, like Rune, try to corrupt. It will stand as straight as the mighty Ballagan set it and when it does all moles shall know that our system has been healed.
‘This is not a night for fighting and Midsummer is not the time for blood. But I tell you that until the time comes when the Stone is the true centre of our system once more, then those who know that there is nothing without the Stone must fight for their belief. I, who have run so often in fear from the talons of death, will run no more, but stand and face what comes with talons of my own. Their strength comes from the power and the silence that lies within the Stone and which each of us may hear and feel.
‘It is no sin to run, and if any want to go, then let them go in peace. But the hour has finally come when everymole, whether from Duncton Wood or the pastures, or Uffington itself, must stand and fight if their belief is in the Stone. Let each one of you look at it now and decide.’ Bracken pointed again at the Stone and everymole there, including the youngsters, looked at the Stone in the light of his words. Not a single mole moved until, one by one, they turned back to look again at Bracken. The night was stirring now with wind and around them in the wood were heavy movements in the undergrowth, first on one side and then on another. The sound of henchmoles closing in. It was too late for anymole there to escape.
‘Let the youngsters gather round the flanks of the Stone, which will protect them, and let the rest range themselves closely about the clearing, for soon Rune will be here. Let Pasture mole mingle with Duncton mole and let us all fight as one.’
Then around them, in the darkness beyond the clearing, there were creepings and peerings, whisperings and plottings, slinkings and dark talons massing for attack. Somewhere in the darkness Rune crouched, listening to the sounds about him, waiting for his forces to mass themselves completely around the Stone clearing. He was smiling. There had been a moment when they should have attacked him—when he was coming up the slopes and feared an ambush— but now the advantage was his. Why, the fools were gathered in the moonlight by the Stone where they could be seen clearly and smelt. The snivelling little Marsh End youngsters were gathered round the Stone with them, waiting to be comfortably killed by his henchmoles, who would take pleasure in catching up with moles who had escaped them down at the Marsh End. Henchmoles do not like being made to feel foolish.
Near Rune, Nightshade slipped her body among the contorted and twisted shadows of the smaller roots of a beech tree—shapes it fitted perfectly. Her talons wound and wove with continuous movement as if she were caressing the night air into dangerous shapes as she snouted out the Stone beyond the darkness. She was casting spells for victory.
‘When the moon is at its peak, Rune, I want to be free with the Stone, yes… mm… to wipe the blood of the young into its holes and crevices and make a curse on all the Marshenders unfortunate enough to survive. What a pity if they all died. Yes… mm…’
Her voice was slimy, like a dying worm, but it clung to the mind of any who heard it, suffocating any thought of love or light or colour that might already be there and aborting any about to be born. Rune, however, wallowed in its sound. Nightshade had waited a long time for this night, as had the dark and treacherous generations whose dark endeavours had produced her, and other moles like her who had lived on the edge of the system until the darkness of Rune sucked them inside it, and to the very heart of Barrow Vale. Yes… mm…
The first attack was swift, sudden and very deadly. Five henchmoles broke cover into the clearing, ran straight across to where a group of Marshender males stood ready, and with swift and fatal lunges killed four moles where they crouched. Just like that. The blood had barely started to flow before they were gone again, and as the natural movement of the defenders of the Stone swayed towards the shadows into which they had disappeared, another attack was launched from a different direction, this time to where Stonecrop and Bracken stood, side by side. Perhaps sensing how dangerous these two were, the attackers sidestepped them, and two more moles went down, before Bracken, with a relaxed lunge, felled one where he stood and so injured another that it took only a quick kick from Stonecrop to finish him off.
Rebecca stood to one side of them, facing the darkness, while around the base of the Stone, among the beech roots gathered there, the youngsters huddled, their mothers forming a final protective rank around them.
The battle was sporadic at first as one quick thrust of attack followed another—a technique already rehearsed by Rune. But it was effective, for the moles of the Stone lost more with each attack than they were able to kill and, the light of the full moon being on them and the attackers coming out of darkness, the advantage was with Rune.
It was to Rune’s credit as a leader that this series of attacks lasted as long as it did before finally breaking down into a concerted onslaught against the besieged moles of the Stone at two different points. On one side, Stonecrop and Bracken, Rebecca and Brome headed the defence; on the other Mekkins and Mullion stood the main ground. All fought differently—Stonecrop with a massive slow soberness that was utterly ruthless, taking blows that would be fatal to other moles as if they were nothing and then launching his own devastating lunges; Bracken was quicker and more subtle, parrying here, cutting there, and killing whenever he could; Mekkins, as usual, swore aloud with every blow, roaring ‘Take that, you bastard’ and ‘Oh, no you don’t, brother’ with every lunge, and ‘Sod it’ when he missed. Brome fought more like Stonecrop but a little less effectively, for he lacked the total concentration Stonecrop had learned; Rebecca was fast, vicious and magnificent, shouting and screaming with anger, snarling at the biggest moles, cutting and thrusting where she could, fearing none. While somewhere just behind Brome and Bracken, Boswell stood firm as well, striking when he could but most useful for the cries of warning he calmly gave to each of the stronger fighters in front of him who were so preoccupied with their individual struggles that they often did not see a threat from another angle.
But one by one they suffered cuts and injuries that slowed them, as around them their colleagues began to fall. Some dead, some too injured to fight, a few too tired to raise their paws and defend themselves. Oxlip, the female who had escaped to the Marsh End, fell and died by Mekkins’ side. Mullion, too, was grimly wounded and fell back behind his own lines, life leaving him.
The moon shone on, its light cold on the terrible scene of carnage it lit so clearly. It reached a peak and then began its waning descent, and still the battle went on with no word of Midsummer blessing said.
The moles around t
he Stone began to retreat back towards it, leaving their dead and wounded before them as the henchmoles, black and tough as ever, climbed over the stricken bodies and pressed forward.
Then Rune appeared out of the night, the twisted shape of Nightshade at his side waiting by the clearing edge with glee in her eyes, while he pressed forward suddenly into the bloodiest area of the melee, leading his henchmoles on for the last part of the fight. There always seemed to be more henchmoles coming, and more, and always fewer and fewer moles able to stand and face their onslaught. They slowly retreated, back towards the Stone, and as the retreat set in, Rebecca instinctively went behind the front line to rally the mothers of the youngsters behind her so that, if necessary, they could put up a last defence.
The youngsters, seeing now the great floodtide of henchmoles bearing down on them, stopped only by Bracken, Stonecrop, Brome, Mekkins and a few others who stood their ground, began to whimper, their sound a pathetic addition to the screams of triumph and death that rose and fell in the clearing.
Then Brome staggered and fell, lost under a torrent of terrible lunges, and with his death the resolution of the other Pasture moles began to weaken and they all retreated even further back. Seeing his advantage, Rune pressed even harder on them, his black talons cutting and stabbing before him, shiny with blood in the moonlight. Behind him, beyond the mass of murderous henchmoles that backed him up, Bracken could see for a moment the sinister shape of Nightshade, whom he did not recognise, slinking gleefully about the clearing’s edge as if waiting to take her pickings of the dead.
Rebecca rose up magnificently behind him, eyes flashing with anger and determination, the youngsters huddled behind her, the Stone soaring up above them, almost hanging over them all as it tilted over towards the west.
Duncton Wood Page 45
