Duncton Stone

by William Horwood

  Brother Rolt’s response was more emotional and personal. He knew what the path of Silence might mean for a mole, and perhaps he had contemplated it for himself from time to time, but had shrunk back from so final a sacrifice. Now tears rolled freely down his face as he stared at the thin, unassuming simple figure of Privet among those aggressive and angry moles, and understood that nomole would be more alone than she in the place she had now turned towards.

  One other mole responded in a way that suggested he understood what Privet had done. Squelch. For he now began to sing quietly, a strange and haunting song that told of a solitary heron, grey and black as that Wildenhope morning, which opened its wings and rose slowly over the rushing waters of life, and left them behind to begin a journey to a distant and long dreamed-of land.

  “Well?” roared Quail, simply not believing that a mole could defy him (as he saw it) in so simple and direct a manner.

  “You have been warned, Sister Privet!” hissed Skua again.

  But Privet had said her last and Silence was her way now. She stared at her interrogators and at the sky, and when Whillan whispered ambiguously, “They won’t let you do it this way,” meaning perhaps they would kill her, she stared at him too. Not without love, not without concern, yet, in truth, not with much interest either. These moles, whatever moles they might be, she was beginning to leave behind. She had rejected responsibility for them, and left them to find their own way. She had stopped striving for them, realizing at last that a mole cannot do it for another, it being hard enough to do it for herself – even assuming the Stone wanted a mole to strive at all, which she was already beginning to doubt. But her mouth moved in silent prayer, for guidance perhaps, and she was restless to be away from that place of troubled moles and be by herself at last.

  Many who hear this part of Privet’s extraordinary story attribute to her a kind of cowardice, in that she did not show enough concern for the danger, all too real, in which she had now placed both Whillan and Rooster. One saved, argue such moles, is better than none. Why could not Privet see that? But she had seen and sensed a greater truth; that a day had to come in the long decades of struggle towards the Stone’s Silence when a solitary mole must have the courage to commit herself to Silence, whatever it might mean. That the day, the moment in question happened to be when one of the two moles closest to her might have benefited from her help was no longer the point.

  It is in the nature of that great commitment she had made that it cannot be deferred. This afternoon will not do, tomorrow is too late, whatever the implications. This was the truth, brutal though it was, on which Privet had acted, and because it was without concession or caveat it was so inexplicable, so infuriating perhaps, to many of the moles who witnessed it.

  So, at Wildenhope, the irresistible force of the Caradocian Order under Quail met the absolute and immutable resistance of a single mole, who did not yet know that she was more than mere mole, she was the immovable object which was all that remained to thwart the Newborn darkness. And her strength was Silence.

  “There is no other course for us to take but to sentence both these moles, Whillan of Duncton and Rooster of Charnel Clough,” pronounced Quail finally, attempting to regain the initiative. “They will —”

  But even now he was interrupted, this time by Rooster, who since Privet’s announcement of commitment to Silence had become a changed mole. He no longer resisted his guards, and he ceased to cast his eyes all over the place and weave his great head this way and that. Rather, he had greeted her decision with a kind of cheerful laugh and a shout of “Yes! Right! Oh yes, Sister Privet!”

  “Sister”, moles must suppose, intended ironically. In short, he appeared to understand and approve what Privet had done.

  But soon his pleasure had given away to consternation and mounting alarm and the reason was all too plain: he began to realize that both he and Whillan would be committed to the river as the other victims had been. For himself, he seemed not to care one bit, but for Whillan...

  “No, no, no, not him. He’s needed. He is future things, in his paws will be all of us, all of this. The pattern of him is like a delving on what’s to come. He can’t die.”

  “Well, mole,” snarled Quail, cutting him short, “you should have thought of that, and so should she.”

  “He’s —”

  “Silence him!” commanded Skua of the guards. “Now!”

  Sickening blows rained down on Rooster’s face and flanks and even his huge back buckled under them, and all that remained were his grunts and groans as sentence was passed and Quail spoke once more of the cleansing of the waters of the earth, and of its blood.

  It was, then, to be the river for both of them, and only now did Whillan seem fully to comprehend what was to happen to him. In mythical tales of great moles of the past, victims approach their fate heroically, and their loving kin are noble in their sorrow. It would be pleasing but inaccurate to say that this is what happened, and Snyde’s report, supported by the accounts of other witnesses to the tragedy, confirms the simple truth: Whillan was as frightened and afraid as any young mole with all his life before him would be when about to lose it. While Rooster, impervious to fear on his own account but vulnerable now to any threat to Whillan, sought to rise yet again and roared out his anguish.

  It was only when he was brutally silenced once more that Skua’s voice was heard to intone the last and cruellest formality: “If any there be would stance in the place of this mole and beg his liberty let him come forth. If it be not granted then that mole too shall receive the punishment.”

  But nomole came forth, none begged liberty for Whillan, and only the wind’s whispers, the river’s roar, and Rooster’s moans broke the silence.

  It might have been expected that Whillan would immediately be taken forth towards the river-bank for sentence to be carried out – indeed another guard joined those already at his flanks and began to lead him away from the assembly when Quail, thinking perhaps this was a good moment to complete sentencing of Rooster, raised a paw to stop them.

  “We will sentence the mole Rooster now as well,” he said, pausing suddenly in thought as a new idea seemed to come to him, one which appeared to give him smug satisfaction. He gestured Skua to him and they conferred briefly, until the Brother Inquisitor nodded and resumed his place, unable to resist casting a malicious glance at Chervil as he did so.

  “Tell me. Elder Brother Chervil,” said Quail with quiet menace and eyeing Whillan as he spoke, “would you say these moles are guilty of sin?”

  “In the original or in the present?” responded Chervil, frowning.

  “Both, Brother, both,” said Quail impatiently.

  “They are guilty,” said Chervil.

  “So their sentences are just?”

  The other Elder Brothers and some of the witnesses exchanged glances, recognizing that Quail was testing Chervil in some way. The latter’s dismay at some of the goings-on at the Convocation was well known and his loyalty to Quail had long been in doubt, given that he was Thripp’s son. Yet he had acquitted himself loyally since then, even if he was sometimes a little too much his own mole.

  “All the sentences have been just,” said Chervil.

  “Then, Elder Brother Chervil, you will not mind carrying out the sentence on the mole Whillan of Duncton Wood.” It was said icily, and all eyes were on Chervil as Quail spoke.

  But if Chervil did mind he did not betray it, and nor did his words suggest anything else but the self-righteous vindictiveness of the Newborns against followers of the Stone: “You have said that Elder Brothers should not have their paws sullied and besmirched by the shame and blood of these moles, Elder Senior Brother; but forgive me, I do not wish to disagree with you... It would seem an honour to be the agent of the Stone’s justice!”

  Chervil’s face seemed almost to glitter with satisfaction, and he looked round at the tough Feldspar as if to invite him and his sons along as well.

  “Well, so be it, so be it, Brother,
” beamed Quail. “Let us be done with this sorry business and these moles. Brother Inquisitor, may we take it that the sentence upon Rooster of Charnel Clough is the same as for the mole Whillan?”

  Skua nodded.

  “Then take it as spoken already, and proceed to the last formality. Let us have done with them both.”

  “If any there be would stance in the place of this mole,” began Skua immediately, as impatient now to come to a conclusion as Quail, the real fun being over and the stance that Privet had taken having left an uneasy feeling among them all – “and beg his liberty let him —”

  “There is!” a voice cried out suddenly. “There is one ready to stance in the place of the miscreant Rooster!”

  Surprise and astonishment showed on the faces of almost all present, the exceptions being Skua, whose look was one of complete dismay, and Quail, whose face was suffused by unfeigned fury.

  For it was Thripp who had spoken, his head low, his eyes wandering, and his voice weak; but Thripp all the same.

  “Elder Senior Brother Thripp?” began Quail, trying to bite back his anger, though his voice shook with it.

  “Oh, I do not intercede lightly,” said Thripp quickly, and rather more robustly than before, “but you see, Elder Brethren, it is said that Rooster is a Master of the Delve.”

  “That is a lie and a blasphemy!” cried out Skua.

  “Can you prove that?” said Thripp, turning his gaze quietly on Skua.

  It is a gift of moles with natural authority that they do not need to raise their voices and shout, or wave their paws about, or use strong or threatening words, to make others listen. Indeed, they need do almost nothing to command attention and obedience, to inspire fear even. Such rare moles need only enter a chamber, or raise their head, or merely speak, and others listen...

  So Thripp spoke now and Skua listened, and an awesome hush fell upon the moles gathered at Wildenhope. Thripp’s body might be weak, he might even be old, but after those four words to Skua – Can you prove that? – not a mole could doubt that his spirit and purposefulness were as strong as ever, and though he spoke to one, all listened.

  “I... I...” faltered Skua.

  “You cannot, and nomole could without seeing the delvings of this mole. And even then, whatmoles are we, who have never known a living Master before, to judge a Master’s work? Certainly not I, Brother Skua! Can you?”

  “I... am not sure, Elder Senior Brother Thripp,” said Skua feebly.

  “And you, Brother Quail?” said Thripp, removing his remorseless gaze from the thankful Skua and fixing it on Quail instead.

  Quail shook his head, easier before Thripp’s authority than Skua, but clearly respectful and wary of it.

  “Elder Senior Brother,” he said, “if it is your wish that the mole Rooster should go unpunished —”

  “It is my wish that one mole here at least begs liberty for Rooster, if only because he might be Master of the Delve. It is unlikely, that is true, but possible, and I would not wish to be witness to or part of a judgement of such a mole, when nomole lives who may truly judge him. I do not say he is guiltless, or that he has never sinned, but I believe he should have liberty. If he should cause trouble to mole again then I for one will not stance up for him... but this one time I will. And I believe that if he is the Master some believe him to be he will not cause hurt or injury to anymole again. Such is the tradition of delvers. Let us forgive and forget what he has done.”

  Quail shrugged. “There is not an Elder Brother here would speak against your words. But what of the other, the mole Whillan?”

  “What of him?” said Thripp coldly. “The sentence has been passed, and nomole has begged his liberty. What must be will be —”

  “NOOO!” roared Rooster suddenly, his cry as bleak as a rockfall into the sunless depths of Charnel Clough. “No!” His second cry was the wretched plea of one who values not his own life, and would give it a thousand times to save another mole he places higher than himself. “Tell them, Privet, tell them what Whillan is!”

  Privet raised her head and looked at Rooster, and then at Whillan. She did not speak, for her vow bound her to silence; but she did shed tears, and they spoke of the helpless grief of a whole generation of mothers, even though Whillan was not her true son.

  Worse, Whillan saw that even for him she would not speak. Whatever her talk of Silence had meant – and he had barely comprehended its real meaning – he knew only that the mole who had nurtured him as a pup, whose paws had held him close when he was afraid, whose quiet voice had told him the first tales he heard, and shared with him his first ideas – that mole had now abandoned him. And now all he seemed to see was a dark place, wet and cold, the cross-under of Duncton Wood, where his mother had died as he was born and all his siblings been lost as well. There now he was again, a pup alone, raising his head to bleat out his loss and fear to a world he did not understand. So Whillan now, only just an adult, alone, lost, abandoned except for the struggles and shouts of Rooster, began to cry; tears of fear and rejection, tears of a mole already in retreat from forces too great for him to withstand without help.

  “Tell them what, mole?” said Quail ruthlessly to Rooster, looking pitilessly on Whillan.

  “He is Master,” said Rooster. “I was, but I lost it. He is Master of the Delve. He is our future.”

  Quail sighed. “The Elder Senior Brother Thripp has interceded on your behalf, mole, and for better or for worse you shall have liberty. But this mole,” he pointed a talon at Whillan, “he shall be punished now for what you all have done!”

  He turned finally to Chervil and nodded, and if what had happened so far had been the ruthless justice of a corrupted sect, what followed was brutality made flesh.

  Chervil nodded in turn to Feldspar and his two sons Tarn and Fallow, and the four tough moles went to Whillan and displaced the guards surrounding him. Without a word of warning or even a second glance, Chervil raised his right paw and powered a talon-thrust deep into Whillan’s flank. Whillan gasped in terrible pain as he collapsed, and blood flowed freely down his fur to his back paws.

  “Now,” said Chervil harshly, “shut up and stance up, for you’re coming with us.”

  Without more ado Whillan was pulled roughly to his paws and in a state of shock, bewilderment and fear, blood streaming from his left flank, he was hustled from the watching moles and down the slope of the Bluff towards the river-bank.

  A hush of horror and shock fell on the assembled moles, and, it must be said, a perverted and sadistic delight appeared in the eyes of Skua and Quail to see their morning’s murderous efforts reach, after a few setbacks, so satisfactory a conclusion.

  Feldspar and his sons, with Chervil in the lead, took poor Whillan out across the path through the flooded meadows. So far as he was able to support himself he did, though his left hind paw dragged from the wound he had sustained. But nomole thought of that with the final terror of the river coming near. Out beyond the bank’s high edge it flowed, driven by the floods from the north, rushing away to the south, as angry and sullen as ever.

  “No, no, no...” cried Rooster weakly, his guards restraining him close lest in these last moments of his son’s short life he tried to break free and rescue him, or simply turn to try to harm his captors, or, worse, the Elder Brothers. But all he did was raise his head and stare at where Whillan had been taken and cry his weak protests.

  For her part Privet stared too, eyes bleak, face pinched in disbelief and horror, talons clenched to the grass and soil, whispering a prayer.

  Then suddenly, as the sorry group reached the very edge of the bank, Whillan was seen to try to break free, and Privet screamed, a terrible scream of hopelessness out of her Silence, for what could an injured mole hope to do against those as resolute as Chervil and his guardmoles? Nothing at all, it seemed. There was a moment’s pause, a sudden movement by all four moles and Whillan was thrown over the bank and out of sight, down into the river below.

  The watchers were stil
l and silent as death, but for the broken sobs of Privet and the deep groans of Rooster, as they saw Whillan’s body disappear, and waited those sickening moments for the river to take it up, swirl it round, and surge with it back into sight in the midst of where the wild waters of river and tributary formed their confluence.

  Then a mole muttered, “There, there he is!” and all saw the limp form of Whillan, head submerged, turning a paw in the air, surely beyond help now of anymole, punished for merely being what he was. A sigh passed over the watchers as Whillan’s limp body went under for a moment, and then shot up wildly once more, limbs seeming lifeless now as they were pushed and pulled by the waves and turbulence.

  At that moment of shock, the deed almost done, Rooster, always unpredictable – which his guards should have remembered – rose up massively in their midst. With a roar mightier than thunder he picked up the nearest to him and hurled him savagely into two more; he buffeted a fourth into a fifth and sixth, and as for the rest they simply froze.

  Then, with a last cry of “NO!” he was rushing out of their midst, down the Bluff and out across the fields towards where Chervil and the others, all unawares, watched Whillan’s limp form being swirled round and round in the turbulence before it was rushed on downstream by the torrent.

  The guards on the Bluff picked themselves up, collected their scattered wits, cried out for Rooster to stop, and set off after him. But Rooster’s lead was too great, and for so massive a mole he moved with surprising grace and speed. Only as he seemed about to bear down on Chervil and the others, as if to flatten them into the ground, did they hear his roars, or the cries of his pursuing guards, and turn round and see his monstrous approach. To Chervil’s credit, if a mole who had committed so vile an act can be called creditable, he tried to stop Rooster. Indeed Feldspar and the others did too, but Rooster was a father trying to save his son that day, and was unstoppable. For a moment they all teetered on the bank, but then Rooster broke free, stared out at Whillan’s body being sucked below the water once more, and dived in after him. He disappeared from sight over the edge as all the others had done, but the running of Chervil and Feldspar along the high bank told those watching from the Bluff where he was and how powerfully the torrent carried him along.