Duncton Quest

by William Horwood

  “Listen,” said Boswell urgently. “Listen and obey. Our long journey has been but a preparation and strengthening. You cannot stay in the Holy Burrows as you had hoped. You must flee the danger I must face alone for now, while you protect for us who are old and for you who are young, and your pups, moledom’s faith in the Stone. Take it up in your paws, be its guardian and its saviour.”

  Then Tryfan leaned forward, and opened his mouth as if for one last time to protest. But Boswell’s gaze stilled him and he said instead, “I will. With Spindle as my witness and my guide, I will.” As he said this there was a flash of lightning, white and searing, which tore across the dawn sky and was followed immediately by an enormous burst of thunder that shook all of Uffington Hill. And then, even more strange, a flash of darkness, as if, for a moment, the very sun itself was in eclipse.

  Then out of that darkness, even as it was gone and dawn on them once again, there came a great shout from the hill above them, of a voice as beautiful as cruel ice caught by a chill winter sun:

  “Boswell!”

  It seemed to come out of the fingerings of the thunder itself as the shape of mole loomed there, as black as night and as powerful. And whisperings, as of many moles, evil incantations and invocations. “Boswell, I know you are down there in the grey light of morning! My guardmoles will find you!”

  The voice was now deep and powerful; female and frightening. The image above terrifying in the unnatural dark which the presence of alien moles had brought to the slopes.

  “Flee now before they see you, find a place of safety,” whispered Boswell. “Find others you can trust, learn to lead them as once your father had to learn, tell them what you know, teach them, Tryfan.”

  “But where shall I find them?”

  “The Stone and your heart will guide you...” But even as he spoke that darkness on hill above him moved nearer, and with terrible weariness he turned upslope towards where that first fearsome calling of his name had come from.

  “Boswell!” the voice said again. “Welcome!” And as they all looked towards where the voice came from it seemed that the massing clouds of a storm was a great rearing of evil darkness on the crest of the hill above them, and there was the sense of talons darker than night itself, and of a power against which even the light of a White Mole seemed weak.

  “Go now, Tryfan, leave me to the Stone’s protection. Let Spindle lead you west towards the Blowing Stone, for it will give you sanctuary and time to find a way to escape.”

  The shapes loomed down nearer towards them, strange in the sinister light over Uffington.

  “Boswell!” the voice was louder, clear, female.

  “Tryfan, we must go now. Now, Tryfan!” Spindle whispered.

  They could sense the female coming nearer them and a dread was on Tryfan and Spindle and they dared not look to the hill above any more.

  Boswell touched Tryfan once more, a last time, and murmured the ancient journey blessing upon him and said, “You were trained better than you know, better than I know. You carry forward the love of Bracken and Rebecca whose power will be in you and give you strength. And I led you to thoughts whose wisdom you will in time understand. All this and the Stone will be your strength. Go now, beloved Tryfan, for I have taught you all I can and you must face the freedom that waits for all moles.”

  “And you —?” asked Tryfan, his voice filled with agony.

  “I shall send one to come after me and he shall have strength, for he will be of allmole’s faith.”

  “What will be his name?” asked Tryfan.

  “His name will be for allmole and forever, his name, his —” And over Boswell was a suffering.

  Then Tryfan did have faith, and knew that one day what Boswell said would be, would be. Yes, yes, it would. The sound of pawsteps was closer, the paralysing heaviness of evil was almost on them.

  “Come on!” beseeched poor Spindle.

  Then Boswell turned up the hill, his frail form enshadowed by the storm above, tiny and pathetic against the darker shadows that rose and ranked up about him on the hill, of moles whose presence was dark and whose purpose was evil.

  “Welcome back, Boswell of Uffington!”

  The voice was laden with such power and grim threat that Tryfan was unable to control the rising terror he felt as, stumbling and tripping on the grass and soil in his haste to escape, the freezing wind across his face, he turned and ran with Spindle at his side.

  Even as he did so he heard that voice call out to Boswell, “At last you come, last of the scribemoles. Welcome Boswell, old fool. Welcome!” And there was a laugh as of a thousand moles which echoed across the hill of Uffington.

  “Yes, I have come, Henbane,” they heard Boswell say. “I have come.”

  Last of the scribemoles! Except for he himself, Tryfan, who was nomole and nothing, a failed guardian, a coward to run... Were he and Boswell the last?

  Then Tryfan heard no more, but stretched out his paws as Spindle led him towards the distant Blowing Stone.

  “His name will be for allmole and forever,” had been Boswell’s final words to him and in that promise he felt the love of Boswell in him and for him, and he sobbed with grief and fear as he followed good Spindle, both pushing themselves on, the sound of pursuit close behind. But what was he? Nothing. Not holy. Unholy. The one over whom history and storytellers would surely shake their heads and say, “He failed.”

  “Stone, help me me now for I am unworthy, help me,” he cried out as he ran.

  “Come on, Tryfan!” called out Spindle ahead of him, and together they went on. While around them all they could hear was the sound of pursuit, sinister and sure, and rain in the wake of thunder, and wind from a dawning sky carrying the sound of their own desperate, tired paws on the ground ever onward as behind them the darkness and danger of Henbane engulfed Boswell into its evil.

  Chapter Six

  Moles pursuing close behind, dangerous with intent. Others somewhere in the grass at their side, more skulking on the steep slope of Uffington Hill above. Hidden ahead. Running, pausing to snout them out, getting nearer. Hunting, searching, chasing. A bitter, dangerous dawn.

  The grass wiry and difficult, cold-wet with dew; and the wind harsh across their snouts, the ground sloped and awkward, the route exposed. And Spindle was losing pace ahead....

  “Go faster Spindle, faster!”

  “Doing my best,” panted Spindle.

  “Where are you heading for?”

  “Away to the east and then round in an arc to the south. Know the ground there.”

  “Lead us to the Blowing Stone.”

  Spindle slowed suddenly and half turned as he ran, crashing through the grass ahead in his confusion. “Can’t go there. Not me. Not allowed.”

  “It’s sanctuary for true mole,” said Tryfan. “Everymole knows that.”

  “I’d be scared there!” said Spindle.

  “We’ll be dead anywhere else!” replied Tryfan. “Now lead on as fast as you can!” And with Tryfan almost herding his companion ahead of him they fled on into the morning wind as around them the sense of pursuit quickened.

  “They’re making for the Blowing Stone. Can’t have that. Cut the buggers off. Yes, yes, yes....”

  Grike voices shouted around him, hard and short of vowel, with a male one more commanding than the others, all contorted by the wind.

  Tryfan fought against his instinct to burrow to the

  tunnels he could sense in the ground beneath: but wise moles do not seek escape into strange systems if they can help it, for once there a mole is easily trapped. Tryfan slowed the pace to give Spindle time to catch his breath while he interpreted the vibrations at his paws.

  “Can’t have that,” the grike leader had said. Why should they be so concerned by the Blowing Stone? Tryfan did not know, but if they were then that seemed the best place to be going. He was encouraged by the fact that he seemed able to sense the direction in which they should go, his limbs growing heavy the moment he drew o
ff what seemed to be the direct line to the Stone. Perhaps he should trust himself to take over the lead now and he could probably set a better pace than Spindle.

  The wind dropped suddenly and the grass was quiet. Silence. Pursued and pursuers were still and listening for the others’ sound, waiting for somemole to make a move.

  Still, still, be still, Tryfan commanded himself, his heart thumping so loudly he was sure they would hear it; his fear the greater because they had not yet had a single glimpse of their pursuers, unless they were the frightening silhouettes that had ranked beside the great female who had “welcomed” Boswell. Their vibrations told him only that they were big and they ran fast....

  And below as well. Somewhere in tunnels below they were coming. Panic began to overcome him as he crouched silently with Spindle heaving and puffing with effort at his side, wondering what to do. He looked at Spindle and saw that his flank was shaking with fear.

  “We’ll soon be safe,” said Tryfan reassuringly, pleased to see that Spindle responded by becoming calmer at his confidence and wishing he had more faith in himself.

  “Close in, lower down. Yes.” The commanding voice was suddenly loud again, and nearer, somewhere just above them on the slopes. Then, suddenly, drumming, then silence. Then drumming from their left, short and staccato. Near. Then more drumming, urgent and frightening. Like a hare but sharper. Then more, ever nearer. And the skulkings of mole below, listening for them above. Then that mole drumming. Then a fourth; then the first again.

  Signals. They were using sound and vibration to coordinate their encircling of them and to paralyse them into inaction.

  Suddenly, without hesitating longer, Tryfan rose from where he had crouched and with a whispered, “Follow close behind me!” to Spindle, he raced ahead with no further thought of concealment, for he sensed that in moments more they would be discovered.

  A female rose ahead of him, big and strong, but he was moving fast and was able to talon-thrust her out of the way and with a further shout of encouragement to Spindle they raced on by as she screamed a warning to the others behind them. He ran on, held back from going at his fastest pace by Spindle who was now panting desperately with tiredness, but watching ahead in case other grikes were lying in wait. Unless they reached sanctuary soon they would be caught, and the quest Boswell had sent them on ended before it began.

  The ground rose a little and became hard to traverse, and their pursuers began to catch up again as poor Spindle’s breathing became progressively more desperate and laboured. Though Tryfan sensed now that they were near the Blowing Stone, each step forward seemed to push it further away. So near now surely, but so difficult to reach, so near....

  “Go... on... Tryfan. You... go...” It was Spindle, slowing now, unable to continue, and Tryfan turned and saw him stumble to a halt, and behind him, bearing down fast, three moles, big and certain in their stride.

  Spindle looked back at them and then forward to Tryfan, and cried out, “Don’t stop for me, not for me. You go on!” But before Tryfan could even think of what he was doing he had stopped, turned, and moved back to protect Spindle from the onslaught of the grikes. Powerful was he then, his flanks well formed and his shoulders huge and his talons expertly raised as he stood still and steady to defend his new friend, his mouth a little open and his eyes wary.

  The leading grike came straight for him and Tryfan easily sidestepped him and powered him on over his right side, away from Spindle. Then the second, whose talons met his with a crash, and the third... and the fight turned into a grapple, and Tryfan knew that they were lost when he saw more coming, and encircling them.

  “Let go!” It was Spindle, objecting. “You let go. We’ve got a whole army of moles just waiting to attack, yes we have!”

  Tryfan stopped struggling and the grikes pulled off immediately, eyeing Spindle with amusement as he talon-thrust feebly at the air and chattered on about the moles who would rescue them.

  “All right, that’s enough. We’re caught.” Spindle was silent immediately, glancing quickly at Tryfan in surprise, for there was still confidence and purpose in his voice as if he still believed, even now, that they would escape.

  The grikes did not attack more but rather grasped them firmly, three to each one, as a seventh, the female Tryfan had struck, joined them, shouting, “Quick, quick, get them away. Move, move, move...!” As they harried them both away the grikes looked fearfully over their shoulders towards the Blowing Stone which, Tryfan now saw, was but a few moleyards away. They had been caught only seconds from what might have been safety. The great Stone towered over them, dark against the white morning sky and Tryfan could sense its power, and understand the grikes’ fear of it.

  He slumped on his shoulder, playing for time. Spindle, quick as a flash, started to limp.

  “Ow! My paw hurts,” he whined convincingly.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” urged the grikes, pushing and shoving them back the way they had come.

  Tryfan opened his mouth to protest, to argue, to delay, but then he stopped. On the slopes above them another mole had appeared, different from the rest. He had eyes that smiled inappropriately, eyes that appraised, and a curious stance such that he seemed to welcome them yet knew he had power over them. His snout was curiously twisted to the left. His mouth was a little open revealing teeth of yellow sharpness.

  “That’s Weed,” whispered Spindle between wincing sounds of feigned pain, for he was maintaining the fiction that his paw was hurt.

  Tryfan saw that Weed stared at them with a curious weary indifference as if, now that they were caught, they were nothing, and would never be anything again.

  “We reached them just before the Stone,” said the female who seemed the leader of the pursuit party.

  “That’s good then,” replied Weed. “Well done indeed. Praise be for the saving of their souls. They will Atone and be forgiven.”

  Weed came nearer to them and the little party stopped, though the leader still looked back fearfully in the direction of the Blowing Stone.

  “What is your name?”

  “Tryfan,” Tryfan replied boldly.

  “You will obey, Tryfan, and you will not run from yourself anymore. Nor will your friend. We will help you be forgiven.” Weed smiled suddenly, and there was something callous in the warmth of his eyes that chilled Tryfan.

  “Forgiven for what?” said Tryfan, hunching forward for a fight. The talons of the others restrained him painfully.

  Weed eyed him and said nothing, as if nothing was worth saying.

  One of the others said, “We must get him away Sir, away from that Stone.”

  Weed smiled slightly, his teeth glinting, his eyes colder still.

  “The north wind is still, the Stone will not sound again quite yet.”

  “The Stone will sound forever!” shouted Tryfan, struggling to escape the henchmoles’ grasp.

  “In that case we had better get you out of here, had we not?” said Weed, laughing slightly. “Get them underground,” he ordered the others. “Get them to Atonement. There’s an entrance a little way on. Use that.”

  But as they set off back through the grass, the wind freshened and dark wild clouds turned and rose in the sky above them.

  “This place —” said one of them, looking up for a moment and then back at the Blowing Stone. “It scares me.”

  “Say the Word then,” muttered another. “That’s the best,” and they all chanted a song-prayer in deep voices, as if by doing so they would stop the wind itself.

  But over their voices came a low moan, indefinable, vibrating....

  “Come on!” they shouted at them, fear in their voices, even Weed joining his talons to the others as they pushed Tryfan towards an entrance.

  Tryfan said again, desperate now to gain time, “Where are you taking us?” But their reply was to harry them faster along and quicken their chant.

  “Stone,” cried out Tryfan from his heart, for he knew he was being taken somewhere, or to some
thing, terrible, “help us now!” He turned to look at Spindle whose earlier bravado had turned to fear, and saw the beginnings of a submission that comes with great tiredness.

  “Stone!” he began to cry out again, but as he spoke the very words were torn from his mouth, the sky darkened, the wind was suddenly gusting strong and the moaning sound that worried the moles turned into a deep and sonorous note from the Blowing Stone behind them.

  The moles about him hesitated and stopped, their mouths began to open in distress, their teeth to snarl as if to bite themselves, and their talons were wild against the sky and ground as if to stop the sound. Even their leader seemed caught in confusion while on the slopes above Weed’s smile was gone and there was a desperate surprise in his eyes.

  “The Blowing Stone!” one managed to cry in fear.

  “Come on!” cried out another, but his voice seemed suddenly tortured as the Stone sounded again, even more powerfully, and Tryfan saw them confused all about him, Spindle included.

  Instinctively in that moment of panic Tryfan took his chance. He pushed himself clear of the moles nearest him and, as they seemed to go yet wilder with distress, pushed through to grab and support Spindle with his right paw. Then he turned back towards the Blowing Stone. At first Spindle was moaning in distress as well, but as they got nearer he seemed to gain strength once more and, no longer needing support, ran alongside Tryfan. Their paws felt light on the ground, their snouts were full to where the sound came as ahead they saw the great Stone loom up, forbidding but certain, powerful but benevolent, and they ran forward to its sanctuary.

  So confident were they that they dared turn round to look back at their captors and were astonished to see how far they had travelled. The grikes were scattered on the slope beneath them, only Weed seeming capable of watching after them through the sonorous soundings of the Blowing Stone. To him Tryfan shouted, “Tell your Mistress I shall return for Boswell. May she never dare harm him or she will “Atone”!”