Duncton Quest

by William Horwood

  “Yes?” said Skint eventually.

  “He’s glad to talk to me now, you see,” Smithills said mischievously to the others, “now he knows there might be something in it for him. Always been like that, has Skint, haven’t you, you old miser? Just as well I’ve got a generous forgiving spirit.”

  “You’ve got a generous forgiving stomach more like,” muttered Skint.

  In a far shadowy corner Mayweed, who had taken a stance there hoping nomole would turf him out, laughed and said, half to himself, “Oh funny that, witty and droll, the worthy and quick-minded Skint making a comparison between heart and stomach, yes: most excellently done. Very —”

  “Shut up, Mayweed!” said Skint impatiently. “I want to hear Smithills’ news.”

  “Yes Sir, please Sir, I will Sir, only complimenting you Sir.”

  “Give over, Mayweed,” said Smithills in a kindly way. “There’s a good mole.”

  “Wonderful!” said Mayweed ambiguously, and shut up.

  For a time they all chewed contentedly, enjoying that pleasant silence and settling down that precede a good evening gossip such as all moles love. But still Smithills’ news remained unshared.

  “Well?” said Skint, getting increasingly frustrated.

  Smithills looked meaningfully at Tryfan and Spindle, as if to say that he would prefer to know more about them, to see whether they were trustworthy before revealing whatever secrets he had.

  “Well, mole,” he said to Tryfan, “now we’re fed and comfortable you can tell us how you came to be here.”

  “It’s a long story,” said Tryfan, disinclined to tell it but becoming aware that these two experienced clearers were assessing them. When violence, snouting and death came to the Slopeside at Midsummer then perhaps he and Spindle should be allied with strong moles like these.

  “All the better to start it now, then!” said Skint cheerfully, easing his paws forward, and somehow making Tryfan understand that he had best humour Smithills. Smithills too settled again, while Mayweed sighed a little, clearly delighted to be allowed to stay though finding it hard to remain silent. His eyes darted here and there, from mole to mole, until they settled expectantly on Tryfan and waited for him to begin.

  Tryfan told his story, omitting only an account of how he himself was ordained a scribemole, that he and Spindle were travelling in service of the Stone and he made no mention of the Stillstone. But other things he told of – of Boswell, Of the destruction at the Holy Burrows, and of Brevis and his present captivity in Buckland.

  The two clearers listened attentively, particularly to what he had to say about belief in the Stone, for they had not met so articulate and knowledgeable a Stone follower before, and Tryfan sensed that they were dubious of the Word, and knew that a mole in doubt often had an open heart.

  Of his own deeds in protecting Boswell he was modest, but he said enough to make it clear that he was a mole who could account for himself. Finally he spoke briefly of Spindle’s exploits, enough to make Smithills realise that there might be more to the cleric than there seemed.

  “Interesting and well told,” declared Skint at the end.

  “Agreed,” said Smithills.

  “Worthy Sir, you have fascinated us with —”

  “Shut up, Mayweed,” said Skint automatically. Mayweed shut up and contented himself with a ghastly grin of approval.

  “I don’t suppose it matters if these two newcomers hear what I’ve got to say, Skint. I’ve got a feeling healthy and resourceful moles are going to be needed in the days and weeks ahead... My news is that Henbane of Whern is on her way to Buckland and will be here in the week, and that after that we better get a move on and clear up this place or snouts are going to suffer. My news also is that something’s apaw with some of the patrols because they’re being increased, and certain of them have been put on peripheral duties and certain have not, which I seem to remember happened at Rollright before those goings on I don’t like to think about....”

  Skint looked suddenly serious.

  “When did you learn this?”

  “Today,” said Smithills, also serious now. “We’ve got decisions to make, Skint. We got to be on our guard once more. We must plan.”

  Neither mole explained what decisions they had to make, who the “we” included, against what they must be “on guard” or what “plan” they might make. Instead Skint just crouched, thinking. Smithills respected his silence and chewed his food. Tryfan and Spindle decided to say nothing.

  Eventually Skint said, “How are the others?”

  “Willow’s confused, Munro’s fit as a thistle, never better. What about these two?” Smithills nodded in the direction of Tryfan and Spindle. “Can they be trusted?”

  “Not sure. Too soon to tell yet. Only been here six days. But we need support.”

  Tryfan listened to their rapid talk. He and Spindle were still being assessed. Trouble was coming and it had to do with Henbane and the future of the clearers. Would

  Fescue and Sleekit remember their promise to snout him and Spindle at Midsummer? They had to escape before then. The burrow, formerly relaxed, was suddenly tense as if things needed to be discussed and the two older clearers might wish to do it alone.

  “We better go,” said Tryfan to Spindle.

  “Stay,” ordered Smithills. “What I’ve got to talk to Skint about can wait some days yet. He knows that. And maybe we could use a mole like you.” He looked meaningfully at Tryfan and then, rather dismissively, at Spindle, who was tired after the days of clearing and had taken a fatigued kind of stance and was fastidiously cleaning the crevices between his pale talons.

  “He’s with me,” said Tryfan aggressively, to make clear that he and Spindle travelled together.

  Smithills nodded quickly, “Yes, of course he is, I wasn’t suggesting....”

  But when Tryfan was alone again with Spindle he wasted no time in saying that, since dangerous times were ahead, they had best keep their ears and eyes open, and be ready for action. There was something doom-laden and final about the atmosphere in the Slopeside.

  “We stay together, Spindle, and we gather what news we can. Skint and Smithills seem to be moles worth knowing.”

  “They’re not of the Stone,” said Spindle.

  “And yet they don’t seem very much of the Word either” added Tryfan, “but we’ll see. One thing is certain: when this mole Henbane arrives, we’re in trouble, and we had best have our plans made and our purpose clear if we are to survive.”

  That evening with Smithills proved to be the first of many such that the moles were to share during their time of service under Skint – evenings at which they met other clearers, and began to realise that they had been lucky to be seconded to Skint, for he was respected by others, and though he pretended to be bad tempered and mean it was only a defence against the impossible and dangerous life he had led for years.

  His story, and that of Smithills, came out soon enough. The two had been born in the system of Grassington, which lay, they explained, in the very shadow of Whern. Far from being a dark and worm-poor place, as Tryfan and Spindle imagined all systems to the north of the Dark Peak to be, it was, according to their description, as goodly a home system as any, though very different from southern systems, having greater rainfall, racing rivers and streams all about, and different rock and vegetation.

  They grew up in adjacent burrows and, like many youngsters of their generation, saw the grikes of Whern marching south in the service of the Word, whose good news was preached in every system they passed through. When the time came to leave their home burrows in the summer, Skint and Smithills joined the southward march and were soon promoted to guardmole duty. Both showed a talent for fighting – Smithills in paw-to-paw combat, and Skint in a more strategic way: and they worked together very well and were accepted as a team.

  But the Grassington moles are naturally independent, and used to better than the sparse life of Whern, and neither Skint nor Smithills took kindly to the rig
id imposition of the Rule of the Word, nor to the need to impose it cruelly. But they did well enough and rose steadily to middle-ranking positions.

  After various escapades, including one in which they attempted to return to the north but were caught, they were demoted to the ranks once more; and at Rollright, where the battle for supremacy over Stone followers was a hard one and there was some mutiny, they offended Eldrene Fescue, who was appointed by Henbane to impose order on the rebels, and were made clearers. Skint, not used to long subterranean confinement nor proximity to death, had immediately become ill and another mole, an old female called Willow who came from a system near his own, had cared for him and seen him better. Since then the two had always protected her, though she was independent by nature and preferred to live some way off in her own burrows. But they took care of her, and counted her as one of their group. A fourth mole who was “with” them was Munro, a sturdy mole who, though not very intelligent, was strong, reliable, loyal and could fight when he had to, and he too they had met at Rollright. There had been others, but in recent moleyears they had died of disease, been snouted, or gone off to other parts and the group had been reduced to the original four from Rollright who, one way and another, watched out for each other, tacitly accepting Skint as their leader.

  Since coming to the Slopeside of Buckland the mole Mayweed had attached himself to them and, despite their verbal abuse of him, he seemed to like to be around them.

  Smithills and Skint said there had been a massacre of clearers at Rollright when the job there was finished, only the healthier moles being allowed to leave on the trek to Buckland. Now the rumour was that the patrols were being strengthened here, preparatory to another massacre before the trek to the next job. Of Skint’s little group, Willow would certainly be killed, and possibly Smithills too now that his scalpskin was marked. Tryfan and Spindle were healthy but might survive only to be snouted. As for Mayweed, he would surely be killed in any fight with guardmoles.

  In the privacy of the beat they were given a few days later, once their apprenticeship with Skint was over, Tryfan and Spindle agreed that they had best be watchful, and stay close to Skint, for the more they met of other moles on the Slopeside, the more they realised that the Stone had served them well to put them in his care.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tryfan and Spindle’s period as trainee clearers came to an abrupt end when the angry-looking zealot they had briefly met on their arrival appeared out of the murk one day and said curtly to Spindle, “You! Here! Now!”

  The grike was flanked by two large scabby-looking patrollers, only one of whom had they seen regularly in the North End. The other was a new face, and healthier. Both looked ready for a fight and all three behaved as if they were expecting trouble.

  Tryfan, who was nearby, turned and came forward too, if only to give Spindle moral support, for the three moles looked murderous and aggressive indeed.

  “Not you!” the zealot said. “The Word does not summon you yet.” Tryfan fell back but stayed watching, and though he got some unpleasant looks he was not told to leave.

  “True or false,” said the zealot, “you being a tunneller?”

  Spindle hesitated, only dimly remembering that this had been a claim Tryfan had made for him at Mayweed’s suggestion.

  “It’s what your friend said when you came. You don’t look like a tunneller, but you southern moles don’t look like anything much, Word help us. Could have been what that Mayweed told you to say, it could have been the truth. We’ll soon find out!”

  The guardmoles at his side grinned unpleasantly and looked at each other. The consequences of “finding out” that Spindle was not a tunneller if he claimed to be one were clear enough.

  “Now, mole. Are you a tunneller or not? If you’re not and you say so now you can just stay here and continue with clearing duties. If you say you are and we find you’re not you’ll be punished by the Word. Well?”

  Spindle peered round nervously in Tryfan’s direction and then back at the zealot.

  “Actually,” he said, using his best Holy Burrows voice to disguise any trace of the lie he was telling and perhaps to give himself confidence as well. “I am. Well trained and willing, for I begin to see the might of the Word, and the wisdom of its ways.”

  The zealot’s face softened marginally at this piece of nonsense and said, “Well then, come with us. Job to do. Needs a healthy mole, which for the time being you appear to be.”

  “Sir,” said Spindle pleasantly, “I wonder if you would be kind enough to allow my friend to come too?”

  “Is he a tunneller?”

  For the briefest of moments Spindle hesitated again, but much as he wanted Tryfan to come with him now he did not wish to risk both their lives with the discovery that they were not tunnellers; but more than that, some instinct told him that this was a task he had best undertake alone.

  So Spindle laughed, doing his best to sound both superior and derisory, which was not easy since neither attitude was natural to his vague and preoccupied nature.

  “That mole a tunneller?” he said. “Hasn’t got the intelligence!” Then he looked hard at the guardmoles and said more confidentially to the zealot, as one equal to another, “Some moles have brawn, Sir, and some have brains. My training was in the strategy and planning of tunnels and quite frankly, if I may say so, these tunnels of the Slopeside, and some that I have seen that have since been made, are made with more brawn than brain. You could do with some proper planning.”

  The zealot allowed himself a brief smile.

  “Come with us then, mole, and I hope your “planning” is as impressive as your tongue, or else you will not live long. As for your friend...” he turned and whispered to the North End guardmole and then turned back to Tryfan. “Report later for instructions as to which beat to take. Meanwhile carry on with what you were doing!”

  With that, Tryfan’s good companion of the past few months was suddenly gone, and he was left alone to whisper a prayer of protection after him, and hope that the bluff would work.

  Skint was not pleased with the way things had gone and neither he nor Smithills held out much hope for Spindle’s survival. Other moles had tried the same trick over the years, for tunnellers got preferential treatment and a much wider run of the tunnels where they worked, but few had ever been seen alive again. All moles can dig and delve, but planning tunnels is an ancient skill, and one passed down from parent to pup, each system having but a few families who know the secrets of air, soil, water and light, which are the key elements of a tunnel system.

  “He’s a mole of surprising knowledge,” Tryfan told Skint and Smithills, “and though he will not have tunnelled as such in the Holy Burrows, he will have studied what he saw there, and certainly learnt something of Buckland’s tunnels from Brevis, who was his master.”

  “Aye, well, we’ll hope then,” said Skint. “If it works he’ll find out a lot that even Mayweed can’t discover, for Mayweed’s listening is cowardly and surreptitious whereas a tunneller must know what’s going on and be in the thick of things. Mind you, I don’t know what they want tunnellers for since most of that work has already been done. He’s a braver mole than he looks, that one, but...” and Skint shook his head, “I’m sorry, Tryfan, but you’d best not hope for too much. Now, if you don’t mind, Smithills and I want to talk alone.”

  Tryfan was disappointed but not surprised. He knew that neither of the two clearers trusted him yet, nor had reason to, and if there was going to be trouble in the Slopeside, they would want to keep their group, which already included Willow and Munro as well, as small as possible.

  So he felt very alone now, and for several days after was restless and irritable. The guardmole had soon returned and moved him to his new beat, which lay some distance from Skint and on the way to Smithills’ patch, and was one of the last pockets of burrows needing clearing. Here he established himself in a burrow he made clean and good, found wormful soil and began to eat well and rest as much as
he could, for he felt it likely that if he was going to have to survive alone he would need to recover his health from the long ordeal in the burrow-cell. So he was careful to observe all of Skint’s advice on cleanliness.

  One evening, after he had done two hard sessions of work and was doing his best to meditate, there was a scurry nearby and Mayweed appeared.

  “I know you’re sad, I imagine you’re worried sick, clever Tryfan, Sir, about splendid Spindle.”

  “I am,” said Tryfan, glad to see the strange mole.

  “Don’t be,” said Mayweed, with commendable brevity.

  “Have you seen him?” asked Tryfan eagerly.

  “Dead, Sir? No, Sir! So he must be living, Sir! Muddling along I should say because he isn’t a tunneller is he, devoted Sir? You can’t fool Mayweed. But he’s something more than that, like yours truly here, Mayweed is: a survivor, living not dying, thinking all the time that mole, very clever and intimidating to a humble, ignorant mole like me, merely Mayweed. So don’t worry, Sir. I have not seen his corpse yet and don’t expect to! Mayweed did not recommend your good self to tell them that the inestimable Spindle, your friend, was a tunneller for nothing. Mayweed sees a mole, and Mayweed knows. Spindle looked to Mayweed, when this pathetic mole first saw him, as if he had an eye for the veins of a system. We’ll find out soon enough good Sir.”

  With that, Mayweed made to go, but Tryfan called him back.

  “You’ll watch out for him won’t you, Mayweed?”

  “Kind Sir, you have been good to me, I am good to you. I have done nothing but watch out for him these long days past, Sir, but... things are happening. Dark musterings of moles Mayweed likes not. Mayweed’s weak and not a fighter with talon and tooth. Mayweed’s scared, Sir, and frightened now. Harder for Mayweed to get information. Tunnels chock-a-block with moles who could kill him with one talon-thrust, so Mayweed’s somewhat restricted which he doesn’t like, not at all. Doing his best, but currently his best is somewhat roundabout, to say the least, ha! Troubled times now.”