Duncton Quest

by William Horwood

  “But something more serious is that they’re expecting trouble from the clearers and have moved many guardmoles up to peripheral Slopeside tunnels and round on the surface to stop any of the clearers trying to escape. It may be too late for Skint’s plans. Now – Brevis. I haven’t heard anything definite about Brevis, but I came across one of the guardmoles who was there when we were and he said there’s hardly any moles left in the burrow-cells at all. They’ve either been snouted or sent on up here. He thought Brevis would be kept there until Midsummer because there are definite orders that he’s to be snouted as part of the rituals... I must go now, otherwise... Mayweed will bring news, and when he does, act swiftly Tryfan. My life will depend on it and so will that of Brevis. Swiftly...” and Spindle was gone, and Mayweed with him to direct him back through the complex way he had come.

  Never had Tryfan felt the ominous frustration he felt then. To see his friend go back into the very midst of danger, to be unable to follow him, and to have to wait and wait, night after night, day by day, starting at every sound, uncertain of every shadow, yet ready at every moment... imagining his friend and companion, whom he had grown to love, dying unloved, unknown, unfulfilled.

  He told Skint what Spindle had said, and Skint readied the others. If any of them discovered anything, or saw any sign of killing, they must summon the others immediately. Willow, protesting, was brought to Skint’s burrow and made to sleep there, for her own miserable place was too far off to be safe. Munro moved closer, too. The nights were dark, the days long, and sleep when it came was restless and shadowed, full of starts and distant rolling darkness which flared sometimes as a roaring owl’s eyes flare across the sky; but red not yellow, red as the blood that drips from a feeding owl’s beak. Those nights were nights of fearful sleep. Fearful and....

  “Psst! Wake up!. Sir!”

  Tryfan rolled over and took immediate stance, his talons ready to kill.

  “Only me, Sir, Mayweed. Ssh, Sir! Follow me.”

  “Where to?”

  “Spindle says to come with me, Sir. The time’s here now and there’s no time.”

  But Tryfan would not go.

  “Must, Sir, please, Sir, Spindle said, Sir. Now, now, now, now. It’s Brevis. Getting him we are, taking him we are, away, away. Tonight’s the only chance, the last chance.”

  “I will come,” said Tryfan rapidly, “but first I must warn Skint.”

  “No time, Sir,” moaned Mayweed, half sobbing. “None.”

  “Well I’m going to, Mayweed, right now, and then I’ll come.”

  “Skint’ll stop you, and he’ll hit me.”

  But Tryfan did not argue any more and ran quickly through the dark, still tunnels to Skint, whom he found was awake, already sensing something was wrong.

  “It’s trouble, isn’t it?”

  “It’s death for moles on the Slopeside before long,” replied Tryfan, his voice purposeful. He rapidly told him about Spindle’s summons to make an attempt to rescue Brevis and said that they intended to bring him back to the Slopeside, which would certainly bring up grikes in force if they were not already there....

  “Now listen: gather Smithills and the others and get them to my burrow quickly, very quickly.”

  Skint did not argue with the younger mole; he had saved his life once, and he was willing to let him do so again! He, Skint, might know about clearing, but there was more to this mole Tryfan than met the eye, and Skint trusted his judgement.

  “You get Munro, I’ll bring the other two,” said Skint.

  And they did it, silently, urgently, urging the protesting Smithills and the sleepy Willow along the tunnels to Tryfan’s beat, where Mayweed was now in an agony of waiting.

  “Please Sir, now. Now please, decisive Sir!”

  “Shut up, Mayweed,” Tryfan found himself saying. “Now listen and trust me,” he continued, addressing the others, “I do not know what is going to happen, or when, but I know it will be soon and it will be fatal. Mayweed has brought a warning from Spindle and it is best you are somewhere hidden and safe. Nomole knows this system better than Mayweed and he will be our guide. We will find a place on the way to Spindle where we can leave you in safety while I travel on with him and get Brevis in whatever way Spindle has organised.”

  “But we’ll come with you,” said Skint. “You’ll need a few extra paws.”

  Tryfan shook his head. “It is best you all stay together at a place that is secret and safe. You can then leave, when confusion reigns in the Slopeside, as we agreed. Before then, with luck, Spindle, Mayweed and myself will have brought Brevis back and we can all escape together. If we don’t come, then you must go, Skint, and take the others to safety.” Skint nodded grimly.

  Their plans made, Tryfan turned to Mayweed who, by now, was almost dancing about the tunnel in fear and trembling at delaying so long.

  “Good Sirs, fair Madam, follow this menial mole mutely, right now!” he said, and was off.

  Tryfan had never been taken on such a confusing route in his life. It was generally south-eastward, which is to say in the direction of the run of the Slopeside tunnels down into Buckland, but in detail the route was anything but direct. Down murky ill-kempt tunnels, through concealed burrows which had not been cleared and where the corpses of moles glinted palely in moonlight from collapsed entrances. Then to a place where an isolated tree rose above pasture, whose surface roots were gnarled and useful. There, where the moonlight shone, Mayweed stopped them and suggested it was easy to defend, easy to escape from, and easy to remember, and there Tryfan insisted the others stayed.

  “Be silent, be patient, and do not wait for us too long once trouble starts,” said Tryfan.

  “Where is this scribemole that you are rescuing?” asked Skint.

  “In the burrow-cells just below the Slopeside,” said Tryfan. “But worry not of that. Remember, when dawn comes, and the light is easy for escape, you leave whether or not we are here; and leave sooner if the trouble threatens you. And if you don’t see us at all, and we do not find you later, then remember that you will find sanctuary in Duncton Wood, which lies far to the east. Remember that!”

  With these words Tryfan turned to Mayweed and signalled for him to guide him on, and the others shrunk into whatever shadows they could find, to wait for a dawn that might decide the lives of all of them; and more.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A tawny owl, roosting in the branches of the tree whose roots had been their haven, rasped its claws and called sharply as Mayweed and Tryfan left, and the night seemed dark and dangerous.

  “Surface now, Sir, just a bit. Owls don’t strike under their own trees, Sir, Mayweed knows...” and on they raced once more.

  Across dew-wet grass, then suddenly down, down between deep stones, sharp and strange, and on into narrowness that pressed a mole’s belly from below and his shoulders from above until he felt he was going to be crushed, was being crushed. Then out into a huge space that echoed with their pawsteps. An ancient, forgotten twofoot place of bones and glinting things all redolent with death.

  “That’s it, Sir, don’t dawdle. Almost there! Mayweed knows the way.”

  And then into a small tunnel leaving their echoes far behind, and up again they were, among surface roots where the wind played and a moon shone above, and a mole darted out at them from shadows: Spindle!

  “Tryfan! No time now, not for greeting or pausing.”

  “But —”

  “No time. At dawn the guardmoles will start moving to all the peripheral tunnels and one by one the clearers will be ordered up to the surface. One by one. They will be killed as they emerge. One by one. None shall know, none suspect. Owls will take them. The grikes have done this before.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know. A tunneller hears. You were right to get me this task Mayweed, unpleasant though it has been. We are going to get Brevis and bring him back by the tunnels we first came up but we must do it before dawn. By then most of the guardmoles will be u
p on the surface and it should be possible to make our way more easily up through the Slopeside and beyond by tunnels Mayweed knows to the northern periphery of the system.”

  “Mayweed knows, knows it’s dangerous, but will do it, Sir. Won’t come with you afterwards because Mayweed’s scared, isn’t he? Yes, he is. Very. Mayweed will stay where he knows, where he’s safe. But he’s your servant until then!”

  Tryfan explained briefly that Skint and the others had been left in a place of safety, and that they had agreed to try to get back to them with Brevis by dawn and then travel on together. Above them the night was still dark, but the moon had sunk lower and somewhere or other an occasional bird stirred, as if preparing for the dawn yet to come.

  “We must go,” said Spindle. “Mayweed knows a way, and I have arranged with Alder that he will be one of the guardmoles at the burrow-cells – that was easy enough because most of the others want to be in on the killings.” With a shudder he turned, and, signalling to Mayweed to start again, they disappeared silently into the tunnels once more, moving swiftly.

  Occasionally they heard the low murmur of guardmoles’ voices, or felt the vibration of a stolid grike treading upslope in the tunnels through which they slunk. But Mayweed’s route was clever and took ways and passages guardmoles would not normally bother with, for they would have assumed they led to dead ends. Mayweed had made many false seals and blocks of his own so that several times they arrived at what seemed a blank wall and were able to pass through it by the quick removal of a stone or innocent looking roof-fall, all of which Mayweed quickly and expertly replaced after they were through.

  “Mayweed knows, Sir, Mayweed remembers. Nomole else knows or cares, and Mayweed hears, too. At dawn, Sir, blood Sir, the tunnels will be red with it. But not mine, Sir!”

  He ran on, down and down a narrow tunnel, until he stopped and indicated that they should be very quiet. For a time they crept silently along and when Tryfan heard the regular stomp of mole paws beyond the wall to his right he realised that they were running parallel to a major tunnel.

  “Nearly there!” whispered Mayweed, grinning with pride. “Took time, did this one, nearly caught often.”

  “You made this tunnel?” said Tryfan, amazed.

  “With my own humble, pathetic and diseased paws, Sir,” said Mayweed. “Clever or no?”

  “Clever – very,” said Tryfan, meaning it.

  “Best seals are light gravel and earth, Sir, can’t be seen but not easy to fix. Mayweed worked out a way, didn’t he? Sited especially in shadow. Now, now, now, now...” his talons ran along the wall, which was of a gravelly soil at this section, and he nodded with satisfaction. “Now we wait for silence.”

  Silence did not come quickly, indeed the traffic in the adjacent tunnel suddenly increased for a time, and the three moles had to crouch still, fearful that the slightest noise would alert the grikes to their presence.

  Even when silence did come at last, giving them an opportunity to break the seal and slip through, Tryfan was uneasy and concerned, cautioning Mayweed who went first to take it slowly.

  It was as well that he did. No sooner had he done so than they heard a sound ahead and froze in the shadows where the seal opening emerged, whispering urgently to the others to stay where they were as more moles were coming.

  At first all they heard was slight vibration of pawsteps and then voices, low and authoritative. Not the shouts and curses of guardmoles, but quiet, almost leisurely conversation.

  “Yes,” a voice was saying as it approached, “Yes, quite so. The Slopeside starts a little further on and we will surface soon.”

  The voice was hard and used to command, and yet its sound slid round the tunnel walls like the roots of bittersweet, the scent of whose purple and yellow flowers is poisonous to mole. Tryfan knew the voice but could not place it.

  Then, as the sense came on all of them that moles of grim power were approaching, the mole who had spoken came into view. Male, strong but not big, a snout that twisted to the left, eyes that missed nothing to left and right, but for the shadow that was all Mayweed seemed to be.

  Tryfan looked round at Spindle in alarm but needed to say nothing, even had he dared. The mole they saw was Weed himself, left-paw mole of Henbane. Yes....

  Then their hearts seemed to stop and their paws to tremble and their flanks to sweat and shake. A second mole followed on, larger than Weed, darker, huge in that tunnel which barely seemed able to contain her, so powerful her presence and evil her aura.

  Henbane of Whern. There, a few moleyards from them, there! Her coat was glossy and dark, her form quite beautiful, the sensual line of her body turning elegantly on itself so that when she moved she seemed not to move at all.

  Even as Mayweed involuntarily started back, Tryfan put out a paw to still him, and tightened his talons on Mayweed’s flank. But even this fractional movement seemed to attract her attention because she turned her head and looked, as it seemed, straight at them. Her eyes were red, or if not red then black and red, yet alight and alluring, most beautiful and frightening, stilling a mole into obedience. And Mayweed gasped, panicking, as Tryfan’s talons dug sharply into his side, pain to conquer fear.

  She paused, loomed a little towards them, her eyes watchful now, and then Weed called out ahead of her to direct her attention to a route to the surface. Still she stared, uncertain, her body massing for attack. The tunnel was silent as the darkest, stillest night. All seemed transfixed. Still Henbane stared and those she seemed to see could not believe they were not seen. For Mayweed there was only fear, total and complete. For Spindle fear as well, but a feeling mixed with dislike and suspicion. But for Tryfan there was in that first sight of Henbane something more, something which went beyond the power and beauty he saw in the mole who had so changed the history of moledom. He saw a terrible pitilessness which no words, no thoughts, no feelings might affect. And yet, as, mercifully, she turned away, with Weed calling her once more and a guardmole coming up behind, there was the glimmer of another feeling, very different, very disturbing. And it was this that made him distracted and impatient as the other two, the moment Henbane and her entourage had passed by, stared and sweated and talked nearly hysterically about how lucky they had been not to have been seen. But Tryfan stayed silent. There was something behind those eyes, something that he needed to know. But what it was he could not guess, and he shook his head as if to rid himself of a puzzle he knew he could not easily solve.

  “The burrow-cells are not far downslope from here,” said Spindle, recovering himself, “and there’ll be two guardmoles on duty as well as Alder. We’ll need to be swift.” He suddenly looked nervous, for he was not a natural fighter, and nor was Mayweed. Of the three of them only Tryfan had the size and bearing to confront a guardmole, and though he had eaten better lately, he was still not fully recovered from the privations he had suffered.

  Nevertheless Tryfan now took over, advancing quietly down the tunnel but not slowly, for time was passing, dawn must be coming, and they had much to do. If Henbane and Weed and moles of their ilk were about, then something of moment would happen soon enough.

  Spindle was right about their position, for soon the short, square tunnel leading to the burrow-cells came into view, and Tryfan felt a tightening of fear coming on him as he remembered the grim time Spindle and he had spent there.

  They could hear guardmole talk, and, hoping that Alder was near to help them, and that surprise would give him the chance to disable at least one of the two other guardmoles, Tryfan signalled Spindle and Mayweed to stay hidden while he advanced down the burrow-cell tunnel.

  Here the tunnels were light with distant dawn, and birdsong outside was mounting. He went forward, turned a corner, and there were the guardmoles, all three. The Stone was protecting them for Alder was furthest into the tunnels and talking to the others, whose backs were to Tryfan. He saw Tryfan and gave him the briefest of nods, which Tryfan took to mean he should continue to advance.

  He did s
o resolutely and slowly, weighing up the indentations and burrow entrances on either side of the tunnel in case he should need them for fighting advantage. He knew he had much to learn in the art of fighting, for his father Bracken had taught him only a little and told him to find a mole to teach him as he had been taught. “Your time to learn will come one day,” he had said, but it never had, and he suspected that he might be at a disadvantage with one trained guardmole, let alone two.

  “Behind you! Danger!” shouted Alder suddenly, rearing up and looking at him. For a moment Tryfan was taken by surprise, but as the two turned and one lunged at him he saw Alder bring his talons down with appalling force on the guardmole nearest him, who, taken unawares, collapsed dying at their paws even as the other’s talons came down towards Tryfan.

  Tryfan parried him powerfully, sidestepped and thrust towards him. But his blow was easily warded off, and another was sent at him which got through his guard to hit his shoulder.

  But he stepped forward again and thrust hard and powerfully, and even as he did so Alder behind, whom the guardmole still did not realise was an enemy, talon-thrust him. The guardmole stopped fighting, his paws raised, unsure which way to turn, and Tryfan took him swiftly and ruthlessly, deep in the belly and Alder finished him off. The guardmole died, a look of surprise and puzzlement on his face.

  For a moment they crouched bloodied and heaving over their two victims before Alder said, “I’ll fetch Brevis and then you must leave swiftly.”

  He returned moments later with a bewildered Brevis, and the two scribemoles greeted each other formally before Tryfan swiftly explained the situation.

  “Well I’ve been fattened up for the kill,” said Brevis lightly, “so I’m fitter than I was. I’ll not be able to travel fast, but with the Stone’s grace and thy direction, Tryfan, we will get to safety soon enough.”

  “Come then,” said Tryfan, “we must go.”

  “Not me,” said Alder, “I am going to get Thyme and Pennywort out.”