But now he knew what he must do and he spoke those words Bracken had taught him and which he had said once already that night when the youngsters were gathered about. But he said them again willingly, for somewhere was another, and one who had not heard them yet, and before he spoke them he said, “Oh St-Stone, if it’s T-Tryfan that’s calling me, t-t-tell him I know, t-tell him I’m here, yes tell him that. Now l-let me see. I think I know them, always think I’ll f-forget but I d-don’t. Don’t d-dare! Now....”
Then Comfrey raised a paw to the Stone, and instinctively turned west, for that’s where the call was from, and he began to say the words allmole should say that special night of nights:
“By the shadow of the Stone,
In the shade of the night,
As they leave their burrows;
On your Midsummer Night...”
“Well,” muttered Comfrey interrupting himself, “I kn-know perfectly well they left their burrows long ago and are now asleep as their elders and betters get on with some song, b-but I have to say it aright!”
“We the moles of Duncton Stone
See our young with blessing sown...”
And there was ardour in Comfrey’s voice now and no more hesitation and he turned from the Stone and spoke the words to the west, to where, he felt sure, a mole needed the help the words gave....
“We bathe their paws in showers of dew,
We free their fur with wind from the west,
We bring them choice soil,
Sunlight in life.
We ask they be blessed
With a sevenfold blessing.
“The grace of form
The grace of goodness
The grace of...”
Then, as Tryfan whispered the words far, far away his half brother Comfrey spoke them too and Mayweed began to find the strength to repeat them, and more than repeat them, to say them, stronger and stronger so that Tryfan’s voice fell away and the other moles there watched and listened in wonder as at the Stone in Harrowdown Mayweed gave to them something they would not forget. He gave them a blessing out of darkness, a blessing out of pain, and from doubt he spoke in faith....
“The grace of suffering
The grace of wisdom
The grace of true words
The grace of trust
The grace of whole-souled loveliness.
“We bathe their paws in showers of light,
We free their souls with talons of love,
We ask that they hear the silent Stone.”
So is it chronicled that Mayweed spoke, though from where he found the words, or the strength, or the Silence to so speak nomole knows. But to the east he turned, and the light was on his face and though suffering was there, there was knowledge too, and hope, and his loneliness was gone. For a moment he had heard Silence and in that moment he was healed, and the darkness of his puphood was gone from him, and he could love and trust.
Then all the moles at Harrowdown were silent, and many others across Moledom too, including good Comfrey, who watched that short night through, until when dawn came Mayweed was helped to his burrow and then the others went silently to theirs, to sleep and let a new sun shine.
Which, when it did, brought discovery of healing at Harrowdown, of Mayweed, whose hurt was gone and whose sores would dry and heal; of Smithills, whose scalpskin began to clear; and of old Willow, who found in the days that remained to her a peace that gladdened the hearts of everymole there.
Chapter Nineteen
So Midsummer passed at Harrowdown and each one of them there, even Mayweed now, was quiet and peaceful, content to wait two or three weeks longer until Tryfan decreed that it was time for them to move on from the environs of Buckland.
“But we better not wait too long,” warned Skint, “because I know the moles of the Word – nomole better than I. They’ll see our desertion as blasphemy and will not stint to find us. We’ll be outcast, which means that no system can harbour us without fear of punishment and snoutings. So we best get away before they send out orders.”
But Tryfan was cautious, arguing that the grikes had not pursued Spindle and himself very rigorously after they left Uffington, and probably the last place they would think to look now was at a little system like Harrowdown, so close to the Slopeside.
In any case, there were no signs at all of searching guardmoles or patrols and their hiding place had gone undiscovered this long, and the grikes had other things to occupy themselves with now.
Of the events by the Stone, and the healings, Tryfan said nothing and the others little, and though few of them yet knew he was a scribemole all instinctively felt his authority and accepted it. For Skint and Smithills and the others it was enough that they were free of clearing and the Slopeside, and able to make each day their own for a time.
After a day or two of rest following the healing of Mayweed, Tryfan went to Brevis and said formally, “Much have thou to teach me and there is little time.”
“What can I teach thee?” said Brevis, respectful of the younger mole, “for thou art a scribemole beyond need of my knowledge.”
“Of scribing itself canst thou teach me, for there I have yet much to learn that Boswell did not teach me.”
Which Brevis did, in that high wild place called Harrowdown, teaching all he knew to Tryfan as if there was indeed little time left and too much to learn. Long days of quiet instruction in the ancient texts of the Holy Burrows, such as Brevis was able to remember, summarise and pass on, so that the sound of talons on bark and soil filled their burrows.
It was then that Spindle persuaded Tryfan and Brevis to begin to teaching him scribing, a skill that Mayweed was allowed to learn as well; but more than that, he suggested that Tryfan should consider developing new texts which would be very different from the spiritual and academic studies that had been traditional in the Holy Burrows, and which were all that Brevis knew, important though they were.
So it was that, for a time that late June and early July, Harrowdown became the centre for rediscovering an old kind of record-keeping, one that recorded the memories and experiences of ordinary moles. It was then that Brevis himself made his Memoranda of Grikes in Buckland taking down in their own words the stories of Skint, Smithills and Willow, and instructing Tryfan and Spindle in the making of such accounts, and showing how a scribemole must listen to another mole, and let him or her speak their own words true without prompting or alteration.
It was then that the mole Willow dictated to Spindle, that he might practise his new skill, her Songs and Rhymes of Wharfedale, the finest collection of such material gathered from a single source, and a Book (for such it be) which preserves for ever the name of Willow of Wharfe.
Tryfan made several Memoranda and Briefs of his own in that rich period of scribing, the most important of which was the seminal Teachings of Boswell, White Mole. But there were other texts too, including the extraordinary Escape from a Seal-up, The Tale of Mayweed of Buckland which is scribed by Tryfan to Mayweed’s dictation, and Tryfan’s first Annals of Duncton Wood.
Spindle was much concerned with the preservation of these texts, for he argued that they would not be able to take them safely with them when they left Harrowdown, and accordingly he showed Smithills and Skint how to create a small deep burrow for their preservation, until such time as it might be possible for them to be recovered and taken to a place worthy of them.
It was a time of extraordinary activity at Harrowdown, for each mole sensed that their time there was short and there was much to do. Each helped each other, all but Willow took their turn to watch out for danger, while Mayweed, pleased to have a role to play, began to explore the northern environs which were the slopes leading down to the Thames, in an attempt to find a quick route of escape away from the area of Buckland.
Sometime then, too, Skint and Smithills came to the two scribemoles and Skint said, “Well now, if we’re to go with you when you leave this place, it might be a good idea if you told us something of this Ston
e of yours, as we’ve told you what we know of the Word. Not saying we want to be believers in the Stone, but we’d be better off knowing something of it, eh Smithills?” Smithills nodded his agreement.
So it was that Tryfan made his first formal teaching of the Stone, though unwillingly, for he felt himself to be unworthy. But both Brevis and Spindle urged him to talk with Skint and Smithills, and he did so by morning and by sunlight, by evening and by dusk, and the others listened – Willow, quiet and peaceful now she was clear of the Slopeside, and Mayweed, too, staying as always a little to one side, listening from a tunnel of his own, or from some shadowed nook where he felt comfortable to be unseen.
So time passed until there came a night when the air was warm and the sky was covered in stars, and somewhere beneath them Tryfan sensed the great flowing of the
Thames, and knew that their days at Harrowdown were nearly at an end. Troubled he was, for the sky that evening had been deep blood-red, and the Harrowdown Stone had been cold to the touch. That night it was that he called them near and warned them that their time there was done. That night too, perhaps, moles crept unseen over the stream on the eastern boundary of the Slopeside, sly and sneaking moles, curious and suspicious, and finding tracks that led up towards Harrowdown.
“Searched there?” said one grike to another.
“Think not,” said a second.
“Mmm,” mused the one in charge.
But of this the moles at Harrowdown were unaware, and they felt safe enough for there were always watches out, and Mayweed had found ways they could escape if an attack ever came.
But that evening all were gathered to hear, and no watches were kept, for what Tryfan had to say was important.
Skint said, “You have told us much of the Stone, and of its rituals and powers. What shall we remember?”
For a long time, beneath that dark, starry sky, Tryfan was silent, and then he breathed deep, and talked with them, giving then the sayings that are known as the Three Tenets of the Stone.
“First,” he said, “a follower must find discipline, for without it he or she will never solve the problems that arise from the simple truth that a mole’s life is difficult. Many avoid such problems and so they never truly live, for living is in the solving; restlessness is in the avoiding.
“Discipline is in dwelling on what is, rather than living in a self-made dream of what is not; it is in accepting that there is risk in the way ahead, yet taking it; it is in telling truth whatever the loss may be; it is in learning to live in the darkness while always seeking the light.
“Second a follower must give love, which means he must know it. Love is not desire for oneself. Such a thing is lust, or greed, or fear. Love is the desire to lead another on the way of the Stone, selflessly. It is to put the other before oneself. And yet it is to put oneself first as well. A mystery! A follower must have a sense of humour! A mole learns love at puphood, but if he learns it not then, and many do not, he learns it later from others who know it; or from the Stone itself.
“Thirdly, a follower must live, conscious of himself as he is conscious of others. The Stone helps him, the Stone helps her, and knowledge of the Stone deepens with knowledge of other moles: with them, by them, through them, away from them. Living is in all of that. Remember that its nature is open, and free, and full of light; it is not secret, nor imprisoned, nor in dark. Trust before you condemn.
“So a follower will yearn for discipline, will yearn to love, will yearn for life; as hunger yearns for satisfaction. Not easy! Never easy!”
Tryfan’s voice was warm, his final words a shout, and the final sound he made in that teaching a laugh, for a follower, as he said, must have a sense of humour.
Yet there was a shiver in the air, and an uneasiness, and Tryfan said, “We will leave tomorrow, yes tomorrow!” But all there felt uncomfortable as the darkness beyond the wood that night seemed ascurry and fractious, though there was no sound in the warning tunnels or out on the surface where Smithills and Skint, for safety’s sake, made a patrol.
“Don’t like it,” were Skint’s last words that night.
“We leave on the morrow,” said Tryfan.
Spindle set off for his burrow but on his way turned west, scurried on to the surface, and then down again by a fallen branch, seeking out a tunnel so well hid that though he had been there many times he always had to search for it. It was the deep chamber Smithills and Skint had built to preserve the scribings they had made in the weeks past. He began to seal it up, then stopped. Re-emerged, went to Brevis’s burrow, and, despite Brevis’s protests that the text was only half complete, he took a book the old scribe had been working on. Then back to the secret chamber he went, carefully put the last text in, and, backing out, sealed the place up, not once, not twice but thrice. Nomole would find that place without being told exactly where it was. Then he went back to his own burrow and, tired out, slept.
Meanwhile, Tryfan, restless still but satisfied that all were now aburrow, took stance out in the open above the northern vales and for a moment it seemed that the whole of moledom turned round the heights of Harrowdown, and the Thames far beneath seemed briefly to catch alight, its meanders shining as if caught by stars. He shivered again and went aground, wondering if he should have led them away that night, but feeling tired and believing that the morrow would do.
That night, while they were asleep and unwatching, moles of darkness came, moles of death. So that when dawn came with the grey flap of a heron’s wings the grikes were there too, unseen and creeping. Moles nameless, approaching. Moles so quiet that evil guided their talons. Moles led by Weed.
A mole hard to see in light, was Weed; impossible at dawn, for his coat held that special grey which is the twilight of insinuation.
But he was there.
So were others whose names in time would be known, as if massing about Harrowdown were the moles who in the long struggle to come of Word and Stone would meet again, and again, fortunes changing and volatile.
So filthy Smaile was there, and Pewle his friend, and Fescue, eldrene notorious.
A single signalling thump, then the silent, creeping, secret expedition to surround Harrowdown was ready and alert. Two others were there who can be named. One was Sleekit, sideem and trusted, but to be trusted ever by whom? The other was Henbane, sensing a light beyond the light of stars and seeking now to put it out.
Yes, she was there, not directing but present and essential, as fear is the essence of a frightened group, or darkness is the essence of night. That mole was there, choosing a stance apart to watch and feel and know, awaiting her time. Oh yes, she was there that dawn on Harrowdown.
As sunrise came they closed finally in, expertly seeking out the entrances the hiding moles had made and waiting there. Careful not to go too close and to stay windside, lest scent or air current warn the sleeping moles.
Yet Tryfan stirred uneasily in his burrow, and as he did he was wakened by a sharp and urgent whisper.
“Wake up! Tryfan! Wake.”
It was Skint, crouched down alert, his head on one side. Smithills was by his side.
Tryfan was suddenly alert and listening, snouting into the air for movement or scent.
“Nothing,” he said, but stayed absolutely alert.
“Something,” said Skint.
“Yes, something,” agreed Smithills.
“Spindle and the others, get them,” said Tryfan. And silently they left to muster the group together.
By a dawning light they assembled, the last coming being Mayweed. “Danger Sir, I smell it, I heard it, I feel it: grikes, Sir. But Mayweed’s not afraid, he knows a route away.”
“If they come, they’ll come quick and violent and resistance won’t be much use,” said Skint. “I knew we should have gone....”
It was true. The tunnels were built for hiding not fighting, for there was not much seven moles could do in such a location against resolute guardmoles.
They looked at Tryfan.
; “We should have left before. But now that is past, so listen. I trust Skint’s judgement, and Mayweed’s. I cannot hear or sense danger, but they can and that is enough for me. If we stay here we cannot fight because there is no room, nor have we any chance of escape, If we attempt to escape together we shall certainly be heard. The best is to confuse, and that means dispersal.”
Skint and Smithills nodded at this.
“Each go silently by his own tunnels which he will know best. Stay underground. Surface and meet on the north side of the wood where the day will still be darkest. Brevis will come with me.”
“But...” began Spindle, for he had no wish to be separated from either of them.
“Do it now, fast and silently. It would need many moles to guard all our exits, even if they could find them. Get to the north side.”
“Mayweed knows a way by badger route and fox path. Down, down, down it goes for he has done it, Sirs and Madam. Follow it and trust it and you will be at the Thames’s side itself. Mayweed advises and hopes you’ll listen.”
But no sooner had he said this than there was a rushing in the tunnels, distant at first, but all around. Dangerous now, very.
They said no more. Above ground they heard a rustle, and the gentlest of thumping signals, but audible enough for all of them to know that danger was near. Skint’s instincts had been right.
Then they turned and left, and the burrow where they had been was suddenly empty, echoing only with retreating pawsteps, each going his way, with Skint taking Willow at his side.
Duncton Quest Page 31
