Longest Night came, its daytime grey and bitter cold, a day that spread its doom across all moledom, a day when winds died and a pall fell everywhere. Stone on Stone was deserted across the land, nomole mad enough to venture forth; not in Avebury, or Rollright, or Caer Caradoc; not in Uffington or Duncton; not in Fyfield or Siabod. Quite deserted. The great Stones were abandoned for the first time in the long centuries since great Ballagan’s coming. Truly, the grike held sway.
Yet here and there, why everywhere, there were still the few who at least thought of the Stone that day, and a few who had dared to travel for that special night but were driven down below by the cold now, daring not to go up to the surface and tread the final way to the Stones they had so nearly reached. So the grikes held sway across the land, but not in all moles’ hearts.
Perhaps a few even poked their snouts out and looked about as dusk and the time for celebration came. Spindle did. But the air was strangely heavy and cold in the copse where they had stopped, the surface cracked with frost, the sky seemed grey with death, the trees and grass and rocks and frozen waters of the earth so still and nothing moving anywhere.
Yes, Spindle was one of the few who peered out and who, like the others, came back down again.
“It’ll be dangerous out there tonight, Tryfan,” he whispered, his voice in awe. “It’s as if the whole of moledom is waiting and dare not move. ’Tis cold, so cold, and perhaps we should just say a few words here. Yes, that would be best. Soon we’ll say something, when the night’s started.”
But Spindle said no more as if even his speech was squashed from him by the cold, oppressive sky, whose death-grey changed to deep murk black with not a star in sight.
Yet Tryfan moved, snouting up towards the entrance Spindle had been to and himself peering out. He seemed disturbed and restless, and came down and went back up several times, and each time the night growing darker and more heavy. The wind had died to nothing. The cold was great.
“Better not go outside again, Tryfan. Best to stay inside. There’s no Stone hereabouts so far as I can tell....”
“Always the Stone,” said Tryfan ambiguously.
“What’s troubling you? Is it because it’s Longest Night and you want to be celebrating?”
“Moledom’s waiting, Longest Night has come. There is not a follower in the land who does not seek a sign tonight. Few may be our number now, scattered and lost, yet as we wait here, many others wait as well. He is coming, Spindle, and I believe the Stone will grant us hope tonight. Now, come with me to the surface and be my eyes, for mine are not much good. See if there is a Stone here, or somemole, or any sign that will give us hope. Come now Spindle....”
His voice was quiet and calm, but suddenly he reared and, seeming not to see or hear Spindle’s warnings or willingness to come, he crashed up out of the burrow into the frozen night. Then when Spindle tried to slow him Tryfan summoned a maddened strength to fight him back which made his friend retreat, not from being forced to but rather because he could see resistance caused Tryfan even more distress. So Spindle let him go, out among the frozen drifts of snow in search of a Stone it seemed. And
Spindle followed lest he got lost or harm came to him, and he saw something Tryfan could not. The air was still as death where they went, and yet, unseen by them, most strange, high above them the stolid ghostly clouds began to move.
Tryfan had been right in what he said: followers across moledom waited for a sign that night, and later many would tell the stories of their waiting, and of how that sign first came to them. Many...
Deep in the Wen where Dunbar’s moles clung on to life beset by age – many more had already been taken by that chill winter – Feverfew stirred at the surface entrance of a tunnel on the eastside of the hill. The tunnel was not her own.
Spread before her to the south the Wen was as still as ever it had been, its lights befogged and strange, its distances obscured, such sounds as twofoots made muffled and roaring owls scarce in the night, their gazes dim and slow.
Nearby, unseen by Feverfew, a mole watched over her. That mole was Heath, deputed to the task by Starling, though he might have done it anyway for Feverfew was a mole, he liked and who, over the moleyears since Tryfan and the others had left, had shown their young, both litters, much kindness and taught them of the Stone, great teachings from a tradition almost dead.
For molemonths now Feverfew had been in distress, her scalpskin worsening from October on and making her restless and in pain. Across her face it had spread, blighting her senses, marring her sight, causing her paws discomfort.
“Watch over her, Heath, for I will not leave our youngsters on Longest Night,” Starling had told him. “See where she goes, be with her and say the rituals she has taught us, be with her.”
Those two had nuzzled then and Heath had followed after Feverfew watching over her as, unknown to him, at that same moment to the north Spindle did the same for Tryfan.
That night then, two searchers and two watchers were out on the surface in the bitterest cold, when the sky seemed to sink down its weight upon the earth and crush all life or hope from it. Two moles searching.
Then softly, almost magically, a wind from the east began to break the oppressive stillness, weak at first and then stronger; a good and welcome wind. Where Feverfew crouched, the rough grass near Dunbar’s tunnels stirred; where Tryfan wandered, it was the trees’ slenderest branches that first moved. Above them both, in their separate places, the moving clouds began to clear and as they did so they began to fill with light from behind. Over Wen the effect was striking indeed, for the fog that had settled on its lower parts had so obscured its eternal lurid light that for once the clouds and sky above was as others in moledom saw it.
Now light began to break through as the cloud cleared more and the good wind came. First one then two, then suddenly ten thousand stars, bringing brightness and glory to the Longest Night sky.
Then something more, and that which all moles remembered who saw the sky that night. It was a star, seeming solitary, big and bright and there. There before them in the east from where that warming wind came. A star which, however hard a mole might try not to stare at it, drew a mole’s eyes back again, and again, and held him in awe.
Nomole told others what to say, no words were prescribed for that Longest Night, but all stared in wonder and whispered the same: “It is a sign, the Stone Mole is coming.”
Heath, too, stared up in awe, and knew the same, and even whispered it in wonder, and so did not see Feverfew turn from that light and go down into the frozen tunnels and run as if she knew the route Mayweed had struggled so hard to find. Running through those dark tunnels where, as she went, the light of that brightening star shone down at entrance after entrance, casting its clear light across the scribings Dunbar had made.
Running she was, faster and faster, touching the walls sometimes as she went, sounding out the sound of age to youth, the long journey of an ancient mole back to where he first began. Feverfew running down that journey through a great age of time as, unknown to her, distantly, where she could not be, Spindle reached out to touch Tryfan, and guide his gaze skyward, and move out of the the shelter of the trees that he too might glimpse what so many others saw: a star that was a sign.
“The Stone Mole is coming!” cried Tryfan, “see? He sends us a sign at last! The Stone Mole comes!”
His voice was joyful, as once it had often been, and his scarred face turned skyward to the east, and where tears ran from his hurt eyes the light of that star glistened and shone and Spindle knew Tryfan’s retreat was nearly done, his hope to be restored, his faith renewed in the prayers and invocation they cried out in celebration of the light that came from a star of hope that Longest Night.
Then across moledom’s sky all the stars shone brighter yet and moles looked up with wonder in their eyes and whispered, “This night is the Longest, this is the turning, now does light begin, again, soon, soon, the Stone Mole comes!”
While alon
e and unknown, Feverfew ran on through tunnels lit bright by stars, past scribings made by a holy mole who scribed that one day the Stone Mole would come. Now she ran to the last chamber he had made, blocked by a stone no mortal mole’s talons could break. And there, where Tryfan had once been, she crouched as those scribings she had sounded echoed, with the wisdom of age running back to youth, and they died to a whisper that echoed again one word, one final word: Listen!
Then in the silence Feverfew knew she heard the call of a coming mole, distant seeming but only lost in that chamber nomole could enter, sounding there where
Dunbar made his final scribing. And she knew in her agony of body and of lost spirit that it called to her.
Like many others that night, Feverfew whispered out his name, “Stone Mole, Stone Mole, Stone Mole,” and felt a joy that made her sigh and laugh. For it was to her he called. Last of the young females of the Wen, last of her kind, and he called to her to help him, for he wished to come now and would need her soon.
Then Feverfew turned through tunnels brighter yet, and passed the sounds of moles so old, so young, male and female, calling out from the love that must precede the Silence, and felt the Stone was with her, shining its light to guide her, for she had listened and she had heard, and she was ready now to follow it.
To the surface she went as that light in the night sky was bright, eastward for all of moledom but those in the Wen: westward for them. A star, brighter than the rest, high and big, casting awe across moledom, its light making Feverfew’s scalpskinned face seem white, and her fur seem good. And there Heath waited for her, to see her safe.
“Yow sek to tak me whar I wyl biginne?”
As Heath nodded, willing to go with her, she touched him and shook her head.
“Nat yet myn der, nat yet. Yow wyl cum whan moules are called, nat bifor. Staye with Starling redy to guid her out.”
“But you’ll be lost in the tunnels or killed,” said Heath.
“Myn guid ys the Stane, and it is gud.”
Before she left, she went back to Starling, and she touched her by the light of stars.
“Guard yem wel!” whispered Feverfew, meaning the youngsters, and those old moles who still lived.
“We shall,” said Starling, “and one day we shall come too. I will keep them safe, and when the time is right we’ll come, Feverfew, as many will.”
Then Feverfew turned and laughed with joy, and it seemed to Starling and Heath, watching her, that the light of the stars lit the ground before her paws as she turned westwards to seek out her great task.
“Why do we have to go on tonight?” a mole had said that same night – a mole few would have recognised.
“Because it is a night many will remember, and I would have you remember it too,” said Boswell. “And anyway we have not far to go.”
Bailey stared at the old mole with affection and even love, and Boswell knew it was the same way Tryfan had looked at him, all those years ago. How many years? Boswell could not quite remember, years and moles merged into each other; not so many, perhaps.
“It’s as light as day!” said Bailey. He almost ran in his pleasure at that starry night, ran as the Bailey Henbane made could never have done. That Bailey Boswell had undone. That Bailey was lost somewhere on the long and arduous way behind, lost in bits and pieces as a tree loses its leaves before the winter winds until it shows once more the strong branches underneath. So had his obeseness fallen by the way, so had his weak smiles and spoilt sulks vanished, so had the unhealthy sweat of a mole unexercised gone now, and in their place a different mole emerged on that long trek than any ever seen before. Older than he had looked and much, much leaner, stronger of paw and surer of talon, but most of all a mole who laughed now sometimes yet held still that innocence and earnest fun he had once had when his sisters, Starling and Lorren, had him at their side when they were young, when Duncton was still theirs; when Barrow Vale echoed for a little while to the sound of their excited talk and laughter.
Looking at him those last few days before they reached the object of their trek, Boswell was reminded of something too many moles forget: moles can change, really change, or shed at least those darknesses that have become dominant.
Yet he knew too that nomole goes through what Bailey had without some mark being left upon him. For this poor mole (thought Boswell peaceably), it was a nervousness of self, a timidity of soul, a sense of shame masked now only by a young male’s new-found strength and confidence. The shame of a mole who has done those things he felt he ought not to have done, and who feels himself unworthy ever to see again the moles he would most like to see. For Bailey that meant Starling and Lorren. Wise Boswell sighed; moles wasted so much time worrying.
But that night at least that shame was a forgotten shadow in poor Bailey’s heart as he watched, as so many others did, a star that shone. He must have been one of the very few who did not know, or guess, that it was a sign that the Stone Mole was coming, coming for them. And he was nearest to it.
“What is that star, Boswell?” Bailey asked looking up, and up again, for it was almost overhead.
“That star?” repeated Boswell trekking on not looking up. “Why all moles know that star tonight. It tells them the Stone Mole is coming.”
“Oh!” said Bailey. “Where are we going?”
“To where it shines, of course. It’s not far now,” sighed Boswell. “Not now.”
Bailey looked at the old mole at his side and it seemed to him that Boswell’s fur was almost brighter than the star itself, brighter than the snow and frost that caught the stars’ light in their crystals. Yet it seemed that Boswell was suddenly old too, so very old, and suddenly frail, so frail that Bailey wanted to help him.
“I think you should rest,” said Bailey, “because you are very old!”
“It’s all right, mole!” said Boswell irritably. “The rest of mole may watch but we must move.”
“Look!” said Bailey, forgetting all concern for Boswell as they crested a hill and saw before them, stretching out across the east, a lurid expanse of lights still beneath the star-struck sky.
“The Wen,” said Boswell. “I’ve been telling you about it for days.” The valley mists had cleared, the Wen was plain.
“You didn’t tell me it looked like that! Amazing!”
“Better than a star?”
“Well nearly better!” said Bailey, not sure where to look.
“I’ll show you something better, mole, if you’ll just keep on going for once without stopping every time you see something new,” said Boswell, stirring himself forward through the night for one last effort. “Come on!”
Down a drop, up another rise, the Wen’s light fabulous to their left, the star ever more directly above them, the sky ever brighter and alive, the air cold.
“There!” said Boswell, old mole, White Mole, beloved mole of Uffington. “Look and listen, mole; and remember, for many will ask you what you saw this night.”
Ahead of them was something shining beyond a final stand of trees, so bright the trees were in more than silhouette: some of their branches were lost in the light.
They went on, the light falling from their bodies like drops of brilliant rain, through the trees and undergrowth until they were before it: a great Stone that caught the light of the star that shone in the sky high above it, a Stone that seemed now filled with light.
“Oh it is better!” said Bailey in an awed voice, instinctively stopping where he was and letting old Boswell go on up to it. “Much better. Is that where we’re going now?”
“It is.”
“What is its name?” whispered Bailey.
“It has had many names through the centuries, but I think the one Tryfan called it is as good as any ever was. He named it Comfrey’s Stone. Let it be so. It is the only Stone in moledom to be named after a mole.”
“But listen!” said Bailey. “Listen, Boswell!” For there was a kind of Silence in the sky, and beyond it, coming out of it, a distant sound
that made all moles that heard it reach forward.
“Listen!” said Bailey.
“I know, my dear, I know,” said Boswell gently as Bailey began to cry at the beauty of what he saw and what he heard.
The Stone where Comfrey died was where the Stone shone brightest in all of moledom that Longest Night, its sides were white, purer than white, and around it, and above, and from it, came that sound from Silence that seemed to fill the sky. Soft it was, and barely heard, and yet scribes say that many heard the sound that night, as Feverfew had heard it before she set off from the Wen. Then the starlight began to fade and the sound to go.
Bailey cried, the tears of anymole who had lost what once he had and still remembers it, and wishes it was his again.
“Is the Stone Mole coming to help us?” he asked Boswell.
“He is,” said Boswell, so tired now, so tired.
“Boswell?”
“Bailey?”
“What shall we do here?”
“Wait,” smiled Boswell, “and while we’re waiting you can find me worms and keep a burrow clear near Comfrey’s Stone.”
“How long?”
“Weeks perhaps. Molemonths maybe.”
“For what?”
“A mole.”
“But why?”
Boswell smiled, the smile of an old mole who understands the impatience of the young.
“Because I need her, Bailey. Because I’m old and have not long to live.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say that, Boswell. I don’t like it!”
“Well, ’tis true. But never fear. If there are moles enough with courage and with faith then my journey is nearly done and hers, still yet to come, will not be in vain.”
“Boswell,” whispered Bailey as dawn struck the eastern sky, “where has the light from Comfrey’s Stone all gone?”
“Into the hearts of the followers who saw it to help them hear the Silence when the Stone Mole comes.”
“Did Tryfan see it?”
“Yes.”
“And Spindle?”
“Yes.”
Duncton Quest Page 81
