Duncton Quest

by William Horwood

  Mid-March and Bailey, and dusk. A clear sky when the stars begin to show early, first one and then another in a pale blue sky. While far across the Wen a myriad of lights slowly spread.

  Bailey was worried and that look of self-concern and petulance long, long gone. Now there was care in his face, and tiredness too, and his gaze moved restlessly from the Wen’s lights to Comfrey’s Stone, and from that to the still, still form of old Boswell, thin now, his breathing painful, his face so weary. Restless, too, for his talons fretted at the snowy ground, and his head was not still.

  “Stone,” whispered Bailey, “I ask that you help him for I cannot seem to help him more. I know he’s suffering but I don’t know what to do. He won’t eat or go aburrow. He’s so tired, Stone, and yet won’t try to sleep. He suffers but nothing comforts him. I’m just a mole, not clever or knowledgeable and....”

  “Bailey,” whispered Boswell, “is she come yet? Ask the Stone to call her. Ask that.”

  “I ask it,” said Bailey, looking up at the Stone and to the stars in the sky above. Then: “Boswell, I don’t know what more to do, I just don’t know!”

  “Keep me warm until she comes....”

  “Who will come? You never tell me. You’ve been calling for her for weeks and you never tell me.”

  “You’ll know,” said Boswell. “Oh mole, you’ll know.”

  For weeks Boswell had been ailing, perhaps ever since they had first got to Comfrey’s Stone and watched a light shine out which had died. In the days following he had gone aburrow when he should, keeping warm and eating. But he would come up regularly to the surface and face east over the Wen, whispering interminably, “She’s coming, and she needs my help to get here. She’s coming now, Bailey, and I’m so tired. Moles must do it alone, they must. Can’t do more. Pray for her, Bailey. Help her when she comes. That’s your task, my dear.”

  Again and again had Boswell said it. When the snows came the wind came too, and drifted the snow away from the Stone so that it rose out of the thinnest layer of snow, and the grass to the edge of the long slope down to the Vale of the Wen was clear as well.

  “To make it easier for her, Bailey. Help her when she comes. Pray for her... pray for me.” Sometimes then his mind began to wander and he called Bailey by different names, confusing him with Tryfan, and Comfrey, with Bracken and Rebecca, with others, too. Old names, names such as moles hear no more. Confusing him even with Ballagan, who was the first, and struck the blow that made the seven Stillstones.

  “I’m Bailey,” Bailey would whisper and Boswell would reply, “No, no, my dear, no not Bailey now, allmole Bailey, you’re all the same my dear... is she coming? I long for her to come.”

  So had those last terrible weeks gone by, with Boswell unwilling to leave his vigil over the Wen, until he had begun not to eat, and to weaken, and to fade before poor Bailey’s eyes.

  All that last day he had breathed painfully, and his voice had become weaker, and yet he called out again and again, “Can you see her, is she come?” But Bailey could not see anymole, only the steep slope down to the Vale and stretching as far as the eye could see, and those lights that were stronger at first than the weak stars breaking through but which gradually that evening the stars outbrightened.

  It was so cold that night and Bailey was tired and concerned at Boswell’s suffering. The Wen’s lights lurid, the sky above darkening, the stars ever more powerful and striking down so that the place about the Stone was light, and Boswell’s fur white, and his eyes longing for something he was too tired to go out and meet. No, must not meet. Must wait for. Yes. Must wait. That was his long suffering.

  “Is she...? I need her now, Bailey... Is she coming?” whispered poor Boswell and Bailey was distraught. Staring up at Comfrey’s Stone, then at the stars, then at the Wen, then where the breeze blew flat across drifted snow, then at the Stone once more.

  “Help him, Stone, send your Silence for him, help him now.”

  Then Bailey crouched by Boswell as if to protect him from his own ailing, which nomole could have done, and Boswell muttered confused words, his mouth barely moving and his star-struck old body seeming to grow more fragile with each passing moment of the night.

  “Is she...?”

  “Yes!”

  For suddenly Bailey saw her, coming over the rise, and she was thin and scalpskinned and like a terrible thing that came to take his Boswell from him. So Bailey reared up crying, “No, no!” for he was afraid of what she was, and what she meant, and afraid of that sound that seemed to have struck distantly across the sky and which he had heard before.

  “Yes... yes...” whispered Boswell, “oh yes, now is moledom’s time, now she is come.”

  But Bailey was in fear and sought to run forward and stop her, for her body was caught with sores and her ugliness was coming to take a White Mole, a good mole.

  “I love him!” cried out Bailey, and his eyes were blinded by tears and by the terrible light that came down on her, and on Boswell and on them all, a white light too bright for Bailey to bear, too bright for him to stay where he was, protecting Boswell from her coming.

  “I love him,” whispered Bailey, and her voice said she knew it, but he saw only light, and then he was gone from the light about the Stone and afraid to see it where it shone down and shone out, and Boswell’s voice and that mole’s voice were one and beautiful and poor Bailey cried because he could not bear the beauty all about.

  “Bailey, moule, yow wyl holp me nu, and tak me bak to wher you war fro.”

  “Duncton?” he said not daring to look at her.

  “Whar Tryfan ys,” she said.

  “I will,” he said, and understood then how long and hard his training had been, and what was his task. So he looked at her and asked her name and she whispered, “Feverfew, myn der.”

  Then with the star’s light to guide them, and night all about, they left Comfrey’s Stone. They did not look back nor need to, for they knew that by it lay what had once been Boswell, White Mole, white as the snow that lay all about, white as the light of the star that shone above and had returned.

  Moledom saw the star that night, when it shone a second time, and many guessed the Stone Mole was near. Marram saw it and wept. Skint and Smithills saw it and slept no more, staring at the star which, from where they were, lay southward, high and bright, in a sky that was filled with light.

  Tryfan and Spindle went up to the surface and saw it, and that night in Duncton many more clambered up and stared.

  One especially is remembered. Long had she searched for Tryfan, long had she scented and sniffed, smelt and whiffled, for she remembered his kindness.

  Teasel her name and that night she found him.

  “Mole,” she said, “is that you?”

  “It is,” said Tryfan.

  “Do you remember me?”

  “I do.”

  “Fancy a chat, Tryfan? Find me a worm?” But when he said nothing she said, “You’re silent, mole, not like before.”

  “There’s a star, Teasel, and everymole is staring at it.”

  “Where?” she asked. “Show me.”

  Then with his right paw he guided her head towards the eastward sky, and then up, for the star was high indeed.

  “Am I looking at it?” she asked, her sightless eyes wide and the star’s light white and glittery on her old fur.

  “You are, Teasel. And what do you see?”

  “I – I cannot – I —”

  “You can, mole,” said Tryfan softly, “you can.”

  “I feel it but I can’t see it, I can’t!” And her tears were caught by the starlight as they ran from her eyes which could not see.

  “Have faith, mole,” whispered Tryfan, “and you shall.”

  “Is it what some call the Stone Mole’s star?” she asked, her flank close to his for comfort.

  “It is.”

  “When he comes I would see him, Tryfan, I would!”

  “Then you shall, mole,” whispered Tryfan.

/>   So Teasel stared and hoped that what she felt in her heart that night was what she might one day see.

  Then when she had gone, and while the star was still bright, Tryfan told Spindle, “Soon now I’d like to go to Barrow Vale, and maybe after that to make a trek to the Stone itself. Soon, now, Spindle.”

  Which he did, making a trek to the Stone that same night, though whether in waking or in sleep neither he nor anymole ever knew.

  But there he came, and there he found an old mole, a White Mole, who spoke gently, saying, “Tryfan, this place is where I found you when you were young. Do you remember?”

  “I do.”

  “And you asked if you might ever be a scribemole.”

  “Yes,” whispered Tryfan, “but I was not worthy.”

  “Nomole worthier,” said Boswell, smiling. “Nomole with more courage. Now listen for I am weary. Feverfew is ready to come now, and with her she brings the Stone Mole. Care for her, for each other are you chosen. Stay at her side and help her care for him, and teach him, and know that he is much loved.

  “This is the great task for which I have prepared you, the true nature of which you have quested for so long. Do it for me. For now I am tired, and I must sleep and prepare myself in the Silence for my own last task, which is for allmole, now and forever. Pray for me now, Tryfan. Pray for me.”

  Then as Tryfan went forward to reach Boswell by the Stone, he faded back into the light and was gone. Then there was Silence and Tryfan saw and heard no more, but the sound allmole had heard the first time the great star showed, which seemed like the distant cry of a pup across the sky.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The exciting, warming, reviving changes of spring came close on the heels of the second showing of what moles now openly called the Stone Mole’s star. They began with that moment of year all moles love, when winter’s snow begins to thaw and the first flowers show.

  In Duncton, Tryfan and Spindle knew it when the old hollow tree above the centre of the Marsh End Defence began to drip glistening drops deep down into their tunnels.

  Then the worms stirred and, almost imperceptibly, the earth became alive. Tryfan’s work became more desultory and sporadic as he touched up texts he desired now to finish, while Spindle, who had rarely left the tunnels in all the time they had been there, found himself fretful at his work and impatient.

  “Well, I’m off!” he said impulsively, fed up with scribing, fed up with the tunnels and fed up with Tryfan. So he went forth with Hay to try out the spring sun.

  The ground was getting warm and the snow was nearly all gone. But here and there on the surface old grey ice, as tired of the winter it seemed as the moles themselves, lay thick and shiny wet in the north-facing roots and boles of trees where the sun did not reach.

  But to the east of the Marsh End, where the trees thin out and the ground runs out over wetlands towards the roaring owl way and the distant river Thames, there were welcoming clusters of snowdrops and yellow aconite and beyond them, where the ground got wetter, the first sharp shoots of yellow flag.

  “This is something Tryfan should see, if I can get him this far,” said Spindle cheerfully. “I’ll go back and fetch him.”

  Hay made to go with him but Spindle said he went too fast for a mole like him, and he preferred to go back for his friend alone, and take his time doing it.

  “Well,” said Hay slowly, “I don’t want you to be disturbed.”

  “Disturbed? Attacked you mean?”

  “There’s precious little attack left in Duncton now. No, disturbed. When moles know you and Tryfan are about once more there’ll be many come to see you. They’ve heard of you, and many are proud to know you’re here. I’m warning you, there’s many will come.”

  Barely believing him, Spindle said, “Leave me all the same, Hay. I’m sure I can cope!”

  Hay nodded and left him, and Spindle stared out over the marshy ground and shivered a little. The buds were still tight on most of the trees but the alders’ yellow catkins bristled in the breeze.

  Spindle went slowly, the wood seeming strange and a little alien to him. He was a mole of facts and texts and he preferred the chalky heights of Uffington and the stone-filled vales of Seven Barrows. While in Duncton it was to the high, more ancient tunnels that his natural inclination went. But that, but, b —

  He stopped, a sharp pain across his chest, utterly unable to move. The pain was constricting and frightened him.

  “I – Tryfan – I —” And he tried to speak, but could not. Instead he crouched near a root, the pain intensifying and stronger than the previous attacks he had had, none of which he had ever mentioned to Tryfan. He felt weak and old and his left paw ached.

  The pain eased and he stumbled forward to find a spot where the sun came down, south facing and light. Another attack came and he stopped again where he was, near a rotten old branch, long fallen.

  “But I have much to do,” he said, and rather irritably, as if to admit to himself that he felt he had little time and it wouldn’t be fair if the Stone came and took him here and now without real warning at all.

  “Want to know things,” he mumbled to himself. “Want to know the end, want to scribe the end, want to know Tryfan’s... want to know the Stone Mole came, want to see Bailey again...” Another pain came, worse than all the rest, and he gasped with it and fell a little to one side.

  Across the sky between the budded trees above, two mallard flew, hard and fast. The sky darkened and he felt his mouth whispering as the pains engulfed him.

  Then the pain eased and he felt tired and not sure where he was. He tried a paw and then another and found he was alive, just tired. Very. No pain now. He looked about him. East Marsh End. He very slowly retraced his steps and made his way back through the morning to the tunnels where he and Tryfan had hidden so long.

  Such strange thoughts he was thinking, some peaceful, some urgent. That he must secure the texts they had made, seal them up against discovery, for their time had not yet come. He must get Tryfan to some kindly mole who would watch over him, for his paws were weak and always would be, and delving was hard for him now, and worm-finding too. Tryfan had once been tidy and thorough but he had grown careless and grubby, and needed another nearby to help. Tryfan did not talk much these days, but he did need company. Hay? Perhaps. Borage and Heather more like. Goodly moles they were (as Tryfan would put it). Yes.

  “Spindle? You’ve been gone a long time!” Tryfan called to him as soon as he got back.

  “I have,” said Spindle.

  “Well I had thought I might go out myself but I decided to wait for you and the best of the day is gone now.” Tryfan sounded annoyed.

  “There are flowers out, Tryfan, over on the Eastside and a lot to see.”

  “Well, let’s go and see them then!”

  “Later,” said Spindle, “I feel tired.”

  Tryfan stared at him, a frown on his face, and saying nothing more stayed close by Spindle while he slept.

  “Are you all right?” he asked when he awoke, and several times after that, and Spindle replied that he was, yes, just tired after the long winter, so very tired.

  It was a day or two more before the two moles ventured out together. The warm weather had continued and the ground was pleasantly astir.

  They went slowly at first, snouting down the odd tunnel or two, and though they saw nomole, they could sense mole about: quiet mole, wondering mole, mole uncertain and unsure, as if the winter had been so long that the first touches of true spring could not yet be believed.

  “Yet it’s quiet, Spindle, quieter than in my day when these tunnels would have been scurrying with pups or preparation for them. None of that now, nor ever will be again perhaps.”

  A mole, thin and worried, popped her head around a corner and stared at them for a while.

  Tryfan inclined his head in a friendly way, but the mole just stared and said nothing, and then came a pawstep closer.

  “Hello!” said Tryfan.

&n
bsp; The mole dashed away. But she was soon back, with two more, staring as well, and though both Spindle and Tryfan tried to get them to talk they would not.

  They were a sorry, unkempt looking bunch, all middle aged, all bearing signs of incipient illness and rough treatment.

  “Where shall we go?” whispered Spindle, who was not one who much enjoyed an audience.

  “Why, where should a Duncton mole go in spring?” said Tryfan. And though he did not notice it, for his sight was poor and restricted, Spindle did: those watching them leaned nearer to catch every word Tryfan said.

  “In spring,” said Tryfan cheerily, “a mole of these parts may go to one of two places: to the distant Stone to give thanks that winter’s over, or to Barrow Vale to acknowledge that he or she is of a community of moles, and that is a place where they may meet without fear or favour.”

  The three moles listening had been joined by another and all hung on Tryfan’s words, and when he paused or finished what he was saying, they turned to each other and whispered, “‘Barrow Vale” he said,” and “‘The Stone’, would you believe? That’s where he’s off to!” And some – and now yet another had joined them – seemed deaf or short of sight, and peered and nudged others to say what was apaw and what had been said.

  “To Barrow Vale he be going, aye and that other one too! You know who they are, eh? That’s Tryfan, the one with the scars, and the gawky one is Spindle....”

  Tryfan, seeming not to notice the interest he was causing as he sniffed and snouted at the tunnels, nodded again to one or two of the moles, and set off along the tunnel with the confidence of one who knows his way.

  Spindle followed, and wherever they went moles seemed to be gathering and watching them, some quite out of breath with running, their eyes wide, most afraid to speak.

  But a few cried out greetings from the safety of their groups: “Pleased to see you!” and, “Watch your paws up that bit, it’s muddy,” and “Good day, Sir!” All of which Tryfan greeted with a smile or a nod as he went slowly, limping on his right paw a little.