Duncton Found

by William Horwood

  If Beechen’s introduction to these outcasts, who had found their way to Duncton Wood in such cruel and trying circumstances moleyears before, had been warm when he first met them at Barrow Vale, what began to happen now was warmer, rowdier, jollier and even more memorable.

  Though sometimes moles addressed him, for the most part he stanced quietly in one corner and listened as the conversation and stories began to flow from one side of the chamber to the other and moles listened to each other with pleasure, amusement and criticism, both good-natured and bad.

  Tryfan set things going with a moving account of how Rebecca had come to be in this very chamber moleyears before, with her teats dangerously engorged after all her pups had been killed by Mandrake. What a silence fell as Tryfan described in his deep voice how good Mekkins, the greatest Marshender of his time, had found one of Bracken’s pups by Rue and brought him to Rebecca!

  “I heard the story from Bracken himself, for he crept on after Mekkins to make sure his pup, runt though he was, found love and safety,” said Tryfan. “He said it was a close thing but the pup did take milk at last and so both moles lived.”

  “What was the pup’s name?” asked Teasel.

  “Why that was Comfrey, and nomole more gentle nor more loving than he was ever leader of a system. He was my half-brother and I loved him true, and the Stone where he died, which overlooks the great valley in which the Wen lies, is called Comfrey’s Stone.”

  “More worms, and another tale!” cried Hay.

  “While Madam supplies the former, you, happy Sir, undertake the latter!” said Mayweed, which Hay very willingly did, saying he could not move them to tears as Tryfan had done, unless it be the tears of laughter, for a funny thing had happened to him on the way to Duncton Wood....

  Which was a tale to make a mole cry with merriment, for Hay was a mole who could turn even a grike into a joke and get away with it. After which the moles were silent for a time, exhausted with laughing, until Heather offered to sing them a song or two she had learnt when a pup, which all agreed would be a good idea provided there was no mention of the Stone or doing good in it, at which Heather fell silent, saying that there was some mention of the Stone, but that wasn’t her fault, was it? And anyway....

  An argument ensued in which Heather became very passionate until, to everymole’s astonishment, Crosswort told her to shut up or get out since she was host mole, and until Heather had started speaking everymole had been having a good time.

  Teasel said she didn’t mind singing a Stone-free song about butterflies provided they didn’t mind her cracked old voice and if Borage could oblige by singing bass and Heather the descant, which she was good at.

  So troubled moments passed to pleasant ones, and humorous anecdotes replaced historic tales. As the hours went by not a mole there did not contribute their mite, not even Beechen who, remembering a tale Spindle had scribed regarding his journey back to Duncton with Tryfan, repeated it to general applause.

  Outside darkness had fallen, and after Mayweed had suggested, and Crosswort had graciously agreed, it was decided that they might as well make a night of it and not go hurrying back to their different tunnels. The hoot of a tawny owl clinched it, and led to a legendary tale of owl-killing, which Mayweed told.

  It was as he was nearing its climax, which was as convoluted and strange as some of the routes Mayweed took across systems, that, hearing a sound above, Crosswort slipped out and up to the surface to see whatmole was there. Raised voices soon interrupted Mayweed’s narrative.

  “But I’ve got guests and you can’t come in!” they heard Crosswort say, reverting dangerously towards her normal mode.

  “Guests? And I not invited? I, a mole who has tolerated your miserableness too long to think about? Guests? If true, which I very much doubt, it is discourtesy of the lowest sort typical of a mole of the Stone. If a lie then it is a damned one and I shall have to insist you let me in!”

  “Keep your voice down, Dodder, or they’ll hear you.”

  “Hear me? Hear what?” His voice was louder now. “Hear about you, that’s what they’ll hear. Hear about your broken promises and infamy. You’re not the only female alive, you know. By the Word, they’ll hear all right. Hear how you deceived a poor, broken, old mole into thinking that here in this miserable wood was one mole at least who had a spark of care in her. One who had led this old but not entirely decrepit mole to raise his hopes and think that his final years might not, after all, be eked out in complete solitude; his burrow and tunnels not empty for ever of another mole!”

  If the moles who had arrived at Crosswort’s tunnels had been amazed by the welcome she had earlier given them, they were even more so now to discover that such a mole, notorious for her disagreeableness, had an admirer. The six moles had abandoned all interest in Mayweed’s tale and waited now with bated breath for Crosswort’s reply.

  “I never promised nothing,” she hissed, doing her best to keep her voice low but not quite succeeding, so that her whispers only added more drama to the exchange. “If there was even a hint of anything, even a tiny tinge or insinuation of anything it was on the understanding it was strictly private and between ourselves and nomole must know. Now all of Duncton will know and I shall be laughed at even more than....”

  “Yes, mole of the Stone, floozy follower, think only of yourself and think of no other. Guests, eh? Well, you’ve another one now, and he’ll tell them about a mole he once knew who raised his hopes by offering happiness to an old military mole who had served his cause well, and then dashed them back to the ground because she’s concerned about being laughed at. I reject you, Crosswort! I rebuff you! And I now enter your mean little tunnels with the intention of exposing you to the so-called guests you claim to be entertaining.”

  Then, suddenly, his voice was raised even louder.

  “Guests? I should have realised. Guest, singular; sex, male. That’s it, isn’t it? I have been deceived! By the Word, he’s going to feel my talons before he’s done. No! Don’t try to hold me back! I am trained in killing! I shall advance now and challenge him and fight to the death. If he wins then may you be miserable with him. If he dies then I shall kill myself in any case and two corpses shall be the reward of your deception! Guests? Let me get at him....”

  The moles below looked at each other in alarm as geriatric paw-steps pattered towards them from the tunnels above.

  “It’s the former guardmole Dodder!” whispered Hay.

  The paws stumbled about a bit, and then headed towards the chamber’s entrance as Crosswort, hysterical with rage and embarrassment, ran along behind shouting at the old mole to stop before he made a fool of himself.

  But too late. In burst Dodder through the tiny entrance of the burrow, withered paws raised, brittle talons extended, eyes narrowed as he peered about in the murk for his adversary and rival. Beechen saw he must have been a large and imposing mole once, but now he was aged and short-sighted.

  “Filth! Scum! Deceiver!” he cried, circling about ready to fight. As he did so his eyes adjusted to the light and he saw not one mole but seven, and all of them reposed in a lazy and comfortable way with welcoming smiles on their faces and not a trace among them of rivalry or deceit.

  There was a very long silence as Dodder retracted his talons and slowly resumed a normal stance.

  “I see,” he said, “that you did not lie and I have made myself look a fool. Worse, it is I, a mole who should know better, who has committed the discourtesy.”

  Much humbled, and yet retaining his very considerable dignity, Dodder turned shakily back to Crosswort and said, “Hit me, Madam, on the head. Hard if you like. Then I shall leave and interrupt your company no more. Strike, Madam! See, I do not flinch!”

  To everymole’s surprise there went over Crosswort’s face a look of genuine concern and sympathy as she said, “I’ll do no such thing, and now you’re here you’d better stay, even though you are right to be ashamed of yourself. Really, Dodder...” And a perspicacious mole
, who knew a little about males and females, would have noticed that in addition to the concern on Crosswort’s face was a look that might almost have seemed affectionately respectful, as if Dodder’s wild display of anger and jealousy had convinced her of something of which she had not been sure before....

  There the touching moment might have been well left, and the pair been allowed to find another time to explore further whatever it was that lay between them, had not Heather risen from the shadows at the far end of the chamber and, pointing a talon at Dodder while taking frenzied hold of Beechen’s shoulder, declared, “See, Beechen! See the face and fur of the sinner, hear the arrogance of its voice, know the vicious nature of its mind. Its eyes shall be smitten by thy might, oh Stone, its ears deafened by thy Silence; and its Word broken as the slow-worm breaks under the wrathful paws of thy representatives.

  “Disappoint us not, Beechen! Grow strong and vengeful! Punish the wrongdoer, for yours is the power and many are those that await your just anger as a sign to follow your cause. Disappoint us not!”

  As this outburst ended, Dodder, who had listened to it in growing disbelief, said, “She’s not addressing me, is she?” Then, when he realised that Heather was, he muttered, “The mole’s mad, quite mad.”

  “‘Mad’?” repeated Heather incredulously, and letting go of Beechen she approached Dodder with a threatening look on her face.

  But Tryfan stopped the argument getting any worse by reminding them that it was Midsummer, a time for reconciliation, and, anyway, they were all tired. A few more stories, a few songs, and sleep. Then in the morning they could move on, and, since Crosswort had given them such a welcome, it was for her to choose where they went to.

  “Get us all some food, Beechen!” he said and, as Beechen did, all agreed on one thing at least: that Beechen was a fine-looking mole, and well-behaved, and a credit to them all.

  But the day had been long and his impressions many, and soon after Beechen had brought them some worms and the talk continued unabated around him, he fell asleep, beginning to understand the strange and varied nature of the community into which he had been born.

  When morning came, and the moles, lazy from the night before, had groomed and pottered about the surface for a bit, Crosswort announced that, as hers was the decision, they would all go and visit Madder, Dodder’s neighbour and enemy, and she would not hear one word of protest from anymole at all, especially former guardmoles.

  “Madder!” fulminated Dodder to himself. “Pay a visit to Madder! Humph!”

  But again the day was warm and good, and the mood of the rest of the company a cheerful one as they set off upslope into the Eastside.

  Dodder’s temper improved and for the first part of the journey he enjoyed himself, welcoming Smithills and Skint to the group and generally being friendly. But as they came near the area of his tunnels, and of Madder’s, he grew belligerent once more and told anymole who would listen what a terrible mole Madder was.

  “Be warned, Beechen,” he said quietly, not wanting Crosswort to hear his complaints, “when you set up your own tunnels, find out what your neighbours are like first, and what their habits are. Madder is what I would call an undisciplined mole. But you’ll see, you’ll see.”

  They did. No sooner had they arrived at Dodder’s patch – or what he said was his patch – than they saw two moles crouched on the surface, one confidently eating a worm, the other looking embarrassed.

  “That’s Flint, whose tunnels lie adjacent to them both,” whispered Hay. “He’s never sure which side to be on.”

  He was interrupted by the mole Madder who, the moment he saw Dodder and the moles with him, leapt to his paws and shouted, “We thought you’d come back, you miserable old bastard, and here you are. Ex-guardmoles and other such filth and scum had better not put so much as a talon on my territory or they’ll regret it. These others are welcome, of course, but as for you... bugger off down into your tunnels before you feel my talons.”

  Dodder did no such thing but, rather, pulled himself up into his most impressive posture and stared imperiously at his enemy. Madder was forced to do the same, whilst making a vain attempt to tidy himself up, pulling and tugging at his fur to do so. But the truth was that, though rather younger than Dodder, he did not have that worthy mole’s bold bearing, or if he did it was masked by the sorry mess his fur was in. For though it was thick enough, even glossy, yet it never seemed to have discovered the knack of lying flat and in the same direction. It stuck out here, it stuck out there, it stuck out in the wrong direction everywhere.

  His eyes, unfortunately, were no better than his fur. Not only were they placed a little awry on either side of his head but they were astigmatised, so that one pointed too far out and the other too far in and a mole found it hard to decide if Madder was looking at him, and even harder to find the right place to look back.

  The posturing of the two seemed to be coming dangerously close to blows when Crosswort moved swiftly between them and said, “Well really, Madder! What a welcome to give me on my visit to your burrow!”

  “By the Stone, ’tis Crosswort. Damn me but...” A look of some alarm came over his face as he looked first at her, and then at the crowd of others and realised the implications of such a visit. Worms to find, smiles of welcome to smile, general disruption....

  “Yes, Madder! We’ve come a-visiting, all of us, and I shall be very displeased indeed if, so near Midsummer, you cannot find it in your heart to be pleasant to Dodder and the rest of us.”

  “But...” said Madder, a look of considerable misgiving on his face. He began mumbling excuses: “So much to do... tunnels somewhat untidy... worm supply poor for the time of year....”

  “Madam,” said Dodder, “in the absence of courtesy and politeness from this dishonourable mole, and his obvious but may I say typical unwillingness to welcome us —”

  “Be quiet, Dodder!” said Crosswort. “Well, Madder?”

  “Yes, well. Very well. Very happy to be well and able to welcome you all,” he said, adding more urgently and quietly and hoping, perhaps, the others might not hear, “Though I had intended my earlier invitation to be just for yourself, Crosswort, so we could... you know... get to know one another.”

  “He’s at it already!” cried out Dodder. “Whispering, plotting, shirking his social responsibilities. Yes, this is the mole of which I spoke...” Then, turning to Beechen in particular, he continued. “Note him well. This is a mole who is as ill-disciplined mentally as his appearance might lead you to believe. If I say, and I do, that he is a mole of the Stone, I mean no rudeness to Stone-followers in general. But, well” – and here Dodder smiled rather thinly, and with a certain smugness too – “I flatter myself that my appearance is a better testimony for the Word than this shambles you see here is for the Stone. Stay smart, young mole, stay smart.”

  “Fine! Very fine his words, but what a miserable evil character they hide,” responded Madder immediately, not moving a single molemite. “I mean no disrespect to the rest of you, but I am surprised to see you in his company... and I am sorry if I seem rude, but while I’m willing to be visited by everymole else I am not having an ex-senior guardmole, who has the blood of followers on his talons, inside my tunnels.”

  Tryfan suddenly reared up, dark, glowering and powerful, as if the very ground itself had broken open and an ancient root burst forth.

  “Speaking for myself,” he said with such calm authority that all the moles were hushed and Madder slowly dropped his paws to his side, “I am tired and in need of food. I am sorry that Madder feels as he does. I am sorry that Dodder seems inclined to provoke him. But most of all I am sorry to see talons raised, for violence is failure.”

  “Aye,” said Hay suddenly, “we’re all tired of you two arguing, and it’s about time it stopped.”

  “But they like it,” piped up the timid Flint, “they love it. They’re not happy unless they’re quarrelling. They need it.”

  There was silence at this and then Hay a
nd Teasel laughed.

  “Well said, my love!” said Teasel, as Dodder and Madder glared at each other.

  “What’s more,” said Flint in a confidential voice, as if he imagined that neither of the protagonists could hear, “if you were to attack one of them the other would defend him.”

  “Here’s the mole you should be choosing, Crosswort: Flint. He’s got common sense.”

  “I have asked her, as a matter of fact,” said Flint, “but so far she has refused me.”

  “Paradoxical Sirs and Madams, and diplomatic Flint, humbleness is like Tryfan – hungry. Can we eat?”

  “Madder?” said Crosswort sternly.

  With that, and a resigned look at Flint, Madder led them off and down into his own tunnels.

  He may have been all aggression and accusation above ground, but below it he was a very different mole, as if his own tunnels oppressed him.

  Which, if they did, was not surprising, for they were a mess. Indeed, so messy were they, so disorganised, so utterly unkempt that the group as a whole was struck rather silent, for a mole likes to make a pleasantry or two when he visits another’s burrows and in Madder’s it was hard to find anything very positive to say at all.

  “Er, very snug,” said Hay uneasily, snouting up a wide tunnel which seemed blocked with dead weeds.

  “Not big but interesting,” said Teasel, who was beginning to regret that she had ever mentioned how moles used to go a-visiting.

  “Humph!” said Crosswort shortly, looking about with disapproval all over her face, and pushing a pile of soil out of her way.