Duncton Found

by William Horwood

  “I know it,” he said. “I know it well. May the Stone help them all.”

  “Aye,” sighed Sleekit, “and my Mistress Henbane, too. As for Poplar, the mole you mentioned, remember how much you gave him, Beechen.”

  They fell into silence, thinking their thoughts, until Beechen said, “The darkness that so many feel is coming, Sleekit. I am often afraid, fearing that I shall not have the strength for whatever it is that I must do. I see the love you and Mayweed share and feel that when that unknown future moment comes I fear so much, experience of such a love as you have had would strengthen me.”

  “Well, Beechen,” Sleekit said warmly, “one thing I know. If love comes to you then such dark thoughts as these will fly away in the face of it! At least, they will if what you have is the same as what Mayweed and I have.” She looked away towards the direction in which Mayweed had pointed and then gone, and said, “Do you think he’ll be safe?... I mean....”

  It was Beechen’s turn to laugh.

  “The mole that guided Tryfan into Whern and you out of it can be trusted to wander about in these parts by himself safely enough. It’s the kind of thing he’s been doing all his life.”

  If it was a place in which the three moles might find a peaceful retreat that Mayweed had gone to find, then it was increasingly needed. Moles now continually sought Beechen out, and he seemed never to have time to himself at all.

  But already there was a growing urgency about each meeting, and a sense of impending confrontation which Beechen did not want and yet could not avoid. Indeed, shortly after Mayweed had gone, before Beechen finally escaped the demands of Frilford, there had been a brief and unpleasant altercation with a group of three moles others had believed to be followers. They were tough and solid-looking, and they had stayed in the shadows at the rear of the chamber where the moles had met. Who they were none knew, but nomole worried too much. Such moles had appeared more than once at previous meetings, though never in force, and since Beechen always said that all moles were welcome to hear him they had been left alone. Lately one such mole, who had a touch of grike about him, had appeared at several meetings, almost as if he was following Beechen about. Nomole knew who he was or where he came from. He rarely spoke and since he looked as if he could take care of himself, few dared try to make him speak. He had asked a question about healing once, and about what moles might be excluded from the Stone, and Beechen had answered clearly and well, saying again that all were welcome, all might find healing.

  That same mole had been in the crowd on the occasion of Beechen’s last Frilford meeting when the unpleasant incident took place which reminded many of the harsh reality of the Word. Towards the end of the meeting the group of three had shouted and heckled Beechen and tried to distract him. They had mocked him, and warned him that the Word would strike down blasphemers.

  One or two larger followers had remonstrated with them, but received only blows as a result, and Beechen had had to calm them. At the end of the meeting he went to talk with the three, with Sleekit and a few others at his flanks, and the three had started to berate him, saying he spoke blasphemy against the Word, was tainted and was scum. Buffets were exchanged between these moles and some of the followers and Beechen himself was mildly taloned and bloodied on the flank, though he struck no blow himself. When he had fallen back, one of the followers was more badly hurt and without Beechen for the moment to control them other followers seemed bent on avenging him and it seemed certain that the argument would develop into the serious fight the moles seemed to want.

  It was at this difficult and explosive moment that the unknown mole who had followed Beechen from meeting to meeting came powerfully forward and with buffets to right and left had separated the scuffling moles and then, with a laugh, had reminded them that the day had been long and hot heads needed cool November air. The three troublemakers left and peace was restored.

  Beechen found himself face to face with the mole and gazed on him.

  “What is it you want, mole? Why do you follow me but barely say a word?”

  “Is the Stone for allmole?”

  “It is.”

  “Even of another faith?”

  “The Stone will listen to all moles that try to speak true,” said Beechen. “Send your friend to me.”

  “How do you know it is not for myself I have come?”

  “It is in your stance, mole, and I see all of thee as plain as I see my own paw. Send your friend to me. Tell him not to be afraid.”

  “I shall strive to bring him,” said the mole respectfully.

  When he was gone Beechen watched after him and whispered, “It is fear, Sleekit, fear which governs moledom; not love. I feel fear in everymole about me and it is from that I crave for rest.”

  “Come, Beechen,” said Sleekit.

  “Come, Stone Mole...” other followers insisted. For after the near fight fear was there, and for the first time in all Beechen’s ministry in the vale the sense of danger that had been about so long found tangible form in the blood that ran from where the talons had cut him.

  “We must retreat a little,” Sleekit advised, “and let things settle down. It is safer for the followers.”

  Beechen agreed and decided to make a diversion to Garford, a small system to the south-west of Frilford, but even as he left a follower came to warn him that the Fyfield guardmoles had heard of his coming and had sent out patrols.

  “There’s much change in the air at Fyfield, and three important moles have come down from the dread Cumnor way and strange rumours are flying about. Some say that a new repression is beginning, others that Stone followers are to be free to follow their faith.”

  “Well then, if repression is beginning we cannot do much but trust our faith, and if we are to be free then let us be free and bear witness to what we believe. I shall go to Garford, for moles have asked me there. But tell me of this Cumnor: you say ’tis ‘dread’, and I’ve yet to hear a good word for the place from anymole.”

  “’Tis not as big or as important a place as Fyfield, but it has a far worse reputation among followers because of Wort, the eldrene who controls it. She was eldrene of Fyfield but Wyre demoted her by putting her in charge of obscure Cumnor.”

  “I’ve heard of Wort from Buckram at Sandford. For what offence was she demoted?”

  “Overzealousness in her punishment of moles of the Word who do not follow the liturgies and practices of their faith. And being too hard on followers unfortunate enough to fall into her paws. Since Wyre’s time things have been easier, more tolerant. Moles like Wort became an embarrassment and so they have been put in places they can do less harm.”

  “Who is Wort?” asked Beechen.

  “Why, Stone Mole, I have said, she is....”

  “No, mole, she is more than that... Wort. Was it really Buckram who first spoke that name to me? Wort. Sleekit, when I speak that name I wish Buckram was here. Fear, it seems, is catching.”

  “Beechen....”

  “Come, we must go to Garford, we have much work to do.”

  It was two days after they had got to that river-bound system, and found it a pleasant place rising above meadows with (as usual) an over-abundance of followers to hear Beechen preach, that four guardmoles were reported approaching. There was sudden panic but Beechen calmed them, and said he would continue their meeting for the grikes would not harm him or anymole here.

  The moles came even as Beechen was speaking and, despite Beechen’s protestations, Sleekit caused the followers to encircle Beechen, though many were afraid.

  “Is the mole Beechen among you?” said the one who was obviously their leader, “The Stone-fool who’s been preaching about the place?”

  Beechen asked his followers to let the guardmole through, and when he was near he said his name was Beechen though whether or not he was a Stone-fool was for the Stone itself to judge.

  “That’s as maybe,” said the guardmole, looking around boldly at the motley collection of followers with evident cont
empt. “My name’s Hale and I’m a senior guardmole of Fyfield. You’re to come to Fyfield, and you’ll have safe passage, in and out.”

  “That’s a joke!” shouted one follower.

  “You’ve a nerve!” said another.

  The guardmole’s face was impassive.

  “It’s not funny and it doesn’t take any nerve for a mole of the Word to come among you lot, with your Stones and your fools. For some reason our new sideem want to meet a Stone follower. The name of Beechen has been mentioned, and it didn’t take us long to find him, did it? Eh? He’s been known about for quite a time.”

  “Well, he’s not such a fool that he’ll come with you, Word guardmole!” said a follower.

  The guardmole smiled grimly.

  “I don’t give a bugger if he does or not. I’m not to force him anyway. There’s others gone to find other such moles and one of them will come.”

  “No, mole,” said Beechen suddenly, “only one has to come. Only one will come. And I am he.” He spoke quietly and a hush fell among them all.

  “Well there’s nothing like being sure of yourself, is there?” said Hale.

  “What do your sideem want?” asked Beechen.

  The guardmole shrugged.

  “Their heads examined I should think,” muttered one of his subordinates.

  “Shut up,” growled Hale. “The new Master of the Word has issued a dictate that moles of the Stone are to be heard and their needs listened to wherever they are found. That’s all I’ve been told.”

  His voice was drowned by great cheers and shouts.

  “That bloody Henbane must be dead!” cried a mole. “And may she rot in Whern where she came from.”

  A look from Beechen silenced the crowd.

  “What is the new Master’s name?” asked Beechen.

  “He’s not the Master, Sir,” whispered one of the guardmoles to Hale. “He’s not been ordained, they said.”

  “My well-informed friend here says he’s not quite Master yet,” said Hale. “However, whatever his title I can tell you his name is Lucerne.”

  “Henbane dead...” whispered Sleekit, her eyes lost. “Then is her pup Lucerne...?”

  Beechen reached a paw to her and touched her.

  “I am the mole you have been looking for, and to Fyfield I shall go,” he said. “This mole, Sleekit, shall come with me, but none other: none... other.” He emphasised this twice and the clamouring and excited moles fell back subdued. Hale seemed surprised at this, as if he had not expected to see such command in a Stone-fool.

  “We shall come now,” said Beechen.

  Hale stared at Sleekit once and then twice, as moles often did. Despite her age, she still carried herself with authority.

  “Well, I don’t care who comes provided they can make a reasonable pace. You’ll have safe passage in and out.”

  “There’ll be trouble if he doesn’t, mole,” said one of the bigger followers.

  “Mole...” said Hale, but it was a threat to one of his own guardmoles who was eyeing the speaker aggressively. “Come, Stone-fool, let’s go,” he said, clearly anxious to avoid further trouble.

  “Have no fear,” said Beechen as he left the Garford moles, “it is as the Stone ordains it. Stay here, pray, be thankful to the Stone if this news is true. Be watchful for yourselves.”

  Then Hale led Beechen and Sleekit away and they began to trek to the Ancient System of Fyfield.

  The following day, as they drew near to Fyfield, the senior guardmole said suddenly, “Mole, you shall be safe.”

  “I know it,” said Beechen peaceably. “For myself I do not worry, but moles with me....”

  “She shall be safe, too.”

  “And others?”

  “You have no other.”

  “One waits for me,” said Beechen.

  “He’s an odd one, he is,” whispered one guardmole to another. “Gives up without a fight, comes with us meek as a slug, got no nerves I’ve noticed, and now he starts talking of a mole waiting for him we cannot see.”

  But when they reached Fyfield and were challenged at the first entrance and then let through, Beechen said, “There’s a follower here close by.”

  One of the entrance guardmoles said, “There’s no Stone followers here, chum, just....”

  “He is here,” said Beechen.

  Hale said, “Right. Anymole been through?”

  “Just one. He’s in the cells. It’s that idiot....”

  “Just one?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Fetch him through here, then, and perhaps we can get on. Quick now!” barked Hale.

  “You won’t be pleased, Sir.”

  “Do it,” said Hale.

  The guardmoles, obviously frightened of Hale, scurried away and were soon leading their captive up out of the shadowed tunnel. Great he was, and fierce-looking, but when Sleekit saw him she sighed with relief.

  “Guardmole Buckram, what the Word are you doing here?” said Hale, amazed. He turned to Beechen and asked, “Is this the mole you meant?”

  “He can speak for himself,” said Beechen.

  Buckram stanced before them proud. His fur was patchy but healthy and new fur was growing over his healed sores.

  “Until now I was not sure,” he said, his eyes full on Beechen. “But now I know and ’tis not the Word that brought me but the Stone itself!”

  “You are welcome, Buckram,” said Beechen. “Now we are three and we have a task – to bring faith in the Stone back into this ancient place. We shall not be harmed.”

  “I thought we’d seen the last of you, Buckram,” said Hale, staring at his healed body in surprise.

  “You did. I am not that mole you knew,” said Buckram.

  “Humph!” said Hale. “Still I must say, religion seems to suit you. Last time I saw you, you were trying to kill three guardmoles all at once and Wort as well, and nearly succeeding. No funny business this time, eh?”

  He turned to the entrance guardmoles. “Any others come?”

  “Not so far as we know.”

  “Well, this seems enough to me! Where are we to go?”

  “The Stone, Sir. That’s what the sideem said.”

  “The Stone!” exclaimed Hale. Then, shaking his head and grumbling as he went, he led the three moles on, with his guardmoles bringing up the rear, upslope towards the Fyfield Stone.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fyfield is the most modest, or least striking, of the seven Ancient Systems. Its origins lie far back in the time of the first rise of Uffington to the spiritual leadership of moledom, and it was the home system of several of the early Holy Moles, with strong traditions of worship to the Stone, and of a rich and poetic tradition of Stone lore and language.

  Some say the first library of Stone texts was here, for the system was certainly where the scribemole Audley was born, who was the originator of the Rolls of the Systems. He travelled widely and until his election as Holy Mole lived some of the time at Fyfield. With his final departure to Uffington, however, the library of great texts he had built up in Fyfield was removed to the Holy Burrows and survived intact as a collection there until the destruction of the Holy Burrows by the grikes in Henbane’s day.

  Fyfield itself lies on a limestone ridge which stretches north and south and which is just high and strong enough to cause the Thames to swing north around it until, at Duncton, it breaks through and turns south once more. By the standards of Whern or Siabod the ridge is no more than a hill, but in those riverine parts it keeps such systems as Fyfield clear of the floodplain of the Thames and its soil, though a little dry, is rich enough to be called wormful.

  Its tunnels remain its greatest point of interest, for they are ancient and honestly made, seeming to carry in their rounded and well-carved walls the scent and drift of ages past, when moles feared the Stone more than each other and treated the elders of the system with deep and abiding respect.

  Although there was a brief period of expansion of the tunnels westward i
n medieval times, Fyfield was never a large and extensive system. “Old Fyfield’, which is its original central core, was “old” before most systems were even a twinkle in the eyes of the pioneer moles who established them.

  The plagues whose coming marks the beginning of these Chronicles devastated Fyfield, and the system might have been forgotten but for the fact that its origin as one of the Ancient Seven made it a natural target for the grikes. What was more, however modest the place might be, the fact was that a Stone of undoubted potency and power rose sheer from the central communal chamber of Fyfield, one of whose subterranean walls was formed by the Stone’s plunging base.

  The grikes naturally avoided this most ancient area of the system, as they avoided the Stones in the other Ancient Systems they occupied, like Avebury and Rollright. Instead they had occupied the newer westward extension of the system, and not only sealed up those tunnels that led into Old Fyfield, but crudely delved new tunnels through the older peripheral ones in an attempt to unify the system around the new centre, and give the disorientated tunnels a new integrity.

  There was another more sinister reason for this extensive and only partially successful restructuring of the system, and that was to seek to isolate the central core of Old Fyfield and ensure that nomole ever again entered its tunnels. The proper explanation for this desire of the grikes to expunge from history knowledge and even memories of those tunnels, and the Stone that rose above it, is even now unknown, but rumours of an atrocity so vile, so sickening, and so unjustified have been prevalent around Fyfield since the coming of the grikes though ever since hushed up by them.*

  *The extraordinary truth behind these long-stancing rumours was only revealed after the delving expedition of Fewl of Tulwick whose scribing on the matter is now well known and beyond reasonable dispute, though a dissenting view is to be found in the scrivenings of Wordmole Nodblail of Cannock.

  It seems likely that Beechen was aware of these rumours even before reaching Fyfield, but if he was not then perhaps as Hale hurried him and the others along to their meeting with the trinity, Buckram whispered a grim explanation of what the strange seal-ups and unexpected turns in the tunnels signified as they passed them by.