Duncton Found

by William Horwood

  Buckram had prepared well for precisely this kind of assault and he and several larger moles, all former fighters before they turned their snouts properly to the Stone, quickly interposed themselves between the grikes and Holm, not striking back themselves but taking blows that might have seriously maimed the little mole before they hustled him back to the relative safety of the group.

  This sudden show of calm control seemed to cool the aggression of the grikes who retreated on either side of the route and did not pursue them once they were clear of Oadby, except with jeering laughter and threats.

  But it changed the nature of Beechen’s journey north, and the moles who went with him on it. Some fell away quietly, unwilling or unable to take such threats again, but others – and not always the strongest – seemed to grow in stature and purpose as if the demonstration of hatred by the grikes towards Beechen had stripped away all that was soft or vague in these followers’ faith to reveal an inner core of warrior strength.

  Holm had already proved himself, but after Oadby gained an almost legendary respect among the followers, many of whom came specially to see him, though such honour did not change him one bit. He was as grubby and modest as ever. Sleekit, on the other paw, gained the gaunt and courageous look of an older female with great purpose and no fear, while Buckram, always strong, seemed to grow in stature every day and move with something of that strength which moles like Marram and Alder had. Moles who had been trained in fighting and discipline and have found their true way at last.

  But if Oadby made those close to Beechen understand the violent nature of the threat that he was now trekking towards, it was what happened a few days later that showed a truer, darker face and made Sleekit, for one, realise all too clearly that this was indeed a journey into darkness.

  Some miles west of Oadby the ground rises and hardens towards the bitter granite heaths of Charnwood Forest. This dread and eerie place is no friend of moles, whose eyes might well dart about them to the slopes above which seem to overhang and reveal with each corner turned, each new place gained, a looming black-rock edge, or clump of dying oak trees, their branches a contorted silhouette against the sky beyond.

  At Charnwood the winds are fractious and snow seems dirtier and ice sharper; the kind of place where winter lingers on long after it has fled the rest of moledom.

  As they rose up into this grim place, their numbers fewer than for weeks past, the followers gathered nearer Beechen as they went and he cheered them with his accounts of the giant moles that myth and legend said once lived among the jagged rocks.

  Holm, so far from water, did not like the place, and hurried on ahead of them, pausing only to snout and scent the air, and frown, and then turn round to beckon them to hurry after him.

  The highest part of the way took them among some dingy shattered rocks among which stunted hawthorn and gorse sought to find a place to thrust down their roots. Here a mole might stray from the path and not be found before the corvids that lurked about, or the foxes that crept, or the stoats that screamed at night took him.

  Here are no good memories for mole.

  Here they were benighted and spent shivering, dark hours.

  Here, suddenly, as they set off once more, grikes rose up around them like filthy water rising out of bad ground to swamp a mole. One moment nothing but rocks, the next every rock seemed to spawn ten grikes, and every grike to show ten sharp talons.

  While there before them all on a flat rock overlooking their way a female stanced, eyes narrow, eyes dark, unwavering.

  “Greetings, mole,” said Beechen boldly, and in the old way said, “Whatmole art thou and whither art thou bound?”

  The female laughed, a tuneless sterile laugh which was chillingly echoed by chuckles and guffaws from the grikes who now came menacingly close, though no follower was touched. But evil was as palpable in the air as the stench of a dead sheep that drifted to them from among the rocks.

  The mole’s laugh died back to a sneer, and then to pity of an arrogant kind, and she said, “Use not your vile tricks of charm on me, tempter, insulter of the Word. I am the eldrene Wort and I am bound to the place that shall be thy journey’s end. Will you pray with me?”

  “To what end, mole?” said Beechen, his voice powerful.

  “For thy redemption from the evil of the Stone.”

  “There is no evil, Wort. Not even in the darkest heart, not even in the vilest act, there is no evil that cannot be turned to the good that is in us all. Let us pray in celebration of that good!”

  “Hear him, guardmoles of the Word! Hear his denial of his evil and pitiable plea for good. Lax good. Good indulgence. Good weakness...” Then she hunched forward towards Beechen and said this rapid prayer: “Holy Word, you who are my portion and my sup, you who are my delight, you who make my body glad, help this mole renounce the Stone, help his followers turn from their twisted way, help their eyes see the glory that is only yours. Holy Word, mother and father of us all, chastise this mole that he may see thy truth, chide this mole that he may be sickened by what he is, admonish him that he may sing thy name and know the proper way.”

  Wort’s voice cried out these last words as if she were desperate and suffering, an impression increased by the way her eyes fixed on some distant point beyond all the moles. Now she half turned back and looked straight at Beechen once again.

  “You have nothing to fear if you renounce the Stone, for the Word shall be merciful. I plead with thee to do it now.”

  Beechen reached forward slowly and, even as guardmoles to right and left of Wort came towards him, he placed his paw on her head and she did not resist.

  “Mole, be not afraid of me,” he said.

  Wort closed her eyes and she whispered with terrible intensity, “Holy Word, I feel thy power flow into me, I feel thy power destroy the temptations of the Stone, I feel thy power great within me. Un-paw me, mole, un-paw me!” She screamed the command at him and then her eyes snapped open and a look of disgust and hatred was on her face.

  “Renounce, mole, before thy journey ends or you shall be damned by the great Word, and lost.”

  “Wort, whatmole art thou, and whither art thou bound?”

  This time Beechen spoke with a terrible sadness, and turning to the others signalled them to move on.

  Which they did as the eldrene Wort continued her impassioned whisperings and warnings in the Charnwood heights, not hindering them more.

  Of this strange incident Beechen did not directly speak straight afterwards. But some days later, at Swadlincote, one of the followers asked him again about it. Was he not afraid, she asked, of the threats the grike moles made, particularly the eldrene Wort?

  “A warrior is wise to judge nomole,” he said. Then pointing at a place they had just passed where a tiny snowdrop grew from the dark, wet protection of a root – a flower none had even noticed until then – he said, “You see what may come out of the darkest shadow? Remember this before you judge another mole.” But of Wort he said no more.

  And yet in the moleweeks that followed this confrontation with Wort, Beechen seemed to accept that the eldrene had a part to play in his destiny which was beyond his power or desire to influence. Downcast and silent he became, trekking more slowly, talking to none, looking to Buckram and Sleekit to protect him now from other moles. Dreadful days of worsening winter weather, as driving rain turned to sleet and snow harsh at their faces.

  On, on he wished to go, Holm never failing him, more silent even than he was. Until at last, one afternoon, Holm stanced up and scented against the wind.

  “Holm knows what’s there! Been told! Sleekit knows too.”

  “I’ve never been by this route,” said Sleekit.

  Holm turned forward once again with a startled look on his face and dashed forward as if just round the next corner was whatever it was he scented. In fact it was an hour’s more travel and they came down upon it over a rise. Deep, dark, sinewy, flowing from the west, flowing to the east.

  “See
the River Trent!” said Holm. “North’s beyond it, south’s this side.”

  “Lead us down to it, Holm, and we shall rest.”

  So, wearily, unharried for now by grikes, they came to the River Trent.

  Even there, in the depth of winter weather, moles found them and Beechen, despite the darkness that had beset him, counselled and ministered to them through the long and desolate days.

  Grikes, some of whom had been with Wort at Charnwood, came and stared. Came and grinned.

  Beechen ignored them, turning towards the dark river which all knew he must soon cross.

  “Father,” he whispered in one communal prayer he made then, “give us strength for the final days to come. Let the Stone be ever before us, let its light shine upon our way, give me the companionship and love of my friends to the very last, grant me the strength to go on alone, however much I fear. Guide me.”

  The others were afraid when they heard him speak prayers like this, and some of the followers complained and said, “Is this a warrior’s prayer? Is this not a prayer of fear and doubt? Where is the Stone in this? Why does he speak of his father and not of the Stone? Why do we feel doubt in his presence? Why does he not lead us differently than this?”

  “Father,” whispered Beechen, “help them in their hour of distress!”

  How deep and black was the flow of the Trent, how fearful the prospect on its other side, how restless Beechen’s sleep. Close came Buckram to him, comforting were the words Sleekit whispered, loving was Holm’s way.

  It was one bitter day then, when they lay by the Trent waiting for the weather to improve, that Sleekit found Holm stanced miserably by the river, staring across to the other side. He had been gone some days by himself.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Couldn’t you find a place to cross the river?”

  “Ha!” said Holm. “Easy that! But I’m sad and sorry.”

  He turned to look at her, his eyes brimming with tears, his fur spiky with mud.

  “Sorry I am,” said Holm.

  “For what?” said Sleekit gently.

  “Because... because I’m not Mayweed. Because he knows what to say and do. Stone Mole needs him now.”

  “No, my dear, he needs you. You are worthy. Mayweed would be most proud of you. Mayweed loves you.”

  Holm stared at her but found no more words that night.

  So it was they helped each other; in such ways is community made.

  Perhaps Sleekit told Beechen of what Holm had said, but more likely he sensed himself Holm’s misplaced anguish. For when the day came that the weather cleared and Beechen was ready to go on he said to Holm, “Take us now over into the north and keep your eyes open for where the Stone stands proud.”

  “My eyes are not dusty like my fur!” said Holm.

  “Do you know where to go?”

  “Yes,” said Holm. With that he led them off and said no more.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Southern moledom put Lucerne, Terce and Mallice into an ill humour. There was something insubordinate about its moles, its vale-ridden landscape, and even the mucky dullness of its winter weather that offended northern moles.

  Then too there was the matter of the irritating change that was overcoming Mallice as the breeding season approached. She had been eager for young in the autumn and they had not come. Now spring was stirring beneath the frozen winter soil and there was an urgency for pups about her that Lucerne did not like.

  Mating pleasurably is one thing, mating for the desperate purpose of wanting and needing young is quite another.

  Now when Mallice purred, “Master mine...” her eyes seemed suddenly aged to him, and her body lost its appeal.

  “Not now, Mallice, the Twelfth Keeper and I....”

  “Sweet Lucerne....”

  “No!”

  His voice, when thus harsh, was mirrored by his eyes, all glittering and black without love at all. His turning away from her at such moments was final.

  But then, sometimes, as they had journeyed back from Buckland, across the hateful Vale of Uffington with memories of the heights and beauties of Whern a deep longing in them all, he would come to her and she had to suffer him taking her roughly, without words at all. What once she had loved in him, now she began to hate. It was pups she yearned for now, not him.

  “But did you not want me, mole?” he would say when he had done.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” she said, but still no pups quickened inside her.

  Subtly does the seed of dissension and sexual distress germinate and grow, mean and bitter the silent secret fruits it bears, and all the worse for being unspoken and barely seen.

  “Master mine...?”

  “Yes, Mallice, my love...?”

  The weary reply to the eager request.

  “Nothing now. No, nothing.”

  “Then why disturb us, Mallice?”

  Mallice turns, Mallice leaves, Mallice finds others to vent her unscreamed screams upon.

  Terce observes the Master’s narrowed eyes and hears his acid tongue.

  “Henbane, Master...” he whispers evilly. It is the true art of the Twelfth Keeper of the Word to know when and how to resurrect such things.

  “What of Henbane?” barks Lucerne.

  Terce smiles and shrugs.

  “She was never found.”

  “She is dead.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Mention her not again, Twelfth Keeper.”

  Terce smiles again, thinking that one day, when his glorious work is done, Lucerne too will be better dead for then might the greatness of his, Terce’s, name be scrivened truly, and that of Rune as well. As age crept upon Terce now, so did the lusts of vanity and recognition. He did not want to die unknown. The completion of his task must now be nigh.

  “Yes...” hisses Terce to himself. “But there will be need of succession. Pups.” A mole, hearing that cold creature say the word, would pity any pup that came within a talon reach of Terce. Especially those of his kin.

  But we cannot escape. Terce is there, plotting, in tedious tunnels in unnamed systems of the south. A powerful mole acting for himself and the dead Rune.

  “Slighe?”

  “Twelfth Keeper?”

  “Send the sideem Mallice to me here.”

  Look how coldly she comes alone.

  “Tutor-Keeper?”

  “Pups, Mallice: you shall need to make some come the spring.”

  “He does not wish to make them. Times will get better. The south oppresses him.”

  “Times will not get better. Get with pup, my dear, it shall be the Word’s will.”

  “But Tutor-Keeper....”

  “It matters not how it is done. Get with pup, sideem Mallice. One of them shall make thee matriarch.”

  Mallice smiled.

  “And that same pup shall link thee in blood with Rune. Is that thy lust?”

  “Tunnels have ears, Mallice.”

  “Not the dullard southern tunnels, nor memories either but my solitary sighs.”

  “Get with pup.”

  “Yes, Tutor-Keeper, I shall,” said Mallice coyly. “I shall give him until Cannock, and then if he fails another shall succeed.”

  With such irritations as Mallice’s needs and the continuing discovery of evidence of secret Stone worship throughout the south upon his mind, the Master of the Word was in an evil humour by the time he and his entourage arrived at Rollright at the beginning of February. Only to discover, as he immediately did from the guardmoles who had moved in and taken command of the system, the full extent of the worship of the Stone on Longest Night by moles in Rollright, led by Beechen of Duncton himself. It seemed the culmination of many aggravations.

  He listened in glowering silence to the account a stuttering guardmole gave of the blasphemous revelries before Beechen’s coming, Beechen’s subduing of the place, and the subsequent counselling and healing of moles before the Stones.

  “Keep this mole under guard, Drule,” he said, turning imme
diately to Terce. “And you, Twelfth Keeper, what think you?”

  “Because it is known that it happened, and widely known, it is a challenge to thy authority, Master. Severity is in my mind.”

  “Absolute severity,” agreed Lucerne. “Slighe, find out how many moles live in Rollright – of the Word and of the Stone.”

  “I know it already, Master,” said Slighe efficiently, quickly telling Lucerne the number.

  Lucerne fell into thought. Not a mole moved. There was silence of a mortal kind. Eventually he said quietly, “Terce, we must act now. We know that the eldrene Wort expects to take the Stone Mole soon. We know where enough of the followers are in most of the systems to deal with them conclusively. The sideem are very ready to act. Then let us act, now.”

  Terce stared at his Master uneasily.

  “Master, we must not be premature.”

  “And nor must we be too late. The Word is insulted by what happened in Rollright. The Word is insulted every day, every hour, that these followers pay their blasphemous homage to the Stone. Well, they shall know vengeance now. Let us heed the warning it took a brave eldrene to give us. Let us act on it... Assemble the moles of this system in the circle of Stones tomorrow,” he ordered Slighe. “There will be a conclave of moles of the Word and Stone, an exchange.”

  “Master, I shall,” said Slighe, asking no questions, keeping his thoughts to himself.

  “And Slighe... on your way out ask Drule to attend me,” he said and then told Terce and Mallice that he wished to be alone with Drule.

  Drule came and stanced before him.

  “There will be a conclave of moles in the Stone circle tomorrow.”

  “Slighe thought fit to mention it, Master. All the moles of Rollright.”

  “Yes. The Word is displeased with everymole of them. Kill them, Drule. All of them.”