Duncton Tales

by William Horwood

  With the coming of March, the days began to lighten, and the soil and undergrowth of Duncton Wood began to stir with new life.

  One morning, arriving even earlier than usual, she came upon a thin, gaunt old mole ahead of her among the stacks. He moved quickly, like a weasel investigating an alien creature’s run, and his fur had the thin lack-lustre look of one who has been too long physically inactive and out of the fresh air. Yet old though he seemed, he had a certain vigour, and when he turned to look at her his eyes were sharp and penetrating.

  “Ah! Yes! The mole Privet, I think.”

  “I am,” said Privet, suddenly in awe, for she sensed that this might well be Stour.

  “And you …?” she began, feeling that if she did not ask she might regret it for ever.

  “Yes, yes, I am the Master. “Old Stour” as they call me.”

  To her surprise he laughed in a thin kind of way, though as he did so she was aware that his eyes continued to appraise her.

  Then he said, “I am well pleased with your work, Librarian Privet. The Frandon matter has been one of some embarrassment and I am glad it has been resolved, though the ambiguity remains. You have showed … tenacity.”

  “It is a forgery, Master, and I think I can say which of the Uffington scribemoles perpetrated it, though why I’m not sure.”

  “Boredom I expect. A bigger fact in history than so-called historians give credit for. Been tempted towards forgery myself! In fact …” he permitted himself the briefest of smiles. She knew suddenly she was not afraid of him. But more than that, she saw he was a mole alone. In that momentary smile was a weariness that came from a remembered life when he had not been Master … and not thereby been alone. In that there was something that they shared.

  “Master,” she began, daring to take her opportunity.

  The smile fled, and he raised a paw to silence her.

  “I know,” he said. “You are a mediaevalist and wish for other and more appropriate work. Scribes and scholars always come here expecting something other than I can at first give them. But you shall have what you desire in time. Now, tell me where you were trained.”

  She hesitated. She had hoped that after so long here nomole would ever feel the need to ask her.

  “Tell me, mole. I shall tell no other. From what I have heard of you it is plain enough you have fled from somewhere. If I am to trust those that work for me I must know they will answer truthfully what I ask of them, and fully if I request it. We live in strange and changing times and a mole must be cautious. You have more than the makings of a scholar, you are one already. But without a history.

  We know most moles that come here. Now, whatmole taught you to scribe, and where?”

  Even after this Privet hesitated, her face contorted with distress and worry, her mouth open to reply but no words coming.

  “Well, mole?” said Stour, coming closer.

  She looked into his eyes, and at his austere face, and down at his thin paws, and felt herself in the presence of a mole more clear-thinking, and more dedicated to truth, than anymole she had ever known. If she was wrong in her judgement about this mole, she would be wrong about life itself and in that moment, when Privet trusted her judgement and herself, she turned a corner and began a long journey back towards lost light and love.

  “I am of Bleaklow,” she whispered, naming an obscure and outcast system to the north.

  “And you learnt scribing there?” said Stour, astonished.

  She nodded.

  “And your teacher?”

  “You would not know her, Master,” Privet dared to say.

  “Mole …” there was ice in Stour’s voice, and warning. This was a mole who demanded the truth.

  “Her name was Shire of Bleaklow Moor.”

  “Whatmole was she? How came she knew scribing?” His eyes were sharp bright points of black, his body tense. She knew what he was thinking.

  “She was daughter of the Eldrene Wort who was my grandmother.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Stour and utter silence. The Eldrene Wort — but words were not needed. She was the most reviled mole in modern history. She was … and then, in the distance, beyond the main chamber where the entrances were, the sound of early arrivals began.

  “Come,” said Stour impulsively, “follow me up to my study cell, for there we can continue undisturbed.”

  Without more ado he led her through the stacks and up the slipway to the forbidden gallery above, through an arch where formerly she thought she had seen him talking to one of the Keepers, and there she was in his study cell.

  How small it seemed, how spartan, and not a text in sight. But beyond it, through another arch, she caught a glimpse of a few texts neatly arranged, whilst to her right she saw a second arch which led to the gallery from which their Master was said to be able to watch them all unseen. He turned to her and bade her stance down.

  “Now, is this connection with the Eldrene Wort the reason why you have stayed silent about yourself? You fear that others might not accept you?”

  “They never accepted my mother, Master, when she strove to flee from Bleaklow. Yet she did not commit the crime of her mother.”

  “This Shire, did she only teach you scribing?”

  “I can scriven, Master Librarian. I can transcribe mediaeval scrivening, and scribing too. I … I know most of the common dialects of the north.”

  “But what of your other knowledge? There are surely not so many texts in Bleaklow.”

  She nodded her head.

  “I … I did escape from Bleaklow. At a time of trouble I managed to escape and I fled to Beechenhill.”

  She had named the system where the Stone Mole was martyred, and which, though one of the twelve systems mandated at Cannock to be a library, was surely no real library yet. For it had stayed more or less deserted after the martyrdom, and no moles of scholarship had ever come from there. It was thought to have but few texts.

  Although moles say Beechenhill is not a true library, and in a way they’re right, yet there are worthy scribemoles there, Master. I studied under a mole called Cobbett …”

  “So …” said Stour, a strange look crossing his face as if, in some way, he had half expected her to say that. Privet paused, puzzled by his look, and aware that he knew more about what she said than he had yet revealed.

  “… I studied, and learnt much. And one day near the Beechenhill Stone, where … where …”

  Again she paused, for the story of what happened there was known to allmole and Stour had nodded briefly as if to say that it did not need repeating.

  “… Well, one day when I was wondering about something Cobbett had said about what I should study next, it seemed that there was light about the Stone, and a moment of Silence, and I had the sense that there was a task I must seek out and fulfil. After moleyears of wandering with no task at all it felt that I was coming home to the Stone itself. But I did not know quite what it was that I must do..

  Then she was in tears at the memory of a sense of Silence few moles ever experience. Stour reached forward a thin paw and touched her gently.

  “Continue, mole. I know that you have not spoken of this for a long time. The memory must be … difficult.”

  “I have spoken of it only once before, Master, and that was to Cobbett. He said …” Again there was that strange look on Stour’s face, a wistful, loving look.

  “… He said that he had long thought that my destiny lay in the direction of Duncton Wood, and that it might be there that I would find a task worthy of the Stone. He said that perhaps it had to do with tales, for that was an interest he had in which I had helped him.”

  “Did he say more? Did he speak my name?”

  “No, Master,” said Privet.

  “Did you know he was of Duncton born?”

  “I did not, Master,” she said in surprise and wonder. “He never spoke of that at all.”

  Stour looked deep into her.

  “How was he, mole, when yo
u saw him last?”

  “Master, I was coming to that …” she said diffidently, as if she sensed that Stour had once known Cobbett and might take hard the news she now had to tell him. “I said he had suggested I go to Duncton Wood, but I asked that I might stay with him for a time, to learn more of tales, and to help him as I could. Which I duly did until … until Cobbett ailed and I found that the only help I could give, for he would accept it from no other, was to look after him and ease his passage towards the Silence of the Stone. At the end he told me that when he was gone I must travel to Duncton Wood, taking with me the text of tales he had himself been working on, and to which I had contributed. This I have done, though since Deputy Master Snyde appeared uninterested in it I have kept it in my own tunnels …”

  “You watched over him until the end?”

  “Yes, Master. He died peacefully, grateful that at last he was coming near to Silence, which was, he said, the greatest mystery and perhaps the greatest tale in all moledom …”

  “I am glad it was you who were with Cobbett,” said Stour quietly. “As for the text you have brought with you, one day I would like to see it but for now, keep it safe in your own tunnels. There is a mole in Duncton who would be interested in it, and his name is not Snyde! The time for that will come, and must come, for tales have been much neglected in favour of other work and scholarship. My failing I fear — I never appreciated them enough — though Cobbett always said … no matter. I am glad it was you he was with, mole.”

  Privet was about to ask him what Cobbett was to him, for it seemed Stour knew him of old, but there came again the sound of approaching mole. The Master went to the archway and looked down into the Main Library, Privet at his flank. Full morning light had come, and the librarians were coming in to work. The sound of them seemed so near below that they could hear moles laughing, and then the sharp nasal voice of one of them — Snyde. A look of dislike and urgency came over the Master’s face.

  “Mole, I know not yet to trust you,” he said. “But I shall watch, and I shall listen, and when I have decided I shall act. A mole like you shall have a task, and we must trust the Stone to direct us towards it. You however must trust me, you have no other choice. Meanwhile, there is a task concerning Tales … a task that may prove more important than any we do here. But … before that, mole, the Stone will guide me to test you. Work hard at whatever you do, and do whatever I may ask you to do.

  “And mole, be of cheer. Nomole can flee for ever. This day with me, here, you have turned back to face your past. That must be your struggle, not mine. But the Stone finds ways and means of revealing the truth to guide moles forward. Know this, Privet of Bleaklow Moor, we live in dangerous times. Be warned, be ready, and be watchful. As for what we have spoken of, you shall repeat it to nomole, nomole at all. The texts you learned your scrivening from, this mole Shire’s texts …”

  “None knows of them but I, Master. Nomole in all of moledom beyond the Moors where I was raised. Nor of the many scribings with them. They —”

  He raised a paw to silence her.

  “For now I would rather nomole but thee knows what they are, where they are and where they came from. It is well it is so.” His eyes grew suddenly intense and he leaned closer still and said, “This is not the only reason why you have kept your silence, this connection with the Eldrene Wort.”

  “I loved a mole, Master, with all my heart. He …”

  Stour smiled the gentlest smile. “And I once, mole, I too. Life gave me no second chance, and I have lost much thereby. I shall pray, mole, that you have your second chance with the mole you love, and if you do, that you take it with both paws.”

  “That can never be, Master, it is too late. Even if the chance comes, I would not have courage to take it.”

  “No, you might not,” he said matter-of-factly. “I did not.” Then his voice changed once more; he stanced back and looked severe, and said, “Now, to your work, and be ready, mole, the test I give may be other than either of us can now predict. The Stone’s Light may be in all of this. I pray that it is so!”

  He spoke these extraordinary things quietly and urgently, and with a terrible intensity that held Privet transfixed after he turned from her and was gone into the inner chamber where she had seen the texts. For her part she felt … recognized. Here, in the most powerful position in the greatest Library in moledom, was a mole she sensed was utterly incorruptible. The burden that she bore, and of which until then she had never spoken except so briefly and so strangely to Pumpkin in January, was no longer only hers to bear. Whatever test he set her, however hard it might be, she knew she would seek to achieve it with all her heart. In one short interview Stour had won her loyalty and her trust.

  She turned out through the archway on to the slipway, and hoping that nomole would see her leave, hurried down into the Main Chamber.

  “Well, well, well!” said the nasally voice of Snyde, who appeared from among some shadows by a stack. “The mediaevalist and the Master meet! And what did he wish to speak of, mole?”

  “I … it is … best I speak not of it,” she replied, floundering.

  “Best, is it? Best for whom?”

  He thrust his snout up at her, and peered in the crooked way he had, narrowing his eyes, not liking her.

  Suddenly she smiled — not weakly, but strongly, the smile of one who trusts herself.

  “Why do you look at me like that?” said Snyde, affronted by her naturalness.

  “I feel that winter is nearly over,” she said, staring him out, “and that spring is come at last.”

  He glanced up at the Master’s gallery, and then at her.

  “Tell me what he spoke to you about,” said Snyde.

  She said nothing and he peered at her unpleasantly, and then turned away, smiling in his turn, but coldly, bitterly.

  From that moment, just as she knew she had found an ally in old Stour, she sensed she had made an enemy of Snyde for life.

  Yet she had been right: winter was nearly done, and spring was in the air. Except for Fieldfare, females she had got to know were suddenly friends no more, but rivals for the males. The system went strange, and difficult, as it often does at mating time, and Privet suffered that loneliness that pupless females, desired by few, often suffer when the world about them is in love, or lust. Only Avens made a pass at her, and when she made plain what her answer was he grew cold and distant. Of all the males she knew only Pumpkin stayed as friendly as he had ever been.

  “Used to be interested in mating and suchlike, and even did it twice, but … I don’t know, it’s a lot of fuss about nothing which takes a mole’s attention from the good things of life.”

  “Which are what?” she laughed.

  “Spring, of course. New-found warmth. Wood anemones. Trees leafing. Birds twittering. Those are the things that matter!”

  But to Fieldfare, who was very interested in matters of mating, though her pupping days were done, Privet was something of a mystery and a disappointment.

  “You don’t even seem interested,” she said one day when, rightly, she sensed that Privet felt lonely. For while Pumpkin’s philosophy might work for a mole as old as him, who has had a mate in the past, there were days, and then weeks, when the system tunnels were abuzz with new love and a new life, and a mole might well feel bereft if she had no mate at all.

  “I said, you don’t seem interested.”

  “I …” began Privet miserably.

  “You’re pining for a mole who isn’t here!”

  “I’m not!” Privet replied sharply.

  “Yes you are!” said Fieldfare, relieved to have analysed the problem correctly. “What’s his name? It’s very frustrating not knowing!”

  “It’s all long ago …”

  “So, I’m right, something did happen. I was not quite certain until now.”

  “What? Like that? Well I was — once. And once is enough.”

  “You still love him!”

  “Yes,” said Privet, snout low
, “yes, I do.”

  “Won’t you tell me about it? You might feel better.”

  But Privet shook her head, and Fieldfare, who knew her well by then, did not say more, except to add kindly, “If you ever want to talk about it, Privet, you can talk to me. Do you miss him badly?”

  Privet nodded silently.

  “Is there no hope that you could be with him again?”

  “No hope at all,” said Privet finally. “It was over long ago … when he went with another mole than me. It was impossible and I know I shall never see him again …”

  She stared at Fieldfare, unable to go on, for her eyes had filled with tears and her mouth trembled and … and Fieldfare embraced her and whispered, “No my dear, don’t say that, for it’s not over yet. If you deny it even to yourself it festers inside. You can tell me, my love, for I’ll tell nomole.”

  And Privet cried but said no more.

  The trees leafed more, the wood anemones bloomed, and as the days advanced towards April the system was full of the cries of pups, and the self-absorption of mothers.

  Privet, unhappy still and yearning for the longer, warmer days of May, immersed herself in work, the one place where she could forget herself, and all her past, the one place she was safe. The one place in which nomole could have predicted the nature of the test, deep and terrible, life-changing and at first almost cruel, that Stour imposed upon her. A test that changed her life.

  A test whose name was Whillan, whose form was puppish, and whose need was as sudden as it was absolute.

  Chapter Five

  It was during one of the later, milder days of April that Stour finally emerged from his long winter retreat. He came out into the Library suddenly and unexpectedly and went about and talked with moles who had not seen him since the previous autumn years, just as if he had done it every day previously for the winter years past, and intended to do it for ever more into the future.

  Even Pumpkin, who regarded himself as too unimportant for such things, found himself snout to snout with the suddenly affable Master, and obliged to overcome his nerves and make conversation.