Whillan stared at her, his eyes wide and serious.
“Was Cobbett your mate?” he said at last.
Privet laughed freely, in a way she never did with anymole-else.
“No, my love,” she said at last, “it wasn’t Cobbett.”
Such secret moments with Whillan, when he was snuggled up against her flank and she could touch on things nomole else could know, were precious and irreplaceable. When the summer sun was at her tunnel entrances, and the trees of Duncton riffled and shone all green and grey in the warm breeze, she knew she was living at last as she never had before.
So it was that with Whillan’s coming, and his growth into a mole in his own right, who asked questions and wanted to know things and whose eyes shone at her words and whose mind travelled in imagination with hers, something of the scars of Privet’s past had healed, and their pain lifted from her.
Sometimes during those June days Fieldfare joined them, rightly feeling that Privet had had enough time alone with her pup without interference, to bond to him in a way that could now never change.
So Fieldfare came, and added to Privet’s tales stories of her own, and gave to Whillan that heritage of memory of Duncton Wood that Privet herself could not give. In her own maternal way Fieldfare gave her account of the role Duncton had played in the defence of the Stone against the disciples of the Word and even took the youngster off to look at one or two places in the system that had played a part — or so moles said for none now lived who had actually been there at the time! — in the unfolding story of those days.”
Perhaps it was with Fieldfare’s stories, and in her company, that to those dark places in Whillan’s deepest imagination was added another — the Ancient System of Duncton Wood. For Fieldfare feared it, and spoke of it, and at night Whillan would sometimes fancy that he heard strange sounds from the High Wood, and that dark moles were there who lurked at forgotten tunnel entrances, inviting him down with alluring but treacherous smiles. Sometimes Whillan woke with nightmare thoughts, and Privet comforted him, as all parents must comfort their young as they grow and struggle with their fears, until they grow beyond them and the fears go deeper down, and linger, and wait.
For her part Privet was able to tell Whillan of some of the places beyond the system of which Fieldfare knew only the names, and where neither had much of consequence to say Fieldfare would conclude, “Well then, that’s one for Chater when he returns! He’ll tell you all about that, Whillan!”
“Will he come soon?” said Whillan, unconsciously pushing himself closer into Privet’s thin Hank, for he had not yet seen Chater, since the journeymole had gone off with a text for Avebury before he was aware of much more than Privet’s burrows. He was a little nervous of Chater, who sounded big and mysterious and not an easy mole.
“He better!” declared Fieldfare. “For I miss him and he said he’d not be back much later than June and it’s nearly July.”
Yet Whillan was not lacking in male company, or example. Apart from the great Stour himself, Drubbins visited from time to time, as he liked to visit all the new youngsters, and chatted about big things and small. There was growing trust between Drubbins and Privet, for he saw now — as others were beginning to — that there was a good deal more to Privet than a mole first thought, and certainly she had acquitted herself well where Whillan was concerned.
Pumpkin, too, was now a frequent visitor, and it was to that much-liked mole that Privet entrusted Whillans first venturing into the Library, feeling that it was better that another mole than her introduced him to the realities of books and scribing. The harder, learning part could come later, and no doubt she would have to see that he learnt scribing, but she felt it likely that good Pumpkin could enthuse the youngster better than she herself could. And anyway, as she told Fieldfare a little guiltily, “It is good to get away from him occasionally.”
When July came Whillan began to wander off by himself, and Privet at last returned for short times to the Library. By then Whillan’s character was beginning to form, and his looks too. He was if anything big for his age, but in length rather than muscle, for he was lanky and thin. Time no doubt would put muscle on him, but thus far his physical appearance, combined with a studious and enquiring nature learned from Privet, as well as an ability to stance quietly and listen, gave him the character for a scribemole or librarian, if a somewhat clumsy one.
Certainly, when Privet returned to the Library in July, for brief periods at first, she saw how willingly he went about with Pumpkin, who taught him more than any librarian or Keeper ever could. The youngster wandered here and there with him, helping him by carrying texts, and became a favourite among older, lesser moles who were glad to see some youth in the place, and occasional high spirits. For he had a sense of humour, and enjoyed hearing others tell their tales, knowing how and when to laugh and enjoy their jokes. But …
“What’s so funny, mole?” a nasal voice snarled one day from the shadows.
It was Deputy Master Snyde, patrolling, looking for something to complain about, or make mock of. The aides who had been laughing with Whillan slid away immediately and unfortunately Pumpkin was not there, so that Whillan was left alone with Snyde.
“It was just a joke,” he said, snout low. He had only ever seen Snyde in the distance, but knew his reputation.
“I know it was a joke because I heard your idiot laughter, mole, but I was wondering if it was funny or not.”
Before Snyde’s mocking, withering gaze the youngster stumblingly explained what they had been laughing about.
“And that’s it?”
“Um, yes,” said poor Whillan.
Snyde laughed loudly in a terrible way and then his face reverted to deadly seriousness.
Mole, keep your silly jokes out of here.”
“Yes, Snyde,” said Whillan.
Yes, Snyde? The very walls of the Library might tremble at such insolence. But Snyde only smiled, and came close, and caressed Whillan’s face in a way that made the youngster want to retch, and said, “You shall come to me for your tutoring in scribing, mole, for I understand you like texts.”
“I do,” said Whillan, wondering when the dried-up Snyde would take his paw away and trying to look him in the eyes without faltering, not daring to move away.
“That’s settled then.”
“But I think my mother is going to teach me.”
“She’s your foster-mother, mole. You were found by the Master. In a way the Library itself is your father. In such matters as learning how to scribe don’t you think the Deputy Master might know a little more than a mere librarian and foster-mother? Eh?”
Whillan stared, confused and not knowing what to say. Snyde came closer, reached out a paw and touched Whillan’s flank strangely, casting a lingering look at it. Whillan dared at last back off a little and Snyde as quickly withdrew his paw.
“Just my little joke, mole, just my own,” he whispered confidentially. Whillan could scent his dryness, and see the flick of a grey-pink tongue.
“Ha ha …” chuckled Snyde.
And Whillan tried to laugh.
But such moments of darkness, which are a part of a youngster’s education in learning how to cope with the world beyond his tunnels and home system, were rare and soon forgotten. There was always the surface to explore, and the warm summer sun to enjoy, and when he grew bored, or the light and sun in groves of trees ahead attracted him, he went off by himself to Fieldfare’s place, and she would fuss him, and try to fatten him, and say he was the spitting image of his mother, which was strange, since she was not his mother. But when she heard such things, Privet took it as a compliment.
None of them kept from him his orphan origin, but so secure was his life among them all that that terrible history seemed to mean nothing to him, and he never spoke of it.
But sometimes he seemed older than his years, and only when night came, and the shadows gathered in the chambers, and wind-sound travelled its dark and mysterious way, did he seem
younger again, nervous of the dark, afraid to be too much alone.
Yet by mid-July he was willing to go off by himself to places he had not been taken by anymole, exploring the tunnels and the Wood, and meeting up with moles like Drubbins, who was often about. Although he had been to Barrow Vale already in Privet’s company, he began now to visit it alone, and in truth began to make more friends than shy Privet ever had, coming back to the home burrow and telling her about them and all they said.
It was sometime then that he came back one day and told of an old mole he had met over on the slopes nearby the Stone.
“What was his name?” Privet asked, tired after a day’s work and only half interested.
“Don’t know,” said Whillan.
“Must be Husk of Rolls, Rhymes and Tales,” said Privet carefully. “He’s not a mole I’ve ever met.”
“Talked a lot,” said Whillan, brief as youngsters often are about the adventures they have had.
“And …?” said Privet, very curious.
“And … nothing much. Told me a tale and that was good.”
“What tale?”
“‘Bout Balagan. You know. Told it me yourself once. His version was different …”
“How?”
“Just different.”
This was the tantalizing first report that Privet ever had directly about Husk, and perhaps wisely she did not press the matter more, trusting that if something more was to be Whillan would tell her of it in good time. Which he did.
A few days later: “Spent the day at Keeper Husk’s. It was amazing, much better than the Library!” Whillan’s eyes were bright.
“Yes?” said Privet evenly.
“You know, all those texts he’s got, hundreds of them. He knows every one he said, every one. Amazing! Asked me about you. Said you must come from the Dark Peak. What is the Dark Peak?”
Privet was astonished. “It’s the name of the area where I was born. But how did he know?”
“Husk knows lots and lots. I’ll go again. Can I go again?” He seemed suddenly concerned by the look on Privet’s face, thinking her surprise and puzzlement was alarm.
“Of course you can, my love. He probably likes to see you. He’s a bit of a recluse.”
“Oh,” said Whillan, uninterested. “Well, I will then.”
So Whillan began to visit Husk, innocent of the fact that he was the first mole in many years to do so, and as those hot July days passed by he stopped going to the Library altogether, as if it was part of his puphood that he had grown out of. Instead he spent his time in the obscure tunnels of Rolls and Rhymes listening, learning, and helping.
Sometimes he would speak of it, sometimes not, and Privet was content that it should be so. She felt it wisest if she let things be, and curious though she was, did not try to interfere, or visit Husk herself.
That summer the Stone had seemed to cast its Light over their part of the wood, and over her life, and Privet was happy to let life be what it was, and let Whillan grow now as he would. But sometimes she found time dragging, and wondered where life would take her next, for she knew much had changed for ever with Whillan’s coming. Yet not everything, and sometimes too, in the shadows of dusk, or in the fastness of the night, she thought she saw a mole, a great mole, and she started forward, unafraid. For he was … but a shadow, but a memory from which she had not yet escaped.
“Is it normal to get bored with them?” she asked Fieldfare one August day, though that was not what was really on her mind.
Fieldfare laughed.
“Normal and healthy, my dear. A sign that the time’s coming when they’ll be leaving the home burrow, though bless me but you’ll have a few rough passages before that. They don’t leave easily you see. Sometimes they don’t want to leave at all. ‘Bored’, as you put, is mild compared to what you may feel by the time winter comes!”
Privet looked at her doubtfully. “I wouldn’t really want him to leave. I mean, what will I do when he does?”
“Be yourself again, and discover that you’ve become different too. Why, Privet, you’ve softened, you’re different, and Chater says …” Fieldfare giggled.
“Well?” said Privet.
“I couldn’t! I shouldn’t! I will! He says that since Whillan came into your life you’ve become, as he puts it in his crude male way, fanciable.”
Privet’s snout went red. Fanciable!
“Well!” she said rhetorically. “Really?”
Fieldfare nodded. “The thoughts of males make no sense to me at all, but I think it is time for you to forget the past, my dear. This is where your life is now.”
But Privet’s smile faded and she looked away.
“Oh Fieldfare, I’ve tried, and I thought I had. But sometimes lately in the night … I wish I could forget the past. I wish I could. I thought rearing Whillan would make me forget, but somehow it’s only seemed to make the past come near to again. Fieldfare, I’m sometimes so afraid, and sad, and lonely for what has been …”
“Tell me, my dear,” said Fieldfare.
“One day with your help I may be able to. But not yet, Fieldfare, not quite yet.”
Chapter Seven
September came and subtly the trees began to turn, their leaves becoming drier and more rustly in the wind as the rich greens of summer changed to russet-browns and reds, in a gentle wave across the Wood.
Change was in the very air, and that strange and troublesome time had come to Duncton’s tunnels, when young begin to leave the home burrow, some quietly, some with argument, and some with restless bewilderment.
But absorbing though the burgeoning needs of these youngsters were, most especially to themselves, it was in fact an important time for parents too, freed as they now were from the onerous tasks of providing and nurturing. On the days when summer sun briefly displaced the autumn bluster, the Wood seemed especially peaceful, and such moles could ponder the pleasures of knowing that their individuality had survived after all, and could be explored once more, and that with parental responsibilities lifted, all kinds of plans and preparations could begin at last.
Just such a hopeful mood overtook Privet, who, now that Whillan was off and about by himself and seeming to survive well enough, was beginning to raise her snout, look up at the trees and sky, and realize with a jolt that she was in a system that she had grown to love, and that there was much of it still to see, moles to meet, and many a thing to do.
Her work in the Library had grown slowly but steadily since Whillan had been old enough to go there with her, and though she was still formally attached to Sturne, the Keeper of Rules, in practice she was now consulted by moles from all departments of the Library, for she was recognized as having something of an expertise in matters mediaeval.
But for all that she found herself less willing to spend long hours in the Library than she had been before she had taken charge of Whillan’s rearing, for she saw that there was more to life than bookish things, and to get to know about them a mole must get off her rump and go and say hello to the world. But to what part of the world, and to which moles to say hello, Privet was unsure, for along with the new sense of freedom she felt had come a uneasy restlessness — uneasy because it seemed to have no obvious outlet or objective.
Meanwhile, Whillan, already inclined to wander off during the day, began to delve tunnels of his own for use at night, and as in other families in the system began the sweet sad parting of the ways which, hard though it may sometimes be, is essential if youngsters are to be independent adults with a mind and nature of their own.
Whillan chose the slopes above Barrow Vale for his tunnels, which though not rich in food, were serviceable enough, and put him nearer the social centre of the system than Privet’s austere burrows in the high Eastside. Whillan’s interests had moved on from Rolls, Rhymes and Tales, and he now affected complete boredom with anything that old Husk might have to offer him.
Yet though he was nearer other and younger moles, a certain unsociable melancholy of mood
had overtaken him and he seemed disinclined to mix and make new friends. About the only positive thing he seemed to do was drift — for that was the only way of describing the lassitude and indifference of his manner at that time — into the Library and wander among the stacks, giving his brief attention to all manner of texts, and scribing thoughts and observations about life on whatever scraps of bark came to paw.
“Life?” repeated Fieldfare with a laugh, when she heard of it.
“‘Incantations of Autumn’ is the text he’s working on,” confirmed Pumpkin, her informant on this occasion. They were having a lazy conversation with Privet out on the surface, enjoying one of the finest days of autumn.
“Incant what?” said Fieldfare.
“’ations,” said Pumpkin, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Incant-nonsense,” declared Fieldfare.
“But I’m sure he has reasons of his own …” said Privet, always uneasy discussing Whillan in this disloyal way, yet glad to have friends with whom, even if guiltily, she could do so. He could, she conceded to herself, be trying.
“They all go through it, dear,” said Fieldfare, knowingly. “At least yours is taking out his feelings on bark. That’s better than … did I tell you about the time when one of ours got so upset when I wouldn’t agree to something that he nearly hit me? Yes, it’s true! Luckily for him Chater was there so he only got cuffed. If it had been me alone he might have got … hurt!”
“Fieldfare! You’re not like that at all.”
“You’ve only ever seen the best in me, my love. Never the worst. I can wield a mean talon if I want, and if I ever have to I will. Can’t I, Pumpkin?”
Pumpkin, who did not look as if he knew what a mean talon was, nodded in an unconvincing way and Privet smiled to herself as she looked at her two friends — for friends they truly were by now — and thought that neither would be a judge of a mean anything. That was why she … loved them.
Love them? she said to herself with wonder. She did! And Duncton too! How much her life had changed. And yet … and … so …
Duncton Tales Page 9
