Duncton Tales

by William Horwood

  Had his wounds been deeper, and his body less frail, there might have been something they could have done, if only to remove him from the clearing to somewhere safer and warmer. But it was all too plain that rather than delaying his death, such a move would more likely hasten it, and anyway, as if understanding that moving him might be half in their minds, he whispered; ‘Leave me be: here, where I can see the Stone; here, where others of Duncton have come to die, or have sacrificed their lives. I feel their great spirits with me now, and am content to end my time in such companionship. My life has been devoted to the scholarship of memory, and I have come to see that I am part, as we all are, of something greater and wiser than I knew.”

  He indicated to Privet to have Whillan hold him a little more upright, that he might speak to them the easier. His breathing was coming with increasing difficulty.

  “Privet, my dear, and you, Whillan … and your friend, whom I don’t think I know, listen now, for there are some things I wish to say. It seems that Pumpkin has told you most of what happened — of how the Newborns crept up on us in the night with such a force of moles as would have defeated a whole community, not just two bookish moles like us. Then they began destroying my tunnels in frustration.”

  “Frustration” repeated Privet.

  “Oh yes! They seemed to think they might find something special in your Collection, something they would not name.”

  “The Book of Silence,” whispered Husk with a smile, “that’s what they came looking for.”

  “But surely, Keeper Husk …!” began Privet in astonishment.

  “Surely nothing!,” said Husk, with something of his old impatience. “I told them I had no such Book, only a Collection of texts from which, through many decades, I had made up a modest and thoroughly unsatisfactory Book of Tales. They did not believe me and, like all moles who do not understand the nature of a question they have asked, and distrust the answer they receive, being unsatisfied they tried to destroy what they did not understand. But in doing that they made me understand …”

  He shifted his body a little as if to ease himself from pain, but instead went suddenly breathless, and all he could do for a time was cling on to their paws and stare at the Stone while he struggled for normality once more.

  “Do not try to talk to us any more now,” said Whillan, “it can wait till later.”

  “W … w … wait?” gasped Husk. “Won’t say much when I’m dead, that’s for sure! No, mole, you remember that it’s now or never in life, now or never. Where was I?”

  They made you understand …?” said Privet softly.

  “Yes, Privet, yes, my dear. They did. Of course they couldn’t find the Book of Silence but when they started to destroy the tunnels, and bring out my books into the open which I had tried to preserve so long … do you know, after the first shock I felt relief, such relief to see all that clutter go and there at last I saw a tale I had searched for for so long. The one I always said would be the last tale, you know, my dear, I told you.”

  “You mean the tale you called “The Sound of Silence”?”

  “That’s the one! It was there, waiting in the clutter. There all the time, amongst the folios you dealt with, you. I had passed it over, but you … it’s your tale to make and tell, Privet. That’s why I couldn’t find it, and Cobbett couldn’t, and scholars have never found it. It was not made, it was waiting to be made.”

  “I don’t understand, Keeper Husk,” said Privet urgently. “Please try to explain because it’s hard, it feels hard …”

  “Oh it is hard, very very hard,” said Husk. “As for explaining … but you’ll find the courage to find it. Don’t you remember what I said about that tale when you first came to me …?”

  “You said that all that was known of the tale of the Sound of Silence was a fragment that said “in its beginning is its ending, and in its ending is its beginning” and that you did not understand …”

  “Today I understood, Privet, I understood at last and I believe that in the past others have understood as well, yet not said what it was they knew. But you know the sound of silence, Privet, you know …”

  “No!” cried out Privet, staring where Husk stared blindly, at the Stone.

  “Yes, my dear, and now you must go forward towards it and I shall die content knowing that I have known the mole who will complete the Book of Tales and in that ending find a beginning greater by far than all we could have hoped for.”

  “I am not worthy!” whispered Privet, as Whillan and Chater, not understanding at all what Husk was really getting at, or why it should have made Privet so distressed, looked at each other in wonderment.

  “Yet,” whispered Husk weakly, for now it was plain he was sinking lower, and what strength he had had was all but gone, “yet the one thing all my researches showed beyond a shadow of a doubt was that the sound of silence had to do with a Master of the Delve. I wish …”

  “But, Keeper Husk,” said Whillan impetuously, and before Privet could stop him, “there is mole others call a Master of the Delve, there is …”

  “A Master of the Delve has come?” whispered Husk, awe on his face, reverence in his voice. “This mole Rooster, whom Privet would not talk about?”

  “Aye, that’s the one!” said Chater, studiously ignoring Privet’s silent pleas for them not to disturb Husk more.

  “Well, of course,” said Husk after a moment, “of course Privet wouldn’t have told me. Too frightened to, don’t you see! Too afraid of what it meant. I would have been too. Well, it’s out in the open now, isn’t it, and you can’t pretend it’s not, Privet! So! I did get as far with my Book of Tales as I could have done. Privet, I let you take most of it up to the Library, and some remnants too, so it’s safe even if the sources it came from have been destroyed. Promise me this: you’ll scribe the last tale of the Book before you do anything else, scribe it for me. Tell me that and I’ll die content, my work accomplished. Tell me …”

  “Keeper Husk, I cannot …”

  “Mole, I ask you to do it!” said Husk, turning to her and reaching a feeble paw desperately up towards her face.

  “Privet …” said Chater warningly, “you can’t run from things always.”

  “It’s but a tale to scribe, Privet,” said Whillan, “you can surely promise Keeper Husk that!”

  It was Husk smiled and shook his head.

  “’Tis not just a tale, young mole, and nor can Privet be blamed for running from something that most moles cannot even contemplate facing,” he said, as if Privet was not there.

  “It’s because she knows how formidable the task is that she’s tried to escape from it. Twas wrong of me to ask her to promise such a thing … but you, Privet, it must be you. You who sought to run from life, you are the one to see my work to its conclusion. Yet not my work alone. Many many moles’ work, allmoles’ work; you, my dear, you must try to scribe and continue even when you fail. Continue then and you will discover what I could not.”

  “But, Keeper, I cannot, I am —”

  “You shall find the way in contemplation of what I have left behind, and in contemplation of the Silence of the Stone. Others will help, for nomole is alone in any task, least of all this great one towards the Book, the last Book … It was so near to me all those long years, so very near and now, at the end, I am blessed to know a little of what will surely be.”

  “Stay to guide me,” whispered Privet, her paws encircling him, her voice weak and shaking.

  “No strength for that, my dear, and I have done all that I can. My task is almost over now.” Then turning to Whillan he said, Tell me that you’ll help her, Whillan.”

  Whillan could only nod his promise that he would, for tears coursed down his face and such words as he had could not then have been clearly spoken.

  Husk nodded, and looked down at his old paws, smiling, then up to the Stone once more, and back at last to the listening moles.

  “Whillan, you must travel as your adopted mother has. Only through a jou
rney of experience is a true scribe made. Therefore, journey forth, discover, question, seek out, always remembering that your roots are here, like these great beeches, and you must one day return here and help her as you have promised to do. The Book is incomplete, the last tale must be lived before it can be told. Therefore …’ But here he coughed, a weak, racking cough, and for a time could hardly catch his breath.

  “You, mole,” he said at last, turning to Chater.

  “I’m Chater, sir, a journeymole.”

  “Fieldfare’s mate …”

  Chater looked surprised that Husk knew, and the old mole suddenly chuckled and said, “The Wood whispers much to moles who listen. Well, mole, see that Privet is watched over. She’s not a strong mole, and needs others about.”

  “She does, sir. We … value her. We’ll watch over her.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Husk, turning from Chater back to the Stone. “Now, help me, for I would touch the Duncton Stone one last time; help me …”

  So Chater went to Husk’s other flank as Privet and Whillan continued to support him, and then all three lifted the old mole across the clearing towards the Stone.

  “Oh yes,” whispered Husk, striving to reach out before them, his eyes full of the Stone’s Light, and joy in the last words he spoke: “Yes! Now I hear the Sound of Silence, Privet, you can surely hear it too …”

  And they knew, even as they carried him to the base of the Stone, that old Husk had found his strength again, and now journeyed on ahead of them, purposeful, joyful, certain, fulfilled, into the Light and the Silence of the Stone.

  They laid him where he died, and even as they backed away from him and Privet spoke the ancient liturgy of farewell, the winds stirred again, the branches threshed and the wet leaves swirled, half covering Husk where he lay. It seemed that he was already fading into the memories of earth and time, to be reborn in a tale yet to be told.

  “Yet to be told …” whispered Privet. “He said the last Book had to be lived before it could be told. But he is part of that last tale; he was trying to tell us that here, now, what has just been, what will be, are all parts of the great Book of Silence. Do you see, Whillan? We are the last Book.”

  But Whillan’s snout was low, and his head bowed down, and he wept for the death, the first death of a mole he loved.

  Whilst Chater, suddenly aware of how exposed they were, began to look about at the lengthening shadows beyond the clearing, then stanced up restlessly and broke into their grief to warn that they must go before others saw them. Their task here was surely done.

  “Yes,” said Privet vaguely, “yes, it is. Come, Whillan, there is no more we can do for Keeper Husk, and we have other work to do.”

  Whillan wiped his eyes with both paws, coughed, nodded, sniffled at the air, and said as bravely as he could, “So! We’re the Book that’s yet untold, are we! We better make it worth the telling then, hadn’t we, Chater? Hadn’t we, Privet?”

  His sudden good humour was what they all needed, and Chater said, “There’s no sadness in a life well lived, and Keeper Husk seemed to have done that. Of his Book of Tales and all of that I know nothing, and can say nothing. And as for that task of scribing his last tale, which he called the Sound of Silence, I can’t for the life of me see why you couldn’t undertake to do it. But despite your failings I swear by our great Stone that I shall do my best to watch over you, Privet, as Husk bade me do. And I’ll warrant that Whillan here will always do the same.”

  “I swear it,” said Whillan impetuously. “Over Husk’s body I swear it.”

  The clouds darkened as Privet said gladly, “I know you will, my dear, and you, Chater, as your Fieldfare has always done, from the day I came to Duncton Wood. It is a comfort to have such friends. Now: we must go across-slope to Husk’s burrows, for there may be texts there that can be saved and taken to the Library. I would like to go there now, before darkness comes, and more rain.”

  “Well …” began Chater dubiously, furrowing his brow and contemplating the possible dangers.

  “Come on!” said Whillan suddenly, all eagerness and energy, anxious to get away from the clearing. “We’ll survive better than any texts! You’re always so cautious, Chater!”

  “Caution got me where I am — here, alive and in one piece!” said the journeymole stoutly. “And I dare say caution got Privet here where she is! You come back here in twenty moleyears as alive and well as we are and I’ll hazard you’ll declare caution saw you through. Now, let’s get going.”

  As Chater led them out of the clearing, growling and grumbling about caution and hot-heads, Privet smiled, and Whillan, winking at her, grinned and let her pass. With one last look back at the Stone, and at Husk’s little body that lay so near it, now almost obscured by leaves, Whillan raised a paw in salute and farewell, and turned to follow the other two.

  Just as Chater watched protectively over Privet and Whillan on their journeys through the Wood that day, Maple had to do the same for Stour and Drubbins on their journey upslope to the Library, and his courage and strength had been needed, and not found wanting.

  They had left a short time after Chater and his group, leaving Pumpkin safely behind in Fieldfare’s burrow for her to attend to whilst he recovered from the shock of the night attack, which it seemed it would take him some time to do. Maple had insisted that Fieldfare take poor Pumpkin to the quietest and more obscure part of her tunnels, and so she chose a place that Chater had prudently delved the previous summer as one of safe retreat in case troubled times came to Duncton.

  Thus satisfied that the two were safe, and leaving them with strict orders not to move even into adjacent tunnels until Chater or he himself came calling her name, Maple went out on to the surface to lead his elderly charges up to the Library.

  It was his wish to travel by as obscure a route as he could find, but Stour and Drubbins were not prepared to journey through their own system like fugitives hurriedly seeking sanctuary and so they travelled along the major communal route that runs from the Eastside up to the edge of the High Wood, much of which uses labyrinthine surface runs amidst the roots of the ash and beeches in those parts. Overhung and shadowed as it is, in places so hemmed in that moles can only go along in single file, conscious that they can be watched unseen or their passage easily blocked, it is not a route to make a fearful mole feel secure, and Maple was not happy taking it. The more so because the Wood was shaken still by the wild winds of the night’s storm, and their progress was slowed by drifts of wet leaves and the detritus of dead twigs and branches that had fallen in the night.

  But if Stour was aware of how vulnerable they were to attack, he did not show it in the least; on the contrary, he dawdled along, chattering to his old friend Drubbins about great storms of the past and other such irrelevancies (as they seemed to the increasingly impatient Maple).

  But Master Librarians are not to be hurried, and if Maple was at first somewhat brusque in his anxiety to get Stour over and round the more awkward places and obstacles his mood soon gave way to one similar to that of Drubbins, who showed a more kindly appreciation that this journey through the Wood might well be Stour’s last before his self-imposed incarceration in the lost tunnels of the Ancient System, and he might therefore wish to prolong and enjoy it.

  So it was that Maple’s impatience gave way to something more philosophical, and whilst remaining watchful he suppressed his fears and enjoyed instead the old mole’s cheerful discourse about the history of the Wood about them, and those who had lived there long ago.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve ever even noticed that tree there!” said Stour, turning suddenly to Maple and pointing to a sterile trunk from which most of the bark had long since fallen, leaving only a thick pale shaft with a moss-covered base. The main part of the tree had rotted and collapsed into itself where it had fallen decades before, and was covered now in ivy and the fronds of withywind.

  “I’d hardly call it a tree now, Master,” declared Maple, “and what remains needs only a bla
st of wind from the right direction to topple it for ever.”

  “Well, we’ll all be like that one day, Maple, just remnants of what we were, even you! But I’ll tell you something about that tree. Look at its topmost part, where the trunk broke off. What do you see?”

  Maple peered upwards and saw that the highest edge was all rough and blackened, except where some bird, a rook perhaps, had used it as a staging-post and stained it grey. Maple shrugged his shoulders, uncertain what the Master was getting at.

  “You see, Maple, coming from the Westside as you do, you would have no reason to know that this tree marks the highest point to which the great fire of Bracken’s day reached. At the base of this very tree a party of moles, stricken by fire and half suffocated by smoke, unable and unwilling to progress further because an elderly member of their party was too weak to continue, crouched together in expectation of death. The fire came roaring up to them and they prayed to the Stone for a miracle of deliverance. Out of the High Wood came a mighty and wrathful wind, sent no doubt by the Stone, and it confronted the fire and fought with it, and after a tremendous struggle over the very heads of those good and faithful moles, when sparks flew, and fires roared and flaming branches fell all about them, the fire was stopped and came no further, and so they were saved.”

  All thought of the present danger they might be in fled from Maple’s mind as the old mole deftly recounted this nearly-forgotten incident from the legendary days of Bracken and Rebecca, and he stared among the roots of the old tree, and then up again at the last evidence of the fire.

  “There are many such reminders of the past throughout our beloved system,” said Stour, “whose meaning and memory are passed down from parents to pup, from old mole to young, as testimony that ours is not the only generation, ours not the only task, and that many have gone before us, living and feeling, hoping and loving, longing and finally dying, as we must do.”