If this was so then it helps explain the tough and non-conciliatory attitude in which Beechen appears to have approached his first meeting with one of the new trinities of moles of the Word, created for the purposes of crusade.
The meeting took place initially in the dull communal chamber the grikes had made in that portion of the system called West Fyfield, and it was to there, after a tedious trek, that Hale finally led them.
There were a large number of moles in the chamber, and the atmosphere immediately before Beechen and the others came into it was excited and uneasy. Already three other followers were there, moles brought in from the south of Fyfield towards Buckland way.
These had been brought in unwillingly, and they presented a sorry sight, for they had not believed a word of what they had been told – namely that they would be given safe passage back out of Fyfield and that the new sideem, just arrived, were merely anxious to “talk” to them. They had not been hurt, but had watched with growing apprehension as more and more moles of the Word – guardmoles, eldrenes and their assistants and finally sideem gathered in the chamber.
Nomole had been quite certain what the other was doing, and the uneasiness was caused by the curious fact that the trinity of moles who had come from the north, though they had taken bold and impressive stance at one end of the chamber, had given no lead at all.
“We understand a Stone-fool is coming to, er, join with us in this friendly exchange of views,” said one of the sideem smoothly, “and until he comes I suggest those of you who do not know each other make yourselves known. Yes, that would be a good idea I think...” After which conversation had been somewhat strained, since the moles in the chamber, already very aware that the visiting trinity was making a report direct to the new Master himself, found themselves under their silent and impassive scrutiny.
What did go on was a sometimes desperate attempt by the moles of the Word who had gathered for this strange meeting to behave in a way that they thought might best impress the investigators with their intelligence, devoutness and zeal. Since each mole seemed to have a different idea of how best to achieve this there had at first been general pandemonium. Some prayed loudly to the Word, some adopted meditative stances, some talked loudly of their love of the Word, a few felt the best thing to do was to go and roundly berate the outnumbered Stone followers. Fortunately, three stolid guardmoles had been briefed to stance guard by the followers, say nothing and prevent violence, which at times it seemed their presence alone succeeded in doing.
The wait for the Stone-fool had been longer than expected, the noise had died down, and eventually the gathering was overtaken by subdued expectant chatter, mainly about whatmoles the trinity were, and what their purpose.
Important moles, important purpose, it seemed. The Fyfield eldrene, Smock, was even now stanced near them looking ill-tempered but respectful. They had come only a few days before having trekked from Cumnor where, so it was said, Wort had impressed them by her devotion to the Word.
Smock, more easy-going, had simply obeyed their summons to a private talk, put her system and guardmoles at their disposal, and sent out for followers.
“There’s one called Beechen who’s got a following, and I’ve a mind to hear him myself. He’s in Garford now which isn’t far off... and there’s a few others we can always find.”
So the followers had been summoned. Meanwhile the trinity, led by an austere and ascetic young male, Heanor of Nidd, had begun to interrogate senior moles, asking all about the Stone, and ending each interview with the admonition that until further edict from the Master-elect himself, Lucerne (the news of Henbane’s deposing had come earlier, in September), no harm was to come to the followers at all of any kind. The guardmoles found this hard to take for they enjoyed a periodic expedition to rough up a few followers, but there was something forbidding about the way Heanor gave the warning, and little doubt that penalties would be severe and carried through.
What the sideem’s intent was the Fyfield garrison had no idea, but when it was announced that followers would be debated with and senior moles might attend, a great many had crowded in. The sight of the abject followers had caused outrage in some, but the beady eyes of Heanor and the three guardmoles were enough to prevent anymole do more than shout his contempt.
Occasionally Heanor leaned over towards eldrene Smock and, nodding towards somemole in the crowd, asked a question, probably the mole’s name. Whisper whisper, glance glance; blink and scriven. No wonder the atmosphere in the chamber seemed to darken as the wait wore on, no wonder the followers looked fearful, and their fur grew haggard and moist with fear.
Then a hush fell and expectation mounted, for a messenger, a humble obeisant mole and one of the few remaining original moles of Fyfield, had come in and whispered to Smock, who in turn whispered to Heanor, who in turn whispered to his colleagues. This Stone-fool, it seemed, was on his way and would be in the chamber soon.
It was into this expectant and strained atmosphere that Hale led Beechen, Sleekit and Buckram a few minutes later. They must have seemed a strange yet imposing sight to the waiting moles of the Word: the aging but upright and bright Sleekit, a mole of authority; Buckram, cured of murrain, whom many there must have known from before; but, most striking of all, the last to enter – the young male Stone-fool, handsome, healthy, open, and certainly not abject.
“Welcome,” said Heanor, the moment they had come in and settled near the other three followers. “My name is Heanor of Nidd, and I am sideem anointed before the Rock of the Word. We are sent here by the Master of the Word-elect, Lucerne, peacefully and in just spirit. We shall in the molemonths ahead continue to do what we have done already, which is to debate with true followers of the Stone the nature of their complaints and of their fears and to strive to come to an understanding of their doubts of the Word.”
Heanor spoke clearly, pleasantly and well. There was a lulling reasonableness about what he said. He turned to his colleagues and introduced them – a sideem and a tough guardmole whose names are now forgotten. “And this is eldrene Smock,” concluded Heanor with a suave smile, “to whom I am grateful for the courtesy she has shown these past days and in whom I am sure the Word is well pleased.”
Smock affected not to be pleased at this and leaned over to Heanor and whispered to him, pointing to Buckram.
“Really? Yes... I understand that you are one Buckram, former guardmole apostate to the Word.”
There was an angry whisper among the moles at this. Buckram smiled, shrugged and said, “Well, I don’t know what a postle is but if you mean I was of the Word and now I’m of the Stone you’re right. Best thing that ever happened to me.”
Again murmurs ran among the moles. Such openness going unpunished was unheard of, and if this was the way the new order at Whern was going to go Word help them all. Yet there was a menace about Heanor that comforted them, and a smug assurance about Smock that made the more astute think this wasn’t what it seemed.
“We know not your name, mole,” said Heanor to Sleekit.
It was a moment Beechen, Sleekit and Mayweed had often discussed – whether or not to use their real names. They had long since decided they would do so, for a mole’s name is his outward identity to others, and to lie about it, however good the reason, is to demean the self that name has come to represent. Yet in all their discussions they had not imagined they would be asked it by a sideem.
“Sleekit,” said Sleekit boldly, “of Duncton Wood.” This too caused a murmur, and this too Sleekit had often thought about, and had decided that since she had first discovered her true feelings for the Stone in Duncton in Henbane’s time there, she might legitimately claim to have been born – new-born! – there.
The sideem did not react in any special way, and it seemed that even if he knew that the Mistress Henbane had had a sideem Sleekit in attendance he did not connect this mole with her.
“So you are Beechen, or as I understand they say in these parts, a ‘Stone-fool’.”
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“Mole,” said Beechen coolly, without any concession to Heanor’s seeming politeness, “what would you have followers do in a system blighted with the blood of moles? Where would you have us turn in tunnels haunted by moles’ screams?”
But for a hardening in the set of sideem Heanor’s mouth there was no sign that he was upset by this, indeed his eyes retained their suave, if false, smile.
“Mole,” he responded strongly, “we shall not progress....”
“We shall not!” said Beechen powerfully, half turning from Heanor so that the gathering could see him. But what did they see? Not an abject follower such as the lies and distortions of eldrenes and sideem over the years might have led them to expect, nor a maddened Stone-fool of the kind they had grown used to finding and mocking, but instead a mole of strength who stared at them in a way that impelled them to look and wait on him.
“No we shall not progress this way.”
Heanor tried again to gain control of the meeting, and said, “But mole, I....”
“Nor this way!” cried out Beechen turning from both Heanor and the gathered moles and pointing his right paw at the three followers who were quite speechless at what was taking place. Indeed, all moles were, for never in any of their memories had they seen a mole, a follower of the Stone furthermore, outface a sideem, grikes, guardmoles and themselves.
“What moles are these?” thundered Beechen. Then advancing towards them, his eyes glinting in his face as the sun shines in pools of water caught in a tree’s surface roots, the guardmoles fell back utterly disconcerted by him. Then he turned to the three followers and said in a much softer voice that was full of love. “What moles are these?” Then he reached out his paws to them and, wondering, they reached out to his and whispered, “Whatmole are you? Whatmole?”
Becchen smiled and said, “Go from here and be not afraid. None here shall harm you while I am here. Go now, and speak of this, and say you came to stricken Fyfield in fear, but you left with the fear driven out of you by pride in what you are.”
The chamber was still, nomole dared speak or if they did they knew not what to say, and the three followers looked first at the guardmoles who had been assigned to them, then at the trinity of moles led by Heanor, then at Beechen once more, their eyes wide in awe.
“Are they not free to go?” cried out Beechen, again turning round suddenly and facing Heanor. “Safeguarded to come, safeguarded to go – so we were told and they. By the Word itself it was said! Well Heanor of Nidd, anointed at the very Rock itself, let us see the truth of thy Word. Let them go from here, they have no place in this!”
Heanor, now looking furious, nodded and the three turned and began to run from the chamber.
“Nay, moles, not like miscreants and outcasts, but like moles born free to go whither the Stone guides thee, and gently. Go gently, and with pride.”
“What shall we say to the followers we meet?” one of them asked Beechen as they reached the exit of the chamber unmolested by anymole.
“Tell them that thy Stone Mole has to moledom come, tell them to make ready, tell them to be peaceful, tell them to reach out and love all moles, whether of Word or Stone, as I reach out to this mole now!”
With that Beechen went forward quickly to where Heanor stanced and did what even a mole of the Word would not dare do: he touched Heanor on the shoulder.
“Go!” said Beechen, and they went, slowly, with dignity, staring back down the tunnel to catch a final glimpse of Beechen; slowly, as if they were reluctant to leave him.
Beechen stanced back from Heanor and his two companions who, utterly perplexed by the way their gathering had been taken over, had crouched up. Several of the guardmoles seemed to have come to their senses, too, and were hunching forward so that Beechen and the others seemed surrounded now by moles who meant them harm, though not a word more had been said.
It had all taken but moments, yet Beechen was breathing heavily. The gathering began to mutter and whisper grimly, a dangerous and ominous noise such as the sound a wall of hail makes as it drives towards a mole through a leafless wood.
“We asked you here to tell us of the Stone!” said Heanor, striving to regain his position at the gathering, “not to see you point a talon here, shout over there, and seek to make a mockery of moles who wish... who wish to listen, and to talk.”
Heanor’s voice dropped steadily as he said this, and slowed, and a smile returned to his face, if only a strained one. “We wished to listen to those moles you sent away, we....”
Beechen’s snout had fallen low, he seemed not to be listening to Heanor at all, his flanks were glistened with sweat and trembling, and he seemed suddenly even more abject than the most beset follower could be.
“There is a mole here who doubts me,” he said, turning away once more from Heanor who reacted with a gesture of exasperation, as if this mole was indeed mad. Which might have successfully made others think so to, but they could see Beechen’s compelling gaze, which Heanor could not.
“She hurts me,” said Beechen, and the word “hurt” was spoken as if in pain, and his look was of suffering. But where he looked was hard to say for his head shook this way and that. “She doubts me and hurts me and she is here, here now, among you. She hates what she most loves. Stone give her thy healing now, show her thy love! She hurts....”
Silent tears came from Beechen’s eyes as behind him Smock whispered urgently to Heanor, “This must stop! Sideem Heanor, this cannot proceed.”
Then as suddenly as Beechen had been beset he was freed of whatever suffering he had felt. Sleekit came to him, and Buckram went to his flank, a little in front, and put a great paw to his shoulder and for a moment, exhausted it seemed, Beechen leaned against him.
“I shall have need of thee, Buckram, great need of thee. Leave me not.”
“I shall not, I shall not,” whispered Buckram. “Show me the mole that hurts you.”
“She is no more, she has gone, yet when you are ready you shall see her.”
Beechen faced Heanor and said, “Sideem, I came here in good faith to tell thee of the Stone. I saw a mole with cold eyes, I heard a mole speak words that had no love or truth, and the Stone guided me and told me what to say. I spoke to three moles who feared thee, and gave them courage. I spoke to a mole who hurt me, and directed her to follow the way that leads to the Stone. I was comforted by Sleekit, who saw me born; I was supported by Buckram, a mole who loves me. In all of this you have seen the Stone and its ways.”
“Mole, you have told us nothing of the Stone, nothing at all,” said the one who stanced next to Heanor.
“’Tis just tricks and impressions and the superstitions of the past,” said the other.
“What is the code or the doctrine in this?” asked Smock. “Tell us that.”
“You call me and moles like me Stone-fools. Many times have you mocked moles like the followers who come to me for comfort from a moledom you have put in thrall. Foolish I may be, but would I speak to them if they were deaf? Would I smile at them if they were blind? Most of all, could I listen to them if they were dumb? I would not, I could not. I came here in faith to meet you and am silent before your deafness, still before your blindness, and cannot hear the void that is your speech.
“Only by this can I reach you. Yet we shall meet again. The day shall come when you shall see and hear as if you were pups once more, fresh to moledom’s light.
“Now, as those three followers have left, so shall we three leave. To the Stone of Fyfield we shall go, and speak a blessing on those whose blood is still wet and whose cries still sound in this system that was beset by moles of the Word.
“Heanor of Nidd, come to the Stone with us, be not afraid of it; and others come as well. Hear the blessing I make, remember those moles that died in faith, and then come with those others that shall follow me to Cumnor and you shall learn more of the Stone on that hard way than by talking here with smiling eyes until last Longest Night itself.”
With that Beechen
turned from Heanor, and signalled to Buckram to lead him to the Stone. As the gathering broke up in confusion he left the chamber.
“That mole’s mad!” said some.
“It’s what the Stone does to them!” said others.
“Blessed Word, punish the sinner, punish the blasphemer, punish the faint-hearted” said a few, snouts low, eyes closed, stanced as if stricken by what they had witnessed.
“If he’s going to Cumnor then good riddance,” said one to another. “If I had my way I’d snout him and moles like him right now. But don’t worry, Wort of Cumnor shall do it for us.”
As Heanor and the other sideem and senior moles, outflanked at every turn of the meeting by Beechen, whispered and frowned and reluctantly hurried after him, the other moles there drifted away, chattering wildly. But out of the shadows a mole came, and at her side were dark moles, thickset and strong: henchmoles.
“To the Stone?” one said.
“We’ll be seen,” growled the other.
“At a distance we shall follow,” said their mistress, “and most carefully. I would see this mole at the Fyfield Stone.”
“Heanor should have killed the bugger,” said the first henchmole.
“Heanor should indeed.”
Beechen’s stay at the Fyfield Stone was brief and according to Sleekit’s account seemed to give him no pleasure, for he was still carried along by that passion that had overtaken him before Heanor. Buckram led him there and Beechen stared but briefly at it, an ancient gnarled Stone, taking firm stance against the moist mild southerly wind that was blowing hard from an unsettled sky, which seemed bent on blowing all things, starting with the ground around them, northwards. Barbed wire whined and rattled at a nearby fence.
Heanor and the others came along behind them, the November wind parting their fur this way and that, and were barely in earshot before Beechen spoke his grace.