Before he did so he said these words: “Here, and near here, moles have died in anguish that they were forsaken. Here, and near here, the earth was reddened by their blood. Here and near here, the Stone and tunnels trembled to their cries. Let us remember them and speak these words that through the Stone or the power of the Word they may hear them and know they are not alone nor forsaken.
“Omit not these whose cries I have heard
From thy great Silence;
Let them rest now, let them know thy peace.
Omit them not that when the wind blows
And the sun shines, and the cycle turns
Again, their cries are heard no more.
Welcome them to thy great Silence.”
“You spoke of the Word,” said Sleekit when Beechen was silent.
“Aye, mole, you did,” said Heanor.
“Because moles of the Word died here as well, Heanor. Now go, mole. Protect thyself. Pray, for darkness is on you!”
Then Beechen turned to Buckram and Sleekit and, shaking himself as a mole might shake off dirty water in which he has been forced to swim, he said, “We shall to Cumnor, which followers call “dread”, and let all come with us who will. These moles of the Word want to learn something of the Stone. By deed and not by word shall they know of it, for let all followers that are able come there. Let them rise from the burrows in which they have been forced to hide, let them test this new freedom which the Word offers, let them show their faith!”
The fierce wind blew his call before him and he turned northward towards Cumnor to follow it, and said not one word more until their paws were free of Fyfield’s soil.
While behind them, as Heanor and those with him turned back down into the Fyfield tunnels, a mole emerged unseen by anymole, and that mole and her two henchmoles watched after Beechen.
“Shall we follow?” said a henchmole. His mistress shook her head.
“Blasphemy we have seen,” she said. Then she looked back the way Heanor of Nidd had gone and added, “Blasphemy did he permit. A task we have with him in the holy name of the Word. And then!”
“What then, eldrene Wort?” whispered the second henchmole.
“Why mole, the Word’s business shall send us back to Cumnor before that fool we’ve seen, quicker than ravens fly.” They turned in their own shadows, the wind-bent grass shook, and were gone.
The November wind was indeed strong, for even the smooth surface of the river that runs south of Garford was roughened by it, while the leafless willows along its bank whipped violently back and forth over the water.
“Yet,” murmured Mistle looking at the bleak scene, “yet I feel excited and light, as I did sometimes in the summer years. Oh Cuddesdon, I’m sure he’s near.”
“Well he better be for then I can rest at last, leave you with him, and go on my separate and more peaceful way.”
“But you wouldn’t leave me! I mean if we found him. It would be... it would be....”
“Wonderful for some of us, Mistle, desperate for others. But I know what you mean. Since we got to these parts, and met so many who talk of the Stone Mole and say....”
“They say his name is Beechen!”
“... And say this Beechen is nearby, or has been their way already, or is coming back... and always add that we’ve only just missed him... I admit I have felt renewed excitement about my own mission. But I don’t suppose you remember what it was!”
“To go to Cuddesdon and start ‘something’,” said Mistle promptly.
“Oh! Well, yes. I’ve felt nearer to knowing what it was.”
“Cuddesdon, the Stone Mole is real,” said Mistle passionately, “I know he has come for us, to help us. I know he has.”
“When we catch up with him you’ll be disappointed, I’m warning you. So I’d better stay around so you’ve a shoulder to cry on.”
She laughed and buffeted him in a friendly way, as he did her, and turning upslope they headed into Garford, yet another system of many they had visited where they hoped they might at last find the Stone Mole, of whom they had heard so much.
Since their meeting east of Avebury in June, and their resolution to trek northwards towards Duncton Wood together and give each other what help they could, Mistle and Cuddesdon had learned much of each other, and of travelling safely through a moledom occupied by grikes.
Mistle had quickly recovered herself after their first meeting, and her initial timidity and self-doubt – natural enough in a mole who had been under the thrall of the Word at the Avebury system – was very quickly replaced by confidence and a sense of mission. Before many weeks had passed she had assumed the role of leader of the two, her common sense and ability to make decisions and act on them being virtues which Cuddesdon lacked, but which he was happy to acknowledge and defer to. What was more he recognised that beyond Mistle’s intelligence and simple faith was a driving compulsion leading her towards the Silence of the Stone, and he soon found it was something other followers they met recognised and were infected by.
Her love for the Stone’s rituals and lore put a natural joy and grace about everything she did, whether it was making a temporary burrow, finding food, eating, or simply contemplating the view. She talked to the Stone as if it was a companion at her side, a companion she could scold as well as praise, or simply enjoy. When she was pondering a problem – such as where to go or where to tarry – she would pray to the Stone aloud. Or, if it was to Cuddesdon she was confiding, then she would speak as if the Stone was just another mole at their flank, and able to hear them, and share their thoughts.
She spoke often, and with great love, of Violet, and it was plain to Cuddesdon, a gentle mole and in later years a wise and much loved one, that a great deal of what Mistle was Violet had made. It was from Violet, he guessed, that she got her most striking quality of all, and one that quite unnerved him at first, for he was used to moles who rushed and hustled and had no time.
For unlike most moles he had ever met, time was not Mistle’s enemy, but her friend, and it seemed to stretch itself out for her and make space about those things she did, not the least of which was listening to other moles.
Which Cuddesdon found hard at first because he was not used to a mole who stayed silent when he spoke, fixing him with a firm gaze, and giving him the sense that each word he spoke mattered; which sense made him all the more conscious of what he said, and he thought about it first.
This was one of the things other moles noticed too, and while some found it difficult, and were restive and embarrassed to meet a mole whose silence and attention sometimes made them hear the foolishness in their own words, most responded to Mistle by speaking true, and so feeling more at ease with her and themselves. Indeed, Cuddesdon was astonished at how much others told her about themselves and their faith, almost as if they had been waiting for her especially to come along.
Although they had found out early on where Uffington lay, and how far Duncton Wood was beyond it, Mistle decided they should go slowly at first and enjoy the summer. They had moved east along the valley of the Kennet, learning much of moledom and discovering that there were many like themselves who had faith in the Stone, and professed it still in quiet ways; and many more who had been won only by force to the Word’s creed, and still yearned for something they felt only the Stone could give them.
So, gently, but cautiously too, for many grikes were about, they had met many a follower until, one day in late August, learning that new sideem were snooping again and change was in the air, Mistle had said they must go north now and follow their snouts towards the Stone.
“There will be dangers, no doubt,” said Mistle, “but we must seek our destiny, Cuddesdon, and trust that the Stone will guide our paws and bring us to safety at last.”
They began by climbing out of the river vales on to the long dipslope of the chalk that rises slowly northwards and which they had been told would take a mole with the persistence to get there across the desolate Lambourn heights to Uffington itself.
From there they hoped to find safe passage to Duncton Wood and Cuddesdon Hill.
Though they set off with expectations of travelling swiftly, they soon found the distances were greater than they thought, and that there was something about the route that slowed them once again, and made them bide their time. They were soon struck by how few grike strongholds there were in those parts.
“It’s the Stones they don’t like,” a cheerful vagrant told them one day. “And I can’t say I altogether blame them. The further and higher a mole goes from here on, the more Stones there are, and the more a mole feels he’s being watched, if you know what I mean. You’ll not find many moles north of here now, and those you do will be the kind who prefer to be left alone and not asked questions about the Stone or the Word! Either of them are as bad or as good as you care to make them, and both as bad as each other if you ask me....”
It was talk they had heard before, for even those who still dared to espouse the Stone openly would tell of how they had lost touch with their own communities in the hard years past, and complained that the Stone had not helped them.
As they travelled on the soil became less wormful, and the fields larger and barren of trees. When darkness fell there were fewer twofoot lights, and when a roaring owl came along one of the narrow ways its gaze could be seen looking all yellow across the country, and its roar heard long in advance.
What moles there were kept to brook-sides and copses, and seemed furtive and afraid, glancing quickly upslope and away again when Mistle said they were heading for Uffington.
“Derelict that place is, the scribemoles all gone long ago,” they would mutter. “They said the Stone Mole would come but he never did, he never will. Better you than me going up to those parts. Moles go there and never come back.”
It dawned on Cuddesdon only slowly that when moles said the grikes were afraid of going north towards the Stones near Uffington, they described their own fear as well. Then he had to admit he, too, had a certain fear about going on himself, but perhaps both of them felt that if the other had not been there they might have turned back south again....
“You might have, Cuddesdon, but I wouldn’t!” Mistle said boldly, and watching her day by day as she pushed on ahead of him, Cuddesdon knew what she said was true, and he berated himself for his lack of faith and purpose.
It was not until mid-September that they found themselves coming on to much chalkier and drier ground where here and there Stones rose before them proudly, and they began to have the sense of being lone explorers in an almost deserted land.
The only moles they came across were solitary outcasts, mainly scarred by disease or desperate escape from grikes, who chose to live out their last years in some unvisited place where grikes would not bother to hunt them. It was one of these who warned them of the territory they were getting near, and told them its name.
“This old place was called Lambourn once, but there’s not a mole left here now to give it a name, so nameless it will become once I’m gone,” he said. “Wasn’t raised here myself, but it’s a place that will do for a mole who’s suffered enough. When I came in February I stopped here because there was another nearby wanted the company and told me its name and little else. Anyway, it gets icy cold upslope of here and full of risen Stones that seem to watch a mole as he goes by.”
“How do you know that if you’ve not been there?” asked Mistle.
“Went up there in June when that star shone,” said the mole. “Then all my courage left me and I got back here as quick as I could. You won’t catch me going up there again. If you take my advice, which you won’t, you’ll circle west for a few days.”
“Why?” asked Cuddesdon.
“’Cos if you don’t you’ll go slap bang into Seven Barrows, and that’s a haunted place if ever I heard of one.”
“Humph!” said Mistle shortly.
“‘Humph’ all you like, young mole, thinking you know better, but you’ll find out, you see if you don’t.”
“What about the mole who was living here when you came. Where is he now?”
“She. Lost,” said the mole darkly. “Among them haunted Stones I shouldn’t wonder. Mind you, if you should come back, then stop by and tell me what you saw.”
There was longing in his voice and Mistle said, “Why do you fear the Stones? They do mole no harm.”
“A mole gets lost among them, that’s why! I fear them more than I do the guardmoles or the grikes. No, if I must have to do with such things I say a blessing of the Word and think harm to nomole.”
“We’ll say a prayer for thee before the Stones,” said Mistle softly, looking into his eyes.
His eyes fell, his snout lowered and his talons fretted at the ground. Behind him the Lambourn Downs stretched up far away and he looked very alone, and lonely.
“That’s a promise, is it?” said the mole, trying to make a joke of it.
But Mistle was serious.
“It is,” she said.
“The name’s Furze, that’s the name to tell the Stones,” he said gruffly, and as they looked at him they knew it mattered to him. In such ways, so many times, did Cuddesdon see how Mistle drew moles out, and helped them dare to show a little of themselves.
They were surprised how soon after this brief encounter they came to Seven Barrows, for Furze had spoken of the place as if it was too terrible to be nearby. But there it was, a cluster of mounds, mysterious perhaps but at first hardly a place for a mole to fear. The Stones, it seemed, must lie beyond the barrows, for the way they came there was nothing else but grass.
They decided to find a place to stay the night where they were, for they had no wish to arrive at the Stones by night. But then, as dusk approached, there was a certain haunting sense about the place which made Cuddesdon fretful and jumpy, and Mistle curious, restless and alert.
“I want to go on,” she said, half to herself, “even though we’re tired. I’d like to be nearer the Stones now.”
“Mistle! Night will be on us, there’s a heavy dew forming and if it gets any colder there will be mist about and you’ll not see a thing,” said Cuddesdon. “Anyway, this place makes me nervous enough as it is, and what the Stones will be like I hate to think. Let’s wait till morning when, with any luck, there might be some nice bright sunshine to light our way ahead.”
But Mistle was not listening. Instead she was staring past the dark mounds of the barrows into the gathering gloom beyond.
“He’s coming nearer now... or we are. Maybe he’s on his way to where we’re going.”
“Who is?” said Cuddesdon irritably, starting back when some grass stirred at their side.
“Don’t know, but I know he is,” whispered Mistle. Then suddenly she was up and off, and Cuddesdon, very reluctant to stay alone, hastened after her.
So it was at dusk and with a mist stirring about them that they reached the great stonefields that lie west of the Seven Barrows, and where in the winter years following the destruction of the Holy Burrows brave Spindle had brought six of the seven Stillstones. Then later, to this same place, Spindle had guided Boswell and Tryfan, and that great mole, young then, had just managed to carry the last Stillstone, the Stillstone of Silence, and hurl it out among the Stones that rise so mysteriously across those fields.
All that was unknown to either Mistle or Cuddesdon then, but both sensed the power of the place and they watched in silence as night fell and the stars grew bright, and the Stones seemed to rise ever higher from the ground. They ventured a little across the stonefields, staring at the scattered remnants and fragments of Stones that lay all about, many smaller than their paws. The risen Stones seemed near, yet as they went they seemed to recede, and move. It seemed that as one appeared another faded away again.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Mistle, touching Cuddesdon with her paw as she sensed his awe, “A mole is safe among such Stones. I grew up near the Avebury Stones and it was with their help I escaped... Please don’t be afraid. This is a most holy place, Cud
desdon. Can’t you feel it all about? I think, I think... something began here, Cuddesdon, long, long ago, and that over the centuries many moles must have stanced here as we are now, and felt as humble as we do. Violet said a mole who feels fear among the Stones is really only afraid of something in herself.”
“I’d be afraid if you weren’t here,” said Cuddesdon, a little tremble to his voice. “Where the Stones are not it seems so dark, but where they are it’s hard to look, as if there’s something light that can’t quite be seen, or if it can it won’t stay still.”
“Cuddesdon,” whispered Mistle, reaching out for him.
He turned to her quickly and saw in the starlight that her eyes were full of tears, and he went to her and held her close.
“I feel so much has happened here, and will happen. There’s moles here who have needed help, and others yet to come, and I want to reach out to them all and hold them as you’re holding me.”
“You can’t help everymole, Mistle, though I sometimes think you want to try. You can’t love all of us.”
“No,” she said, and wept and held him in return, “but you are right: I want to try.”
“Is the mole you said you wanted to meet one of the moles here?” asked Cuddesdon.
She stared among the confusing silhouettes of Stones and each one might have been a rearing mole; everywhere she looked seemed shapes of moles that had once been or might yet be.
“I don’t know,” she whispered to the stars twinkling above, “but I don’t think so... he’s like us, just like us; he’s now, always now.”
“He?” said Cuddesdon, surprised to find himself feeling suddenly protective and even jealous.
Her paw tightened on his and she smiled in the darkness.
“Yes, he,” she said. “No, don’t let go of me, Cuddesdon. Hold me. I love you, Cuddesdon. I hope we’ll always be this close.”
They slept together on the surface, with only a scrape in the stonefield to protect them, and when they woke the early sun was slanting and glinting across the Stones and gravel and made some of the smaller Stones glisten and shine. Yet as they reached out to touch them, they found the Stones’ light faded as they got to them and others lit up further away, as a rainbow recedes before a mole who tries to reach it.