For a moment Tryfan’s voice trembled, and Spindle moved closer to him.
“I was there near, I was watching you, and I was frightened too, Tryfan, but I would not have left you and I never will.”
“I know you were,” said Tryfan. “I knew that all the time you were there, and your faith was there. But something... there is something I don’t know about it all, something that I must learn. “I am of the Stone,” that’s what the mole said. And I do not even know his name.”
Seeing them talking, though their voices were low, Alder ambled over and joined them.
“It’s not too bad here,” he said, “and it won’t be for long for you. Just a day or so. We’ve got another three or four days of this ourselves until those two get taken for instruction, always assuming that female makes it. She’s not well. You two to be initiated?”
Tryfan said he was not sure. He thought so probably.
“It’s a doddle if you keep your trap shut. Listen right, do as they say, and a mole like you with a bit of sense to him will get a good billet and easy worms.”
“‘Billet’?” repeated Tryfan, nodding in a friendly way at the guardmole. They kept using words he did not understand.
“You know, burrow; what a mole lives in. Billet’s what we call it where we come from.”
“Where are you from, then?” asked Spindle, always curious, for he was a collector of information, and curious about the whys and wherefores of other moles and their systems.
“North,” said Alder unhelpfully, and they noticed for the first time that he had the same shortened hard accent as the other grikes they had met, and a slight defensiveness beneath his natural friendliness. There was silence.
“North?” repeated Spindle, frustrated at the short answer.
Alder relaxed again, as if pleased that they were interested. “Came down with the second push after Henbane left. Sent off by Rune himself we were.”
“Did you see him?” asked Tryfan, coming closer.
“Did we see him?” he repeated slowly. “Well, that would be hard to say exactly, wouldn’t it? Whern’s a dark sort of place where the shadows are confusing and a mole does well to keep his snout low and his thoughts to himself. There was a mole up there, old and with fur that shone like I’ve never seen, all dark and glittering, and they said he was Rune and I stole a quick look but I was scared... we all were. “That’s Rune!” somemole said, and I was willing to believe it, the burrow felt so... so important with him in it.”
“Did he say anything?” asked Spindle, fascinated.
“A bit, but I can’t remember much. Angry he was, his voice suddenly rising loud and he said the time had come to go south and take the systems that were ours by right. Death to the Stone followers, he said, and then he was silent, and that’s the bit I remember best.”
“The silence?” whispered Tryfan.
Alder nodded. “Terrible it was, him just up there with his coat all darkly glittering and silent, like sharp talons are silent, and it seemed to last forever; and then he was gone and we knew where we had to go, and what we had to do.”
He pulled himself up short as if surprised to find himself speaking so much and then, to change the subject, looked over at the two moles in the corner appraisingly. “They won’t be up to much if you ask me. Nice for a show at Midsummer but that’s about it. Eldrene Fescue’s not one to tolerate weakness, know what I mean? I served with her at Rollright, and I’d say if they put one paw wrong, and with Fescue all it takes is to breathe wrong once, and they’ll be sent up the Slopeside or snouted sooner’n you can say “dead”!” He thought this very funny and laughed loudly. The male mole looked nervously over towards them, and then back to the female, moving closer to her as if to protect her from the guardmole’s laughter.
Alder wandered off and took up his station again at the entrance as Tryfan pondered what he had said about Rune.
He and Spindle settled down as night fell, affecting indifference to the other moles while looking carefully about and considering what their options might now be.
From the thumping and shuffling overhead and the pulling up of grass it was not hard to deduce that cows were grazing above and that they were beneath some pasture land, or very near it. Probably adjacent to it, decided Tryfan, for the rotten base of a fence post thrust down on one side of the burrow formed a buttress to the surface entrances, while spreading across the ceiling were the roots and tendrils of giant thistle and broom, such as grew in the wasteland between pasture and wood. A good place for exits and entrances and one which often defined the boundary of a wood-based system. But Tryfan had not seen or smelt evidence of woody tunnels and guessed that much of the system lay beneath untended scrubland, offering its young the opportunity of expanding up into woodland or down to pasture. The “Slopeside” was presumably the area that stretched up under the woodland, and Tryfan, a woodland mole, felt an instinctive interest in it, however grim might be the dangers it harboured. He missed tunnels which held the sound and complexity of tree roots and disliked the straightness and sterility of these lowland systems.
With such thoughts, and following Spindle’s lead, he had a little more food and then went back to sleep.
Shortly afterwards, from the shadows of the entrance through which they had come, there was a sly dark movement, and Sideem Sleekit emerged. The guardmoles immediately crouched to attention saying, “Word be with thee.”
“And thee,” said the sideem indifferently. “Any problems?”
“None, Miss.”
“Keep them here without fail. It’ll be a snouting for you both if you lose them.”
“Don’t worry, Miss, we’ve warned them off the outside already. Er... whatmole are they?”
“Stone followers,” said Sleekit. “Watch them carefully. Your names?”
“Alder,” said the one who had talked about Rune.
“And mine’s Marram, Miss,” said the second.
“I’ll not forget,” said the sideem. “Until morning, then. Now rest easy.”
“Aye, aye!” said Marram.
They breathed more easily once she had gone.
“Wonder whatmoles they really are,” said Alder, who had an intelligent and interested face and was obviously a mole who wanted to know things.
“She said they were Stone followers, didn’t she? That’s all we need to know. Now you take the first night watch and let me get some rest,” said Marram turning away to sleep.
Alder settled his snout on his extended paws, and fixed his gaze on Tryfan’s sleeping face, and afterwards, long, long, afterwards, when he was an old mole with memories of great things to tell his grandchildren’s pups, he remembered how, as he gazed on that mole he was guarding, his heart seemed suddenly beset by a blizzard wilderness, caused perhaps by being asked about where he had come from and why, and he had a longing he could not account for to know of the Stone which was said to be so bad. And then, he said, he found that the eyes of Tryfan (as he later knew him) were open on him, staring at him, and he could not look away and he swore, though it was a strange thing to remember, that Tryfan came over to him and said, “Why do you punish Stone followers when they cause you no harm? Why?” Yet when Alder found courage to look again he only saw Tryfan asleep, and his eyes closed. Then Alder seemed to see before him all the many sufferings and torments of Stone followers he had witnessed and knew that the mole was near him then and willing him to remember. And Alder was ashamed.
Then, try as he might not to, for he had taken the watch, he slipped into sleep. As dawn came, and as he turned to check the mole who troubled him so much was still there, he found that Tryfan was there at his side, and there was nothing in the burrow but him, and his gaze upon Alder, and Alder was afraid.
“Come,” said Tryfan, “for I have something to show you.”
And Alder, unprotesting, driven by something in the mole’s terrible strength and sadness, followed him; and they went to the surface.
It seemed to Alder then, as he
ever afterwards remembered it, that the rising sun was in the tunnel ahead of the mole and its light was all around him and there was something he would see and he was afraid of it; for it made him cry, and he was a grike, a Northerner, a campaigner, and he was only doing his job....
Tryfan led him out on to the surface and, avoiding the patrols, they went a good way through and under the protection of straggly gorse and broom to a clear patch in whose centre, near another entrance, lay the body of a mole. Marked was he, terribly, and his snout crushed, and he lay curled into death, his mouth a little open. Dew had formed on his fur and the sun’s dawn rays were caught in it. It was the mole who had been killed the day before.
“Do you know his name?” asked Tryfan. “Do you?” And he stared down at the mole, his snout low, and he wept before Alder and Alder stared at him, his world suddenly numb to him, and he saw the pity of the mole that had died.
“Why do you punish Stone followers, Alder?” asked Tryfan again, but repeating his name this time. “Tell me, why? This mole was a follower of the Stone, and so am I, and in punishing us you punish only yourself. Why do you do it?”
“But I...” But there was nothing he could say, for Tryfan looked at him with an open heart, and he could not bear the stillness there.
Then Tryfan turned from him and went back and crouched by the entrance to give him time for his own thoughts. Alder stayed where he was, staring, and he saw in that nameless mole who had been killed by the grikes the day before, the tens, the hundreds, the thousands that had died in the long march of the grikes to the south.
“But I...” Alder’s mouth trembled, and he heard their cries again, around him, the many, the nameless many, and he felt ashamed and he was blinded with tears.
Then he turned, his body heavy, his paws aching, and he saw Tryfan waiting for him.
“What shall I do?” asked Alder.
“Listen for the Silence of the Stone,” said Tryfan, and his eyes were like the sun on Alder.
“Whatmole are you?” asked Alder in a whisper. “Whatmole?”
“I am nomole,” said Tryfan, “but there is one coming before whom you will forget all others and he will be of the Stone’s Silence. And you will know him, and help him.
“You have courage, Alder, for you have slept and now you have dared to waken. And before the day of thy life is done you will see the mole who will lead you to Silence.”
“What is his name?” asked Alder
Tryfan turned and looked back at the mole who had been killed the day before and said, “We of the Stone call him the Stone Mole but his name I know not. Nomole knows it yet. He is nameless and unborn.”
“But he will come?”
“Yes,” said Tryfan, “he will come. And you will know him.”
Then they returned to the sleeping chamber, again without encountering a grike patrol, and none other there, not even Spindle, knew where they had been, what they had seen, or what Tryfan had said.
Even so, during the day that followed Spindle was much puzzled, for Tryfan was silent and barely stirred, and the guardmoles seemed to have had an argument, for the one called Alder was silent too, crouched, his snout along his paws, and though his colleague Marram seemed to try to talk to him yet he said nothing. As for the two vagrants at the end of the chamber, only the male moved, carrying food over to the female and grooming her with a touching care.
Then when the male asked if he might go to the surface for some fresh air, although Marram said no, the guard-mole Alder suddenly turned and said, “Let him!” and it was an order that anymole would have been afraid to disobey. So, unaccompanied, the male went to the surface, from where he soon returned.
It was all a puzzlement to Spindle, for there seemed to be something in the burrow that he could not name or see, but which was there, something peaceful. And Tryfan knew of it; and Alder. And, and....
It was not until late evening of that day that Tryfan stirred once more, saying suddenly that they might as well find out what they could about the two silent vagrants in the corner. Moles like to know the gossip and what goes on. Spindle agreed with this happily, for it suggested that Tryfan was coming back to normal. They approached the male and, since a traditional greeting seemed out of place, simply said, “Hello.”
“Are you going to instruct us?” asked the male. His voice, like his body, was thin and unsure of itself. His eyes were filled with apprehension, but Tryfan noticed that even so he moved in front of the female, as if to protect her.
“We’re new to the system,” said Tryfan in a low voice. “We’ve only just arrived.”
The male stared uncertainly at him.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“My name doesn’t matter for now,” said Tryfan gently.
“Oh,” said the male, staring at Tryfan and Spindle, and then over to Alder and Marram who were watching them all.
“I’m not a grike, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Tryfan, indicating the two guardmoles. “We’re just visitors, herbalists in fact.”
“Ah,” repeated the male, relaxing a little.
“What’s your name?” Tryfan asked.
“Pennywort,” said the mole, adding apologetically, “That’s unfortunately what they called me. Stone knows... I mean goodness knows why. Silly name.” His speech was a lot more lively than his looks.
“Pennywort,” repeated Tryfan, laughing slightly and approaching nearer. He felt himself warming to Pennywort for there was something open about him even if he seemed nervous and awkward in his stance, his talons fidgeting and his snout unsure. But he seemed to want to speak.
“Yes?” said Tryfan encouragingly.
“Well...’There was more hesitation, another glance at the guardmoles, and then a lowering of the voice. “Well... you laughed. They never laugh. Not at the right things anyway.”
“Oh,” said Tryfan, considering this. Certainly there had not been much mirth about the grikes at Uffington, nor those moles he had seen in Buckland’s central burrow.
“Where are you from?” asked Pennywort.
“Fyfield,” said Spindle quickly, for Tryfan seemed slow to reply. It seemed to Spindle that Tryfan was reluctant to maintain their disguise or tell a lie. Considering the careful story about being travelling herbalists they had prepared, this was a change indeed. But Spindle was right: the experience in the central chamber had deeply affected Tryfan. He was somehow stiller, more certain. It was as if he had learnt something important and that the knowledge of it would always be with him.
“Fyfield’s to the north isn’t it?” said Pennywort.
“North east,” said Tryfan.
“A goodly system I’ve been told.” Again Tryfan was silent.
“Yes,” mumbled Spindle for him.
“Where are you from?” asked Tryfan.
“No system with a name. South of here, near Basset.”
“Both of you?” asked Tryfan, looking at the female.
“My sister and I.”
Pennywort turned to the female and Tryfan looked surprised. The female was clearly a Longest Night older than her brother.
“Different litter, same parents,” explained Pennywort reading his thoughts. “Both dead in the plague which came to us late a Longest Night ago. Thyme – that’s her name – raised me. She’s ill now so I’m protecting her. When the grikes came we kept to ourselves but we were flooded out of our burrows in February so we travelled to better ground. Met two other moles and joined them and then we ran into the grikes. Fighting. The two with us got killed. They could have killed us but they didn’t. Brought us here. Waited now for days. Thyme’s very ill but they won’t bring a healer. They say she can’t have one until she’s initiate and accepted the Word. But I know her. She won’t do that. Not ever. She won’t.”
Pennywort gazed at his sister who lay with her eyes closed, her mouth open and her breathing laboured. Her fur was matted and her paws limp and colourless, one bent back under her. Occasionally she moaned.
“I don’t know what to do,” said Pennywort finally and Tryfan saw he was close to tears. He had spoken rapidly, as if he had had nomole to talk to for a long time. Then he added: “I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” he said. “It’s got worse since we met the grikes.”
“Where were you bound?”
“To find a Stone for her to touch!” said Pennywort. “None near Basset, but I thought there might be one here somewhere. I wasn’t sure... And now they won’t let us go away.”
Tryfan looked at Thyme again. But then, as he moved a little closer, Pennywort came aggressively between them again.
He stared hard at Tryfan.
“Are you of the Word?” he asked. “No disrespect, but if you are I would rather you didn’t touch my sister.”
“I have said that I am not,” repeated Tryfan reassuringly. Thyme turned uncomfortably in her half-sleep, and Tryfan could smell her sickness, but it did not repel him. Some words of Boswell were sounding in his heart: “A scribemole’s constant task is to love, and to love the weak before the strong, the sick before the well. This is most hard, Tryfan, and takes many years to accomplish, for a mole is attracted by the light which he thinks he sees in the strong and the healthy, and he seeks to avoid the dark he imagines in the sick lest it attach itself to him. Learn to love them and to see the light they hold... for if you do it will shine brightly in your heart and lighten your way.”
Tryfan stared at Thyme but could see no great light there: only suffering and illness and the smell of despair and, perhaps, death. But then, for the briefest of moments, the sense that he was of Rebecca, who had herself been a healer, came over him and, quite forgetting the front of indifference he had been maintaining, and ignoring the possibility that the guardmoles in the distance might become curious, he reached out to touch her. Pennywort faltered and then moved to one side.