“Er...” began Whillan, as embarrassed as he was surprised at this sudden revelation, “um, yes!”
Privet laughed, and almost seemed to wink at Fieldfare, who of all of them seemed least surprised. But the moment passed, and to their general regret Privet revealed no more then about her “experience”. Instead she thought a little and continued, “I loved Rooster far more than I knew at the time, far more perhaps than I care to admit even now. It was as if he was my whole life, a part of me; and I know that despite all I was part of him. But love was not a word we knew or understood, and the dark winds that blew in our youth across the High Peak, which are part of the same winds that blow across moledom today, caught us up, and scattered us apart, like fruit that have grown together on the same high, forgotten branch and tumble in the autumn winds, and roll far asunder, their seeds dispersing to make new life which, perhaps, one distant day, will grow near once more...
“Yet we can still feed our love for others from the memory of what we once knew, and hope that our pups and wards – our seed – might fare better than we did in the search for individual love. Meanwhile, we must strive to learn that greater love for moles the Stone leads us towards... we must!”
This strange metaphor of love and quiet declaration of intent moved Whillan greatly, and increased his sense that he had been lucky indeed to have been cared for by such a mole as Privet; even if she only showed him love in undemonstrative ways which used words too often, and touch too little, the example she gave would be with him always, as he hoped would Chater’s guidance in journeying.
“I’m tired,” he declared suddenly, daring to acknowledge what others felt, and winning nods of recognition that they should preserve their strength for the journeys yet to come, and get some sleep.
“I’ll take the watch, Chater,” said Maple quietly, “for I’m not tired yet, and want to think about things a bit by myself.”
“Aye, lad,” said Chater heavily, “you take the watch, but if you get tired rouse me and I’ll take over from you.”
So ended their last conversation together us a group, and they went below into the shelter of the temporary burrow they had organized earlier, while Maple stared at the drifting mist, and wondered in his own way if love, personal or divine, would ever come to a mole such as he. For love was... what?
Maple sighed and scratched himself, and watched the night bring out the stars and moon above, soft through the slight mist, as he listened to the rustles and calls of the creatures of the dark.
By next mid-morning, after a trek over low, drear, marshy ground, they had reached the cross-over of Swinford, where decades before the Stone Mole himself had crossed the Thames. How huge and inexorable the grey flow of the great river seemed, as unremitting as the tide of change that had brought them to this place to part. How reluctant they were to move, knowing that once they did their true journeys would begin, whose outcome none could guess, but all must doubt.
Fieldfare said her goodbyes on the near side of the crossover, preferring to wait below the roaring owl way along which Chater had to lead the others. She had hoped that the weather might clear and that together they might all have a last glimpse of Duncton Wood, which rose somewhere north-east of them. But that was not to be, and their home system now seemed almost as far away as the places to which their different tasks were sending them.
“You have become my dearest friend,” whispered Fieldfare to Privet as they embraced a final time, “and you brought new thoughts, new ambitions, to my life. Why, I’d not be bound for Avebury but for you!”
“Nor parted from the place you love!” replied Privet ruefully.
“’Tis moles that matter most, not places, though I daresay I’ll miss Duncton almost as much as I’ll miss you!” Fieldfare sniffed a bit, and held Privet closer, her generous paws warm and firm on Privet’s thin back. “A lot goes with you, my dear Privet, something of our future I think, so look after yourself well, and remember that this mole who holds you now loves you as sister, as mother, and as friend all at once! And you, Whillan, and you too. Maple” she said, pulling back from Privet and going to the others, “you look after her for me and see she comes to no harm.”
“We will!” they said, as each in turn was enfolded in Fieldfare’s embrace.
“And you look after Chater!” they said to her.
“Look after my beloved! Why, the Stone itself could not put us apart now. Look after him? I’ll not let my Chater suffer harm, and he’ll never see me hurt! Will you, beloved?”
“Wouldn’t dare!” said Chater with a grin, adding gruffly, “now, come on, the time’s marching on and we better get across.”
So up an embankment on to the roaring owl way they went, out of sight of Fieldfare, but never out of mind.
“Don’t be long, my love!” called Fieldfare after them, for want of anything else to say, “don’t be long!”
And if she shed a tear or two as she dolefully watched the Thames flow by, and sniffled a bit, and frowned and looked cross, it was all gone when, but a short time later, her Chater came back.
“Well!” he said, that’s safely done. Now it’s just you and I, my love, on a journey into the unknown! Are you nervous?”
“Course I am,” sniffed Fieldfare, “course I am, my dear. But remember when you and I first met, when we were no more than pups?”
“I do, my sweet,” said Chater.
“Well, I was nervous then. That was a journey we began then, wasn’t it? We had adventures aplenty on the way, even if together we never set a paw out of Duncton Wood. There were our tunnels to make, our pups to raise, our friends to learn to know and love. We said at the start that if we had troubles our love would see us through.”
“Aye, we did,” said Chater quietly, his flank to Fieldfare’s and the great river flowing silently below them.
“My dear, it’s been our love that’s seen us through, hasn’t it? When you were away on your travels and I missed you, as I often did, I knew we had something stronger to keep us going than the strongest moles, born of the Stone itself That Longest Night when you did not come home, why, the Stone sent Privet to our Wood and to my burrow, and she helped me take my mind off things, and told me you’d get back. Which, of course, you did.”
Chater nodded. “There’s not been a day, hardly an hour, when I’ve not thanked my stars that you’re my love, my dear,” he said, his strong paw in hers. “And when the going was hard, as it was in the early days of my journeying when the Master expected so much of us, I kept going because I knew that at the end of the journey you would always be waiting.”
“You were always there when the pups were there, and you always came back just when I was thinking I was neglected,” replied Fieldfare. “When I felt like a shared moment in the Wood you always seemed to come along, and when I wanted to be silent you understood. Then, when I needed you down at the Marsh End, to save me from the Newborns, you were there; you were always there when I needed you most of all,” said Fieldfare.
“Always will be, always,” replied Chater passionately.
“Now a new journey is beginning, Chater, and we’re making it together, just as we did when we were young. Yes, my dear, I’m nervous, but I’m not afraid, no more than I was the first time.”
“It’s a long way. Fieldfare my love, a long way to Avebury for a mole who’s never journeyed before. You’ll get tired, and I will too.”
“Our love will never get tired, not ever!” said Fieldfare. “Now, come on Chater, let’s stop this dawdling!”
“Who’s leading, you or me?” said Chater.
“We are!” declared Fieldfare, and paw to paw and flank to flank, like two young moles who had only just declared their love, they turned south and set off towards the ancient system of Avebury.
Chapter Three
“Patience,” purred Brother Chervil, “is a virtue which I would have thought you had, living in Duncton among followers as you do, Brother Snyde. We must wait a little longer before we depart.
”
“And with each passing day let that old fool Stour, and his friends, get ever farther from us, ever nearer to Caer Caradoc?” said Snyde irritably, thinking, as he did, that Stour had left Duncton. “Time knows nothing of the virtues and vices of moles. Brother Chervil; time waits for nomole, true or false, believer or false believer.”
Their voices echoed about the Main Chamber of the Library, and the aides, by now all well aware that Snyde had assumed control of the place, knew that an era had passed and change was on the way. Power had made Snyde quicker than ever to criticize those he thought his minions, and had made him pompous too. He considered himself and Chervil as equal in rank, and the two most powerful moles in Duncton; but astute observers, who knew Chervil, doubted that.
“Time, Brother Chervil, marches on,” continued Snyde emphatically, warming to his theme and as always irritated by the Newborn’s continuing calm smile, like those moles whom Stour is misguidedly leading to Caer Caradoc. Privet, of all moles! To be given the honour of being a delegate, and she but a jumped-up mediaevalist with a northern accent! It will not do!”
Chervil smiled broadly. “I doubt that the Master Librarian would march anywhere; he has neither the stamina nor the inclination. Even had a mole month passed, rather than but days, you and I would quickly catch up with him. But then, there will be no need for us to hurry. I have long since sent young Brothers out ahead on the fastest route to Caer Caradoc, and we will have news of Master Stour’s party in good time to locate them, stop them, and join them. Meanwhile I would not concern yourself with any notion that a female will be allowed to be a delegate at Caradoc. Duncton’s eccentricities regarding the qualities of females will not be tolerated by the Inquisitors at Caer Caradoc!”
Chervil’s eyes narrowed and his voice, normally low and soft, suddenly sharpened as he looked to the shadows of some stacks beyond where Snyde stanced.
“You mole! Are you... spying on us?”
Snyde turned, stared, and laughed dismissively as the familiar form of Pumpkin emerged, carrying a text.
“That’s only Pumpkin, just a library aide.”
“Only” Pumpkin came forward with the text that Snyde had ordered up, placed it down, looked as abject and apologetic as he could, and began to back away again.
“Are you Newborn of the Stone, mole?” asked Chervil, who rarely missed an opportunity to put others on the right spiritual path. “Are you joyous in the Stone’s knowledge? Does your spirit dance and your voice desire to sing?”
It must be said that unlike most Newborns, whose eyes were cold and who spoke such things as if they had learned them by rote, there was an infectious sincerity about Chervil as he asked these questions. He was also a mole with a menacing authority, and when he exercised it, genuine charm.
“Sing? Joyous? Newborn?” croaked Pumpkin, trying his best not to look Chervil in the eye, as much from a fear of being drawn into the over-earnest world of the spirit he represented, as from being identified as a mole who intended to resist conversion, real or pretended, for as long as he possibly could.
“Well, er, yes, I suppose I could, I mean I am or might be reborn,” he faltered. 1 certainly like the Stone, yes, that’s for sure. But joyous? Now there’s a thing!”
“Stop rambling. Aide Pumpkin, and go about your work,” said Snyde coldly.
“Yes, Deputy Master, sir, I will!” said Pumpkin thankfully.
“I am Master Librarian now. Pumpkin, and don’t forget it!”
“No... Master,” said Pumpkin, almost feeling pain as he gave so august a title to so foul a mole.
Chervil chuckled. “They certainly obey you, Brother Snyde, even if they don’t like you. Impatience may be a problem for you, but authority is not. I am glad I am not one of your library aides.”
“And I am glad I am not merely one of your Marsh End followers. Chervil,” responded Snyde with a smile that was a touch too confident, a touch too arrogant, betokening a mole who had not yet learnt the useful art of seeming to be more modest than he felt; and, too, one who underestimated Chervil.
There was a momentary hard glitter to Chervil’s eye before his customary smile returned, even warmer than usual.
“So you will feel it safe to leave Keeper Sturne in charge of the Library when you leave for Caer Caradoc with me?”
“Sturne is mediocre,” said Snyde shortly, “and always will be. Frankly, he is little better than a library aide like that tedious mole Pumpkin, for he has no wider view of Library matters than he sees in front of his snout. Hard unimaginative work has got him where he is, and that perhaps has made him more ambitious than he has a right to be. In consequence he is a bitter mole because of the failure of his hopes. Master Librarian Stour certainly has no confidence in him. He never gave him much promotion. But I suppose he will deputize for me well enough while I’m gone, and stance down very willingly when I return – and when I do I hope I shall confirmed as Master Librarian of
Duncton Wood and so be even more ready to be of service to the Newborn cause than is possible so long as Stour is alive.”
His eyes flicked round and looked up the ramp to the Master’s now-deserted cell, and the high galleries that ran from it round the end of the Main Chamber. He had already been up there many times, stancing in the Master’s cell as if it were his own, and peering and peeking from the dusty galleries to watch the aides at work, noting which were idle, which incompetent, which needed punishment.
He had observed – and reported as much to Chervil – that the galleries were so dusty that Stour could not have been into them for a very long time, and yet they were the perfect place from which to spy on moles working in the Main Chamber.
“Slack, you see, not interested in discipline. That will change when I take his place.”
“And censorship?”
“Much needed,” replied Snyde immediately, shifting his crooked body and opening his mouth as if almost hungry to begin such work. “There is much that must go. Old blasphemous works which have no place here and should long since have been destroyed. I never could understand Stour’s desire to see such texts copied and distributed to other libraries in moledom.”
“I believe he thought that by so doing they would have a better chance of being preserved,” said Chervil softly.
“Preserved? Against what?”
“Oh... revisionists like us. Moles who have enough confidence in their interpretation of the Stone’s desires to be resolute and clear in what should and should not be allowed. Moles who believe there is no room for vague notions of “freedom” and the “liberty of ideas” and the “universality of scholarship”, when such opinions are misused by unbelievers to undermine and destroy the very liberty of faith in the Stone for which our great ancestors of the past fought and died. Liberty carries responsibility.
and that demands clear decisions. That is why the Elder Senior Brother Thripp has pronounced that the libraries of moledom must be cleansed of the taints and stains of adulterated texts.”
“I have said as much for many a year,” said Snyde smugly, “but in this of all libraries, presided over by Stour himself, you would hardly expect...”
“Yet he has favoured you with advancement,” said Chervil, eyes narrowing as he pondered the implications of a thought that had just come to him.
“He could not deny my talents,” said Snyde. “Stubborn unbeliever he may be. Brother Chervil, but I will admit that he promoted talent where he saw it. Now we must consider how to censor the Library.”
“You are willing to destroy all profane and impious texts?”
“Did I not direct your brothers to Rolls, Rhymes and Tales and tell them what to do?”
“True, you did. It is a pity the mole Husk died as a result. I have noted that you chose to remain in hiding while the deed was done. We Newborns like to stance up and be counted.”
“It would be unwise for me to be seen to be involved in the destruction of such texts, or to have harried Keeper Husk. Some moles harboured a
liking for that has-been.”
“That ‘has-been’ was found dead by the Stone,” said Chervil.
“The Stone has judged him then,” said Snyde indifferently.
“And the texts he collected all those years? All gone?”
“Not one remains. I checked through what was left after the storm and personally destroyed what little had survived.”
“Good,” said Chervil with an approving smile. You win our confidence.”
“I wish to take my rightful place as Master Librarian here,” said Snyde. “My only interest is in a reformed Library.”
“And library aides like Pumpkin, of whom you were dismissive just now? Can you rely on them? He was the one who was with Keeper Husk when the brothers went to reform him, was he not?”
Snyde shrugged and then frowned, as if feeling suddenly that he must assert himself.
“You are well informed. Brother Chervil: Pumpkin was indeed there. I interviewed him myself later, not letting him know of course why I did so, and expressing due sorrow that so many texts had gone. I am satisfied that the Master had sent him to Keeper Husk himself and in being there he was only doing his duty. You may not understand that humble though such moles as he are, library aides are not easily found – not good ones. They save time, they know their texts, our work could not be done without them. I made it clear to Pumpkin where his loyalties now he: to me. We will need such workers while we cleanse the Library. After that... they will be dispensable.”
“Good, good,” said Chervil. “But I trust you will not be so possessive of your new domain that you will not willingly make available moledom’s greatest library and its holiest of texts to the scrutiny of the greatest Caradocian scholars and divines?”
“The Stone’s will must be done,” said Snyde.
“And you trust this Sturne? You are satisfied that he can deputize for you in your absence?”