For a moment before full waking she felt safe, she felt joy. Then loss, and fear, and all the years since Blagrove Slide crowded in and she awoke.
“Brother Confessor... it is you...”
She found herself staring into his clear eyes; he had aged, and grown thin and troubled.
“Sister Crowden...”
“My name is Privet now,” she said, wanting to reach out to him, this mole she had once loved. This mole had shown her ecstasy. This mole...
“What is your name? I never knew it, never.”
Even as he hesitated momentarily she recognized the thin body, the greying fur, the gentle voice. In Caer Caradoc had she seen and heard them.
“Thripp,” he said. “I am Thripp.”
“Thripp! I should have known when I saw Brother Rolt again. So you are Thripp?”
He nodded as if it was a curse. “The years have...” he whispered as he reached for her.
And the years since then might not have been as, for a time, they held each. other close.
“Thripp...” she whispered.
“Privet...” he said.
Two moles in awesome pilgrimage, whose paths crossed once before, and crossed now, and would again, each knew, one more time.
“There has been no other,” he said. “Never another Sister Crowden, Privet of Duncton, only you.”
“One other for me,” she whispered, “one other love.”
Their voices were whispers, their tears conjoined, their time thus too brief.
He understands, she thought, as Rooster does.
She judges not, he knew.
“Master,” cried out Rolt from above, “there’s little time...”
They pulled apart, staring, amazed.
“Our pups. Brother Confessor, you promised they would live. Rolt said...”
“I kept my word as best I could.”
“As best...?” Her voice trembled. She wanted to hear it from him.
“One did not survive, but three still live.”
“Which?” Her voice was sharp now, almost hard, the voice of a mother, readying to protect her young.
“The one that died was Brimmel...”
Privet sighed with pity and dismay. So many years had she held on to the memory of her four young and now she must take her leave of Brimmel, whose bright eyes she remembered looking into hers.
“Not...?”
“Painlessly,” said Thripp. “She did not suffer. Loosestrife lived, the liveliest of them all, and little Sampion.”
“You used the names I gave.”
“I did. And the male, Mumble, I called him that as long as I was able. A strange name, Sister Crowden, but who am I to question the names so erudite a mother gave her young? When he became a brother we changed it to something more suitable.”
They looked at each other and almost smiled. “Chervil, my son,” whispered Privet.
“It is so,” he said.
“I have spoken to him,” she said. “Of them all he is the one I knew as an adult.”
“The others...”
“I would meet Sampion and Loosestrife if I could.”
“May the Stone grant it to both of us. I last saw them as pups. I think that Rolf told them your true name...”
“Master! Pawsteps!” It was Brother Rolt’s voice from above. The sounds echoed down into Privet’s cell and then faded. “We must not stay long.”
“Sister... Privet... listen to me and try to trust me.”
“I shall,” whispered Privet, hoping she could.
“We know of your love for Rooster, and of his relationship to the mole Whillan. But we have little power here in Wildenhope. We shall do what we can, but you must trust us as you trust the Stone. They shall live, but in ways and places you may not like. They shall live on.”
“Let my life be forfeit before theirs.”
“On your life mole all moledom may depend.”
“But I am only Sister Crowden!”
“No, mole, you are Privet of Duncton Wood now, and time will prove you to be greater than us all. Try to forgive me, Privet – for all I have done to you.”
“It is for the Stone to forgive, only the Stone. Hear its Silence and you will be forgiven.”
The sound of more pawsteps...
“Master, we must go!” called Brother Rolt urgently.
“What were you to me?” wondered Privet aloud.
“I am Thripp, and that is all I am. Neither Brother Confessor nor Elder Senior Brother. And you, Privet of Duncton Wood, born of Crowden, daughter of Shire, granddaughter of the Eldrene Wort, you gave me all that has been worthwhile in my misguided life.”
“And our son?”
“Our son, our only son, Chervil, may the Stone guide him...”
Chervil... Thripp... all turned in Privet’s mind and she knew the Stone’s task was almost on her. Her son Chervil and Thripp and Loosestrife and Sampion lived. The walls of the cell turned, as the season, as her task.
“Chervil will one day be worthy,” she whispered. “Our son will be worthy.”
“I wish it could be so, but...” said Thripp, uncertain.
The last light faded even as these words were said, yet they stared through the darkness at each other in silence, as if they could see each other now as they had never been able to through the long years since their parting.
“Privet,” he whispered to her, as if he had never said the name before.
“Thripp,” she replied.
“Now, come, Master, come...” called Rolt.
And the last Privet heard was Thripp’s voice saying, passionately, fervently, and with that same resolute conviction that had inspired a generation of moles to follow him, “There will be a way through this darkness, there will be a way... May the Stone help us find it in time. Trust in what happens to the others, Privet, and guard yourself, for on you now all depends.”
She heard his pawsteps departing as other, heavier ones hurried near.
Then in the black depth of her cell Privet prepared herself for the morrow; she whispered the names of all her young, the one that had been and those that lived still...
“Brimmel, and Sampion and Loosestrife and Mumb... and Chervil. And you Whillan, you as well, my dear.” And a fearful joy was in her heart as beyond them silence called her, and she knew how she might go to it.
Chapter Eleven
The captives could hardly have known it, but the rain through which they had journeyed to Wildenhope had stopped almost since their incarceration. But the sky had stayed for the most part lowering and grey, and the river full, and dangerously fast.
Not that the respite from rain helped them, for when one dawn soon after their arrival they were brought up one by one to the surface by guards, it began to spit down again. Rarely can moledom have known so gloomy and dispiriting a scene; the succession of moles, many ill or suffering the effects of torture, and others demented by isolation alone, were brought together on top of Wildenhope Bluff that morning, and told to keep their snouts low and their eyes cast down. Those that succeeded in glancing about quickly saw moles much like themselves, oppressed and with little hope. It was plain enough that punishment was in the air, but most seemed too broken-down to care.
Privet, Rooster and Whillan managed to catch sight of each other in the crowd and nod a gesture of encouragement – but of Madoc there was no sign, and nor was she there, as Snyde’s list of the victims that day shows. She had, in fact, been detained below on Squelch’s orders, and her name and arrival expunged from the records. Madoc now no longer officially existed at all. While huddled among the broken moles were Thripp’s old aides Arum and Boden, their bodies defeated, but faith in Thripp’s way still shining in their eyes.
All was grey, all oppressive, and while they waited a cold wind sprang up from the west, forcing guards and prisoners alike to turn their snouts eastward towards the spit of land which marked the confluence of the river and its tributary from Caer Caradoc. The river flowed shiny grey across the
sodden landscape, except where the smaller stream met it and made a race of white and yellow water, which surged and sucked and ran on all swollen and murderous southward to a curve and then shot out of sight.
Despite the warning to keep their eyes to the ground the continuous dull roar and sheer force of the river drew a mole’s gaze, furtive at first but then grimly fascinated, as a helpless mole might watch the preparations of the creature about to prey upon it.
The Elder Brothers finally appeared, all of them, the great and the good of the Caradocian Order. Quail now unchallenged at their head, Skua at his left flank, and other older ones gathering round him. While to their rear and at one side, less conspicuous than he had been at the Convocation at Caer Caradoc, was Squelch, beaming and content.
To the other side and more prominent was Chervil, not quite part of the favoured group. His face was set in a dark impassive glower, and he was flanked on one side by Feldspar, his guardmole, and on the other by Feldspar’s two stolidly powerful sons, Fallow and Tarn. Snyde’s record of this grim event makes the following subtle comment on Chervil’s presence: “At the Convocation in Caradoc, Chervil, son of Thripp, had also appeared flanked by these guards. But on that occasion they looked as if they were his captors; at Wildenhope they looked as if they were his bodyguards, obedient only to him.”
In the interim Chervil had won the three moles’ confidence and loyalty, and their presence served to increase the impression of power and authority he manifested. This was reinforced by his obvious health and strength – his eyes were glittering bright, his black fur glossy, his powerful talons shining – and light seemed to favour him so that he had the fascinating appeal possessed by many consummately powerful moles.
We may well imagine the glances Privet gave him, knowing as she now did what he was to her. But not a single sign of feeling towards him did she betray, not fear even. She must trust the Stone, and that meant giving up fear as well as hope. She must trust...
The impression of power Quail conveyed was more direct and brutal than Chervil’s, and perhaps more immediately chilling. He, too, benefited from the presence of acolytes about him, in particular the sharp-snouted, mean-eyed Skua. If the grey light of the day seemed to enhance Chervil’s strength, it made Quail’s bald head and cold eyes almost lurid in effect, and the myriad of lines and creases in his features were curiously frightening, as if even age dared not quite disfigure him yet was creeping up to take him unawares.
Snyde took a stance some way from the main body of moles, and on a little rise of ground, the better to view proceedings and report on them. He had come with two of his most trusted minions and after a brief consultation they both discreetly melted into the crowd of moles, one among the victims, the other among the Elders, where, no doubt, they would observe, eavesdrop, and report back later to their mentor.
It is to one of these perhaps that we owe our image of Rooster who, as striking as ever, was the only one it seemed who was not so overawed as to be biddable and still. He moved restlessly, his shaggy grotesque head (as it seemed to the observer) jerking and shifting, his eyes here and there, unable to simply look down, or just stare at the river. And sometimes he groaned, or mumbled, and his paws patted and squelched at the wet ground.
The Elders waited in silence, until at last, slowly, aided by Brother Rolt, Thripp himself appeared. His fur was lustreless, his pawsteps shaky, his head atremble, and his eyes, peering from beneath a worried frown, looked a little lost, a little helpless. It did not seem possible that this sick old mole, once so great, had been able to talk so clearly and passionately to Privet the night before. Yet there he came, right past her without a word, muttering angrily as he caught sight of his son – their son.
Chervil turned impassively towards him, staring with a studied insolence which seemed to say, “Your time is done, old mole, your brief moment is past, your life is run. The future is for moles like me.”
Thripp seemed almost to wither with dismay before this look, and he stumbled, turning pathetically to Rolt for physical support without which he might have fallen.
Certainly no such help came from Chervil, who stared coldly at his father’s discomfiture, and then whispered to Feldspar, who nodded at whatever was said, and then smiled in a cruel way as they both glanced at Thripp, before giving their respectful attention to Quail and Skua.
With Thripp’s arrival the waiting was over, and the Newborns’ lengthy ritual of accusation and declaration of punishment began, led by Brother Inquisitor Skua.
“It is my solemn duty to pronounce condemnation, and sentence with commendation, upon eleven brothers gathered before us here today; and to pronounce condemnation and sentence without commendation upon a further seven brothers gathered here. And upon two more brothers, who have forsworn their vows and shown no remorse unto the Stone, there shall be condemnation and sentence severe, and the Curse of the Elder Brothers that these two shall be deprived now and for eternity of Silence and the right to hope for Silence.”
Skua’s voice had grown gradually louder and harsher as he spoke these words, and his eyes, as sharp in their look as his snout was in form, stared unremittingly at the condemned. Quail’s face was blank throughout; he even looked slightly bored; but Chervil’s expression betrayed a hint of malicious pleasure at the grim ritual.
Meanwhile the guards had arraigned the prisoners in a row, with the single exception of Rooster who, no doubt in expectation of his giving trouble, was held separately by four strong guards. But it did not take an especially numerate mole to work out that eleven and seven and two made twenty, and that left three to go. Whillan looked a little fearfully around at Rooster and Privet as if to say, “Well, we know who the three so far unsentenced are, don’t we? But maybe... Maybe we’ll get off with a warning.”
The bitter wind, and the cruel roar of the river, did not hint at anything so easy as that. Nor did Skua’s face.
After this pause, calculated perhaps to give the prisoners time to think such thoughts as appeared to have preoccupied Whillan, Skua continued thus; “The three remaining miscreants shall suffer the just punishment of those whose blasphemy is original without the intercession of vows, though broken, or innocence of Newborn ways. These three stand accused of a sin so grave that its punishment is put beyond our jurisdiction, lest by punishing them we sully and besmirch our clean paws.”
“How then shall they be judged, Brother Inquisitor?” intoned Quail, in the kind of voice that made it obvious that he knew very well how they were to be judged.
“By their own hearts,” responded Skua.
For some reason which was beyond the present comprehension of Privet and her friends, this response brought a collective sigh of horror and pity from both accusers and accused, which was, in truth, the most frightening thing that had happened yet. The only thing worse than a horrible and cruel punishment is imagining what it might be, and from the way allmole there now looked at Rooster, Whillan and Privet, it was quite plain that nomole there would wish to be in their place, not even those who seemed likely to be about to die in whatever vile way the self-righteous and cant-ridden Brother Inquisitors had contrived. But this part of the ritual had not quite finished.
“How shall they be sentenced, Brother Inquisitor?” intoned another Elder Brother.
“By their own mouths,” responded Skua.
“How shall they be punished, Brother Inquisitor?” said Chervil.
“By the eternal suffering of their spirits,” hissed Skua.
“And if they judge not, and sentence not, and punish not of themselves?” whispered Thripp in a quavering voice.
Skua turned to him triumphantly and said, “By the brother that asked of the judgement shall they be judged; and by he that asked of punishment shall they be punished.”
It was towards Chervil that moles now looked, for he had been the brother to ask about punishment. He, it seemed, might be the one to carry out the sentence.
But now, for the first time, proceedings did n
ot go quite according to plan, for Thripp, encouraged perhaps by his little intervention, now spoke again.
“Brothers, it is usual on these occasions to call upon moles to witness punishment,” he suddenly said, even as Skua opened his mouth to continue the ritual.
“There are none easily available,” said Quail sharply, visibly annoyed, in the way moles in charge of a public occasion sometimes are by some old buffer interrupting the smooth flow of things.
“They are not necessary,” added Chervil coldly.
“Oh! But they are!” said Thripp in a firmer voice. “It is the custom to have witnesses, not from mere tradition but because justice must not only be done, but must be seen to be done by the ordinary brothers and sisters of moledom.”
Quail sighed and said, “The former Elder Senior Brother speaks the truth, showing that we all have something to learn. His knowledge of Caradocian custom and tradition must be respected since he established it. On this occasion let us listen to him yet be mindful that all can be changed. Fetch witnesses.”
This was perhaps as gracious as Quail could be in the circumstances, and Privet, who still had faith that all might finally be well, could only hope that Thripp had a reason behind his request.
The witnesses, when they came, were a motley bunch, with two or three females among them, dredged up no doubt from the lower regions of Wildenhope, for such an infrastructure as that certainly needed minions to keep it going. These, it seemed, were they, and very reluctant about it they were too, barely daring to glance in the direction of the Senior Brothers, but looking with some sympathy it seemed at the condemned.
The custom satisfied, Skua now carried matters rapidly forward, mixing incantations and accusations, prayers and condemnations in a most confusing way, which left justice far behind. Until at last, with the morning advanced, and the spitting rain now turned into a depressing drizzle, the first accused was called forward for execution of sentence. The name of this hapless mole was given as Brother Normand, though that particular name was “herewith ordered to be struck from the Book of Brothers’ Names’.*