“Of them all Privet was the only one I felt had courage and intellect to go beyond. When she left Duncton Wood in those fateful days of the Newborn takeover I sensed she was a mole who was aware that the task ahead might be more onerous than she could ever imagine, and that she needed time and courage to turn her snout towards it.
“Today we have heard only a little of what is happening out in moledom now, and most of that surmise. But more news will come, and it will be better news! Meanwhile somewhere, somehow, Privet saw what she must do, and at Wildenhope she began that journey into Silence – or perhaps, more accurately, I should say she resumed her journey to find the Book of Silence, which started a long time ago at holy Beechenhill. Moles, these are critical times, in which the threat of the Newborns is but a part of a whole, and important though it is to us we should see beyond them to the coming of the Book itself.”
“You believe it will be brought back to Duncton Wood?”
Pumpkin nodded his head slowly. “The other Books are here, and the Master Stour himself placed them beneath the Stone. That’s something I witnessed with my own eyes.”
There was an awed whispering among the moles at this, for though many believed this was what Pumpkin had done he had never before publicly admitted it.
“Aye,” said Pumpkin, “and the Stillstone of Silence, why, that was returned to Duncton in readiness many decades ago, brought by Woodruff of Arbor Low, grandson of Tryfan of Duncton. And from whence did he bring the Stillstone?”
There was silence, and though many knew the answer only now did they see the significance of Noakes’ coming that day, and why Pumpkin should invoke memories of the past of the Stillstone of Silence, and predictions of the future concerning the coming of the Book.
“It came from Seven Barrows, like you and your friends, good Noakes. Such connections are the Stone’s way of telling us that its work is being done, its tasks fulfilled. The holy circle is closing, the spirit that deserted Duncton over the centuries during which these tunnels have been lost and desolate of mole, that spirit is returning. With it will come, must come, the holy Book of Silence. The circle gapes still but we of faith wait on, we pray, we trust, we do what we can.”
The community of rebels was hushed as Pumpkin’s voice faded, and Noakes, to whom his words had been addressed, had never felt so inspired in his life. This then was the spirit of the Duncton moles of which he had heard so much – not a spirit of battle and war as he had thought, but one of faith and trust, as unstoppable as the seasons. A spirit all the more impressive coming from such as Pumpkin, and having in its service warrior moles like Hamble, who had, it seemed, eschewed force in favour of peaceful persuasion.
“Not that my head isn’t still sore!” thought Noakes to himself wryly – force still had its uses for some it seemed!
“It seems to me likely that Noakes here won’t be the only mole on his way to Duncton Wood,” said Hamble. “I’ve listened well to all he’s said, and am appalled by the events of Wildenhope. But there’s nomole here can convince me that Rooster’s dead. Rooster doesn’t die, not until his delving task is done. As for Whillan...” But there was something about Noakes’ report that made it more difficult to see how Whillan could have escaped his drowning. “... well, words fail me. I only hope it’s not true!”
“As you have faith in Rooster’s survival, I have faith in Whillan’s,” said Pumpkin. “I can’t believe the mole I first saw as a gasping, dying pup, whom I taught scribing to, whose adoptive mother was Privet herself... no, no! The Stone wouldn’t let him die! Wouldn’t...”
Pumpkin’s voice faded suddenly, and a most strange look came to his face: he seemed puzzled, curious, surprised, even astonished, as if a startling possibility had just occurred to him.
“What is it, mole?” asked Hamble, and they all shifted forward a little, thinking perhaps that Pumpkin had been taken ill.
“You look as if you missed a heartbeat, Pumpkin! You all right?” called out one of the old ones.
“There’s more than one way of dying,” whispered Pumpkin, almost to himself “A mole said that once... no, a mole scribed it. Oh dear, if I was a scholar I’d remember the text but there’s so many folios have passed before my eyes and through my paws I get them jumbled up. Sturne would know.”
“You can’t trust him,” said one of the moles.
“No, no, of course I can’t. But there was a mole scribed about death and how moles must die to be new-born, I —”
“Newborn?” called out another mole. “They’ve not got you on their side, have they, Pumpkin?”
There was a general laugh, but it was not one Hamble, Elynor or Cluniac joined in, for they could see that Pumpkin was much troubled by some distant memory he could not quite place, which had been prompted by the grim account of Whillan’s fate.
“Not just Whillan, don’t you see?” said Pumpkin later to these three, when the tale-telling was over and moles had dispersed somewhat. “All three of them, a trinity of moles: and all so strangely connected! Privet in retreat in search of the Book of Silence; Rooster surely having to “die” if he is to find his way back to his task as Master of the Delve; and Whillan, who came here so young, so innocent, and may have “died” too, aye, died in a way a mere body never can. Died to be new-born.”
“It’s time we tried to tell moles outside there’s moles in Duncton Wood have survived the Newborn inquisition here!” interrupted the practical Hamble. “These musings are all very well, but there’s work to be done! Now listen, when I came through Rollright on my way here I met some followers who agreed to lie low until they heard from me. It’s not been worth the risk contacting them until now, but with Noakes coming here, and the growing sense that the hour of rebellion is approaching, as what you say seems to imply, Pumpkin, we should send moles out to find Hodder, and tell him to...”
“We’ll go!” cried out Noakes when it was put to him, his friends nodding their agreement. “And we’ll go today!”
“Aye, I know you want to, lads,” said Hamble, “and I can think of no moles better. You got here in one piece, and the Stone seems to have chosen you for such tasks as these. But not today! You’ll need to rest up a bit here, and I’ll tell you the safest route, though Rollright’s not that far.”
“It isn’t!” said Pumpkin. “Chater the journeymole once did it in a matter of two or three days, as I remember.”
Hamble nodded. “Meanwhile, we’ll send more watchers down to the cross-under, for I’ve a feeling what Pumpkin said earlier is true: now Noakes has reached Duncton, soon others will follow, and they’ll need help as well if they’re to get through safely.”
“So they will – for now,” said Pumpkin softly. “But there’ll come a day when the cross-under of Duncton is free again, and moles do not have to cross the roaring owl way to gain access to what should be a place of liberty. And then...” and here Pumpkin’s face assumed a wistful look, “... this mole, for one, will be happy to retreat from the stresses and strains of secret rebellion, and return to helping scholars with their texts, and pursuing his own quiet interests in the matter of Duncton’s local history! Not all this... this... this fuss! This bother! It’s so tiresome, so off the point of what the Stone’s about!”
The moles laughed in sympathy with Pumpkin, and went about their tasks with a sense of faith and purpose they had not dared feel for many a long moleyear.
Chapter Twenty-Three
But where Duncton was concerned, matters were moving even faster than Pumpkin and Hamble could have predicted.
Two days after Noakes’ arrival, and but hours before he set off on his quest to find Hodder in Rollright, a watcher from the cross-under came racing up the slopes to find Pumpkin and the others.
“There’s moles come!” he declared. “And such moles too! Fierce-looking, silent, warriors all of them! They were spotted on the far side of the way, trying to cross, and whilst the other watchers stayed behind to receive them – for it’s plain they’re not Newborns – I
was sent up here to alert you.”
“Hamble! Noakes! If you’ll be so kind, come with me!” said Pumpkin, at his most assertive. “No, not you, Cluniac. You can gather the others under the eye of Elynor and make sure nomole goes off for a wander. We’ve been lucky these days past not to have Newborn attention, but with more moles on the way to the High Wood you never can tell”
“It’s all right, Cluniac,” growled Hamble, “you can go with Pumpkin if you like, for my bones are aching this afternoon. I’ll gather our moles together with Elynor.”
“Thank you!” said the youngster, who had earlier been denied permission to travel with Noakes and was feeling frustrated.
Noakes’ coming had been the cause of excitement; the arrival now of “warrior moles” gave rise to much eager speculation. Who were they? What did they want? And what did it mean for the rebels? One thing seemed certain: all was changing now, the long-awaited time of conflict and resolution was at paw.
How the time dragged up in the High Wood as Hamble and Elynor waited with the older moles to see whatmoles had arrived. Then another watcher came racing in, from the edge of the High Wood itself.
“They’re followers all right, and quite a few of them, and they’re coming now!”
A patter of paws above, deep voices, echoing tunnels, the rumble and roar of Dark Sound responding from the depths of the Ancient System, as if it knew change was apaw, and suddenly the communal chamber was filling with strangers who stopped and peered for a time into the gloom as their eyes grew accustomed to the change of light.
Big moles, strong moles, fierce-looking moles, unkempt from travelling, scenting of sweat and mud and the fumes of the roaring owl way; mutters and occasional laughter until, emerging from their midst came thin Pumpkin saying, “If you’ll come this way please, yes, follow me, Hamble’s over here.”
“Hamble!” cried out a familiar voice from the crowding strangers, and for a moment Hamble did not recognize the grinning, sharp features of Weeth; which was barely surprising, for down the left side of his face, beginning dangerously near his eye and ending only at the corner of his mouth, was a jagged and barely-healed wound.
“Yes, it’s me, remember?”
Hamble laughed in his warm deep way, and with a buffet to Weeth’s shoulders said, “Nomole is more welcome here than you. But you’ve been in the wars, my friend!” He quickly confirmed to Pumpkin and the others that this was the cunning Weeth he had often mentioned to them.
“I wish there were more of us,” said Weeth at last, the grin fading. “Maple sent us from the Wolds to find out what was apaw in Duncton and give you what news we had, but things are changing fast in moledom now, and dangerously so.”
“How come?” said Hamble, suddenly alert.
“First, let me introduce my companions,” said Weeth. I’m the talker, they’re the doers! First there’s Arvon of Siabod...”
“Siabod!” went the whisper throughout the chamber, for allmole knew that from Bracken’s day more than a century before there had been connections between Duncton and dark Siabod, original home of Mandrake, whose takeover of Duncton had marked the beginning of its modern history, and perhaps that of all moledom. They looked at Arvon in awe – at his black wiry fur, his stolid muscular body, his sharp fierce eyes, and they felt his natural authority.
“Good-day,” he said nodding at them with the briefest of smiles. “I’ll not labour over the rest of the introductions as Weeth would, liking the graceful word as he does. There’s no time for that now, and you’ll get to know us well enough in the days ahead.” His voice was lilting and accented, and nothing brought home to the Duncton moles better than his coming that there was a great world beyond their system, and its dangers and possibilities would soon be more a part of their lives than ever before. Their isolation was over.
But Arvon had said “There’s no time for that now,” and referred ominously to “the days ahead’. Matters sounded serious indeed, and this inference was confirmed when Weeth spoke again.
“Matters are very serious. We came, as I say, to make contact, expecting to exchange news and plans for contingencies. Maple likes doing things thoroughly. But, well...”
“Well, Weeth? Get on with it, mole!” said Hamble.
“All my life moles have been telling me to get on with it! One day...” sighed Weeth, with mock self-pity.
“One day, Weeth, a mole’s going to throttle you,” muttered Arvon, though not without evident affection, “and it will probably be me.”
“Well then,” said Weeth, suddenly becoming grave. “We had been hoping to come direct to Duncton from the Wolds by the south-eastern route of the River Evenlode, but Newborns were thick on the ground in the vales and we were forced into northerly diversions by way of systems like Norton and Banbury. I am not exactly a fighting mole, but there were skirmishes enough to last a lifetime before I received this present injury at nearby Rollright; fortunately I had Arvon and his band of merry moles with me.”
The “merry” moles looked on grimly as Weeth ran briefly through what had in fact been a hard and dangerous journey in which his own role had been conspicuous and courageous.
“But at least the diversions meant we saw more of the Newborn Crusades than we might otherwise have done, and took the opportunity of having a quiet little chat to a few Newborn guardmoles who wandered across our path.” Weeth grinned amiably, but none was left in doubt that a “little chat” with Arvon and the others might not be a pleasant experience.
“It seems that things are not going quite the way the Newborns would have wanted. The solid occupation of the Wolds by Maple has taken up the time and energy of more Newborns than Quail would wish, and he is not pleased. At the same time there are reports of resistance in many systems across moledom, for which Privet’s heroic stance at Wildenhope, and the subsequent dissemination from an anonymous source of a very accurate text describing the killings may be thanked, or blamed, depending on your point of view.*
*It was not yet known that Thripp himself had been the author of the text concerning the Wildenhope Killings which did so much damage to Quail’s cause.
“Putting it bluntly, it seems that the Newborns are just beginning to realize that their Crusades may not succeed. Now, we’ve just come from Rollright after a little altercation with some of their guardmoles, and finally with their Brother Commander no less, from which I gained this facial memento. We learned that Quail, the Elder Senior Brother Quail, is coming to Duncton Wood in the hope that he might be able to direct his war upon moledom better from here than from obscure Caradoc. You should expect no mercy at all from Quail, since he is showing none to his hapless Brother Commanders. To be recalled to Caradoc by Quail is as likely to end with a sentence of death as with promotion; all, naturally, in the name of the glorious Stone!”
“Quail’s coming here?” gasped his listeners.
“So it seems. Now, I suggest that Hamble and Arvon, who know about such things, advise you how best to defend yourselves, while the worthy Pumpkin and I – and I have many a message for you, sir, from Maple and Rooster —”
“Rooster?” cried out several moles. “The Master of the Delve?” The news was coming almost too thick and fast for moles to take in.
“The same,” cried out Weeth dramatically. “Safe and sound, if a little wet, after his ordeal in a certain river east of Wildenhope Bluff...”
But his voice was drowned by cheering, and a chattering excitement that told its own story: their time of isolation was truly over. Relief had come, but with it new danger and new challenges. But Rooster, Master of the Delve, was alive, and in that news was the best indication they had yet received that the Stone’s purpose was being served by the followers, amongst whom they so proudly numbered themselves.
“Yes, he’s alive. And he says Whillan’s alive too...” (which provoked still louder cheers) “... though how he knows I have no idea. Masters of the Delve are most mysterious! But, as I was trying to say, the defence will be in the ca
pable paws of Hamble and Arvon, whilst Pumpkin and myself have several matters to discuss, and possibilities to consider!”
It was as much as Weeth could say before a melee of talk, excited exclamations and greetings drowned the rest of his words. Food, rest, talk, news, and plans, all were needed now, and the rebels of the High Wood rushed about servicing the needs of the weary guests, and listening to the stories and tales that they told; while moles like Hamble and Pumpkin, Arvon and Weeth, with Noakes available to do whatever task they set him, and young Cluniac hoping for an assignment of some sort, talked on and on in low voices and with furrowed brows: Quail coming; defence needed; and the Newborns no longer in the ascendant in moledom.
“But danger, danger, everywhere,” said Weeth, much later, “and much to decide.”
Later again, when sleep was creeping up on many a mole but before any quite succumbed to it, Pumpkin said this prayer in the communal chamber for them all: “Stone, grant that the troubled days ahead of moledom may be resolved without loss of life to follower or Newborn. Grant that a way may be found that leads to reconciliation. Grant that those who seek to fulfil the tasks they pursue in your name may be guided by your Light. We are troubled, Stone, and wander still in the tunnels of darkness: give us comfort, give us hope, give us life again.”
“Some hope,” muttered more than one mole to himself as sleep overtook him; yet there was comfort in Pumpkin’s simple plea.
Much later still, when deep night had come and all moles but the watchers slept, Pumpkin stirred and crept out and up through the whispering tunnels to the surface.
“Can’t sleep, sir?” asked a look-out softly.
“Not too well, no,” said Pumpkin, the stars of the night shining on his tired and worried face.