‘I’m a Duncton mole, you know,’ she added. He knew that—he could tell by her fresh wood scent that reminded him of the sunny surface of Barrow Vale when he had seen it at its best in early summer.
Bracken was especially pleased to be asked by a mole from the system to find a route. It was the first time (apart from the odd occasion with Root and Wheatear in their puphood) when somemole had asked him the way and there was almost nothing Bracken liked better than to exercise his unusual ability to navigate.
‘Come on,’ he found himself saying happily. ‘I’ll show you.’ And he was off past her, leading her down by a way he remembered to an entrance which must lie just beyond the slopes and from where she could find her own way on. He liked the feel of running down the slopes, this way and that, through the wet foliage, with another mole following who depended on his skill. He enjoyed it so much that he was sorry when they got there and he had to turn to her and say, ‘There you are! I told you it was easy!’
He looked at her looking at him and wanted to stay and ask all sorts of things. But somehow the way she was looking at him stopped him asking the questions he was framing and left him mute, as she came forward and touched him on his shoulder where the scar was fading under cover of new fur. She did it with such gentleness that the words he wanted to say were quite gone and he felt suddenly achingly vulnerable as he let a route into his heart open up that pride, or fear, or vanity, would never again quite be able to close. He wanted to go up close to her and touch her in his own turn, nuzzling his snout into the soft fur of her neck. The feeling frightened him and he wanted to run away from it, and from her, and the system.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked gently.
‘I’m Bracken,’ he blurted out. Then he did run, turning away from the entrance where they had been crouching and making for the slopes. As he ran, he felt a relief that he was gone from her, but he could still feel the touch of her caress on his shoulder where once his terrible wound had ached so much; and though he was glad she was gone, he wished he had asked her name.
He did not hear her call out to him, ‘My name is Rebecca,’ or see her run a little way towards the way he had gone, nor did he see her stop and look up towards the slopes to which he had returned before turning away herself into the tunnels of the system.
Part Two
Rebecca
Chapter Fifteen
The silence of the Stone. A mole may listen for a lifetime and not hear it. Or it may touch him at birth and seem to protect him with its power for the tasks that he must face.
Such a mole was Boswell, scribemole of Uffington, where the Holy Burrows lie, who is now known and beloved of all moles as Blessed Boswell.
Yet there was a time when his vow of obedience had shaken his heart as day after day he prayed and meditated in solitude by the Blowing Stone that lies at the foot of Uffington Hill—a stone whose special power for truth everymole knows. He was seeking the guidance he needed before making his now legendary decision to break his vows and make the trek over chalk hills and clay vales, across river and marsh, to the ancient system of Duncton.
The time was September, the same in which Bracken and Rebecca first met, and the weather was changeable. A storm had come in from the east, the direction of Duncton Wood. It obscured the top of Uffington Hill in rain and mist, leaving Boswell below it, isolated and alone with the Blowing Stone, to make up his mind. At the height of the storm, the wind was strong and it wound and raced around the hollow convolutions of the Stone until at last it sounded the deep vibrating note that cast all doubts aside and filled his heart with the terrible certainty that he must make the perilous journey.
He had already asked that he might do so, going with his master, Skeat, to the Holy Mole himself and begging to be allowed dispensation to risk the long trek to Duncton. But, though with kindness and compassion, he was refused, just as Skeat had warned he would be.
‘You’re far too valuable here, Boswell, for nomole knows the secrets of the libraries as well as you do, or the old language, which even the scribes forget. And anyway,’ and here Skeat looked sadly on Boswell, ‘you know you can never make such a journey and survive. Others might, perhaps, but not you, Boswell.’
Boswell would not have stood a chance. He had been cursed at birth with a crippled paw, whose talons were weak and useless and with which he only barely had enough strength to limp about, always struggling to catch up with the other pups. It was perhaps a miracle that he survived long enough for Skeat to come across him—or perhaps a reflection of the fact that he had the intelligence to steer clear of trouble.
Skeat himself had first found Boswell in a system near Uffington and brought him for his own protection to the Holy Burrows. He said that he saw in his quickness and intelligence, and in his awe of the Stone, something that should not be lost when he grew too old to stay in his home burrow and was forced to fight for a place of his own.
He was put to work in the libraries at Uffington where, before he ever became a scribe, he learned to take care of the ancient books with a love and feeling that other scribes said was a joy to behold.
Some said he was natural-born to the libraries, where his fur, flecked with grey as it was, blended with the white of the chalk walls and made him seem, in some lights, as ancient as the books themselves. They soon grew fond of the sight of his frail form, struggling sometimes with the bigger books but refusing all help, and would smile to see him.
He became a scribe very young and quickly distinguished himself for his work on some of the most sacred texts of all. The Book of Earth, as it now exists in its edited form, is substantially Boswell’s work; the Book of Light, so long an obscure text that few moles understood, was translated and explained by Boswell alone. And all this while he was still young and had seen through only one Longest Night.
But one spring, the same spring in which Bracken was born, Boswell seemed to change. Only Skeat, of all the masters, correctly linked the change with a text that Boswell one day found in the course of his delvings in the dark places of the libraries. It was a piece of bark manuscript and appeared to have been hidden deliberately. It had upon it the most holy seal of all—the seal of white birch bark: the seal of a White Mole.
He took this find to Skeat, his master, who took it to the Holy Mole himself, who opened it in the presence only of Skeat. It was written in the old language and began: ‘Sevene Stillstoones, sevene Bookes makede, Alle but oone been come to grounde…’ which in translation reads:
Seven Stillstones, seven Books made,
All, but one, have come to ground.
First, the Stone of Earth for living,
Second, Stone for Suffering mole;
Third of Fighting, born of bloodshed,
Fourth of Darkness, born in death;
Fifth for Healing, born through touching,
Sixth of pure Light, born of love.
Now we wait on
For the last Stone
Without which the circle gapes;
And the Seventh
Lost and last Book,
By whose words we may be blessed.
Find the lost Book, send the last Stone,
Bring them back to Uffington.
Send a mole in courage living
And a mole compassionate,
With a third and last to bind them
By the warmest light of love.
Song of silence,
Dance of mystery,
From their love one more will come…
He the Stone holds,
He the Book brings,
His the Silence of the Stone.
The enormous significance of this text was immediately obvious to both the Holy Mole and to Skeat. For it confirmed a belief, held by generation upon generation of scribemoles, that there were, indeed, seven holy Books and not six—the number Uffington actually had. And if there were seven Books, there must be a seventh Stillstone, for each of the six Books in Uffington had its counterpart in a Stillstone, as t
he special stones associated with the seven Books were known, whose location in the deepest parts of Uffington was a secret known only to the Holy Mole and the masters. What the two moles immediately debated was whether this text answered the two great mysteries about the lost Book: where it was, and what its subject was. And also whether or not there was a seventh Stillstone. But, as scholars so often do, they failed to come to any clear answer.
When the system heard that this text had been found and what its contents were, there was an enormous excitement, for surely its discovery was some kind of sign. Inevitably a great many scribes, particularly the younger, more aggressive ones who liked a bit of action, asked to be allowed to leave Uffington to search for the lost Stillstone and the lost Book.
But Boswell, who felt the same urge himself, was excluded from this clamouring, for how could a defenceless mole such as he ever leave Uffington? He lost himself in work in the libraries, pursuing the one course of search for the seventh Book open to him. He began a massive, solitary search for other material in the library in the same script as that of the manuscript he had found. He himself has recorded this search elsewhere, but what is important here is that in the Midsummer after the spring in which he made the initial discovery, he found a reference in an entry which was written in the same script, in one of the Rolls of the Systems, the books that record the findings of the wandering scribes, as they were then known, about the systems they had visited. It referred to ‘Duncton, a system separated from the world by the rivers that surround three sides of it, which has tunnels of great subtlety and wisdom’.
In itself this entry was not unusual. What was remarkable was the effect it had on him. It seemed to him as he read it that he heard a calling to him from it, as if from an old mole lost in a place from which he could not escape, asking him to come.
He himself doubted this voice, believing it to be but his vanity and pride making an excuse for him to follow the urgings he felt to leave the system. But, over the weeks that followed, it persisted and eventually he too asked permission of the Holy Mole to see if he could find the system, whose location was known, though no scribe had visited it—or at least returned from it—for many generations.
He asked three times, and each time his request was refused. So finally, that September, the same in which Bracken and Rebecca first met, he trekked down to the Blowing Stone and began his vigil for truth by it. And so it was there, in the light brought to him by the storm and by the grace of the Stone that he made his decision, even though it meant breaking his vows. It is said that he begged the forgiveness of the Holy Mole himself and that it was given to him ‘for all the things you have done for Uffington and for all the things the Stone may allow you to do outside’.
It is also said, though there is no record of this, that Skeat accompanied his protégé and friend to the end of the eastern part of Uffington Hill, where, sadly, he must have watched Boswell slowly make the start of his journey.
There, too, we must leave him to make his perilous journey alone. It will be a long time before we hear of him again, for Duncton was distant and those days were dark and dangerous.
Yet as he starts upon it, let us repeat, as Skeat did then, the ancient journey blessing, which is traditionally said as a plea to the Stone when a beloved one is going at last from our protection:
May the peace of your power
Encompass him, going and returning;
May the peace of the White Mole be his in the travel.
And may he return home safeguarded.
Chapter Sixteen
Cairn’s vengeful chase after Rune eventually gave way to common sense. The deeper he got into the wood the more its great trees oppressed him, for he was only used to open sky, fresh wind, and tunnels that were sparse and smelt dry.
But he was at first reluctant to turn back. For one thing, his brother Stonecrop had told him once, ‘Never leave a fight half fought,’ which Cairn took to mean that an opponent was best killed rather than left free to sneak off and remain a danger.
Also, Cairn sensed that Rune was not truly beaten anyway and probably had some trick prepared. And then again, this Rune might bring other Duncton moles to attack him, and Cairn had no inflated sense of his own prowess. He could have beaten Rune, he knew that, but not two Runes, or three. So, finally, Cairn gave up the chase and turned back to try to find his mate.
Out on the pastures this would have been easy for him, but here in the wood with so many strange smells and sounds, and with the heavy rain half obscuring everything, Cairn found it impossible, and he was lost in the wood for hours trying to find his way back to the pastures. Eventually, when the rain lightened and a breeze returned, fortunately from the west, he got a scent of the pastures and was able to head directly for them and from there to the temporary burrow where he had left Rebecca.
He called out her name as he went down, but he could sense without waiting for the silence that greeted him that she was gone. Probably to look for him.
But how wet and forlorn the place looked bereft of her. How dank and desolate the wet wood about seemed, just as it always had when he had come near it from the pastures. How cold their burrow was with only the fresh wood scent of Rebecca there to give it a feeling of life and love.
He waited in the burrow, tending the scratches and wounds he had received in his fight with Rune and feeling lost. He wanted to see her again, if only to confirm that she had not been a dream—though, he thought ruefully, his wounds from Rune were evidence enough that she was not.
Rebecca, too, was miserable throughout that same night, for though she was tired, she could not sleep with fretting for her Cairn. When dawn came, and it came very slowly, she made her way back to the surface near the pastures, where the air was cool and clear from yesterday’s storm and the sun was beginning to shine. The wood gave her the feeling that it had shaken off the trial of the storm and was there again for moles to enjoy, sliding into autumn it was true, but with enough green leaf about to catch the morning sun and make a mole feel that he, or she, was back in summer again.
As soon as Rebecca came to the little clearing where her temporary burrow was, she knew that he was there waiting for her. Oh, she could smell again the strong young scent of the open pastures, where the wind blew and shadows seemed few and far between. She sighed for happiness and crept as quietly as she could into the tunnel, hoping to surprise Cairn, but he was ready for her. She heard him stir and laugh as he delighted in her scent coming to him, and there he was, waiting in the burrow, her Cairn! Her love! His love, Rebecca!
How quiet they both were, and how content. She tended for a while to his scratches and wounds, especially the one he had received on his face as he had run out of the tunnel after Rune. What special attention she gave to that one! What sighings and caresses, what entwinings and delights, what peaceful rest and waking dreams! How close they were!
‘Rebecca, Rebecca!’
‘Cairn, my love, my wildflower.’
They smiled and laughed and giggled to be so near, fur once more mingling with fur, and haunch soft against haunch. For a while they even mock-fought, until Cairn’s wound got scratched again and he surrendered in defeat to his Rebecca, and she licked and tended him once more. Then they slept again, the sweet sleep of love satisfied.
* * *
‘Been in a fight, have you, Rune?’ Mandrake asked the question with good humour, for after the confrontation with the owl face in Hulver’s tunnels he had felt weary, and in no mood to deal with the sycophantic mumblings of the henchmoles, so was glad to see Rune back again from wherever he had been.
When he entered the elder burrow where Mandrake was crouched, Rune had placed himself carefully out of the shadows where his wounds and scratches might be clearly seen. He had done so wearily and in seeming pain, his snout low but making a consciously brave effort to look cheerful.
‘Not exactly a fight, Mandrake, but it is of no matter. I hope.’
‘Mmm?’ Mandrake’s growl indicate
d that he wanted to know more.
‘It’s nothing,’ said Rune. ‘At least, I hope it’s nothing.’
He paused to give time for the doubt to sink into Mandrake’s mind and then said lightly, ‘Well! Everything’s quiet in Barrow Vale. That’s something!’
‘Where have you been, Rune?’ asked Mandrake, his curiosity now successfully aroused.
Rune sighed, licked his wounds, scratched, twisted and turned, coughed, put a brave smile on to his shadowy face, sighed again, and finally said: ‘Do you know where Rebecca is at the moment?’
‘No. Where?’ asked Mandrake, puzzlement taking over from curiosity.
‘Ah! I thought… nothing. I must be wrong.’
Mandrake got up and came closer to Rune. ‘What did you think?’ he asked more intensely.
Rune demurred. Then he said, ‘At any rate if there is anywhere in the system where danger and treachery can have least effect it is in the Westside. Most of the henchmoles come from there. Very loyal to you and the system.’
‘Danger? Treachery?’ There was a hint of irritation in Mandrake’s voice, a touch of anger.
‘We must always be prepared for them, you have taught me that.’ Rune stopped again and Mandrake waited for him to go on. Eventually he did, but deliberately on to another subject.
‘Autumn is starting, Mandrake. A time of change. But what a summer! You must have been proud of Rebecca, then.’
‘Proud?’
‘Such innocence, in the summer. Such warmth, when the sun was shining. So beautiful, then. She’s not here in Barrow Vale now?’
‘Should she be?’
‘She was. After she left her burrows a few days ago. But perhaps she’s gone back there now, and I’m wrong.’