It is many moles’ hope to see snow on Longest Night, and as systems of the Stone go, Beechenhill, being northerly, was normally luckier than most. But that cycle of seasons, though the weather was cold, the snows did not come until the third week of January.
Then, when they came, they were sudden and severe, as easterly winds drifted deep snow across the lower slopes and covered the higher parts with a crust of fluted ice through which the ends of mat grass stuck stiffly.
Treacherous though this surface was, two moles struggled at that time to find a route through the frozen, fractured communal tunnels there to get as near to the Stone as they could. They should not have done so, but Harebell insisted that she wished to go to the Stone, and Wharfe refused to let her go unaccompanied.
The day they chose was clear and bright, and when they finally stanced unsteadily on the exposed and icy surface by the Stone, all their adopted system lay stretched out beneath them, glinting in the south-east where the sun had risen low. All was white, all beautiful. The only sound was the thin whine of wind in the wire fence that lies north of the Beechenhill Stone, the only movement the flick-flack shift of sheep’s wool caught on the wire’s barbs.
‘We must not stay here long, Harebell,’ said Wharfe.
‘I know. I just want … just for Betony.’
‘I know you do,’ said Wharfe, for ever since Betony had been lost, Harebell had come regularly to the Stone to pray for her, whatever the weather and whatever anymole said.
That day, despite the difficulties of getting there, the system looked purer and more peaceful than they ever remembered, even on the gentlest summer day. White, pure, good.
‘When will moledom’s darkness and the siege of Beechenhill ever end?’ asked Harebell. ‘It has been going on so long. I’m so tired of it, Wharfe. But I’m sure the Stone Mole has come and that he’ll find Betony for us and she’ll be safe.’
Wharfe smiled bleakly but said nothing. He wished he could go out and look for Betony, but he did not know where to begin. While Harebell felt the loss emotionally, he felt somehow responsible, as if he had failed Betony, and more than once before he had wanted to go off in search of her. The winter years were beginning to seem long and slow, and he had never thought a system could change so much, and come to seem so hateful. It was no consolation that Squeezebelly had warned him that it would be so.
‘When the worms go deep, and moles follow them and are confined, then trouble starts; always did, always will,’ Squeezebelly had told him. ‘That’s when a system shows its strengths and weaknesses.’
‘Stone,’ said Harebell, ‘bring our Betony back to us safeguarded and send the Stone Mole to us here in Beechenhill.’
‘Yes …’ muttered Wharfe, too tired and dispirited even to speak a prayer.
Then Harebell turned back the way they had come, and Wharfe followed behind her and they went back down out of the light.
Such a harsh season is a difficult and fractious time in any system, for just when moles want to be out and about and beginning to think about a mate they find themselves confined below ground and inclined to be restive and quarrelsome.
In Beechenhill the situation had been made worse because since November the grikes had successfully caused dissension and disaffection in the system with a policy for which there seemed to be no precedent. On the one paw, they had steadily increased the sense the system had of being besieged by closing more and more of the routeways out, especially to the west, which had always been the best source of news. On the other paw, and most dubiously, the unheard-of had occurred – a sideem and some guardmoles from Ashbourne had made friendly contact with some watchers before Longest Night and claimed that they were interested in an exchange of views on matters of faith.
Even more surprising was the fact that the Ashbourne sideem, Merrick, sent a messenger to inform Squeezebelly that he was willing to have the discussions in Beechenhill or in his own system, whichever they preferred.
The moles of the Word could not have found a more effective way of dividing the system, for while moles like Squeezebelly and Wharfe believed it was merely a way to spy on them, many others, including Squeezebelly’s son Bramble, and the now well respected Mallerstang mole Skelder, argued that they should respond positively.
‘You’re beginning to see shadows where there are none,’ said Bramble, who, since Betony’s tragic disappearance had become bitter and estranged from Squeezebelly, and Wharfe and Harebell too, as if he blamed them for the loss of Betony.
‘My dear Bramble …’ began Squeezebelly.
‘But I agree with him, Squeezebelly,’ interrupted Skelder. ‘If we don’t even try to talk to them then they can rightly say to anymole in moledom that we’re closed to all discussion, and afraid of the Word.’
‘What’s more if we talk to them there might be a chance of finding out something about Betony, or had you forgotten about her altogether?’ said Bramble.
‘That’s unreasonable, Bramble, and you know it,’ said Wharfe.
‘No, Wharfe, I think Bramble’s got a point,’ said Squeezebelly, a master of compromise and diplomacy, who had put up with worse things from Bramble and some other of the younger generation of moles than their present anger and dismissiveness. He had been through the winter years before.
‘I remain very suspicious of their true intentions, but if they really want a “discussion” about our beliefs and theirs (the Stone help us all!) then perhaps they can demonstrate their new spirit of cooperation and tell us what happened to Betony … It’s the not knowing I cannot bear.’ Squeezebelly sighed and shook his head sadly.
He had aged since Betony had disappeared, and his face had lost its normal good cheer and humour. He felt he had lost not only a daughter but, indirectly, a son as well, and he was aware that matters were not helped by the now obvious fact that of all the new generation of moles Wharfe not Bramble was the most able successor to his role as first among equals in the Beechenhill hierarchy.
But they had all been much affected, though in different ways. While Wharfe remained passionate with anger about Betony’s loss, Harebell, partly because of her close friendship with the Mallerstang female Quince, had had more recourse to the Stone.
On the very rare occasions that news came to Beechenhill through itinerant moles who had made a successful entry into the system, she now always asked of matters of the Stone, and whether any news had yet been heard of the coming of the Stone Mole.
Just as she clung on to the belief that Betony was still alive, so too she had faith even now that the Stone Mole would come. Indeed, she often asked Squeezebelly if she might not attempt to escape the system by the well-concealed escape routes through the limestone tunnels that lay to the north, but he said no, arguing that it was bad enough losing Betony, but if she, daughter of Henbane and therefore sister of Lucerne, were ever discovered or caught, her life would no longer be worth living. Of that Squeezebelly had no doubt, for he knew the ways of the Word and its moles. For that reason, too, he could guess all too well what, if Betony was still alive, she might be suffering, and wondered if it might be best if she were not alive …
Squeezebelly knew, too, that Bramble’s present discontent, exacerbated by being winter-bound in the system, arose as well from the fact that he had vied with Wharfe for Quince’s affections, and as everymole knew he would, he had lost.
Not that Quince was giving much away – after all it was not even near springtime yet – but the time she and Wharfe spent together, and the impressive pair they made, left little doubt what the outcome would be.
Bramble’s chances were not improved either by the fact that Quince, like Wharfe, was dubious of the sideem Merrick’s intentions with their proposed religious discussion, saying that it was not the nature of the Stone to be evangelical. Moles must learn from each other by example, not the spoken word – words, she argued, were only a means by which moles got themselves into a position for doing things. Bramble was a talker. She, like Wharfe, preferred to be a doer.
Squeezebelly was too wise and experienced a mole to involve himself directly in such matters, but he did what he could to keep Bramble and Wharfe apart, and sent them, as he did other moles, out into the wintry system to help repair tunnels against the ice and snow, and to delve them deeper where need be. Physical activity, he knew, was good for moles. Meanwhile he used the excuse of Betony, and his suspicions that the sideem of Ashbourne must know where she was, to keep the discussions at bay.
Only at the end of January, after repeated denials by the sideem of Ashbourne that he knew anything of the female in question, Squeezebelly finally yielded and agreed that discussions could take place – in tunnels at the edge of the system where nothing about it would be given away.
The discussions were as innocuous as Squeezebelly expected, but he attended them with some interest if only to meet the sideem Merrick directly, for until then their contact had been through intermediaries. Merrick was harmless looking enough, and might have been mistaken for diffident but for the firmness and clarity of his arguments when he was pressured by the Beechenhill moles. Squeezebelly observed with fascinated distaste the way in which this clever sideem’s apparent reasonableness seemed to impress moles like Bramble and Skelder. Nothing that was said changed his mind that the Word was merely a heartless system of oppression which made moles ruled by it miserable.
Then, after several fruitless days, the discussions were suddenly terminated by the sideem Merrick for the unconvincing reason that the Beechenhill moles were ‘not cooperating’. This, it seemed, referred not to the discussions but because the moles of the Word felt insulted not to be let further into the system. Rarely had Squeezebelly’s leadership and command been so sorely tested, for Bramble and Skelder argued he was being unreasonable, but he succeeded in asserting his wishes, sensing that the slow attrition of the Word might one day be too much for Beechenhill moles if too many of them were like Bramble. He hated to think such a thing of his own son, but thank the Stone for Wharfe!
In fact he was too canny a mole to believe the reason given for terminating the discussions, and observed to Wharfe and some other moles, ‘Something has happened outside which they are not telling us about. Did you notice that there were fewer of their moles there today, and only very senior and dependable ones?’
‘Aye, and hardly any of them spoke at all in contrast to previous days, leaving it all to the sideem.’
‘Something has happened which they do not want us to know about, something important, and we must find out what it is.’
‘You know, I’m willing to try to get out,’ began Wharfe.
‘And me,’ said several voices.
Squeezebelly allowed himself to smile.
‘I know perfectly well that you’re all very willing to leave the system to go and find out what you can … and I also know that the grikes will be waiting for you. Even so, I must say that if the weather was not so severe I would let one or two of you go but you know as well as I do, better in fact for I don’t venture out much these days, that the chances of them getting you in these conditions are too high to be worth the risk.’
Some of the less experienced moles there muttered that they did not agree, but others, including Wharfe, knew that what Squeezebelly said was true. In warmer weather the surface provided good safe cover, but when the ground was frozen then a mole driven to the surface was dangerously exposed, and could not rely on snow for cover. Drifts were safe enough, though they disoriented a mole, but clear frozen ground was treacherous. As for the normal routes – grike guardmoles watched over them day and night. The watchers confirmed that.
Indeed, within hours of the curiously sudden cessation of the discussions, Beechenhill watchers reported that guardmole patrols had been doubled, and even obscurer routes to north and west were over-watched at their far ends where a mole must exit.
It was most frustrating and strange.
‘There must be some way of getting out!’ said Harebell.
‘There is,’ said her brother drolly: ‘Go to Ashbourne, and you’ll get out right into the paws of the guardmoles and that will be that.’
‘It might be the quickest way of finding out where Betony is,’ said Harebell with that mock light-heartedness with which she tried to hide the agony she felt.
‘When the spring comes, Harebell, and the ground’s thawed, I’m afraid that my patience is finally going to snap and I’ll leave the system and find out about Betony once and for all.’
It was plain that if he ever did so, Harebell was not going to try to stop him and she said, ‘At least we know that the mole who took her was called Mallice – it’s not a name a mole forgets and I’m sure the sideem does know who Mallice is. She must be senior.’
But at such a time, and in such conditions, what could moles do but talk, and hope, and plot their dreams of love, or change, or journeying? But it was small consolation that in such conditions it was unlikely that the grikes would mount an attack.
Older moles than Harebell and Wharfe let the days drift by and stayed quiet and by themselves, and tried not to think too much. Hoping was a young mole’s game. Best to take things slow, best not to think much at all. Beechenhill had survived well enough for a very long time and as long as Squeezebelly was alive all would be well, so why waste energy getting agitated?
Then, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, one mid-February night, when the wind battered at the ice-bound entrances, and moles sought out the warmest part of their burrows, a brave mole appeared in the system as if by magic, having come to one of the north-east approaches in the night, and the news he brought changed all their lives. And Squeezebelly discovered that he had been right, and what it was the Ashbourne sideem hoped he and other Beechenhill moles might never hear.
The mole was no more than a cycle old, strong and tough, and tired and breathless though he was, worn and bleeding though his paws, he would not rest or answer any questions until he was taken to great Squeezebelly himself.
News of his arrival got about, and Wharfe and Harebell, Skelder and Bramble and many others hurried to Beechenhill’s communal chamber to hear him speak.
The mole bore himself with strength and purpose, and yet to his eyes there was wildness, and to his speech great passion.
‘Mole, I am told you will not even speak your name,’ said Squeezebelly, ‘and yet you inspired enough trust in our watchers and those you’ve met to get this far. So tell us your name, and your purpose, and then have rest and sleep before you speak more.’
‘Well!’ declared the mole, nearly in tears. ‘I never thought I’d be in your presence, Squeezebelly. You and the moles you lead are respected far and wide beyond Beechenhill. We who are followers of the Stone in other systems know you as a great light for our faith and …’ Then he stopped and looked suddenly distressed. ‘But no other moles have reached you? You have not been told?’
‘You have a chamber of moles hanging on your every word. If you don’t want rest and food, tell us your name and tell us why you’ve come.’
‘My name is Harrow, son of Winster, snouted eldrene of Ashbourne.’
A hush fell across the chamber, for most of them knew of Winster’s death, and that she had been a brave and privy friend of Squeezebelly and Beechenhill, and of the Stone; she had lived a dangerous double life of faith for many years. Her death, and those of moles close to her, had been the beginning of the closing of the outside world to Beechenhill.
‘My mother had suspected that when Lucerne of Whern took over as Master-elect in June, her days at Ashbourne might be numbered.’
Squeezebelly nodded and said, ‘Aye, Harrow, I heard as much from moles she sent.’
‘Well, fearing that, and knowing how much I was of the Stone, she sent me to Tissington, a safer system than Ashbourne, though it too has since had its troubles with grikes. But she felt it was far enough off not to be affected if she was suspected at last, and punished.
‘She did not tell me all the routes into Beechenhill – I think you are too careful for that – but she spoke of some of them, and other moles helped me as well. In this weather, if a mole can stand it and risk attack from rooks and owls, guardmoles do not watch the surface too well. The only hurt I had was to my paws when I slipped down icy slopes. But this is of no consequence.’ He spoke well and clearly, and without false modesty.
‘I asked if others had come because several of us have tried, and two have been lost, caught, I fear by the grikes. Outside we know you are beleaguered, and my mother Winster was always aware of it, and charged me to do all I could to keep you informed when matters of importance arose. Well, something has arisen, something you must know.’
He looked around at the assembled moles, and if there had been a hush before, there was dead silence now.
Then Harrow said, ‘Moles of Beechenhill, a glorious time may soon be on us. We have news all followers wish to hear. The Stone Mole, for whom we have waited for so long, is come at last to moledom. He is alive, he is among us, his day has come.’
Before Harrow could say more he was interrupted by shouts of incredulity and exclamations of joy.
‘What is more, this is more than just a rumour or wishful thinking by followers. We heard it through the grikes in Ashbourne, for though my mother died and others too, yet some followers remain there secretly and pass much on to those of us in Tissington who still struggle for the Stone.’
‘But where and whatmole is he?’ asked Harebell, her eyes gleaming, for in the Stone Mole’s coming she felt much would be resolved.
‘His name is Beechen, and he was of Duncton born.’
‘But we heard Duncton was outcast,’ said Squeezebelly doubtfully, ‘and that the grikes had put their own diseased and miscreant there.’
‘Well, so it was, but the Stone’s ways are wonderful and mysterious. The mole Beechen was born there. He is not in that system now, but coming north, and the grikes are much perturbed by it. They say he is not the Stone Mole but an imposter, a Stone-fool with madness in his head. Some among the followers say the same, but the stories that we’ve heard tell of healings and miracles he has made. Everymole is confused by it all, not knowing what to believe.
‘What is certain is that the sideem of Ashbourne is much worried that if you Beechenhill moles hear of it you will rise up and go forth to meet the Stone Mole. They have recently strengthened their complement of guardmoles at Ashbourne and I think secretly they hope you will make a break out their way, for they would be on their own ground. I have come to warn you of that, and that their numbers are great now and you would certainly be crushed.
‘Nevertheless, if this mole is the Stone Mole as many of us believe, then this may be the hour for us followers to prepare ourselves to fight …’
‘Harrow! Our system is not, and has never been, aggressive,’ said Squeezebelly immediately, ‘and it is because of that we have survived so long, even through this long time of the Word. One day it will end, but it shall not be ended by fighting, for that is not our way.’
He spoke sternly, and a mole might have thought that none there would have dared contradict him. But there was an immediate rumble of discontent, and Bramble dared give voice to it, saying, ‘There comes a time when a mole may have to fight for what he believes, and when it comes I hope that moles here will not be cowards!’
‘Aye!’ said many others.
‘They’ll do so over my dead body,’ said Squeezebelly angrily, his normal calm leaving him for a moment. ‘But we shall not argue at a moment like this, but hear more of this mole Beechen, and ask Harrow what else he knows. And of other news, too.’
Then to change the subject, and to divert the gathering’s attention from the question of whether to fight or not, Wharfe quietly asked if Harrow had heard anything of Betony, explaining who she was and how she had been lost.
Harrow shook his head, but when Harebell said the mole who had taken her was thought to have been called Mallice, he said sharply, ‘When was this?’
When they said it had been in October he said cautiously that there had been a mole called Mallice in Ashbourne at that time.
‘Do you know who she is?’ asked Squeezebelly.
‘Oh yes, everymole who has had to do with the sideem knows who she is. Mallice is consort to Lucerne of Whern; she is not a mole moles love. I have heard that moles she takes end up in Cannock, Lucerne’s new system to the south-west.’
Squeezebelly had no wish to extend what might now become a painful conversation in public, nor to risk resurrecting the calls for fighting which the Stone Mole rumour had provoked. So using his desire to ask further but private questions about Mallice and Betony as his excuse, he took Harrow to his own chamber, not even allowing Wharfe, Harebell or other senior moles there for a time.
‘Get Harrow some food,’ he said. ‘Let him have a little conversation with me and then, once he has rested, I’m sure he’ll be willing to answer more questions.’
But the moment Squeezebelly had Harrow alone, he said, ‘Well, mole, and why have you really come?’
Harrow looked surprised and impressed.
‘My mother said you’re not a mole easy to fool, and she was right.’
‘Well, this business of the Stone Mole is still a rumour when all’s said and done, and you might have guessed that we knew grike numbers have been increased, so it didn’t strike me as a reason why a mole might risk his life getting here. Nor would the news you have of Mallice been that important, even if you had known we needed to hear it.’
‘Well, as for Mallice, nomole will get near her unless they wish an audience with the Master of the Word himself. Not something to be recommended, I would think.’
‘So why did you come?’ said Squeezebelly.
‘Because something has occurred which I do not know what to do about. Something I dare tell nomole, whether of Word or Stone, unless I can trust him. Before she died my mother said that you are a mole to trust.’
‘If ’tis a matter of the Stone, or a matter on which lives of moles depend, then you can trust me. I shall do nothing, nor allow those I command, to do anything against the Stone or its code. What knowledge do you wish to entrust me with which is so dangerous that so few moles must know it?’
‘’Tis knowledge that you will scarcely believe. I did not myself at first. But now I am convinced it’s true, more so by far than I am about the Stone Mole, and in the struggle with the Word which I think is coming – whether or not we fight with talons, and I can see you’re against that, Squeezebelly! – it is knowledge that may prove valuable for the side that possesses it. Have you ever been to Tissington?’
‘In my younger days, yes. My father sent me out on such escapades, saying it was good for my education. Forgive me, but it seemed a nondescript sort of place.’
‘Exactly. Not a place moles much remember, not having the advantages of site and location which systems like your own and Ashbourne have. But that very anonymity makes Tissington a good place to hide, which is why my mother sent me there.’
‘A good place to hide?’ said Squeezebelly sharply.
‘Yes,’ said Harrow, ‘to hide. Sometime before Longest Night a follower came to me with a story so incredible that at first I dismissed it. Very fortunately he was not only persistent but intelligent, and had told no other mole. He told me because he knew I was strongly of the Stone. He said that he had found a mole nearly dead of hunger and exhaustion, and as strange a mole as ever he had seen.’
‘What was the mole’s name?’
For a long time Harrow said nothing but simply stared at Squeezebelly. Then he looked behind at the burrow entrance, and came close and spoke low.
‘The mole is Henbane. Henbane of Whern.’
‘Henbane?’ whispered Squeezebelly aghast. ‘Henbane?’ Then he shook his head dismissively. ‘But she’s dead, mole. Surely Lucerne would not have taken over Whern unless she was. The Master of the Word is not going to tolerate a former Mistress wandering around moledom. No, it cannot be.’
‘My reaction exactly,’ said Harrow. ‘Nevertheless it seemed sensible to see her because if the grikes got to hear of it they’d have come crawling all over Tissington. I therefore talked to her myself, and more than once. She is … remarkable.’
‘A remarkable liar I should think.’
‘I think not,’ said Harrow, ‘and I risked my life coming here because I think not.’
‘In what way is she remarkable?’
‘In many ways, but most of all because although she had been ill and malnourished when I first met her she radiated the kind of spirit that defies death.’
‘She must have a reason for living, then, whoever she is. It’s what I’ve got. Mine’s a desire to see the Word leave Beechenhill alone. What’s hers?’
Squeezebelly spoke lightly. It was plain he still scarcely believed what he was hearing.
‘Her reason is because she desires to see two pups taken from her at birth. I came here because I believe they may have been reared in Beechenhill.’
Harrow had fixed an unwavering stare on Squeezebelly whose face, for once, betrayed more than he wished it to. ‘I see I am right, or if not right I am near the truth.’
‘Something about you, Harrow, restores my faith in moles, moledom, and the new generation. You are right, and if this mole is Henbane then you have already met her young who are now rather older than yourself. Both were at the gathering you spoke to. But first you had better tell me the whole story, and before that you had better eat …’
At that moment Harebell appeared with some food. ‘Well timed, my dear.’ She seemed to want to stay, indeed she seemed more than interested in talking with Harrow, but Squeezebelly firmly cut that short, saying they still had things to discuss.
When she had left Harrow said, ‘That mole! Who was her mother, Squeezebelly?’
Squeezebelly shrugged noncommittally.
‘There’s a mole I know, in Tissington, very old, clinging on to life, who has an aged version of that mole’s fur and eyes,’ said Harrow. ‘Remarkable, isn’t it?’
Squeezebelly grinned, a lot nearer to being convinced.
‘It certainly seems so. Eat your food and tell me the story of the mole who says she’s Henbane.’
Squeezebelly heard how Henbane – for soon he did not doubt that it was her – had come to leave Whern, and travelled south in long and fruitless search of her young. She had kept to high and desolate places and avoided mole. Bit by bit she had come southward until, in the place Tissington moles appropriately call Hunger Hill, she had fallen ill and weak, and barely survived.
It was there the follower had found her, and to him she had told something of her tale one night. The follower, understanding something of the significance of what she had told him, went to find Harrow in Tissington, and Harrow had succeeded in gaining the trust of Henbane, and offered her his help.
She had given much evidence of her identity, and revealed much of Whern, and of other things that only a most powerful mole could know. But when she had said that the purpose of her journey was the seemingly hopeless task of finding her lost pups, Harrow remembered rumours he had been told by his mother of the identity of two moles in Beechenhill – rumours first told by watchers tortured by the grikes.
Harrow realised that if they were true and this mole was Henbane, and what she had told him of her rejection of the Word was true as well, then her importance to moles of the Stone might be very great. He did not need to say much about Squeezebelly to Henbane, for she knew of him already through her sideem and she was prepared to trust him …
‘In fact, she’s prepared to trust anymole if it means she gets a sight of the two pups she lost at birth,’ said Harrow.
Squeezebelly heard all this with a growing realisation of its implications. At the simplest level they would be profound for Harebell and Wharfe; at the level of his system he might have further problems with those keen to set off and fight the grikes in the name of the Stone Mole. But there was also the risk that the knowledge that Henbane was involved in any way with Beechenhill would surely precipitate a full-scale invasion by the grikes. It was becoming increasingly plain to Squeezebelly that this was not something they could easily combat.
‘I shall sleep on this, Harrow, and so shall you,’ he said eventually. ‘Meanwhile, say nothing to anymole, least of all Harebell. It is not my nature to hide things from others in the system, but nor is it wise to reveal everything until they have been thought about. Timing is what running a system’s all about. But Henbane, Mistress of the Word! Remarkable indeed! Quite remarkable.’
It took no more than a few hours for Squeezebelly to decide that Henbane ought to be brought to Beechenhill. But he felt he owed his first loyalty to Harebell and Wharfe and they must be asked their opinion.
‘You shall tell them yourself, Harrow, just as you told me. Let me summon them …’
When he came back, and while waiting for Wharfe and Harebell to come, he said, ‘The Stone speaks to us in this, but I know not how. These are strange times, times for moles to watch to their beliefs and stay by them, time to trust the Stone. But this Stone Mole rumour … is it really true, do you think?’
‘I’m not sure. I like no rumour that comes first from grikes. As you say, these are times when a mole must be cautious, but there’s something about it that rings true.’ Harebell appeared and she did not look as happy to see Harrow now as she had before; she looked as if she had been awake all night.
‘My dear, this mole has been telling me of something which you should be the first to know. But it affects Wharfe as well.’
‘Wharfe is not here.’
‘Well, he can’t be far.’
Harebell looked alarmed and distressed and said, ‘I’m sorry, Squeezebelly, but he’s left Beechenhill. He’s gone to try to find Betony … It was last night after Harrow spoke to us. I tried to stop him, but he’s been half mad since she disappeared and when this mole …’ She turned to Harrow and said, ‘I wish you hadn’t told us about Mallice as you did.’
‘You should have told me,’ Squeezebelly said.
‘I told him to think about it first. It’s not like him to go rushing off. I mean he’s always been the most sensible one of us, hasn’t he? Anyway he said he would think about it but then he talked to Bramble who said he shouldn’t go until he knew more, but if he talked to you he thought you’d stop him.’
‘Of course I’d stop him!’ roared Squeezebelly. ‘Just how does he imagine he’s going to find Betony?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ flared Harebell, ‘and it’s all your fault, Harrow, for telling us of Mallice. Anyway, despite everything Bramble isn’t completely useless and he’s gone with some others to try and stop him, though whether he’ll succeed I rather doubt. You know how fast Wharfe can move, and even if Bramble catches him he’ll not persuade him to come back.’
‘Well, the cold might help, and the ice, and common sense. As you say he’s never done anything like this before.’
Squeezebelly glowered while Harrow, caught in the middle, remained diplomatically silent. It was Harebell, trying to calm things down, who broke the silence: ‘Well, here I am whatever the circumstances. What did you want me for?’
Squeezebelly, feeling suddenly that things were out of his control, sighed and said, ‘This mole did not merely come to tell us of a Stone Mole rumour, or to unwittingly cause Wharfe to risk his life, but also to tell us something which you should know, Harebell. I shall say no more. But, please, please, my dear, will you first agree to stance quietly where you are now and discuss what he says like the sensible mole you are before you go rushing off like your brother?’
‘I’ll try,’ said Harebell.
‘You do that, try really hard,’ said Squeezebelly heavily. He turned to Harrow, ‘Now, tell her what you told me.’
Harrow repeated to Harebell what he had already told Squeezebelly, telling the tale slowly and in detail. Apart from a sharp intake of breath, and a stancing down into utter concentration, Harebell betrayed no emotion during Harrow’s account, or later when he dealt with the many questions she asked about Henbane’s health, condition and state of mind. Even when all was done she did not move, but continued to stare at Harrow as if still taking in what he had said.
‘Well then,’ said Squeezebelly, ‘what are we to do?’
‘I shall go to her,’ said Harebell simply, ‘and Squeezebelly, you shall try to dissuade me but I’m afraid you will not succeed. I shall go to her because she is my mother and she may need me. She must feel very much alone. Harrow here will guide me to her, and we shall bring her back together by another route, one of the more northerly ones. That way fewer moles will know she’s come. They should not know who she is. I do not like a lie, but they should not.’
Squeezebelly sighed.
‘You will not go to her,’ he said.
‘I shall.’
‘I cannot let you, my dear. First Betony, next Wharfe, now you. I’m sorry, my dear. No.’
‘Will you forcibly stop me? Is this how a mole of the Stone treats another?’ She stared at him and then added, ‘Squeezebelly, I must go, and you know why.’ She smiled and went close to him. ‘I must,’ she said again. ‘Do you want to think about it?’
Great Squeezebelly shook his head and blinked back tears.
‘No, my dear, no I won’t think about it because it’s you who must decide. I just cannot bear to think of losing you …’
Harrow quietly left the burrow, and never knew quite what was said. It was plain that these two loved each other dearly, and that Squeezebelly would take Harebell’s departure at such a risky time very hard. But eventually he was called back in to them and he saw that she was indeed to go.
‘Are you willing?’ she asked Harrow. Harrow nodded.
‘And is Henbane capable of the journey back here if she wants to come?’
Harrow said he thought she probably was.
‘Perhaps some others could go with you.’
‘That would be unwise,’ said Harebell cryptically, but in the kind of voice Squeezebelly knew better than to argue with, ‘and anyway, the fewer moles the better.’
‘I don’t like it, any of it, one bit,’ said Squeezebelly finally.
‘You always said that when things began to happen they would do so all at once. Well, now they have.’
‘But I don’t like it. The system needs to be united at a time like this, but it is not. The Stone Mole, Henbane, Wharfe disappeared, now you … I am concerned.’
But there was no answer to that and Harebell stared at Harrow, and Harrow back at Harebell, and seeing them both, staring like that and not missing a thing, Squeezebelly shook his head again and decided he must be old.
‘But not so old,’ he muttered when they had gone to Stone knows where, for Stone knows how long, ‘that this old mole can’t keep Beechenhill in order a little while longer yet.’