Southern moledom put Lucerne, Terce and Mallice into an ill humour. There was something insubordinate about its moles, its vale-ridden landscape, and even the mucky dullness of its winter weather that offended northern moles.
Then too there was the matter of the irritating change that was overcoming Mallice as the breeding season approached. She had been eager for young in the autumn and they had not come. Now spring was stirring beneath the frozen winter soil and there was an urgency for pups about her that Lucerne did not like.
Mating pleasurably is one thing, mating for the desperate purpose of wanting and needing young is quite another.
Now when Mallice purred, ‘Master mine …’her eyes seemed suddenly aged to him, and her body lost its appeal.
‘Not now, Mallice, the Twelfth Keeper and I …’
‘Sweet Lucerne …’
‘No!’
His voice, when thus harsh, was mirrored by his eyes, all glittering and black without love at all. His turning away from her at such moments was final.
But then, sometimes, as they had journeyed back from Buckland, across the hateful Vale of Uffington with memories of the heights and beauties of Whern a deep longing in them all, he would come to her and she had to suffer him taking her roughly, without words at all. What once she had loved in him, now she began to hate. It was pups she yearned for now, not him.
‘But did you not want me, mole?’ he would say when he had done.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she said, but still no pups quickened inside her.
Subtly does the seed of dissension and sexual distress germinate and grow, mean and bitter the silent secret fruits it bears, and all the worse for being unspoken and barely seen.
‘Master mine … ?’
‘Yes, Mallice, my love … ?’
The weary reply to the eager request.
‘Nothing now. No, nothing.’
‘Then why disturb us, Mallice?’
Mallice turns, Mallice leaves, Mallice finds others to vent her unscreamed screams upon.
Terce observes the Master’s narrowed eyes and hears his acid tongue.
‘Henbane, Master …’ he whispers evilly. It is the true art of the Twelfth Keeper of the Word to know when and how to resurrect such things.
‘What of Henbane?’ barks Lucerne.
Terce smiles and shrugs.
‘She was never found.’
‘She is dead.’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Mention her not again, Twelfth Keeper.’
Terce smiles again, thinking that one day, when his glorious work is done, Lucerne too will be better dead for then might the greatness of his, Terce’s, name be scrivened truly, and that of Rune as well. As age crept upon Terce now, so did the lusts of vanity and recognition. He did not want to die unknown. The completion of his task must now be nigh.
‘Yes …’ hisses Terce to himself. ‘But there will be need of succession. Pups.’ A mole, hearing that cold creature say the word, would pity any pup that came within a talon reach of Terce. Especially those of his kin.
But we cannot escape. Terce is there, plotting, in tedious tunnels in unnamed systems of the south. A powerful mole acting for himself and the dead Rune. ‘Slighe?’
‘Twelfth Keeper?’
‘Send the sideem Mallice to me here.’
Look how coldly she comes alone.
‘Tutor-Keeper?’
‘Pups, Mallice: you shall need to make some come the spring.’
‘He does not wish to make them. Times will get better. The south oppresses him.’
‘Times will not get better. Get with pup, my dear, it shall be the Word’s will.’
‘But Tutor-Keeper …’
‘It matters not how it is done. Get with pup, sideem Mallice. One of them shall make thee matriarch.’
Mallice smiled.
‘And that same pup shall link thee in blood with Rune. Is that thy lust?’
‘Tunnels have ears, Mallice.’
‘Not the dullard southern tunnels, nor memories either but my solitary sighs.’
‘Get with pup.’
‘Yes, Tutor-Keeper, I shall,’ said Mallice coyly. ‘I shall give him until Cannock, and then if he fails another shall succeed.’
With such irritations as Mallice’s needs and the continuing discovery of evidence of secret Stone worship throughout the south upon his mind, the Master of the Word was in an evil humour by the time he and his entourage arrived at Rollright at the beginning of February. Only to discover, as he immediately did from the guardmoles who had moved in and taken command of the system, the full extent of the worship of the Stone on Longest Night by moles in Rollright, led by Beechen of Duncton himself. It seemed the culmination of many aggravations.
He listened in glowering silence to the account a stuttering guardmole gave of the blasphemous revelries before Beechen’s coming, Beechen’s subduing of the place, and the subsequent counselling and healing of moles before the Stones.
‘Keep this mole under guard, Drule,’ he said, turning immediately to Terce. ‘And you, Twelfth Keeper, what think you?’
‘Because it is known that it happened, and widely known, it is a challenge to thy authority, Master. Severity is in my mind.’
‘Absolute severity,’ agreed Lucerne. ‘Slighe, find out how many moles live in Rollright – of the Word and of the Stone. ’
‘I know it already, Master,’ said Slighe efficiently, quickly telling Lucerne the number.
Lucerne fell into thought. Not a mole moved. There was silence of a mortal kind. Eventually he said quietly, ‘Terce, we must act now. We know that the eldrene Wort expects to take the Stone Mole soon. We know where enough of the followers are in most of the systems to deal with them conclusively. The sideem are very ready to act. Then let us act, now.’
Terce stared at his Master uneasily.
‘Master, we must not be premature.’
‘And nor must we be too late. The Word is insulted by what happened in Rollright. The Word is insulted every day, every hour, that these followers pay their blasphemous homage to the Stone. Well, they shall know vengeance now. Let us heed the warning it took a brave eldrene to give us. Let us act on it … Assemble the moles of this system in the circle of Stones tomorrow,’ he ordered Slighe. ‘There will be a conclave of moles of the Word and Stone, an exchange.’
‘Master, I shall,’ said Slighe, asking no questions, keeping his thoughts to himself.
‘And Slighe … on your way out ask Drule to attend me,’ he said and then told Terce and Mallice that he wished to be alone with Drule.
Drule came and stanced before him.
‘There will be a conclave of moles in the Stone circle tomorrow.’
‘Slighe thought fit to mention it, Master. All the moles of Rollright.’
‘Yes. The Word is displeased with everymole of them. Kill them, Drule. All of them.’
For once Drule looked surprised.
‘All, Master?’
Lucerne nodded coldly.
‘Master, it will be our pleasure. We have ensured already that the moles of this squalid place are watched. Now, none shall live.’
Lucerne smiled bleakly.
‘For myself, I shall leave at dawn before your pleasant conclave. Terce as well. But there should be one sideem here to witness it.’
‘The sideem Mallice, Master?’
‘Yes, why not? And do not dally long when it is done. Give her your protection and bring her on along the way. Now leave me, for we have much to do and orders to send.’
‘Yes, Master,’ said Drule softly, his eyes alight.
The infamous Bloody Conclave of the Rollright Stones needs no further mention here. Word of it is enough to chill most good moles’ hearts, details of it would be gratuitous. The Duncton massacre had been but the preface to the succession of bloody pogroms of followers that started now at Rollright, and spread forth across moledom from that time on, a tidal wave of calculated violence against which its innocent victims had little defence. On the crest of this vile wave Lucerne journeyed back to Cannock where he received an unctuous welcome some moleweeks later, in the manner tyrants like: effusive, smiling and most eager to see the Master pleased.
But lest the violence against the followers seems absolute, know that always at such times a few escape to tell the tale. All across moledom, nameless even now, there were followers who were not quite caught by the tightening squeeze of the Word’s vengeance. Some by luck, some because they were overlooked, some by foresight and cunning, some by courage. One day, perhaps, their tales will be told.
Of Rollright know only this: that before Lucerne had even come, sturdy and faithful Rampion, wise already to the ways of the grikes, knowing what had happened at Duncton Wood, rallied a few followers and, with Lorren at her flank, got them out to safety before Drule’s killings by the Stones.
As for the east, and north-east, Lucerne decreed that they would be spared for now. Let the rest be killed and the guardmoles gathered, for, as Lucerne himself said in his homecoming speech at Cannock, ‘if Duncton was the preface then shall Beechenhill be the epilogue! We know the Word’s intentions for that place. To there shall we go last, but most mightily!’
A mole can therefore imagine, that that was not a good time for a follower to be wandering the heaths of Cannock Chase.
A disastrous time, in fact, to be poking his snout about those entrances on Cannock’s eastern side that lead down into the doleful depths of the Sumps.
But it was just then, and to there, that Wharfe had come in his desperate search to find Betony, and there he was taken by guardmoles. Though not without difficulty, for it took five to restrain him fully, not counting the two he killed and three he concussed before he was subdued.
‘Name?’ said a senior guardmole when he was finally taken into the Upper Sumps.
‘Brook,’ lied Wharfe, looking around at the dark damp place into which he had been brought and where he had good reason now to think that Betony would be.
‘Brook,’ said the guardmole indifferently, scrivening the name in his clumsy way and nodding to his subordinate to take the mole away.
‘Usual, Sir?’
Oh yes, a mole who had killed two, one of them the guardmole’s friend, would have the usual all right, and plenty of it.
‘In here,’ said one of the four guardmoles who carried him bodily along and cast him into a sealable cell in the Middle Sumps. Once there, as usual, they taloned him; then, as usual, they let him starve a while; then, as usual, they took him to the noisome burrows at the north end of the Sumps and half drowned him for three days. Then …
‘That Brook? Surviving?’
‘Tough he was, broke yesterday. Weeping, abject, usual things …’
‘Clean him up a bit, just enough. The sideem Slighe is coming down today.’
‘We’ve a couple of youngsters for him.’
‘Only males will do.’
‘Aye, both male. He’ll like ’em.’
‘Good.’
Slighe came and looked in on Wharfe.
‘Name?’
‘Brook. It wasn’t my fault …’
Slighe looked at the mole coldly. Large, strong once, but weak now it seemed. A pity he had killed guardmoles or else he could have been used.
‘It never is “my fault”,’ said Slighe. ‘Where from?’
‘Youlgreave,’ lied Wharfe.
‘What were you doing here?’
‘Looking for worms.’
‘You’re lying,’ said Slighe, and turned and left.
‘Five days more here,’ Slighe told the senior guardmole, ‘and then put him down. He’s lying, that one, and no fool. He’s not hurt as badly as he seems, so hurt him more. Then Middle Sump him and put a peeper on to him. Now, what else have you for me?’
‘Two, Sir, waiting for you now.’
‘Parents?’ said Slighe, his voice a little higher, his eyes shining, his small mouth moist.
‘Were followers, Sir.’
‘Good,’ squeaked Slighe.
Slowly, with a filthy thrill of anticipation, Slighe went back down the tunnel … and that same day Wharfe heard worse sufferings than any he yet had. He had to listen as, in a burrow not far off, two young things pleaded, first for their lives, and finally to be allowed to die untouched any more …
Much later Wharfe heard them die, and cursed the Stone for not helping them. And then cursed Slighe and swore to see him dead.
Five days later, Wharfe, his body weak but his spirit as resolute as it had always been, was taken to the Middle Sumps and found bedlam in the murk. Communal cells, murderous, maddened moles, wickedness incarnate, and all the sound and filth of moles reduced to beasts.
From the first moment Wharfe was shoved into that place he guessed what he must do and did not hesitate. He stanced up to his first attacker, buffeted his second to the ground, and picked out the third and nearly throttled him.
‘Leave me alone or you shall die,’ he said loudly, rounding on them all.
‘Bastard!’ said one, retreating.
‘Don’t hurt me,’ whined the second, coming near.
The third stared, scratched at his sores and laughed like the mad mole he had become.
Wharfe soon discovered that his was not the only way to survive. Some weaker moles formed gangs, some used their infectious sores as threats, some chose to huddle in such filth that nomole went near them, and some, like him, were too strong (so far) for others to come near.
In truth, it was the guardmoles who were the greatest danger to life and limb, coming when they felt like it and dealing out their blows. Or throwing in the suppurating worms which they called food, and watching as the prisoners did battle for them.
The Middle Sumps consists of a series of interconnected tunnels in sandstone which, since they are lit only by fissures at their higher end, slope down into near darkness. To this bottom and most fetid end, where water oozes and a stream of mud and filth flows slowly in the dark, the weaker moles were driven. The stream flows into a heaving pool, often more mud than water, which sucks and slurps away into some grim depth, and once a mole is lost in that he or she is lost for good.
The poor wretched moles who eke out their lives there do not attack each other, or anymole else, but live in a shivering, wretched darkness, cold, hungry, grateful for the scraps that come their way, hopeless. Some even, it seems, lived on the bodies of others.
It was not until his third day down there that Wharfe finally went searching among these ragged things called moles to find his Betony. For hours that became days he reached out a paw to moles who shrank away from him, or he stanced to watch some muttering form that might once have been a mole, hoping that among them he might find the poor mole he sought.
‘Betony?’ he would say, but they only shied away.
‘Betony?’ and they stared.
‘Betony?’ Silence.
Until at last:
‘Betony?’
‘Wharfe?’
Where did that voice come from? From his declining mind?
‘Wharfe?’ Why would the tormented voice not leave his head?
‘Wharfe?’
What was this broken, scarred and noxious creature that came out of the cloven rock, where the chamber was its lowest, and stared at him?
‘Betony?’ he barely dared to say again, for it could not be her. Not this thing with but one talon left on one paw and three on the other, whose back paws dragged upon the rock.
‘Betony?’ he whispered once again, too frightened of what he had found after so long a search to go forward towards her.
‘Bet …?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and in her eyes, which was the only part of her he recognised, he saw the one thing he would not have thought to see: remorse.
‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘their tortures were too great.’
Why, she must think … she must fear … she must believe that he was there because of what she had said.
‘Oh Wharfe,’ she cried, as he took her broken body in his paws and whispered, ‘Yes, Betony, it’s Wharfe. I shall take you from here and back to Beechenhill, back where you belong …’And whispering on, not letting go of her, letting her weep her dry croaking tears, he did not see the peeper peep, and turn, and go, and whisper to the guardmoles for the favour of a sodden worm:
‘His name is Wharfe, not Brook.’
‘His name is Wharfe, Sir. The one sent down three days ago.’
Slighe stared.
‘Wharfe?’
‘Seems so, Sir.’
‘Bring him up here again, and summon guardmole Drule.’
‘He’s busy, Sir, if you know what I mean.’
Slighe’s face hardened.
‘Get him,’ he said brutally.
Harebell had borne the trek from Beechenhill to Tissington with Harrow through snow and ice, without a thought, and crept past grikes on the alert without a qualm, but only when she began to climb the final slope towards her mother’s hideaway did she begin to feel real doubt.
She was glad Harrow was with her and he seemed to understand her feelings, for he said nothing as she stared up the slope ahead to the rough nondescript and hidden place where her mother was.
‘I feel quite scared,’ she said.
‘I’ve told you already, Harebell,’ Harrow said with a reassuring smile, ‘she’s just an old mole. Well …’
‘Yes! Well!’ said Harebell ruefully.
They spoke easily to each other, and their looks were direct and frank. Each had learned to trust and respect the other on their long trek, and more than that, each had begun to want the other. It was the time for young, and they were free and adrift in a world of danger, and excitement too. Harebell did not underestimate the danger of their enterprise, but the further she had got from Beechenhill, especially when they crossed the River Dove on to new ground, the freer she had felt, and a little wild too.
In truth, they had taken a slow way, under the guise of it being more safe. But the company of each other was sufficient reward for what hardships they faced, and when it was time to sleep, then for safety’s sake they had slept in the same burrow, getting closer every time, revelling in the privacy they had and the freedom that two moles, young and attractive and unwatched by other moles, can feel when darkness comes and they are sleeping close. Then, rather more …
But in truth, neither could quite believe their luck. To Harebell, Harrow was surely the most – well – male mole she had ever had the pleasure to be near, and he scented good, very good. The first male indeed that she had ever met whom she felt might stance well alongside Wharfe. How she longed for the two to meet.
While Harrow, who had felt lonely in dull Tissington, had never for a moment dreamed as he set off for Beechenhill that his strange journey would bring him into the presence at one and the same time of the famous Squeezebelly, and a mole he could not keep his eyes off called Harebell.
‘Harebell,’ he had whispered stupidly to himself, ‘now that’s a lovely name.’
They slowed as they climbed the final slope towards Henbane’s tunnels.
‘Did you tell her why you went off to Beechenhill?’ whispered Harebell.
‘More or less, though it was only a hunch.’
They went on a few more steps before Harebell stopped again.
‘I’m terrified,' she said. ‘I’ve never got used to the idea that Henbane was my mother. Was! Is, Harrow, is! Oh! You’d better stay here and just let me go on …’
Then Harebell went on until the slope eased off and she saw an entrance ahead.
Assuming Henbane was there, she guessed she must have heard them approach, and probably their voices too.
‘Hello!’ she called out, feeling foolish. Is that what a mole says to the mother she has never seen? Is that what a mole says to she who was once the most powerful mole in moledom?
‘Hello,’ said a voice.
Even as she heard Henbane’s voice, even then, Harebell knew it would be all right. Something was good about it, something of the Stone was there with them.
She turned a little and saw Henbane stanced on the surface a little to the left of the tunnel entrance among some fallen gorse. A place, she supposed, from which she might have made an escape if it had been necessary.
‘Hello!’ said Harebell again, too nervous to smile, and feeling too emotional to speak. Harrow had said she was an old mole, but that was because he was male and had not noticed something more important. She was … a most elegant mole. She was nearly beautiful.
‘Oh!’ said Harebell, surprise in her voice, ‘I didn’t know what to expect.’
Then a soft smile came to Henbane’s face, and Harebell saw that her mother was beautiful. And more than that there was something about the way she stanced, and the presence that she had, that she recognised from the way Wharfe was. It was authority.
‘I heard you come with Harrow,’ said Henbane. ‘Whatmole are you?’
‘My name is Harebell,’ said Harebell. ‘I am …’
‘I think I know whatmole you are,’ said Henbane, a slight quaver to her voice.
Which one said ‘daughter’ neither after remembered, but one of them did and both stared, struck dumb, and still, and much moved.
‘I …’ began Henbane.
‘Harrow came to Beechenhill and brought me back here.’
‘And your name is Harebell?’ said Henbane.
Harebell nodded and still neither mole moved, but each continued to stare at the other as tears came to her eyes.
It was Henbane who looked away, and Henbane who first wept aloud. It was Harebell who moved, and Harebell who came forward and reached out to touch her mother for the first time.
She put a tentative paw to Henbane’s face and gently touched the tears there and said, ‘The one thing I didn’t expect was that you’d be beautiful.’
Henbane, her face lined, her fur flecked white now, but her gloss still good, looked up with that cracked and vulnerable smile a mole has on her face when she weeps and yet feels safe and released by tears, and said, ‘My dear, what I have missed in you. How much I’ve missed.’
They looked at each other in silence again until, suddenly, Harebell said, ‘Sleekit brought us up. And Mayweed.’
‘Sleekit?’ whispered Henbane smiling. ‘It was the best – the only good – decision of my life to ask her to take you. And she found the courage for it. Is she at Beechenhill then?’
Harebell shook her head.
‘No, she went south with Mayweed.’
‘There’s so much to ask … so much! The other …’
‘Wharfe.’
‘He was male?’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘There was no time, you see … Oh, there’s so much to talk of.’
Harrow came up the slope saying, ‘Well! There probably is but can’t you do it down in the warmth, and get some food at the same time?’
Henbane laughed. A strange, comfortable, familial laugh, and one she had never laughed before.
She turned to lead them down into the tunnel and Harebell whispered fiercely and excitedly to Harrow, ‘You didn’t tell me she was beautiful!’
‘You’re beautiful, too,’ he said irrelevantly, but he was glad he did, very glad, as she turned, laughing, and they followed Henbane down into the warmth below.
For some days none of them was inclined to want to start the trek to Beechenhill. For one thing Harrow was tired, having done the journeys there and back in quick succession. Then, too, the weather remained difficult, the cold staying on, and the slopes icy.
But most of all, having found each other as they had, Harebell and Henbane had no desire to move, but wished to stay where they were and to talk and share the time they had, telling each other of the things in their lives that mattered. But of the Word they did not speak, nor of the Stone.
On good days the two females would stretch their paws over the fell behind Henbane’s tunnel, and Harrow would leave them to it and travel the little distance down to the mole who had first told him of Henbane’s coming and who remained the only one to know that Henbane, and now Harebell, were there. The Stone had chosen well, for he was a trusty mole and one who knew all the news and gossip, Harrow was certain that he would tell nomole of the moles hidden up on Hunger Hill.
As followers they had much to talk about, for in those days the news in Tissington was all of the Stone Mole, and the chances of him being taken by the grikes in Ashbourne.
‘No doubt of it, Harrow. If he goes on the way he is their patience will wear thin and he’ll be taken. Dammit, he’s said to be coming nearer this way every day, and our sources tell us there’s a lot of very senior, and very nasty-looking, sideem and guardmoles about in Ashbourne now.’
‘Where do you think the Stone Mole’s headed for?’
‘The whisper is Beechenhill. But that’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s got a Stone and the place has stood out against the Word all these years. But no way is he going to get into Beechenhill without being attacked or taken.’
‘Well, they’ve not taken him yet. Maybe their talk of listening and reconciliation is sincere.’
‘Oh yes, Harrow, sure,’ said his friend heavily.
A few days later Harrow saw the mole coming quickly up the slope with news.
‘The Stone Mole,’ he gasped, ‘he’s going to be in Kniveton tomorrow and a lot of us are travelling overnight to support him. You’ve got to come, Harrow, you’ve got to. A mole’s come up from the south who has heard him before. He says the only reason the grikes have not taken him is that so many followers travel with him that they dare not. You must come, it’s not a difficult journey.’
‘But I want to stay with Harebell and Henbane. We were thinking of taking advantage of this milder weather and making our way to Beechenhill.’
‘Bring them!’ said the mole recklessly. ‘I’m setting off shortly. The more the merrier.’
When Henbane heard what the fuss was about she said, ‘You must go and hear this mole, my dear, the more so because Harrow has been told he is of Duncton Wood. Your father comes from there and spoke so lovingly of it. Perhaps if you could talk to this Stone Mole he would tell you.’
‘I don’t want to leave you,’ said Harebell reluctantly, for truly she would have liked to hear the Stone Mole preach. Henbane smiled.
‘Oh! I’ll come too! I got this far. A little further won’t hurt me and it’s not a great distance. I would like to hear what such a mole has to say, about the Word as well as the Stone. As for my safety, well … if there are many followers about then there’ll be safety in numbers. Provided I remain anonymous to them and any guardmole who might be near.’
‘You’ll be safe enough, Henbane,’ said Harrow, always a positive mole. ‘And I’ll be there at one flank, Harebell at the other. But if we’re going, we’ll need to go soon …’
They journeyed through the night and met up with many other Tissington followers as they went so that, as dawn broke and they climbed up through Kniveton Wood, the slopes were alive with moles. Progress was slow, not because the slopes were steep but because old moles like Henbane had come, aided by family and friends, and moles weak from illness and even a few who were early with pup. Everymole helped the other, and as the sun rose over distant Madge Hill there was the sense of promise and companionship, and abiding faith.
The Stone Mole had come to moledom, and this great day he was coming here to Kniveton Edge, to speak to them and tell them of the Stone.
Yet there was tension, too, for Harrow’s friend was not the only one who had prophesied that soon the Stone Mole would be taken. There was a sense of foreboding in the air, of preordination, a sense almost of helplessness.
As they passed beyond Kniveton Wood they came to a valley that sloped gently eastward and was caught by the sun. This, they were told, was Kniveton Edge. It was pasture ground, and the grass was green and moist, and there was the first distant scent of spring in the air. Moles were already assembling and Harrow found a place for them – though higher up than Harebell wished to go. But Harrow was cautious, and thought that if they needed to hurry away and make themselves scarce then the higher up they were the better.
They had not been stanced down long before they saw a group of moles, perhaps ten in all, coming up the little valley towards them. The sun was in the sky behind them lighting their way ahead, and its brightness made it hard at first to make the moles out.
But on they came, slowly, and a hush fell over the assembled moles, their chattering stopped and they watched in growing anticipation as the group got nearer and the individual moles among them could be made out.
It was quite clear which was the Stone Mole for whatever he did, whether it was to turn to speak to a mole on one side or the other, or come forward or slow down, he always seemed to be at the very centre of the group.
He was in any case a pleasing mole to look on – well made, graceful, and with the kind of fur over which the light played well. If that were not enough to pick him out, a small mole went in front, as odd and grubby a looking mole as Harebell had ever seen; while behind the Stone Mole was a large scarred mole, his paws huge and his manner protective: Holm and Buckram.
As they neared the assembled moles, several of those with them, some of whom Harrow knew to be Kniveton followers, separated and quietly joined the others, and a fourth mole in the Stone Mole’s group, an elderly female, became more visible.
‘But surely, Harebell, that mole …’ said Henbane in astonishment.
‘The female?’
‘Do you know her?’ whispered Harrow.
‘It’s Sleekit,’ said Henbane. ‘Sleekit!’
There had been doubt in Harebell’s face until Henbane said the name, but the moment she heard it she knew it must be the mole who had reared herself and Wharfe so long ago and finally left Beechenhill to travel south with Mayweed.
‘We must let her know we’re here,’ said Harebell eagerly, but Harrow put a restraining paw on hers.
‘No need to draw attention to yourself, or to Henbane, and anyway it looks as if the Stone Mole’s going to speak. I’ll go down and bring Sleekit here when he’s finished.’
It was therefore in a state of surprise and delight that both Henbane and Harebell, their eyes at first more on Sleekit, heard the Stone Mole’s first words.
But if, to start with, this prevented them from attending to what he said, it was not long before his calm assured voice, his radiant manner and the words he spoke began to make them forget Sleekit for a time. Steadily they were drawn, as all the moles assembled there were drawn, into the address that Beechen of Duncton then made.
He spoke first very personally of his own life: of Duncton Wood, of the moles there who had raised him, the moles that he loved, of many things close to his heart. Of Mayweed, of Skint, of Smithills, and many more. Then he spoke of Feverfew, and how it had been that she had met the White Mole Boswell in the light of Comfrey’s Stone.
How magical it seemed to those moles of the southern Peak, this land to the south where great Stones rose, where the Ancient Systems lay, and where the scribemoles in times past had come from. How mysterious.
‘I am the son of Boswell, and the son of Feverfew, and through me soon will those who follow the Stone in humility and truth know a new light. Your ancestors called me Stone Mole, and this I am; and they said I would be a saviour, and come among you by the light of an eastern star.’
‘You have!’ cried out a follower.
‘Yes, I have come among you, but not as a saviour who uses talons, or who can save what talons save – which is physical life. I have not come for a fight of the flesh and fur. Like me, those I love who travel with me, who are most close to me – ’And here he turned to Buckram, and touched him with a smile – ‘have renounced that way.
‘That mole is stronger by far, and closer to the Stone’s Silence, who, though he has the strength of ten moles, bows down his snout before a pup and hurts no life. That mole is more a saviour who, rather than raise a talon in anger or in fear, lets his own life be taken all for love of the Stone. Yes, such moles shall be much favoured.
‘Strong moles, loud moles, dangerous moles with bigger talons than they have hearts, strong of body but not of spirit, are shadows in the Stone’s light. A gentle mole of the Word is closer to me than such a mole of the Stone.
‘I have spoken of Duncton, the place that gave me life, and whose moles taught me how to love. But I have not told what has happened to Duncton, and of that I must now speak …’
Then Beechen told of how the Duncton moles had been killed by moles of the Word, and described what he knew from all Rampion and Romney had told him.
Yet throughout it all he spoke with sadness about the grikes, not accusation.
‘Their deed was our deed, the blood on their talons is blood on our own … for we have all been weak and frail of spirit, and into the void of our indulgence and spiritlessness darkness has flowed as a flood over a wormful valley.
‘We are that flood, moles of the Word are our victims. Aye …’ And here he had to raise his voice and quell mutterings of dissent … ‘Aye, each time you are weak of the Stone, each time you put yourself before your kin, your neighbour, and especially your faith, you become the enemy, you become the talon that draws the blood of innocents.
‘The Duncton moles were innocent. I knew them, they made me what I am: this was the task ordained them by my father Boswell. Their community made me.
‘But one mole I have not named, one mole who has passed this way, one mole whose name many of you know: Tryfan of Duncton, scribemole, as close to me as my mother Feverfew.’
At the mention of her father’s name, Harebell reached out a paw to hold Henbane’s, and another to Harrow. All three moles listened now in terrible silence as Beechen described something of Tryfan’s sufferings as he had heard of them, and of his teachings.
Then he said quietly, ‘I am told that Tryfan of Duncton was blinded by order of the Master of the Word, Lucerne of Whern.’
A gasp went out among the moles, and it was as well that it did for Henbane half screamed, and Harebell was sobbing, yet nomole noticed them, so great was the horrified commotion at what Beechen said.
‘Now as you would love Tryfan hear me, and hear me with all the love you have. Listen, listen with all the heart you possess. And learn, learn with all the power you command.
‘Tryfan was a great mole, a mole whom those of you who have heard me speak before know I would call a true warrior. A mole whose life was spent listening with a fierce love to what others said, and listening with his heart to others’ hearts, and learning, always learning. This was a warrior mole, in the tradition of Balagan, and this mole I knew, and others here knew.
‘Yet whatmole blinded Tryfan? I tell you that though Lucerne ordered it he was not to blame, nor that sorry mole called Drule who did the deed. Not them. Who blinded Tryfan?
‘Moles, anymole who has ever turned his back upon the Stone had a talon in that blinding; anymole who does what he knows is wrong because he is too lazy to do what he knows is right, his talon was in that blow; anymole who points a talon at others long before he points it at himself – aye, his talon was there on Longest Night in Duncton Wood.’
Silence had fallen, and nomole spoke. Harebell’s grip was tight on the paws of Henbane and Harrow. Henbane was as still as rock. Harrow barely dared to breathe.
Then, like sun breaking out across a sullen moor, Beechen smiled.
‘I believe that Tryfan forgave those moles who blinded him. I believe that whatever anger and rage and loneliness he felt in his time of pain, he remembered the refusals of moles he loved to renounce the Stone and save their lives and from that gained the strength to forgive. In that dark and tragic moment beside the Duncton Stone, Tryfan had his final test. I tell you he knew that not to forgive, not to love in that moment, would have been as great a recanting as speaking his renunciation out aloud. Greater, for forgiveness is private and unseen.
‘As Tryfan forgave, so soon must you. I shall be taken and in that taking you shall be tested. I shall be hurt, and in that hurting you shall be tried. I may be lost to you, and in that losing is your greatest temptation. Then must you all be true warriors. Your anger you shall meet with patience. Your grief you shall meet with faith. Your hatred you shall meet with love. Put your light to the darkness you find: that is the difficult way warriors must go if they are to find the Silence.
‘I was born but mole, as you were, and as a mole I shall face whatever the darkness will soon bring. Fear I shall have, pray for me. Anger I shall have, pray for me. Hatred I shall have, oh pray for me …’
As he spoke some of the moles about him were openly crying for the fate he seemed to presage. Then silence fell, for a ripple of apprehension went among them and then murmurs of concern as they saw coming inexorably across the fell, and over the rise behind, and up from the valley below: grikes.
Slow, steady, determined and relentless, the guardmole grikes appeared and came towards them.
Buckram was the first to move.
‘Stone Mole, you must flee!’
Beechen said, ‘Where does a mole flee to be from his own dark self? These moles are us.’
‘Then, Stone Mole, you must let us fight them!’
Beechen said, ‘And make my words dry grass to break in the first harsh wind?’
‘Stone Mole …’
‘Buckram, as I love you, stance by me in peace, and be an example to all the moles who watch and listen here this day.’
So it was that nomole moved but all simply watched as the grike guardmoles came, with a female at their head whom Beechen already knew – the eldrene Wort.
She stopped just far enough from him that when she addressed him most of them could hear her voice clearly.
‘You have blasphemed against the Word one time too many, Beechen of Duncton. You shall come with us and it is best none try to protect you.’
‘We welcome you in peace,’ said Beechen, his gaze upon her. ‘Take only me.’
‘We shall,’ said Wort.
‘And me!’ roared Buckram.
‘And me! And me!’ cried many more.
The guardmoles were astonished at the followers, that they did not fight but all offered themselves to be taken into custody, and were obedient to the Stone Mole’s desire for peace.
‘One of your own choosing can go with you,’ said Wort, anxious to get Beechen and her guard away from there and not argue more.
‘Stone Mole …’
‘Yes. You, Buckram,’ said Beechen with a calm smile.
Then he turned and began to embrace Sleekit and Holm and others there and say farewell, but this was soon cut short by one of the eldrene’s powerful henchmoles.
‘Come on, get on with it.’
But when he laid a paw on Beechen to push him along the way Beechen turned towards him and gazed on him and the henchmole retreated, not daring to touch him more.
‘Come on then, we don’t want no trouble.’
‘You’re the only trouble,’ cried out a follower, and several shouted out their agreement and began to move forward aggressively. Then Beechen turned to them and said, ‘As you love the Stone, love me and abide by my wish for peace.’
Then they stopped, and that was all the resistance anymole made as the guardmoles jostled around Beechen and great Buckram and herded them off, and away into the Word’s custody.
Strange the behaviour of the followers then. Some stared, some turned and ran, some wept. Harrow told Henbane and Harebell to stay where they were and went quickly down the slope and spoke to Sleekit and Holm. They turned and looked and came up the slope, Sleekit staring in disbelief at what she saw, Holm seeming simply bemused.
But it was not a time for happy greeting, nor even to give each other the comfort truly needed as the slow realisation came on them that the Stone Mole and Buckram had been taken from them and might never return. He had warned of it, and now it had happened, they felt numb. All they could do now was to leave Kniveton Edge as soon as possible, and find consolation and hope in each other’s company later. Only in the days ahead, when the shock of the Stone Mole’s arrest had been absorbed did Sleekit begin to find joy in her reunion with Henbane, and her rediscovery of Harebell – so grown now, so beautiful.
The first night Henbane was tired and they slept near by. A strange, comfortless night of tears that the Stone Mole seemed lost beyond recall. Harebell needed comforting, and Harrow felt distress, and those two moles came closer, and closer still, for the stars were in the night sky and a sense of fate hung in the air, and wildness too. A night when moles needed to be close, a night to fear, a night after which moles could never turn back. For some, for Harebell and Harrow, a night of clinging love in which ecstasy seemed stolen from the stars, and was but cold comfort against what the future seemed to hold.
They had intended to return to Hunger Hill, but when they got to its lower slopes something about the place was wrong and they suspected grikes were there, waiting for their return.
‘We must go to Beechenhill,’ whispered Harebell, ‘for Squeezebelly shall need us now. Harrow, lead us away from here and back to the place where we might be safe.’
Long was the way he took, and most circuitous, for the River Dove was in spate from thawing on the fells to the north and crossing it was dangerous. On they went, Holm helping much to scent out dangers, and spending the nights on guard. Nights that Harebell and Harrow spent close and sighed, because time and circumstance seemed to be stealing back from them the love they had just found; and Beechenhill, though near, seemed hard to reach.
‘Master, we wish to speak to you,’ said Slighe.
‘Both you and Drule?’ smiled Lucerne, darting a glance at Terce.
‘It must be a matter arising from the Sumps since that’s all you two have in common,’ said Terce, who knew much, and deduced more.
Slighe could barely conceal his excitement.
‘It is a small matter,’ he said a little pompously, ‘called Wharfe.’
‘Wharfe?’ said the Master silkily.
Slighe nodded and Drule beamed.
‘Where?’ said Terce.
‘Here, Master. Yes, Master. Here,’ said Slighe.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh quite certain, Sir,’ said Drule. ‘The mole told us so himself.’
‘If this is true, Terce, the Word is pleased with us. If not, then, Slighe and Drule, you may regret this day.’
But Drule only grinned, and Slighe looked smug.
‘Take me to him. And find Mallice. This will please her.’
‘So,’ said Lucerne softly, gazing down from an observation gallery in the Sumps an hour later, ‘that is my brother Wharfe.’
‘It is indubitable, Master.’
‘He looks like you, my sweet,’ said Mallice.
‘Well!’ said Lucerne, staring.
‘Will you not talk with him, Master?’
‘I would,’ said Mallice, ‘out of curiosity.’
‘I know you would, Mallice. I know you well.’
‘Yes, Master mine,’ she said, coming close.
‘He might tell you more than he told me,’ said Slighe. A look of anger came to Lucerne’s face.
‘In my own time I shall talk with him. In my own time. Now come, my dear, I wish to be alone with you.’
So Lucerne turned and went, leaving Terce to ponder something strange: for the first time since he had known Lucerne, from the moment he had seen him as a pup at Henbane’s teat, Lucerne looked … scared. Aye, that was the word for it. Scared. And well he might. Wharfe looked a formidable mole.
‘Drule,’ said Terce before he followed Lucerne out, ‘weaken Wharfe some more.’
‘Yes, Sir!’ said Drule.
Three days later …
‘Master, will you not speak with him?’
‘Not yet.’
Six days later …
‘Master … ?’
‘No,’ snapped Lucerne.
Ten days later …
‘Your brother …’
‘Twelfth Keeper, do not mention him again. The best place for him is where he is. Let him and that Betony rot for ever but not be allowed to die. Before he does that I shall wish him to know but two things: that Beechenhill is waste, and Harebell dead.’
‘Yes, Master.’
Nor did Lucerne change his mind, or have time to. The following day a messenger came from Ashbourne, urgently and with priority.
‘It is a henchmole from the eldrene Wort.’
How Lucerne smiled.
‘Show the henchmole in,’ he said. ‘I like everything Wort does, Terce. A henchmole – how very quaint! Well?’ he said as the mole entered.
‘The eldrene Wort sends the greetings of the Word, Master, and to say that Beechen of Duncton, the one called Stone Mole, is taken in Ashbourne and that she awaits your pleasure.’
‘There, Terce, how the Word does smile on us! The crusade nearly done, this Stone Mole captured, and Beechenhill ripe to take as a female in March.’ He turned to the messenger. ‘We are well pleased with you, henchmole of the eldrene Wort.’
‘Thank you, Master.’
Three days later, guardmoles were mustered and more sent to the east and north. The Master had ordered that the final strikes must now begin. Soon they would depart, leaving Cannock with a garrison under the joint command of Drule and Slighe.
‘Master mine, once we leave I do not want to come back to this dull place. It can become ruinous for all I care. Whern is our home and I miss it.’
‘Mistress Mallice, get me a pup and Whern shall be yours again.’
‘Master love, you know how.’
Lucerne laughed.
‘Have I neglected you?’ he said, his paws firm on her haunches as he quickly mounted her. His teeth were at her back.
‘Yes,’ she sighed, ‘you have.’
‘I want you with pup,’ he cried, coming close into her then.
‘Oh, oh, oh, I may be soon,’ she whispered, ‘I may be, my dear.’
From now, how she got them was of no consequence. So she let him make his sterile love to her and knew he might soon be pleased.