Tryfan proved a tolerant teacher of scribing in those first moleweeks of June in the Marsh End, for though he wanted to get on with his own scribing while Beechen worked hard to learn the tasks he was set, he knew as well as anymole the excited restlessness that overcomes young moles at the approach of Midsummer.
So a few days before the day itself, when the air was warm and the light good and nomole should be stuck in a tunnel with his snout in a text, Tryfan suddenly declared, ‘Enough! Too much, in fact! We’re going up to the surface to join in the merriment and make a visit or two.’
Beechen was secretly relieved for on his occasional forays to the surface he had fancied he had heard moles chattering nearby and enjoying the June days, and had wanted to join them.
‘Where shall we go? What moles shall we see?’
‘I have a fancy to show you the burrow where my mother Rebecca raised Comfrey, though whether or not I can find it is another matter. As for which moles to see, well … at Midsummer moles have a habit of going a-visiting, so you never know what moles you’ll meet where except that they’ll be a surprise and in the wrong burrow. Moles gather and talk and have a laugh and then, slowly, their groups growing in number all the time, they make trek to the Stone for the Midsummer rite.’
It seemed to Beechen that a great change had come to the wood in the short time since they had first ventured underground in the Marsh End.
The leaves of the trees were fuller and greener, the undergrowth thicker, the bird song richer, the soil warmer, and evidence of mole – and other creatures, too – greater and more glorious. Emerging into the busy world once more, he felt happier to be alive than he ever had, and ready for whatever the Stone might put their way.
All around there were delights to the eye and the ear, and had not Tryfan been there Beechen might not have turned any way but round, and round again, uncertain of which way to turn to see the best that was there.
‘Tis a grand place, the Marsh End as Midsummer approaches,’ said Tryfan, breathing in the clear air. ‘No need to go searching for mole at this time of year; they find each other and enjoy themselves, or used to! As I said before, we’ll see what comes!’
What came was another mole, and one they both knew.
‘Greetings both, I guessed you might be about on a day like this. Where are you going?’ Hay asked them.
Tryfan explained they were looking for a burrow his half-brother had been raised in and that it lay somewhere off to the east. Not being a Duncton mole originally, Hay had no idea where such a burrow might be, but he seemed eager to join them, and so all three went on together.
‘If we carry on this way,’ said Hay eventually, after a pleasant ramble during which Tryfan stopped occasionally in a vain attempt to get a better idea of where Rebecca’s old tunnels might be, ‘we’re going to come to Borage’s place. He’s all right, but I’m not so sure about Heather … well I mean she’s a bit intense for a summer’s day if you know what I mean. Ever since …’
With a frown and raised paw Tryfan stopped him saying more.
‘’Tis nearly Midsummer and we must take moles as we find them, just as the Stone does.’ Beechen knew that Tryfan never gossiped about other moles.
They passed the ruined entrances to several tunnels in an area of the Marsh End that had obviously once been heavily populated. Then, turning south-east and a little upslope, the general air of dereliction gave way to a sense of order and life more appropriate to the season. They entered a clearing that was clean, sunny and had an inviting entrance down into a tunnel.
The moles living there must have been aware of their approach, because no sooner had they arrived but a stolid and worthy snout appeared at the entrance and a burly mole emerged.
Beechen already knew something about Borage from what he had heard. He knew him to be a big mole, one who had been tortured and diseased in his time – the evidence for which was still in the scars on his flanks and the patchiness of fur at his rump.
Before Borage had a chance to greet them, another mole came out of the entrance, a fixed and righteous smile upon her face, and eyes that had a disconcerting way of looking past a mole as if some golden land of goodness lay beyond him.
‘Greetings! May the Stone be with you all!’ said Heather with general good humour, the warmth in her eyes not failing to hide the sense of surprise and worry she seemed to have at being visited by three moles all at once. ‘The Stone does us an honour!’ she went on, without complete conviction, ‘to bring to our humble burrows no less a mole than Tryfan and …’
‘Beechen,’ said Beechen.
‘So you’re Beechen, are you? A solid-looking mole I must say, and a great credit to Feverfew, if I may say so. Yes, very good, very good. May the Stone be with you, Beechen.’
‘Er, thank you,’ replied Beechen, finding himself smiling inanely in response to Heather’s continual beatific smile.
‘You’ve grown since the night you were born,’ said Heather. ‘May the Stone be praised!’
‘He’d look pretty odd if he hadn’t,’ said Hay lightly, but Heather ignored his irony and, seeming eager to put a seal on her comments about Beechen, added, ‘Blessed be the Stone indeed, aye! Welcome to the Good News!’
Tryfan, evidently anxious to avoid too much evangelising, said hastily, ‘Beechen, Borage here knows more about Buckland, the grikes’ southern base, than most. You should talk with him.’
‘I will tell you what I know of Buckland,’ Borage said, ‘but not now. Today is not a day for remembering that dark place.’
‘The Stone,’ Heather began yet again, but Hay interrupted her.
‘We’re in search of some tunnels Tryfan wants to see,’ he said. ‘So we’ll be off now, Borage … Heather.’
‘Then I shall come with you,’ beamed Heather and before Hay could say anything to stop her Tryfan said, ‘A good idea, mole. Both of you come. The more the merrier. I want Beechen to meet as many moles as he can.’
‘It’s being pupless that has done this,’ Borage whispered to Tryfan as they set off. ‘She means well.’
‘It isn’t bad to love the Stone,’ Tryfan said soothingly.
The group now comprised five moles, and Beechen had little doubt that soon along the way they would meet others, for there was a sense of infectious adventure about their journey which, it seemed, gave it a life of its own which any individual among them could not control, and certainly, Tryfan was not trying to do so.
As they went along Heather talked loudly to Beechen of the goodness of life and of the Stone, while Hay nudged and winked at Beechen saying, ‘It’ll get worse before it gets better, and could get very bad indeed if we meet the wrong moles. It only needs … oh no!’ Hay looked wildly about with mock alarm as they turned a corner and found, approaching them in a desultory kind of way, an old female. Snouting at the undergrowth she was, and singing tunelessly to herself.
‘Moles coming,’ she said quite loudly, putting her ear to the ground and then her snout, and then looking up.
‘Teasel!’ said Heather with distaste. ‘One whose entire life was based on deceit. One into whom the viper Word once burrowed. Out of the way, mole. Tryfan and I are on the Stone’s business!’
‘Teasel is of the Stone, as you are, Heather,’ Tryfan said firmly, and went forward to meet the mole whose sight appeared as poor as his own.
‘Tryfan!’ she exclaimed in pleasure and surprise. ‘Bless me, if you’ve not come back to us again! And not a minute too soon seeing as Midsummer’s almost on us. Where’s that pup you were looking after, eh? Where have you hidden him?’
‘Why ’tis Teasel, getting younger by the day,’ laughed Tryfan, touching her close and then stepping back to look at her. ‘You haven’t changed a bit since I last saw you.’
‘Would it were so. But you’re older, mole, and thinner, and your face …’ She reached out a paw and touched his facial scars tenderly. ‘I’ve missed you, I have, Tryfan, but since I always spoke my mind to you I’ll not lose the chance now. A system needs its leader, so you’d better make sure you’re seen about a bit more. Scribing and that, hidden away where none can find you, let alone see you … it’s not right, Tryfan! It’s not your task.’
‘I’m not the system’s leader, Teasel, not in the old way any more. I’m not sure systems need leaders like that now.’
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Teasel. ‘Moles don’t go anywhere of their own accord, they need a mole to guide them.’
‘And where should we be guided?’ asked Tryfan quietly.
‘Away from here where there’s so much misery and loneliness,’ said Teasel.
‘You’ll find that wherever you go,’ said Tryfan, ‘and you might find worse beside. What we’re looking for is right here, under our snouts waiting to be found. I always knew that before but I didn’t believe it.’
‘Show me then,’ said Teasel. ‘Come on, mole, show me!’ But Tryfan crouched in silence looking at her, and there came to the group a sudden quiet and a feeling of loss, as if all there sensed something important was missing and none knew what to say.
‘Well,’ said Teasel, looking suddenly very old and quite ill, her fur sagging on her thin old bones, ‘’tis sorry things we are to be so miserable before Midsummer’s Night and with that pup of yours to think of. Where is he, Tryfan? I’ll not let you be until you tell me …’
Her voice faded for she could see by Tryfan’s look that the mole next to him was the Stone Mole himself. And now she came to look at him – or she saw his eyes on her, bright and clear, with a look direct and true – why, she felt all a-fumble with herself, not knowing for the moment what to do at all.
‘What we’re looking for is right here under our snouts,’ Tryfan had said a moment before, and as she realised whatmole Beechen was she sensed around him, and through him, and in his presence, something greater than them all, which stilled a mole’s mind and put peace in his paws.
Hay later reported that there was something about Teasel’s trust and faith that made such a moment possible, and helped them all see what it was that Beechen held of the Stone about him.
‘He was an ordinary enough mole for most of the time, or so it seemed,’ he recalled, ‘but sometimes when one of belief, like Teasel, was with him it was as if together they made something far more than the two of them, and those of us watching were touched by the light that flowed between them. ’Twas then that what some called miracles might happen, and healings take place, and beset moles come right in the mind, as if they only needed to see the light in his true gaze to be at one again.
‘Some think it was there all the time, but it wasn’t so. Why, I had seen him a good few times before that moment with old Teasel, and, to be truthful, I had been disappointed since he seemed nothing special at all. A wholesome lad, and likely to be a good scribemole and even a fighter if need arose, but nothing more … But once I saw him as Teasel saw him I never forgot it, and, having seen it, a mole would have followed him to the end of moledom and back just to see it once again …’
Whatever Teasel saw, or sensed, she at least was not long overawed by it. Her natural good nature made her come forward and touch Beechen with the same warmth she had touched Tryfan and say, ‘Welcome, mole, welcome. Let me look at you. Why, I remember you when no more than moments old and now look! Full-grown, near enough. There was such a light about you that night as dazzled all moles who saw, and as for this mole, she regained her sight that very same night, as all moles know but none do talk about. Well, I do! ’Tis true as I’m standing here, but you’ll not remember that.’
Beechen shook his head.
‘I’m Teasel, as you’ll have gathered, and I daresay Tryfan here has never mentioned my name to you. But here I am, for what I’m worth, and if there’s anything a mole can do for another I’d do it for you.’
Tryfan saw that Beechen had no idea what to say to this, though his paw was touching Teasel’s in an affectionate way, so Tryfan explained that they were in search of some tunnels and since others had joined in the fun he hoped she would as well.
‘Whatmole lives in the tunnels you’re seeking?’ asked Teasel.
‘Now? I know not. Once it was Rebecca, but that was before your time. Before allmole’s time but my own, and by then she had long since left the tunnels and moved on. But Comfrey showed them to me.’
‘Aye,’ said Teasel vaguely, more interested, it seemed, in Beechen than lost tunnels, ‘’twas before I came.’
They wandered on chattering, arguing, laughing, and occasionally pausing to admire the wood.
‘Do you know if you’re any nearer these tunnels you’re looking for?’ asked Hay at last.
Tryfan shook his grizzled head and looked about in a puzzled way.
‘I’ll tell you whose tunnels we are near,’ said Teasel, ‘Crosswort’s!’ Hay and Borage groaned, but Tryfan suddenly brightened and his snout rose and scented at the air.
‘It’s near here!’ he said, going forward quickly.
‘But this is Crosswort’s patch,’ said Borage.
‘Crosswort indeed!’ said Teasel testily to Hay, and he too looked reluctant to stop at the place.
‘Well this is the place,’ said Tryfan, snouting about.
‘She’ll not be pleased to see you!’ warned Teasel. ‘Sullen mole she is, and when she’s not sullen she’ll sooner bite your head off than pass the time of day.’
‘This is definitely …’ began Tryfan with mounting certainty.
‘The Stone is not with her at all,’ said Heather, ‘and the last time I tried to bring her the Good News she used some very unpleasant language. It was a great effort of will on my part to find it in my heart to ask the Stone to forgive her, though I was finally able to do so after I recalled the story of – ’
‘You’re right, Heather,’ cut in Borage, ‘she’s not exactly a friendly mole.’
Even as they talked a mean grey snout appeared at the nearby entrance, followed by mean grey eyes, followed by wizened little paws. Female certainly, unappealing definitely, and yet ‘cross’ would not be quite the word though ‘cross’ was scribed across her lined face and into her indignant eyes.
If ever a mole was making an effort to be nice this was she. For her face, despite its natural self, was trying to smile; something that clearly caused her much difficulty and pain.
But not nearly such pain and agony as she suffered as she spoke, or rather spat out with profound displeasure a word her mouth found difficult to encompass.
‘Welcome,’ she said.
A collective air of such surprise came over the little group that had the miserable trees about that place suddenly broken into song and danced about none of them would have had the energy left to be amazed at all.
‘“Welcome”?’ intoned Hay, astounded.
‘Yes,’ Crosswort hissed, ‘welcome.’ She began to look as if she was feeling ill with the horror of it all, and in the tone of a mole who can hardly credit what she herself is saying, she added, ‘I was expecting you. I hope you had no trouble getting here. Please to come down and make yourselves at home.’
‘“Please to come down”?’ repeated Teasel, perplexed.
‘“Make yourselves at home”?’ said Hay faintly.
‘Something’s very odd here,’ said Heather, ‘unless … aye! The light of the Stone has touched her! Blessed is he who bears the Good News when he sees lost moles such as thee, Crosswort, born once again!’
Fortunately Crosswort missed this nonsense as, eager to take them underground, she had turned back into the entrance with a general instruction to follow her.
So down they went into tunnels Tryfan only just remembered from the single visit he had made to them before in the company of Comfrey. Comfrey himself had remembered them better, for he had been raised here by Rebecca, with a diseased female called Curlew for company whose tunnels these had been and who had taken Rebecca in. Now the tunnels seemed small and dark, and though they were clean enough they were dank and restricted.
Crosswort went fussing ahead of them, saying she had not had time to get everything ready, that she had not been told there would be so many of them, and would they kindly mind the walls and where their talons went since the soil was friable and likely to scatter.
But when they eventually reached the communal chamber of the place the atmosphere changed unexpectedly.
‘Er, welcome,’ said Crosswort again, looking over her shoulder at somemole within whom she seemed afraid of.
One by one they squeezed through the small entrance and into the cramped chamber that was the system’s only communal place. And one by one they saw, stanced comfortably and crunching with pleasure at a chubby worm, a mole they all knew. One who looked up and smiled toothily at them with very great glee.
‘Sirs and Madams, humbleness wonders what kept you so long,’ said Mayweed, utterly delighted with the surprise and sensation created by his presence in so unexpected a place.
‘Stunning Madam,’ said Mayweed, turning to Crosswort and raising a paw to quieten the exclamations of surprise and pleasure among the others that had greeted the sight of him, ‘now is your chance to be generous to a fault. Shall we be wanting food? We shall. Shall you fetch and carry it as a host mole should without complaint? Indubitably you will. Alas, appalled Madam, seven hungry moles stanced in your tunnels and waiting to be served – torment would be bliss compared to this, would it not?
‘But as you grub about for some worms above and mutter to yourself about the injustice of it all, ponder this: you shall hear good conversation here, and stories, and come to share in such jollities as sensible moles indulge in during the last days and nights before Midsummer’s Night, and moles will ever after say “Remember that occasion when we had more fun than for many a year? Why that all began in Crosswort’s tunnels!” You shall be the envy, until-now-painful-to-know Madam, of generations still to come, and moles shall regret they were not here. So worms, Madam, and plenty of them!’
Mayweed’s friends greeted this speech with delight, and more than one of them called after Crosswort to bring at least two worms for them personally, and possibly three.
These arrangements made, the moles settled down as Mayweed, who seemed for the moment to be in charge, said, ‘Perplexed Sirs and Madams, you are wondering, I know, how modesty himself just happens to be ensconced here. Bold Beechen – and a special welcome to you, young Sir, since this Midsummer in Duncton Wood would be a sorry thing without your presence, seeing as you are the only hint of youth that our poor old outcast system has – is especially perplexed. But perplex no more.
‘Mayweed had come to get you up and out from the Marsh End when Hay arrived and asked where you were going. Hearing that your intention was to come to Rebecca’s former tunnels, and knowing your pleasure in finding them would be diminished if I led you straight to them (for finding the route is half the fun), and diminished still more if Crosswort had not been prepared for your arrival I decided to come on ahead.
‘Knowing that her welcome can sometimes be austere, even to humbleness myself, I came to prepare the ground. In short, I threatened her saying, “Miserable mole, you will for once in your horrible life be pleasant to some visitors and if you are not then I, Mayweed, an humble mole, will make you regret it!” Those are the very words I spoke and she responded to my unwonted aggression by swearing, cursing, and striking. Accordingly (since a mole who makes a threat should carry it through) I kicked her here, buffeted her there, and generally did what moles do not expect Mayweed to do. Her anger knew no bounds for a time, but Mayweed did not weaken and, inevitably, she wept. Weeping is good for moles. Humbleness confesses that on rare occasions he has done it himself. Not much another can do for a weeping mole but shut up, which is what I did, though the waiting would have been more pleasant if I’d had food on paw. Eventually, she was quiet.
“‘Lachrymose Madam, now lapsed into muteness,” I said, “do I have to go through this entire rigmarole again or can this route-finding modesty who is me, Mayweed by name, settle down and await the worm a guest expects?” This she brought and I then instructed her how to welcome you. Which done, I have stanced peacefully here and enjoyed eating said rotund worm. Madam now seeks worms for each of you and, in the difficult circumstances she has faced, and faces still, Mayweed humbly suggests she has done very well indeed and deserves consideration and cautious respect. Why cautious? Because if others are not as direct with her as I have been she will revert to being the Crosswort she has always been. Crossworts are made, not born. If others treat her honestly, as I have, and stay their ground, then she may reform for ever. But ask her yourselves! Here she comes!’
Indeed it was so. Crosswort had reappeared with several worms, fat ones, and laid them, with a gesture that might almost have been meek, at the entrance of the chamber. For a moment not a mole spoke, but then, spontaneously, several cried their “Thank yous” to her and welcomed her back, insisting that she took stance among them and shared out the food gathered so far.
‘The Stone has blessed thee!’ declared Heather, but nomole encouraged her to say more, least of all Crosswort who, still unbelieving that she was in company in her own tunnels, was experiencing a new-found feeling called enjoyment and was staring around her in growing amazement. Then, when Hay buffeted her gently and said he would come and help her gather some more worms for they would soon be needed, her pleasure was complete. Was not Hay a good strong mole to look at, and male, and helping her? Crosswort almost fell over herself in her eagerness to be obliging and if, as she went, residual habits of complaint still surfaced – ‘’Tis going to get too warm down here’ and ‘Maybe one other mole might have come to help’ – they were easily lost beneath the rising tide of her new determination to please.
If Beechen’s introduction to these outcasts, who had found their way to Duncton Wood in such cruel and trying circumstances moleyears before, had been warm when he first met them at Barrow Vale, what began to happen now was warmer, rowdier, jollier and even more memorable.
Though sometimes moles addressed him, for the most part he stanced quietly in one corner and listened as the conversation and stories began to flow from one side of the chamber to the other and moles listened to each other with pleasure, amusement and criticism, both good-natured and bad.
Tryfan set things going with a moving account of how Rebecca had come to be in this very chamber moleyears before, with her teats dangerously engorged after all her pups had been killed by Mandrake. What a silence fell as Tryfan described in his deep voice how good Mekkins, the greatest Marshender of his time, had found one of Bracken’s pups by Rue and brought him to Rebecca!
‘I heard the story from Bracken himself, for he crept on after Mekkins to make sure his pup, runt though he was, found love and safety,’ said Tryfan. ‘He said it was a close thing but the pup did take milk at last and so both moles lived.’
‘What was the pup’s name?’ asked Teasel.
‘Why that was Comfrey, and nomole more gentle nor more loving than he was ever leader of a system. He was my half-brother and I loved him true, and the Stone where he died, which overlooks the great valley in which the Wen lies, is called Comfrey’s Stone.’
‘More worms, and another tale!’ cried Hay.
‘While Madam supplies the former, you, happy Sir, undertake the latter!’ said Mayweed, which Hay very willingly did, saying he could not move them to tears as Tryfan had done, unless it be the tears of laughter, for a funny thing had happened to him on the way to Duncton Wood …
Which was a tale to make a mole cry with merriment, for Hay was a mole who could turn even a grike into a joke and get away with it. After which the moles were silent for a time, exhausted with laughing, until Heather offered to sing them a song or two she had learnt when a pup, which all agreed would be a good idea provided there was no mention of the Stone or doing good in it, at which Heather fell silent, saying that there was some mention of the Stone, but that wasn’t her fault, was it? And anyway …
An argument ensued in which Heather became very passionate until, to everymole’s astonishment, Crosswort told her to shut up or get out since she was host mole, and until Heather had started speaking everymole had been having a good time.
Teasel said she didn’t mind singing a Stone-free song about butterflies provided they didn’t mind her cracked old voice and if Borage could oblige by singing bass and Heather the descant, which she was good at.
So troubled moments passed to pleasant ones, and humorous anecdotes replaced historic tales. As the hours went by not a mole there did not contribute their mite, not even Beechen who, remembering a tale Spindle had scribed regarding his journey back to Duncton with Tryfan, repeated it to general applause.
Outside darkness had fallen, and after Mayweed had suggested, and Crosswort had graciously agreed, it was decided that they might as well make a night of it and not go hurrying back to their different tunnels. The hoot of a tawny owl clinched it, and led to a legendary tale of owlkilling, which Mayweed told.
It was as he was nearing its climax, which was as convoluted and strange as some of the routes Mayweed took across systems, that, hearing a sound above, Crosswort slipped out and up to the surface to see whatmole was there. Raised voices soon interrupted Mayweed’s narrative.
‘But I’ve got guests and you can’t come in!’ they heard Crosswort say, reverting dangerously towards her normal mode.
‘Guests? And I not invited? I, a mole who has tolerated your miserableness too long to think about? Guests? If true, which I very much doubt, it is discourtesy of the lowest sort typical of a mole of the Stone. If a lie then it is a damned one and I shall have to insist you let me in!’
‘Keep your voice down, Dodder, or they’ll hear you.’
‘Hear me? Hear what?’ His voice was louder now. ‘Hear about you, that’s what they’ll hear. Hear about your broken promises and infamy. You’re not the only female alive, you know. By the Word, they’ll hear all right. Hear how you deceived a poor, broken, old mole into thinking that here in this miserable wood was one mole at least who had a spark of care in her. One who had led this old but not entirely decrepit mole to raise his hopes and think that his final years might not, after all, be eked out in complete solitude; his burrow and tunnels not empty for ever of another mole!’
If the moles who had arrived at Crosswort’s tunnels had been amazed by the welcome she had earlier given them, they were even more so now to discover that such a mole, notorious for her disagreeableness, had an admirer. The six moles had abandoned all interest in Mayweed’s tale and waited now with bated breath for Crosswort’s reply.
‘I never promised nothing,’ she hissed, doing her best to keep her voice low but not quite succeeding, so that her whispers only added more drama to the exchange. ‘If there was even a hint of anything, even a tiny tinge or insinuation of anything it was on the understanding it was strictly private and between ourselves and nomole must know. Now all of Duncton will know and I shall be laughed at even more than …’
‘Yes, mole of the Stone, floozy follower, think only of yourself and think of no other. Guests, eh? Well, you’ve another one now, and he’ll tell them about a mole he once knew who raised his hopes by offering happiness to an old military mole who had served his cause well, and then dashed them back to the ground because she’s concerned about being laughed at. I reject you, Crosswort! I rebuff you! And I now enter your mean little tunnels with the intention of exposing you to the so-called guests you claim to be entertaining.’
Then, suddenly, his voice was raised even louder.
‘Guests? I should have realised. Guest, singular; sex, male. That’s it, isn’t it? I have been deceived! By the Word, he’s going to feel my talons before he’s done. No! Don’t try to hold me back! I am trained in killing! I shall advance now and challenge him and fight to the death. If he wins then may you be miserable with him. If he dies then I shall kill myself in any case and two corpses shall be the reward of your deception! Guests? Let me get at him …’
The moles below looked at each other in alarm as geriatric paw-steps pattered towards them from the tunnels above.
‘It’s the former guardmole Dodder!’ whispered Hay.
The paws stumbled about a bit, and then headed towards the chamber’s entrance as Crosswort, hysterical with rage and embarrassment, ran along behind shouting at the old mole to stop before he made a fool of himself.
But too late. In burst Dodder through the tiny entrance of the burrow, withered paws raised, brittle talons extended, eyes narrowed as he peered about in the murk for his adversary and rival. Beechen saw he must have been a large and imposing mole once, but now he was aged and short-sighted.
‘Filth! Scum! Deceiver!’ he cried, circling about ready to fight. As he did so his eyes adjusted to the light and he saw not one mole but seven, and all of them reposed in a lazy and comfortable way with welcoming smiles on their faces and not a trace among them of rivalry or deceit.
There was a very long silence as Dodder retracted his talons and slowly resumed a normal stance.
‘I see,’ he said, ‘that you did not lie and I have made myself look a fool. Worse, it is I, a mole who should know better, who has committed the discourtesy.’
Much humbled, and yet retaining his very considerable dignity, Dodder turned shakily back to Crosswort and said, ‘Hit me, Madam, on the head. Hard if you like. Then I shall leave and interrupt your company no more. Strike, Madam! See, I do not flinch!’
To everymole’s surprise there went over Crosswort’s face a look of genuine concern and sympathy as she said, ‘I’ll do no such thing, and now you’re here you’d better stay, even though you are right to be ashamed of yourself. Really, Dodder …’ And a perspicacious mole, who knew a little about males and females, would have noticed that in addition to the concern on Crosswort’s face was a look that might almost have seemed affectionately respectful, as if Dodder’s wild display of anger and jealousy had convinced her of something of which she had not been sure before …
There the touching moment might have been well left, and the pair been allowed to find another time to explore further whatever it was that lay between them, had not Heather risen from the shadows at the far end of the chamber and, pointing a talon at Dodder while taking frenzied hold of Beechen’s shoulder, declared, ‘See, Beechen! See the face and fur of the sinner, hear the arrogance of its voice, know the vicious nature of its mind. Its eyes shall be smitten by thy might, oh Stone, its ears deafened by thy Silence; and its Word broken as the slow-worm breaks under the wrathful paws of thy representatives.
‘Disappoint us not, Beechen! Grow strong and vengeful! Punish the wrongdoer, for yours is the power and many are those that await your just anger as a sign to follow your cause. Disappoint us not!’
As this outburst ended, Dodder, who had listened to it in growing disbelief, said, ‘She’s not addressing me, is she?’ Then, when he realised that Heather was, he muttered, ‘The mole’s mad, quite mad.’
‘“Mad”?’ repeated Heather incredulously, and letting go of Beechen she approached Dodder with a threatening look on her face.
But Tryfan stopped the argument getting any worse by reminding them that it was Midsummer, a time for reconciliation, and, anyway, they were all tired. A few more stories, a few songs, and sleep. Then in the morning they could move on, and, since Crosswort had given them such a welcome, it was for her to choose where they went to.
‘Get us all some food, Beechen!’ he said and, as Beechen did, all agreed on one thing at least: that Beechen was a fine-looking mole, and well-behaved, and a credit to them all.
But the day had been long and his impressions many, and soon after Beechen had brought them some worms and the talk continued unabated around him, he fell asleep, beginning to understand the strange and varied nature of the community into which he had been born.
When morning came, and the moles, lazy from the night before, had groomed and pottered about the surface for a bit, Crosswort announced that, as hers was the decision, they would all go and visit Madder, Dodder’s neighbour and enemy, and she would not hear one word of protest from anymole at all, especially former guardmoles.
‘Madder!’ fulminated Dodder to himself. ‘Pay a visit to Madder! Humph!’
But again the day was warm and good, and the mood of the rest of the company a cheerful one as they set off upslope into the Eastside.
Dodder’s temper improved and for the first part of the journey he enjoyed himself, welcoming Smithills and Skint to the group and generally being friendly. But as they came near the area of his tunnels, and of Madder’s, he grew belligerent once more and told anymole who would listen what a terrible mole Madder was.
‘Be warned, Beechen,’ he said quietly, not wanting Crosswort to hear his complaints, ‘when you set up your own tunnels, find out what your neighbours are like first, and what their habits are. Madder is what I would call an undisciplined mole. But you’ll see, you’ll see.’
They did. No sooner had they arrived at Dodder’s patch – or what he said was his patch – than they saw two moles crouched on the surface, one confidently eating a worm, the other looking embarrassed.
‘That’s Flint, whose tunnels lie adjacent to them both,’ whispered Hay. ‘He’s never sure which side to be on.’ He was interrupted by the mole Madder who, the moment he saw Dodder and the moles with him, leapt to his paws and shouted, ‘We thought you’d come back, you miserable old bastard, and here you are. Ex-guardmoles and other such filth and scum had better not put so much as a talon on my territory or they’ll regret it. These others are welcome, of course, but as for you … bugger off down into your tunnels before you feel my talons.’ Dodder did no such thing but, rather, pulled himself up into his most impressive posture and stared imperiously at his enemy. Madder was forced to do the same, whilst making a vain attempt to tidy himself up, pulling and tugging at his fur to do so. But the truth was that, though rather younger than Dodder, he did not have that worthy mole’s bold bearing, or if he did it was masked by the sorry mess his fur was in. For though it was thick enough, even glossy, it never seemed to have discovered the knack of lying flat and in the same direction. It stuck out here, it stuck out there, it stuck out in the wrong direction everywhere.
His eyes, unfortunately, were no better than his fur. Not only were they placed a little awry on either side of his head but they were astigmatised, so that one pointed too far out and the other too far in and a mole found it hard to decide if Madder was looking at him, and even harder to find the right place to look back.
The posturing of the two seemed to be coming dangerously close to blows when Crosswort moved swiftly between them and said, ‘Well really, Madder! What a welcome to give me on my visit to your burrow!’
‘By the Stone, ’tis Crosswort. Damn me but …’ A look of some alarm came over his face as he looked first at her, and then at the crowd of others and realised the implications of such a visit. Worms to find, smiles of welcome to smile, general disruption …
‘Yes, Madder! We’ve come a-visiting, all of us, and I shall be very displeased indeed if, so near Midsummer, you cannot find it in your heart to be pleasant to Dodder and the rest of us.’
‘But …’ said Madder, a look of considerable misgiving on his face. He began mumbling excuses: ‘So much to do … tunnels somewhat untidy … worm supply poor for the time of year …’
‘Madam,’ said Dodder, ‘in the absence of courtesy and politeness from this dishonourable mole, and his obvious but may I say typical unwillingness to welcome us -’
‘Be quiet, Dodder!’ said Crosswort. ‘Well, Madder?’
‘Yes, well. Very well. Very happy to be well and able to welcome you all,’ he said, adding more urgently and quietly and hoping, perhaps, the others might not hear, ‘Though I had intended my earlier invitation to be just for yourself, Crosswort, so we could … you know … get to know one another.’
‘He’s at it already!’ cried out Dodder. ‘Whispering, plotting, shirking his social responsibilities. Yes, this is the mole of which I spoke …’ Then, turning to Beechen in particular, he continued. ‘Note him well. This is a mole who is as ill-disciplined mentally as his appearance might lead you to believe. If I say, and I do, that he is a mole of the Stone, I mean no rudeness to Stone-followers in general. But, well,’ and here Dodder smiled rather thinly, and with a certain smugness too, ‘I flatter myself that my appearance is a better testimony for the Word than this shambles you see here is for the Stone. Stay smart, young mole, stay smart.’
‘Fine! Very fine his words, but what a miserable evil character they hide,’ responded Madder immediately, not moving a single molemite. ‘I mean no disrespect to the rest of you, but I am surprised to see you in his company … and I am sorry if I seem rude, but while I’m willing to be visited by everymole else I am not having an ex-senior guardmole, who has the blood of followers on his talons, inside my tunnels.’
Tryfan suddenly reared up, dark, glowering and powerful, as if the very ground itself had broken open and an ancient root burst forth.
‘Speaking for myself,’ he said with such calm authority that all the moles were hushed and Madder slowly dropped his paws to his side, ‘I am tired and in need of food. I am sorry that Madder feels as he does. I am sorry that Dodder seems inclined to provoke him. But most of all I am sorry to see talons raised, for violence is failure.’
‘Aye,’ said Hay suddenly, ‘we’re all tired of you two arguing, and it’s about time it stopped.’
‘But they like it,’ piped up the timid Flint, ‘they love it. They’re not happy unless they’re quarrelling. They need it.’
There was silence at this and then Hay and Teasel laughed.
‘Well said, my love!’ said Teasel, as Dodder and Madder glared at each other.
‘What’s more,’ said Flint in a confidential voice, as if he imagined that neither of the protagonists could hear, ‘if you were to attack one of them the other would defend him.’
‘Here’s the mole you should be choosing, Crosswort: Flint. He’s got common sense.’
‘I have asked her, as a matter of fact,’ said Flint, ‘but so far she has refused me.’
‘Paradoxical Sirs and Madams, and diplomatic Flint, humbleness is like Tryfan – hungry. Can we eat?’
‘Madder?’ said Crosswort sternly.
With that, and a resigned look at Flint, Madder led them off and down into his own tunnels.
He may have been all aggression and accusation above ground, but below it he was a very different mole, as if his own tunnels oppressed him.
Which, if they did, was not surprising, for they were a mess. Indeed, so messy were they, so disorganised, so utterly unkempt that the group as a whole was struck rather silent, for a mole likes to make a pleasantry or two when he visits another’s burrows and in Madder’s it was hard to find anything very positive to say at all.
‘Er, very snug,’ said Hay uneasily, snouting up a wide tunnel which seemed blocked with dead weeds.
‘Not big but interesting,’ said Teasel, who was beginning to regret that she had ever mentioned how moles used to go a-visiting.
‘Humph!’ said Crosswort shortly, looking about with disapproval all over her face, and pushing a pile of soil out of her way.
Madder was clearly aware of the bad impression his tunnels were making, for he hurried here and there making a futile attempt to tidy ahead of the incoming moles – pushing a pile of herbs into a corner in one burrow, and back-pawing some dead worms out of sight as he ushered them all a different way. All the while he muttered excuses about being unready for moles and having no time to keep order in the way he normally liked to.
Eventually they assembled in a cluttered burrow and looked about uneasily at each other and, almost to a mole, refused Madder’s offer of food as, giving up further pretence at tidiness he attempted to be hospitable. He had gathered up a particularly neglected and suppurating worm from somewhere, its tail part all covered with dust, and was now offering it about.
‘Ah! No thanks, I eat too much anyway,’ said Smithills, patting his ample stomach.
‘Me?’ said Skint, a look of alarm on his normally stern face. ‘No, no, I don’t eat at this time of day.’
Smithills, always mischievous and full of fun, turned to poor Hay and said, ‘He’s always hungry, he’ll have some food.’
‘No!’ said Hay. ‘I mean, well …’
‘Mole, I’ll have it if I may,’ said Tryfan suddenly, ‘and Beechen will eat it with me.’ To his credit, Beechen succeeded in appearing as if he looked forward to the grim prospect while Madder, clearly relieved and pleased that such a one as Tryfan himself should accept his food, attempted to wipe the dust off the worm and spruce it up a bit as he laid it before Tryfan.
It was a strange and touching moment, and while some moles there, like Dodder and Crosswort, might well have considered Tryfan foolish for taking such dubious food, most others appreciated his kindness and felt indirectly admonished by it.
But what had greater impact was the way he now gravely regarded the sorry worm, looked up at Madder, whose eyes gyrated nervously this way and that, and asked, ‘Would you have a grace spoken in your burrow?’
‘If moles of the Word and others don’t mind, I’d like it if you did,’ he said. ‘Yes I would!’
‘Well then … ’ said Tryfan, silently reaching out a paw to Beechen who was looking about with too much curiosity at that serious moment, and stilling him, ‘there’s a traditional Duncton grace which you might like to hear. Beechen has learnt it and can say it for us.’
The moles stilled, several snouts lowered. Dodder seemed about to speak but said nothing. Crosswort wrinkled her brow as if a grace was rather a threat, while Heather closed her eyes tightly and pointed her snout in the direction of the Stone. Mayweed grinned, and Skint and Smithills settled into the easy stance of moles who knew Tryfan of old, and liked it when he encouraged the traditional ways.
Beechen waited for silence and then, in a clear strong voice, as Tryfan had taught him, spoke the grace:
‘The benison of ancient Stone
Be to us now
The peace of sharing be here found
And with us now
This food our life
This life ours to give
This giving our salvation
The peace of sharing be here found
And with us now.’
As he spoke he reached forward and touched the worm, and it seemed that the worm so unwanted, and Madder’s attempt to share it which had been so rejected, was transformed into something of which all moles there must have a part, whether of the Stone or not.
When the grace was over, Beechen ceremonially broke the worm and took a part of it to each of the moles.
‘’Tis ours to share,’ he said each time he proffered the food, and the followers among them replied, ‘Shared with thee’, while Dodder and one or two others simply took the food and whispered ‘Aye!’ to signify their acceptance of the sharing.
Then when the last piece had gone to the last mole Tryfan said softly, ‘The benison of Ancient Stone be to us now,’ and the moles ate their pieces in companionable silence.
They rested then, and talked among themselves, and, with Dodder on one side of Beechen and Madder on the other, he heard both their stories and learnt how it might be that in strange and troubled times such as had beset moledom, a mole of the Word and a mole of the Stone had ended up living in adjacent tunnels in a system of outcasts.
‘Would you really defend Dodder as Flint said?’ Beechen asked Madder quietly.
‘Flint shouldn’t have said that but I might, yes I might. He may be what he is, and done the things he’s done, but he is a Duncton mole now so he’s one of us, isn’t he?’
When Beechen asked the same question of Dodder, he replied, ‘Young mole, I would, but keep it to yourself. In a military situation he would not know where to begin, whereas a trained mole like me would.’
Later Tryfan turned to Madder and said, ‘I’ve been told your surface entrances are worth seeing, mole. Would you honour us by showing them to us all?’
At this Madder looked surprised and pleased.
‘’Tis true enough, Madder, isn’t it? I’ve just been telling Tryfan you’ve a way with plants and trees.’ Hay spoke encouragingly.
It did not need much persuasion before Madder led them through his untidy tunnels, pushing this and that out of the way and into still more untidiness as he went, and took them into tunnels different from the original ones and delved by himself, which threaded their untidy way up among the living roots of ash and out into a place on the surface such as few of them had ever seen the like before, though many must have passed nearby on their travels through the wood.
It was most strangely overgrown: strange because there was order to it, strange because in that dry part of the wood it seemed pleasantly moist, strange because wherever a mole looked there seemed something more to see, something more to draw his eye. Strange because there, among that growth and the wondrous light it cast and the soft shadows it made, Madder was a changed mole, and one in his element. Up here in the secret places he had made for himself all the oppression of his tunnels left them, as it left him. He darted here and there, touching and tending to the plants and growth all about, and talking as he went. Even his disordered fur seemed more ordered there, unless it was a trick of light that made him look … well, as neat and tidy as neat and tidy can be. Such he seemed, such the place he had made was. The plants that formed the backdrop to this place of peace were yellow nettles, tall, proud and bright. Making them seem even brighter was the thick ivy that grew up the trunk of the ash behind and from which, too, trained it seemed by Madder himself, came a few strands of dark leaves along the ground.
‘The yellow nettle’s at its best now, but it will fade soon as all flowers must. But as it does, and the sun begins to harden north again in the years of July and August, why my eyes delight in the ferns that I have let grow here …’ He pointed out a clump of fern they might not have noticed, for its leaves were still small and unopened, and it half hid itself beyond a root.
‘Ferns like darkness and a little wet, and when the sun catches at their leaves and turns them shining green the darkness of their place sets them off.’
‘It’s just a fern,’ grumbled Crosswort, unconvinced.
‘“Just a fern”!’ laughed Madder with the genuine delight of a mole who knows others are wrong but that when they see the error of their ways and drop their prejudices what a delight they have in store for themselves!
‘Perhaps so,’ he added, leaving the others to judge for themselves. Which they did, and found in Madder’s favour.
There were so many more things to see in this enclave of peace Madder had made by his tunnels’ exit that the moles were reluctant to follow him as he hurried on to show them other treasures.
The wood seemed to open past the fern into a path, crooked and secret. It was arched over with the russet stems of wild rose, and its floor was softened with crunchy beech leaves which gave the route a dry, good scent. As they went they lingered, for here and there the path branched up some tempting byway, or opened out into a prospect a mole could not simply pass by. He or she must linger there, and stare, and think that moledom must be great indeed if in so small a space there was so much to see.
‘It’s not easy to keep up,’ Madder said. ‘Voles will use it as their run – I can’t think why – and when the wind comes from the east, which it has a lot this June-time, the underleaves are disturbed and need attending to. So much to do!’
‘Looks wormful,’ said Borage.
‘Wormful? Oh, I don’t eat the worms hereabout,’ said Madder with faint disapproval. ‘That would only increase my work, wouldn’t it?’
‘Er, yes,’ said Borage, supposing it would.
Madder hurried on until the path opened out into a second enclave very different from the first. It was dominated by a great holly tree, whose shining leaves gave dark light to the place. Other leaves had fallen from it but lay undisturbed on the ground, brown with their points yellow-dry.
Beyond it they climbed to a raised area of ground at the top of which was some exposed chalky soil. Such places occur across the Eastside of Duncton Wood and occasionally in the high wood too. The soil seems to rise above the level of the humus, or perhaps some natural minor anticline of strata creates an exposure over whose top the wind is always sufficient to clear what leaves fall there. A process aided by the liking other creatures have for such exposed spots across the wood’s litter layer.
As the moles ascended the little rise they saw the spoor of rabbit, and there was the whiff of weasel there as well.
‘We all come here,’ said Madder, as if he thought moles were no different from the other creatures and were all one in the wood. ‘There’s three kinds of trees grow in this part, the ash, the oak and the beech, and I can see the light of them all from here. Swaying and graceful for the ash, its leaves soon gone; green and airy for the beech, its leaves the true whisper of these woods; and the oak, not so great in Duncton as in other places I visited when I was younger, but a solid presence all the same. All have their ways and, as my mother used to say, a mole never learns them deep enough.
‘This is the spot I stopped at when I decided that I was going to have to stay in Duncton Wood, like it or not. I felt at peace here for the first time since leaving my home system. I thought, well, there’s no river to scent nor coots to call here, there’s no sedge to watch rise and hear the stems rustling, there’s no yellow flag opening out all pretty in the wind; nor kingfisher’s dart, nor trout’s sudden splash, nor any of the sights and sounds of the Avon that I love. But, mole, there’s new things to see, new things to hear, and many a new thing to scent. And there’s places aplenty to make good with plants as my mother taught me, and none to harass, and none to spoil.
‘That’s what I said to myself when I came. And so I thought it was as I found things I’d only ever heard of. Beech tuft all slimy on the beech, and slipper orchid down among the ash, and baneberry to scent out downwind of it on a July day, and its black berries to warn a mole of sin and shame. I come here when I want to think.’
Then suddenly, to everymole’s alarm, Dodder, who had said nothing at all for a long time past, turned to Madder and said, ‘I must say I would not let my tunnels get into the mess yours are in. But then …’
He looked about the lovely ways Madder had led them on and added, ‘But I’d say you’ve got something I never had. Yes, and never will have.’
‘Which is what, surprising Sir?’ asked Mayweed softly, with a quick glance about and a gleam to his eye that stopped others saying anything to spoil the moment.
‘Ability to make a place feel like home,’ said Dodder, ‘and not like temporary accommodation. Your patch would scare the paws off most guardmoles because it’s got the whiff of insubordination, but I’ll be quite frank, Madder … I envy it.’
For once Madder’s paws stopped fretting at his fur and a glimmer of real pleasure came to his skewy eyes as they settled in their eccentric way on Dodder.
‘You … like it then?’ he said with touching and genuine modesty.
‘Best place I’ve seen in Duncton,’ said Dodder with certainty. And then, evidently finding it all right after all to say something nice to Madder, he dared to add, ‘Apart from the neighbours, of course. No imagination. Complainers. Moles of the Word or …!’ Pausing, Dodder enjoyed the joke at his own expense and beamed expansively at Madder, then at Crosswort, and finally at Flint, ‘ … or moles of no particular belief at all.’
‘Well said, formerly grouchy Sir!’ said Mayweed, and everymole agreed, and felt relief that peace could be established between the two rivals on such a delightful day.
Others, seeming to have heard that Tryfan was about with Beechen, joined them during the course of the afternoon – among them Bailey and Sleekit – and the moles talked, and slept, and grew excited at the prospect of Midsummer by the Stone.
Skint told the story of how Tryfan, guided by Mayweed, had once rescued him from certain death at the paws of a patrol in the infamous Slopeside of Buckland. Teasel showed how, if a mole tumbled the petals off a briar stem, she could tell of his past and his future and moles queued up for the privilege.
But when Beechen tumbled the petals so a pattern might be formed, a breeze blew and the petals drifted through the wood, and far out of sight.
‘What’s it mean?’ said Beechen, but Teasel only smiled in a troubled way and said she knew not, and the sky was darkening, and they had all best travel on, and bide by Madder’s choice.
‘We’ll go to Feverfew’s,’ said Madder, a popular choice and one Tryfan greatly welcomed, for he knew that his consort would be awaiting him and Beechen, for the morrow was Midsummer, and all moles must go to the Stone.
As they wandered on upslope, for Feverfew’s tunnels lay that way, Mayweed lingered by Teasel and said, ‘Woebegone Madam, what was it you saw in the fall of petals young Beechen made?’
Teasel shivered.
‘The night he was born his touch restored my sight, but would I had never regained it if it had meant I did not see what those petals showed. He’ll need moles near him. He’ll need us all. Nomole can go so far as he must and not need help.’
‘Madam, he has us all,’ said good Mayweed, and Teasel’s gaze followed his own as they watched the moles go forward up the hill with Beechen in their midst, laughing and at ease.
‘He’s so young,’ whispered Teasel, ‘and I wish Midsummer did not have to come; but it must, and a mole grows old.’
‘Metaphysical Miss, a mole does, even those as humble as ourselves! And we slow, yes, yes, yes; and we worry, yes, yes; and we wonder. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Teasel.
Mayweed grinned and together they followed on after the others, as fast as they could.