After the pleasures of the Midsummer rite, and the sociable days leading up to it, Beechen had not been looking forward to returning with Tryfan to the Marsh End, and the hard task of learning the real nature of scribing.
His fears were soon justified, but not in the way he had expected. It was not the difficulty of the task that beset him, but a rapid and unpleasant change in Tryfan’s behaviour the moment they were back in the deep tunnels of the old Marsh End Defence.
The previously kindly and benign scribemole moved swiftly from pleasant to preoccupied, thence to indifference and finally (as Beechen saw it) to an almost constant irritability that bordered on malevolence.
Curt commands to get more food, complaints about its quality when it arrived (preceded by moans about it being late), maddening grumbles about untidiness in others (from a mole untidier than most Beechen had seen) were not all Beechen had to contend with. Extreme impatience regarding anything to do with teaching scribing, a task which, judging from Tryfan’s attitude towards it, the youngster had to assume that he greatly regretted embarking on, probably because Beechen had no talent for it. Whenever Beechen asked for guidance on some scribing task, all Tryfan would say were words such as, ‘Mole, you can see I am busy and yet you persist in interrupting me. Copying and more copying is the way. You have plenty of texts about you, and even if your comprehension of them is minimal you ought to be able to get something from them.’
‘But Tryfan …’
‘What is it now?’
‘Well, I can’t understand everything that I’m copying and you don’t say if what I do is any good.’
‘Can’t you? Don’t I? Eh? Let’s look then, come on, come on … Can’t understand this? Why mole, it’s perfectly obvious, isn’t it? Even to a mole of low intellect. Couldn’t be more obvious if it spoke for itself, but you don’t seriously expect that, do you? Eh? Say something if you’re thinking it! I don’t like sulking. Now, you were whingeing about me not saying if your copying is any good. Frankly it’s not. It’s a disgrace. You must try harder … Now, I really must get some work done … Oh, and as for understanding everything you copy – well! I understand less the older I get. You should be grateful, not aggrieved …’
Added to all this was Tryfan’s habit of impulsively disappearing to the surface without saying where he was going or when he was coming back. All he did offer were strict orders that Beechen himself should stay where he was, but if he must go to the surface, he should confine himself to the immediate orbit of the nearer entrances.
As if this wasn’t bad enough, Tryfan was charm itself when the only three moles who paid them visits – Hay, Teasel and Mayweed – came to call. Laughter, good cheer, the sounds of eating, even occasional song drifted to him from Tryfan’s burrow, all of which Beechen was excluded from since Tryfan would set him especially onerous tasks when these visitors came, saying that he could join them once the tasks were finished. But too often the visits were over by then, leaving Beechen frustrated and with the uncharitable feeling that Tryfan was glad he had missed the opportunity for the pleasure of the visit.
Many a time in this period Beechen was inclined to leave and seek his way across the surface above, where he imagined the sun shining and entrances down into tunnels where he might find a warm welcome among moles such as those he had met at Barrow Vale. How he missed the freedom he had enjoyed in the days when he had lived in his home burrow; how he missed Feverfew’s warmth and good humour! What would he not have given to listen to Dodder and Madder arguing once more, or even stolid Heather earnestly preaching of the Stone.
What stopped him from leaving was his own obstinacy and determination not to fail, combined (he reluctantly confessed to himself) with a peculiar and growing fascination with scribing and the texts stored so methodically by Spindle outside his burrow.
In fact, as the moleweeks went by, he discovered that Tryfan had taught him sufficient to understand at least the simpler parts of those texts, and the more he copied the scribing the more they made sense to him. Out of sheer contrariness he refused to copy any of Tryfan’s texts with the result that his own paw, on the rare occasions he scribed something of his own making, was based on the neat, clerical script of Spindle and, consequently, a pleasure to touch.
As he became more fluent in both copying and understanding the texts his interest in those things that Spindle scribed about, which were many and varied, increased. Places like Whern and Uffington, Rollright and the Wen he knew of from the many conversations about them he had listened to between Feverfew and Tryfan through his puphood. Now he learnt more about them, and about the moles whom Tryfan and Spindle had met on their travels, for they were all brought to life in Spindle’s histories. But more than that: Beechen now began to learn about the deeper ideas of the Stone and Silence, of the Word, and of the things that moles did in opposition to each other. Sometimes, when Beechen forgot for a time the unpleasant restraints he worked under with Tryfan, it seemed almost as if Spindle was there and talking to him, and he all ears to hear.
In a real sense Spindle became a much-loved mole for Beechen, and he gained comfort and some wry amusement from Spindle’s descriptions of and loving complaints about Tryfan, whose behaviour when he was scribing had been at times no different in Spindle’s day than it was now.
Beechen could not help but reflect upon the bold things that Tryfan had done in his younger days, the places to which he had led other moles, for good and ill, and the change in him which became apparent in Spindle’s accounts, from a mole who was ready to fight with talon and tooth, and encourage others to do so, to a mole willing to be led by the anarchic leaders of the Westside to within a whisker of death by lynching at the Stone and never once raising a paw to defend himself and so break the pacific creed he had adopted.
Some accounts of this long and difficult period for Beechen with Tryfan in the Marsh End attribute his determination to stay with the scribemole to exceptional fortitude and an almost holy tolerance, which is hard to believe in one so young even if he did have the great destiny that Beechen faced.
But is it any wonder that he stayed, despite all he had to put up with, when, day by day as he laboured to learn scribing, he found himself copying passages like this one from the retrospective diary that Spindle made of the two moles’ journey from Whern back to Duncton? It reads thus:
‘As we came to within a day’s journey of Duncton Wood I unfortunately fell ill through eating poisoned worm. Despite the danger we were in, for the place was busy with grike, Tryfan insisted that I stay still, and tended to me. The exertion and difficulty of finding food was great for him, for his wounds were still painful, and I think may always be so, and he had little sleep. I had no doubt that had we been discovered in those several days when I was very weak and barely conscious, he would have fought for my life and been willing to sacrifice his own.
It was during those days that I realised again, and fully appreciated for the first time, that in all the long years of our difficult trek from Whern he had never, not once, complained of the pain he felt or the sufferings he had. A mole whose sight had once been good, and whose body strong, had been reduced by the terrible attack Rune and his sideem made on him to a mole nearly dead. He often thanked me for his recovery, but never accepted the credit which he owed himself. He is not the easiest mole I have known but he is my greatest friend.’
And again, elsewhere, here is a passage Beechen transcribed, giving an account of how Tryfan of Duncton helped two moles they had met who were terminally diseased:
‘He insisted on staying with them for several days but would not allow me near, saying that their condition was infectious and I must stay clear. When I remonstrated with him he said that such moles needed some care and comfort, and since he had little else to give it would be a poor thing if he did not give it. He stayed with them until their deaths, and only when he felt certain that he had not contracted their murrain did he join me again. I prayed to the Stone that in my absence, or if it should take me first, then there is a mole near Tryfan when his end comes who gives to him that comfort he gave those moles then, and lets him know to the very end that he is loved and not alone.’
It seems likely that in those hard moleweeks Beechen came to understand, partly through what he learnt in this way, and partly through observing Tryfan, that the old scribemole was struggling to put something into his scribing he found very hard to do. Beechen came to see that what he suffered through Tryfan’s irritability was nothing compared with the darkness and difficulty that beset Tryfan, but about which he would not talk.
It is certain, too, that Beechen received encouragement from Tryfan’s visitors, when he was permitted to see them, though the only mole who has left records concerning the matter is Mayweed, the discovery of whose final scribings has now made a record of Tryfan’s last moleyears possible.
Teasel was a comfort, for she never failed to talk with Beechen after her visits to Tryfan – meetings which the older mole was probably aware of though he preferred not to let Beechen know it.
But it was Mayweed who seems to have been most active in bringing some cheer into Beechen’s otherwise cheerless life with his brief but challenging visits, several of which he made at that time, and all of which must have given the youngster pause for thought.
‘Studious Sir,’ said Mayweed, after listening one day to Beechen’s many complaints, ‘humbleness hears what you say and declares, “Leave now if” and falls silent.’
‘What do you mean “Leave now if”? If what?’
‘Miserable mole, this less miserable mole Mayweed has absolutely no idea. “Leave now if you really think you must”, perhaps. Or, “Leave now if you are so pathetic and dim-witted that you can’t see that troubled Tryfan is doing his best”. Or even, laughable lad, “Leave now if you have already learnt scribing so perfectly that the greatest scribemole of our time has nothing more to teach you”.’
‘Of course I haven’t,’ protested Beechen.
‘Then you must stay, sorrowful and frustrated Sir! Must you not? Silence, even grumpy silence, signifies assent. Mayweed agrees with you! Wise decision. Brilliant!’
‘But he’s not teaching me much.’
‘Over-expectatious Sir, this mole’s glad he’s not teaching you “much”. A little learning usually goes further than too much, and those moles who feel they’re learning nothing at all are often the ones who have learnt the most.’ Mayweed fell silent with his head cocked on one side. There was a twinkle in his eye and so appealing was the strange mole’s natural good humour that, despite himself, Beechen grinned ruefully.
‘I think I know a little scribing now,’ he said. ‘Since Tryfan wouldn’t teach me I took to copying what I found in the texts in Spindle’s old burrow. Shall I show you?’
‘Why not, eager Sir? Impress me!’
Beechen scribed across the floor of the chamber where they were talking. He did it slowly and with some grace and Mayweed was clearly delighted, for he moved to be shoulder to shoulder with the youngster and snouted and touched Beechen’s scribing even as he made it.
‘All this from memory!’ exclaimed Mayweed. ‘And in as neat a paw as daisies on a summer meadow! And this young Sir makes so bold as to suggest Tryfan does not teach him! Mayweed’s brain must be of limited capacity, humbleness must be dim-witted, humble he, namely Mayweed, must be thick as a rabbit.’
‘Well, of course I’ve learnt something …’
‘Ah!’ said Mayweed, interrupting him. ‘Say no more muddled and confused novice, pubescent pupil, difficult dolt. Humbleness’s talon positively itches to scribe, and will now do so!’ Then, with a flourish and a wild look to his eye, Mayweed scribed rapidly on the ground in front of him, his script as thin and ill-kempt as his body, and his scribing extremely fast so that dust and soil seemed to fly in all directions as his talons moved.
When he had finished he crouched back and frankly admired his own work. Then, with one of his widest and most ghastly grins, he said smugly, ‘Nothing much, but ’tis mine own! Now, as the enthusiastic and good-natured Hay would put it. “Press on, lad! Keep at it! Do not give up!” All of which me, Mayweed, heartily endorses. So farewell!’
When Mayweed had gone, Beechen was left staring after him, a little irritated and frustrated it is true, for a mole never quite seemed to catch his breath and say what he had meant to when Mayweed called by, but also feeling a great deal more cheerful than he had.
He reached out a paw to the route-finder’s scribing, and then snouted along it as well. It said, ‘The mole Beechen confessed today that he learnt something yesterday. What may he learn tomorrow? To concentrate on the task in paw, perhaps, and talk to mole of things that matter. Thus will he find his way ahead. Signed: AN HUMBLE MOLE OF NOWHERE IN PARTICULAR.’
Beechen laughed and, feeling better and even more determined than he had before, he returned to his burrow and resolved to work even harder at his scribing, to be obedient and do his best to ignore the difficulties of living with Tryfan.
But even so, his patience was sometimes sorely tested, as when, one day, Tryfan summoned him to his burrow and told him to stop whatever he was doing and contemplate worms.
‘Worms?’ said Beechen in disbelief.
‘I do not like having to repeat myself.’
‘But why worms?’ said Beechen. ‘I want to scribe, not look at worms.’
‘I did not ask you to look at worms, mole. I asked you to contemplate them. But of course if that is not to your liking …’ Tryfan shrugged and began to turn back to his own work.
Remembering his determination to be obedient to Tryfan’s will, however difficult it seemed, Beechen hastily said that he would contemplate worms but would Tryfan mind explaining why, and how, if only briefly …?
‘How? With effortless effort, mole. Trying without trying. Thinking without thinking. Being without …’
To Beechen’s surprise Tryfan was suddenly expansive and in good humour as he described, somewhat cryptically, how a mole should best contemplate worms.
‘ … being. Your father Boswell told me that novice scribemoles at Uffington were advised to get a worm, stare at it, close their eyes and then imagine it, open their eyes and … well, it’s obvious enough, I suppose. To contemplate the worm, by all means place one in front of you and look at it. But in the end you must wean yourself from the need to have real ones before you, as a pup weans himself from the need for his mother’s teat. He still loves his mother though he is teat-less and can gain comfort without it; so you must still love the worm, and find ways of knowing the worm without the worm being before you. But, you wonder, why bother? Worms are life, that’s why. Can’t think of anything better to contemplate, can you? Without worms we would not be. Life, you see!’
To Beechen’s astonishment Tryfan laughed aloud, a rich deep laugh.
‘I remember once Spindle and I were contemplating a worm after having found one with great difficulty. He had asked me to explain the very point of Boswell’s teaching as I am trying to explain it now. He was making one of his records, you see – no doubt you’ll find it somewhere or other. We got the worm and I stared at it for a short time and suddenly, impulsively, I ate it. Spindle was outraged. “Why did you do that?” he asked. Ha!’ Tryfan laughed again and turned back to his work.
‘Why did you?’ asked Beechen, puzzled.
‘To contemplate it all the better. The stomach is a better thing to contemplate with than the mind. I’m sure you’ll agree with me in time.’ As Tryfan continued to chortle to himself until the sound of his renewed scribing overcame his laugh, Beechen was forcibly struck with the sense of what his relationship with Spindle must have been like. Two very different moles, sharing so much. Two friends.
Later that day Beechen noticed that Tryfan had fallen silent in his burrow, and his scribing had stopped. Sensing that he needed comfort and cheer, Beechen went up to the surface and gathered some food.
He quietly took it down to the threshold of Tryfan’s burrow and laid out a worm there for him.
Tryfan looked at Beechen silently, and Beechen said, ‘You miss Spindle sometimes, don’t you?’
‘I do, mole,’ said Tryfan thickly and then, crunching at the food, he continued: ‘When you grow old the early times sometimes seem more real than the present. I find myself looking round the corner of a tunnel and expecting to see Bracken there, or Comfrey, whom I loved very much. On the surface I … I look to my right flank, where Spindle so often was, and am surprised he is not there. And often, lately, I have missed Boswell. I think Spindle suffered much in my early years with him because I missed Boswell. I am not an easy mole, Beechen. I … I fear you may have suffered too these last weeks, but you see I miss your mother and those others I have known.’
‘It’s all right, I can cope,’ said Beechen, disturbed to see how distressed Tryfan had become.
‘I wish it was all right, mole! But life is hard and moles try too much to make themselves secure in a world of change. Did you know that your mother and I had young once? No … they died and some things are hard to talk about. It is no secret, I think, that the only young I ever had that survived were by Henbane of Whern, and I never saw them. My good friend Mayweed and his consort Sleekit reared the two they were able to get free of Whern. Likable pups they have said, named Harebell and Wharfe. There was a third … but he was left behind in Henbane’s care. I would like to think that one day you will at least meet the two who got out, and tell them of me …’
‘I will,’ said Beechen.
‘ … and if you do, tell them that whatever stories they hear, whatever moles may have said, their mother was … was …’ But poor Tryfan could not continue and for the first time in his life Beechen saw him weep.
Beechen stayed close to him, and though he said nothing he knew his presence was a comfort.
‘I knew happiness with Henbane of a kind I have not had with any other mole. Deep and passionate. Your mother knows it, so I am not being disloyal. If you ever meet Wharfe and Harebell tell them that in the short time I was with Henbane, their mother, I felt that a part of her was more truly of the Stone than anything I have ever known. Moles have often asked why I went to Whern. I believe it was for those few hours with Henbane, from which I hope one day moledom will see some good come.’
Tryfan made a clumsy attempt to wipe his face fur dry of tears, and then smiled ruefully.
‘You see, Beechen, when a mole grows old it is of such strange things he thinks … As for you, why mole, there are times when you quite remind me of Boswell. Not in size (you’re bigger), nor in fur (you’re darker), nor in nature (you’re more patient) … but in understanding. You have listened to an old mole ramble on, you have known how to comfort him, you have known that bits of what he has said have made good sense. You have known what to do and when, all without thinking much about it. That’s what being a scribemole is, you see. But more than that; it’s what being a mole should be. You have learnt much. Well done!’
Beechen did not know whether to laugh or cry at this, but much later, when Tryfan was asleep and Beechen had woken in the night, he smiled, for he saw that by saying what he had in the way he had, it was Tryfan who had known what to do, and when; and that Tryfan’s teachings were wise and rich. In seeing that, Beechen understood much better what a scribemole was and must be, and how it might be that he would scribe all the better for living through the difficulties of this time with Tryfan.
We do not know, and it is vain to guess, the many ins and outs of the deep meditation that Beechen entered into at this period of his life. As the days advanced a kind of slowness came on him, and peacefulness, and his desire to leave the tunnels and do other things was nearly forgotten.
His consciousness of what he saw in the scribing he made as well as in the worms he brought down into the tunnels deepened, until he saw quite suddenly what might have been obvious all along to anymole that knew it: that the basis of scribing was the sinewy form of the worm, and the more a mole was at one with himself and what gave him life, the easier and more natural did that scribing become.
‘But why didn’t you say?’ he sometimes wanted to ask Tryfan, but he knew in his heart what the answer was: a mole learnt little by being told it, most by experiencing it, whether of scribing, of worms or of life. It was a lesson Beechen never forgot.
Now at least Tryfan was willing to answer questions, though his impatience and preoccupation with his own work, and his ruthlessness in cutting Beechen short if he felt he was wasting his time, soon deterred him from asking anything but what he considered was important and essential.
As Tryfan said in various ways more than once: ‘A mole who asks another a question without thinking first, or offers another his opinion without thinking first, or seeks to describe a feeling before he knows truly what it is, is a mole who does another a disservice and discourtesy. Why should your confusion become another’s, whose own may already be bad enough? Why should you ask another to think for you when, by doing so, you demonstrate that you are not ready for the thoughts he may provide? Laziness is as much a destroyer of communication between moles as the fear of truth, and since they usually go paw in paw with one another, conversations die many deaths. Remember this, mole, and you will learn the truth of it as you come to meet other moles in the years ahead, especially those beyond Duncton Wood who do not know you so well.’
So it was that one day, and only after much thought, that Beechen went the few moleyards to Tryfan’s burrow and there waited in respectful silence until the scribemole seemed ready for him, which he indicated with a sigh at his own work, a relaxation, and then a friendly glance.
‘Yes, Beechen?’ said Tryfan.
‘Would you show me the correct scribing for “soil”?’ asked Beechen doubtfully. It was a scribing that seemed to have no logic, and to come in many different forms.
Tryfan thought for a moment, and seemed pleased by the question.
‘You won’t find any absolutes with soil,’ he said, ‘for not only does it change its nature constantly, but the way a mole perceives it changes as well. Moles adapt their feelings to where they are and so naturally their scribing changes too, as your voice does if you’re nervous or your snout if you’re unhealthy.’
‘So there’s no right way to scribe it?’
‘No, no, mole. There’s always a right way, but it’s always changing. The problem is to know the right way at the time you’re scribing it, and that may change from the beginning of a sentence to its end. You will find that in Spindle’s scribing “soil” does not much change its appearance from one place to another. He was not interested in such ideas. But in Mayweed’s scribing the word changes halfway through itself. A mole of the soil, you see, a mole whose whole life is soil. He’s always been a better judge of what’s right at a particular time than I am. Perhaps you should ask him the same question. The trick with such things is to know which mole to ask. It’s a rare mole that is not better than anymole else at something, and a scribemole does well to remember it. Nomole has nothing to offer.’
‘There’s a lot of variation as well in the word “tunnel”,’ observed Beechen.
‘Well, there would be, wouldn’t there? Be a strange world if tunnels were all the same. Mind you, Spindle once told me that the Holy Burrows had a book in its library devoted entirely to local variations of the word “tunnel” compiled by a librarian after eighteen years of research through the Rolls of the Systems. This was one of the books lost when the grikes came but not, I think, one of the greatest losses …’
So it was that the earlier sense of frustration and anger that had overtaken Beechen’s mind now began to lift, and he felt as if a storm of rain had passed that leaves the air and land cleaner. There was a shared sense of excited endeavour in the tunnels as they continued their separate work and Beechen now began to discover more and more about the texts around him, and about the nature of scribing.
Sometimes Tryfan would volunteer a thought or make a suggestion about how Beechen should approach it. Stance, he said, was important, for a mole cannot scribe well if his back paws are not firm, and his breathing is not good.
By ‘scribe well’ Beechen understood him to mean scribing words worth scribing, rather than script that simply felt good to the touch.
‘I fear my own scribing is not of great elegance, but I never had the training, you see. Spindle’s talon is a neater one than mine, but then he was a neater mole. Neither of us, I fear, have that grace and beauty which it was our privilege to discover in many of the texts in the library of the Dunbar moles. The mole who combines grace of form in his scribing with grace of thought will always make scribing that brings a blessing to moledom.’
Beechen did not notice the way Tryfan gazed at him as he said this, the gaze of a scribemole who knows well the strength of the mole he teaches, but is pleased to see his modesty. If Beechen ever gave thought these days to being the ‘Stone Mole’ he did not show it.
All he said was, ‘I’d like to see some of those ancient texts which Spindle refers to in some of his scribings, and which you’ve mentioned.’
‘Perhaps one day you will, if you don’t waste too much time dreaming! The texts Spindle saved at Seven Barrows, some of which are earlier than the Wen texts, are certainly memorable and include all six of the Books of the Stillstones. I think that perhaps they are moledom’s greatest scribed heritage. Even so, always remember that it is the thought behind the scribing that matters, not the text itself.’
‘But are there not seven Stillstones?’
‘There are, but the Book of Silence, which must accompany the last Stillstone, has never been scribed. Most of us believed that Boswell would be the mole to do it but it was not something he talked of on the journey I made with him back to Uffington, nor when he might have done later with Spindle and myself at Seven Barrows, where we cast the Stillstones for safekeeping.’
‘Whatmole will scribe the Book of Silence?’
Tryfan shrugged.
‘Not I, that’s for certain. I’m having enough trouble scribing the paltry thing I’m about at the moment. No, Boswell was the mole to do it, and I sometimes think he may have done already and it is but waiting to be found as the Stillstones are! One day they shall be recovered and placed together, and when that day comes then Silence shall be known and perhaps its Book as well. I shall be long gone by then, and maybe you as well, Beechen. Now, mole, I hope you have no more questions for I’m tired and still have work to do …’
‘Just one more!’
Tryfan laughed, and settled down. The difficult days were indeed over, and a pleasant companionship and respect existed between the two moles now.
‘Spindle mentions “dark sound” occasionally, and your texts do as well.’
Tryfan’s brow furrowed, and his face became grim. ‘Aye, there’s a form of scribing called dark sound. Its masters have always been the grikes, though Dunbar himself was adept at it as well, but he used it for good and for prophecy. We’ve a Chamber of Dark Sound in Duncton, though few know it now for ’tis lost high in the Ancient System near the Stone. My father knew it well, and had the strength to go there.’
‘What is dark sound exactly?’
‘A scribing that gathers sound to itself which a mole makes and sends it out again perverse, so a mole hears the worst side of himself but alluringly well. Hearing dark sound he seems to see himself do evil things and survive, which makes him all the more eager to do them for real.’ In that way Beechen gradually learnt of the light and shadow of moledom, and of the Stone. Yet Tryfan could still sometimes be perverse.
As relations between the two had improved Beechen had taken to lingering rather longer on the surface than Tryfan liked him to, but he enjoyed the fresh air and bird-song, and missed the visits of Mayweed and the others which, lately, had tailed off.
One bright morning, at the end of July, he was very late returning, and when he did Tryfan was waiting for him, eyes narrow.
‘Feeling like a change of air, mole? Finding my company tedious, eh?’ the old mole said.
‘Er, no. I … well … no! I want to learn scribing.’
‘Good,’ said Tryfan approvingly, ‘real dedication. A pity, though, for I’m off to the surface myself. Some moles to meet, some matters to attend to.’
‘But I …’ began Beechen, wondering how he could take back the hollow and over-earnest protestation he had made just before.
‘Another time, then!’ said Tryfan, stretching his paws out with a contented sigh and then setting off. ‘On a summer day like this one a mole feels he has done enough work to last a lifetime. I shall enjoy the break!’
With that he was gone, leaving Beechen feeling as frustrated as he ever had and wondering what interesting moles Tryfan was to meet, and what exciting business he was seeing to.
But the mood passed, and Beechen found himself wondering, not for the first time, about what it might be that Tryfan had been scribing with such difficulty and for so long. All Tryfan had ever mentioned was a ‘Rule’ but what that was he did not know.
By the time Tryfan came back, darkness had come and Beechen was half asleep in his own burrow. He did not stir when Tryfan peered in at him and softly spoke his name, but he was touched that Tryfan should whisper a blessing on him before retiring to his own burrow.
When Beechen woke at dawn Tryfan was also stirring, but as if in uneasy sleep. Beechen listened to him for a little time and then, concluding that he was likely to remain asleep for a while longer, rose and went up to the surface to groom and find food for them both. Any irritation he might have felt about not being allowed out with Tryfan the previous day was quite gone, and nor did he feel such a craving this day.
Dawn was no more than a dim, grey light in the eastern sky, and the air of the wood was still heavy and cold, the shadows dark. But over on the eastern edge of the wood a blackbird sang, and somewhere else a wood pigeon stirred and flapped. Beechen felt joy to be part of the beginning day, and purposeful, and then eager to get back to Tryfan. Leaves scurried as he searched for food, and he drank from one of the pools of water that formed in among the boles of the trees nearby. Dead lichen floated there, and the upturned downy feather of a young bird, pale against the dark water.
His task complete, Beechen went back underground and, not caring for the noise he made, nor even hearing the normally confusing echoes of the tunnels, he brought himself quickly to the library chamber.
Tryfan was awake and waiting for him. The light from the hollow trunk behind was already brighter.
‘Good morning, Beechen!’ said Tryfan. ‘Another good day for the surface?’
Beechen hesitated so long before replying, knowing that whatever he said might go against him, that eventually both moles laughed.
‘If I say one thing you’ll make me do another!’
‘No, mole, I shall not. You decide!’
‘I shall do whatever you would like,’ said Beechen, and he meant what he said.
‘Why, mole,’ exclaimed Tryfan, clearly much pleased, ‘I think you need fresh air and company, and to begin once more to learn what you can from the moles in this wood. They each have so much to teach you, and so few of them know it. I have told Hay and Mayweed that you shall be going out into the system, and I’ve no doubt Teasel will hear of it and track you down. Don’t forget to go over to Madder’s patch, for he and Dodder will tell you all kinds of things about plants, and the Word, and much else I dare say.’
‘But you … will you be all right alone here?’
Tryfan laughed.
‘To tell the truth I need to be alone for a time. I have put off letting you go for a long time now, but only because I’m reluctant to get on with my task. It’s not an easy one! But scribing never is.’
‘What are you scribing?’ asked Beechen curiously.
‘It is to be a Rule by which a community might live,’ said Tryfan, ‘such as the moles of the Wen lived by for many centuries. But though Spindle made a record of the Wen Rule, such a thing is not easy to adapt to a different system and different times as we have here.
‘In the months ahead I want you to come back to our tunnels here from time to time and discuss with me what you have learnt. I would come with you but you will learn more without my help now. Sometimes you will need to come back and think and meditate alone, and perhaps I shall need your help as well for certain tasks – I’m not as quick as I used to be, and you know I cannot see very well. My sight is getting worse … but no matter, it serves me well enough for this last task of mine.
‘So off you go and meet some moles. Take my love and wishes with you, mole, and if they ask of me, tell them good things and that I am proud of the community of which I am part!’
Beechen embraced rough old Tryfan, and said he would come soon to tell him what wisdoms and truths he had learnt.
‘Do so, mole,’ said Tryfan. ‘I shall miss you each day you are gone.’
‘As you miss Spindle?’ said Beechen, looking at the neat burrow he had taken over from the cleric mole.
‘Aye, as I miss that great mole, and Boswell, and so many more. But they are here with me, Beechen, here.’ And Tryfan waved a paw over his great lined and scarred body, as if to say each sign of age and wisdom marked a mole’s passage through his life.
Beechen smiled, and gazed on Tryfan, and was gone. And the scribemole watched after him, tears in his eyes, though they were not unhappy ones, and he whispered, ‘As those moles were to me, Stone Mole, you shall be to moledom evermore.’
Then he turned back to his burrow, and the deserted tunnels and empty burrows had no sound but that of summer far above, and the scratch of his talons slowly scribing once again.