Within a few days of Longest Night the eldrene Wort had gained an accurate and disturbing insight into the true danger the Stone Mole presented to the Word.
She had delayed her journey north for the vain, though understandable, pleasure of briefly revisiting Fyfield to glory in the regaining of her position as eldrene. But the moment had been soured by the discovery of just how profound an effect the Stone Mole had had in the brief time he had made the journey through the northern part of the Vale of Uffington that ended at Cumnor.
When she had returned she discovered that the vale was seething with stories of the Stone Mole, and with incipient rebellion. Eldrenes and sideem reported that the disaffection had spread even into systems which, to all intents and purposes, had seemed utterly converted to the Word. It was plain to the eldrene Wort that the Stone Mole had had a far greater impact than she could have imagined possible, or any other mole yet knew. She had found, in fact, her very worst fears confirmed.
But if the Stone’s evil did not thereby seem bad enough, it was made worse by the complacent way (as it seemed to Wort) that the sideem and eldrene regarded it.
‘Kill a few of the buggers at the right time and in the right way and they’ll stay as pathetic as they always have been,’ said one senior guardmole with a sneer. A typical response.
Another was more subtle.
‘It’s about power and what moles hold it,’ he told her. ‘I have seen no evidence that these moles have any power at all, and if they gained it they would soon lose it because they have not the organisation to sustain it.’
Wort did not agree, but could not get others to see it her way.
Nothing had alarmed her more than the resolute blind faith of followers she and her henchmoles tortured and killed privily. Indeed it was a matter of fascination to her that a mole could suffer so much for something as patently wrong as the Stone, and this proved the alluring nature of its evil.
‘So deep does its evil eat into a mole’s heart,’ she whispered.
Some of the Fyfield guardmoles even doubted her sanity as she repeated the actions for which Wyre had originally demoted her by taking followers to the Fyfield Stone and, with her henchmoles, killing them even as she touched the Stone, as if to test its power against her.
In these semi-secret killings – it is hard in any system to keep such things secret, but easy to enforce a rule of not acknowledging them – she was said to repeat that anointing in blood that the Master had delighted in by the Duncton Stone.
At such times, so the whispers went, she repeated his name again and again in a continuous scream of penitential and self-inflicted taloning: ‘Masterlucernemasterlucernemasterlucerne.’
Meanwhile she, like the others, had assumed the Stone Mole had gone south, and so was appalled when one of the henchmoles she had sent out to discover where the Stone Mole was came back in the middle of January and, the winter mud still wet on his paws, told her the dire news that the Stone Mole had fooled them all by celebrating Longest Night at Rollright, and had now gone north and was already well clear of any immediate pursuit.
What concerned her immediately was that the Master Lucerne was in the south when the Stone Mole was moving north with a free paw to foment all kinds of evil and temptation for moles of the Word. She had no doubt that she and her henchmoles could catch up with Beechen, and take him. But if she did, what then? She would need authority to act on her own account on the day she caught the Stone Mole.
She saw immediately that the widespread vengeance planned by the Master against followers must be brought forward, and capable of execution before the Stone Mole himself was punished, so that any revolt was killed before it began.
For these reasons, and some might say an unhealthy desire to be near the Master she now worshipped, Wort fought every instinct she had to follow after the Stone Mole and instead travelled swiftly to Buckland to seek to persuade the Master to go north.
It was a brave decision, but when it came to pursuit of the Stone and its followers, Wort cared nothing for herself and if achieving her end meant annoying the Master she would risk it, just as she had before.
This time, at least, she had no difficulty gaining an audience with him, which was the more gratifying because she knew that Clowder and Mallice, as well as Drule, thought her fear of the Stone Mole overdone. But Terce took her seriously and this was, perhaps, the clue to why the Master was prepared to listen to her again.
‘Greetings, eldrene Wort. Have you the Stone Mole for me yet?’
‘My Master, holy teacher, the Word tries us sorely: the Stone Mole is escaped. Fled north while our eyes were fixed on thy glorious anointing and ordination in Duncton Wood. Many days have we lost, many to regain.’
‘But my dear Wort, our guardmoles will catch him,’ said Mallice. ‘He cannot flee for ever.’
‘Mistress Mallice, forgive me for I am but a humble eldrene, but you talk untrue. Every day our guardmoles fail to catch him – and I blame myself for thinking he would come south and have suffered chastisement of the talons for it – is another day this Beechen is free to ensnare the hearts of moles with the temptations and evils of the Stone.’
‘Well …’ began Mallice dubiously.
‘It is not well, it is ill. Our task of suppression becomes harder each time the Stone Mole speaks of the Stone and makes converts. These days past I have been able to assess the impact he made in the brief time he was in the vale. Moles are hungry for the false teachings that he brings, and, hearing him, moles will die for him. Before he went north he even led moles in worship of the Stone at Rollright on Longest Night.’
‘What would you have the Master do?’ asked Terce. ‘Wherefore is the Master in the south if the infection is travelling the north? He should go north!’
She turned and faced Lucerne and said loudly, ‘Direct the suppression sooner than you planned. Prepare moles with vengeance now for the capturing and punishment of the Stone Mole which I shall soon achieve. And command me, Master. If I take him before that is done, what shall I do with him? If I keep him he shall be a tempter. If I kill him he shall be a martyr.’
‘Then, eldrene Wort, you must yourself find just and fitting punishment for him,’ said Lucerne, his voice as smooth and sharp as broken flint.
A light of pleasure came to Wort’s eyes.
‘So shall I, Master! So shall I. But be warned by me. Go north …’
‘And you, Wort, go too far.’ He softened his voice and he said, ‘The spring solstice, eldrene, is a good time.’
‘For what, Master?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘For taking Stone Moles and doing what you must to them. Enough, Wort. Go and chase the Stone Mole, take him, the Word will guide you what to do with him.’
‘Master, bless me, for I am weak. Lay thy touch upon my head …’ And as Lucerne did so, his body scent was like nectar to her snout, his presence overwhelming in its effect upon her, and she sighed and cried out, ‘Holy word, creator of my body, mother of my mind, father of my talons, let the memory of my Master’s touch never leave, let it burn within me like a mighty procreating fire, oh let it stay and flourish within me!’
Lucerne smiled. Terce stared. And when she had gone,
Clowder spat. As for Mallice, she mimicked her voice saying, ‘My Master, my beloved, how she lusts for you.’ Lucerne’s expression was grave as he said, ‘Yet she shall find the Stone Mole, and she shall know better than anymole how to do what must be done.’
‘I would kill him and have done,’ said Clowder.
‘You have your strengths, Clowder, she has hers. I have every confidence she shall find him and kill him.’
Terce nodded and agreed that it was so and then said, ‘What do you think of her desire for you to go north?’
‘I think, Twelfth Keeper, that she is right. Very right. Clowder, you shall command here from now on and we shall leave you.’
‘You did not tell her that you agreed with her when she was here,’ Mallice said.
‘She is already quite smug and self-righteous enough, my dear.’
‘When shall we leave, Master mine?’ asked Mallice, coming close.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘And the suppression?’
‘This mole Wort offends my dignity. She makes it seem she persuades me, but as Clowder knows we have already planned the suppression for the springtime solstice. We shall have time to inform the sideem in the midlands and the west, and to do what we can for the difficult east.’ Clowder nodded grimly. The systems over which he now had control would not be found wanting. By the end of March very few followers would be left alive.
‘It is better then than later in April when they start having young. We shall not fail.’
The eldrene Wort’s busy journey to Buckland had, therefore, been all but pre-empted by Lucerne’s decisions, but even if she had known that she would have been well satisfied. He had given her freedom to take the Stone Mole by the spring equinox, and when she had taken him to do what she would with him. She could ask for no more.
But in terms of time lost the journey was more costly than she thought, for a day after she left Buckland blizzards drove across the south-east and slowed her down, and it was not until the end of January that she was back in Rollright and able to consult with her henchmoles and decide at last on the strategy that would lead her to the Stone Mole.
Beechen’s now legendary journey north, which had begun with the tragic news of the killings before the Duncton Stone on Longest Night of so many loved moles, was almost brought to a premature halt near Rollright as he, Buckram, Sleekit and Holm said their farewells to Lorren and Rampion. They were nearly discovered by guardmoles and only by the skills learnt from her father was Rampion able to lead her mother safely back into Rollright and obscurity.
Holm, too, showed his mettle then, leading Beechen and the others swiftly away by the moist routes he preferred.
He was a mole born in the Marshes beyond the Marsh End of Duncton Wood, and always one for mud, water and dampness. Dykes, streams, pools, lakes, mud flats, drains, conduits and culverts were all bliss to Holm, and he was drawn to them like a bee to pollen. He stopped at running rivers for he had once as a pup, in a moment of curiosity, attempted the feat of crossing the Thames, and been swept away so far that it had taken him three days to get back to his starting point.
But anything less than a river was a routeway to him, and he used such routes with a nearly infallible sense of when he must (often reluctantly) ascend above the waterline once more before the stream, culvert or dyke veered them off in the wrong direction.
There were several problems with Holm’s approach. One was that it made moles muddy, very, and his companions had to get used to that. Another was that it was not a way to meet other moles since most were sensible enough to site their systems clear of too much water and the risk of floods. A third was that some creatures moles did not like, most notably water rats and herons, inhabited these wet places and were inclined to attack.
Holm, despite his habit of staring wide-eyed and in complete silence and therefore looking terrified, was, as Beechen, Sleekit and Buckram soon discovered, almost fearless.
The only concession he made to fear was the occasional utterance like, ‘Rat, scarper!’ and, curiously, ‘Bleak!’ When he cried this his voice rose a little and it was a sound of extreme danger and alarm that might have been created specially by him from the words ‘Bleat’ and ‘Squeak’ with the added bonus that when he spoke it their prospects did indeed usually seem bleak.
But like Mayweed, Holm had the true route-finder’s constant awareness of alternative routes, and the ability to utilise them under pressure. When he did use roaring owl ways it was the culverts at their bases that he preferred rather than the often quicker but more exposed parts where the roaring owls themselves ran.
However he did it, they felt safe in his company, and though his watery ways kept them from followers, they also, especially in the early days of their escape from the Rollright region, kept them from guardmoles.
There is no doubt that the whole nature of Beechen’s extraordinary and fateful northern journey was influenced by the twin shocks of Duncton’s destruction and the nearly fatal clash with guardmoles at Rollright.
Until then, partly because of the sealed-off nature of his life in Duncton Wood, and the skilful way Mayweed had led him out of the system and into the vale, Beechen had seen little direct evidence of the grikes’ ways, and therefore had no personal experience of their destructiveness. Even the experience in Hen Wood had seemed charmed, its potential impact lessened by his subsequent and all-important liaison with Mistle of Avebury.
But now he was going on that same journey Tryfan had long before undertaken, and one which the great scribemole had often described to Beechen in stories and teachings, and which he characterised as a journey to the heart of darkness.
The sense that he was now making such a journey himself, combined with the deep and natural fear he had always felt that his destiny would place upon his shoulders a burden he would not have the strength to bear, coloured so terribly by the unknown but well-imagined horrors left behind in Duncton, put into Beechen a purposeful sense that much would depend upon this journey.
But more than that, he believed he would not return from it – for he said as much to Sleekit and Buckram more than once, asking their forgiveness for so confiding his fears and self-doubts, and trusting them not to speak of it to other moles.
In essence, the journey that he now made, for which his entire life and loves had been a preparation, was a paradigm for the journey he felt all moles must strive to make throughout their lives if they were to find their fulfilment through the Stone.
We have Sleekit’s account of this, the Second Ministry of Beechen, scribed with Beechen’s blessing, and at first it tells of a succession of quiet and often very small meetings, sometimes with but a solitary mole or a pair, often in communities much beset by the Word.
While he had been in the vale with Sleekit and Mayweed, Beechen’s teachings were varied and particular to the moles he met, and much concerned with faith and purpose. But during his Second Ministry, whether because of changes wrought in him by his all too brief contact with Mistle, or because he had a growing sense that the journey he was taking was in some sense towards a final if so far mysterious goal, the teachings he gave seemed more linked together. We have not yet found all of the accounts Sleekit made, for much of it was scribed as they travelled and secreted along the way for future generations to find when times were more peaceful and the Stone was strong again.
But what we have shows how deeply Beechen had absorbed the teaching given him by Tryfan in the Marsh End, enhanced as it had been by the texts scribed and collected there by Tryfan and Spindle, and by the wisdoms Beechen had learned well from the moles outcast into Duncton Wood. It seemed to Sleekit that in that limited time he felt was left to him the Stone Mole wished to take his thoughts and meditative practices to the very edge of the Silence which is their final goal.
‘He travelled with us as if on a journey to what Tryfan had taught him to call the eastern sun, the light of truth and purpose bright in his eyes, his openness to other moles, his love for them, ever more apparent, and seeming to fail only briefly when, for short periods, he would turn from them and seek solitude, and meditate.
At such times, those of us travelling with him each had a part to play, and he would choose to be with each of us, often in silence, as if from us he could gain something we ourselves did not quite know how to give.
When he was with Buckram, it was renewed strength he found, and that great and devoted mole understood well that he had to be near Beechen in quiet and silence. Great Buckram would most touchingly bring him food, and make sure he was not disturbed.
With Holm he seemed to touch something different, that curious and questing restlessness which is a pup’s, and which Holm, like his mentor Mayweed, possessed in abundance. Together they would peer here and there, and to Buckram’s alarm and discomfort would wander out of range, Beechen as happy as Holm to get muddy and dusty. But unlike that route-finding mole, Beechen was very particular about cleaning his fur and washing his paws and talons when his explorations were done.
As for myself, I think he valued much that I had known his father Boswell in Whern, and had witnessed his puphood, as if in some way I was a continuity from his beginning. He often asked me of Wharfe and Harebell, yet when I spoke of Beechenhill as a system he was always subdued, for I think Tryfan had impressed on him that of all systems in moledom, Beechenhill was the most purely magical. But more than once he asked me, “Shall I be ready for that place, Sleekit? Shall I be prepared?” I knew not what it was he feared and sought to reassure him.
Yet driven though he was by these needs of solitude and individual companionship, yet he found the strength to see so many, and again and again moles said they felt great calm in his presence, and the sense that they had discovered a home they barely knew they had been seeking all their lives.’
Sleekit also says this about him then:
‘There was no doubt that he was what old Teasel of Duncton often described as a ‘goodly’ mole, by which she meant physically pleasing – graceful, strong, straight of snout, purposeful without seeking to dominate or be aggressive. But when I heard others describing him the common things they spoke of were the quality of light about his fur, as if whatever light there was in a burrow was most concentrated on him, and the awesome power of his gaze which seemed to anymole that faced him not that he looked at the mole but into his very heart, and they knew for a moment the light and Silence of the Stone.
This was especially true at those moments when he healed moles with a touch, or a word, and sometimes as it seemed just a look. Many came to him with ailments and complaints of body and mind, and he ministered to them, and cured them.’
Holm’s route at first took them off the heaths beyond Rollright to the lower moister vales to the east of the roaring owl way, down which Tryfan and Spindle had travelled when they escaped from Whern.
It was here, at Grafham Water, that Sleekit’s account suggests that Beechen first began to expound his teachings of the great journey all moles seek, whether they know it or not, towards Silence in terms of warriorship.
Drawing on those myths he had been taught as a pup by Feverfew, and those more arcane teachings Tryfan later instructed him in when he learnt scribing, Beechen now began to speak to those who came to listen to him of the great mythical warrior moles of the past, said to be the sons of Balagan, first White Mole. Sleekit recorded Beechen’s teaching thus:
‘These warrior moles did not live in moledom as we know it, but in that place of light that lies on the far side of the Stone, a place we physical moles cannot quite see, nor quite touch however much we circle a Stone and strain to reach it.
It is a place moles long to be, for it is the place from which they once came and where they do not strive and struggle for what finally they do not need.
That world of the great warriors seems so near, indeed it is so near. It is but a moment away. But when they are young, moles think that the way to that place is round the Stone and so they spend moleyears, whole lives, seeking ever more complex ways to get there. But that is not the warrior’s way. The warrior mole knows that the only route is through the Stone, which is through Silence. That is called the sacred path of the warrior. It is a path we all must strive to take.
The wise scribemoles of the past, in the days when such myths were real and substantial in the hearts of moles, said that to be a warrior, and to set himself upon the sacred path, a mole must turn his snout towards the rising eastern sun and feel its light upon his face. That light and the warmth it brings is ever a reminder to a mole of what was true from the first moment of his birth – that he is good, essentially good. His goodness is like a warm light within him ever ready to shine out.
As the eastern sun reminds a mole of what he has, so a warrior set upon the path with truth and humility will be an eastern sun to other moles who have need of him, though he himself may never know it. Goodness brings out the good in others, and brings back a warmth and light to moles that has always been theirs.
Therefore, a warrior mole is of good cheer, others feel better for knowing him, life blossoms about him, and the shadows fade. His heart has awakened to the goodness of the life of which he is a part, his life is inextricably bound to all others’ lives; he does not exclude others, he is not enclosed. This is the stance of the eastern sun, this the happy, ever-awakening, good reality of the warrior.’
When Beechen first gave this teaching a mole called Mallet who lived at Grafham heard it. He was a mole who lived by himself on rising ground amidst low and often flooded meadows.
‘Stone Mole,’ asked Mallet, ‘how shall I take my first step once I have adopted the stance of a warrior?’
Beechen replied, ‘With a gentleness of which you do not think, and a harmony of which you are not aware, towards a place that has no name. And with certainty!
‘Doubt is not in that first step, nor fear, nor any restraint but that imposed by love for yourself and other moles.
‘A warrior does not run, lest he knocks down those who cannot move; he does not turn, lest others have less sight than he; he does not falter, lest others lose their faith. A warrior’s first step is most hard!
‘But with cheer in his heart, and love and faith, he shall make it true, and find the next step follows on, and the next, and the next after that until he looks behind and sees with surprise how far he has come, and that he goes alone.
‘Then does he see that where he thought he did not run, he ran too fast; and where he thought he did not turn, he knocked many down; and where he was certain he never faltered, he shook and shivered like a pup lost in a blizzard wind. But being a mole of cheer the warrior shall laugh, and that laugh will be joy and reassurance to others that hear it and, knowing that, he shall feel a little less alone.
‘But I tell you this: each step a warrior takes is like his first and he must strive to be at once aware and unaware of it, which is most difficult.’
Then Mallet asked this question: ‘Stone Mole, how does a mole learn to be a better warrior?’
‘By listening,’ replied Beechen. ‘First, to all that is good in himself, and true, so that he knows himself true. Next, to those other warriors about him from whom he can learn, always remembering that since moments, hours, days and years cannot be replaced he had best be intelligent in his choice of company. Finally, he listens to the world of which he is an essential part so that he learns to be more of it, and less of himself. A mole who rushes cannot listen to the world, another mole, or himself. A mole who does not tell the truth deafens himself to what is good. A mole who self-deceives cannot listen to anything at all, nor be heard by anymole – such a mole is truly miserable. A mole who talks too much does not listen, and yet one who makes a study of humility and silence often does not hear.
‘Listening moles are alive, responsive, enjoying, giving, always curious, always learning, exploring the world with their whole beings. Such moles train themselves even as they travel along the sacred path of warriorship.’
‘But Stone Mole,’ asked Mallet, ‘how does such a warrior know when what he hears, he hears true?’
‘The Stone has blessed all moles to be a part of life, and to make life, and through this may he set himself upon the sacred path. As a mother who has never had a pup before quickly learns to listen to her young, understanding the troubled bleat and the content mew and responding to it, so can all moles learn to listen out for themselves.’
So did Beechen speak to Mallet of Grafham Water, and after that many came to hear his teachings, and some began to follow him as he travelled northward into the driving snows of winter.
But more than that, news that the Stone Mole was coming travelled ahead of him as well, and now, as he and the growing number with him journeyed on, they found ever larger groups of followers waiting for them. As his meetings grew bigger, and the numbers needing his personal counselling and healing increased, his progress began to slow.
‘Stone Mole,’ warned Buckram, ‘if this continues any moles pursuing us will find us, and if you let these moles travel with you how can we be secret from the grikes?’
‘We cannot, Buckram.’
‘But we must, Stone Mole, for the grikes …’
‘The grikes shall find us soon enough.’
‘I cannot protect you by myself, and you will not let me muster others to fight, so how shall you be safe?’
‘I have never been safe, Buckram, and nor have any of us, whether follower or grike. The pursuit of safety is the quickest way I know to death.’
‘But are you not afraid?’
‘Each day now new followers come to me, each day I feel their love; and each day you, Buckram, and others here come closer to me, and I feel less fear. Now I am afraid only that the work I must do shall be incomplete. For this alone have I travelled in these more obscure parts, and so far we have been favoured. But you are right to think that something will happen: it will and soon.’
‘What then, Stone Mole?’
‘Then we shall be that much nearer to the end of our journey.’
But guardmole grikes had already been appearing at some of the meetings they held in the better known systems: they were at Oundle on the Nene, for example, and again at Stamford some days later. As at Cumnor, they came in packs of three or four, to observe darkly and intimidate.
It seemed that so far they had been prevented from interfering physically with the followers or Beechen by the policy the grikes had adopted of ‘listening’, but Buckram had little doubt that this could not last long, and some moleweeks later, in mid-February, he was proved right.
Holm had turned their route, with some reluctance, from the flatter and wetter east, to the north-west across the clay vales and limestone rises that stretch south to north in those parts. It was country much more occupied by grikes, and to all but Beechen it seemed all the worse because it took them from obscurity to exposure.
Strangely, just as earlier news of their coming had travelled ahead among the followers, now it went with the grikes, who came more frequently and in greater numbers to stare, mock and jeer at the preaching ‘Stone Mole’.
Across the rising vales they went, on into grike country. Again and again Beechen spoke out against meeting violence with violence in defence of himself, themselves or anymole, and warning them that it was not his way to strike another mole, whatever he might do to him. This appeal seemed only to increase the numbers coming to his flank, as if they felt that such a gesture was an act of faith and discipline.
Buckram was recognised as the mole responsible for Beechen’s safety, and since his size and grave bearing commanded great respect, so did his words which, daily, warned all moles to honour the Stone Mole’s wishes and, however much they might be provoked, not to respond in kind.
There was – and is – no doubt that this policy, though it now came under severe strain as the grike intimidation increased, for a time aborted the attempts by the grikes to cause a fight. Yet ironically the very non-violence of the followers inflamed the grikes to shout and threaten even more.
‘Stone Mole,’ said Buckram, ‘I cannot prevent what I know must inevitably happen if you continue on this route. You have done enough. None shall blame you or call you coward if you turn back or take a safer way. I have been told that tomorrow we shall pass near Oadby, which is a grike garrison and known for its violence. I fear what might happen there.’
Even Sleekit advised Beechen to retreat, but he refused, saying, ‘It is the right of mole to go what way he will, with his snout straight and proud and his heart open. That is the way of the warrior. To turn back is to yield up our heart and joy to the agents of darkness and be diminished by them. Now at the moment of hesitation is the time to show our courage and our faith by exposing all our heart. To retreat is the greatest gift a mole can give his enemy.’
The only exception that Beechen made was for the few younger moles and their parents who were travelling with him now to go back, and some infirm moles as well, though most of these insisted on continuing. Beechen asked Buckram to travel with these weaker ones rather than himself, since his presence might help protect them.
‘Stone Mole,’ said Buckram, who rarely argued with Beechen, ‘I would prefer to be with you and see that you are safe.’
‘Do you think your talons are mightier than the Stone’s peacefulness, Buckram? Do you think the Stone Mole would have protection which much weaker moles than he will not have?’
Buckram shook his head miserably and Beechen’s look and voice softened as, smiling, he said, ‘The Stone shall protect us, good mole, and thee as well. Warriors do not travel the sacred path without collecting wounds. And tomorrow, remember that though they may not know it the grikes are warriors too, upon the same path, and they may suffer wounds of a different kind: those that do not heal so fast.’
Buckram’s fears were more than justified. As the followers came towards Oadby, with Beechen in the front line and females and youngsters on either flank, grikes assembled on either side of the way in large and ugly numbers.
At first they simply shouted and shook their talons but then, as the followers refused to respond but simply kept their eyes ahead and their snouts straight, singing songs of the Stone, some of the grikes began to buffet the older ones in front.
But buffets turned to strikes, and strikes to talon thrusts, and talon thrusts to hurts. It was a scene of very slowly mounting violence which took place at that point north-west of Oadby where the way passes rising ground on either side. Enclosed, with nowhere to go but backwards or forwards, with grikes striking out as they went by and some of the bigger, bullying ones running along beside them and shouting, there was little the followers could do but suffer the blows and continue.
Beechen was the target of special attention, first himself – and soon his face was cut and red with blood – but then those with him. The grikes would strike them and cry out mockingly, ‘Neither your Stone nor the one you call Stone Mole protects you! Are they impotent or cowards?’
Sleekit was a little way behind Beechen and her flanks were badly taloned and hurt, but most pathetic, and most courageous of all, was Holm, a mole who had never struck another in his life. Strangely, for one whose tendency was to look terrified all the time, that day his eyes and his gait did not waver, until he was bodily dragged from the group and several grikes threatened him.
Buckram had prepared well for precisely this kind of assault and he and several larger moles, all former fighters before they turned their snouts properly to the Stone, quickly interposed themselves between the grikes and Holm, not striking back themselves but taking blows that might have seriously maimed the little mole before they hustled him back to the relative safety of the group.
This sudden show of calm control seemed to cool the aggression of the grikes who retreated on either side of the route and did not pursue them once they were clear of Oadby, except with jeering laughter and threats.
But it changed the nature of Beechen’s journey north, and the moles who went with him on it. Some fell away quietly, unwilling or unable to take such threats again, but others – and not always the strongest -seemed to grow in stature and purpose as if the demonstration of hatred by the grikes towards Beechen had stripped away all that was soft or vague in these followers’ faith to reveal an inner core of warrior strength.
Holm had already proved himself, but after Oadby gained an almost legendary respect among the followers, many of whom came specially to see him, though such honour did not change him one bit. He was as grubby and modest as ever. Sleekit, on the other paw, gained the gaunt and courageous look of an older female with great purpose and no fear, while Buckram, always strong, seemed to grow in stature every day and move with something of that strength which moles like Marram and Alder had. Moles who had been trained in fighting and discipline and have found their true way at last.
But if Oadby made those close to Beechen understand the violent nature of the threat that he was now trekking towards, it was what happened a few days later that showed a truer, darker face and made Sleekit, for one, realise all too clearly that this was indeed a journey into darkness.
Some miles west of Oadby the ground rises and hardens towards the bitter granite heaths of Charnwood Forest. This dread and eerie place is no friend of moles, whose eyes might well dart about them to the slopes above which seem to overhang and reveal with each corner turned, each new place gained, a looming black-rock edge, or clump of dying oak trees, their branches a contorted silhouette against the sky beyond.
At Charnwood the winds are fractious and snow seems dirtier and ice sharper: the kind of place where winter lingers on long after it has fled the rest of moledom.
As they rose up into this grim place, their numbers fewer than for weeks past, the followers gathered nearer Beechen as they went and he cheered them with his accounts of the giant moles that myth and legend said once lived among the jagged rocks.
Holm, so far from water, did not like the place, and hurried on ahead of them, pausing only to snout and scent the air, and frown, and then turn round to beckon them to hurry after him.
The highest part of the way took them among some dingy shattered rocks among which stunted hawthorn and gorse sought to find a place to thrust down their roots. Here a mole might stray from the path and not be found before the corvids that lurked about, or the foxes that crept, or the stoats that screamed at night took him.
Here are no good memories for mole.
Here they were benighted and spent shivering, dark hours.
Here, suddenly, as they set off once more, grikes rose up around them like filthy water rising out of bad ground to swamp a mole. One moment nothing but rocks, the next every rock seemed to spawn ten grikes, and every grike to show ten sharp talons.
While there before them all on a flat rock overlooking their way a female stanced, eyes narrow, eyes dark, unwavering.
‘Greetings, mole,’ said Beechen boldly, and in the old way said, ‘Whatmole art thou and whither art thou bound?’
The female laughed, a tuneless sterile laugh which was chillingly echoed by chuckles and guffaws from the grikes who now came menacingly close, though no follower was touched. But evil was as palpable in the air as the stench of a dead sheep that drifted to them from among the rocks.
The mole’s laugh died back to a sneer, and then to pity of an arrogant kind, and she said, ‘Use not your vile tricks of charm on me, tempter, insulter of the Word. I am the eldrene Wort and I am bound to the place that shall be thy journey’s end. Will you pray with me?’
‘To what end, mole?’ said Beechen, his voice powerful.
‘For thy redemption from the evil of the Stone.’
‘There is no evil, Wort. Not even in the darkest heart, not even in the vilest act, there is no evil that cannot be turned to the good that is in us all. Let us pray in celebration of that good!’
‘Hear him, guardmoles of the Word! Hear his denial of his evil and pitiable plea for good. Lax good. Good indulgence. Good weakness …’ Then she hunched forward towards Beechen and said this rapid prayer: ‘Holy Word, you who are my portion and my sup, you who are my delight, you who make my body glad, help this mole renounce the Stone, help his followers turn from their twisted way, help their eyes see the glory that is only yours. Holy Word, mother and father of us all, chastise this mole that he may see thy truth, chide this mole that he may be sickened by what he is, admonish him that he may sing thy name and know the proper way.’
Wort’s voice cried out these last words as if she were desperate and suffering, an impression increased by the way her eyes fixed on some distant point beyond all the moles. Now she half turned back and looked straight at Beechen once again.
‘You have nothing to fear if you renounce the Stone, for the Word shall be merciful. I plead with thee to do it now.’
Beechen reached forward slowly and, even as guardmoles to right and left of Wort came towards him, he placed his paw on her head and she did not resist.
‘Mole, be not afraid of me,’ he said.
Wort closed her eyes and she whispered with terrible intensity, ‘Holy Word, I feel thy power flow into me, I feel thy power destroy the temptations of the Stone, I feel thy power great within me. Un-paw me, mole, un-paw me!’ She screamed the command at him and then her eyes snapped open and a look of disgust and hatred was on her face.
‘Renounce, mole, before thy journey ends or you shall be damned by the great Word, and lost.’
‘Wort, whatmole art thou, and whither art thou bound?’
This time Beechen spoke with a terrible sadness, and turning to the others signalled them to move on.
Which they did as the eldrene Wort continued her impassioned whisperings and warnings in the Charnwood heights, not hindering them more.
Of this strange incident Beechen did not directly speak straight afterwards. But some days later, at Swadlincote, one of the followers asked him again about it. Was he not afraid, she asked, of the threats the grike moles made, particularly the eldrene Wort?
‘A warrior is wise to judge nomole,’ he said. Then pointing at a place they had just passed where a tiny snowdrop grew from the dark, wet protection of a root – a flower none had even noticed until then – he said, ‘You see what may come out of the darkest shadow? Remember this before you judge another mole.’ But of Wort he said no more.
And yet in the moleweeks that followed this confrontation with Wort, Beechen seemed to accept that the eldrene had a part to play in his destiny which was beyond his power or desire to influence. Downcast and silent he became, trekking more slowly, talking to none, looking to Buckram and Sleekit to protect him now from other moles. Dreadful days of worsening winter weather, as driving rain turned to sleet and snow harsh at their faces.
On, on he wished to go, Holm never failing him, more silent even than he was. Until at last, one afternoon, Holm stanced up and scented against the wind.
‘Holm knows what’s there! Been told! Sleekit knows too.’
‘I’ve never been by this route,’ said Sleekit.
Holm turned forward once again with a startled look on his face and dashed forward as if just round the next corner was whatever it was he scented. In fact it was an hour’s more travel and they came down upon it over a rise. Deep, dark, sinewy, flowing from the west, flowing to the east.
‘See the River Trent!’ said Holm. ‘North’s beyond it, south’s this side.’
‘Lead us down to it, Holm, and we shall rest.’
So, wearily, unharried for now by grikes, they came to the River Trent.
Even there, in the depth of winter weather, moles found them and Beechen, despite the darkness that had beset him, counselled and ministered to them through the long and desolate days.
Grikes, some of whom had been with Wort at Charnwood, came and stared. Came and grinned.
Beechen ignored them, turning towards the dark river which all knew he must soon cross.
‘Father,’ he whispered in one communal prayer he made then, ‘give us strength for the final days to come. Let the Stone be ever before us, let its light shine upon our way, give me the companionship and love of my friends to the very last, grant me the strength to go on alone, however much I fear. Guide me.’
The others were afraid when they heard him speak prayers like this, and some of the followers complained and said, ‘Is this a warrior’s prayer? Is this not a prayer of fear and doubt? Where is the Stone in this? Why does he speak of his father and not of the Stone? Why do we feel doubt in his presence? Why does he not lead us differently than this?’
‘Father,’ whispered Beechen, ‘help them in their hour of distress!’
How deep and black was the flow of the Trent, how fearful the prospect on its other side, how restless Beechen’s sleep. Close came Buckram to him, comforting were the words Sleekit whispered, loving was Holm’s way.
It was one bitter day then, when they lay by the Trent waiting for the weather to improve, that Sleekit found Holm stanced miserably by the river, staring across to the other side. He had been gone some days by himself.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Couldn’t you find a place to cross the river?’
‘Ha!’ said Holm. ‘Easy that! But I’m sad and sorry.’
He turned to look at her, his eyes brimming with tears, his fur spiky with mud.
‘Sorry I am,’ said Holm.
‘For what?’ said Sleekit gently.
‘Because … because I’m not Mayweed. Because he knows what to say and do. Stone Mole needs him now.’
‘No, my dear, he needs you. You are worthy. Mayweed would be most proud of you. Mayweed loves you.’
Holm stared at her but found no more words that night.
So it was they helped each other; in such ways is community made.
Perhaps Sleekit told Beechen of what Holm had said, but more likely he sensed himself Holm’s misplaced anguish. For when the day came that the weather cleared and Beechen was ready to go on he said to Holm, ‘Take us now over into the north and keep your eyes open for where the Stone stands proud.’
‘My eyes are not dusty like my fur!’ said Holm.
‘Do you know where to go?’
‘Yes,’ said Holm. With that he led them off and said no more.