Duncton Found (11 page)

Tryfan, less sociable now than he might once have been, was not well pleased by the crush of extended paws and pattings on the back, but he took it with rough grace and was glad to see that Beechen was warm and friendly to all he met, though a little too dazed before so many to say much.

A few familiar faces were among the throng, and these Beechen was especially glad to see: Bailey was there, a mole he much liked and whom he knew had a special place in Feverfew’s heart since he had been appointed by Boswell to watch over her coming to Duncton Wood. There, too, he met the quiet but impressive Marram, who wished him well and said that when Tryfan judged the time right he would be glad to tell Beechen about guardmole ways – he had been a guardmole once – and about Siabod where he had journeyed and lived awhile.

“Siabod!” said Beechen. “I’d be glad to hear about that place!”

They lingered longer than Tryfan might have wished in Barrow Vale and though the intention had originally been to travel on through to the Marsh End that same day, it was decided eventually to stay where they were for the night. Others did the same and as the evening evolved into a night of quiet reunion and story-telling, and later some mirth and revelry mixed (it must be said) with maudlin nostalgia for times past but not forgotten, Tryfan was glad that they had stayed. It did Beechen good to listen to others talking, and to hear the old songs and know what a strange outcast system of moles he had been born into and from which he might yet learn much.

The moles gathered in the great community chamber of

Barrow Vale itself where once, Tryfan explained, the elder meetings of the system were held and where the great and notorious Mandrake held court; and where, too, the sinister Rune, then young, first gained power in a southern system and learnt the weaknesses and the strength of followers of the Stone.

“Before my time,” growled Tryfan in memory of those days, “but Rune desired my mother and she desired him not. For that, much later, I had punishment enough!” He waved a paw across his scarred face and the moles were silent and serious, for there was not one there but Beechen himself who had not a suffering story to tell about moles of the Word; and the bitterest were those who had been grikes or guardmoles themselves, and whom the Word betrayed.

The chamber of Barrow Vale, so long deserted after the plagues came, was in use again, its floor dust-free and its entrances clear. The sense of age and history that the place had came not so much from the earthen walls as from the roots of the trees on the surface above which gave support and delineation, and in many places – the more comfortable ones – were polished by mole passage or use as resting places, and here and there were pitted and roughened by the sharpening of talons.

Friends of Tryfan, like Bailey and Marram, and Sleekit too who joined the group later in the evening, formed the inner circle of moles near Tryfan and Beechen, along with a few bolder souls who wanted a good look at the youngster. But by far the greater number were those quiet and modest moles, many aged now, who encircled the inner group. Though they spoke little their eyes said much, for they watched Beechen with a touching eagerness and loyalty, and listened to the general talk in some awe.

When Beechen went among them, as he did later with some worms, they were embarrassed and abashed, but mostly pleased that he came so close.

Yet all was not quite peace and tranquillity, for moles do not mix easily in large numbers, and arguments sometimes flare.

One mole in particular seemed to attract a general opprobrium and his name was Dodder. He was an old guardmole, and a senior one at that, who seemed irritable with moledom and inclined to argue with anymole near him, and provoke hostility in others.

“You’re not stancing here, you mean old bugger,” said another to him when he first came down from the surface.

“Wouldn’t want to, Madder. It’s bad enough having to share a chamber with you let alone a patch! You and your kind is what moles like me gave our lives for.”

“Humph!”

And so on. But outbursts like these were short-lived and as moles finally dozed off and judgements of the night were made, most agreed that it had been a successful coming out for Beechen, and the youngster had acquitted himself well. As for the business of the “Stone Mole” and that, well, a mole got carried away in April by the light of a strange star for he seemed normal enough a mole now he had grown, didn’t he? Nothing exactly
holy
about him. In fact, truth to tell, it was a bit disappointing that he was so normal....

But when morning came and everymole had to get on with their day, a good few forgot their shyness of the evening before and came forward and modestly wished Beechen well, and, having heard he was to learn scribing down in the Marsh End, they whispered that they hoped Tryfan did not treat him too hard and that he got out into the fresh air from time to time.

“Thank you,” faltered Beechen, not sure what he was thanking them for and wondering what they knew or guessed about Tryfan that he did not.

Moleyears later, many remembered their first meeting with Beechen at Barrow Vale, and would say, with that nostalgia tinged with sadness that attaches to memory of a world lost beyond recall, “He were but a youngster then, with eyes as wide as a starling’s bill for moledom all about! Whatmole would have thought...?”

But whatever mole
did
think, one at least had special reason to remember those early days, and his story, but briefly told, must be enough to show that even then Beechen, for all his “normality” and youth, had been touched by the Stone and was already, though he himself probably knew it not, reaching out to touch moledom’s heart.

It happened that morning, soon after they set off from Barrow Vale, that they came across a mole, a thin old male, hiding to one side of their route in the gloom of some nettle stems, as if he had been waiting for them to pass so that he might catch a glimpse of them. It was not the first time it had happened – indeed, Tryfan was used to it on his own account for many of the outcasts had had experiences so violent and sad that they were timid and half-broken things; and if disease had touched them as well, they were embarrassed yet pathetically eager for acknowledgement.

Though Tryfan was no longer a mole who bothered much with the niceties of social behaviour – perhaps because he could not see as well as he once could – he always found it in his heart to greet such moles, though if he could he avoided protracted conversations with them. But a greeting, and a touch, and a moment’s warmth did not seem too much to give.

On this particular day, and after the fingerings in Barrow Vale, Tryfan was more than eager to get on. Certainly, there was timidity in the mole’s gaze, but it was mixed with curiosity and longing too. Tryfan had seen the mole on the night of Beechen’s birth but did not know his name, and he had not been among those in Barrow Vale the night before.

“May the Stone be with thee, youngster,” said the mole who, to Tryfan’s relief, did not attempt to say more, or come any closer. Indeed, they were almost past him before Beechen stopped and turned and stared back at the mole.

“Come on, Beechen,” said Tryfan, fearing another delay.

But it was too late, and Beechen had gone back to the mole and greeted him.

His face was ravaged by scalpskin, and his paws were swollen, bent and evidently painful. He looked both surprised and alarmed as Beechen approached and half turned to get away. But Beechen was too fast for him and the old mole stopped and his face broke into an uncertain smile.

“’Twas just to wish you well, mole. Just to
see
you.”

Beechen stared and said nothing, and the mole said nervously, “They say you’re named Beechen. Not a name I’ve heard before but sturdy enough all the same.” The mole spoke clearly and well despite his natural diffidence. His accent was local and Tryfan guessed that he had been brought to Duncton from a nearby system.

“What’s
your
name?” asked Beechen.

“Me?” said the mole. He seemed to hesitate, which was strange since a mole ought to know his name even if he was diseased and inclined towards forgetfulness. “My name? ’Tis... why, I don’t know. I...” and his voice slipped into a fading unhappy cackle as if he regarded himself as so worthless he had even forgotten his own name.

Tryfan was ready to bring this exchange to a halt, and urge Beechen back on to the path into the Marsh End when something about Beechen’s stance stopped him. The youngster had grown suddenly still, as had the other mole, and to Tryfan’s surprise Beechen reached gently forward and touched the mole’s face.

“Whatever name others have called you, mole, all these years past, it was not the one your mother used. What was your real name?”

The mole held Beechen’s gaze for only a moment or two more before, his eyes softening, his snout fell low and he shook his head a little, as if to shake away a memory too painful to bear here, now, in the light of the present day.

Tryfan felt a tremor of insight and saw that this was a scene, or a version of it, which would be repeated many times in the years to come, as Beechen cut through with a single touch of his paw other moles’ doubts and evasions.

“Why, mole,” said the mole, “how would you know that? Nomole knows my real name.”

Beechen gazed at him and said nothing and the male sniffed and looked frail, as his troubled, half-blind eyes looked here and there for a comfort they did not find. And eventually he wept, and let Beechen touch him once again.

“Nay, you’re right. My name... my name was...” And it was a long time before he was able to say it. But finally... “My name was Sorrel once upon a time, but the grikes took it from me and never gave it back. They took my mate and our young and sent me here. Nomole to call me Sorrel now.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Fyfield, which isn’t far off as the rook goes.”

“Sorrel of Fyfield,” said Beechen softly.

“Aye, that was me and proud of it. But not now. Look at me now... Look at me.”

Then Beechen spoke, his voice soft but powerful in a way that seemed to still even the leaves in the trees above, and make of the moment something that lived forever.

“You shall be Sorrel again,” said Beechen. “To a mole that matters much to you, you shall be Sorrel once more. And that mole shall serve me, Sorrel, as you serve the Stone. Now tell me the name of your mate and young.”

“Her name... her name... They killed her by the Fyfield Stone. Much killing was done there. They killed my own. Her name was Sloe and she was a mole to love. Our young were a female, Whin, and two males, Beam and Ash, taken from us with barely a moment to say goodbye. I told them to remember us and trust the Stone, but the grikes killed Sloe almost before our young were out of sight and... and I trust not the Stone. It took as good a mole as ever crossed my path. It....”

Tryfan saw then the light of day across Sorrel’s troubled face seem to brighten, and his eyes to clear as he gazed up into Beechen’s eyes, though where the light came from nomole could say.

“Trust the Stone, Sorrel, for it shall bring you peace. There are still things you have to look forward to. For I am the Stone Mole and it shall be. But tell nomole of this but that your name was Sorrel once and is again, and you are proud of it. Tell them only that.”

Then Beechen turned back to Tryfan and they were gone, leaving old Sorrel staring after them and wondering in awe about the mole who had touched him, and whose touch he felt as sunlight on his face.

There, later, others found him and said, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, mole. You look....”

“The name’s Sorrel,” said Sorrel firmly.

“Sorrel? Is that so? Now have you heard that that Beechen mole’s about?”

“Aye, I met him,” whispered Sorrel in awe. “That was the Stone Mole all right. His fur is so glossy the sky shines in it, and his eyes as bright as spring flowers were when I was young. He knew my name which no other knew, and that name’s Sorrel. He knew my name, and touched my face, and told me I was not so old that there weren’t things still to look forward to.”

“
What
things?” said his friend.

“Things a mole’s promised not to talk about until they happen.”

“Did he really know your name without telling? Are you sure...?”

“He did,” said Sorrel.

Thus many of the stories and myths about the Stone Mole started, with simple moments when the truths of hearts were exchanged, and Beechen reminded moles of who they really were. Such simple stories would, in time, evolve to accounts of healing and of prophecy, of magic and of miracles; and perhaps become unstoppable, even by a whole army of trained grikes. Truly, the Stone Mole was coming, and his name was Beechen.

In June, the Marsh End’s secrets show themselves best to moles who are ready to struggle through the thickset undergrowth and debris to where the sun filters among moist greenery and the sweet secrets of pink saffron and the last pale flowering of hellebore.

Yet even in summer this is a part of Duncton Wood that has a dark and clandestine aspect, for the beeches of the higher wood disappear to be replaced by the smaller and closer growing alder, sycamore and stunted oak, all underlain by mucky undergrowth and rotten fallen branches.