Duncton Quest (49 page)

Out on the surface the wind was still blustery enough to part a mole’s fur this way and that, and to send leaves, which were soggy from overnight rain, helter-skelter among the surface roots and back again.

They traversed the rising ground between Comfrey’s highest tunnel entrance and the Stone clearing, and approached reverently the Stone itself, which rose massively above them, the branches of the beech trees behind it swaying against its passive immobility, their bark a shining grey in the dull November light.

In Bracken and Rebecca’s day an additional beech tree had stood adjacent to the Stone, tipping it over to one side, until, on a day much like this, it had fallen mightily, its roots heaving and shifting out of the soil around the Stone which instead of itself falling had been shaken and then shifted back into an upright position. Twofoots, who rarely troubled Duncton Wood, had come and taken the fallen tree away and levelled the area around the Stone, and since then left it in peace, so that now the disturbed chalk soil had flattened and two seasons of beech leaves had drifted across it, and the Stone stood proudly alone.

Comfrey’s prayers and invocations were special to him, for he had become healer by accident and circumstance. But then Rebecca herself had been wayward in the art of invocation, and so had Rose, who had lived out on the Pastures and was not traditional in any way at all. Perhaps healers are always so. In any case, Comfrey had a poor memory for words, and little feeling for rhythm, preferring to talk to the Stone as if it were a mole just like himself.

“Well,” he began, “we thought we’d say a pr-prayer for T-Tryfan, who is a worthy mole.”

“Yes,” agreed Maundy, staring up to the distant heights of the Stone and then all the way down again and feeling small as a pup.

“I wasn’t happy before about things,” continued Comfrey, “th-things going to happen, and I’m not now. And I hope Tryfan is protected and if we need him that’ll he’ll come back soon.”

He snouted about here and there as if he smelt a scent but could not quite make out its nature or direction. He gazed up at the Stone. It seemed almost to be moving against the stirring branches and drifting grey cloud beyond it. Tilting westwards... So, taking the hint, he turned round and headed to where the clearing abuts the Pastures on the western side of the wood, which is not many moleyards from the Stone itself. Maundy followed him, asking what was apaw, but he ignored her, snouting the air instead as if, as if....

“It is T-Tryfan,” he said.

“What about him?” said Maundy.
“What
about him?”

“He’s coming,” said Comfrey matter of factly, “but he’s in trouble, he’s not happy. Yes. Th-that’s it.”

He looked round seriously at Maundy and said with a quiet certainty mixed with surprise, “Tryfan’s coming home. He is!”

“But that’s good, Comfrey!” said Maundy.

“No... it’s n-not good,” said Comfrey firmly. “There’s trouble.”

“When’s he coming?” asked Maundy.

“Soon,” said Comfrey, snouting about a bit more and sniffing a few times, and then crouching down with his snout facing over the Pastures to the west. “Well,” he added, “soonish.”

But when other moles in Duncton heard the prediction that Tryfan was returning, “soonish” seemed an irritably long time coming.

Within hours of Comfrey’s announcement the whole system was abuzz with the news: Comfrey had prophesied Tryfan’s homecoming, and therefore it would be. Soon, too. Tryfan, the young mole who had honoured the system by being guardmole to old Boswell. Tryfan coming home!

Some moles immediately set about cleaning out their burrows, others wondered whether (and if not why not?) he had found a mate and if so what young they had had. On the other paw (observed others) he might have become a scribemole and
they’re
celibate. But then, if he was coming home he could not be a scribemole, and as he had wanted to be something must have gone wrong. Yes, something was wrong. So euphoria gave way to doubt, doubt to unease, and unease to more surmise so that every possibility under the sun and many under the moon was discussed and assessed.

The practical problem was
when
was he coming? – for the moles who expected him within hours of Comfrey’s announcement were soon disappointed.

Only one thing was agreed by everymole: Tryfan should be greeted, and greeted properly. Which meant somemole or moles better go and meet him.

Maundy herself was the main force for this idea and gained Comfrey’s support for it except that, as he pointed out, Tryfan might come from almost any direction.

“You were snouting towards the west when you said you felt he was coming,” observed Maundy.

“Oh dear. Was I? Well that’s probably right. That’s where Uffington is, sort of. I sup-sup-suppose he’ll be coming from there.”

Then other moles remembered that the only way into and out of Duncton Wood was by the cow cross-under which went beneath the roaring owl way to the south east, and so a couple of moles were sent off across the Pastures and round to the way itself, and there they waited patiently. For a day. For two....

Until they were replaced and others went and doubts set in about Comfrey’s prediction. And anyway, the grumblers began to suggest, nomole wants strangers in a system and one mole means more moles, so Tryfan’s coming might not be such a good idea after all.

But Comfrey remained quietly certain. He could feel the fact of Tryfan’s approach but not the when of it. Then November gave way to December and the cheerful prospect of Longest Night, and most moles’ thoughts were on other things than the prophecy of Tryfan’s return.

Naturally some hoped he would come back especially for that holy night, but most said, “Don’t you count on it, it’s been a moleyear and a half since Comfrey’s prophecy and not a snout in sight, and hardly a mole these days who’ll go and do the greeter’s duty! Not me! I’ve done it twice already!”

Which was true enough, for most had put up with travelling down to the roaring owl way and waited vainly in the cold for Tryfan’s return. Of course it would be an honour to be the mole who was there... but a mole’s got better things to do with Longest Night coming and preparations to be made, and youngsters to be reminded of the songs and rituals.

So Longest Night came and with it all the excitement of the season. The rituals began early in the afternoon, as the light began to fail, and one by one, or in twos and occasional threes, the moles made their way by tunnel and surface to the Stone. Some whispered their own prayers, others stared at the Stone as darkness fell which made it seem even more massive than it already was.

Many came to meet old friends whom they might not have seen for many a moleyear, for moles like peace and quiet if they can find it, and nomole disturbs a known solitary.

So there was chatter and quiet laughter, and the celebrants came and went, each one remembering to whisper the name Linden, for she was the first White Mole, and her story is always remembered and repeated on Longest Night.

The clouds thinned above and the moon began to show – misty, perhaps, but visible enough to mole, a good sign for the cycle of seasons ahead. A mole likes to see the moon show on Longest Night.

Comfrey
made his own visit to the Stone, barely noticed at first, but when he was moles let him be for all knew he liked to say his prayers undisturbed. When he had done, Maundy wished him a happy Longest Night, a little shyly perhaps, and they nudged each other in a friendly way which others liked to see, for if ever two moles should have mated it was those two.

“So is Tryfan coming tonight then?” somemole said out of the dark, daring to ask the question all wanted an answer to. For all hoped he would, though few dared admit it, for there was an air of incompletion and waiting over
this
Longest Night.

“He’s very near,” said Comfrey. “I th-think he’ll come.”

“Is he very fierce?” asked a youngster, for Tryfan was famous among them and many tales had been told of him.

“He’s strong,” said Comfrey.

“But is he fierce?”

“I don’t th-think so,” said Comfrey smiling. “Except with enemies.”

“He’s clever, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Comfrey.

“And ever so good-looking,” giggled a young female, born the previous spring and not yet mated.

Comfrey didn’t answer that.

“Shall we wait for him then?” asked somemole else.

“N-n-no. Waiting slows things down,” said Comfrey. “We’ll have some good food down in the communal chamber and tell some tales. And maybe a mole or two can stay on the surface to greet him.”

But nomole wanted to do that on such a night, and Comfrey himself could not as he was needed to lead the festivities. “Well,” he said, reluctantly allowing himself to be dragged down to the chamber, “it would be b-b-better...” But one mole quietly left them and made her way to the surface, for she could see Comfrey was unhappy not to have somemole there to greet Tryfan should he come.

“Where’s M-M-Maundy?” asked Comfrey later, noting her absence and feeling sad, for he liked to have his old friend nearby on such a night as this. But nomole knew.

Out on the surface, by the Stone, Maundy watched the night deepen and listened for a time to the muffled chatter and laughter of the celebrating moles.

She sighed and said a whispered prayer or two, thinking that there could be no better gift for Comfrey, who had given so much to Duncton Wood so selflessly, than the arrival of Tryfan. And yet... the night deepened, and the revellers were getting quieter and some, no doubt, especially the youngsters, were beginning to grow tired and think that a snooze would be a good thing for a mole to do before trekking back from the communal burrow to their own burrows to east and west and north.

Old Maundy sighed, wished her wish again, and, thinking that it was as fine a night as any could desire on Longest Night, she set off out of the wood on to the Pastures, down to the way itself, as if by doing so, she might bring Tryfan nearer sooner, if he was ever going to come at all.

Then, when she reached a point near the cow cross-under through which she expected visitors to come, and with the way’s sides rising steeply above her into the night, she settled down to wait, watching the high passage of the roaring owls, whose eyes gazed on the edges of the way above, but whose fumes, mercifully, a mole rarely smelt down below. Back and forth they went, in ones and twos, the ones going south on the far side of the way. Strange things, thought Maundy, roaring and shaking and gazing so far.

If you’re on the way, Tryfan of Duncton, please hurry up! she said to herself, staring ahead at the tunnel beneath the way that moles travelling from the west would need to use. Then she smiled, for it was a good night on which to spend a little time alone, to think of the past seasons, and those new ones about to come.

“Mole! It’s mole! It is mole!”

Poor Maundy had fallen asleep and now woke very frightened, for a huge male was looming over her, quite close.

Beyond him were the daunting rising heights of concrete that formed the pillars leading to where the roaring owls ran. Before her was the fearsome wall that girded the pillars, and beneath it the tunnel that led (so it was said) under the way. Not that she had ever tried it, she had never been further afield than this, and never wanted to.

Now, from so close she could hardly focus on him, a mole said, “Mole!” and sounded very fierce.

“Hello!” she said into the darkness, as brightly as she could.

“It
is
mole,” said a different voice. “Beware!”

And then, before she could so much as gulp, Maundy felt a talon at her right flank, and another at her left, and saw a third mole stancing off ahead as two more came out of the cross-under tunnel.

“Whatmole though? Of the Word? Of the Stone? Vagrant? Diseased?” They chattered among themselves in deep voices and then gently but firmly pulled her into the light that was cast down on the ground from the roaring owl way above.

“Well, I was...” she began. Then, fully awake, and feeling suddenly annoyed, Maundy shook herself, peered around at these threatening moles and said proudly, “Of Duncton am I! And that means you can take your talons right out of my flanks
now,
young mole!”