Duncton Quest (55 page)

Then the female looked up at him, her eyes filled with the joy of a mother who has found her young, and said, “As sure as the Stone is good to me, I will. That in times of doubt then Barrow Vale is the place where he must go. I’ll tell him.” And she turned back to tiny Bailey, and nudged him close as close can ever be.

“I must go,” said Spindle, fearful for Thyme, eager now to get back.

“Aye, aye,” said the female vaguely, and she did not look up as Spindle left the dusty tunnels of Barrow Vale.

Yet he left the whisper, “You are much loved...” and he wanted to turn back for a terrible fear was in him to hear those words Thyme had said, and repeated so strangely.

Then again, “You are much loved.” So he ran from Barrow Vale, and up the long way of the slopes, but even before he reached his mate’s burrow once more, Maundy was coming to meet him and he knew, from her face and her gait he knew it, that his Thyme was no more.

Some say he ran then to the Stone; others that he was mad with grief and attacked Tryfan himself. But one knew the truth, and told it. Spindle of Seven Barrows went back down to Barrow Vale to find Bailey again, and take him back, but when he got there the female was gone, and Bailey with her, and he stayed alone at Barrow Vale, mourning his loss, and angry with the Stone.

Now, as spring advanced, everymole in Duncton sensed urgency, and the tunnels were imbued with tension and purpose, as each there knew a time of trial was approaching, and that many among them might die.

Already a Council of Elders had been formed, with Comfrey as its senior member and Tryfan as its natural leader. Skint was on it, and Maundy, Spindle too and Smithills.

Alder should have been, but some in Duncton still did not quite trust a mole who had been a guardmole so recently, but they were content that he should remain in charge of new arrivals, many of whom became trained watchers as they were taught discipline and made fit for the long struggle to come.

As for Mayweed, he reported only to Tryfan or Skint, but followed his own rules, disappearing nomole knew where, exploring tunnels and routes nomole else could fathom, thinking his thoughts; confiding in Tryfan of this and that secret he knew, or secret way he had found.

Everymole in the system knew that with each day of warmer weather the chances of grike attack increased. The watchers beyond the system had been increased, yet the only reports they had were of a certain restlessness which always comes to moledom in the spring. If the grikes were coming they were biding their time, making their plans, massing their forces. But where, and when...?

Meanwhile, Tryfan and the Council made plans of their own, though only after much discussion, and some dissension. War was not natural to Duncton moles, and nor could they really believe the cruelty that might come. The Pasture moles, to the west, when asked if they would fight alongside the Duncton moles, simply laughed.

Tryfan’s experience in Buckland had taught him that there were advantages in the kind of organisation and planning the grikes evidently used, and they had better use it themselves if they were to survive.

Skint had been deputed to check the defences of Duncton, and it had taken him three days to travel its circumference in the company of Smithills and Mayweed, following the course of the Thames which largely encircled it, and then the route of the way itself, under which he and the others had first come, using the narrow cow cross-under, twofoot made. Not nice for moles, but efficient so long as the weather was dry. They found drainage conduits under the way, buried in gravel and hard to reach, and memorised their locations, making sure to hide their entrances and exits.

“But the fact is,” reported Skint to the Council on his return, “if grikes come from the south east, which is the only way they can, we will be unable to escape without having to fight through their ranks because there’s no way of getting over the river, and they can cover the other ways out.”

“Then the first thing we must do is to establish positions beyond the way, which will divert attack and leave exits which will be safe,” said Tryfan.

“We really must l-l-leave Duncton then?” said Comfrey unhappily.

“There will be no way to defend it, or the moles in it, against prolonged attack by superior numbers,” said Tryfan. “Yes, I think we shall have to leave – for a time. I believe that Henbane would wish to massacre us here, as proof of the Word’s power, and as a lesson to anymole remaining who harbours hopes of being loyal to the Stone. So an evacuation is not a failure so much as a frustration of her objectives, and allows us to fight when we are in a better position to do so.”

“So why not get out now while the going’s good?” said Smithills, not needing to add that had they left Harrowdown earlier Brevis and Willow might still be alive. Tryfan was discovering, as his father had before him, that leading moles is not easy, and demands a balancing of one option against another, for which there are few rules, and where instinct is one strength, and purposefulness another.

“Skint and I have already discussed that,” replied Tryfan, “and we feel that an evacuation now is premature. For one thing we cannot be sure where the grikes are, and therefore might make the mistake of fleeing towards them in country we do not know and which we cannot defend as well as our own system. But certainly they are not very near because otherwise our watchers would have seen evidence of them. Secondly, each day that passes a few more refugees come and swell our ranks. Although their number has now declined, we might still miss some who would have joined us.”

The Council heard what he said and reluctantly approved it. All there wished to protect the pups that had recently been born, for they would be vulnerable in attack, but they recognised that the longer they stayed the stronger the pups would be when they left, and the more would survive.

But Tryfan had another point to make. “And finally,” he added, “we must prepare Duncton for the time after our evacuation.”

“After?” queried Maundy.

Tryfan and Skint nodded.

“We are too few to defeat Henbane’s forces outright, and to do so may – will – take many moleyears. But until now moles of the Word have had little trouble from the systems they have overtaken. Not only have such systems been severely weakened by plague, but for decades past, perhaps even centuries, moles of the Stone have lived peaceably, and there has rarely been inter-system fighting. So the grikes have never faced serious resistance. They have offered order and security to moles demoralised by plague and weakening belief, and what little resistance there has been they have crushed with threats, cruelty and punishment.

“But now, here in Duncton, there
is
resistance, and there are moles willing to fight to the death for what they believe.”

The Council moles nodded – there was not one there who would not die for the Stone. And increasingly it was being said (though Tryfan discouraged such ideas) there was not one who would not die for Tryfan himself.

“We were taught by the grikes themselves,” said Skint, “though unintentionally, that it is possible to resist them from
inside
a system, by the use of secret tunnels, surprise, and a strategy of withdrawal. This is not the traditional mole way, but then nor is snouting and the injustice of the Word. So far we are small in number, and we must find ways of making what strength we have be felt a hundred times. The day may come when Henbane and Weed will regret the creation of punishment tunnels like the Slopeside, for it taught us that we can survive in conditions not thought fit for moles, and from out of those conditions successfully fight, demoralise and escape. We have three moles among the followers – Skint and Smithills here, and Mayweed – who survived the Slopeside, as you did yourself, Tryfan, and Spindle here....”

“Yes, yes,” said Tryfan, “but what is your plan Skint?”

“Seems to me now that we should create secret tunnels in Duncton, ones to which we can return after an evacuation and from which we can cause trouble for the grikes if they stay here. Some of us can remain and hide after the rest of you have gone, to harass Henbane’s guardmoles, or learn things they do not wish us to know.”

“Aye,” said Smithills, “that’s work I’d willingly do, and others too if I’m not mistaken.”

“M-m-may the Stone guide us, and k-keep us safe until we are ready for the c-coming fight,” said Comfrey at the end of the meeting, and doing his best to sound inspiring, though fighting was never his way.

Yet, perhaps the Stone was listening, or at least guided the moles of Duncton in those dangerous days. It certainly seemed to have guided one mole, and that was Mayweed, who came searching out Tryfan one day as excited and eager as he had ever been.

Mayweed had changed a great deal in his time at Duncton Wood, as had many of the moles. He had become fuller, more cheerful, and more winningly enthusiastic about what he did. He had also, in a strange way, become more mysterious and secretive, and was much liked by the youngsters, many of whom he knew and with whom he was relaxed, and who loved him to tell his long-winded stories.

But on the day he sought out Tryfan he was anything but leisurely.

“Bold Sir, come quick come now, come eagerly! Mayweed has something astonishing and amazing to show you!”

“Which is what, Mayweed?”

“Not tell – show, Sir. Spoil the surprise telling, and tunnels have ears and Mayweed thinks this is something nomole should know but splendid Tryfan himself. Ssh, Sir! He tells it not.”

Tryfan sighed, for he was busy and Mayweed’s “secrets” had a habit of taking a long time in the showing, since they invariably involved journeys to the strangest of places.

“I’m very busy, Mayweed, moles to see, moles to direct. Can you at least give me a clue?”

Mayweed smiled his wide and ingratiating smile.

“One word tells it, Sir. One word only. Ssh, Sir, I whisper it... Escape.”

“Escape?” repeated Tryfan.

“From Duncton, Sir!” said Mayweed, delighted with himself.

“Who?”

“
All,
Sir. All down to the oldest and smallest. Everymole.”

Tryfan stared at him and Mayweed stared back.

“Pleased, Sir?” said Mayweed.

“Show me,” said Tryfan, “now! But we’ll go by Skint’s burrows as he should see what you’ve found.”

“If we must, Sir, we shall do so, and secure scheming Skint’s approval, Sir.”

Tryfan smiled. Mayweed and Skint had a strange respectful relationship which hid under a continual irritability from Skint and veiled sarcasm from Mayweed. Skint would pretend not to be interested, but he would come.

Which was how it happened, for Skint had to be persuaded to make the trek down to the Marsh End where Mayweed explained they had a mole to meet, who would guide them to what it was he wanted to show them.

So down the tunnels they went, this way and that as was Mayweed’s fashion, until they came to the moist Marsh End, and into a tunnel where a mole waited who was as dirty as a mole could be. His fur was caked with mud, his talons grimy beyond grooming, his snout snuffly with filth. But his eyes were wide and innocent, and he was a young mole by the look of him, but most unprepossessing.

“And this is the mole who’s going to guide us is it, Mayweed?” said Skint dubiously.

“Holm, Sir, that’s his name. But he won’t speak much, though he
can
and does, but not often, no,
no,
Sir, not very much, do you, Holm?” said Mayweed proudly, patting his friend on the back as he introduced him.

“Where are you from, Holm?” asked Skint, naturally suspicious these days.

Holm said nothing, but stared at them, very shy, rather small, weaselly of expression, so far as any expression could be seen beneath the dirt. He looked at Mayweed to speak for him.

“Where’s he from you want to know, Sir? From where? Where to, more like, that’s the better question!” Mayweed grinned winningly. “I found him, Sir, where nomole but him could be. Up a tree wasn’t he? Lurking like a bat or owl in a tunnel he made all by his mysterious self. Not
far
up, but high enough for me to say to myself that this was a mole worth cultivating, as it were, Sir.
Up a tree
!”