Duncton Stone (40 page)

“How to delve the Newborns away!” said Rooster vehemently. “And how to make the wind-sound clear. Like you said. Can only learn what you want.”

“Yes,
sir
,”
whispered Frogbit.

“Saying nothing,” growled Rooster.

Frogbit opened his mouth to agree, thought better of it and made his way to a spot a little behind Rooster’s left flank, while the others grinned.

“Maybe Frogbit won’t count,” grumbled Rooster, half to himself. “Maybe he’s not important, so Seven Stancing not affected. Wish I believed it!”

“So, what do you want us to do?” asked Dint. “These five are all good workers, and all can be relied on to get on and not talk of what we’re about. Tell us what to do and where to begin and we’ll get on with it!”

Rooster nodded, looking suddenly very serious.

“Have found lost Stone,” he said, pausing only briefly as the others gasped in amazement. “Have found the first line to delve and will show you. We work hard and fast, and you do as I say and
you
,”
he added, turning to Frogbit, “you’ll find us food, and help clear soil, and keep out of everymole’s way.”

Frogbit nodded, eyes shining with excitement.

“Now, follow me,” said Rooster, and he led them across the meadows, far from where he had summoned them when they had come, down from Great Stoke. Under two old fences, across a muddy field, above a dyke and out on to a drier meadow which felt as exposed and as indefensible a place as any Dint had ever been to.

“But the Stone can’t be here,” said one of the older moles. “It was found those decades ago
downstream
of there so it must be way down yonder somewhere. At least, that’s where we’ve always looked.”

“It’s down there,” said Rooster, pointing to a stretch of unbroken grassland.

“But you’ve not delved there yet to find out!” said one of the moles.

“Stones speak louder than delves,” Rooster replied. “Let’s start!”

Today, when allmole recognizes Rooster’s greatness, those simple words, “Let’s start’, are said sometimes as a jest, as moles begin some great and challenging task, so awesome, so intimidating, that repeating the words that Rooster spoke all those years ago on the meadowlands of Nether Stoke somehow gives them courage to begin. If he began so great a delving as that which saved the Stoke moles with such simple words, so might they begin their own task as well.

As for the Stoke delving itself, in all its wonder and subtlety, others have scribed of it much better than a mere historian, concerned with the facts and events of a spiritual history, can ever hope to do.
*

*
See in particular the scholarly
The Lost Delvings of Nether Stoke
by Bartolf of Evesham; and, for a more personal account of the dramatic Newborn siege of the delvings. Bryony of Rollright’s
The Miracle of Stoke
has not been bettered.

It is enough to say here that the lost Stone was found, precisely where Rooster said it would be, and that using it as a centre-point for his tunnel line (though for a true delver “lines” are rarely straight) he created the tunnel and chamber complex into which the Stoke moles were successfully evacuated over the following days, and only just in time. For within half a day of the last moles being brought down from Great Stoke, and the deliberately debauched and inebriated Brother Inquisitor discovering that he was all alone in the system he had been sent to cleanse, the Newborns from Evesham closed in.

Their bafflement at the disappearance of an entire population was almost as great as their absolute conviction that somewhere across the flat meadows of Nether Stoke moles lay hidden; which in turn was only marginally less than their frustration at discovering that however much they dug and delved across the meadows, and however many tunnels they found – strange tunnels, curiously convoluted, turning back on themselves and yet never conjoined again, mysterious passages and weird chambers where one could swear moles had just been yet where nomole was ever found – they did not find any moles.

Worse, their own guardmoles, trained and hardened through the years, frequently disappeared for days on end, only to reappear with beatific smiles on their faces, talking of love and the Stone, and utterly unable to remember where they had been or what they had done, but certain that they would like to go there and do it again, and saying followers weren’t so bad after all.

Little wonder that the “Miracle” of Stoke was out and abroad as a rumour by late June, and that Weeth, ever a mole to probe and enquire, should ponder on it, and through covert means and by devious methods ascertain, or perhaps deduce, that only one mole could have created such sublime confusion amongst the Newborns: Rooster. So he had gone to Stoke as Maple had finally bid him do, and there, with a little bit of luck, and some considerable courage, he had infiltrated the extraordinary and beautiful tunnels that Rooster had created.

“Thought I would be found,” said Rooster gloomily.

“Yes,” replied Weeth matter-of-factly, saying no more than that.

“Will only last until winter floods come,” said Rooster, “and only right they should. Delving not for war.”

“This is saving lives,” said Weeth, basking in the strange light and ease of the tunnels and chambers centred about the lost Stone in which the Stoke moles now withstood these summer days of siege.

“Humph!” declared Rooster. “Worms, Frogbit, get some!”

“You’re hard on that mole,” observed Weeth.

“He’s learning,” said Rooster, “hard is best.”

“Learning what?”

“Rooster can’t live for ever. Once peace won, delvers will be needed to help keep it. Must be trained. Am training
him.
Why’ve you come?”

“Tell you in my own time,” said Weeth, who understood Rooster better than most.

“Why?” repeated Rooster day by day, frowning and disturbed.

Finally, four days after he had arrived, Weeth confessed. “I hate to say this. Rooster, but you’re needed. Maple sent me.”

“No,” said Rooster, “you sent you. Maple wouldn’t.”

Weeth grinned. “Yes, I did send me. I think you’re going to be needed now. Things are changing fast.”

“Tell me,” said Rooster, and Weeth did.

“Will come,” said Rooster at last. “Stoke moles can protect themselves now, until winter. By then maybe all right. Maybe not.” He shrugged, not indifferently so much as philosophically; the Stone would see right done.

As soon as it was known that Rooster was to leave, all kinds of moles asked if they might come with him: to protect him, to be with him, to watch over him.

“Can only take one,” declared Rooster.

“Then take the strongest of us,” cried out Dint, pointing out many a strong and powerful mole among them.

Rooster shook his head. “Will take one who has a lot to learn, but is learning; lot to give, is giving; lot to discover, is discovering. Will take you, Frogbit. Come here, mole!”

Trembling from head to foot, scarcely believing his good fortune, terrified even then that Rooster was going to say he could not go after all, Frogbit went to Rooster, his snout low, his eyes down.

“Need a helper,” said Rooster. “Need a mole knows that soil is soil and rock is rock, and stones are stones. Have tried all ways to stop you even beginning to be a delver, but your spirit won’t be stopped. Once was young myself Once had the delving need like you – unformed, untrained, undisciplined. Didn’t even know its name. You know what I mean.”

Frogbit nodded, not saying a word.

“Look at me, mole,” said Rooster.

Frogbit raised his head and with the greatest difficulty looked into Rooster’s eyes.

“Will be hard, the journey you make. Harder than you ever dreamed. You may not complete it, or you may, only the Stone will decide. If Dint says you can come with me, you can come.”

“’Course he can, Rooster, sir, and there’s none more proud than me to see it. You’ve saved our moles and our system, and given us a chance. We view it as an honour that you’re taking one of our own with you on your travels. We’re a bit off the beaten track down here, we know that, but we’re not ignorant moles, and we’re faithful to the Stone. You’ve given us back our heritage and our pride, and if young Frogbit there reminds you from time to time of his home, and you never forget there’s moles here will always honour you, we’ll be satisfied!”

It was well said, and overwhelming for Frogbit, who could not think of a suitable speech for the occasion, and said so in a faltering voice.

“Wish I could, but I can’t. I’ll miss you. I’ll do my best. I’ll not forget where I come from. Like my Master says, ‘If a delver doesn’t know where he’s come from, he’ll not be able to get where he’s going to.’”

“Did I say that?” chuckled Rooster. “Am clever to have said it, and you’re clever to remember it! So... when to leave, Weeth?”

“Today. Now. Yesterday,” said Weeth, “or, er, tomorrow? At the latest!”

And, indeed, by the time the farewells were done and the last tales told, and Rooster had entertained his friends with memories of his days on the Moors, the night had passed into dawn, and the morrow had come.

It was in the convoluted tunnels and chambers around the lost Stone of Stoke that Rooster chose to say his final goodbyes.

“Stone will protect you until the waters come. Then you go out by this tunnel – all of you,” he said, indicating a strange narrow passage that few used, which twisted and turned under the base of the Stone itself

“Down there, go there, Dint. You’ll know when. Others must be ahead of you. Tell all to be calm, whatever happens. Stone will protect you! Don’t try to go out by any other way. This way, only this!”

Dint nodded his understanding. Goodness knows Rooster had told him and others enough times about it: don’t be seen on the surface; don’t be afraid if the waters are rising, or the Newborns approaching. But be prepared to run!

“Best I can do, very hard delving, might not work. Now Weeth, now Frogbit, we must go! “Bye!”

Then to the cheers and embraces of their many friends the three moles were gone by routes secret and hidden, which eluded the Newborn guardmoles, and took them south of Evesham and in safety on towards the Wolds.

“So there you are, moles,” declared Weeth, “that’s how Rooster, Master of the Delve, made his way from Wildenhope to Join us tonight. And, come to that, it’s how his most able, and willing, and obedient helper, Frogbit of Stoke, comes to be among us too!”

“What I’d like to know is what Rooster was on about regarding the lost Stone of Stoke. All that about only using one tunnel, and waiting until the last moment —”

Weeth raised a paw to the questioner, and to others eager to hear more.

“Now, before you ask your questions there’s three moles here could do with some food! And as soon as possible!”

The addition of Rooster to the forces of resistance was of considerable importance, as Maple instantly understood. He already had warriors of substance under his command, among them Ystwelyn and Arvon and Stow, and they were helping him to mould the disparate mass of refugees and moles of the Wolds into a united and disciplined force.