Duncton Found (137 page)

There was silence at this, for it was plain to them all that Woodruff knew more than they did on the subject, even if what he said was not anything like the stories they usually heard.

“You are well informed, Woodruff,” said Romney quietly, “and we in Duncton like to hear the truth. Would you...?”

“No, I wouldn’t!” said Woodruff brusquely. “I do not wish to speak of those times.”

It was a strange moment, of the kind by which a system or community is sometimes put to a test without quite realising it. A group of moles debating, a sudden outburst by one of them, and then, too often, a retreat to blandness or unforgiving silence on all sides.

But a true community responds in better ways at moments such as that. Duncton had long since become strong, and sensitive, in its groups as well as its individuals, and many of the moles in that chamber understood immediately that Woodruff’s ill temper ran deep to something that mattered much to him. Perhaps they knew that better than he did.

Silence followed his remark. Not an uncomfortable silence but rather a waiting silence, in which a mole can come closer to himself if he is allowed, and can speak his heart without fear of rebuff.

Woodruff had been in the process of stancing up to go, but so quiet was the burrow, and so friendly – so warm – that he stayed himself and settled back and stared at the ground.

Still nomole spoke.

The mole Woodruff had said “I do not wish to speak of those times”, then let the mole Woodruff say what it was he did wish to speak of!

“Henbane loved Tryfan,” he said eventually and very quietly, into the deep and caring silence in the chamber below Barrow Vale. “To her he was the greatest light in her whole life. I believe that to him she must have been the same, and certainly she believed so – or so I have been told.”

The hasty addition of “Or so I have been told” achieved the opposite effect than that intended, which was perhaps to distance Woodruff from what he was saying, and make it seem that his information was at second paw. But the trembling passion in his voice and the conviction with which he spoke could not but make a mole think that he had knowledge of Henbane few moles had.

There was a continuing silence, and one it was plain nomole would interrupt.

Woodruff throught some more, hesitated, and then suddenly seeming to decide to talk, said, “Few moles know the truth of Henbane’s puphood and how she was raised by her mother Charlock on Rombald’s Moor. If they knew that they would understand how it was that Tryfan’s love was such a revelation to her, and, too, what great courage she must have needed to turn her back on the Word and on Whern as she did that grim Midsummer.”

His voice both deepened and softened as he spoke, and Romney, who sensed the importance of the moment, was touched that the mole nearest Woodruff turned to him with a smile and said, “There’s not a mole here, Woodruff of Arbor Low, who would not feel it a privilege if you’d tell us more of what you know of Henbane. It’s been a puzzle to me for years that a great mole like Tryfan loved a mole we have been taught to hate. So if you will, tell us what you know, mole.”

Woodruff seemed to find it hard to respond immediately to this, not because he had nothing to say – it was plain he had a great deal – but because the gentle way the mole had spoken, and the atmosphere of care and interest in the chamber was not something he was used to at all. Indeed, he looked round at them for a time, his mouth opening as if he wanted to speak so much, but was not quite able, and tears were in his eyes.

“’Tis all right, mole,” said Kale, “you take your time, we can wait.”

“Aye, fetch a worm or two for Woodruff over here!” said another. In this way that awkward moment passed, and it was so plain that the moles were as much concerned for Woodruff as the story he had to tell that nomole could not have felt warmed and cheered by their response. Indeed, he was not the only one with tears in his eyes. Romney had them too. For what he saw before him that night was indeed a community of moles, and one which knew well how to take into its heart a mole who some might have said was not of their number. But there they were and there he was among them, feeling safer, Romney suspected, than he had ever felt in his life. And feeling valued too.

The task that Mistle set herself finds a fruition here tonight, he thought.

Then Woodruff chewed some worm, unashamedly touched a paw to his tears, and said in the old way, “Of Henbane of Whern, born of Charlock and Rune, former Mistress of the Word, shall I tell as best I can, and from my heart to your heart I shall tell it that you know it to be true.”

So then began the first telling of a tale by Woodruff of Arbor Low in Duncton Wood, and the whisper soon went out that a great tale was being told by a mole who knew what he was telling, and others came quietly to the chamber, and settled down into the silence there, and listened as, once more, Henbane of Whern came alive in Duncton Wood. But now it was through a mole who had loved her and who, it was plain the more he spoke, and the more he told, and despite all appearances to the contrary, loved all moles.

A long tale it was, and the night was late when it was done, and many a mole went up to Woodruff afterwards and said, “That was an evening I’ll never forget, I hope you’ll tell us more when you’ve a mind to.”

“I shall,” said Woodruff, looking surprised and embarrassed by how warm the moles were towards him. “Yes, I think I shall!”

The following day Romney went to Mistle and said, “There’s a mole came to Duncton Wood some weeks past whom I think you should meet. His name is Woodruff of Arbor Low.”

“Whatmole is he, Romney?” said Mistle.

“Just a mole I’m saying you should see.”

“Why?” She peered at him, half sceptical, half amused. It was not often he told her what to do, and this was the nearest he ever came to it.

“Because,” said Romney with a smile. “Because you trust me.”

“All right, all right, I’ll meet your mole, but first tell me what you know of him....”

Woodruff came to see her that same day and stanced down close by her. Like so many before him he was struck by the beauty of her eyes, and the grace she had. But she was old now, older than he expected.

“Why have you come to Duncton Wood, Woodruff of Arbor Low?” she asked. Her gaze was direct and clear.

“I wanted to see the system that most in moledom say is its greatest glory now,” he said.

She gazed on him more and said nothing.

“I wanted to know about the past.”

Still she said nothing.

“I wanted to know about my past,” he said.

She nodded, satisfied, and thought. Then she said, “And what were you afraid of that it took you so long?”

He stared at her and she at him, and he felt that his heart and mind were plain to her.

“What is it you hope to find here, mole?” she asked.

“I... don’t know, but I know I have been much afraid of coming.”

“Well, that’s plain enough.”

“I was hoping that you might tell me how you began here...” he said.

She laughed gently.

“Yes, Romney said you’re good at making other moles talk, but I have a feeling that the story of how you began might be more interesting than our recent history,” she said.

He smiled but said nothing.

“Whatmole are you?” she said suddenly, and quite fiercely, her gaze on him all the time.

“I... don’t think I know,” he replied very quietly. “I’m not sure. I...” His snout lowered.

She reached an old paw to his, and waited until he was ready to look at her again. Her eyes were wise, and he saw there was good light about her, and peace.

“You can tell me,” she said, “and Romney here.”

Then Woodruff knew he could, and for the first time in his life he began to tell the tale of how he came to be, and all his story after the deaths of Lucerne and Henbane at Arbor Low, and how he had travelled moledom in search of an understanding of his past.

At its end he said, “When I was young, Henbane often told me that I should go to Duncton Wood. But I was reluctant... and yet wherever I went, whatever stories I heard or moles I met, it seemed to me that the story of these times started from here and points back to here.”

“And now you’re here?” she said at last, her paw still on his.

“If Harebell was my mother then Tryfan was my grandfather....”

“And Henbane your grandmother....”

“And perhaps here I’ll find a sense of peace I’ve never found elsewhere,” he said.

“Perhaps,” said Mistle thoughtfully. “Or perhaps you’re the mole to find much more.”

“Well, I came here by way of Seven Barrows in the hope that I might find a Stillstone but instead, like others before me, I am sure, came to see that what I had carried for so long was but vanity, and I discarded it before entering the High Wood.” He smiled ruefully.

She was silent for a time, not interested in his stone it seemed, but when Woodruff offered to leave her and let her rest she shook her head.

“No, mole, there’s a task I think I have for you. If you’ll consider it. Yes, a task....”

Romney smiled. He had heard
those
words before. How many times had wise Mistle said them to moles who until that moment were floundering in life? How many moles had found their life’s way directed by Mistle’s infallible sense of what their task should be? Romney should know. She had found his task for him.

“Yes?” said Woodruff.

“From what you’ve said you know as much of the history of recent times as anymole I’ve ever met. Much more, perhaps. How many moles can say that they were raised by Henbane herself? How many moles saw Lucerne die? How many moles have trekked as you have to Whern, to Caradoc, and to many places in between?

“Not many, Woodruff of Arbor Low. How many have talked with moles, as you have, who heard the Stone Mole speak, and saw him barbed? Not many. How many know so much of the Word and can scriven as you say you can, and yet have faith in the Stone, and can scribe as well? Not many.

“I am old now, and tired, and cannot tell the tales I’ve told much more. Nor can Romney. But when we hear others tell them, they change them, and put into them stories of their own. I’ll be a myth or legend in my own life if that goes on and our history will be lost.”

“You’re a legend already, Mistle!” said Woodruff. “So what would you have me do?”

“You said that all the ways you went, and all the moles you spoke to, seemed finally to point to Duncton Wood. You said that here you believed the Silence might be found. Do you know what that Silence is?”

Woodruff shook his head.

“Have you heard of a mole called Glyder?”

“I have. And I’ve heard what he said at the Conclave of Siabod.”

Mistle looked surprised, and pleased.

“What did he say?”

“I heard it from Gareg of Merthyr, and it was confirmed by Gowre who was the last mole who saw Glyder alive.”

“You are thorough, mole.”

“It is the only way to be with truth.”

“Aye, it is so. And what was it you heard that Glyder said, that you remember?”

“He saw a twofoot die and it much affected him. He broke out from his retreat solely to tell moles that we should contemplate the twofoot if we would know Silence.”

“Aye mole, so I’ve heard, so I’ve heard.”

“But now, what task would you have me do, Mistle?”

“Those that follow us shall need to know what happened here, and the story of our times. Bailey, son of Spindle, made a library here and had begun to collect texts from other places.”

“Aye, there’s some I know hidden here and there which I’m sure nomole has seen.”

“Well mole, collecting texts is one thing, scribing them another. I would like to die knowing that a mole I trust shall scribe with truth the history of our times, and of this system here. Will you do that, mole, for me?”

Woodruff was silent and thinking.

“Will you help me, and ask others to help me?” he said at last.

“I will.”

“Will you and others trust me to scribe as I judge best?”

“We shall.”

“Will you tell me all you know of the Stone Mole, for he is at the heart of Duncton’s story and I know too little of him. I have heard you never talk of him and yet you loved him as mole, not Stone Mole.”

“You try me hard, Woodruff of Arbor Low, grandson of Tryfan, but I will, I will.”

He smiled.

“And how do you know for sure I am Tryfan’s grandson, after all I’ve told you today?” he said lightly.

“As I remember Tryfan, you have his eyes. And his paws as well perhaps. They are a scribemole’s paws,” she said. Then turning to Romney, she said, “This shall be a great task he does. Help him in whatever way he needs. But for now, leave me, for I am tired.”