Duncton Found (67 page)

He had found him and Buckram halfway down the wood, poised at a point where the floor fell away steeply, while waiting for Sleekit to recover her breath from a rush that had been too much for her.

The follower struggled up the slope, and described what he had seen.

“Is Wort there?” asked Buckram immediately, for he knew that mole all too well, and she ruled these parts most powerfully in the name of the Word.

“I don’t know what she looks like, but I know there’s guardmoles right across the wood – it took me a time to find a way back through.”

“To right and left across this route we’re taking?” asked Buckram.

The follower nodded.

As they had talked, other moles had come on from behind until Buckram suddenly found himself in a melee of moles, none quite sure what was happening as some were convinced they were pursued from behind, while others, hearing something of what the follower said, thought that now the dangers lay ahead.

“Right,” said Buckram loudly, his guardmole training coming to the fore as he imposed his will on the group, “except for the Stone Mole, Sleekit and me, the rest of you continue the way you were going. It’s for the best for you to go on and the safest. If guardmoles come this way, jostle them but don’t attack. That will give me time to get the Stone Mole out another way.” There was ominous-seeming crashing from below and Buckram responded to it by ordering, “Now go, the Stone Mole’s life may depend on it!”

Which they bravely did, turning from him and skeltering off downslope even as two moles began climbing upslope before them, a female and a male: Mistle and Cuddesdon....

Poor Mistle. Just at that moment when she had seen at last a mole so big among some moles upslope that he
must
be Buckram, and therefore the Stone Mole must be near, most of the moles with him detached themselves and ran confusingly towards where she and Cuddesdon laboured up the slope. Both were tired, for they had pressed on fast, rightly concerned that the henchmoles were following.

They watched helplessly as the crowd of moles pushed into them and they found themselves stopped in their tracks and even for a moment knocked backwards.

It was in those few vital moments of disarray on the slopes that Mistle saw the mole she had been seeking for so long. He was in profile, talking to a female – Mistle guessed it might be the one called Sleekit – and then she saw him turning to Buckram who at that same moment was pointing westward across the wood away from all of them.

Mistle called out, and for the briefest of moments the three moles looked their way, thinking, perhaps, that she was one of those moles who had been sent running down the slope. The mole she thought – she
knew
 – was the Stone Mole looked directly at her then for the first time, but at that same moment Buckram looked past her and Cuddesdon, and seemed to see something further down the slope below them, something that alarmed him: a pursuing henchmole.

He turned back to the Stone Mole, pointed again westward, and, putting a paw against his flanks, almost bodily turned him that way, shouting to Sleekit to follow them. Mistle saw all this as if the moles were moving very very slowly, and she as well, so slowly that the glance she exchanged with the Stone Mole seemed to go on a long time.

Then she saw him struggle against Buckram’s paw, and that he wanted to turn towards her, to come downslope to talk to her. But again Buckram turned and urged him on. She saw his gaze on her faltering and she tried desperately to push herself on, to call to him to say, to say....

“Mistle!”

From beyond the silence of the long moment she seemed locked into – a desperate moment in which she seemed unable to do anything but watch passively all about her – Cuddesdon’s voice urgently came.

“Mistle, one of the henchmoles is coming! Run now!”

She turned to look behind her, and saw the rush of moles that had now passed them reach one of the big henchmoles they had met before. Fortunately he too was stopped in his tracks, for the moles were jostling him, but he was buffeting them out of the way and pushing himself on up the friable slope and leaf litter of the wood, gaining ground on them.

“Come on, Mistle!”

Cuddesdon had run ahead and now, as she turned back to flee upslope, she caught one final glimpse of the Stone Mole, hurried westward by Buckram, looking at her as desperately as she did at him, and then he was gone from her sight.

“Mole! Stop, mole!” the henchmole roared from among the trees below.

“Mistle! Up here,
this
way,” called out Cuddesdon from above.

Then other followers crashed down from the slopes above, heading straight for her, and she turned first to right and then to left to avoid them.

“Mistle!” Cuddesdon’s voice was further off now and she was not sure where he had gone, for there were fallen trunks and branches to get round, undergrowth, a hollow in the ground, and behind her the inexorable crash of the henchmole closing on her and shouting for her to stop.

Panic overcame Mistle then, and she ran blindly on, going left round a fallen branch knowing that if Cuddesdon had gone the other way it would be hard to find him again for she could not cut back on her tracks without going towards the henchmole.

“Mistle...” His voice seemed far, far away, but wherever he was the henchmole was nearer, and she must flee and escape from him. On she went, on... until her breath gave out and she desperately scurried in among the leaf litter by a branch and hid, and heard the rushing, chasing, terrible shouts of the henchmole all about and tried not to let her desperate panting be heard.

He came running up nearby and stopped. She dared not move but could see his flank through foliage, going in and out with the effort of chasing her. She stared transfixed, and utterly afraid.

“Shit!” he said.

Then he cocked his head on one side, listened and muttered, “The bitch is probably hiding...” and began to snout about the surface, checking among fallen branches and undergrowth, coming so near that she could hear his heavy breathing and almost count each individual hair of fur as he moved past her hiding place.

“Shit!” he said again, and then turned away and stanced down quietly in the shadows, waiting for her to move. An earwig crawled over her paw, the thin red sheen of a worm’s end thinned and disappeared into the ground she had disturbed to her right. The ground smelt damp and musty, and she thought, Think of something to stop yourself moving, Mistle, think of something! But she could think of nothing but the numbing fear she felt. Nothing else.

Only after a long wait did the henchmole, still swearing, finally leave and she felt she could breathe again. But it was not until long after, and the movement of followers through the wood seemed to have ceased, that she dared shift her stiff limbs.

Then dusk came. She felt cold. She peered out into the wood, she saw nomole, she heard nomole. The wintry wood seemed dark and malevolent and she felt terribly alone and wanted to escape it as soon as she could.

But not downslope south where the grikes might still be, nor upslope north where Cumnor was. East, then, or west. She did not know. Cuddesdon... at least he must have got away from the henchmole as well. Should she stay where she was in the hope that he might come back? Which way might he have gone? It must be east or west, she had no idea.

“Guide me, Stone,” she prayed, “guide me now where I can best fulfil my task.” She thought of the Stone Mole, she thought of Buckram leading him away from danger across the wood – west. That way, too, the wood was lighter with the last of the sun, and she knew from experience that if a mole is in danger in a wood it is best she moves towards the light – for coming out of darkness as she does, she can see before she is seen. Yes, it’s what Cuddesdon would have done. With a sigh she turned west and hoped she might reach the edge of the dark wood before night or tiredness overtook her.

That night was bitterly cold and again dawn showed a frost across the woods and fields, and only the flap of rooks in the high trees. As the wood grew lighter a solitary mole watched three moles approach him. He was a rotund mole, a cheerful mole, a mole who for some time past had been wrinkling his brow and blowing warm, steamy breath on his paws to warm them and muttering, “’Tis cold!” But he was a mole who knew how to look after himself, for he was stanced most comfortably in the warmth of a hastily made surface nest of moss and leaves.

He watched the three and said to himself, “About time too!” Then he squeezed out of the nest he had made, shook his body free of loose material, and emerged from the shadows in which he had hidden and waited to be seen.

The biggest of the three, who was male and very big indeed and had the look of guardmole about him, did not make him feel confident, but he put a brave face on it and called out, “Good morning and greetings! Would you be Buckram?”

Buckram loomed nearer, looking to right and left in case of traps, and said, “I am.”

“Your friends must therefore be Sleekit and Beechen of Duncton Wood.”

These two ranged up alongside Buckram and stared in some bemusement at the mole.

“Amazing,” said the mole. “Absolutely amazing. I have met some extraordinary moles in my time but... well, words fail me.”

He beamed at them.

“Who are you?” asked Buckram.

“A friend of a friend. My name’s Tubney,
his
name’s Mayweed... and he is another amazing mole.”

At this they all relaxed. Beechen grinned, Sleekit fought back sudden tears and Buckram, still very much in charge, asked, “Where is he?”

“Not far, or too far. There
are
guardmoles about and that’s why I’ve come into this wretched wood, along with several others. He spaced us out and told us to keep an eye open. Very amusing, your friend Mayweed, “Keep an eye open and relax, yes, yes, yes!” Relax? I normally do. Bablock moles such as me are not renowned for stressful living. Since Mayweed turned up, took a look about, said our system was exactly what he had been looking for all his life and did we mind if one or two moles dropped in for a shortish stay all very hush-hush and please don’t fret,
this
mole has been worried sick, which doesn’t suit me at all. He said that whichever one of us should have the indubitable honour (as he put it) of finding you we were to lead you to him, and he would accompany you to Bablock himself.”

“Well if Mayweed said it you had better do it!” said Beechen with a laugh. “And anyway, I think he’ll be anxious to be with his mate again.”

Tubney looked at Sleekit and respectful surprise crossed his plump face. Then sudden embarrassment as if such an impressive and elegant old female should not be kept waiting a moment longer than need be.

“Oh! I see! I hadn’t realised, Madam, that you’re Mayweed’s, er, partner! Well then, of course, please, yes, yes... he’ll want to see you as soon as possible, so please follow me.”

Tubney turned and waddled off as Sleekit and Beechen, glancing at each other with amusement and shared love for Mayweed, turned and followed him, with Buckram guarding the rear.

The route was circuitous, and they picked up three more moles who had also been deputed to watching duty before they passed under a small cross-under and stopped.

“Where is he?” asked Sleekit.

“Supple Sleekit, beloved, look up and see your heartthrob, me!”

They looked up and saw Mayweed leering down at them from the top of the cross-under where, he explained as he scrambled and rolled his way down the embankment, he had been watching lest they did the really sensible thing and came via the minor roaring owl way they had j ust gone beneath.

“Dreams come true!” he said when he “was on all four paws before them, had dusted himself off, and had greeted Sleekit with an affectionate embrace.

“I have found a place where we may rest! Do I see gloomy languor in your stance, bold Beechen? It shall go in Bablock. Do I see frowns on your brow, ’stonishing Sleekit? In Bablock they shall flee. How far? Less than a day to reach a place a mole might seek all his (or her) life!”

“Come on, Mayweed,” said Beechen with some impatience.

“Yes, yes. I see you are as tired as you look, bothered Sir. I shall not witter more!” He turned to one of the Bablock moles and said, “My new-found friend, go and tell the other watchers that the moles we were looking for are come. We shall go on ahead. Away one and all! Stout Tubney, lead!”