Duncton Found (81 page)

For Tryfan and the others the sounds were so alien to anything they had ever heard, so in opposition to the grace and Silence of the Stone, so freakish among the wintry trees of the High Wood, that the feathers of a raven might have turned red in the sky and its flight left a trail of blood among the clouds and it would have seemed less strange, less ominous.

Deep the chant, incomprehensible the words, as over it a guardmole commanded, “Be still for the Keepers there, stop shifting about.” At this moment the eldrene Wort slipped into the clearing, and took a stance adjacent to the place the moles of the Word were using as an entrance.

“What’s happening?” one of the Duncton moles began.

There was a tussle, a sickening thump, a moan, and he was silenced by a guardmole. The rest were mute.

The chant deepened and quickened and into the clearing came the Keepers who, but for Mallice and Clowder, were old and slow, and moved unrhythmically, their very discordance evidence of their seniority and importance. Some looked about, some kept their snouts to the ground, Mallice, eyes alight, gazed up at the Stone and then, whispering to Clowder, pointed at Tryfan.

The Keepers were disposed by Slighe near where Drule had been watching over the proceedings, and he retreated to the side, and near the Stone. Now, except for Tryfan, who remained captive by the Stone, the Duncton moles were barely visible at the back.

As suddenly as it had started the chanting stopped, and a dreadful, awesome silence fell. The summary assault on anymole that spoke seemed to have quietened the Duncton moles, though sometimes one of the confused ones spoke loudly or cried out, and one mole was softly sobbing.

“Shut the bitch up,” hissed a guardmole.

“It’s all right,” whispered one of the females, herself half crying, “she’ll not make another sound.”

“She won’t if she does!” growled a guardmole.

Two figures moved in the gloom beyond the clearing in the direction from which the sideem and Keepers had come. But for Tryfan, all the moles looked that way, the Duncton moles too, for as well as fear there was a terrible fascination about the scene. Only Tryfan did not look, but stared at the ground before him, though his posture did not speak of defeat or subjection but, rather, of deep sadness.

Then from out of the gloom came Terce, and just behind him, looking at his most powerful and healthy, came Lucerne, his head up, his eye first on the Stone, than on Tryfan beneath it.

“Is that the mole Tryfan?” asked Terce of Wort who was just nearby.

“It is, Twelfth Keeper. Tryfan of Duncton.”

Lucerne came forward and whispered to Terce who, moving to one side, came forward with him. Any fears the Twelfth Keeper had that the Stone might dominate the moles of the Word in general were proved false. It was the tension between Tryfan and Lucerne which dominated, each facing the other, the younger mole staring at the older arrogantly, the older still and looking at the ground.

“So,” said Lucerne, “you are Tryfan.”

Slowly Tryfan looked up and stared back. By the pale light that shone down, the scars on his face and about his eyes were impenetrable shadows. Certainly he was sad, but it was hard to judge if he was angry as well.

“This is a holy night,” said Tryfan, “and we are worshipping. Join us.”

A faint smile came to Lucerne’s face.

“Do you know whatmole I am?” he asked. “Look at me, Tryfan of Duncton.”

“I know whatmole you must be,” said Tryfan.

“Then look proud when you look at me!” said Lucerne. Did some hint of recognition come to Tryfan’s face then? Some mixture of alarm, of hope, of surprise, of horror? Whatever he felt he did not betray it, but said icily, “I have many failings, mole, but pride in you is not likely to be one of them.”

There was a brief laugh from Hay among the Duncton moles followed by a thump as he was hit, and from Wort there was a sharp intake of breath expressing horror that the Master-elect had been insulted.

“Release the moles of this system, celebrate Longest Night with us though you be of a different faith, be not afraid of us,” said Tryfan.

“I am thy son, Tryfan. I am Lucerne of Whern; I am thy Master-elect come to be ordained. Welcome me in the spirit in which I come.”

The guardmoles maintained their solid silence, Mallice stared with unadulterated glee, Wort half closed her eyes and prayed and only the Duncton moles moved and expressed anything – and it was surprise, confusion, disbelief.

“His son? Master-elect? Lucerne?”

“We welcome all moles, Lucerne, whatever moles they are, whatever their faith,” said Tryfan. “We welcome them in the spirit of the Stone.”

A mole watching that scene then would have seen Lucerne stiffen a little before this reply, and two others shift their gaze from Tryfan to Lucerne: Mallice and Terce. They saw anger in Lucerne, and knew it came not from what Tryfan said, but what in Lucerne’s eyes he had not done: he did not respond in any way to Lucerne’s declaration that he was his son. It might have been anymole who had come, anymole Tryfan was welcoming.

“Renounce thy Stone,” said Lucerne, his voice suddenly harsh. Never had three words spoken in that hallowed place seemed more threatening or more bleak; but never did a reply sound more final.

“I cannot.”

Son to father, father to son; Word to Stone, Stone to Word.

“I shall make thee, mole.”

“Lucerne, you cannot,” replied Tryfan, speaking for the first and only time in a voice that sounded like a father to a son, but it was a voice of weary warning, not of love.

Lucerne tried one last time.

“This holy night, here, now, might be your proudest moment, Tryfan of Duncton. Your son shall be ordained the Master of the Word. In the name of the Word I abjure you to renounce thy Stone that we may rejoice together.”

“Moule, Tryfan moule shal nat renege upon owre Stane,” said Feverfew from behind, her voice warm and maternal, as if she spoke to a youngster. “He cannat renege upon himself. The Stane
ys
and namoule may gainsay ytt.”

“She speaks true,” said Tryfan, slowly turning from Lucerne to face the Stone. It was a gesture of such final dismissal that some say the two guardmoles at his side were later executed for allowing this insult to the Master-elect to take place. But from that moment on the fate of Tryfan, and perhaps the other moles as well, was sealed.

If Tryfan had intended to speak out a prayer to the Stone he was prevented from doing so, for he was dragged, at Drule’s quick command, to one side, and, shrugging, Lucerne turned to Terce and nodded, and without more ado, or chance of change, the ordination of Lucerne of Whern, Master of the Word, glorious in his faith, learned of the Twelve Cleaves, began.

Terce, Twelfth Keeper and most senior, spoke the first words, saying, “A Master is called by the Word to work with his fellow Keepers and with the anointed sideem as servant among the moles to whom he has been sent. It is a holy office and he is successor to great Scirpus, receiver of the Cleave. Hear now....”

What the disbelieving followers heard was a recitation by the Twelve Keepers of what being Master meant, as expounded in the scrivenings of past Masters since the first beginnings of that malevolent office. So long did this go on that they might have been forgiven for thinking that they had no role in the rites they were witnessing.

But then the infamous litany and suffrages of that rite began, when each Keeper in turn cried out to the Word to spare the Master from a succession of sins he might commit....

“From all evil and mischief; from sin; from the crafts and assaults of the Stone; from thy wrath...
Spare us, good Word, and accept this the Master’s anointing
!”

From the first of these pleas in the litany the waiting followers knew what their terrible role was to be. For as it was uttered Hay was dragged, struggling and angry, from the Duncton group and held helplessly against the Stone as Drule came out and stanced hugely over him.

Then Terce asked him, “Do you, mole of the Stone, accept the Word’s rule and this thy Master?”

“I do not!” cried out Hay, eyes blazing.

Terce turned to Tryfan and said, “Thou hast the power to save the life of this sinning mole: renounce in his name.”

“Do not do so,” said brave Hay as Drule readied his talons for a crushing strike.

“I cannot speak for anymole but myself,” said Tryfan.

There was no second chance. Terce nodded grimly to Drule and then was the Word’s way known, then was the power of its way seen. Back went the talons of dread Drule, and with a sudden intake of breath his talons thrust down: foul the crushing life-taking noise as he thrust hard into the snout and face of Hay.

But worse came then and evil was seen before the Stone.

“Holy Word, my mother and my father...” As the eldrene Wort whispered her obscene litanies a Keeper came forward, thrust his own talons into the still-living head of Hay and, taking his blood, anointed Lucerne across the brow.

“By this blood of Atonement thy sins shall flee, by this first sacrifice the Word shall be satisfied in thee as Master.”

No sooner was this rite complete than another Keeper came forward, another suffrage spoken, and another victim dragged forward to the Stone.

“From all blindness of mind; from pride and hypocrisy; from envy, hatred and malice; from desire of the flesh, and thy wrath...
Spare us, good Word
!”

So harmless Thrift, who had once stanced at this spot and saved Tryfan’s life, died. Then another Keeper, another demand for renunication of the Stone, another refusal, another death....

From lustful thought, from wrong fornication, from deceit, from plague of mind and spirit, from thy wrath
... Spare us, good Word
!”

Teasel, already half dead, had her head crushed by Drule against the Stone. Another Keeper, another victim....

Even the most steadfast mole who heard of that grim time finds that a pall of horror numbs his mind, and he sees the events that now followed with disbelief. Why did not Tryfan speak? Why did not a mole like Hay fight more? Why do such things happen at all?

A mole may be unable to answer such questions, but he cannot turn his back on them. If he is to reach the Silence that the Stone brings he must know that such obstructions to his getting there as evil, or wickedness, or greed, or the desire for power such as Lucerne had, cannot be bypassed. No route exists to Silence, nor tunnel be delved, that does not pass through the shadow of suffering, the mists of moles’ selfish ambition, and the bleak dark of evil.

Tryfan, who had seen and felt so much, now saw and felt much more than anymole should bear.

For constantly, in the hours that followed in the ritual ordination of Lucerne, he was asked, “Renounce the Stone, Tryfan, and these moles need not be sacrificed. The Word shall take your renunciation in place of the sacred anointing by their blood, the Word shall be merciful. Renounce.”

On and on they were brought to the base of the great Stone. While between each murder – or sacrifice as the Word liturgists would have us call it – Terce and other of the Keepers proceeded with the arcane and filthy rite of blood anointment which Lucerne chose, and all about, obscene in its growing rhythm, like the mating of two mutant grikes, the sideem on each side of the Master-elect, chanted their blood-lustful chant.

Madder, most pitifully calling out for his friend to forgive him, as if, after so long, Dodder had anything to forgive.

Then Dodder quickly followed.

“Do you...?”

“He is not of the Stone,” growled Tryfan.

“He is lax to be with thee,” hissed the eldrene Wort, the only words she said.

“I do not renounce, and nor must Tryfan for me,” said Dodder with dignity.

A nod and Drule killed him, and his warm blood was touched (this time) to Lucerne’s mouth and his sickening whispered prayers underlay the chant.

Flint. Crying. How great the Stone seemed over him, how shining now its face. Flint died.

Feverfew, and whispers.

“This is the mother of the Stone Mole, Master-elect.”

“Does she renounce?” Lucerne’s voice was indifferent to Feverfew and what she was, but driving on towards the climax of the ordination.

The very trees seemed stricken then, the crescent moon to bow its head, the wind to haunt among the roots, and flee.

For the first time Tryfan broke down, his head bowed low, and began to speak to save her life. But Feverfew, unafraid, her eyes filled with love as she looked at him, said, “Myn luve, do nat doe so. Wat wee yaf hadde, ytt was ynough, ytt yss far more yan thidde trublit moule Lucerne canne ever hav.”

Terce nodded, Drule thrust, and the very Stone seemed to shudder in the night as Feverfew slumped and died at the very place where she had given birth to the Stone Mole.

So the last anointing was performed and all was still, all chanting done for now.

Then Terce, who had begun the rite, now brought it to its conclusion with the concluding liturgy.

“Receive the Spirit of the Word here now, Lucerne of Whern, as I Twelfth Keeper place my paw upon thy head in token of the faith that all moles of the Word have in thee. Remember that thou strengthen the weak and faltering spirit which is in us by thy supremacy as exemplar of the power, wrath and purpose of the Word. Teach, exhort, and impose upon us the Word’s holy will by whatever means you choose and we shall be obedient to thy will. Minister discipline, show no mercy to the lax and to the wicked, or to the Word’s enemies. Lead us and we shall follow thee whom now at last, for the first time and forever, we call Master. Master Lucerne, Master of the Word!”

“Master Lucerne! Master!” The sideem joyously cried out his name, and the moles milled forward, reaching out to touch him. The guardmoles smiled, the Keepers nodded and looked pleased, and all talked and revelled, and were glad for the Master before the Stone.

But Tryfan, still close-guarded, could only stare blankly at the broken bodies of his friends, blankly at the blood-anointed thing that was his son, and blankly at the Stone. And weep for Feverfew.