Duncton Rising (17 page)

“And why aren’t you?”

“Opportunity, Whillan, opportunity. The same thing that brings
you
here.”

“Me?” said Whillan, rather affronted.

“Oh, well, if you want to be mealy-mouthed about it, please do. I expect scribes like you who can make words do all sorts of things would call it “destiny” or the “Stone’s purpose” or something of that sort. Well, Weeth is more direct and calls it opportunity.”

“He’s got a point, my dear!” said Privet lightly, reaching a paw to Whillan who, after a moment of struggle with his pride, grinned ruefully at Weeth.

“If ever I have occasion to scribe about
you,
Weeth, and I hope I do when all this is over, I shall remember to call you a mole of opportunity and myself —”

“A mole of destiny?” suggested Weeth.

“... The other mole of opportunity!”

They all laughed, but what Weeth had said had about it the air of truth and inevitability, and that changed the light mood in which they had begun their trek across the Vale to one more serious and circumspect.

So as these few days of journeying towards Evesham continued, all three Duncton moles grew to like and appreciate Weeth. Others may have found him annoying in the past, but perhaps it was because they did not come from a system such as Duncton, where moles traditionally make time to talk and share their thoughts, and learn to listen, which is not an easy thing. He certainly had a way with words, and though he might seem sometimes to talk too much, yet each of the other three had to admit that his presence added something cheerful and optimistic to their group, and made the way ahead seem easier.

He gained their confidence, and it was not long before his early presumption in offering himself in the role of aide to Maple did not seem presumptuous at all, but just as it was meant to be. For that was never a role that an individual like Whillan could have borne – his star was lone and distant, and though it had not yet begun to shine and lead him where it must, yet all sensed it would when the time was right; and when it did, Maple might need a new helper and companion. This was the role that Weeth instinctively adopted, and after a few days there was not a mole amongst them who would have denied it him.

Yet though it was Maple he seemed likely to end up serving, both Privet and Whillan found him increasingly good company, and each enjoyed some time with him. It was made easier by his ready curiosity about their lives – lives of mystery as he liked to think, and in that he was right. Not that Whillan was able to enlighten him upon his true origins – the events preceding that tragic day beneath the Duncton cross-under when the Master Stour rescued him from a certain death when he took him from the teats of a dying mother, whose name he never knew. Nor was it likely that he would ever now discover the identity of his father.

This was, in any case, an old tale that Whillan knew well enough, but perhaps Weeth’s fresh curiosity stirred in him desire to know more. Perhaps, indeed, it stirred too much, for after he told it him Whillan was silent and desired to be alone for a time.

“Forgive me for making you tell your strange tale but I like to know where moles come from, and who their parents are,
especially
if there’s mystery attached to it!” declared Weeth.

“I understand,” said Whillan, “but it gives me pain to think of it, and what is the point when I cannot hope to find the answer? You should talk to Privet, Weeth, if you must pry into things; she likes you and will keep your over-active curiosity occupied. And anyway, the tale she could tell about herself would make mine sound positively boring in comparison!”

Weeth needed no second bidding, for what a snout for a good tale he had, as if he could sense it out like succulent food that needed to be drawn out of the rich soil of life. A look of ineffable pleasure would cross his face as by probing and questioning he managed to free some new tale from one of the moles in whose company he so willingly found himself.

It was no surprise therefore to Whillan and Maple that he should snout out something of the part of Privet’s tale which followed her departure from the Moors so long ago. It is a fact of life that once such secrets as she had told in Duncton Wood permit themselves to be unveiled they are not easily kept out of sight again, and lead on to other revelations. Perhaps because the moles who carry them have a need to tell more, as if in doing so they might discover something more of past lives, past truths, that remain unconsummated and incomplete.

So when, one evening, Privet agreed to tell something of her past, in exchange, as Weeth put it, for the tales
he
had told, Whillan and Maple were content that she should do so, though they thought it well at first to remain inconspicuous, the better to encourage her to talk. So Privet shared an evening stance with Weeth, and when it grew too cold to talk outside, retired with him to a temporary burrow down below and told him the outline of her life before she came to Duncton Wood.

For once he was utterly silent, except when he found it necessary to ask her to elucidate some detail of her story. But Rooster and the Moors, the Charnel Clough and Hilbert’s Top – all held him fascinated and amazed, with more questions left than had been answered. But being Weeth, when she was finally done, his response was not quite that of a normal mole.

“Oh wonderful, grand, splendid, to burden
me
with such a tale! And what am I to do with it? How can I be expected to free myself of it when you implant it in my mind like a seedling in fertile soil, to grow and burgeon and produce fruitful questions far beyond the normal experience of a mere wandering mole like me looking for opportunity? Thank you very much, Privet, I am so pleased that you have found my ready ear. I am happy for you, but your delight is my misery! What am I to do with this incomplete tale living in my mind? How do I rest my weary self-centred head in the burrow at night and find peace when I think of Rooster all confused, and Hamble, noble and strong, and that wicked sister of yours. Lime?

“Do they let me sleep? They do not!
They
never sleep, but go on round the circles of my mind and will not let me rest until they escape to a better world than the one you left them in. What a thoughtful mole you are. Privet, what a comfortable companion! Oh, yes, what pleasant opportunity for rest, contentment, peace and leisure I find here! Show me a cliff and I shall leap over it; take me to a roaring owl way and I shall lie across it; anything is better than to leave so many questions unanswered...”

But Privet would hear no more, for the night was very late, the others were long since deep asleep, and contentment was coming to her at least, and drowsiness as well. The more Weeth fulminated in his good-humouredly outraged way, the more she liked him, and the more she felt inclined towards the restful sleep a mole can find if she is sharing a warm burrow with another whom she likes and respects, and knows that despite all his words and plaints and bickering, he means her no harm at all.

“Good night, Weeth,” she whispered at last.

“Oh, wonderful!” said Weeth, all wide awake. “Sleep well! All of you! Go on! Don’t worry about me!”

They did sleep well, and they did not worry about Weeth at all, except when morning came and he was lying in contented sleep among them, almost impossible to waken as on his face was a half-smile, and a half-question, as if when he had finally found rest it was because he knew he was among friends.

And when he awoke it was to discover his companions in no mood to travel on, but rather to dally for a day or two and tell some tales.

“Tales!” said Weeth.

Whillan winked and whispered, “Your talk with Privet yesterday has put her in the mood to finish what she began. She said before you woke that it was time she told us all that she can remember of her past and Rooster’s. She feels she might not get another chance once we meet the Newborns at Evesham.”

“Which is why,” said Privet, drawing them all to her, “I have decided to tell you my story, such as it is, and if you want to ask questions, please do so. It might help me along a way I haven’t dared think about all these long years.”

“Where are you beginning?” asked Maple.

“Where I left off with Weeth last night – the day Rooster and I decided to leave Hilbert’s Top and take our chances with the real world beyond...”

PART II

Privet’s Tale

Chapter Eight

So, their winter sojourn up on Hilbert’s Top come to its natural end, Privet and Rooster had set off across the Moors to make contact with molekind once more. They met with only two moles on their journey to Crowden – the lonely survivors of the family Privet and the others had stopped with for a time in Ramsden Clough on their way out to Chieveley Dale.

Turrell, their doughty leader, who had been able to tell Privet something of Rooster, was still alive, though only because one of his adoptive sons, Waythorn, had pulled him clear of a vicious attack by Ratcher moles which had left the others dead.

“Even Myrtle, your mate?” whispered Privet.

“Nay, not her! She had the sense to die during the winter years, and was spared the pity of what happened here. Without Waythorn I don’t know what I’d have done!”

“You can come with us now,” said Privet. “I’m sure Crowden will give you sanctuary, and they’ll be glad of some extra paws on their side.”

It was Waythorn who shook his head. “I’m a country mole,” he said simply, “and couldn’t live in a great big community with moles falling all over each other. I’ll look after my father, and when the day comes he goes to the Silence, the Stone will tell me what to do!”

They tarried with Turrell and Waythorn a good long time, sharing stories, enjoying the sense of peace in the isolated clough, lying low while both of them adjusted to other company, and prepared themselves for what Privet especially was beginning to feel might be an ordeal ahead.

So it was mid-April when they finally approached Crowden; the lower moorland slopes were sprinkled with flowers, and the two moles’ fur was glossy and their eyes were bright with the better air, food and exercise their long journey had brought. They mounted a rise, wended their way through the outcrops at the top of a ridge, and found themselves looking down at Crowden Vale.

“The system lies beyond the lake below,” explained Privet, who felt unaccountable excitement and dread as she surveyed her home system after so long away. “You can see the Moors stretching up higher beyond it, and over to the east on our left flank as well. It’s from there the Ratcher moles usually attack.”

Rooster nodded, looking where she pointed, and noting that here and there at the highest places on the horizons there were still some patches of lingering snow in dark, shadowed, north-facing sites.

“The Weign Stones, where Wort scribed her Testimony, lie beyond the southern horizon,” she went on, pointing ahead. “And to the west, beyond the furthest point of the lake, the Moors finally end, and moledom really begins. I’ve never met a mole who’s been there, and they say they don’t speak our language there, they speak Mole. My grandmother Wort told my mother that one day she should go there to the places I’ve told you about.”

“Beechenhill,” said Rooster. “Duncton Wood and other Ancient Systems. Gaunt said it was where delvings were. But “Mole”? What do we speak?”

“Whernish,” she said. “It’s the language the moles of the Word spoke who came from Whern in the north. Wort spoke Mole and only learnt Whernish when she came to the Moors. Her Testimony is scribed in Mole of course, as most texts are.”

“Can you speak Mole?” he said.

“I can scribe it and ken it of course, but speak? Probably.”

“You teach me, like Gaunt taught me delving.”

“If you want,” she said. She was always surprised at how much he wanted to learn, and how willingly. She looked downslope towards Crowden and the feeling of dread returned. “Now we’re here I don’t want to go into the system at all! I feel I’ll lose you when I do.”

“Been good, our time,” he said.

“I’m afraid,” said Privet.

He chuckled. “Life
is.
Gaunt said that. Said knowing it was hard made it easier. Wish Glee was here to see. Wish Humlock was here. I miss them. I hope I never have to miss you.”

He turned and stared into her eyes. How she had grown to love his lined and furrowed face, his frown, his heavy, slow-seeming ways which hid a mole so sensitive and so courageous. She looked at his paws and wanted to ask him a favour but dared not.

“Ask!” he commanded, his look warm. “Can see a hope in your eyes.”

“Will you delve a place for us, a special place?” she said. “For us. Like you did on Hilbert’s Top only... well...” She faltered into sudden shyness.

“Have begun already,” he muttered, frowning. “Feel its delving need. A place where we can be...”

But he could not find the words either, and his paws delved and dug at the air, and he looked away from her over the distant Moors, shy as herself

“Better go.”