Duncton Rising (41 page)

“Got you! Bitch!”

The mole’s paws held her, tumbled her, and then the two of them were over her, angry, breathing heavily, mocking.

“Runs fast for a fat mole!”

“Would have been better if she hadn’t run at all!”

She stanced up and faced them. She looked to her right and saw the Stone. It was so near, so near.

One Newborn followed her glance and then looked quickly away, frowning and angry.

“Get away from there! Go back this way!”

She did not move, eyeing them warily as she realized with surprise that they were afraid of the Stone. Of course, Newborns were!

“Don’t try it, mole!” said the other, reaching out towards her.

“Chater!” she called out, as if he could hear. Oh, she needed him now, for the Newborns had her and they were moving round to block her from running to the Stone’s sanctuary.

“Plump Madam! Boldness is needed!”

Plump Madam?

She looked around in surprise. There was nomole here but these two, waiting for her to move and eyeing the Stone uneasily. Plump Madam? Whatmole spoke like that?

“Humbleness, who knows something about finding routes, suggests you concentrate on the task in paw! Be bold I say, be brave!”

She looked around wildly and then she saw him by the Stone, in its shadows, grinning in a friendly way, his fur patchy.

“Yes, yes, fair one, Fieldfare! It is I, invoked. I, summoned up. I, lingering in shadows, sliding in and out of Silence, by this Stone.”

“Mole,” growled one of the Newborns, coming no closer, his voice betraying his unease about the holy place they were in, “you better come with us now, or else.”

“He sounds unsure of himself!” thought Fieldfare in amazement. How could anymole be frightened of the Stone? Even if, in its shadows, moving, grinning, disappearing, speaking, a mole so familiar to her, so much loved by her, whose name she could just now not remember, was beckoning her.

“Fat Fieldfare, be bold, and come to me. I cannot come to thee! Come, come, come...”

Then Fieldfare felt the fragments of the stones at her paws, and saw the light of the day upon the Stone, and knew that if she turned towards it, it would shine upon her face and guide her, help her be brave, teach her to be bold.

“Mole!” cried the Newborn, his voice strangely desperate.

But she ignored him, and with the light full upon her, and the grinning, patchy, marvellous mole dancing with glee in the shadows and beckoning, she advanced towards the Stone.

The Newborns shrank away from her, their faces full of fear as if she was contaminated, which she supposed she was – by the Stone, and her own faith in it, and... well, by the mole who seemed to be summoning her to his phantom flank.

“That’s right, plumpness, fat one, comely Fieldfare, you show them! Or, as moles of the younger generation might put it, ‘Go for it, fattie!’”

Well, why not! If faith and the Stone’s Silence were the only reality, life was an illusion and she could go right through it! And Fieldfare did, boldly, and bravely, right up to the Newborns, her eyes proud and fierce and full of a pity for them which they did not seem to wish to see.

“Madam,” said her guide in the shadows, “what a worthy one you are! Me? Humble Mayweed! Dead as dead can be! But invoked to be your guide amongst these Stones. For a moment I thought, “Chater’s beloved isn’t going to make it!” but you proved humbleness wrong, which is not the first time, he is sure. Nor the last.”
*

*
Mayweed was the great route-finder of the Duncton Chronicles, and much loved by all who knew him.

Behind her Fieldfare was dimly aware that the Newborns were retreating, shouting to each other, frightened, puzzled, and wondering where she was for she had been there, right there before their snouts.

“I’m here!” she wanted to say, “here among the Stones.”

“Follow, Madam, for he needs your love. Me, I’m just here to see you get there. Follow!”

Yes, yes, yes she would, now, in among the shadows of the Stones whose deeps and darks, whose greys and pale shinings held the magic light of Longest Night which was so near, and here so powerful and full of joy.

“Follow, don’t dally!” Mayweed called, and she smiled and followed him, or rather the shadows amongst the Stones where he seemed to run, for she had trusted the Stone, and for a time it would keep her safe.

Much later, as night fell, Noakes, disconsolate, trailed his weary way back from Uffington, and almost all the moles of Seven Barrows, led by Spurling, waited for his coming. Fieldfare had saved them all by leading the Newborns away from their tunnels, but when they went out looking for her she was nowhere to be seen.

“Let me go back towards where the Newborns were seen coming from,” the bold young Noakes had insisted. “I’ll be quicker alone, and safer too!”

Spurling let him go. They could not just let Fieldfare be taken, yet they could not risk other lives.

So Noakes had gone, and they had waited, all the joy and good spirit arising from the preparations for Longest Night on the morrow gone. Fieldfare taken! The very heart of their community had been ripped out.

Noakes knew what he was about and ran and searched across the ground, using the rises to advantage, looking ahead and hoping to catch sight of the Newborns and Fieldfare. On and on, tirelessly he ran that afternoon, knowing that time was of the essence. If he found them he might be able to help, even get her free. Why, he would give himself up to them if they would let her go! He would!

Then he had seen them, two of them. Arguing in loud voices, trailing along, angry, half-frightened of where they were. And Noakes crept after them, listened, and knew that Fieldfare had escaped in among the Stones. She was safe... or was she?

So he ran back, fearful for her, only reaching the stonefields again as dusk deepened towards the night. He had stared across the Stones, and even ventured in among them calling her name.

It was no good, Spurling, I couldn’t hear or see a thing. But she’s definitely not with the Newborns, that’s good news at least.”

“We could try to find her,” said Spurling, distressed beyond words.

Noakes shook his head. “Not now, but I’ll get some of the young moles organized for the morning. We’ll keep a watch and call out for her through the night. If she’s among the Stones she’ll be safe. Come the dawn we’ll find her, Spurling, we will!”

He wished he could believe it. He washed that when he had stared among the Stones on his return they had not seemed so silent, so forbidding, so ungiving. He wished he had more faith.

“Aye, mole, that’ll be for the best,” said Spurling. “But I might join you later, when I’ve settled the community to some semblance of rest. Longest Night’s coming, the seasons are turning, and there’s hope for us all in that...”

Chapter Nineteen

When Weeth was taken out of Privet’s sight and into custody by the silent Newborn guardmoles, she wondered why she felt no fear on his behalf, or on her own. Even when the grim-faced female Newborns put their paws roughly to her flanks and hurried her through the entrance by which they had been stancing guard, and then down and away from all further contact with her friends, she felt no trepidation.

Instead a certain calm came to her, and it was a feeling she recognized and could turn to, as if it were an acquaintance she had travelled with for a long time past but had not yet had the chance to get to know better. Now she felt that they were at the beginning of a long journey they were to make together, and she would do well to become more familiar with... it?

She smiled at her hesitation, for she had almost thought of “calm” as a fellow mole, but then, when she considered further, and reflected on the many emotions that had stirred her since she had first begun her tale in the privacy of Fieldfare’s burrows in Duncton Wood, feelings
were
like fellow travellers – bit by bit, for better and for worse, a mole should make an effort to get to know them. Otherwise they remain dark shadows she is afraid of and life’s journey is diminished by the simple fear of facing them.

This calm she now felt had to do with a growing sense that all this rushing about, all these cold-eyed Newborn moles, all this
striving,
were of no great importance at all.

“Is it fatalism I feel?” she mused, doing her best to keep up with the sister in front, and to comply with the insistent pushing of those at her flanks, and behind. “No, no, it is more
generous
than that! Why, I don’t feel badly about these moles at all...”

“Hurry, Sister! Stop dawdling!” said the mole at her left flank, who had mean, chilly eyes.

“... I almost feel affection for them!” she concluded, amazed at the discovery. “They’re so trapped in themselves, so unfree, and that’s why they’re pushing and shoving at me!”

There was a sharp jab in her rump which brought tears of shock and pain to her eyes.

“Get on, mole!” said the one behind.

Privet stopped suddenly, and the one behind bumped into her, while those at her flanks looked outraged and pulled at her to continue.

“Why?” said Privet quietly. “Why harry me, and hurt me? Is moledom really going to change if we arrive wherever we’re going a few moments later than we would otherwise have done?”

“The Senior Brother said we must do it quick.”

“Do what quick?” said Privet, feeling calmer still, and thinking that the most they could do was jab her more and the hurt would only be short-lived. This talking, this looking into the eyes of these moles, this breaking through to who they were was much more important than a little pain. She had done it with Chervil, she could do it with them.

She was jabbed again, this time by the one in front who had hurried on, not realizing at first that her charge had stopped, and had now been forced to return. She looked outraged and puzzled, and a little nervous.

“Come on!” she said, grabbing Privet.

“It’s because you want to get me away from my friends as soon as you can, isn’t it?”

“We don’t know about
that,”
said the mole, her anger lessening before Privet’s calm. “The Senior Brother said we must get you into Bowdler just as quick as we can.”

“What’s your name?” asked Privet; the feeling of affection for these poor driven sisters had returned to her, and with it the memory of how when she herself was entrapped in Blagrove Slide she had been grateful when moles used her name. I’ll come without complaint if you tell me your names.”

She had turned in the direction she had been going to look squarely at the first mole, and the ones behind tried pushing her and hitting her in their efforts to get her moving, so hard indeed that she slewed to one side, and winced with pain even as she stared into the eyes of the mole she was addressing.

“Stop that!” this mole said. “Leave her be. Please come, because otherwise we’ll get into trouble.”

Privet saw that it was so and yet still she asked, “Just tell me your name.” She sensed that if she could only reach through to one of them, she might reach through to all.

“All right then... my name’s...”

“Your real name,” said Privet resolutely, “the one you had before you became a sister. The one your mother gave you.”

A look of dismay came to the mole’s eyes, and those behind fell back uneasily.

“Not allowed to use those names,” said one of them.

“No, mustn’t,” said the one in front, almost desperately.

“I won’t move if you don’t tell me,” said Privet, “and then the Senior Brother will definitely not be pleased.”

A look of conflict came over their faces, and it was of the especially painful sort suffered by those unused to making decisions for themselves because they normally only take orders from others. Privet had confronted them with the need to decide, and hit them where it hurt most, because a name is a mole’s identity and they had, perhaps, gone a very long way towards losing theirs.

But not all the way.

“Oh, well, if we must,” said the first mole. “I’m Plumb, that’s my name.”

“Thistle,” said another.

“Because she’s spiky!” said a third, with a grin. “I’m Heron.”

“That’s a funny name,” said Privet, liking her.

“And you’re Privet,” said Heron.

“Yes,” said Privet, turning to the fourth mole, the only one who had not given her name. She was a little younger than the other three, and shy-looking.

“Well?” said Privet.

“Mustn’t,” said the mole, really frightened. She was the most junior of them all, and her voice had the soft accent of the Welsh borderland.

“No...” said Privet judiciously, understanding that she had gone far enough, but knowing too that of all the four moles the one who had not given her name was the one who most wanted to.

“Well, now I know most of you, anyway,” said Privet, “I’ll come along with you. What are they going to do with me?”

“Confine you for the duration of the Convocation,” said Plumb, gratefully turning back along the tunnel as they all set off once more.

“And we’ve heard that a very important mole indeed is going to come to talk to you,” said Heron. Her voice was awed.

“Thripp?” said Privet.

There was a gasp from Thistle. “You must never call him just by his name like that,” she said. “He’s Elder Senior Brother Thripp. Anyway, it’s not him who wants you, unfortunately.
He’s
all right, really. No, it’s Senior Brother Inquisitor Quail who wants to see you.”

At the mere mention of Quail’s name a shiver ran through the sisters, and they seemed distressed and increased their pace.

“Why me?” said Privet; wishing to keep good faith with her promise not to hinder them further she was hurrying with them, rather surprised to find that her long journey from Duncton Wood must have made her fitter by far than these confined, trapped sisters, who were huffing and puffing as they went.

“D... don’t kn... know,” puffed Plumb over her shoulder.