Duncton Stone (63 page)

“Quite a few. In odd places. They’re growing in numbers if you ask me, like fleas on a warm day. It’s Duncton Wood they talk of, it’s the mole Privet they think about. But why or what for, Stone only knows, cos they don’t. It’s my belief they’ve lost their home systems, sir, and don’t know what to do with themselves. It’s all nonsense they talk, that’s what I think. Is that all, sir?”

Radish suddenly looked tired and with another word of thanks Maple let him go.

“Pilgrims,” repeated Ystwelyn dubiously. He evidently shared some of Radish’s doubts about such moles.

“Hmmph!” said Maple, frowning, and thinking for a time.

“I’d feel happier if Weeth was back with us already,” said Maple finally, “though at least we know he’s on his way. I’m a patient mole, Ystwelyn, but sometimes...”

His strong clear face cracked into a grim smile, and it was one his friend returned. Radish had given them much to think about, but at the very least there was now the sense in both of them that the long wait was almost over, and the real struggle against the Newborns could begin.

“He had no need to risk his life on some venture into Quail’s stronghold,” grumbled Maple, for he missed Weeth sorely, the more so now that he was so nearly back again.

“He’s not one to take risks he doesn’t calculate,” said Ystwelyn reassuringly, “and nor is Arvon. Don’t know why he’s not returning with Weeth, but he’ll have reason enough, and Weeth’ll know what it is. Maybe Arvon just wants to get the very latest information. I’ll warrant that part of Arvon’s purpose in going to Banbury was to disconcert the Newborns and show them that they’re not as invulnerable as they think. It’s a trick we used to play on the Newborns around Siabod before we came to Caer Caradoc and got caught up with you.”

“Well...” growled Maple, unconvinced.

“Anyway, you’ve been telling us to be patient these molemonths past, so I don’t see why you can’t be patient for a couple more days. Weeth won’t be far behind. And he’s a survivor.”

“Aye,” sighed Maple, “so he is, so he is. And maybe there are a few things we can do. Yes, I think maybe the time’s come...”

A flash of excitement went across Ystwelyn’s eyes and he moved closer to Maple, to hear what he was suggesting, and to offer his thoughts as well, which it was his trusted role to do.

Finally the meeting was over and Ystwelyn went off to issue new orders to the fittest and fastest messengers he could find, and to oversee deployment, training and checking of the forces that in recent days had begun to arrive at Bourton in expectation of imminent action. In fact, Maple had begun to concentrate the followers in and around Bourton since the beginning of August in preparation for mounting an autumn offensive against the Newborns in the cooler, mistier weather of September and October. Excitement was mounting daily.

Now, as messenger after messenger left Bourton, in pairs for extra safety and support, a new buzz of excitement went around the tunnels and surface, and rumours, ever present when an army of moles gathers for coming action, began to multiply, and tunnel-talk increased.

Morale among the followers was high, for there was a general belief that they were lucky to be led by such a mole as Maple, one who cared and thought. They respected his unwillingness ever to pass comment on others, and the way he always took final responsibility for the sometimes hard decisions he had to make.

There
had
been hard decisions, and some appalling moments, when all Maple’s resolve had been needed to keep the followers together and abiding by the strict code of conduct he imposed. Had he not acted swiftly over that group of senior followers who had been about to kill eight Newborn guardmoles in late May when it had been discovered they had tortured and massacred at least thirty moles in the harmless Woldian system at Cheltenham? He had: all were demoted, and the guardmoles set free and told to return to their Brother Commander, Maple personally chastising the senior follower who by turning a blind eye had permitted the attempted reprisal.

Had he not personally intervened when twenty angry followers tried to do to two Newborn captives what had been done to some followers a few days before? Which was, to hang them by their paws from the barbs of wire and taunt and torture them for three days before drowning them in the mud of a ditch.

Oh yes, Maple had stopped
that
in short order, charging in among the followers, roaring down their protest, fighting off their assault upon his person, and by himself rescuing the Newborns.

“If only one of you does such things you reduce all of us to no better than our enemy. It is for truth and justice we fight, not to seek revenge.”

And when, as happened, revenge was taken, his treatment of those guilty was arraignment, and severe punishment, and execution if need be. The followers who fought with him came to fear him, but respect him too, and to accept his strict treatment where other commanders in other wars might have been far more tolerant.

As when he had been angry when news of Quail’s exodus from Wildenhope was late reaching him because the follower patrol that should have spotted it were off and away fornicating with some over-friendly females down Willersey way, where the females were known to be on the loose side. Could anymole really blame them – and who could say that if they had reported Quail’s move sooner it would have made any difference?

“There’s nothing wrong with a little dalliance,” Maple admonished them, “but not while you’re on duty. Because you took your pleasures others may in time lose their lives.” And when reports of the outrages committed by Quail’s entourage were heard, he called back the grumbling followers who had been caught out and let them hear for themselves a first-paw account of one of Quail’s atrocities so that they might know what dereliction of duty by one mole could lead to for another.

Yet when the guilty moles, hearing the foul reports, offered to lead the attack on Quail’s forces, Maple would have none of it.

“I shall decide when and where we attack,” was all he had said to them. “Now back to your posts...”

How sleepless his nights had been in the times that followed, as report after report of atrocities came in, and his commanders, Ystwelyn among them, urged him to let them descend upon Quail and his foul forces while he was still within reach in territory where the followers were strong. How great was the pressure on him to do what almost all the followers wanted. They had had enough of skulking about the Wolds and watching, and never taking action. Now, surely...

But now it was that Maple showed his greatest leadership in holding back his force, in biding his time, in not taking the obvious easier course.

“We are not strong enough. Though moles will die, and die horribly at his paws, the time is not yet right. Had we known sooner of his coming we might have got some systems cleared, but that was our failure. Now he’s on his way and going to Duncton Wood no doubt. Well, then, let him go, and may the Stone forgive me, but each step of the way that he commits more violence I swear will build up opposition and hatred for him of which in time we will reap the benefit.”

“But are we not here to save lives?” demanded commander after commander.

Maple shook his head. “We are here to defeat Quail, and rid moledom of the Newborns. We will not do that by rushing in because we are angry. His greatest enemy for now is himself. Let his actions prepare the ground for us. We will go in when we must, and not too soon.”

Sensing disagreement and disaffection in the follower ranks, Maple had exhausted himself for moleweeks on end travelling all around the Wolds, explaining, persuading, threatening, and holding his forces in check. Few moles knew better than Ystwelyn what stamina and resolve this had needed, who saw at first paw the determination and wisdom that underlay all that Maple said.

“He is a great mole...”

“Even though he’s never won a major battle? Eh? Come off it Ystwelyn!”

“And whatmole’s to say he has not? Which of us can deny that without him we would not now be in the strong position we are, with so few lives lost, with our pride intact, and without reducing ourselves – as some want us to – to the filth and slime against which we are fighting. Aye, Maple’s day will come, and when it does he will choose it for himself and not when others do. And I, Ystwelyn of Siabod, will be at his flank, and if he says to me, ‘Lie down mole and don’t defend yourself!’ or ‘Jump and touch the moon!’ I shall do so, because I believe in him.”

It said much for Maple that so strong and purposeful a mole as Ystwelyn was his subordinate, and it is a mark of Maple’s skills as a commander that he should have known how to find and inspire such a mole. When Ystwelyn doubted his leader, and sometimes he did, he was in the habit of reminding himself that it had been a Duncton mole who a century before had trekked to Siabod, and brought that ancient and backward-looking system into the modern age.

Weeth and his two companions finally reached Bourton two evenings later, just a little sooner than Radish had predicted, and they found a system busy with activity. Maple had rarely been so glad to see a mole and once they were established in his simple quarters, the two did not waste time with many preliminaries.

“The journeymole Radish got here all right then?” said Weeth.

“Aye, he did, and told us all he could: of the disposition of Newborn forces south of Duncton as he saw it; of Duncton itself; and of your expedition to Banbury.”

A cloud crossed Weeth’s face. “Not good, Maple, not good at all; that Quail...”

Weeth began to talk of his experiences and would have continued had not Maple stopped him, told him it was best Ystwelyn heard it all as well, and ordered him to eat and rest.

“We’re not rushing out of Bourton after Newborns tonight. We can wait a little on your report.”

“But you’ll not be hanging about?”

Maple shook his head grimly. “We’ll be going either on the morrow, or the day after that, depending on what you report of Arvon’s movements.”

“He’s going south to wait near Duncton,”

“Ah, then it’s as I thought.”

Weeth nodded, glad to be with Maple again.

“You’ve aged, if I may say so,” he said. “Your face is more lined; your snout’s a shade thinner; but...”

“But what?” No other mole spoke to Maple like this and he rather liked it. “I’ve missed you, mole!” he said impulsively. “Now... but what...?”

“You’re more angry.”

“I’ve had the reports of what Quail and his underlings have been doing to moles that cross his path.”

“I’ve
seen
him recently,” said Weeth. “He’s changed since we saw him in Caer Caradoc. He’s grown... foul.”

Maple held up a paw. “Keep it until Ystwelyn’s here.”

“Where is he?”

“Attending to followers nearby. And seeing if he can get Stow to persuade Rooster to show his snout in so busy a place as this.”

Weeth yawned. “Too hungry to eat. Sleep...”

“Sleep and eat and
then
talk.”

Weeth grinned suddenly, impishly. “Good to be back, sir,” he said quietly, his eyes tired but wrinkling with contentment. “I’ve things to say, things which will take time to say. But not so long they’ll delay our campaigning.”

“Sleep now, mole,” said Maple gently, nodding towards the portal that led into the tiny chamber that was his own sleeping place. “Like when we were travelling to Cannock from the Wenlock Edge.”

Weeth remembered those harried days, which seemed so long ago now. Maple was referring to the way that when they needed rest they made a single shallow scrape and one watched while the other slept, the second lying in the warmth left by the first.

“Ystwelyn will be coming, and others with him, and we’ll be conferring. Listen in if you’re awake, but don’t worry if you sleep on.”

Weeth nodded, wearily.

“Go on, sleep now,” Maple ordered; and with darkness falling, Weeth ducked through the portal and stretched out into the comfortable space, and slept.

Night, and the growl of voices, sometimes singly, sometimes together in debate. Weeth shifted to hear the better though still half asleep. A series of reports, of the kind Maple liked moles to make before he made up his own mind. A listener was Maple, and after that a decider.

A Welsh voice spoke, deep and authoritative: Ystwelyn. Then a female’s: unknown to Weeth, who drifted back to sleep. He woke once more to the sharper, thinner accents of a mole from the northern Welsh Marches... Furrow, he decided. He shifted again and peered out from the blackness of the sleeping cell on to the murkily-lit scene in the bigger chamber which Maple was using for a council of commanders.

Suddenly he felt fully awake and popped his head through the portal, Weeth-like, and said, “Greetings friends, colleagues, and fellow enemies of the Newborn!”

Those who had not known Weeth before, knew him now.

He grinned and grimaced, went to those he knew and greeted them, winked at Maple and Ystwelyn, put his paws briefly round Furrow, and expressed enormous surprise to see Myrtle, Furrow’s mate.

“Didn’t recognize your voice!” he said. “I must be weakening for something!”

After a quick glance at Maple to be sure that laughter
was
in order, those who had not meet Weeth before joined in the welcome, and for some moments more the gathering was all talk and good cheer.

Then Maple shifted and coughed, Weeth fell in dutifully at his left flank, and the meeting came to order once more; a little lighter in mood, yet somehow more purposeful, as if Weeth’s return confirmed once and for all that matters in moledom had reached a head.

“We were reporting, Weeth, on how we see things; where we’re at.”

“I heard,” he said. “Action imminent, it seems.”

“Imminent indeed,” said Maple, turning to one of the commanders and nodding at him to continue. There were perhaps eight or nine there, including the senior commanders Whindrell, and Runnel, Stow’s second-in-command; along with a few more like Furrow, and the atmosphere was close and warm. The contributions continued, one after another so that all had their say. They were varied: some long and complex, others short and to the point, but all tended the same way, wherever the moles came from, whatever their recent experience. As a day of close hot weather leads towards a storm, so matters in moledom were leading that way too.