Duncton Rising

  Suddenly he calmed down, the stormclouds passed on and revealed the sun in his face once more as he assumed a beatific expression and said in the quietest and gentlest voice possible, “Quiet as opposed to being noisy, you mean?”

  He looked triumphant with himself for having found a legitimate way to carry on talking. But Maple was not having it. He hunched forward towards Weeth in his most menacing manner and said, 1 mean, mole, that if you are to stay with us, if you are to be with us, if you are to work with us, we require you to learn how to adopt a low snout, and be silent unless talk is necessary, to be discreet and to remain unintrusive.”

  “Unintrusive?” said Weeth immediately in his new calm voice.

  Maple nodded.

  “Unintrusive?” repeated Weeth to Privet.

  “Yes, my dear, I think that is the meaning of what Maple said.”

  “Unintrusive like non-intrusive, or, as it were, unremarkable, in its absolute and literal sense. Something like that, yes, Whillan?”

  “I would try if I were you,” said Whillan as darkly as he could, for he was beginning to realize that Weeth was one of those moles who if given half a chance took a whole one.

  “I shall!” declared Weeth with conviction. And there it might have seemed to Maple and Whillan that the conversation had ended, but Privet knew it had not, and understood that beyond Weeth’s ready talk and quick wit was something more, something deeper.

  For as Maple led them off again, she heard Weeth whisper to himself, “I shall try!” and thinking he was not seen she saw as well how he watched after the others with gratitude that in their own way they accepted him, and liked him. As they trekked on in silence she wondered why it was that now he had joined them the party felt complete.

  Weeth was as good as his word, and did not speak again all day which, the others were aggrieved to find, was something of a pity, so used had they got to him talking as they went. It was just that he did too much of it. Perhaps in time he would get the balance right.

  “Ahem!”

  That evening, after their meal, he finally broke his silence and when he did it was with a most startling and alarming statement.

  “Ahem! Ahem!”

  “Yes, Weeth?” said Maple.

  “I suppose, being Duncton moles and all good at scribing, and being clever, and what with one thing like that and another, you do realize that the Caradoc Convocation as summoned by Thripp is not merely a trap, but also a sham?”

  They waited in silence for him to go on; out of sheer mischief he did not, but quietly hummed to himself and groomed his paws as if all he had just done was to pass a pleasantry about the weather.

  “Go on,” said Maple.

  “The Great One wishes me to speak? Is this possible? And can it be that the Duncton trio does not know something Weeth knows? It can! It is! Astounding!”

  Privet laughed. “Come on, my dear, tell us what you know.”

  To his credit Maple smiled with something like affection at Weeth who, grinning with delight at this warm response to his mischievousness, came closer to them all in a confidential sort of way, and looked first over one shoulder and then over the other. Then, in a low voice, he said, “May I preface my remarks by observing that the one thing I was never told about Duncton moles, though it is self-evidently true, is that you have a sense of humour. Weeth likewise. Could it be our saving grace, the one unique quality the Stone appreciates beyond all others, which will, as it were, cause it to bend over backwards to help us? It could, it could!

  “Now, to work. First the question of it being a trap. Well, I understand that previous Convocations and Conclaves, such as that summoned to Cannock by your own Master Stour, have always been in the summer years, to allow moles to travel there and back in temperate weather and so be away from their systems for as short a time as possible, and certainly back in time for Longest Night. This Convocation being in December means that will not only be impossible, but moles will likely be marooned in and around Caradoc by ice and snow, at least for the January and early February years, thus making them prey to Newborn persuasions of one kind or another; which, I beg to suggest, might include starvation. Oh no, you don’t suppose that Caradoc itself is exactly wormful, do you?”

  “Such suspicions had crossed our minds,” said Whillan. “But what about it being a sham?”

  “Well, now, there we move on to less certain ground. I have a feeling, supported by mere rumour and surmise and things I’ve heard, that the real action this Longest Night will not be in Caradoc, but in all the other systems so conveniently vacated by moles such as yourselves who will not be in the one place where they might be most needed – their own homes. In short, having got you out of the way by summoning this Convocation, the Newborns will go in for a quick kill in all the systems where they have cells, which is in all the important ones. Having gained control, they will have plenty of time to change things to their taste, and even get local females aplenty pregnant with Newborn pups, for it to be very hard indeed for the returning delegates from Caradoc to do much about it. Get my drift?”

  “We get your drift,” said Maple grimly. These were possibilities Master Stour had himself mentioned, but coming from this mole so far along the way to Caradoc, they seemed more plausible, and infinitely more difficult to deal with. What could three moles of Duncton do in such a situation, even if they found allies among delegates from other systems?

  “We could go back now,” said Whillan eventually, but without conviction. For all the dangers involved, their going to Caer Caradoc seemed inevitable. Perhaps that was the genius of Thripp of Blagrove Slide – to have persuaded moles to come to Caradoc, where he had control of them, on his terms.

  “Oh, he is a genius,” said Weeth, “and the difficulty with such moles as him is that they are so convincing. Of course they never do their own dirty work – they couldn’t sully their paws with that.”

  “Who does then?” asked Whillan.

  “Well...” mused Weeth, “it is a moot point. My belief is that it’s the mole who lies behind the Brother Inquisitors that moledom should fear. For what would happen if he gained power when Thripp dies?”

  “Who do you mean?” asked Privet.

  “That mole is said to be Senior Brother Quail. He is said to have founded the Inquisitorial system, having risen up from the ranks to be the secret and malign power behind Thripp. He has none of Thripp’s charisma or popularity, but he’s ruthless and most believe he will take power. He’s probably behind the changes you’ve already seen in Duncton Wood.

  “Hmmm!” mused Maple, a worried frown on his face.

  “Let me tell you two things about Quail, though you’ll welcome neither of them. First, when a mole is formally condemned to death by the Newborns – a most rare occurrence, since they contrive to have moles die informally so they cannot be called a killing sect – he. Quail, likes to be there.”

  “Likes to carry out the execution?” said Whillan.

  “Probably,” said Weeth with distaste. “They say his look is enough to kill. And this is the mole in whom Thripp puts all his trust. Some sect! The second thing, which worries me greatly, especially if the first is true, is that the rumours are strong that Quail will be in the vicinity. Quail is coming to Caradoc. Which means that the Newborns may have in mind an exemplary death sentence or two, by way of intimidation and so forth. Nasty. Makes the hairs on my spine stir. In fact, the more I think of it, the straighter they stance! Makes me wonder why I’m not heading away from Caradoc as fast as my paws can carry me.”

  “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.