She was surprised to feel at ease, and to find herself moving towards him and talking as if she had the right to the assumption of intimacy, and that this way of being with a mole – direct, unafraid, yet not assertive – was the only proper way. Had the Stone found her so slow a pupil of life that it was only now, with a Newborn, she could be herself, and (as she guessed) only for this magical dawn moment before full day, when normal reservations to behaviour felt lifted?
He stared in silence at her, and strangely seemed more vulnerable still as he opened his mouth to order her away, or to make some excuse to leave; but he said nothing and made it possible for her to continue.
“As I gazed across that valley moments ago I was wishing I was not making this trek to Caer Caradoc, but was stanced instead in some quiet place with a companionable mole in whose silence I could be at ease. I was thinking of other misty valleys I have seen and how very few are the quiet uncluttered moments in a mole’s life. What were you thinking, Chervil, before you saw me here?”
“Of Duncton Wood,” he said after a moment’s hesitation, “to where, as you know, I was sent a cycle of seasons and more ago. I did not want to go; when I left I did not want to leave, least of all in the Deputy Master Snyde’s company. I was discovering that I miss your system. Librarian Privet. That was all I was thinking of.”
But Privet knew there was more. “Mole —” she began.
“Librarian Privet, you should not address me like that, and must not again.”
“But now I will. Chervil, now and for this dawn, I will. Caer Caradoc and all it means cannot be far off. I have a feeling that all our lives will change there, for Thripp, your father, and others close to him have set in motion policies which seek to alter moledom. Perhaps they are already apaw, indeed I am sure they are, but it will not be too late for us to add our wishes to them. As long as there is one mole among the Newborns with the courage to open his heart to real change there will be hope that all may follow. You must not make moles do what their hearts tell them not to. No faith is so true, no dogma so certain, no rule so right that it empowers moles to trespass into others’ hearts. You need only look at those who gather around you, the Newborn brothers, and look into their blank eyes, to have to ask if such a way is right.”
“They have free choice.”
“There is no free choice for male pups torn from their siblings and mothers at birth and taught that what is right is what they are told by Senior Brothers, and what is wrong is that they should ever question it. No choice for their female siblings, segregated and forlorn, and if the rumours are true, put in the way of death.
“And speaking of death. Senior Brother Chervil, you will be aware that your Brother Inquisitor Slane permitted the public torture of two moles, and the murder of a third, but a few days ago.”
“It is unfortunate —”
“It was unfortunate! For three moles very unfortunate indeed!”
“When you have so large a force to command, rule and discipline are necessary. Mistakes will happen.”
“For moles of evil intent, perhaps, and those who wish to impose their will on others. But those whose intentions are honourable, whether one or thousands, the only discipline needed is of the spirit, and the heart and the mind.”
“You do not know of what you speak. But... but my father never condoned such excesses as torture, or supported such practices as strettening.”
“Yet his moles —”
“The Newborn faithful today are not his moles, or anymole’s. They are the Stone’s.”
“The Stone does not condone such discipline.”
“Oh, you are sure of that, are you. Privet?”
“I have kenned the texts, I know the Stone Mole’s words, I know the truths in my heart, and in those of the communities in which I have lived.”
“Indeed! And so do I!”
They stared at each other, the sun growing brighter and more beautiful about them, its rays angling across the grass, the valley below all green and blue with distance.
“Librarian Privet, I have never in my life argued with a female before. It is... strange.”
“Think of me as a mole. Senior Brother, not a female, and you will find it easier. My heart and mind and spirit are no different from any other mole you might respect.”
A glimmer of a smile passed across his face, and it made him look younger and something nearer to the mole she had caught a brief glimpse of when he first turned and saw her there.
“Your heart and mind and spirit. Librarian Privet, are all rather stronger than in most moles I know! In fact I know only one in whom they combine to be stronger and he —
“Your father Thripp?”
“The Elder Senior Brother Thripp, yes.” Chervil turned from her and stared across the valley. “I said I was thinking of Duncton Wood when you caught me stanced here unawares. I was also thinking of my father. He is misunderstood by some and perhaps has not had the time he should have had to see places in moledom others take for granted. He has dedicated his whole life to moledom and wishes only for its improvement, and to advance the work that the Stone Mole began.”
“And you were thinking of this?” She had come a little closer to him, and he to her, and they stood nearly flank to flank, looking not at each other, but at the birth of a new day. There were no shadows where they looked, no dark corners. The world seemed made of light.
“I was thinking of how I will explain to him why I regretted leaving Duncton Wood.”
“Well, mole,” she said, unaware of her unconscious familiarity, “I regret not having the time or occasion to talk with you in Duncton Wood.”
“Yes,” said Chervil, “yes, so do I.”
“And does the Elder Senior Brother think that moles can improve on this sunshine the Stone brings?”
“Of course not.”
“And yet the Newborn Sect thinks it can improve on mothers, for they take them away, and sisters, and —”
“The Stone Mole —”
“The Stone Mole gave no sanction to such cruel stupidity!”
“You go too far!”
“I do not go far enough. Can you be sure that if I spoke thus at the Convocation of Caradoc I and my friends would live to tell the tale?” She turned and stared at him.
“No harm will come to you, whatever you may say.”
“Really? Can you promise that?”
“No harm will come to you,” he said, frowning and near to anger.
“You promise it? By the Stone? You have such control over your Brother Inquisitors?”
“No... harm... will... come... to... you!” Chervil was close to real anger as he said the words.
“And moledom? What of that? And innocence? And truth? And —”
“You go too far, Privet of Duncton, and you malign the genius of my father! He intends no harm to any mole!”
“I would like to see him stance there and promise no harm to moledom, as you promise that no harm shall befall us! It’s easily said!”
“He... my father... the Elder Senior Brother could not stance here, nor look at this rising dawn, nor speak as loudly as I have done. I believe my father is dying, as he has been for a long time. Why do you think I was summoned to Caer Caradoc? You think I don’t feel the hurt as he does, when moles’ excess and over-eagerness threaten his great work? I feel it deeply, as he taught me to.”
Privet stared in astonishment as she heard these words, and saw the troubled lines of conflict on Chervil’s face, where duty to the cause struggled with desire for freedom, and the wish for privacy fought with the need to speak to a wider world, such as she now faced him with. She sensed that her moments with him were dying now, her further chances to reach into his heart fading, and perhaps this made her desperate. In his strange exposure there before her, and his confusion, she remembered a mole she had faced out on Hilbert’s Top, and learned to love.
“And what did your mother teach you, mole?” she said sharply. “It is a pity she probably never
had the chance!”
He seemed to loom over her then and stared at her with hatred, as Rooster had loomed, though he had raised his great paws! He had grabbed her! Rooster had almost hurled her out of the tunnels on to the surface of Hilbert’s Top, he... and she found that she was smiling, and she knew there was fondness and remembered love in her eyes. If her earlier question had shocked him, her laughter, gentle though it was, seemed to confuse him, and then to anger him.
“Forgive me, mole,” she said, “I am not laughing at you but at myself. I had a memory of a mole I loved who stanced over me as you do now, who looked angry and confused as you do, and who came as near to striking me as perhaps you have just done. Please...” Instinctively she reached a paw out to him and touched his, and felt a surge of pity and love, of sympathy and concern, and gratitude as well. “You have courage. Senior Brother Chervil, as the mole I loved had.”
“Courage?” he whispered, staring at her paw, and not moving his own away as he might have done.
“To dare to listen with an open heart. To allow yourself to feel. To stay and hear what you did not wish to hear. You made me a promise,” she continued with sudden fervour, “and I shall make one to you, for I feel the Stone’s Silence is in our meeting here this dawn and what we have said is not for other moles. I shall speak of this meeting to nomole, neither traditional Stone follower, nor Newborn, not ever, unless you give me permission to.”
They stared at each other in silence, each surprised at this most intimate and unexpected of contracts, yet feeling too that it had somehow been intended.
“Well, then, I must go,” she said, “and leave you to what is left of the dawn. They say we shall be in Caer Caradoc in a few days.”
“Tomorrow, if the weather stays as fine as this. By dusk today we should see it.”
“I am sorry that your father is ill. Chervil,” she said. She meant sorry for him, not for Thripp whom she did not know, nor had any reason to feel other than hatred for, considering all he had done. Except that hatred was not part of Privet’s nature now, if it ever had been. They were silent a few moments more, as if neither wanted to leave the other for fear of the lives, and stresses, they must turn back to.
“He is ill because he feels he has failed,” said Chervil at last, “and I think he wishes me to take his place. But I am... uncertain.”
There, it was said, what he had really been thinking of as dawn came, and as they approached the threshold of Caer Caradoc, where lives would for ever be changed. For Chevil now, between him and Privet, a portal had opened that could not again be closed.
“This is how the Stone wished it,” she said to herself in wonder. Yet their dialogue was not quite done.
“The mole you loved,” he said impulsively, “what was his name?”
“If you had known that you might not have promised that I would be safe! But... his name was Rooster. Rooster of Charnel Clough.”
For a moment Chervil literally swayed, quite incredulous; then suddenly, delightfully, and as unexpectedly, he laughed, the spontaneous laughter of a real mole.
“Well! Of course! I should have known!” he said. “And that’s something I will not mention to another mole, least of all the Elder Senior Brother Thripp of Blagrove Slide! Rooster!”
Privet knew that somehow she had broken through to him, or, more accurately, she had touched some good quality in him that had allowed her to.
He opened his mouth to ask another question, and she knew in advance what it would be. She had been asked it before, many times it seemed, and each time she felt she was coming closer to an answer.
“What is a Master of the Delve, Librarian Privet? It is something that for all their learning the most scholarly of Newborn moles seem unable to explain. Even my father —”
She shook her head, and looked in the direction from which sounds of mole came.
“It would take too long, mole, to tell you now. Ask me again one day and I shall tell you.”
“Is that a promise too?”
She smiled her yes, feeling suddenly that if indeed this mole, stiff as he was, trained in narrow ways as he had been, was to take on the task that Thripp had set himself, moledom could do worse. His mind was still open, still curious. Perhaps, after all, the Stone was wiser than anymole could have guessed. She did not want to go but knew she must. There were sounds of movement nearby, and the growl of guards’ voices, and already the face of the Newborn was returning to Senior Brother Chervil.
“Is your father really so ill that he will not live?” she said. “Or is it...?”
“In the mind?” he whispered, guessing at her thought in his turn. He shook his head. “The reports say it looks like wasting murrain,” he whispered. “Few of the Senior Brothers know it because he has stayed hidden away, and why I have told you I do not know. This has been the strangest conversation of my life. But... yes, he is ill, and it may be of the mind for all I know. Never was there so sane a mole as he, nor one that suffered so for others.”
“Perhaps too sane?” She said. “Too logical? Too much a genius, as I have heard him described?”
He permitted himself one last smile and as she turned to go he called after her, “Perhaps he is!”
“Well?” said Whillan for the hundredth time, “and what did you talk about, what did he say?”
The others had tried, especially Weeth, who prided himself on being able to extract rather more than most moles wished to give away, until finally they had deputed Whillan to the task, feeling that perhaps to her adopted son she might reveal at least a fragment of her conversation with Chervil. What made it worse, or more frustrating, was that the more they asked, the more she looked benign and pleased with herself, not like a mole nearing Caer Caradoc at all.
“No, my dear, I shall say nothing and my only regret is that Weeth saw me talking to him. Otherwise you would not have badgered me with questions as you have.”
“But —”
“No!”
So there was nothing said, however much there was to say. She had promised Chervil, and found a comfort in the fact. A comfort, and a stimulus to thought as well, in the outrage, frustration, anger, and final silence her reticence on the subject provoked.
“You look as if you’re thinking something,” said Whillan with exasperation.
“I was, my dear. I was thinking that never in my life until this moment had I appreciated how effective being silent is. It is remarkable what it does to moles when one amongst them will not respond; or rather, I should more accurately say, responds with silence. I shall think about that more as we trek on our weary way.”
She was thinking of it still as dusk advanced, and they climbed westward over a ridge and saw, rising before them, the dark, enshadowed south-eastern face of Caer Caradoc: steep, high, once a holy place but now the stronghold of the Newborn sect. They went no further, but were informed that they had nearly reached Bowdler and would stay the night in communal tunnels which served Caradoc and Bowdler, and all ways north and south. Excited as they were, and apprehensive too, they slept the sleep of moles who want to forget the past for a time, and have no wish to ponder the future.
The following day they arose to the grey light of a dull dawn which cast itself across the steep face of Caer Caradoc, whose lower slopes bore patches of dead brown heather, and whose topmost part was edged by a scar of grey rock which angled very slightly up towards its northern end to form the famous Stones of Caradoc.
They journeyed but a short distance further before they dropped down into an extensive network of communal tunnels which Maple immediately saw was part of a defensive system designed to ensure that nomole could easily gain access to Caer Caradoc itself without making his presence known to watcher moles. There was indeed a military air to the place, and much movement of individuals and groups of moles, so that their arrival seemed but one of several, and of no great consequence.
Perhaps moles might have taken more heed of them had Chervil been amongst them, but once more he was
nowhere to be seen and must have gone on ahead of them earlier that day, or even the night before. Brother Inquisitor Slane was again in charge, and the Duncton moles and Weeth felt themselves closely watched – being forced to pause together here, eat there, groom somewhere else, and then wait. Other moles unknown to them went back and forth, some, like themselves, travel-stained and weary, possibly delegates from other systems; others seemed more like watchers, or journeymoles bearing news and information. Certainly there was an air of movement and interchange, a sense of preparation and planning towards an imminent event in which moles such as themselves had but a small part to play, and must know their place.
Apprehensive though they were they felt a natural relief to have arrived, and a concomitant frustration when they found they were made to wait for a day and then a night and then into another day again, with no information about what was happening, or news of when they might go up to Caer Caradoc itself. All that was clear was that a great deal was going on about them, and not all of it to the Newborns’ liking, and that for the time being they must stay where they were.
Snyde was no use to anymole, for though he was allowed the privilege of going off and meeting Senior Brothers, when he came back he was unwilling to report much of what he had heard beyond the fact that “matters are complex” and “it is right that certain rebellious elements are taken and incarcerated until the end of the Convocation lest they disrupt things”.
Whillan himself avoided conversations with Snyde so far as he could, having come to detest the little mole since Ludlow; Maple too, who perhaps guessed something of what had happened, barely concealed his contempt. It was left to Weeth to find out what he could, but even he was unable to get information, and he reported that the Newborns who had formerly talked to him willingly enough had either been moved on, or were suddenly unwilling to say anything at all.
“Something serious is apaw, that’s all I know.”
As the hours passed Maple grew increasingly uneasy, and growled that he did not like things one little bit, and that they had made themselves defenceless and vulnerable, and with hindsight should not have allowed themselves to be trapped in tunnels that did not even seem to have a name.