The singing and chanting had stopped and after a period of quiet, expectant chatter, and whispering counsel among the moles on the dais, a hush had fallen; Skua, the sleek Chief Inquisitor, came forward. He bowed to Quail and then to Thripp in a brief impersonal way, lowered his snout, and began to speak. Unlike the solemn and sometimes tedious commonplaces of routine liturgy his voice was vigorous and his words challenging:
“Brothers in the Stone,
Awake, listen and respond!”
The gathering was utterly silent for a moment before with one powerful voice it replied:
“With the Stone’s help,
We shall.
In the Stone’s name,
We will.
For the Stone’s sake,
We must.”
Then Skua continued, his speech quick and his voice deep and compelling:
“Oh Stone,
Who has warned us of what
Thou wilt require of those
To whom thy grace is given,
Help us.
Make us strive together this holy day,
Make us work together this holy night,
Renew our zeal to act as one.
Oh Stone,
Save us from the consuming snake,
Protect us from the cankers of doubt,
Put into us your avenging power,
Help us.”
The response was unexpected, for while the whole gathering began with the words “Oh Stone” some continued with the following three lines, others with the next three, and a final third with the last three, until all finished simultaneously by repeating “Oh Stone!” and then a loud “Help us!”
The hissing echoes of “us” had not faded before a mole near Skua thrust his head forward towards the gathering and said:
“Brethren, it is decreed that when we are gathered in one place we shall together declare our faith aloud, that all may know in what we believe, and to what tenets our lives are made dedicate; therefore let one among you, to whom the spirit comes, rise up and state the beginning of our creed that others may remember that though we speak these words in public and together, their meaning is at its greatest when they are spoken in the silence of our hearts. May one speak now, and all follow.”
The silence was brief but impressive, and then, somewhere in the midst of the gathering, a young mole rose and spoke these words:
“I believe in Stone the Maker Almighty,
Creator of Silence and faith...”
then the rest spoke the Newborn Creed:
“I believe in Stone the Maker Almighty,
Creator of Silence and faith:
And in Beechen of the Stone our maker,
Who was conceived of the Light immaculate,
Born of the Holy Stone,
Suffered at the talons of the Word,
And was snouted, dead, and lost;
He descended into darkness,
But rose again, up into the Light,
And is stanced now in the Silence
Of the Stone, to know us and to judge.
I believe in his holy power,
In the venging of his talons,
In the savage thrust of death.
I believe in the resurrection
Of the faithful,
And the eternal damnation
Of the faithless.
I believe in Stone the Maker Almighty,
Creator of faith,
Creator of the Silence.
All this I believe.”
Whillan listened to this statement of faith with fascinated horror, and reasonable though most of the words were of themselves he was as aware as the others of the menace in them, of the threat of eternal damnation to unbelievers, and of the terrible earnest tone in which the brethren spoke.
As for the invocation of Beechen, and the story of his vile death at the paws of the Eldrene Wort acting in the name of the Stone, he was surprised, and curious. He had often wondered why the Stone followers of Duncton had not made more of Beechen and his teachings of peace and nonviolence, and understood why a creed such as this might invoke his name. But so aggressively? So judgementally? Surely this – all this – was not the Stone’s proper way, nor did it express Beechen’s vision of how moles should worship together. Yet it was impressive, and there was something to be learned from it.
As silence fell, the leader of the litany did not let thoughts wander, or allow the mounting sense of passion and purpose to dissipate. The purpose of the Convocation, it seemed, was to lead the participants on a journey whose beginning would be with the season’s turning this Longest Night, but whose ending would be far from Caer Caradoc in the months and years ahead, and would be Newborn, and absolute. A tide of history was beginning to flow before the very eyes of the Duncton moles, of a colour and in a direction they did not like but were beginning to wonder how they could stem, or re-direct.
Now Brother Skua raised a paw and cried out; “Oh let thy mouths be filled with praise!”
And the others replied, “That we may sing of thy glory this Longest Night.”
Then the next part of the statement and response came, and the next, and the one after that as the leader spoke fester and more vehemently and the gathering grew more and more frenzied and eager in its responses.
Oh let my mouth be filled with thy praise,
That we may sing of thy glory this Longest Night.
Turn thy gaze, Stone, from my sins,
And put out all our misdeeds.
Cleanse my heart of the snake and the filth of doubt,
Renew right spirit within us.
Cast me not away from thy Silence,
Nor take thy light from our dark lives.
Give me the benefit of thy close help,
And preserve us from the wicked and profane.
Strengthen my paws for thy just work,
Deliver thy enemies to us, Stone.
Weaken not my heart to the sinner,
But give our talons thy power to punish.
Save me,
Kill the snake.
Forgive me,
Punish the hypocrite.
Love me,
Destroy our enemies.
Thus did this extraordinary litany of personal statement counterpointed by general response end: brutally. From their aggressive looks, their wild breathing, their physical restlessness, it was all too plain that rather than talk about it any longer, the gathering wished now to actually kill the “snake”.
“It is plain to you all, I suppose, what the snake is?” said Privet quietly.
“Anyone who disagrees with the Newborns,” said Maple.
“And the darkness that drives these moles and their leaders,” added Whillan.
“Yes,” whispered Privet, frowning. “I am afraid now of what we are going to see. That poor mole...”
They knew the one she meant: the unnamed accused whom Snyde had put the talon on and who, as the day had gone by, had grown progressively more pathetic and abject.
A foul odour of retribution was in the air and the victim upon whom to inflict it was already available, waiting only for some mole to point a talon at him, and there was no doubt at all who that prosecutor would be: the Chief Inquisitor, Skua. Not that one glance, nor one hair of his sleek thin fur, nor one twitch of his sharp snout, betrayed his intent, which made him and the atmosphere all the more threatening.
Adding to the formidable build-up was the continuing silence of both Thripp and Quail, who stanced still on either side of the dais, Quail, at least, expressionless. The Duncton moles would have liked a better view of Thripp, but if anything he was even harder to see now, for Rolt and others clustered about him and the most the secret watchers could observe without betraying themselves was his flank. At some point he would no doubt address the Convocation, but the longer he delayed doing so the tenser things would become, and the greater the sense of conflict between Thripp and Quail would grow in the dark imagings of the delegates’ minds, and make a confront
ation ever more inevitable.
Any thought that the Duncton moles had – or any other genuine delegates still surviving among the mass of moles below – that a Convocation meant debate and discussion, had surely now disappeared. Nomole but a mad one would have stanced up in this chamber and spoken anything that ran counter to the mood of self-righteous crusade that was beginning to develop, unless it be one indifferent to his own fate.
Subtly, the chamber’s light faded, a reminder that the
Longest Night meant the Shortest Day, and it was an extra spur towards the grim act of retribution for sin that the gathering collectively needed before the coming revels of the Night itself could begin.
Now it was the turn of another anonymous mole, one of Skua’s Inquisitors, to come forward and announce the beginning of a period of public confession that would precede an address “by the moles who have pointed their talons towards the future that we must make on behalf of the Stone” – which could mean both Thripp and Quail, and even Brother Chervil, perhaps.
Without more ado Inquisitors and other senior-looking moles went separately amidst the delegates and were soon surrounded by moles eager to make their sins and failings known to one and all. But with so many declaring themselves at once the chamber was filled with general hubbub, and it was only when there were momentary lulls that the Duncton moles could hear any of the liturgy at all, and then it was fragmentary.
They heard the confessor say, “The Stone be in thy heart... confess... in the name of the Light... Holy...”
And they understood parts of the ritual response, “I confess... sinned exceedingly... fault... fault... fault... I accuse myself...”
Not much perhaps but enough to gather from the words and the mortification evident in the faltering voices that these were moles beset indeed by things done and left undone. How dark the afternoon seemed, how dreadful the hurriedly whispered guilt of mole, how silent the Duncton moles before this display of secret shame.
Occasionally some fragment of a wrong confessed drifted up to them, “vanity... sought to hurt.... felt desire... asleep when waking I should have been...”
“Asleep when waking I should have been...” repeated Privet with a smile. “What thinking and feeling mole is there alive who should not confess to that great sin? I know I have been guilty of that for too long.”
Mysteriously, and impressively, the light in the chamber seemed to grow a little more bright as the clamour of confession died away at last and a final few moles declared themselves. As the confessors began to shift back to the dais the final words of the individual ritual were heard from somewhere across the chamber, “... forgive thee all thy sins, and kill that snake within thee, and bring thee to everlasting Silence.”
The gathering settled once again and Skua ominously turned his back on the moles to face his own Inquisitors and said, “Are there any whose confessions reveal a sin so bad, or a wrong so deep, that the forgiveness of the gathering as one is called for?”
The silence was sudden and deep, and once more apprehension filled the chamber as all eyes watched the Inquisitors to see if they would point out a mole for more public scrutiny.
“Yes,” whispered one of the more elderly Inquisitors contemptuously, “there is one who confessed to wrongful torture of a junior member of our brethren, one who confessed to that.”
“Let him come forth,” said Skua quietly, turning to face the gathering again, his eyes scanning them, for he, like all others but the Inquisitor who had spoken, did not know who the guilty mole was.
There was a stir, and a retreat among the moles across the chamber opposite the Duncton moles, at the back, very near to where Chervil stanced so still and silently. A mole glanced up with faltering paws and trembling snout, his eyes wide with fear and his mouth half opening as if he were seeking words with which to defend himself but could not find any. He seemed rooted to the spot.
“Brother Chervil, bring him forward please.” It was Quail, breaking his long silence, and his voice was deep and reasonable, yet loaded with dreadful menace.
“Brother Chervil...” This time the menace was more noticeable. It was plain that Chervil wanted no part of this game of confession and punishment, nor welcomed the clear implication that by doing Quail’s bidding he was at his command.
Chervil glowered at the moles to right and left, Feldspar nodded briefly, and the two of them came forward to lead the sinner to the front.
“Brother Chervil by himself, I think,” purred Quail, his eyes fixed impassively on the guilty mole, “I hardly think the confessand is going to seek escape, or that you, Brother Chervil, are liable to be... well, hurt by him.” He grinned evilly and there was a sycophantic titter about the chamber.
Chervil frowned, nodded to Feldspar to resume his place, and led the hapless mole slowly to the front, himself somehow made to seem demeaned and tainted by the sorry ritual.
But worse was to follow. Only at the last moment, when Chervil and what now seemed his prisoner reached the dais, did Quail raise a paw to stop them both and say with considerable force: “Has he not confessed in good faith, and were not the words of forgiveness uttered by the good Inquisitor?”
“They were,” said Skua through gritted teeth.
Quail turned and faced the gathering with an encouraging smile. Such was his personality that as one they cried out. “They were... he was forgiven... forgive him now!”
“Well then, you see. Brother Chervil, he must be left to go in peace.”
The confessand literally fell over himself in his gratitude and eagerness to get back to safety at the back of the chamber, and Chervil too tried to return, but this Quail would not have.
“Oh, now we have need of thee,” he said, still with the smile, but with menace, and now with contempt as well.
“Yes,” said Skua, “there is still the accused.” He pointed at last to the mole who had been waiting in such agony for so long.
“Yesss...” sighed the gathering with satisfaction, “arraign him now, for the snake entwined his heart and he must be tried and punished.”
“If guilty,” said Quail benignly, “if guilty, Brethren! For judge not too soon, lest you yield to the snake of doubt and lies and are arraigned.”
“No, master...” chorused the moles in reply, their whispers, which were at first a jumble of sound, transmuted suddenly into the ugly chant, “Arraign him! Arraign him! Arraign him!”
As the cry went up, Squelch, perhaps at a signal from Quail, rose up ponderously and approaching the accused, took him by the paw and led him forward, snout low, gasping, eyes hopeless, to the front of the dais near to where Chervil reluctantly waited.
“Should we?” said Quail. Then more powerfully, “Must we. Brother Chervil?”
“Kill the bugger!” some mole shouted at the back.
“Aye, he’s guilty so let’s show him the Stone’s judgement,” cried another.
Chervil turned to look at them and they fell silent before his cold and powerful gaze; while at the rear Feldspar and the others with him had moved a little closer, though whether the better to protect him, or to prevent him doing something he should not, was hard to say.
Chervil turned back to Quail and said carefully, “Brothers, he should be judged according to the laws of blasphemy and sin.”
“Judge him! Arraign him!” shouted out the excited gathering impatiently.
“Judge him. Brother Chervil?” said Quail, heaving himself up for the first time and coming to the accused, on whose shoulder he placed a paw in an avuncular way, as if he was the mole’s protector from the crowd. “Judge a brother on Longest Night? And perhaps punish him?”
Chervil said nothing – could say nothing – and the crowd fell uneasily silent. For the first time a look of faint yet distinct hope came to the stricken eyes of the accused, while nearby, frowning and concerned, the crooked form of Snyde sought what narrow shadows it could find to hide among. Forgiveness was not his intent, but nor was a wish to be the one who pointe
d the talon of accusation at a mole forgiven.
“Forgiveness is indeed a blessing,” said Skua icily, “on such a night as this.”
“Yet we must not shirk our duty, not now, not ever,” said Quail suddenly. “As I’m sure Elder Senior Brother Thripp would agree?”
Thripp said nothing from the shadows, hardly visible.
Quail seemed to be growing in size and confidence by the moment, almost, indeed, revelling in the power he had and which inexorably he was imposing.
“Yes, we must even tonight punish where punishment is due.”
“Oh yes,” sighed the gathering.
“Because I know a mole...”
“Oh,” whispered the gathering pleasurably. A punishment was coming, was imminent. Their waiting was nearly over.
“I know a mole who has sinned, in whom the snake has lived for many a long year, a mole who may confess here and now...”
“What mole, Master?” hissed the assembly.
“A mole alongflank whom this mole’s transgressions” – here he thrust forward the hapless accused “are as nothing, but brief shadows in a place of light.”
Quail pulled the accused to him, so close that their snouts were almost touching, and he caressed the mole’s shoulder almost intimately.