“Duncton’s troubled,” whispered Whillan, who had said little since his first declaration that his home system was in need. “We must be able to help, somehow.”
“What to do? We must wait,” said Rooster. “Stone knows.”
“Stone does know,” exclaimed Weeth ironically, “even if I don’t. This place is strange, but what you moles are saying is stranger still.”
“Not strange,” said Rooster.
“Waiting,” whispered Whillan.
Rooster nodded and said, “Yes. Stone is waiting here. We wait, it decides.”
“Decides what?” asked Weeth, exasperated, and looking at Maple for some support. The moonlight touched Maple’s face and he shrugged as if to say, “Don’t ask me! Leave it to them!”
Weeth sighed and settled down for what looked like a long wait for something nomole could name.
“Was Longest Night, the night you took me from Caer Caradoc. Wasn’t it!” said Rooster suddenly, turning to Maple.
“For some,” said Maple grimly.
“All the spring years, all the summer years, all the autumn years I thought of that Longest Night. I looked towards it thinking, “Rooster will try to be free by then. Of darkness. Of need. Rooster will not run more. Rooster will be free.” Never thought I would be needed on Longest Night. But now not sure.”
He was silent, the deep furrows on his face like rockfalls down a snowy void in the moonlight, and his eyes rugged impenetrable caverns of darkness. Maple and Weeth exchanged a glance, and Privet moved closer to him. It was clear he wanted to talk.
“But not to be. Newborns’ journey to Caradoc was journey into new darkness. Caught and put into captivity. My friends, because of me. What friends? Most dead. All gone. Hamble, Hamble.”
“He’s safe. Rooster, I told you that. He wanted no more violence so he is going to Duncton Wood. It has always been a sanctuary for moles like us who have lost their home burrow and cannot return. It was for me. It will be for him. It could be for you.”
“But Longest Night! You lost that because of me. It went by and we never knew. That day I confessed to all those moles, but did they hear? Now is second chance.”
“We heard,” said Weeth with a grin. This kind of talk made more sense to him.
“You’re good, you are,” said Rooster, laughing suddenly and buffeting Weeth in a rough way.
“You did confess, my dear, and many more moles heard you than you might think. I was not the only one to hear your... despair.”
“It is that,” said Rooster. “Confusion, like when you’re searching for the right delving line but cannot find it, or hear it. Only in your mind. There it’s beautiful, there it’s clear, there it’s everything. Then your paw tries to find it and cannot and makes something less, and something dies. In you. In here!” He thumped his huge chest and looked disappointed in himself.
“But what’s it feel like when you get the delving right?” asked Maple. They all looked at Rooster with interest, and he stared at the ghostly ground, and then ran the talons of his right paw into the grass.
“Haven’t delved for long time and said I never would again. But now, tonight, here, may have to. The need’s growing all the time. Whillan feels it. All may need us.”
“But you remember how to delve?” said Weeth.
Rooster nodded and said slowly, his face softening a little, “Once travelling with Hamble I woke at dawn. Went out. On a valley side looking down at the river that was there the evening before but was gone now, the water, the banks, the pasture, gone beneath a layer of mist. There was sun and in the distance there were trees. Thought, “I’m glad I’ve left the Moors, glad to see this, glad to be alive to know this beauty.” Then out of the mist, slowly, came the wings of a heron flap-flapping up towards me. Grey wings out of white, slow but sure, power out of strength. Out of that white nothing it came beneath which was the river I could not see but knew was there, and the grass I journeyed across the day before, and all the earth, which was lost that morning. Up and out came the heron, its great wings stirring the mist and then rising into sun, and then it was clear into the day and going forward, going on, certain, sure, a flight from a nothing I knew existed to a future I had to believe was there. That is what a delving is, that is what it feels like when it’s true. Only the Stone could make it be, for delving begins and ends in the Stone’s Silence, which begins in the past, is in the now, and will be in the future. And tonight. Whillan?”
Whillan looked at him expectantly.
“Tonight you must obey. Know you don’t like me. Know you don’t like love of Privet and me. Know anger when I see it. But tonight moledom’s more important than you or me. Tonight you obey. Understand?”
“But to do what?” asked Whillan.
Rooster shrugged. “Don’t know. Delve, probably.”
“I can’t delve,” said Whillan, “but I can scribe!”
Rooster laughed. “Oh yes, you can delve. Good that you don’t know how, will do it better. First time can delve out of innocence. After that it’s difficult. You must obey. Tell him. Privet.”
“I think he understands. Rooster.”
Rooster growled, frowned and fell silent, but the others did not speak for it was plain enough he wanted to say more.
“That was spring I saw the heron. And that was the day I started to look forward to Longest Night, praying to the Stone to bring me to it free of what I was in, which was darkness. But was not to be. We were escaping on Longest Night. Didn’t pause for thought or prayer. The Longest Night when all would change went past without a thought. Stone did not hear my prayer.”
“Didn’t it, my love?” said Privet, reaching her paw without embarrassment to his.
“She knew me before,” said Rooster. “Privet saw me delve when I could. Do you remember those days, long, long ago?”
Privet nodded but could say nothing.
“She came to Hilbert’s Top, and that was the Stone’s answer to my prayer too. The Stone does answer prayers but a mole cannot say when or where or how. He must wait. He must go into the darkness where no answers are. He must wait. I prayed for her up on Hilbert’s Top and she came. Like I prayed for Longest Night but the Stone did not answer. I have sinned. Now the Stone begins to answer. It says it needs me to delve, but I need another. Whillan will help.”
“Are you so sure you’ll delve again, and tonight?” whispered Privet.
“Longest Night was a time of missing. But with you there was Longest Night. Up on Hilbert’s Top before darkness of my killing Ratcher, before that. Do you remember what we did. Privet?”
“You held me all night my love, so close.”
“You remember?”
“I remember everything.”
“We were happy then. But now...”
“I’m here. And Longest Night...”
“I remember it like yesterday. Cannot forget, not ever.”
“It can be again.”
He shook his great head and said, “A mole can’t delve today what he didn’t delve yesterday.”
Privet said, “Not the same, no, but maybe better! Look at the trees behind us! Look at the stars above! Look at moledom stretching away beyond us in the moonlight. If we had been here on Longest Night what would we have seen? Not as much as now!”
“Some,” growled Rooster unconvinced. “Would have seen you. Privet!” He grinned.
“Not so clearly,” responded Privet, laughing.
“Sshh...” said Maple softly.
“Yes...” whispered Weeth, turning round sharply and peering into the wood. “Sshh... it seems to be...”
“Mole,” said Rooster.
“Yes,” said Whillan with sudden eagerness, “it sounds like mole. Need... we need...”
“The seventh you said,” said Rooster, “yes?”
Whillan nodded though he did not quite know why. But he felt suddenly relieved and wondered why Weeth and Maple looked so concerned. Couldn’t they tell what they could hear heralded completion, not dang
er? And if they could not, how could he? He looked at Madoc in wonder and she came closer.
“What is it, my love?” she asked.
“Don’t know,” said Whillan. “Something. Something important’s beginning. Here and now.”
“You sound like Rooster!” she whispered with a giggle. Whillan nodded seriously, unsurprised. He felt something like him too. He wondered where his anger had gone.
The sounds, which had faded for a few moments, were suddenly louder and they all turned towards them. What they heard were snatches of a song, and a cheerful one too. The voice, though cracked, was tuneful, and it was getting nearer.
“Humph!” said Maple, irritated to have their evening disturbed, but not overly concerned. This did not seem like a patrol of Newborns advancing to attack.
“There’s probably an isolated community here,” he whispered, “though why they are out singing on a night like this Stone knows. Not much point all of us hiding. Privet, you and Rooster had best keep out of sight.”
Rooster laughed and shook his head. “Said it was a good place and it is. One mole won’t harm us.”
“Might be more.”
“Not moving,” said Rooster firmly. “Stopped running when we got here.” Privet nodded her agreement and Maple sighed and began to wish he had a force of disciplined moles to command, not these individualists.
The voice fell silent and they heard the rustle of undergrowth as the mole – if there were more than one they were very quiet – moved from inside the wood to its edge, some way south of them. Then there was complete silence for a time and then the muttering of the voice before it broke into what was evidently the same song again, and began moving steadily nearer. The words were now quite clear, the melody lively and rhythmic, the voice now quite obviously that of a mature male.
“Followers awake, salute this happy night,
Wherein the seasons’ turn does turn again!
Rise to adore the mystery of the Stone,
Which waits now to hear your voice join mine.
Hark to its call, sing out our song,
For now is the glorious time of Longest Night.
Followers awake, salute...”
As this last repetition began the singer finally came into view, and since, for no obvious reason, he was moving backwards, he naturally did not see the six moles looming in the moonlight. He simply continued for a line or two more, and while singing he beat the ground with one or other of his front paws: “... this happy night (bang!), Wherein the seasons’ (bang!) turn does turn again (bang bang!).”
At this natural break he paused, glanced behind him to see where he was going, and found himself peering first at Maple’s paws, then at his chest, and then up into his eyes. The mole froze, looked away, shook his head as if he did not believe what he had seen, and repeating the last words he had sung simply as speech he said, “Does turn again – was that a mole I saw? A large mole? Let us turn like the seasons and look.”
He slowly turned once more and looked first at Maple, then one by one at the others, his eyes growing ever wider in astonishment as he did so, though otherwise he appeared absolutely calm.
Finally, just as Maple was about to greet him, he said with considerable aplomb, “Tell me, do you wish to be within or without?”
They stared at him blankly.
“Within what?” asked Privet.
“The stomp,” said the mole.
“The stomp?” repeated Maple and Weeth with one breath.
“Oh... “began Privet, her expression and voice conveying dawning understanding, “so that’s what you’re doing. Stomping.”
“Well yes, of course,” said the mole. “Sensible moles like me do not normally go backwards through a wood at night singing an unfamiliar song and stomping the ground with their paws. One must, however, maintain the traditions. Evidently, madam, you at least are aware of them.”
“You’re stomping the bounds,” said Privet with some excitement. “I have only heard of the custom from my kenning of Rhymes and Tales – but I thought it was a northeastern tradition.”
“So it may have been, so it may!” said the mole, who spoke in a quick, light voice, which matched the way his eyes danced here and there among them. He was thin of far and body but sprightly enough, his face being lined and fall of expression, mainly benign. He had seen perhaps four Longest Nights through, or five with the one just past, but he was young of mind and spirit.
“Would one of you enlighten us?” said Weeth.
“Well,” said Privet, “I had thought stomping the bounds was a tradition of Longest Night, but —”
“That’s right, it is,” said the mole. “To demarcate a mole’s territory prior to joining with the community and celebrating Longest Night.”
“But tonight is not Longest Night,” said Weeth.
“I know that,” said the mole testily, “it was three nights ago. But since the weather was poorly, and I felt ill, and there was no mole about to know, I had an amicable talk with the Stone and decided to delay matters for a few days until I felt better. I cannot say I feel perfect now, indeed I feel somewhat restless and uneasy.”
To his surprise several of them nodded vehemently.
“Ah! You seem to know what I mean! It’s not just me then. A very strange night this, cold and getting colder and I should be aburrow, but I can’t sleep a wink. I thought I might divert myself somewhat from my unease by singing the stomping song and getting on with things. Naturally I had not expected to meet moles here, but life never ceases to amaze me. It is usually we who are dull, not life. But We do not generally start talking in earnest until after this part of the evening is done. I assume from the fact that you talk civilly and do not talon me into the ground and then act the inquisitor that you are not Newborns? So... I have asked you if you wish to be within or without. If without, then I stomp that side of you and go on my way. If within, I stomp on the far side of you and on we go together, singing the song, bashing the ground with our paws and generally getting into the spirit of things whilst we complete the tour of the system’s bounds and all head back to the centre.”
“The custom died out in most places as bigger communities formed and the bounds grew too large,” said Privet in her old, scholarly way. Being “within” means we are within the bounds of the Stone.”
“Is there a Stone here?” asked Whillan.
“Well, now, that’s an interesting question to which there is no clear answer,” replied the mole. “There is a Stone, in a manner of speaking, and the erudite madam here is quite right: I am stomping to define its boundary of influence. However, the Stone itself is something of a disappointment, as you will soon see if you join me. Enough of talk. There is as much difference between talking about customs and doing them as between night and day... Now, are you...?”
“Within!” declared Maple. “Eh, Rooster?”
“Within!” said Rooster, giving the ground a mighty thump.
“Within!” said Whillan with unfeigned pleasure and relief Whatever it was they must do, he felt this would get them nearer to it.
“That’s settled then,” said their host, “off we go! We had got to, ‘Rise to adore...’”
With that, and much muttering and laughter as they struggled to get into the rhythm of the thing, the four moles followed their new-found leader backwards in the stomp. “Rise to adore (bang!) the mystery of the Stone (bang! thump!), Which waits now to hear (bang!) your voice join mine (bang!). Hark to its call (bang! thump! bang!), sing out...”
As they set off, quickly getting into the routine of the stomp, the moon rose higher still, but from the eastern horizon clouds began to loom, while above them a rough wind worried at the trees. But soon all reservations and concerns were cast aside. It was a dance of movement, of song, of merriment and of laughter, and the fact there were no more moles to be within or without mattered not one bit, for here all the good feelings of moledom were suddenly free to flow.
“Don’t know what we were
all so worried about earlier!” exclaimed Maple.
“No!” agreed Privet breathlessly.
Madoc laughed, Weeth danced a circle all by himself, and even Whillan seemed to be beginning to forget his strange apprehension.
But not Rooster: he danced well enough, he lumbered about, but his eyes were everywhere as he looked among the trees with apprehension, and his frown grew deeper.
Nomole can say how many times they sang the stomping song, certainly not the moles who sang it that starry night; nor how many times they beat the ground to mark out their shared territory and (as Privet later maintained) to liberate the good spirits of the earth that they might celebrate the seasons’ turn.
One thing only was certain, and that was the name of the mole who led them. For at some point during the dance one of them asked his name and he replied most solemnly (before tumbling, or being tumbled, headlong over Madoc):
“Hobsley is my name, and this coppice is...”
He was going to say what he was only able to say later, namely that the coppice had only been his home since the autumn just past, and that nomole-else lived there, and they were his first visitors.
“This coppice must be Hobsley’s Coppice, then!” declared Whillan, looking about them all, at the moonlight among the trees which shone also in Madoc’s eyes, and thinking he had rarely – no, never – seen anything as beautiful. “And I’m Whillan, and this is Madoc, and this...”
And so as they neared the end of their dance, and Hobsley led them back to where he had begun, which was on the far western side of the little wood, they exchanged names, and wove them into the banging and the rhythm of their song.
Until at last, paw to paw, they circled to a stop among some ancient oaks whose roots were rimy with frost.
“Well now,” said the breathless Hobsley, still holding the paws of the moles on either side of him so that the others all continued to do the same, “let’s see if I can remember all your names. Well, Madoc to my left, I know yours, and yours as well, Whillan. Then Maple, and Privet, and Rooster, who could forget your name? And finally on my right is... Weeth!”