From where such inner goodness flows, nomole knows. From where such love, in the face of evil? From where compassion, when all compassion is lost? From where forgiveness?
Pumpkin saw true evil; he heard true blasphemy; he knew, because he saw the depth of the void to which Barre’s act had brought him. But he raised his clear mild gaze from it and stared for one terrible moment into Barre’s black eyes.
Then he turned his back on Barre, and looked up at the Stone, unafraid. He cried out his simple prayer for all of them, follower and Newborn alike, fearless and full of faith that it would be answered.
“Good Stone,
Deliver us.
Send us thy grace,
For we are but ordinary moles,
Without grace unless you grant it us,
Without deliverance unless you bring it us,
Without love but in your Light and Silence.”
As Pumpkin spoke, with all the pity and compassion and love that was in his simple heart alive in every word, he slowly raised his paws towards the Stone, and to the dawning light of a new day that rose through the wild winds of winter beyond it; and he cried out again:
“Good Stone,
Deliver us!”
Chapter Thirty-Five
The downland of Uffington Hill at Seven Barrows was overwhelmed that dawn by the urgent sounding of the Blowing Stone, as Fieldfare and the others held each other’s paws and touched the Stone, and sent the power of their thoughts into the sky.
“Now is the time,” whispered Fieldfare, “now.”
The blizzard winds had abated only slightly, and as the dawn light came they saw that the downs about them were white with snow.
“Duncton it is that needs us!” Fieldfare had cried out earlier, and none had doubted it. So it was to Duncton now that their prayers for intercession and deliverance went.
Far, far to the north, where the snow had been thicker, and the ice more bitter, three brave followers still stanced by the Stone of Beechenhill. Dawn was a hard rising that morning, but with prayer and faith it came, and though the name Duncton did not come to their mouths, their prayers seemed southward-bound, to moles whom the Stone’s touch told them needed help.
“Good Stone,
Deliver them!”
At Fyfield, the vagrant mole Tonner sensed that his long vigil was reaching its climax, and though he felt half frozen with cold he would not have deserted the Stone for one moment. He knew it was nearby Duncton that needed help, and such prayer as he had, though he was not a praying mole, he offered up: “Stone, deliver them!”
While at Caer Caradoc, in the open space amidst the Stones, Thripp seemed close to death, so bitter had been the winds, so determined had been his stance all night. Yet there he had stayed, muttering prayers, staring bleakly into the night until it became dawn, and raising paws as if to try to beat back the elements – perhaps very life itself – that had threatened all moledom that long and dreadful night.
“Master, Master, you cannot do more,” Rolt cried, deserting the Stone he had been commanded to touch, and going to Thripp’s aid.
Thripp shivered and shook, his eyes half closed as he slipped in and out of consciousness, yet still he whispered, “Stone, help them. Help them. Stone...”
Then, as dawn light came and tinged the sleety snow grey-mauve, Rolt led the Elder Senior Brother unresisting to the shelter of the nearest Stone.
“Touch my paw to it, mole, for I have not strength,” whispered Thripp, “and pray for Duncton Wood.”
Which Rolt did, huddling his body to Thripp’s in an effort to warm him, and knowing wonder and awe once more as he felt the Stone’s grace and power come into Thripp, and realizing that in this night of prayer and invocation for others, his Master might have found a way to live anew.
“Help us help them...” whispered Rolt, one paw round Thripp’s weak shoulders, and the other upon the Stone.
At so many other places followers sent out their prayers. But it was with Rooster and Privet that the most ancient of ritual affirmations of the power of life found its expression once more on that first Night of Rising.
Beneath the Stone that Hobsley had led the moles to earlier in the night, Rooster and Whillan delved; above it Privet led the others in meditation and prayers, but as the night went by all of them knew that time was running out.
“The Stone guides, the Stone teaches, but it cannot make moles do. They alone make themselves do that!” Privet said at one point, when the others were flagging. “Now, think and think again of Duncton, urge the moles there to have strength, ask the Stone to send its power to the followers there, and especially... yes, especially to Pumpkin, library aide, brave mole, survivor.”
Oh no, Privet had no doubt that it was around that good mole that tonight’s events were circling, for again and again the Stone brought his name to her mind. She knew him, she loved him, and the Stone kept putting an image of him before her: bold, brave, beset but determined.
“Stone, help him to help the others, for I know he’ll do his very best. But he’ll be full of doubts, so guide him, let him know we are praying for him, guide him...”
Weeth, Maple, Madoc and Hobsley joined their prayers to hers, and when she grew tired one or other of them took over from her. All were inspired by the roarings and callings that surrounded the Stone which lay along the ground, its great mass shifting sometimes as the wind about them gathered strength, and the tree roots heaved and stressed in the earth.
Sometimes Privet gave a thought to Rooster and Whillan, unseen, no doubt endangered by the stressing roots about them, but she trusted Rooster. Here he was becoming Master of the Delve once more. This new beginning might make his travails worthwhile. Here the old and the new were one, and if the seasons were turning a little late, well, let it be so. It was the Stone’s work he was delving.
Then, as the winds now drove thicker and thicker sleet in among the trees and straight at the praying moles, as if to dislodge them from their stations, Weeth leapt back and cried out, “Look, moles, look!”
He pointed at the Stone he had been touching with the others, and then one by one they each saw what he had felt: the Stone was moving. Juddering, shaking, heaving in the dawn, and the ground at one end of it, where Rooster had said they must not stance, was shifting, slipping, sinking away.
“Rooster!” screamed Privet. “Whillan!”
And well she might, well she might.
For down the tunnels about the Stone Whillan and Rooster had found a huge delved chamber, filled with light, and violent disruptive sound. There they had gone, and as Rooster touched the delvings over the walls, Whillan waited for instruction.
“Touch nothing, mole!” Rooster had roared above the noise. “Only do as I tell you!” But with the sense of danger and doubt so palpable in the air Whillan needed no second telling.
He had watched as Rooster ran his great paws in the shadows and deeps of the delvings, which echoed and shrieked to his touch; he had covered his ears at the sound, and his eyes had watered with its pain.
“Aye,” said Rooster, who went hither and thither in the dark, snouting at roots, touching indentations, feeling the buried part of the Stone which hung above them, and listening to the whining and groaning of the roots that encircled it.
“Aye, this is the Master’s work. Born of a lifetime of suffering and love. Born out of darkness to reveal the light. He knew. He knew. Feel this, mole. And this!”
Again and again he summoned Whillan to him, insisting that Whillan felt the delving deeply.
“You learn, mole. You remember. You’ll know.”
Then Rooster had been almost silent and still for a time as if listening, when the only word he said was, “Waiting!”
Waiting.
To the occasional sound of the prayers above they waited, into the night, into the darkest delved sound, frightened, wanting to run, the great Stone poised above them.
“Be ready,” growled Rooster. “Time coming. Need growing. Stone
nearly ready.”
But that had been a long time before.
Now dawn was coming, the chamber was lightening, and danger seemed ever more imminent. For above his head
Whillan could see that the soil about the Stone was crumbling as the roots entwining it heaved and stressed; at last the Stone did what it had so long threatened, and began to move.
“Not you, you stay!” commanded Rooster.
But... There were no buts, and Whillan stared in horror at the massive shifting Stone above his head, and at Rooster at the far end of the chamber.
“Won’t fall,” said Rooster grimly, but can kill. Root’ll hold it if we help.” He pointed at the mass of roots at the Stone’s central part which now whined and flexed from the huge winds above.
“What are we waiting for?” Whillan dared ask.
Rooster shrugged. “Don’t know,” he said. “My first time too. Difference between Master and assistant is that one is trained, the other not. Being not might help. Being trained might help. Don’t know!” He grinned, and Whillan felt strangely comforted. They waited.
Now and then snatches of the prayers Privet was speaking were carried down to them: “Aid... forgive... help... courage... love...”
Then, quite suddenly, silence. Utter and complete. Rooster frowned, puzzled. Whillan stared at the Stone, which was still, though at a slight angle. All sound was gone – no wind, nothing. Just a few particles of soil and gravel falling from the roof adjacent to the Stone.
“Good Stone,
Deliver them!”
It was Privet’s voice, quite clear now, powerful, a plea, a demand, a cry for help, and as it faded the wind-sound began to come back, suddenly rapid, faster and faster, ever faster, and the chamber began to seem to break, and turn, and be destroyed by noise.
“Now, mole, now!” cried Rooster to Whillan, as out on the surface, the eye of the storm having come and now gone, the winds redoubled, and the trees all about the Stone began to creak and whine with the strain.
“Now!” cried Privet, reaching her paws to the others to pull them clear of the Stone.
“Now delve, Whillan, delve!” roared Rooster, pointing at a place where roots heaved down from above on one side of the chamber, while he delved at the other.
“Here?” cried Whillan.
“Delve where your paws tell you!” cried Rooster, and Whillan did, as if delving for his life. To free the roots, to clear the soil, to make way for the shifting Stone which rocked down, up, and down some more, and up again, more and more, closer and closer, almost crushing him, the roar of sound no different in his ears than the savage sight of soil and rock bursting asunder all about him, and all over Rooster it seemed, who stanced as powerful as rock, and root, and Stone, and delved that it might rise.
“Now!” roared Rooster.
“Now,” whispered Whillan through debris and flying fragments.
“Now!” cried Privet as she stanced clear with her friends and they watched as the wind drove blizzard snow hard and ever harder against the Stone which tried and struggled and strove to rise against it. Up, and down; up higher and driven down again, until, resolute, unstoppable, majestic, the Stone rose from the soil, bursting the roots that still held it, throwing debris to right and left, a Stone rising, rising to the sky; rising for all time. Now...
“Now!” called out Pumpkin into the heart of the High Wood of Duncton, turning back to face Barre and the other Newborns as the Stone seemed to shudder at his plea, and its Light to become the colour of the driven sky.
“Now you will not take us. Now we are not afraid. Now we take our rightful liberty!”
Then, as the Newborns stared dumbstruck, their paws immovable on the ground, Pumpkin turned once more and pointing to the shadows beyond the Stone said calmly to Elynor, “Lead them there, you will find the way. For these few moments they’ll not dare harm us!”
One by one the followers slipped away where he indicated, whilst he turned back yet one more time to out-stare the Newborns, his clear eyes the colour of the Stone, his stance, his body, his spirit a challenge to anymole not to move, not to interfere with the Stone’s good work.
Until at last one by one they were gone beyond the Stone and found, as Pumpkin thought they would, the entrance down into the tunnels that led to the Chamber of Roots, ready cleared and prepared by Sturne himself.
Then Cluniac came to him and whispered, “Sir, they’re all below but us now. Come, sir, come while you can.”
Barre opened his mouth, Barre stared at his paw, Barre frowned at the Stone; Barre moved.
“Come along Pumpkin, sir, they’re... they’re going to start again.”
Pumpkin nodded, and half smiled, and turned his back to Barre again, and went quickly to the Stone and touched it.
“Now,” he said at last, “am I ready to commit myself to the sanctuary of the Ancient System.”
But even as he moved the wild winds drove wet leaves and snow against the Stone’s face, and Barre roared, “Take him! Take that mole!”
Cluniac hurried Pumpkin behind the Stone, thrust him down the short way towards where the portal into the tunnel had been revealed.
“No!” cried Pumpkin, “you go first!” and he shoved Cluniac through the entrance and down out of sight. Only then did he call out, “Keeper Sturne! For Stone’s sake escape while you can!” for he guessed whichmole had cleared the entrance and made it easy for the old moles to enter. Whatmole else but Sturne and himself knew the place so well?
Then Sturne appeared out of the shadows. “Go on!” he ordered Pumpkin.
“But they’re coming, Sturne, they’re coming now!”
Sturne assumed his grimmest and most formidable expression and said, “As Acting Master of the Library I order you, Library Aide Pumpkin, to go down into the Ancient System and help those refugees to escape. Go, mole! Be gone!”
As mole, Pumpkin would have refused, but as an aide he could not, and he understood why Sturne had to order him.
“Mole,” he said, reaching out, “you’ll be discovered, you’ll be identified.”
Sturne replied, “Perhaps, but I may slow them, and have the satisfaction of knowing I did the best I could: be gone, so I can cover up your tracks.”
Pumpkin ducked into the entrance and joined Cluniac below, and they ran for their lives down the tunnels after the other followers.
On the surface above Sturne did not even try to cover the entrance, for he knew he had no time. There was a crash of undergrowth from the direction of the Stone, and Barre and his two minions were upon him.
“You are accursed,” Sturne began to say, thinking only to slow them.
Barre knew the stance; he knew the voice. He had heard it earlier that night in the Marsh End.
“You!” he cried, his rage almost beyond control.
“Yes, me,” said Sturne.
Then, as other Newborns came racing in, but before they saw whatmole he was, Sturne turned and went down into the portal, and to the tunnel below.
He paused, waiting for Barre and his friends to follow so that he might divert them a little while longer, and Privet and the others get clean away. What matter that he was identified? The followers were safe in the Ancient System, safe for a time: he could do nothing more now but add just a little to their chances.
Yet perhaps, after all, it had not just been for Pumpkin and the followers that the rest of moledom had been praying, but for Sturne as well. Perhaps, too, when he had played at looking like the wrath of the Stone down in the Marsh End, he had invoked something more than images.
Barre chased after him, his outrage on fire once more as he discovered that he had not only been fooled by the puny mole Pumpkin, but by Sturne as well. He swore words of blood and damnation, and he and his two friends dropped down into the tunnel and set off in pursuit after the Librarian.
Sturne knew he had little time left, but at least he might still delay things, so he went as fast as he could, round the ante-chamber that encircles the Chamb
er of Roots, past portal after portal that led into the Chamber itself
He did not need to look inside to know what he would see: with such winds, at such a dawn, the roots were a terrible sight. Threshing, twisting, clashing and pulling, they formed a shifting chamber of certain death for any mole who ventured in among them.
“No, no,” thought Sturne, “that way cannot be. I must slow a little lest I bring Barre to the only other portal out of here into the Chamber of Dark Sound wherein Pumpkin and the others must already be.”
He slowed and glanced back and saw that there was little time left. He would soon be caught, and when he was he had little doubt what his fate would be. Barre’s eyes were puffed and red with anger, and his voice rasping and foul in its belligerence.
“Bastard mole! Blasphemer! Liar! I will personally...”
Sturne passed the fifth portal, then the sixth, and he saw ahead the seventh to his left, and to his right that dark jagged way through which Pumpkin and the others had fled. Here he must make a last stand, and do his best to give his friends extra time; unless, of course, the Stone chose to punish Barre with Dark Sound, which would be a fitting end for such a mole.
“Pumpkin and the followers should be all right,” he said to himself, as he turned round finally to face his end. “The Dark Sound will surely not harm them this night of nights. Has not the Stone given them its protection?”
He watched dispassionately as Barre paused in front of him, staring suspiciously about as if he expected an ambush. His friends reached him and together the three began a slow advance. Sturne felt fear. He felt cold. He felt sad. He had saved Pumpkin from death this night, only to engender his own. So this was how it was to be.
Yet something odd was in the air – subtle, strange. He frowned and considered, as Barre came ever nearer, his great ugly paws raised, their talons at the ready.