Sturne looked to the right and saw nothing; to the left and saw nothing. To the left again, for something was odd, something...
Sturne stared through the seventh portal in disbelief. The Chamber of Roots was quietening, all sound dying; Silence was coming, and a Light suffused what had been chaos before. Even as he watched, and Barre came nearer, Sturne saw the pattern of roots beyond the portal shift silently, and open into a clear way through.
“Oh!” he sighed, thinking he had never seen anything so peaceful, “oh yes...”
And as Barre reached out to him, and the other two shouted at him, he slipped from their grasp and went through the portal into the Chamber of Roots.
“Don’t follow,” he said gently, for whatever else they were, they were moles, and this was not for them.
“Don’t follow?” roared Barre mockingly. “We’re going to catch you, mole, and put you to a painful death.”
The roots trembled about Sturne as he ran lightly among them, following the path they opened for him, shifting first one way and then another, huge and massive all about.
“Don’t follow, my arse!” cried out one of the guardmoles.
“No!” said Sturne, turning to warn them.
He saw that the route behind him was still clear; Barre entered, his friends following him, despite Sturne’s further warning cries. Sturne saw through the roots to right and left a mounting and a shifting, an angry wave of stressing and forcing, as sound came back to the chamber, and danger, and anger – he saw the Stone’s wrath made plain.
“Go back!” he warned one final time.
“No!” shouted Barre, reaching out a paw to haul back one of the guards who had seen what was coming from either side, had understood the danger and was trying to retreat, “no...!”
Then the dark roots took them before Sturne’s eyes, swift and most terrible. The fleeing guardmole first, torn from Barre’s grasp by a tangle of roots, turned sideways, pushed forward and down as he began to scream with pain.
Then the second, upended, mouth open, eyes wide with fear, snout twisted and torn from his head by roots that seemed alive with rage.
“Nol” prayed Sturne, for nomole should suffer thus, whatever they have done.
While Barre, who had turned to his guardmoles, was as yet untouched, he saw them torn and crushed to death before his eyes. He turned towards Sturne once more, his mouth opening into a plea, his paw reaching forward as a pup who knows he has done wrong might reach up to his mother – and then the first root took him. Suddenly he was dragged sideways, turning, roaring in shock and pain as a second grew taut and struck him back again. Then, worse than anything yet, three roots closed on him, their massive forms almost gentle as he strove to struggle free of them, but they held him tight. Then as wind-sound roared through the chamber they took him up vertically, twisted him, turned him, held him, and slowly began to squeeze.
Every detail of that slow death Sturne saw, his cries to the Stone to save the Brother Inquisitor unheeded. How long did he feel the crush of roots about his chest and head? Too long. How long did he know the extremity of pain? Too long. How long was Barre conscious? For too long.
His mouth was forced into a stretching grin, his head began to go squat, his eyes bulged and blinked obscenely, his tongue pushed out, his paws grew fat with his own blood before the roots cast him down and he lay screaming on the riven floor, blood and muck pouring from his snout. Then, mercilessly, he was taken up once more as the roots began to make him of their own. And where he had been blood ran down, and was lost in the shifting soil.
Nor was that all. As Sturne stared up into the dark roof of the Chamber of Roots, in the shadows there, in the deeps, he saw the lost eyes of a mole; he saw them stare, and heard a voice squeak out its hopeless plea for mercy from an agony for which the only cure would be death, and terribly, so terribly, he saw that thing which Barre had become. Caught, half crushed, immobile, misshapen by the roots, teeth splaying out, tongue half bitten off, his belly split and gaping, guts spilling, yet living long enough to know what the roots had made him, and to become insane.
Much later as it seemed to Sturne that crushed creature which had once been Barre laughed the unfunniest laugh Sturne ever heard; the roots shifted once again, and there came the final scream into death of a mole lost to his own cursed self
How long Sturne stayed where he slumped down then, bereft at what he saw, he did not know. The roots shifted and vibrated about him. Then they opened once more, but not to let him out, rather to urge him on. Peace was come, and Silence of a kind, and renewing Light.
He followed the way the roots made for him, and reached the inner part of the chamber. He saw the great vertical thrust of the Stone above him, he saw ancient, quieter roots across the ground; peace came over him, and he knew he had nearly reached the inner sanctum of the Stone.
Summoned to go forward, he went, slowly and falteringly and filled with awe. The roof seemed cavernous above him, the Stone’s base enormous, and he felt tiny by comparison. Light glimmered ahead, shadows were without darkness, colours were gentle and changing and without name. He clambered over roots, he ducked under rocky overhangs, he reached out a paw to pull himself forward and then, turning a comer, he knew what he would see.
They were there in their circle, the seven Stillstones, and the six Books so far found. There in their places to form the circle of harmony which is moledom’s gift from the Stone itself There for him to see.
“You are worthy, mole,” the Silence seemed to say, “worthy to be Stour’s successor. He entrusted you with a task you have fulfilled and now you are the worthy Master of the Library in his place. Sturne...”
And the roots shifted, and the Stone, and he heard his name called from out of the Silence.
“Now your own last task begins, Master Librarian. To wait and to watch, to guide and to protect, for now is the Book of Silence being made ready to come to ground.”
Light was on his face and on his paws, the holy Light of Silence. He saw where the one place empty of a Book remained, before it a single stone, not large, but shimmering.
“The Stillstone of Silence,” he whispered, knowing well its tale. “I will strive to fulfil all you ask of me,” he whispered, and he reached out his paw and put it near the place where one day the Book might be.
Darkness, heaviness, danger, and terrible fear were his for a moment.
“I will do my best,” he said, withdrawing his paw.
“It is all we ever ask,” the Silence whispered. “Now sleep, mole, sleep, and be at peace, for your friends are safe now, where they will not be found.”
“Sleep,” whispered Pumpkin later, “all I want is sleep, but —”
“But nothing, mole,” said Elynor, holding him. “We’re safe now, nomole will find us here, and the Stone watches over us in this place to which you led us. So sleep, mole.”
Deep in the Ancient System, in tunnels whose ways they could not easily retrace, and whose sound was now as gentle as a mother’s song, Pumpkin and his friends found sanctuary.
“Sleep,” Elynor said, and her eyes closed, and Cluniac’s, and all those who had dared to travel with them slept as well.
“Mustn’t...” whispered Pumpkin; but he did, deeply. The sleep of the just and the brave.
Sleep might have been that dawn’s name amongst the many moles who had answered Pumpkin’s plea for help. At Fyfield, Tonner slept out in the snow as if he were in the deepest, warmest, safest nest. The Stone watched over him.
At Beechenhill three moles slept, their vigil over, their tired limbs just carrying them to shelter, their minds at peace.
On Caer Caradoc Rolt fell asleep even as he led Thripp to the safety of the tunnels, and the winds above him began to ease.
“Sleep, mole,” said Thripp, sighing, “for your night’s work is well done. But now I must think.” Perhaps so, but for now he too slept.
While north of them, at Hobsley’s Coppice, seven moles stared up at the risen Stone
. All were tired, but now their delvings and their prayers were done. Moledom was ready for the winter years, and those in peril were surely safe for now.
“Come,” said Hobsley, “there’s a chamber big enough for all of us. We’ll sleep, and then, well, whatmole knows...?”
He led his weary guests from the Stone, through the trees which fretted still with the winds that had rushed by and all but gone, and showed them the chamber where they could rest. Down they went, eyes already closing, down towards slumber, one after the other, until only Rooster and Privet were left awake, while Weeth, troubled by the night’s events, it seemed, lingered outside.
“Haven’t talked much since I found you again,” said Rooster.
“Haven’t talked at all, my love.”
“Talked to Whillan! I delved with him! He’s got the delving touch. Can sound a delving once he’s been shown.”
“You didn’t tell him?”
“Did. Some. Not all. Such knowledge proved too much for me. He’ll find out.”
“Rooster, what didn’t you tell him?”
Rooster was silent, and Privet suddenly concerned.
“What do you know about him you haven’t said? It’s more than his delving skill, isn’t it?”
“Can’t say. Won’t...” But Rooster said no more.
A deep listening silence followed, and then the whisper of winter wind. Old thoughts that must be allowed a space to die... and new thoughts, new insights.
“My Sister Lime... and the way you loved her,” said Privet at last.
“Yes..
“Tell me everything, tell me now, here in the dark.”
“Will,” said Rooster. “Want to. She was with pup. Mine. My own. All lost now, all gone.”
She felt his tears as he felt hers. New insights... something she had begun to... to know. But had he seen it yet?
She glanced across the chamber to where Whillan lay, his paws about Madoc, both deep asleep. Did Rooster...?
“Privet,” a voice whispered from the darkness near the entrance to the chamber. “Privet...”
It was Weeth.
“What is it, mole?” said Rooster, stirring reluctantly.
“I would talk with Privet, mole. Just for a moment...”
Rooster sighed, reluctant to break the moment of intimacy with Privet, and perhaps wondering what could be so important after so much had happened and all moles wanted to do was rest, and sleep.
“It will take but a moment...”
Privet went to Weeth, already guessing what it might be he wanted to say. No, knowing what it was. The two of them whispered, both looked at Rooster, both looked beyond him to Whillan, and Rooster rose uneasily.
“What? What do you know?” he asked.
Privet came to him, and Weeth as well. “It’s Whillan, Rooster,” said Privet.
“Yes?”
“You’ve heard how he came to Duncton Wood?”
“Something.”
“A female came in April, she gave birth to pups at the very entrance to the system. Master Stour found them but only one survived.”
“Yes,” said Rooster. He was suddenly very still, and his eyes shone strangely.
“I believe that female...” began Privet.
“It’s only a surmise,” offered Weeth.
“That female was almost certainly my sister Lime,” whispered Privet. “I thought it before, and often wondered why moles said Whillan looked a little like me...”
“And he delves,” said Rooster softly, “like he was born to it. If he’s Lime’s...”
“He’s yours, my dear,” said Privet.
“Mine,” rasped Rooster, turning almost wildly towards where Whillan lay. “My...”
Silent, transfixed. Privet and Weeth watched as Rooster went to Whillan’s flank. He stared down at him, huge, shadowed, mouth open, as he reached out one of his paws to touch what he thought he had lost for ever.
Madoc shifted and Whillan stirred, and whispered, “What is it...?” Perhaps he saw the shadow of Rooster’s gentle paw across his face, for he opened his eyes and drowsily repeated, “What is it...?”
“Is nothing,” said Rooster in a broken voice, “is nothing, mole. Sleep...”
Whillan smiled, turned to Madoc, tightened his grip on her and whispered, “It’s nothing then,” and slept.
“Is nothing and is everything,” said Rooster gently, and his voice was a father’s who sees for the first time his firstborn pup.
Weeth reached a paw to Privet’s and squeezing it smiled at her and then was gone to other shadows, to leave them alone, and to find sleep himself.
Privet watched Rooster but did not move. The great mole stared at his son in disbelief, doubting it still, yet knowing it was true in his innermost being; as a delver he knew it, and it felt as certain as a true line delved.
At last he turned back to Privet and she saw a new look in his face and eyes, as of a mole who has found his way once more. How long his dark journey had been, how hard.
“Privet...” was all he needed to say before he held her, and she him, and there was no need more for talk now.
Sleep became theirs as well, and talk would wait as they knew peace in each other’s paws again, and out on the surface above them, and far beyond, the winter advanced across moledom and snow began to turn to ice.
While across moledom too, the Stones rose towards the sky, silent, watchful; at all of them the seasons had turned, and the light of a new season was rising upon them. At the Stone of Beechenhill, and the ring of Stones at Rollright, light; at the Stone of Fyfield, and the Stones of Siabod and of Avebury, and of Caer Caradoc, light.
At the newest Stone, which had risen into the dawn of Hobsley’s Coppice, and at the most ancient Stone of all, which rises amidst the high trees of Duncton Wood, light and peace.
There too the winter wind whispers of brave moles and true; and of a Book of Silence for which allmole has waited these centuries past, and for whose coming new hope has risen.
Epilogue
So, mole, Pumpkin sought the Stone’s help, and with a little assistance from friends he knew (and some he didn’t) he found it.
Now you want me to continue without a pause at all. You look around this Stone Clearing of ours as if you hope to find the rest of our tale hiding under the fallen trees, or lurking over there among the roots of that great beech.
You’re out of luck, which is a pity, for if only leaves and roots and tunnels and trees could talk, what tales would we moles hear! You must make do with me, and now I’m sleepy and night is drawing in. I’m not like the moles of our inspiring tale of Duncton Rising who seem able to stay awake till dawn. No, no, I’m a little more traditional.
But don’t worry, we’ve not followed Pumpkin the long way on his journey only to abandon him in the lost and forgotten tunnels of the Ancient System! Nor have we forsaken those other moles like Privet and Rooster, who still have much to do if they are to find the Book of Silence, and bring it home to Duncton Wood.
No, no, mole, you’ve still some scribing down to do if you’re to discover the truth of their brave lives, for isn’t that your task? I tell, you scribe!
Thripp? Yes, I’ll tell of him as well.
And Quail, and Skua, and the vile Squelch, and Fetter, and all other moles of ill-intent and misguided thoughts. As I have said before, you don’t find light without shadow, you can’t have warmth without some cold.
Talking of which, the sun declines, and so do I, and a worm or two would now not be amiss. That’s your task too, to find me food! Mine? To make my way to where I’ll be comfortable, to think, and to remember those times of which I tell, and will return to on the morrow. Before then, sleep...
But if the moon rises bright tonight, as I think it will, and your mind is too active for you to sleep, then by all means come back up here to the Stone and stance in silence near it. It may speak to you for all I know, it may even whisper your name. Who can say? Not I!
But of our tale, well... it wo
uld not surprise me one little bit if all things end as they began, here, by the Duncton Stone.
William Horwood
DUNCTON STONE
VOLUME THREE OF
THE BOOK OF SILENCE
As Pumpkin, library aide extraordinary, leads the followers against the Newborns into retreat in Duncton Wood, all Moledom awaits the coming of the lost Book of Silence.
But Elder Senior Brother Thripp has been displaced by the loathsome Brother Inquisitor Quail and the cruel Skua, and the sectarian Newborns are in the ascendancy. The only hope seems to lie with the scholar and scribemole Privet, with her lost love Rooster, Master of the Delve, and with the Duncton warrior Maple. When they are separated once more and Privet disappears, all hope for Moledom and for the return of the Book of Silence seems lost for ever.
Yet always the Light and Silence of Duncton’s fabled Stone beckons, offering hope to all moles with the courage to confront their faith, and a final chance to discover the truth of the Book of Silence.
Duncton Stone is the last tale of moles whose task is the discovery of truth, but whose hope is only that one day they may return home safeguarded.
Table of Contents
Title page
Copyright
CONTENTS
Prologue
Moledom
PART I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
PART II
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
PART III
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two