“Help us in Chieveley Dale,” said the mole.
Privet had not even time to think she had never heard of Chieveley Dale when the mole’s head turned and seemed to snout up towards the breeze that blew beyond her reach. She tried to turn to look at Privet once again, but stiffened, moaned once more, and even as Privet touched her, she died.
Long moments later Hamble came, and saw the scene, and poor Privet stanced near a dead mole. He went to her and she turned to him and sobbed, “They wanted help, they wanted help from us.”
So it was that the first of the refugees from Chieveley Dale across Saddleworth came to Crowden. Eight were found, all showing the swellings and fur loss of virulent murrain and all killed by Ratcher’s grikes for fleeing during the night.
Three days later there were more screams in the dark, and this time one was found alive, though barely so. At least he survived longer than the one Privet had seen die, and was able to tell them something of Chieveley Dale, and of recent happenings on Saddleworth. Though weak from the taloning he had received, he lived a few hours more and in that time repeatedly asked to be admitted into Crowden, as if he were certain that he would find healing there.
But the elders decreed against it and several of the younger moles made him comfortable where he lay, while others watched out for grikes returning. It was then he told what he could of his system’s circumstances, and Shire, being unwilling to come beyond the system’s bounds, sent Privet to scribe down what he said, or tried to say, for his speech was wandering, and he mentioned moles and places that meant little to those who heard him.
Since the first incident Sward had explained where Chieveley Dale was, and something of the mystery of the delvings on Hilbert’s Top, the high part of the Moors that formed the Dale’s eastern flank. Privet had heard from him too of the Charnel Clough, the den of the Ratcher mob, which no outside mole had ever visited voluntarily, and from which none ever returned; the Charnel was an ancient source of fear, and of rumours of gorges and raging rivers, and ogreish moles who ate their young. This place was Red Ratcher’s home.
That much she had heard and was able to understand when the Chieveley mole referred to it, and she knew that the system of which he was a part consisted of moles who in very recent years had made an exodus from the Charnel and occupied Chieveley’s long-deserted Dale.
The mole talked of disease and death, and siege as well, and of Ratcher’s desire ‘to kill us all’. And, of other moles, “their delvings will not hold out much more’.
“What delvings?” asked Privet, for the matter seemed pertinent and worried the dying mole.
“Rooster,” replied the mole, his eyes gentling at the mention of this odd word.
Rooster? He did not say more.
Except that when she asked him to explain he said, as if it meant much, that ‘she is dead, like others, like our best delvers. Rooster’s in retreat.”
Such fragments as these did Privet scribe down, urging the mole, as much as she dared, to say more.
Hilbert, he mentioned him. And Rooster, that again. But most memorable of all, because he said it as clearly as a lark’s song in the spring, and it was the last thing that he said; ‘Thank the Stone, we have a Master of the Delve at last, Rooster …”
It was not much, and yet it was enough for Sward to say, “A Master of the Delve, he said? That will be the day!”
“What is that?” she asked.
He gave an answer steeped in legend and history, and as he did she remembered kenning of such a thing somewhere, not in mole but Whernish. She had thought that such Masters were evil things who practised Dark Sound.
“No, no, my dear,” said Sward, “the Scirpuscuns corrupted them and wiped them out in mediaeval times. The mole was babbling of the past, for there’ll never be more Masters of the Delve.”
“And Rooster? What did that mean?”
Sward shrugged.”
“’Tis not a thing I’ve heard of before.”
“Perhaps it is a mole,” said Hamble simply.
Yes, thought Privet, strangely thrilled, it is a mole. That explanation makes most sense. “Rooster’s in retreat”, the mole had said. On Hilbert’s Top, perhaps. And so began a dream.
Such was all that last survivor said, and it did not amount to much. Yet his coming, and more particularly the decision of the Crowden elders to deny him access to the system, began a fierce debate about what to do if others came.
If we are of the Stone then we must admit moles to our sanctuary,” argued the younger moles, and with them, for the first time in her life, Privet found her voice. She was angry, and upset, and at night could not close her eyes without remembering those other eyes that stared into hers before they died, and a voice that called out, “Help us in Chieveley Dale!” So with Hamble she persuaded others of like mind to complain and argue with the elders.
But most were against them, including many like Lime who were of their own generation, who sided with the majority of older moles and began to call them grike-lovers, and sneered at them. Whilst Shire, who as Librarian had elder status, mocked Privet and turned the elders against her and Hamble and others like them, saying they had too little experience to judge such things and that Crowden had not survived this long by giving space to grikes.
Then two moleweeks later, four more refugees from the Dale arrived at the western boundary, attempted to enter Crowden, and after a near-violent argument led by Hamble and Privet in favour of allowing them in, against the majority who refused them entry, the refugees were denied admission. Nor was Hamble or any other mole allowed out to talk to them, though over that there was more dispute.
That night the grikes came, and the Crowden moles heard the refugees tortured and murdered but a short way beyond the defences. It was a shameful night in Crowden’s history and as red sun bloodied the dawn sky, the refugees’ corpses were found taloned to the ground.
Had Privet been a bolder mole, had Hamble had less common sense, either one or both would have left the system that day. As it was they watched the rooks wheeling and swooping over the fodder the grikes had left, and for days after watched the Moors. If refugees had arrived then, violence would have come to Crowden over their admission and perhaps, after all, the system’s elders would have relented and let them in.
But none did, and Hamble and Privet and their few friends were left with bleak looks in their eyes, and faces that had aged more in a few days than in all the moleweeks past; and would age still more in the moleweeks to come. Whilst into their hearts had come a restlessness and impatience whose satisfaction could no more be found within the confines of the system in which they had been born.
But now to the system and to both these moles came a new worry. Sickness began to go through Crowden like rank mist across a heath which, when it has gone, leaves the heather wan and fading. Once again the mood of the system swung, for none doubted that the sickness was the beginning of a form of plague, and contact with the sick refugees had brought it into the system.
It affected the older moles most, as sickness always does at autumn’s end, and suddenly both Hamble and Privet had new and more immediate concerns than refugees, for Tarn and Shire were both struck down. While Sward, if not sick, became distracted, his eyes rheumy; he wandered away towards the Moors, saying he was off on a journey to find a text. At first Privet got Hamble to stop him — he would not listen to her — but soon they realized it was all talk, and after a short time he always came back again, muttering that he had not found ‘it’, but he knew where it was, he did.
Of more concern was Shire, whose sickness filled her with lassitude, and whose voice, always so disciplined and clear, took on a querulous tone. She began to stay in her burrow and had reluctantly to accept Privet’s help with food and grooming, which she did with venomous and unpardonable criticism, while calling all the time for Lime. But Lime did not want to come, seeming to take her mother’s illness as a personal affront, worried, too, that she would catch the sickness herse
lf.
In their different ways Privet and Lime discovered how shocking it was to find that a parent who has always been there and seemed so strong may in a matter of weeks or even days become weak and changed. It was as if the wall of a great strong chamber where a mole has felt so safe had suddenly collapsed, and the bitter winds and rain of the world driven in. This Privet saw more clearly than her selfish sister, and for all the anger and hatred she felt for Shire, she felt her world was on the edge of ruin now, and a change was coming of which she was afraid; yet she did not want to prevent it.
Meanwhile, in the Library, moles began to consult Privet directly, and she realized that despite her youth the training her mother had so ruthlessly given her, and her natural ability with texts, had made her indispensable. Caught as she now was between these growing duties, and caring for her ungrateful mother, Privet retreated into days and weeks of nothing but work, and hurrying along winter-bound tunnels to one onerous task or another.
Her only relief from Shire came not from Lime, who stayed as clear as she could from her former home burrow and avoided caring for her mother, but from Sward, who once he recovered himself, began for the first time in years coming by the burrows to help out with food and nesting material. At least with him Shire did not shout and criticize, and when he was there poor Privet was able to get some sleep. It was the first time she had ever seen a show of concern between her parents, or any sign that once, however briefly, they had cared for each other.
But meanwhile the sickness — moles now openly called it murrain — afflicted others in the system, including Hamble’s parents Fey and Tarn. For days they lingered near to death, suffering much, yet each striving even then to help the other.
One day at the end of October Hamble came to Privet in the Library, and seeing how he looked she went straight to him.
“My mother died this morning,” he whispered, “she just turned away and died. My father … he would speak with you, Privet. He too is weak and I do not think will last the day. Others have died these few days past, and more will die. Privet, it is murrain, isn’t it?”
“I will come to him now,” said Privet; ‘he was like a father to me when I was young.” As for the murrain, she did not know. She supposed it was.
She found Tarn weak but clear-headed, his benign and gentle face warming to see her, his paws squeezing at hers. Her father, his oldest friend, was nearby, and he grinned manically when Privet appeared.
Then, winking, he said, “The old fool thinks he’s sick. Eh, Tarn? He’s not so ill he couldn’t think to call us here.”
“My dear,” said Tarn, his voice barely more than a whisper, “I want to tell you about your mother’s coming here. Your father prefers not to talk of such things, never would, but he can listen and you’ll make him talk when the time’s right. Ask him about the Testimony your grandmother Wort scribed, and which he found at Hilbert’s Top. Aye! That’s pertinent!”
“Pertinent my arse!” said Sward.
“Well then,” continued Tarn as best he could, “tell her how we failed to keep our promise to look after Shire. We did, you know. Yet maybe … we fulfilled our task through Privet here. Aye, Sward! That’s pertinent and damn your arse.”
So Tarn talked, rambling, worried, feeling he had failed to keep some secret promise he had made to the Stone long, long ago. He dared talk more of Wort and told Privet how she had been concerned for Shire, of the sacrifice she had made, of what she must have given up. Of all that long-distant past he told, when Shire was but a pup and he but one Longest Night old.
Until at last he told how she had scribed in the earth at Crowden’s southern portal, her name, and the names of the seven ancient systems: Uffington, Avebury, Rollright, Fyfield, Siabod, Caer Caradoc and …
“‘… and Duncton Wood.’ That was the one, my dear, the one that there was a strange light about, and which stayed clear as day in the earth: Duncton Wood. Remember it, Sward?”
“I do,” said Sward, “old friend, I do.”
Then Tarn told of how Shire wanted to scribe down ‘Beechenhill’, but that Librarian Sans would not allow.
“I stanced there and made a prayer, as did your father too, and knew one day I must tell a mole those two names and how they seemed to speak out to me. Well, I never did tell Shire, nor can I now, but you, my dear … you I can tell. Those names were scribed for you …’ he began to cough, as a mole near death coughs, deep, and long and terrible.
Yet when he had calmed again he grasped Privet’s paw and said, “You remember when you were a pup they said you looked like Wort?”
Privet nodded, tears in her eyes, as much for love of Tarn and to see him fade, as for memory of how she was hurt when young.
“I came to you and asked if it was true, and you said it was not.”
Tarn nodded feebly.”
“Twas the only lie I ever told in my whole life, and I’ll unsay it now. I saw Wort with my own eyes. These months past as I have seen you become adult, and your face begin to show the cares and passions of the world, I have seen that you look more and more as your grandmother did. But mole, the Wort I saw was not the Eldrene all moles love to hate, but a mole who had learned of life, who had had courage, who had turned finally towards the Stone. A mole who gave up what she thought was the best thing she ever made, which was Shire. But you, my dear, might have been much closer to her. Why, had she been younger when you were born and if circumstances had allowed her to live here as Sward was allowed, you might have been closest to her of all. ’Tis often the way with grandparents and grandpups. Aye, you would have been closest of all. It is an honourable heritage you have and no bad thing to look like such a mole.”
“Yes,” whispered Sward, who saw that his friend was near death, “you were always the one like Wort, my dear, same eyes, same pointy snout, same quality.”
“Now he’s talking!” declared Tarn. “Said he would!”
His voice faded and he drifted towards sleep, but his paw kept its tight hold on Privet’s.
He started back into consciousness quite suddenly.
“Promise me something, my dear.”
“I’ll try,” whispered Privet.
“When you can, when it’s safe, leave Crowden. Don’t get stuck here as Shire was, down in the Library. There’s places in moledom you’ve never dreamed of, and tasks you never knew you could do. Find a dream to give you courage to leave Crowden and the Moors. Go to Duncton Wood, my dear, that’s dream enough for anymole, and when we saw your mother scribe it there was a light a-shimmering over it, like the Stone’s blessed Light. Promise me you’ll make it your dream.”
“’Tis so far,” said Privet, “too far for a mole like me.”
“Then go to Beechenhill, for they say that’s not so far away. Go and scribe a prayer for your grandmother, whose greatest shame was there, yet whose life began there as well. But one way or another, promise me you’ll make a dream to carry you off from here.”
With tears in her eyes Privet looked wildly about the hushed burrow, first at Sward and then at Hamble, who smiled for a moment at her, and nodded his head in assent.
“I’ll find a dream,” said Privet. I’ll try to find courage to leave.”
“Yesss …” sighed Tarn, closing his eyes and seeming satisfied, “yes. Now, I would talk with good Sward, and then with my son. Goodbye, my dear, I did my best for you, and Sward still has time to do his!”
If there was a twinkle in the old mole’s eyes as he said this, Privet did not see it, for she was sobbing, and could not but embrace Tarn with gentle passion, for she knew he was near the Silence now and he had spoken to her his last.
“I will leave you with your father now, Hamble,” she said at last, pulling away. She knew in that moment that all her life Hamble would be her friend, for what they had shared in the moleweeks past, with the grike refugees, and now with their dying parents, was bringing them out into a world that was alien and strange, and was bonding them for ever in ways that could never be
sundered, whatever happened to their lives.
Before she left the chamber she went to Hamble and briefly he held her close, and she knew he was thinking the same thoughts. When she turned away from him to leave, there were tears on her fur where his face had been.
Chapter Twenty
Two days later, with Hamble at his side in the hushed burrow, Tarn quietly died, his kindly spirit drifting to the Silence as the seed of rose-bay willow-herb drifts past a watching mole and out of sight. No sooner had the news of his death reached the system as a whole than Shire, too, went into a final decline, her mind wandering and much distressed as Privet and Sward both tried to comfort her and relieve her misery.
She called continually for Lime, who after one more reluctant appearance did not come, declaring that everymole knew now that the sickness was virulent murrain and therefore infectious, and moles must let those affected by it die alone.
“It’s your mother, Lime, and she calls for you,” said Privet.
“I owe nothing to her or to you either, come to that,” replied Lime. “Do you think she would have gone to her mother, our grandmother, Wort, if to do so meant risking death? I don’t think she would and for the same reason I’ll not go to her. Anyway, parents must expect their offspring to fend for themselves and I’m staying over at the East End. Also …”
“Yes, Lime?”
These days Privet had the measure of her sister and was not so intimidated by her as she once was.
“I think I may be with pup. A late-autumn litter. I must think of them.”
Faced by what was most likely a lie or half-truth Privet could think of no more to say. And so it was that when, as November started, Shire’s last hours came, Lime was nowhere to be seen despite the pathetic call from her mother: ‘Lime, Lime, where are you, my love? You’re the only one I want.”
Privet watched over her as Sward attended to her final needs with surprising gentleness. She heard the wandering voice, and saw the bleak puzzlement because Lime had not come. Then Shire seemed to slip back slowly through her life, shouting pathetically at Privet as if she were still a pup, crooning over a Lime she seemed to think present again, but now no more than a few days old.