“What of Spindle?”
“He’ll care for himself well enough,” said Tryfan, “and he’ll show his snout in the right place when the time comes, have no fear of that!”
The two moles said a quick farewell to the others, and took the fastest route downslope, just as the early morning sun was beginning to slant in at the surface entrances, bringing colour to the lighter soils on the Eastside of Duncton Hill. They could tell there was a light wind from the south east, for it carried the first steady sound of the roaring owls, which always took their course on the way as morning came. In winter they formed a line of staring eyes at this time of the morning, in summer just a sound and the stench that sickened a mole.
“If they were kept out of that sluice, then there’ll be no more across the way until nightfall, when the roaring owls slow down,” said Tryfan as they hurried along. But Smithills was silent still, his face serious: he had dreamed of getting his talons on a grike for many a moleyear, and now his time was coming.
They surfaced at the highest of the defence burrows and found the moles there tense but calm.
“You are welcome, Tryfan,” said their team leader, “and in time to wish us luck, for we’re going down shortly when others who have taken their turn come here to rest.”
Tryfan said a word of encouragement to each, adding that not only would he and Smithills wish them luck but they’d come along as well, for they wanted to see the defence of the cross-under for themselves. The moles’ tension seemed to lift, and their spirits to rise yet higher, for to go into the fighting with Tryfan himself, why that was an honour, and surely good luck....
One mole, a young male, was silent and a little apart from the others. He seemed to be whispering to himself as Tryfan went to him.
“Well?” said Tryfan easily. “Are you as nervous as me, mole?”
“Are you nervous, Sir?” said the mole in surprise.
“Oh yes,” said Tryfan, “but don’t tell the others!”
“I thought it was just me,” said the mole.
“I doubt that!” said Tryfan. “Now, what were you whispering about?”
“Just a prayer, Sir, to the Stone. Just something I was taught in my home burrow....”
“Well then, mole,” said Tryfan, raising his voice a little, “I think you could repeat it for all of us.” And the others, hearing this, nodded and fell silent, as the young mole made a petition for the Stone’s guidance, and protection.
As the prayer finished, and they each uttered their own endings, there was a scamper and a clamour in the tunnel leading upslope to them and two very weary moles tumbled in, followed by another, limping and bleeding from a long cut to the shoulder. A fourth was encouraging him from behind.
“It’s Ramsey wounded!” said one of the waiting reserves. Ramsey was known to Tryfan as one of Alder’s ablest and most aggressive stalwarts, and not a mole to trifle with.
“Guardmole bastards,” muttered Ramsey, “but I got two of them. They’re not so powerful as all that, once you get your talons into them.”
Then as a mole tended to his wound he cursed and swore and finally conceded it would be better if he crouched down, and rested for a bit, Tryfan nodded to Smithills and the reserves and left on the final part of the journey. They surfaced near the cross-under itself, and as the four they travelled with were directed to the right side of the cross-under, whose entrance rose darkly above, Alder came forward to greet them.
“Tryfan! You are welcome! What was the last message you had?”
“That the cross-under is held stable, and the sluice safe now that the roaring owls have started their morning run.”
“Aye, ’tis true,” said Alder.
Tryfan looked at him. His fur was bedabbled with grime, and on his right paw and shoulder were flecks of blood and gore. He looked tired but alert. From time to time, moles came up to him and he gave his orders to them clearly and with confidence. The moles were well disposed to protect the cross-under, and Tryfan knew that in making Alder commander of the watchers, he had chosen well.
“Thing is, Tryfan, the guardmoles don’t learn. They’re coming as we expected them to, though the initial attack down the sluice surprised us. Probably Weed’s work with the help of a spy.”
“Any sign of Weed or Henbane?”
Alder shook his head. “But don’t worry, they’ll be near here somewhere. I’ll give them that, they’re not cowards.”
Tryfan told him briefly that all was well in the system itself, and all the preparations made, and that he could tell the watchers that their kin and friends would be well protected.
“The longer we can hold them here, the more resources they are forced to bring and the safer will the evacuation be.”
“Have you decided a route yet?”
“Perhaps,” said Tryfan obscurely. He was keeping the river tunnel secret to the last, even from trusted moles like Alder.
“How are the watchers faring, Alder?”
“Well. Very well. They’ll do so the better to see you here, so come and show yourself as we talk.”
Alder took him on a tour of the back tunnels of the cross-under, Tryfan being careful to show his snout to as many of the watchers as he could, and to speak encouragingly to them, and tell them that the youngsters – for many had young up in the system – were being well cared for and were out of harm’s way.
“It’s a quiet period at the moment while the grikes prepare another tactic. We’ve watchers on all the likely openings, and back-ups on the slopes.”
Tryfan nodded his agreement.
“There’ll be a problem tonight at the sluices, for the way will be crossable for mole again as the roaring owls ease off,” he said. “But if we can hold them till then – better still until the morning – before giving up the cross-under and retreating to the next line then we will have done better than we hoped, and shown these moles that the followers have purpose and strength.”
Tryfan stopped speaking as Alder raised his paw to indicate that they had almost reached the most advanced point of the Duncton moles’ defence line in the cross-under itself. They moved silently down a concrete drainage run built by twofoots but blocked off by mole.
“This takes us to the most vulnerable part of the cross-under route,” whispered Alder, and they emerged on to the surface with the cross-under roof high above them. The air was colder here, the sun cut off by rising concrete buttresses, and the place echoed to an ominous mix of sound made up of distant roaring owl, water dripping, and the sinister drumming of guardmole paws.
A watcher platoon waited in the surface burrow to one side of the tunnel’s exit, another was spread out on the surface nearby and a third, with Smithills among them, crouched a little forward, by a high litter of grey stone blocks. The ground was wet and puddled, and off to the far side lay two guardmoles, dead, blood from their sodden bodies staining the water around them.
“There were more,” said Alder tersely, “but we tipped them down into the sluices.” He indicated the low wall that edged the entrance to the cross-under, beyond which, Tryfan knew, the ground dropped vertically to a deep sluice.
“How the Stone did Smithills get out there?” grumbled Alder. “What’s he doing? We’re perfectly capable of —”
But suddenly there was a rush out of the murk ahead and three guardmoles came running, straight at the forward group. With a roar Smithills rose to them, the others at his side, and he smote one hard to the flank and then moved forward to meet the other two, the shouting and screaming echoing around them all in the cavernous cross-under, drowning out all other sound....
Tryfan moved automatically forward but Alder put a restraining paw on his shoulder.
“‘We will win this war by an orderly planned retreat when the grikes come, not by a show of bravery and pointless courage...’ Your words, Tryfan. I think Smithills and the others can deal with this assault.”
So it seemed, for the guardmoles, though joined for a time by three more, soon broke
up and retreated. Smithills grunted and swore after them, as one of the watchers, wounded, was helped back to them and another immediately replaced him.
“You see they can’t make headway except in a large group and when they tried that we were able to hide in the surface burrows and emerge for quick strikes which broke them up and confused them. They don’t know what to do,” said Alder. “They’re just not used to persistent opposition.”
“Don’t worry, they’ll learn soon enough,” said Tryfan grimly. “But perhaps not so soon that we have not gained the valuable time we need to make good our escape.”
Smithills shook his talons aggressively down the cross-under one last time and came back to the defence burrow.
“And that,” he said, “was worth waiting a lifetime for. I didn’t kill the bugger but I wounded him and gave him a message to take back to his friends.”
“And what was that?” asked Tryfan.
“‘Tell them there’s plenty more like Smithills waiting for them in Duncton Wood!’ That did it! That’s what I told him.”
Tryfan laughed. “Come on then, come and do a Smithills somewhere else, for we’re going to visit the other routes under the way.”
“I’ll stay here awhile,” said Alder. “You’ll probably find Ramsey’s gone back down that way again over by the sluice, preparing some defences for the evening. Maybe you can persuade him to take a rest – I can’t!” It was good to see the loyalty that Alder inspired.
So they moved on and found Ramsey weary, still limping from his wounded shoulder, but triumphant for the early morning’s success. Only from Tryfan himself would he take the order to retreat upslope to rest again. Even that was difficult, for he said that Tryfan should not be out with only Smithills to protect him.
“What the Stone do you mean ‘only Smithills’?” said Smithills with mock outrage.
“Go on, Ramsey, off upslope with you,” said Tryfan. “The Stone will protect me, and if it doesn’t I’m sure Smithills here will do his best. It’s all I can do to stop him setting off to wage war all by himself on the guardmoles, so Stone help any guardmoles who reach us here.”
Yet they did have their moments of danger later in the morning. For having followed the defensive tunnels north east to the river they retraced their steps south west, and trekked the long way down to the Marshes themselves. The ditches all along were generally impassable except where they had been crossed by a plank or fallen tree, and at these points defences had been made and watchers waited. It was down that way that escape routes had been planned, but Tryfan had little doubt now that they would be unworkable with the grikes in force on the far side of the way. The order to evacuate by the tunnel under the river would have to go out, but not too soon... the timing of that, Tryfan knew, was now the most important decision he must make.
Having checked that these crossings were secure, and the moles there informed of what was apaw and how essential it was they stayed in place, Tryfan and Smithills were returning to the cross-under when they came upon a skirmish at one of the wider dykes. Here the guardmoles had built up strength and the stand of the watchers was beginning to break down such that they had retreated, and were still doing so when Tryfan and Smithills came.
“Seven dead, Sir, replacements running short, can’t hold much longer,” said one of the watchers as he came off the line and saw Smithills. Even as he spoke the mole line ahead broke up as a charge of guardmoles came fiercely through.
Tryfan, quickly ascertaining that the defence tunnels were still defended, stepped forward with Smithills at his side and found himself face to face at last with attacking guardmoles. Spindle’s chronicle suggests that even then he might have not become involved in the fighting personally, because it had been agreed that he should not, lest he got wounded, or worse.
Nor would he have done but for the chance that he saw, among the watcher dead, a mole he knew and, in a way, had come to love. Not a mole many remember now, for his part in the history of those times is small, unless a mole accepts, as Spindle himself did, that history could not be made without the moles none ever hear of. So Pennywort, brother of Thyme, one of the original Seven Stancing at Buckland. Since Thyme’s death he had been lost to himself, and had become a watcher, though only for defence for he was never strong or of fighting stock. Yet here, at this weak point, he must have played his vital part, as so many brave moles did that day, for now he lay where Tryfan saw him, killed by the grikes while protecting a system that was not even his.
Seeing which made Tryfan angry and dangerously purposeful, and he did not hesitate. With Smithills at his side, he stepped forward and went straight for the largest and most fierce looking of the guardmoles, a huge male whose flanks and shoulders were massive and threatening. He thrust hard straight at him, and followed it up with a brutal lunge at the mole’s haunches, as beside him Smithills did the same to another grike. The forward charge was arrested but the guardmoles swiftly regrouped to surround the two Duncton moles. It seemed for a moment that they would be deluged and lost, but then Smithills raised his talons with a mighty shout and Tryfan charged and at the sight of their leader’s courage, the watchers rallied, turned, and with cries for the Stone forced a passage through the guardmoles to reform at Tryfan’s side.
For a time all was noise and confusion, but then suddenly the guardmoles broke formation, one fell, another turned, and the Duncton moles were on them, chasing them, forcing them into yet more disorder until they ran back along the pipe crossing the dyke and Tryfan was without further target for his thrusts.
Smithills chased after them yelling, “You’re evil and you’re losers!” He caught up with the last of them, had fastened his talons on him and spun him round to strike him dead, when Tryfan called, “Let him be!”
The guardmole was frightened and wounded, but defiant.
“You are accursed of the Word!” he was shouting hysterically, blood pouring from a wound on his back. “Accursed!”
From the far side of the dyke the others turned and watched.
“Shall I kill him?” said Smithills coldly, his talons raised to do so.
Tryfan looked at the mole and shook his head.
“Leave us,” he said. Smithills was reluctant to allow Tryfan to be exposed in the open with a guardmole, even a wounded one, but Tryfan again ordered him to do so. And Smithills obeyed, for the grikes showed no sign of coming to the rescue of their comrade.
When Smithills had retreated Tryfan looked at the guardmole, who in his turn seemed terrified, as if he knew his last moment had come. Perhaps, in any case, it had for his wound was deep and a steady flow of dark red blood was coming from it.
“Do what you like, mole of Duncton,” said the guardmole. “Kill me. Your own days are numbered!”
“I would not have you die quite yet,” said Tryfan with a grim smile. “You can take a message to Henbane. Tell her this is not her system to conquer and never shall be, for there are moles behind us and yet more behind them waiting to get their talons into you! Tell her that the Stone protects us, and that even though she may gain access to our system by force of numbers, yet the Stone will make us invisible and she will not find us, or kill us. Tell her, as you will tell others you speak to, that if you would find us then listen for the Silence....”
“The Silence?” whispered the stricken guardmole, puzzled that this great and powerful mole above him was speaking gently, and assuming his survival.
“Aye,” said Tryfan softly, “you may find us in the Silence which is for allmoles to know. To there shall we go, and none of Henbane’s forces shall find us!”
“There are many of you,” said the guardmole, weakening from loss of blood, “but not so many that we cannot take your system. Then will we find you....”
Tryfan shook his head and it seemed to him, and to the guardmole he spoke to, that the battle all about them had ceased, and a peace had come.
“Tell Henbane when she wonders where we have gone, that we went into the Silence, tell her
that.”
He reached a paw forward and the guardmole shrunk away in fear.
“Be not afraid,” said Tryfan, and with his left paw, he touched the mole where his wound was and felt, as he had before with Thyme at Buckland, and Mayweed at Harrowdown, that the power of the Stone was with him. He felt its wonder, and its goodness and knew that in some strange way he was near Boswell now, or that Boswell was near him.
“We wish you no harm at Duncton,” he said, “but we must defend our own. But now, fear not. By the power of the Stone you will be healed.”
For a moment the mole stared at Tryfan in astonishment, then he looked round at his wound and the flow of blood there had stopped and he was able to move his front paws. “But I – but —” he whispered.
“Tell no other mole of this. Now go back to your own, mole, and remember that though we may be “accursed” as you have been told, yet we are moles as well as you, no different and with the same fears and desires. Now go.”
Then the mole found he had strength to turn, and strength to walk. There was a look of awe in his eyes as he said to Tryfan, “What is your name? I would know that.”
“My name is Tryfan, of Duncton born. To this place, which is my home, I would have all moles come in peace and all moles be safe. I would seek to heal all as I have healed you, I would wish it as a sanctuary beyond the power of the Word, beyond the power of the Stone as well if ever it was to be corrupted.”
The injured mole looked at him, and saw a mole of strength and certainty.
“My name is Thrift,” he said uncertainly.
“Yes, Thrift?” said Tryfan, his gaze powerful on him.
“If I can do anything, I mean, if ever....”
“That day may come, Thrift, for mole needs mole and always will.”
Then Thrift raised his eyes to the slopes that rose behind Tryfan, and on past them to the trees and woods themselves, on which the morning sun now shone with great beauty. “And I will not forget you desire that Duncton should be a place of peace, and a place of safety. I will not forget. We didn’t want —”