Gowre looked at the mid-Wales leader wearily but with confidence. There was a flicker of distaste over his face as he said, “The best. The Stone was with us. We intercepted a sideem of the Word, and one who has met this Lucerne.”
“You took him prisoner?” asked Troedfach.
“We had him prisoner,” said Gowre. “He killed one of our number, and unfortunately was killed in his escape. But we got enough out of him before he died to make us think that we who fight for the Stone against the Word still have much to fear, but even more reason to fight on....”
But one other thing Gowre’s mission had made plain: Siabod was not central enough to be the base for any counter-offensive against the grikes. If the grikes could be pushed back from the valleys to its east, and the line along the Marches fully established then not only would Siabod be more secure but the centre of their campaign could more safely move east.
“Aye, it’s what some of us have...” began Gareg impetuously, before Troedfach raised a paw.
There was silence.
“What Gareg was about to say is something older heads than his have said before,” growled the great mole, “and they were right as I believe he is.” He chuckled and said, “Go on, mole, I’ll not take your moment from you.”
“Caer Caradoc is the natural centre,” said Gareg eagerly, “and we in the southern Marches never forget that it was once one of the ancient Seven which in their wisdom the scribemoles of Uffington established along these parts. We all know it’s deserted and poor of worm, and nomole, not even the grikes, seem to think much of it. But that’s because they have their eyes on Siabod and we have our eyes only on defence. If we are ever to move eastward then no better base could be found.”
“I agree,” said Gowre, warming immediately to Gareg, “for we ourselves ventured up there while we were away. It should be occupied again.”
“And soon, too, while the weather’s dry. The place’ll be hard as great Wyddfa itself to conquer if bad weather comes and we are on top!” said Troedfach. A new excitement and purpose had come to the conclave and they seemed all to want to talk at once.
If there had been doubt before about whether or not to advance east it was laid to rest now. All agreed that by the time they got their forces moving, so much might have changed in moledom that they would be moving too much into the unknown.
Better to stay in their known positions, to establish even better defences, and concentrate their energies immediately on ousting the grikes from the valleys east of Siabod. While some said that Caer Caradoc could be quietly occupied by contingents of moles from Troedfach’s powerful territory to the south, and Gaelri’s to the north.
“And what...” began Alder, when everymole had had his say and all had agreed that the second day had been a useful one and that on the morrow the details were all that needed to be worked out... “what has our friend Caradoc to say about all of this?” There was a general and affectionate laugh, for Alder was not the only one who had noticed Caradoc listening with his eyes half closed to the mounting tide of the debate suggesting that the system he had patrolled so long alone should suddenly be re-occupied.
“What do I think? I think the Stone will guide us well but I fear the way will yet be hard. You all know I have always believed that one day moles will come back to my Caer Caradoc. But in my dreams their return was peaceful, and the Stones were honoured, and it was a place once more for young moles to be raised in. I still have that dream, and while you younger moles raise your talons for what you think is right there’ll be me and others like me to remind you why we fight at all. For one day the Stone Mole shall come even to Caer Caradoc and I would have him find peace there, and moles who love the Silence of his Stone.”
“’Tis well spoken, Caradoc,” said Alder looking at young Gowre, “and....”
“Aye! ’Tis so!” growled Troedfach with a meaningful glance at Gareg.
“... and let nomole forget that only as long as the Stone is truly in our hearts shall our talons truly strive for peace.”
It was with this timely reminder that the second day of the conclave ended. The moles groomed, and ate, and talked in groups, the younger Siabod moles serving them, listening wide-eyed to their tales of courage and fortitude.
Later, as the evening drew in and the air began to chill, Alder found himself with Caradoc and Troedfach out on the high northern slopes of Moel Siabod alone, looking across the valleys. The sun was setting behind great Tryfan, and its highest part, where the sacred Stones rose proud, was clear.
They watched the evening darkness coming in for a while until Troedfach said, “You spoke well, Alder, when you spoke of the Stone. Some of these young moles....”
Alder laughed.
“We were the same when we were young, or at least I was. But their spirit is what we’re going to need. I’m not sure that I’ll come with you to Caer Caradoc – Gowre’s got things to learn and he can go in my place.”
“No, mole, you’re the one to come, not him.”
“But they’ll follow you, Troedfach, and you know the ground better than I. The centre of the struggle’s shifting, and others must lead it now.”
“Let Gowre prove himself here awhile,” said Troedfach. “Let him help you oust the grikes from the lower slopes and then leave him in charge. He can make his mistakes in safety here – leading a small party’s one thing, fighting a long campaign’s another.”
“Well I’d like to see Caradoc once again at least,” admitted Alder, “and it’s the nearest I’ll ever get to English moledom again. The Stone banished me here to redeem the wrongs I committed as a guardmole.”
Troedfach chuckled and buffeted Alder cheerfully.
“For a southerner you’re not a bad Siabod mole.”
“Well, the truth is I love the place,” said Alder looking across the mountains, “as much even as Caradoc loves Caer Caradoc.”
“More perhaps,” said Caradoc strangely, “for it’s the Stone Mole I love most now.” Troedfach and Alder exchanged glances, but Alder gave nothing away of what was really on Caradoc’s mind.
Dusk came on and as dew formed on the rough grass about them, a light mist gathered in the valley below. Skeins of it drifted across the heather and peat fells that dropped away before them, and lingered where slatey outcrops of rock stood out.
Below them, in the dark valley, a lost curlew called and from somewhere another answered mournfully.
By some instinct that made the moles and place seem one, several youngsters and females came out and stanced near Alder and the others. All stared mutely at the distant peak where the Stones they guarded rose, too far to see, but their presence powerful. One of the females quietly sang, “Help us Stone, for we are troubled and we do not know how best to serve. Help us now.”
Alder heard the words and knew that it was for such moments as these, when there was a holy mystery in the hills to which these proud and secretive moles had never forgotten how to respond, that he loved the place and had made it home.
He watched the running mist below and remembered years before, coming up these very slopes when he had first come to this place, Marram had been at his flank. And waiting for them, where he stanced now, had been... had been....
Movement. More than mist. Sudden movement across the slopes below.
Several of them saw it all at once and hunched forward, staring and tense.
A skein of mist slipped by a rock, and where it went pale movement was again. Then the clatter of loose scree down into the gathering darkness below, and then one of the sharp-eyed youngsters said excitedly, “’Tis mole!”
The mist shifted again and they all saw that the youngster was right: it was mole indeed! An old mole, his fur pale grey and unkempt, plodding up the slope towards them.
He was large, or had been once, and still had the sense about him that he was. He paused and stared up at them, and then, snout down, came steadily on.
It was Caradoc who spoke: “By the mighty Stone ’tis great
Glyder himself come back from the dead!”
There was such awe in his voice that two of the youngsters ran back in dismay while the females closed ranks, as if to protect the young from danger.
“It is Glyder!” said Alder clearly and with astonishment.
“But that mole’s long dead, isn’t he?” whispered one of the youngsters.
“He looks alive enough to me, bach,” said Troedfach with admiration on his great dark face. Then Alder and Caradoc hurried down the slope to greet the noble and ancient figure who climbed steadily on to meet them.
Slowly to Siabod he had come, climbing the slopes he had once roamed free moleyears before, pausing to ponder perhaps the flow of the years’ changes that had snatched him from the near-death of Rebecca’s birthing on the high slopes into years of combat against the grikes.
Uncertain whether there were grikes about he had taken the western slopes. As he had got near to the main northern entrance to the higher tunnels he had been astonished to see, as he puffed and peered his way up the final stretches, what had looked like a whole army of moles waiting for him, and looking scared out of their wits. Times had changed indeed!
“Old friend,” said Alder, coming downslope with Caradoc and embracing the once-powerful Glyder, “I thought I’d seen the last of you. You said you’d die in Ogwen alone, your body out on the surface for owl fodder.”
“Aye, well I’ll die soon enough, Alder,” said Glyder tetchily, “but the owls don’t seem to want me yet though I’ve given them chances enough coming here. Taken me weeks. You must have known I was coming and thought I was invading all by myself, for I’ve never seen such a tough-looking reception for a solitary old mole.”
“You didn’t know we had summoned a conclave then?”
“Know? Whatmole to tell me? I live alone. Nomole visits Ogwen. None. No, no, I came looking for some moles.”
“What moles?” whispered Caradoc in surprise and then in growing recognition of something that Alder could not immediately see.
Glyder turned his gaze on Caradoc, and for the first time the two looked at each other. Perhaps Alder saw better than either of them what happened next. Wonder, awe, even fear, came into their faces, and then a look of joy and relief he had rarely seen in all his life.
“I have waited long and journeyed far to meet thee, mole,” said Glyder at last.
“And I thee,” said Caradoc.
“Are there others of us here in Siabod?”
Caradoc shook his head. They talked only briefly, but it was enough to confirm that each had experienced the same phenomena of touching and loss at their respective Stones in June.
Glyder looked at Alder as if uncertain.
“I explained what happened to him,” said Caradoc quickly, “and he believes me.”
“And you reached the sacred Stones of Tryfan, Glyder?” asked Alder.
“I did, but I thought nomole would believe me.”
He looked at Caradoc again and neither mole spoke.
“There is much to say, much to discuss,” said Alder as the others came down the slope wondering what the delay was.
“It is for this I’ve come back to Siabod,” said Glyder simply.
“For what?” asked Troedfach in puzzlement as he reached them.
Glyder stretched out an ancient paw and gripped Troedfach’s own paw with it and fixed a piercing gaze on him.
“Not for bloody talons, mole, nor for wasteful struggles, but to tell you of a vision that I saw and cannot forget.” Then he added in a lighter voice, “But first I’ll hear of what changes there have been, and how the grikes were driven off; and I’ll eat; and if I’ve the strength I’ll sing an old Siabod song or two when night comes and then....”
“What then?” asked one of the awed youngsters eagerly.
“Why, mole, if there’s time I’ll do what Siabod moles do when there’s nothing left to do and nomole else to fight with talon or word – I’ll go to sleep!”
There was a great cheer at this, and when they had all paid their respects to the old mole they led him upslope into the tunnels of Siabod to sing of the past, and talk of the future.
Gowre’s arrival had created excitement, but Glyder’s appearance the next morning at the final session of the conclave caused a sensation. There was something dramatic and Siabodian about his reappearance, and long before the session started the great chamber was packed with moles.
He came in slowly, supported by Gowre, his one remaining relative, muttering and complaining to himself and undaunted by the sight of so many moles.
Silence fell as he looked irritably about him and, leaning on Gowre even more, he ascended to the higher part of the chamber. The whisper went round, “’Tis indeed Glyder! Still alive!” and before Alder could say much by way of introduction or explanation Glyder himself growled, “Yes, ’tis Glyder of the sons of Rebecca, Glyder who turned his back on fighting and struggle, Glyder who has been eating the scrawny worms of the Ogwen in a silence that would do some of you no harm. I’ve come back, see? And shall I tell you why?
“One reason was to see a mole and that I’ve done, that I’ve done.” He smiled, his eyes gentle suddenly, and the few who were close enough saw him exchange a glance with Caradoc.
“Also because I wanted to tell whatever moles I found here something. Didn’t expect to find a conclave, but that’s the Stone’s will. I’ll say what I must once and that’s that. If just one of you remembers it, if one of you passes it on, it’ll be enough.”
He fell silent, thinking, but when eventually he did speak it was quite suddenly and passionately.
“Ogwen’s not a place a mole goes to improve his physical health. It’s cold and mostly wormless and a mole has to work hard to stay alive. The sun rises late up there and stays on the sides of the mountains where a mole can’t easily reach it. When it comes down into the cwms at midday it’s not there for long, and in any one place barely at all.
“Yet I was glad enough to get there after my brothers died, glad to be alone. Lead a system like Siabod for long enough through times like these and you get tired of talking and struggling and fighting. So tired that most moles die of it – that and the cold.
“I expected to die in the winter years. Would have suited me. Old mole, seen a lot, done a lot, last of his generation. Glad to go. Sometimes in the dark times I cried out to the Stone, “Let me die now, Stone, let me hear the Silence! You’ve had my brothers, my pups, almost all my kin, and now have me.” And I took stance beneath Tryfan and stared at the Stones, and let the rain and ice and snow hurt me. But I didn’t die. I felt like an old fool. Eventually I gave up offering myself and went off wandering Ogwen looking for worms. Not many about! Lost weight along with fur! Scraggy as a chick that’s fallen out of its nest.”
Glyder stretched out a scrawny paw and looked ruefully at it, and then round at his flank. His skin hung loose on him now as it does on a mole grown old who was large and muscular in his prime. Behind him in the gloom there was the hollow sound of water dripping among the slate faces.
“Lost track of time, I did, and sometimes I tried to work it out. I knew when summer started, though. The ice and snow thawed and the ground was wetter than a mole likes and water running underpaw. Brought the worms out that did, and drowned them along the ways. Flowers grew then among the wet, and where water dropped down the cwm sides all scattered by the wind, moss grew greener than any I’ve ever seen. Took to eating beetles then. In Ogwen moles can’t be choosy.
“Even the beetles didn’t stir my appetite when the warmer weather came. I stared at them and they stared at me and I looked up at the two sacred Stones on Tryfan and said, “There’s a beetle down here in Ogwen and he’s not worth much. What’s his name?” The Stones and the beetle knew!”
Glyder laughed to himself much as he must have done back in May. Then he pursed his mouth and shook his head.
“Slugs aren’t much to eat either, but as I said moles in Ogwen can’t be choosy. Ate a few and they didn
’t seem to mind. Said to the Stones, “Who’s the lucky one, the slug or me? Who’ll get to the Silence first? The slug, that’s who. Why didn’t you tell me years ago the Silence was in my stomach?”
“Up in Ogwen the Stones’ voice is the wind and speaks better where the rocks rise sheer, and best where the Stones of Tryfan stand. I said to the Stones, “A mole could climb Tryfan if he tried. Especially a mole who was less than a beetle and a slug.” The Stones did not reply immediately but I knew they would soon enough. Always do in the end. The Stones let you know when you’re ready.
“Mid-June it was when the twofoot came clanking up the cwm. Scared the daylights out of me so I hid under the scree and felt it pass. Clank, clank up to where the green moss grew under the cliff that rises at the back of the nameless cwm. Silence. Even the ravens shut up. Stones spoke to me in the wind and I heard the twofoot fall, heard its cry. Like winter rock-fall in Castle y Gwynt its moans were. Went to see. Climbed up the green moss where the waterfalls dripped. Twofoot lay still. Paw bigger than my body and white and scented like over-ripe honeysuckle. Not nice. Paw bloody, and while I watched the blood turned from red to brown. Twofoot moaned and his gazes were on me, head big and furred.”
Glyder’s voice had dropped and he had half turned to stare at Caradoc, to whom his remarks seemed addressed. Sometimes he so far forgot where he was that he referred to himself as “Glyder” as if it was another mole he spoke of and not himself.
“Said to the Stones, “What shall I do?” and the Stones replied, “Watch over it.” So Glyder did, and he scented it dying. So twofoots die like us!
“When the first sun came on the cliffs above the twofoot stirred but his gaze was dimming. Said to the Stones, “Shall I pray for it like for a mole?” And the Stones said, “Like for a beetle, like for a slug.” Old Glyder felt joy then because he was not afraid any more. What’s there to be afraid of when you’re part of everything? That makes fear being afraid of yourself. So I prayed for the twofoot with dimming eyes. I went close, see, and when the sun came down on him his scent changed to nothing much and his eyes dimmed.