How quiet the system was, how old the moles who were left, and how many counted the days to Longest Night, saying with a touching optimism that if only the Stone would spare them until then, they might see the winter through and struggle into spring. But age had caught them up, the young mole who was their triumph and their glory had safely gone, and their wrinkled, weakening eyes could only peer up at the December skies and wonder where he was, and how he was, and pray that the Stone would give him strength.
December seemed so slow, and Longest Night a lifetime away. Some, indeed, fell then, surprise on their faces. Borage died, quite suddenly, and Heather, so gaunt now, cradled and spoke to him to the end, seeming to think he was the pup she never had.
Teasel weakened, and Feverfew hurried to her. Yet the loving old female pulled round, saying she’d see Longest Night in if it was the last thing she did.
Rain, mist, cold, clear days, and trees leafless: the very wood itself seemed to have grown old.
In the second third of December, with Longest Night near at last and after Skint had come his frail way up from the south-eastern slopes to warn him that the grikes were massing even more and seemed poised for something, Tryfan went to the Stone once more and kept a vigil there.
Others who came heard him say that should moles of the Word come to Duncton, they must be treated with every courtesy, “even unto death’. So he said, and those who were not nearly senile themselves said that finally age had caught up with him. Yet none dared say so to his ravaged face, nor look in his poor eyes and say what they really felt. Even now, he carried himself with authority, and though his head shook, and sometimes Feverfew had to reach out a paw to stop his paws from their involuntary trembling, there was greatness in his gait. And in his presence a mole felt he or she might do great things.
When the day of Longest Night finally dawned not a mole woke in Duncton who was not glad to be alive. Such a day, grey though it looked, was one to cherish, knowing that its night was holiest of all, and a mole might give thanks for the past and what was to come, and that he could say a prayer at all.
One by one, those still left from the now distant-seeming day when they had said farewell to Beechen, helping each other as they had done then, old, lame, blind, weak, they made their way up to the Stone.
Most were followers of the Stone, but even those few like Dodder who were not came too. A very few might still be called “young” – though “not old” might have been the best description – Hay for one, and Feverfew was younger than some, Bailey younger than any, and these moles helped where they could. Until by dusk-fall all but Skint and Smithills were gathered at the clearing, and hushed, and glad to be together.
“My friends Skint and Smithills will soon be here,” said Tryfan simply, “Marram and Bailey have gone to find them and when they come we shall begin. But until then, let us be quiet unto ourselves, let us give thanks for the good things our lives have brought us.”
Then did the moles of Duncton begin their humble and quavering prayers.
Time and again since she had arrived at Duncton’s cross-under, with but a few days to go before Longest Night, the eldrene Wort, accompanied by her personal henchmoles, had gone up a little way on to the south-eastern slopes and stared up at the mysterious wood that rose beyond the Pastures.
She had looked at it often enough from Cumnor, but from this side, it looked more formidable and its slopes awkward. No wonder Henbane’s guardmoles had had trouble taking it in Wrekin’s day.
But she did not worry now about what outcast moles were there – she knew. Her guardmoles had taken one of the Duncton moles prisoner and before they killed him had got information enough to tell them that there was going to be precious little opposition from the moles in the system, since they were now few in number, and most old.
Even so, she would have preferred to invade the system before Longest Night, just to ensure there would be no trouble and nothing untoward happened when the Master-elect Lucerne came for the great ritual ordination, which was designed as a desecration of the Stone and about which all followers would soon know.
But Lucerne had made his wishes absolutely clear, which were that the system was not to be entered properly until he came. But perhaps, Wort smiled to herself, that was as well. What she and her guardmoles had discovered from the tortured mole was that a mole called Tryfan was still alive within it, the very same who had once been to Whern. What joy Wort felt to hear that news; how much more would be her Master’s joy.
What was more, the Duncton mole had told them that Longest Night was one night when all the moles, even the lame and sick, would be conveniently gathered in one place all at once.
How elegant the justice of the Word! For Tryfan was Lucerne’s father, and the Master-elect would be well pleased. Almost as good was this: a mole Feverfew was said to be the mother of Beechen the Stone Mole. Well, well, well. This was evidence to Wort that Beechen was no more than an ordinary mole, however inspired he seemed. All this talk of eastern stars followers made!
Had she permitted herself the vanity of thinking it, she might have reflected on how wise Lucerne had been to elevate her as he had. First among equals she had quickly made herself with Drule and Slighe, of that there was no doubt, and powerful though they were and remained in their respective ways, it was the eldrene Wort who put the fire of zeal into their unholy trinity.
The three of them had come ahead of the Master-elect after waiting impatiently for him at Rollright for several days. Days, however, which Wort had put to good use by reviewing Rollright and finding its eldrene and guardmoles gravely lacking in Word zeal. Indeed in her view the system was more lax than the reporting trinity had made it out to be, but Slighe had prevailed on her to moderate her views that a snouting of the eldrene and senior guardmoles there might do everymole a service. This was not what the Master-elect wished.
“Humph!” said Wort. “Does not their evil sicken you?” She asked the question with such fierceness that to say “No” was almost to suggest support for the Stone. Slighe said nothing.
Drule outwardly agreed with Slighe about not killing moles, but he privily suggested that an accident or two to the right senior guardmoles, which is to say a crippling and a disappearance of the most lax and most disliked, might achieve as much as a public snouting. Wort accepted this most sensible compromise, and it was done, and proved its worth, for the rest asked no questions and looked to their devotions more assiduously.
Lucerne had come, visited the Stones with interest, found them miserable things and declared magnanimously that all the guardmoles bar a very few could come to Duncton for his ordination. Wort privately disapproved. “They have not earned the right!” she said, adding, “But the Word speaks better through the Master-elect than any of us and we do not always understand it.”
But in truth, Lucerne had arrived in Rollright with only twenty key sideem and the Twelve Keepers for the ordination, and was thinking that more moles should witness his elevation. It was a matter of the glorification of the Word. But then, others would be coming from Buckland and other southern systems, for messengers had gone ahead to summon them.
Now, two days before Longest Night, the area around the cross-under was beginning to get congested with moles, and for this reason if no other Wort would have liked to direct moles into Duncton Wood, but she abided by the Master’s edict.
The last day had gone slowly, then the dawn of Longest Night came and the advance guard arrived soon after from Rollright, with the Master-elect on the way.
It was a dramatic and historic moment, and the eldrene Wort found herself in the unexpected position of organising many moles. Her own Cumnor moles had been summoned, and their discipline, humourlessness, and austerity set a tone to the growing gathering. Moles were quiet, voices low and a sense of coming holiness and worship was all about. While over it all loomed the unknown heights of Duncton Wood, and the knowledge that moles would die tonight, and the Word make judgement of the Stone by desecratin
g one of its most holy places.
Lucerne came at midday, accompanied by his entourage of Keepers. Few of the guardmoles had ever seen such a thing and a dark, expectant hush settled in the tunnels about the cross-under. Keepers prayed, sideem chanted, and Terce was everywhere, cold as ice.
The eldrene Wort knew her place, and how to keep it, and only when she was summoned did she go to Terce, and brief him of what she had found out.
“You think Tryfan is here?”
“I know he is here,” she said, explaining what they had learnt from the tortured mole.
“And Beechen, the Stone Mole?”
“Unlikely. He left the system in September as we know, but our informant told us that there was no intention that he should come back. We also think Feverfew, the Stone Mole’s mother, is still in the system – unless she be dead she cannot have got out.”
“Beechen got out!” said Terce acidly.
“That was before my own moles had taken control of the cross-under, Twelfth Keeper.”
“It is well. You have done very well, eldrene Wort.”
“I serve only the Word and the Word’s will, and through it the Master-elect and his agents,” said Wort archly.
“I know it, eldrene Wort, I know it well.”
The day was cold, grey and still, but when afternoon came the sky began to clear and the wind to freshen from the north.
Terce disappeared, Lucerne and Mallice were not to be seen, guardmoles on duty shivered and looked at each other and dared speak no word at all. The Word hushed them, the Word awed them, the Word would show its strength tonight.
Gradually, dusk came, colour left the vegetation and the ground, above the place they waited the roaring owls became more plentiful, and as their sound increased and their gazes became brighter the sky darkened.
Short, sharp commands brought more guardmoles into positions preparatory to entering the Duncton system, and Clowder, who had taken overall command, stanced at a point where he could oversee them all.
With nothing left to do now the eldrene Wort stanced to one side of the cross-under, the better to see the advance begin. She peered through to the darkening slopes beyond and her talons fretted. She saw Drule was nearby, and Clowder further off, but Slighe was in attendance on the Master-elect and unseen.
“Holy Word, my mother and my father, bring peace to thy servant Lucerne, and to all thy servants here; teach us to be humble before thee, teach us all things we need to know to prosecute your glorious way; holy Word, my mother and my father...” So Wort whispered her prayers.
“He’s coming!” one guardmole warned the first troop of guardmoles who were going to enter the system. Paws shifted, snouts straightened, eyes alerted.
Wort watched. The movements of the guardmoles, the ritual to come, the glory of the night, was not in her control and she need not fret: she could enjoy all that was so soon to come. She had done her part, and now the entry of the moles of the Word into the system would begin, and lead to its culmination in the first southern ordination of a Master of the Word. She shed tears of gratitude to be where she was at such a moment as this.
“Holy Word, my mother and my father...” she said softly, as the order was given for the first troop to advance. “Holy Word, now let glory be, and on the pitiful Stone command that thy final darkness fall....”
The dusk all gone, nothing more to do, Smithills was already on his way upslope from the cross-under when Skint’s worst watching nightmare came true.
He could not believe his old eyes, and simply stared as first one, then two, then three lines of guardmole columns emerged out of the cross-under and began to trek up the slopes below, one to his left, one to his far right, and the biggest up the central slope straight towards the High Wood.
Nomole knew better than he, not even Smithills, the import of what he saw. So great were their numbers and so resolute their purpose, that for a few moments he could only stare aghast.
“Smithills!” he turned and urgently called, not caring that he was heard. That mattered not, for he knew there was nothing anymole in Duncton, even if their years were halved and their number quadrupled, could do against such a force. On and on they came, and still they came.
“Smithills!” he called out again, moving as quickly upslope as his old paws would allow after his friend.
But Smithills was well ahead and seemed not to hear, for Skint had told him not to wait, saying he wanted to be alone for a moment or two and would then come on up after him. Smithills knew that tonight was the last time Skint would ever watch for even if they saw anything, where were the messengers, where the back-up watchers, where the moles that could stance and fight? All gone, all old, all long since dead. Then, “Smithills!”
Smithills, almost up to the wood’s edge by then, heard the call and turned, surprised and then alarmed. He could just see his friend in the murk below moving fast across the slope, as if he was cutting a mole off.
“Smithills!” came the urgent shout once more.
Smithills turned back at once downslope, moving as quickly as he could, which was not fast, for his great limbs were half lame now. Why, what a couple of failing watchers they made! Well, they weren’t so old they couldn’t head off a couple of guardmoles gallivanting about on Longest Night.
It was only as he approached Skint, that he began to realise that what his friend had seen was more than a couple of guardmoles. Skint was stanced low at the edge of a flatter part of the slope, looking down at something Smithills could not yet see.
“Look!” said Skint as the bigger mole arrived.
Then Smithills saw where he pointed far below, and he gasped. The area around the cross-under was black with moles, and they came up in three formations, the main one steadily towards where they themselves were stanced, the others rising faster still in the distance on either side.
“But ’tis Longest Night!” said Smithills. “’Tis bloody Longest Night. They should be....”
“Go quickly up to the clearing, warn Tryfan, order him to hide our moles in the Ancient System.”
“Aye, and what’ll you do, mole? Pass the evening with them?”
Skint turned to him, his eyes fierce. “Do it, Smithills, and that’s an order.”
Smithills looked back downslope at where the grikes advanced inexorably up the slope, then back at Skint, and he turned and was gone up into the darkness as fast as he could.
Skint watched him go and then, satisfied, calmly assessed the slopes all about. He knew the ground well, and had already placed himself at a patch of ground where a natural buttress gave him an advantage on those coming from below.
He moved from one side of the patch to the other and calmly waited, one mole against the many.
The moles below him came slowly but steadily, well trained in climbing such slopes, knowing that the best way to leave a mole ready for fighting when he got to the top was to go steady. The formations to Skint’s far right and left were already higher up the slope than he was because the slope there was a little less steep and he had the sense of being surrounded by an army of grikes. Smithills would have to be quick to reach the clearing in time.
Skint had never felt calmer in his life. He waited until the leaders of the middle formation were near enough that they could hear him – so near he could hear the grunting of their breath – and he called out, “Halt!”
He knew they could not see his numbers yet, and would have to stop and assess. It was a bluff that would last but moments and already others were spreading out from the middle formation, and gaining ground on either side of him.
“Halt!” he cried again.
But they said nothing, dark moles advancing, and he guessed they must know his numbers were nearly nothing.
He heard an order from below.
“You two, round him off. Do not kill him yet.”
Do not kill him yet....
Anger overwhelmed him for a brief moment, and then his training and his inclination settled him. All thought
of Tryfan’s order not to fight left him. He was the mole he had been years before, decades before, the mole that had left Grassington in the name of the Word, his strength and intelligence ready to do what it was commanded. He had been trained to fight.
Do not kill him yet.
“I’ll take as many of you buggers as I can,” he said quietly to himself.
The moles below had stopped, but near enough that he could see the shine of night sky in their talons, and the flash of their teeth. Stealthily, their colleagues came up the slopes on either side.
“There’s just one of them, Sir!” he heard a mole hiss.
“You four, take him from either side!”
Skint readied his paws on the ground, settled his snout, and waited to see from which side they came first. He did not mind dying now, but he wished...
He turned sharply as a shadow loomed behind him and even as he saw who it was Smithills’ much loved voice said, “You’re a silly bugger, Skint, always have been and always will be. Did you think I could leave you to face them alone?”
“The others....” began Skint.
“No good going on above, even if I’d wanted to. There’re outrunners in the wood ahead of me and they’d have cut me off long before the clearing. No, my place is here with you, old friend. I’ll take the right flank, and you the left.”
“Another’s joined the first one, Sir!” they heard a grike call out.
“Stop buggering about,” an impatient command came back. “Deal with them.”
The grikes advanced on them slowly and confidently, for they saw two old moles, their fur grizzled and patchy, their paws withered.
“Come on, you two, we’ll not hurt you.”
“Come off it, mate,” said Smithills, “we’ve heard it all before.”
“Kill them if there’s any delay,” a senior guardmole barked out from below. “We must keep on moving.”
“Try it,” muttered Smithills.
Four moles converged on Skint and Smithills simultaneously, two on either side, and all four were unready for what they met.