Harebell appeared and she did not look as happy to see Harrow now as she had before; she looked as if she had been awake all night.
“My dear, this mole has been telling me of something which you should be the first to know. But it affects Wharfe as well.”
“Wharfe is not here.”
“Well, he can’t be far.”
Harebell looked alarmed and distressed and said, “I’m sorry, Squeezebelly, but he’s left Beechenhill. He’s gone to try to find Betony... It was last night after Harrow spoke to us. I tried to stop him, but he’s been half mad since she disappeared and when this mole...” She turned to Harrow and said, “I wish you hadn’t told us about Mallice as you did.”
“You should have told me,” Squeezebelly said.
“I told him to think about it first. It’s not like him to go rushing off. I mean he’s always been the most sensible one of us, hasn’t he? Anyway he said he would think about it but then he talked to Bramble who said he shouldn’t go until he knew more, but if he talked to you he thought you’d stop him.”
“Of course I’d stop him!” roared Squeezebelly. “Just how does he imagine he’s going to find Betony?”
“I’ve no idea,” flared Harebell, “and it’s all your fault, Harrow, for telling us of Mallice. Anyway, despite everything Bramble isn’t completely useless and he’s gone with some others to try and stop him, though whether he’ll succeed I rather doubt. You know how fast Wharfe can move, and even if Bramble catches him he’ll not persuade him to come back.”
“Well, the cold might help, and the ice, and common sense. As you say he’s never done anything like this before.”
Squeezebelly glowered while Harrow, caught in the middle, remained diplomatically silent. It was Harebell, trying to calm things down, who broke the silence: “Well, here I am whatever the circumstances. What did you want me for?”
Squeezebelly, feeling suddenly that things were out of his control, sighed and said, “This mole did not merely come to tell us of a Stone Mole rumour, or to unwittingly cause Wharfe to risk his life, but also to tell us something which you should know, Harebell. I shall say no more. But, please, please, my dear, will you first agree to stance quietly where you are now and discuss what he says like the sensible mole you are before you go rushing off like your brother?”
“I’ll try,” said Harebell.
“You do that, try really hard,” said Squeezebelly heavily. He turned to Harrow, “Now, tell her what you told me.”
Harrow repeated to Harebell what he had already told Squeezebelly, telling the tale slowly and in detail. Apart from a sharp intake of breath, and a stancing down into utter concentration, Harebell betrayed no emotion during Harrow’s account, or later when he dealt with the many questions she asked about Henbane’s health, condition and state of mind. Even when all was done she did not move, but continued to stare at Harrow as if still taking in what he had said.
“Well then,” said Squeezebelly, “what are we to do?”
“I shall go to her,” said Harebell simply, “and Squeezebelly, you shall try to dissuade me but I’m afraid you will not succeed. I shall go to her because she is my mother and she may need me. She must feel very much alone. Harrow here will guide me to her, and we shall bring her back together by another route, one of the more northerly ones. That way fewer moles will know she’s come. They should not know who she is. I do not like a lie, but they should not.”
Squeezebelly sighed.
“You will not go to her,” he said.
“I shall.”
“I cannot let you, my dear. First Betony, next Wharfe, now you. I’m sorry, my dear. No.”
“Will you forcibly stop me? Is this how a mole of the Stone treats another?” She stared at him and then added, “Squeezebelly, I must go, and you know why.” She smiled and went close to him. “I must,” she said again. “Do you want to think about it?”
Great Squeezebelly shook his head and blinked back tears.
“No, my dear, no I won’t think about it because it’s you who must decide. I just cannot bear to think of losing you...
Harrow quietly left the burrow, and never knew quite what was said. It was plain that these two loved each other dearly, and that Squeezebelly would take Harebell’s departure at such a risky time very hard. But eventually he was called back in to them and he saw that she was indeed to go.
“Are you willing?” she asked Harrow. Harrow nodded.
“And is Henbane capable of the journey back here if she wants to come?”
Harrow said he thought she probably was.
“Perhaps some others could go with you.”
“That would be unwise,” said Harebell cryptically, but in the kind of voice Squeezebelly knew better than to argue with, “and anyway, the fewer moles the better.”
“I don’t like it, any of it, one bit,” said Squeezebelly finally.
“You always said that when things began to happen they would do so all at once. Well, now they have.”
“But I don’t like it. The system needs to be united at a time like this, but it is not. The Stone Mole, Henbane, Wharfe disappeared, now you... I am concerned.”
But there was no answer to that and Harebell stared at Harrow, and Harrow back at Harebell, and seeing them both, staring like that and not missing a thing, Squeezebelly shook his head again and decided he must be old.
“But not so old,” he muttered when they had gone to Stone knows where, for Stone knows how long, “that this old mole can’t keep Beechenhill in order a little while longer yet.”
Chapter Thirty
Within a few days of Longest Night the eldrene Wort had gained an accurate and disturbing insight into the true danger the Stone Mole presented to the Word.
She had delayed her journey north for the vain, though understandable, pleasure of briefly revisiting Fyfield to glory in the regaining of her position as eldrene. But the moment had been soured by the discovery of just how profound an effect the Stone Mole had had in the brief time he had made the journey through the northern part of the Vale of Uffington that ended at Cumnor.
When she had returned she discovered that the vale was seething with stories of the Stone Mole, and with incipient rebellion. Eldrenes and sideem reported that the disaffection had spread even into systems which, to all intents and purposes, had seemed utterly converted to the Word. It was plain to the eldrene Wort that the Stone Mole had had a far greater impact than she could have imagined possible, or any other mole yet knew. She had found, in fact, her very worst fears confirmed.
But if the Stone’s evil did not thereby seem bad enough, it was made worse by the complacent way (as it seemed to Wort) that the sideem and eldrene regarded it.
“Kill a few of the buggers at the right time and in the right way and they’ll stay as pathetic as they always have been,” said one senior guardmole with a sneer. A typical response.
Another was more subtle.
“It’s about power and what moles hold it,” he told her. “I have seen no evidence that these moles have any power at all, and if they gained it they would soon lose it because they have not the organisation to sustain it.”
Wort did not agree, but could not get others to see it her way.
Nothing had alarmed her more than the resolute blind faith of followers she and her henchmoles tortured and killed privily. Indeed it was a matter of fascination to her that a mole could suffer so much for something as patently wrong as the Stone, and this proved the alluring nature of its evil.
“So deep does its evil eat into a mole’s heart,” she whispered.
Some of the Fyfield guardmoles even doubted her sanity as she repeated the actions for which Wyre had originally demoted her by taking followers to the Fyfield Stone and, with her henchmoles, killing them even as she touched the Stone, as if to test its power against her.
In these semi-secret killings – it is hard in any system to keep such things secret, but easy to enforce a rule of not acknowledging them –
she was said to repeat that anointing in blood that the Master had delighted in by the Duncton Stone.
At such times, so the whispers went, she repeated his name again and again in a continuous scream of penitential and self-inflicted taloning: “Masterlucernemasterlucernemasterlucerne.”
Meanwhile she, like the others, had assumed the Stone Mole had gone south, and so was appalled when one of the henchmoles she had sent out to discover where the Stone Mole was came back in the middle of January and, the winter mud still wet on his paws, told her the dire news that the Stone Mole had fooled them all by celebrating Longest Night at Rollright, and had now gone north and was already well clear of any immediate pursuit.
What concerned her immediately was that the Master Lucerne was in the south when the Stone Mole was moving north with a free paw to foment all kinds of evil and temptation for moles of the Word. She had no doubt that she and her henchmoles could catch up with Beechen, and take him. But if she did, what then? She would need authority to act on her own account on the day she caught the Stone Mole.
She saw immediately that the widespread vengeance planned by the Master against followers must be brought forward, and capable of execution before the Stone Mole himself was punished, so that any revolt was killed before it began.
For these reasons, and some might say an unhealthy desire to be near the Master she now worshipped, Wort fought every instinct she had to follow after the Stone Mole and instead travelled swiftly to Buckland to seek to persuade the Master to go north.
It was a brave decision, but when it came to pursuit of the Stone and its followers, Wort cared nothing for herself and if achieving her end meant annoying the Master she would risk it, just as she had before.
This time, at least, she had no difficulty gaining an audience with him, which was the more gratifying because she knew that Clowder and Mallice, as well as Drule, thought her fear of the Stone Mole overdone. But Terce took her seriously and this was, perhaps, the clue to why the Master was prepared to listen to her again.
“Greetings, eldrene Wort. Have you the Stone Mole for me yet?”
“My Master, holy teacher, the Word tries us sorely: the Stone Mole is escaped. Fled north while our eyes were fixed on thy glorious anointing and ordination in Duncton Wood. Many days have we lost, many to regain.”
“But my dear Wort, our guardmoles will catch him,” said Mallice. “He cannot flee for ever.”
“Mistress Mallice, forgive me for I am but a humble eldrene, but you talk untrue. Every day our guardmoles fail to catch him – and I blame myself for thinking he would come south and have suffered chastisement of the talons for it – is another day this Beechen is free to ensnare the hearts of moles with the temptations and evils of the Stone.”
“Well...” began Mallice dubiously.
“It is not well, it is ill. Our task of suppression becomes harder each time the Stone Mole speaks of the Stone and makes converts. These days past I have been able to assess the impact he made in the brief time he was in the vale. Moles are hungry for the false teachings that he brings, and, hearing him, moles will die for him. Before he went north he even led moles in worship of the Stone at Rollright on Longest Night.”
“What would you have the Master do?” asked Terce.
“Wherefore is the Master in the south if the infection is travelling the north? He should go north!”
She turned and faced Lucerne and said loudly, “Direct the suppression sooner than you planned. Prepare moles with vengeance now for the capturing and punishment of the Stone Mole which I shall soon achieve. And command me, Master. If I take him before that is done, what shall I do with him? If I keep him he shall be a tempter. If I kill him he shall be a martyr.”
“Then, eldrene Wort, you must yourself find just and fitting punishment for him,” said Lucerne, his voice as smooth and sharp as broken flint.
A light of pleasure came to Wort’s eyes.
“So shall I, Master! So shall I. But be warned by me. Go north....”
“And you, Wort, go too far.” He softened his voice and he said, “The spring solstice, eldrene, is a good time.”
“For what, Master?” she asked, puzzled.
“For taking Stone Moles and doing what you must to them. Enough, Wort. Go and chase the Stone Mole, take him, the Word will guide you what to do with him.”
“Master, bless me, for I am weak. Lay thy touch upon my head...” And as Lucerne did so, his body scent was like nectar to her snout, his presence overwhelming in its effect upon her, and she sighed and cried out, “Holy word, creator of my body, mother of my mind, father of my talons, let the memory of my Master’s touch never leave, let it burn within me like a mighty procreating fire, oh let it stay and flourish within me!”
Lucerne smiled. Terce stared. And when she had gone, Clowder spat. As for Mallice, she mimicked her voice saying, “My Master, my beloved, how she lusts for you.”
Lucerne’s expression was grave as he said, “Yet she shall find the Stone Mole, and she shall know better than anymole how to do what must be done.”
“I would kill him and have done,” said Clowder.
“You have your strengths, Clowder, she has hers. I have every confidence she shall find him and kill him.”
Terce nodded and agreed that it was so and then said, “What do you think of her desire for you to go north?”
“I think, Twelfth Keeper, that she is right. Very right. Clowder, you shall command here from now on and we shall leave you.”
“You did not tell her that you agreed with her when she was here,” Mallice said.
“She is already quite smug and self-righteous enough, my dear.”
“When shall we leave, Master mine?” asked Mallice, coming close.
“Tomorrow.”
“And the suppression?”
“This mole Wort offends my dignity. She makes it seem she persuades me, but as Clowder knows we have already planned the suppression for the springtime solstice. We shall have time to inform the sideem in the midlands and the west, and to do what we can for the difficult east.”
Clowder nodded grimly. The systems over which he now had control would not be found wanting. By the end of March very few followers would be left alive.
“It is better then than later in April when they start having young. We shall not fail.”
The eldrene Wort’s busy journey to Buckland had, therefore, been all but pre-empted by Lucerne’s decisions, but even if she had known that she would have been well satisfied. He had given her freedom to take the Stone Mole by the spring equinox, and when she had taken him to do what she would with him. She could ask for no more.
But in terms of time lost the journey was more costly than she thought, for a day after she left Buckland blizzards drove across the south-east and slowed her down, and it was not until the end of January that she was back in Rollright and able to consult with her henchmoles and decide at last on the strategy that would lead her to the Stone Mole.
Beechen’s now legendary journey north, which had begun with the tragic news of the killings before the Duncton Stone on Longest Night of so many loved moles, was almost brought to a premature halt near Rollright as he, Buckram, Sleekit and Holm said their farewells to Lorren and Rampion. They were nearly discovered by guardmoles and only by the skills learnt from her father was Rampion able to lead her mother safely back into Rollright and obscurity.
Holm, too, showed his mettle then, leading Beechen and the others swiftly away by the moist routes he preferred.
He was a mole born in the Marshes beyond the Marsh End of Duncton Wood, and always one for mud, water and dampness. Dykes, streams, pools, lakes, mud flats, drains, conduits and culverts were all bliss to Holm, and he was drawn to them like a bee to pollen. He stopped at running rivers for he had once as a pup, in a moment of curiosity, attempted the feat of crossing the Thames, and been swept away so far that it had taken him three days to get back to his starting point.
But anything less than a
river was a routeway to him, and he used such routes with a nearly infallible sense of when he must (often reluctantly) ascend above the waterline once more before the stream, culvert or dyke veered them off in the wrong direction.
There were several problems with Holm’s approach. One was that it made moles muddy, very, and his companions had to get used to that. Another was that it was not a way to meet other moles since most were sensible enough to site their systems clear of too much water and the risk of floods. A third was that some creatures moles did not like, most notably water rats and herons, inhabited these wet places and were inclined to attack.
Holm, despite his habit of staring wide-eyed and in complete silence and therefore looking terrified, was, as Beechen, Sleekit and Buckram soon discovered, almost fearless.
The only concession he made to fear was the occasional utterance like, “Rat, scarper!” and, curiously, “Bleak!” When he cried this his voice rose a little and it was a sound of extreme danger and alarm that might have been created specially by him from the words “Bleat” and “Squeak” with the added bonus that when he spoke it their prospects did indeed usually seem bleak.
But like Mayweed, Holm had the true route-finder’s constant awareness of alternative routes, and the ability to utilise them under pressure. When he did use roaring owl ways it was the culverts at their bases that he preferred rather than the often quicker but more exposed parts where the roaring owls themselves ran.
However he did it, they felt safe in his company, and though his watery ways kept them from followers, they also, especially in the early days of their escape from the Rollright region, kept them from guardmoles.
There is no doubt that the whole nature of Beechen’s extraordinary and fateful northern journey was influenced by the twin shocks of Duncton’s destruction and the nearly fatal clash with guardmoles at Rollright.
Until then, partly because of the sealed-off nature of his life in Duncton Wood, and the skilful way Mayweed had led him out of the system and into the vale, Beechen had seen little direct evidence of the grikes’ ways, and therefore had no personal experience of their destructiveness. Even the experience in Hen Wood had seemed charmed, its potential impact lessened by his subsequent and all-important liaison with Mistle of Avebury.