“Well! I don’t think I’m going to get very far with you!”
“Romney! You and me?” She seemed genuinely amused, and Romney looked a little rueful.
“It would be natural... wouldn’t it? I mean there’s nomole else.”
But Mistle only laughed more.
“It’s not that I don’t like you, but, well, I’ve found my mole. And anyway....”
“Anyway what?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m not having ‘nothing’ from a mole who always speaks the truth a little too directly on every other subject.”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“What’s obvious?” said Romney.
“It was obvious to me, anyway.”
“What was obvious?”
“Rampion! She likes you!”
“Rampion?”
Mistle nodded, feeling pleasantly sleepy.
“But she’s gone back to Rollright.”
“Don’t worry, she’ll come here. You’re too good a mole for her not to. Anyway, Duncton needs your pups.”
“Mistle, you’re impossible!”
There was friendly silence for a time until eventually Romney said again, “Do you really think so? I mean about Rampion?”
“Yes,” murmured Mistle.
“She’s quite a nice mole.”
“Very nice,” repeated Mistle, almost asleep.
“I never thought of that,” said Romney to a sleeping burrow. “Rampion?”
Snow fell yet again that night, but evidently deep in the hearts of moles, deep in the soil and deep among the roots of trees, spring was beginning to stir.
“She’s quite a good looking mole, in fact,” said Romney to himself sometime in the night, feeling Mistle’s friendly flank next to his, and glad to be alive.
An ominous calm settled over Caer Caradoc in the weeks after the victory over the moles of the Word, but hostilities all along the western front soon increased as Ginnell responded to his defeat by putting pressure on those points where he felt the Welsh followers were weakest.
The greatest pressure was felt north of Caer Caradoc in that area controlled by Gaelri, the second of the Pentre siblings, and more than once he had to ask Troedfach to send moles up from Caradoc.
Neither side seemed quite to have the numbers it needed to risk continuing an attack too long if the opposition proved at all effective. Nevertheless, despite reinforcements, Gaelri’s defences nearly failed towards the end of January and was only saved by a timely deterioration in the weather which forced the attacking and more exposed moles of the Word to retreat.
Caer Caradoc itself was not attacked again, and after the vulnerable period after Longest Night, when Troedfach hurried to get moles in place up there, it was secure though by no means impregnable, for its top is extended and would need far more moles than Troedfach could afford from the main front to make it truly safe.
“They’ll come again when spring starts and the weather turns mild,” said Gareg one day as he stanced with Troedfach high on the top.
“I do not understand why he fell back on Longest Night,” growled the old campaigner suspiciously. “A few more hours and he’d have had us. He’s not a mole who likes that kind of defeat and if I was him I’d be planning even now how to take it back. He’s no fool and he knows that we’ve to hold the place, which keeps moles caught here getting cold and dispirited. Have you thought what he might do?”
Gareg screwed his eyes against the bitter wind and looked out east over Word-dominated moledom.
“Often,” he said tersely. Troedfach nodded, pleased. Gareg was proving his promise as a commander and strategist – a mole who did his best to think as his enemy might.
“Ginnell will begin a heavy and sustained attack against Caradoc at the same time as mounting another some way from here, attacks which will leave us guessing which the main one is. If we increase our strength on Caradoc we weaken ourselves elsewhere, and he’ll go hard for us there. If we do the opposite he’ll take Caradoc – or try to.”
“I agree, I’m sure that’s what he’ll do. But what should our response be?”
“What we’ve always tried to do: what the grikes least expect, but this time in a different way. If he is attacking us in two places then one thing is sure – he’ll be weak elsewhere and we can break him there. Perhaps it would not matter if we lost Caradoc again, or another place as well, if we were able to advance rapidly through his line. Supposing then all our force was to attack half of his before he could regroup? Why, we would have a greater victory than we have ever had.”
“Gareg, you young moles have spirit! I hope I live to see the day of such a victory, and look into the eyes of Ginnell whom I have fought so long.”
“And what would you say to him, Troedfach?”
“Say? No, mole, we’d discuss and find out where we went right and wrong. I have no quarrel with Ginnell as a mole, only with the Word he represents.”
“On the other paw...” said Gareg, staring eastward as far as he could see.
“Yes, mole?”
“Nothing, Troedfach. A young mole’s ideas, that’s all! Another time if you’ve the patience for it.”
“Your day will come, Gareg, I know it will. When it does, mole, remember that it is for the Stone we have fought all these long years, not for ourselves.”
“I’ll not forget.”
One result of this conversation was that Gareg was deputed to organise swifter messenger moles along the line, so that Troedfach received news of attacks more quickly than he had before. It was a good exercise for February, a period when little normally happened in those parts, the winter having set in and moles finding surface travel difficult. A good time for tactical attack and harassment, but nothing more.
Yet in a small way the new messenger system soon proved its worth, for news came in from Gaelri’s way that Ginnell had sent moles along the line and up towards Siabod, whose long valley was the only real break in the line. Troedfach sent some more moles that way, to help reduce the movement of the grike guardmoles.
The reason for this movement was soon apparent when, to Troedfach’s surprise and pleasure, no less a mole than Alder appeared at his emplacement west of Caer Caradoc one day accompanied by a few hardy Siabod moles, all old friends.
“We expected to see you months ago, see?” said Troedfach.
“We had trouble on Siabod’s lower slopes, for it was not as easy to clear of grikes as we expected and I doubt that even now we have done so. Ginnell knows his stuff and sent moles in to reinforce the place.”
“We knew of it, and tried to slow them down.”
“Enough came to make our task impossible. But Siabod’s in no danger and I’ve left the place in Gowre’s paws. He’s glad to be left alone to do it, and he’ll not let us down. I wanted to see the view from Caer Caradoc again.”
Alder had been kept well informed about Caer Caradoc. Now Troedfach pointed a rough paw at the great hill.
“There you are, mole. Do you want to stroll up it before or after you’ve groomed and eaten?”
Alder’s wise gaze travelled slowly up the steep slope to the outcrops at the top.
“After, I think,” he said and laughed.
But the weather worsened and he was content to stay with Troedfach and talk of old times, and watched with approval as his old friend delegated the complex day by day business of organising the line to Gareg.
“You’ve a good one there, Troedfach.”
“He is. He’ll help lead us to victory one day, and he’ll do it well.”
“I wish I could see that day. I wish....”
He fell silent, his old head lined and grey.
Troedfach said slowly, “What is it, Alder? Why did you really come?”
“I’m tired, Troedfach, too tired now. All these long years in Siabod, so many memories. I had hoped to leave before Longest Night but that was not to be for Gowre was not ready to take over. But now, I’ve handed Siabod back to a Siab
od mole, and one of Glyder’s kin.”
“Did Glyder...?”
Alder nodded.
“Aye, he did. Gowre got him back to Ogwen and stayed with him to the end, which was not long coming. He was not alone when he died. But that’s a reason I’ve come here... I wanted to tell Caradoc of it personally. Those two had something in common, something nomole else but me knows about. Where is the old rascal?”
Troedfach grinned.
“About. He’s not changed, but wanders here and there telling younger moles about the Stone and the traditions of the Marches. He was much upset by the way Caer Caradoc was taken, not liking to see bodies up there among the Stones. He’s not a fighting mole, see?”
“Not fighting with talons, no, but of the spirit he’s one of the greatest fighters I know.”
“He lives for the day when Caradoc is free for anymole to wander. If he had his way moles would live up there again, or hereabout and trek up there to worship at the Stones.”
“Does he still believe...?”
“The Stone Mole? Aye, he claims he’s coming here. Up that slope you’ve been avoiding climbing, that’s where the Stone Mole will go.”
“I hope for his sake he’s younger than me!” said Alder, smiling.
Caradoc came back from a journey south some days later, having trekked through snow and ice and into the teeth of a gale or two to get there, though how he guessed Alder had come he did not say. Many moles believed that the Stone told Caradoc things.
“Bless me, it’s Alder himself back here again!” he declared, embracing his friend. “You’re looking older.”
“I am old,” said Alder. “I’ve retired. Siabod is in the capable paws of Gowre who, no doubt, has taken to it well. I think he was pleased to see me go. I’ve been asking Troedfach to find me a task here but he’s no use for me either.”
“The Stone shall find a use for one who has served it better than any in all Wales these many years,” said Caradoc passionately. “You stay here, Alder. This is the place to be now. Caer Caradoc will be clear of fighting one day soon and we’ll live to see my dreams come true.”
“They will, Caradoc, I believe they will.”
Troedfach grinned and stanced up to make a diplomatic exit so the two old friends could talk privately, saying, “Aye and I hope they do, Caradoc, but I’ll leave you two together.”
When he had gone Alder came closer to Caradoc and said quietly, “Mole, there’s another reason I’ve come here to see you. Glyder is dead. He died before Longest Night up in Ogwen, and young Gowre was with him.”
Caradoc nodded sadly.
“I know it, Alder, I felt it here,” he said, thumping his breast. “Here, see? He was the first to die of those of us who touched the Stones in June and helped the Stone Mole. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do. One by one the seven Ancient Systems shall be free again, one by one. And each in their different ways shall be won back for open worship in the Stone.
“It grieved me to see my Caer Caradoc won with blood, but the Stone must mean something by it. New times are coming, Alder, and we’ve helped them along, and that’s an honour. But I want to live to see it, see? I want to be up there by the Stones and know it’s true. I’d like to hear the sound of pups playing in the wind where I once played. And I want moles like Troedfach and Gareg and yourself, fighters all, to go back to your systems when you’ve done here, and make peace there among your communities with the same skills you’ve shown making war.”
“I know it, Caradoc,” said Alder, “and you’re right. I was saying to Troedfach that I’m tired and so I am. I feel I’ve never had a home.”
“But Siabod, that’s been your home.”
Alder shook his head.
“Glyder’s home. Gowre’s home. Not mine. I’ve been its guardian and protector, but a home is where your body and your spirit feel at peace.”
“Dreams, Alder, and for a mole like you! You are getting old, mole, and your brain’s beginning to rot. You’ve told me yourself all the places you’ve been in your life – Siabod, Duncton, Buckland... Stone knows what before that.”
“I should have given this up long ago and gone back east as Marram did. He was right, you know: there comes a time when the fighting must stop and a mole must reach out to his enemy in peace and say, ‘No more, we are friends now’.”
Caradoc saw how distressed Alder really was and let him talk on a little more before saying, “Tomorrow it’s a climb for you up Caer Caradoc. I’ll lead you on ways which will avoid the ice and you can see the finest view and breathe the clearest air in all moledom. Why mole, we’ll find ourselves a couple of mates, tell moles of Stone and Word to clear off, and make as fine a home as any you’ll find elsewhere. We’re not so old we can’t make pups!”
“You’ve never had pups so far as I know, Caradoc.”
Caradoc grinned, a little shyly.
“Never met the right mole. And never the time.”
“Well, if you wait for the Stone Mole to come it might never happen,” said Alder.
They laughed and talked some more, enjoying the evening slowly, as good friends do, their laughter and argument a cheering thing for moles like Gareg and Troedfach to hear, and their conversation inspiring to those moles who, when night came, had the sense to gather round and listen to what Alder and Caradoc had to say.
Next day Caradoc was as good as his word and, refusing the offers Gareg and Troedfach made to accompany them, he led Alder up the slower but easier western flanks of Caer Caradoc to explore its highest parts, and to stare over towards the east.
The garrison was glad to see Alder, and its young commanders showed him how they had placed their limited number of moles. They were astonished at how quickly he understood the strengths and weaknesses of their deployment and predicted where future likely attacks might come from.
“Aye, Sir, we have the occasional skirmish. The grikes like to keep us occupied and guessing.”
“It’s a hard position for them to take right enough, but you’re vulnerable to a concentrated night attack.”
Caradoc listened with a grin on his face. He was amused to see how quickly Alder had reverted to the campaigning mole he truly was and knew that, though he claimed otherwise, Alder missed commanding Siabod but was too good a leader to cling on to a command that needed a younger mole.
Alder came over to Caradoc and asked, “Did you really live up here when you were young or was it lower down where it looks more wormful?”
“Lower down,” said Caradoc, taking him to the northeast side and pointing out pastures bounded by a river. “Down there, see, which is occupied now by grikes. It’s wormful and was lived in until the plagues came. In the old days it was the younger moles’ task, led by an elder, to come up here for a while and learn things about the Stone. The top will support a few moles well enough, and it does a mole good to live for a time above the world. Makes him get things in proportion.”
Alder looked about a little more, at the Stones and then across the sloping top.
“When Marram and I came you kept us so busy meeting other moles that I don’t remember looking about like this. It’s a fine place.”
“It’s the finest! I tell you, mole, stop here awhile.”
“I’ll do that with pleasure until the winter clears. But then... perhaps I’ll always be a traveller. Perhaps I’ll drift back to Siabod. Perhaps I’ll go down to Tyn-y-Bedw, where Troedfach comes from, and have a rest. He says that’s the finest place.”
“Stop still, mole, and you’ll be content.”
“You’re a one to talk, Caradoc. You’ve wandered the Marches all your life. Despite your fine talk you’re no more likely to settle down now than I am!”
The two moles continued to argue and talk until, the day drawing in, they began their descent to Troedfach’s emplacement once more, to get back aburrow, and watch the winter through.
So Alder came to Caer Caradoc, to share the military life with moles he loved and felt most comfortable with. On
clearer days he wandered off with Caradoc, but when the weather was bad he stayed underground, and many a mole was sent by Troedfach to talk with him, and to learn the many things that his conversation and experience told them. None more than Gareg when he had time, who respected a mole like Alder and enjoyed his company.
The Marches, like the rest of moledom, were gripped by winter, until at last the rough tunnels of Troedfach’s position began to drip with thawing snow and ice. A busy time then, an exciting time, a time to go out on the surface with energy once more and enjoy the approach of spring.
“And a dangerous time,” warned Troedfach, and moles like Alder and Gareg knew what he meant. A time for the resumption of fighting once more.
“But a time of promise,” said Caradoc to himself, adding a prayer to the Stone: “Make it the time when promises come true, the fighting begins to end and Caer Caradoc can become my home once more.”
Even February’s cold and cruel progression through Duncton Wood – when starving foxes falter in the night and are found frozen at the wood’s edge when morning comes, and ragged birds peck at the barren soil – did nothing to dispel the excitement and purpose from Mistle’s determined heart.
She and faithful Romney got to know their system well, and though they heeded Mayweed’s advice and avoided the Ancient System, they got the measure of everywhere else, and Mistle made her plans for the system’s reoccupation.
“What reoccupation? By what moles?” demanded Romney – not in doubt, for he had given up doubting Mistle, but in curiosity.
“Duncton moles, of course! And if you ask me what moles they may be I’ll tell you now! Moles of good heart, moles of good faith, moles of good humour, and moles with paws and spirits willing to work and make this place alive once more.
“I don’t know where they’ll come from or who they’ll be, but come they will and they’ll be made welcome by you and I and by these tunnels in which for now we wander all alone.
“Barrow Vale, where Tryfan died, shall be the centre of the community once more, and the Stone shall be loved and often visited. At first I shall not allow moles to settle just anywhere and that’s why we’ve had to get to know how the tunnels run, so I know where moles must go.”