Alder smiled and said. “He will come, mole, for you he’ll climb this great old hill and be a light among the Stones. He will....”
There it was that Alder died, and there among the rocks at dusk he may sometimes still be seen, snout straight, paws strong, a mole of strength and courage. Some moles who go that way say they find him in the west, looking Siabod’s way, others fancy they see him to the east, his snout towards the places which he loved, but which he never did call home.
So there until the dusk Caradoc had wandered, and thought of old times and friends, and hopes he’d had. Then as the rain had eased, and it grew cold and gradually dark, he had settled by the Stones and felt suddenly so tired. He hadn’t minded all the rain, thinking it cleansed Caer Caradoc of the blood spilled there and prepared it for the spring years.
“You’ll come,” he whispered fiercely to himself and to the Stone, “you’ll come! And moles shall know it yet and say old Caradoc was right! ‘The Stone Mole came!’ they will say. ‘Have faith like Caradoc and live the way you should! The Stone Mole hears all your words.’”
But when he was silent and staring at the empty shadows, he wished he could have seen young moles on his hill just once more, and seen them listen as he had done to old moles telling their passionate tales of the Welsh Marches, and crying out their passionate prayers. And he wished....
But then sounds came. Scrabblings. Whisperings. Slidings and slippings and heavings. The sound of moles climbing a steep hill in the dusk and not sure where they are. The sound of excited moles coming up into the mysterious unknown.
From east they came, from west. From south across the top and even – even from behind his stance – some hardy moles up the steep north face.
“Phew! That was a climb!” said one out of the gloom.
“What do we do now?”
“Look, there’s the old Stones, over there.”
“They’re... big. Let’s go together.”
Caradoc could scarcely believe his eyes, but there they were, moles of all sorts and ages, all come up here, all here now, all coming where he was.
“There’s the old mole here.”
“There’s lot’s of moles here!”
“No, him... but he’s not the one. He said....”
“Stop!” cried Caradoc, as moles seemed to gather all about, chattering, laughing, excited and then, bit by bit, falling silent about him.
“Happy Longest Night!” called out one.
“But what moles are you?” cried Caradoc.
That was a mistake, for what conflicting answers they started to give as all wanted to tell how it was.
But then one came forward and said powerfully, “Greetings, Caradoc of Caer Caradoc. Remember me?”
Caradoc peered at him and shook his head.
“Clee is my name and I am the mole who yielded to you for the Word on Caer Caradoc last summer. I was free by autumn and made my home nearby.”
He embraced Caradoc warmly, as moles of those parts do, and at his flanks Caradoc saw a female and some youngsters from an autumn litter. They and all the others there looked at him as if they expected something from him.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” said Caradoc, “all of you, but I did not expect to see moles up here this rough evening.”
“But it’s Longest Night,” said Clee, “and though I can’t speak for the others here since I don’t know them, for ourselves we were wondering how to celebrate. Then an old mole came and told us to join him on top of Caer Caradoc. I said. ‘That’s a bit of a climb for anymole, let alone our youngsters,’ and he said, ‘Not if they’re going to remember it all their lives, and anyway, if I can make it surely they can!’ And then he limped away.”
“An old mole?” said Caradoc. “Limping up the hill?”
“Aye!” cried others. “That was the one we saw. Said to come up on Longest Night.”
“I thought you were him,” said one of Glee’s youngsters, staring at Caradoc and putting out a soft paw to touch his grizzled fur.
“Me?” said Caradoc responding to their cheer. “No, I’m just a dreamer who lived here once... but if it’s a prayer you want....”
“It is!”
“... and a song in a cracked old voice....”
“That’s it!”
“... and a tale that’ll have your fur rising and your talons tingling, and bring a tear to your eye and warmth to your heart at the end....”
“All of that, Caradoc!”
“... then I could try to be your mole, as the dusk fades and Longest Night begins.”
So Caradoc began to show them how, when he was young, and before even that, old moles showed younger moles how Longest Night was done, and faith in the Stone was ritually renewed once more in the hearts of moles who lived about Caer Caradoc.
And as he did, and the night came slow across the high place he loved, and the moles’ eyes were all on him, he saw come among them and share the night with them, an old mole with a paw that had been hurt once by a barb. He saw his gaze, and the way he put his spirit among those moles, and then old Caradoc knew the Stone Mole had come to him at last.
As the night drew on, and their celebration grew loud and joyful and full of love and faith, that old mole called to Caradoc, like wind among the Stones, “I have need of thee, good Caradoc, I’m glad you put your faith in me. But not yet, not quite yet, for these moles must remember you. We’ll tarry with them for a while....”
Then Caradoc told great tales of the past, as old moles will, and towards the end, when moles were tired yet did not want to sleep, one youngster said, “Who was the greatest mole you ever knew?”
And Caradoc replied, “Well now, there’s a thing to ask a mole of the wild Welsh Marches, where so many great moles have lived. But if it’s not the Stone Mole you mean....”
“A real mole!” said the youngster, making Caradoc laugh, for what could be more real than the Stone Mole, who was there limping among them now and they too busy to see him?
“If it’s a real mole you want, then Alder’s the mole I’ll name.”
“Where was his home?”
“Look around you, mole, look among the Stones. This is that great mole’s last home.”
Then he told them the tale of how, in this very spot, Alder first came with a mole called Marram, and of how he inspired the moles of the Welsh Marches to struggle against the Word, and how it ended, and come to think of it was ended here and now this very night all over again as moles of all sorts made their prayers, and sang their songs, and told their tales.
Late, late in the night, when all the moles turned to sleep, to Caradoc the old mole came again. “You can come with me now, good Caradoc. Your task is completed here.” And Caradoc went, but where he had been in the place he most loved he left a community behind.
Yet that same night, even though the hour was late and the celebrations over, a sense of community had not quite come about Duncton’s Stone.
Prayers had been said, songs sung, tales told, but that special quality that great Longest Nights can sometimes have had not come. Moles might say and were saying that they had had a good time and had plenty to look forward to in the cycle of seasons ahead, but excitement was not entirely with them, and now tiredness was overtaking them.
Mistle had done the best she could, and no mole would say she could have done more, but perhaps what they knew had happened at the Stone the previous Longest Night was too harsh and dark a thing to easily forget. Or perhaps it needed something more than simple celebration to bring in the wonder of the night, and a true sense of its holiness which lingered still outside the clearing of the Stone, but had not brought its light within it.
For most of the evening they had been gathered in the old chamber a little way from the Stone, where traditionally Longest Nights had been celebrated. In the past, though they did not know it, the chamber had been crammed to overflowing, and festivities continued in the tunnels, and even on the surface. But the system was not yet so occupied tha
t that was so, and there was space for all.
Yet some sense that something might happen yet, and the conviction that thus far Longest Night would not leave a memory to conjure up in the moleyears of hard work that Mistle knew lay ahead, persuaded her to suggest that even at that hour they all go out to the surface again, and gather by the Stone to pray as one.
There were moans and groans at this, but Cuddesdon said it seemed a good idea, and Romney too, and then when Lorren declared that she thought it as good an idea as any, and some fresh air would do nomole any harm, off they went cheerfully enough.
Round the Stone they gathered once more, and together whispered a prayer for themselves, and the health of their community. Above the stars shone rather dim for there was cloud about, and the beech trees swayed a little in the cold wind.
Before them the Stone rose up darkly, massive and still. Heath and Starling were close to one another, Lorren nearby too, and Wren and Whortle, and Rampion and Romney, and all the moles who had come to put their future in that place.
“Mistle mole,” said Starling, “say a prayer for all of us.”
Then Mistle lowered her snout, and all fell silent about her as she spoke this prayer:
“O Stone, who brought us from the darkness of the years
Unto the joyous turning of this Night,
Bring us safely now towards a new dawning,
Be our guiding light into the Silence yet to come.
O Stone, from the darkness of the years
Bring us to the Silence yet to come.”
Then as they stopped their praying and the group began to break up and drift off into the night, Romney cried out suddenly, “Look! Look!”
He pointed to a spot before the Stone where, when moles crowded round and looked more closely, they saw what seemed a stone upon the ground that glistened, or glowed perhaps, or perhaps simply shimmered.
There was no doubt that it was there, for when Whortle bent down to look closer its glimmering glow lit up his face brighter than the stone itself.
More than that, there was about it a strange stillness and allure that hushed a mole and made him shiver a little with some thrilling fear – not for himself but for moledom as a whole. Yet soon, here, where that stone was, was peace, and from here nomole wanted now to go.
“What is it?” asked a mole quietly.
Another said, “Where’s Mistle? She’s the one who’ll know.”
Mistle came and stared down at it, and her face too was lit.
She looked from it to the Stone, and then at all of them in turn and asked, “Whatmole among us placed it here?”
But nomole answered.
Then again she asked, “Whatmole placed it here?”
But nomole came forward.
“What is it, Mistle?” asked Wren.
“It is a Stillstone,” said Mistle, and there were gasps about her, for all had heard the Stillstone tales and knew what a Stillstone was.
“I ask again,” she said. “Whatmole placed it here?”
This time, though nomole spoke, there came an answer of sorts, or a hint of whatmole had placed it there at least. For on the slopes below them, from the direction of Barrow Vale, they heard the sounds of moles coming. It must be said that they were noisy moles, cheerful moles, moles who could not quite speak clear but did their best. And the nearer they got the more it seemed that these were moles who had imbibed rather too much of the juices of the aspen tree, and the dubious drink of winter-decayed foxglove root. Aye, the nearer these over-cheerful moles approached the more certain it seemed from their jolly shouts and suppressed mirth, that they were more merry than was good for them.
And yet the light of the Stillstone still glowed, glowed stronger perhaps, and the hush was still there, but now filled with the cheer, the rather good cheer, of the moles, who were almost there....
Earlier that evening, after all the moles had given up any hope that some last journeyer would reach the cross-under and had gone off to start their Longest Night, a mole had come that way. Cheerful he was until the moment he set paw to the southern slopes, when, not unaccountably at all, he started feeling weary and depressed.
Bold Bailey had come home at last, after his moleyears of travel and self-discovery when he had left Seven Barrows, but now something about the chilly cross-under took his boldness right out of him. He knew what it was, and had been fearing it for days. It was guilt, which was especially affecting to him since that Night of nights when, a cycle before, he, Bailey, had fled and hid when the grikes came and massacred Feverfew and the others, and blinded Tryfan. He alone survived unscathed and now, as he began to climb up towards the place to which in all of moledom he most wanted to go that night, he felt gloom, depression and anxiety come upon him, and what had been Bold Bailey become Poor Bailey once again.
Yet he struggled on, hoping perhaps that if there were a few moles about, especially Mistle of Avebury whom he had liked, they might cheer him up. Yes! That was it! They might... and so Bailey had gone on.
When he reached the High Wood he had heard the moles about the Stone and crept guiltily towards them, hardly daring to show his snout because he felt so bad about himself.
He reached so near that he could almost touch a mole as he parted some twigs, peered out, and found he was staring straight at the face of Lorren. Lorren! Gulp! And next to her – the shock and surprise even greater – Starling. Oh no, Starling! Gulp again!
But... but! How ashamed of him they would be, for surely they must know he had run away in the moment of Duncton’s crisis. And then... and then, what about the dreadful things he had done in the past? They were sure to have heard of them. He had been Henbane’s pet for many years; he had renounced the Stone to save his life and taken to the Word; he had lived in Whern and, for a time at least, enjoyed it.
Now here they were, his adoptive sisters Starling and Lorren, looking older it was true but no less sisterly than they always had.
No way! thought Bailey to himself. I can’t! I am so ashamed!
So there he hid as the night darkened and the little community of Duncton Wood celebrated Longest Night so cheerily (as it seemed to him). But he could only hide, and watch, and dab and sniff at his tears. It got worse as it went on, for the more he stared out at Starling the more she began to look like she had when they were young, and there was nomole in the whole of moledom whose embrace he wanted more. Yet in the circumstances she was the very last mole he could run to. Then there was Lorren, and she looked even grubbier than she had done when they were young and yet she was just the same. No, happier! Plumper – that was it. “Oh Lorren,” he whispered achingly as he stared at her, “I wish I didn’t feel ashamed. Starling, I wish I knew now how to be bold. But I don’t because I’m not bold, and I’m no good to anymole at all.”
Then he had taken out that little stone he had carried all the way from Seven Barrows over so many moleyears and miles, so proudly at the time, so sure that this would be a worthy thing to bring back to Duncton Wood, and placed it on the ground in front of him because he felt he no longer deserved to carry it.
Then he lowered his snout and wept all unseen and uncomforted into the leaf litter, and listened to the celebration in which he so much wanted to join. Sometimes he heard Starling laugh, sometimes Lorren spoke, and once they sang, and once, most dreadfully, they said a prayer for absent friends and kin, and he was sure he heard Starling say “brothers too”. His tears were all the worse that he could not let them hear, and so, silently, snout so very low, he sobbed that celebration away.
But when much later on they all went off, laughing and joking, to the communal chamber underground he raised his snout and thought, I could just go to the Stone and say a prayer for them. Which is what he did, and how heartfelt it was. Then, thinking how far he had carried it, he hurried back into the wood where he had been, took up the little stone and brought it back and placed it before the Stone.
“Stone,” he said humbly, “I carried it all the way for you
from Seven Barrows. Well, it’s not much, and I’m not much of a mole after all, but there’s something of me in it, and so I’ll leave it here. Maybe if Starling and Lorren come out again tonight they’ll stance down near it and you’ll tell them I was here. I wish I’d led a better life. I wish I’d had more courage like other moles. I wish, I wish....”
But he could not say more, but turned from the Stone and ran from the clearing, downslope on and on, past so many familiar places in the dark where he would have liked to stop. On he ran to Barrow Vale, where, years before, his father Spindle had taken him. He did not stop but, weeping still, and feeling that his life must be over now, and that he was nothing and worthless and poor Bailey indeed, he ran into the Marsh End and on towards the dangerous Marsh beyond.
Once out of the wood he stopped and wept some more, because at that very spot he had emerged, muddied right through and only just alive, after he had nearly drowned when the tunnel collapsed as Duncton was evacuated.
“I wish I’d died then!” he sobbed, weeping wildly, bumping his head on the ground in absolute misery.
He heard a coot’s call, he heard the mallard fly unseen in the night. Ahead of him in the dark he felt the surge of the dark Thames there, and to it, wildly, across the soft ground he ran, determined now to end it all and do at least something thoroughly and well.
He reached the river edge, peered out into the darkness, contemplated the flowing water, and was just wondering what part it would be best to throw himself into when he heard the one thing that could have brought him to his senses.
“Help!” cried a bleaty voice. “Help, Help!”
There was a floundering in the water not far off, a rustle and bustle of sedge and mud, and a gulping and a spitting and general splattering.
“Help!” it said.