Duncton Rising (55 page)

Privet looked at her, her eyes seeming cold in the moonlight. “I heard a mole,” she said.

“They’ve just gone by. Brother Quail.
Them.
They’ve come and they’ve gone. We’re invisible, as you said. Nomole seems to see us.”

“This mole will,” said Privet. “Anyway, I haven’t the courage to follow the vision I saw.” She glanced fearfully behind them up the slope. “Another mole will do that, must do it.”

“But Whillan and Maple are waiting. Brother Rolt said so.”

“Let them wait,” said Privet harshly. “I am not the mole they need yet, and another calls me...”

She turned and ran downslope, down and down, turning one way then another as if she knew where she was going, far ahead.

“Privet!” screamed out Madoc, so that her scream joined the others of the night.

“Here!” cried out Privet, “here!” Then, more softly, “Here...”

As Madoc caught up with her she saw Privet had come to a little nook of a place, guarded on one side by a boulder that in times long past must have rolled down the great slope from the very Stones which had been their goal, and might be still. In its shelter were two moles, both large males, one holding the other, who was injured in the chest. Chater and Hamble. Such old friends, in need of her now. Oh, yes, it was all beginning now, her journey towards aloneness.

“I’m here, Chater,” Privet was whispering, “I’ve come.”

“Had to come,” said Chater, pain creasing his face. “Bad things, evil things.”

Privet’s gaze lifted from him to Hamble and as their eyes met each knew nothing had changed. It was but yesterday, but moments before, they had parted all those moleyears ago. The Stone had set their paths to meet again here, when time began.

I’ll hold him now, Hamble,” she said softly, and she reached out her paws and took Chater’s head in them, and bent to whisper to him and tried to still him as bit by bit he did the first thing a journeymole does when he has reached his objective – he told the things he was sent to tell. All he had learnt he told, of the murders already come, of the treachery due on Longest Night, which was the next day.

“They’re going to kill moles come Longest Night, they’re taking over Duncton Wood, the one to watch out for is called Quail...”

A jumble of things he told her, some of which she knew, some of which she had guessed, some of which were too mumbled to understand, until his breathing eased and he slept, and nearby Madoc slept as well. Then Privet and Hamble talked, and told those things each had only partly heard, or not heard but guessed; and some things they had not even guessed. Of Rooster’s wanderings, of Beechenhill, of the coming to Caer Caradoc and imprisonment, and of Weeth – how delighted Privet was to hear the part that good mole had played in the escape – and finally of Chater and his courageous response to Weeth’s command to strike a Newborn guard. It was for that the Stone had sent him, surely it was that.

They shared so much that night, as Chater lay asleep, beyond any help they could give but comfort, until at the end Privet said to Hamble, “There’s one thing, one mole, you’ve barely mentioned, and that’s Lime. What happened to her?”

Hamble shifted uneasily and explained that he had thought she would not want to hear that, just as Rooster had not wanted to hear much about Privet’s raising of Whillan because it made him jealous to think of her so close to another mole.

“I’m not Rooster. So come on, Hamble, tell me the truth – it’s the only thing worth knowing in the end.”

So he told her all that had happened and how Lime had finally quietly disappeared. At the end all Privet said was, “At the beginning of April, she left then? How strange.”

“Dammit,” said Hamble, “why’s it strange? Weeth said the same thing. What’s so strange?”

“Did he say that too? He’s a
clever
mole is Weeth. But look, the dawn’s coming and that means that the day of Longest Night has begun,” she said, changing the subject. “And somehow or other, we’re still all alive. Madoc, get some worms! Hamble, have a sleep and when you’ve rested you can take Chater over from me so I can rest.”

“We can’t stay here!” said Madoc.

“I shall stay with Chater as long as he needs me to,” said Privet quietly. “Just as Fieldfare would if she were here.”

Chater stirred at the mention of his beloved’s name, and whispered, “Here?”

“Near in spirit, I am sure, my love,” said Privet, holding him closer still.

“You’re too thin,” said Chater drowsily, “and I’m getting cold. But the pain’s gone.”

“I’ll put on some weight,” said Privet.

“You’ll have no trouble finding a mole if you do,” said Chater. He chuckled softly and whispered Fieldfare’s name, and from the corner of his eyes two tears trickled down.

“Love her,” he said.

“I know, I know how much.”

“She’d be glad it’s you who’s here now,” he said, “holding me. Thinks the world of you does Fieldfare.”

“Look,” whispered Privet, and held Chater’s head so that he could see how the dawn of a new day was lightening the eastern sky.

“Want to see Longest Night in,” said Chater, “want to see its first stars. Be close to Fieldfare then because that’s what she’ll be doing, looking at the self-same stars. I’ll hang on till then.”

They looked on at the eastern sky while behind them all, unseen but by the. fearful Madoc, the great scarred eastern face of Caer Caradoc caught the first rays of a bloody sun as the last day before Longest Night, when the seasons turn, began.

Chapter Twenty-Five

That same dawn Duncton Wood was beset by a cold mist such as Fieldfare could see in the vales, and Pumpkin poked a reluctant snout out into it from the main portal of his tunnels, retreated inside and wondered how he would pass the day. The mist outside was more or less a fog, and he could barely see the outline of even the nearest treetrunk.

The operative word being “day” – for the Newborns had made plain that all moles in the system were expected to report at the Stone at dusk and take part in a ritual celebration.

“Ritual celebration indeed!” muttered Pumpkin irritably to himself, wondering which of his modest tunnels was most likely to yield a worm or two on a day like this. “Mole don’t need ritual celebrations on Longest Night. If they have any sense they have a good time anyway. Dear me, dear oh dear, what a miserable day it is! What a sad prospect! What am I to do?”

What he did a moment later was to start up in alarm, frown, widen his eyes, peer at his talons in some faint hope they might appear large and formidable, and finally settle down once more with a resolute expression enhanced by slitty eyes.

For he had heard a sound. Of mole definitely, and of mole up to no good. Nomole who is up to any good creeps about Duncton Wood at this dawn of dawns, especially in such a mist!

“Shall I challenge them or shan’t I? I shall! Yes, definitely! Better than doing nothing. And if my hour has come, then this mole for one will be satisfied. I am fed up with life, fed up with solitariness, fed up with pretending to be Newborn when I am anything but, fed up with being an undercover agent for the forces of good when it’s as plain as these feeble talons on my paw that the Newborns have total and complete and utter control of Duncton Wood. Yes, I shall challenge, fight feebly and die thankfully!”

With that he advanced timidly to his portal once more, pushed out as small a portion of his snout as possible to allow him to see something of the mist – he found it had grown even thicker, and he could not even see the nearest tree – and cried out, “Halt! Who goes there? Speak your name clearly and lie prone!”

His cry, bold as it was, echoed about in a dull kind of way, and then seemed almost to fade so much that it might never have been. Pumpkin look relieved that no giant mole appeared, and had just begun to turn back below when to his alarm he heard a voice answer ambiguously, “Where?”

“There you are, mole!” cried Pumpkin, his thin greying fur rising, his snout flaring, his eyes going slitty once more. “Don’t dare move! I can see you.”

“
Where?
”
said the voice, which sounded exasperated. “Where are
you?
”

“
I may tell you that, or I may not. Whatmole are you, and whither are you bound?”

“Whatmole am I? Whither am I bound?” repeated the voice from out of the mist. “Dammit, Pumpkin, you can be very annoying if you try. I am a lost mole. I am bound for your burrow.”

“Ah, but what is your name?” said Pumpkin, who by now was dancing from one back paw to another at his portal and stabbing at the thick mist, and making it swirl, as he practised making killing talon-thrusts, first with the right paw and then with the left.

“I am Keeper Sturne, you fool, that’s who I am. I’ve been floundering about looking for you since before dawn.”

“You should have said so then, and I would have come to find you!” declared Pumpkin triumphantly.

“Keep talking, Pumpkin, and I’ll come and find
you.”
This time there
was
menace in Sturne’s voice.

“I will, I will,” said Pumpkin, and he did, about this and that, until Keeper Sturne came lumbering out of the mist, his fur wet through with condensation, his snout muddy, his paws full of clammy leaf-litter, his expression furious.

“Get me food and show me where I can drink,” he ordered the moment he had arrived.

“What have you come for?” said Pumpkin.

“You’re needed.”

“What for? I refuse to do work for the Newborns on the morning of Longest Night. Some things are still sacred. Anyway, it’s foggy. I won’t come.”

“Not work for the Newborns, mole; not even for me?”

Sturne shook his fur, wiped his snout, cleaned his paws and looked into Pumpkin’s eyes.

“Not even for you?” said Pumpkin faintly. His heart had begun to thump painfully and he was beginning to feel timid again. He had an unpleasant premonition as to whom he might have to work for and he did not like it.

“The day’s come,” said Sturne resolutely, “when we can be ourselves. I’m not saying that after today we won’t have to revert to pretending to be Newborn – that’s what we
are
doing isn’t it? I mean, you’re
not
Newborn, are you, Pumpkin?”

“I’m not if you’re not,” said Pumpkin.

“I’m not, mole. Never was. Not my way. You know that.”

“I’m not either,” said Pumpkin with a grin. “You only fooled me for a time. I was a happy mole, Sturne, when I realized you were fooling them.”

“A happy mole, Pumpkin?” said Sturne, frowning in his formal, ungiving way. He spoke the word “happy” as if it were alien to him. “You were always a “happy” mole. I envy you.”

“I don’t envy
you,”
said Pumpkin honestly. “But...”

“Yes, mole?” said Sturne, not looking at Pumpkin.

“Well, if this visit of yours means you’re going to spend Longest Night with me, and celebrate like we used to when we were younger all those moleyears ago... before, well, before you were successful in the Library, and all of that – if that’s what it means, then you will make me a
very
happy mole, and maybe something of my happiness will rub on to you, Sturne, since it seems to me that you don’t have much capacity for it.”

“I always appreciated our Longest Nights,” said Sturne stiffly. “A mole shouldn’t be alone at this special time. I... well, let’s just say I...”

“What, Sturne? Say it. It won’t hurt.”

“Well,” said Sturne gruffly, “it’s just that I appreciate it, that’s all. I mean you wanting me to come here. I mean, you know...”

“I’m not sure I do,” said Pumpkin, who knew perfectly well.

“My Longest Nights, sharing a tale or two with you, have been the happiest times of my life,” said Sturne suddenly and very quickly. But before Pumpkin could respond – and he was thinking that a quick hug might be appropriate at this unexpected breakthrough of feeling in Sturne – the severe mole continued quickly, “But
that’s
not why I’ve come. We have a task apaw, and the fog will aid us.”

“What task?”

“A mole has asked for our help. He’s asked for
your
help, Pumpkin.”

“My help?” said Pumpkin, feeling faint again. “What mole?”

“The Master Stour needs our help, mole. Needs us today. Needs us
now.”

“
The Master Stour?” said Pumpkin, barely able to catch his breath he was in such a flummox. “I need to eat a worm or two to get my strength!”

“We both do,” said Sturne. “Then we’ll go.”

“Where?” said poor Pumpkin, yet more faintly. Indeed, he had stanced down in a frail heap and was clutching his thin stomach to calm himself down.

“Into the Ancient System, of course.”

“Oh dear,” said Pumpkin, putting a paw over his face as if to block out reality. “Oh dear, no. What help can I be
there?
I would die there! I’m half dead just thinking about it.”

“The Master Stour thinks, and I quote, “Pumpkin will be all the help in the world”.”

“I thought he might be dead,” said Pumpkin, and there was a hint of disappointment in his voice. “Are you
sure
he’s not?”

“Let’s get some worms, let’s eat them, and then let’s find out if he is or isn’t, shall we. Pumpkin?”

“Er, yes, yes, Sturne, let’s do that,” said Pumpkin with a forlorn sigh. “I was just wondering what I might find to do today. Now I know! What fun! Visiting the Ancient System! Tra-la-la! Oh dear me.”

“Food, Pumpkin.”

“Be happy, Sturne,” said Pumpkin heavily, going off to find some worms, and hoping it would take him a very long time indeed.