Duncton Rising (71 page)

“It’s Weeth! There! Among those moles by the entrance on the far side near Squelch. Weeth!”

Indeed it was, but not a Weeth they knew. He had, somehow or other, inveigled his way amongst a group of pious and contrite-looking Newborns, and on his face was a look of even greater piety and contrition than on theirs. At the same time, typical Weeth, his eyes were all over the place.

“Looking for opportunity,” breathed Whillan, with admiration for the bold mole, and delight too, for his presence raised their hopes that rescue and escape might really be possible. But had he seen Maple? They could only hope.

“So then only Hamble stayed with me,” Rooster continued. “In all my darkness only him to touch and hold so I would not die in my own Dark Sound. He alone was my Light. Yesterday I killed again and he left. He was gone. And he... the guards said he was dead. Killed not by these paws, but dead because of what I am become. So killed by me. So nothing left and nomole and Rooster’s in darkness and the Stone cannot hear. Rooster’s alone because he sinned. Rooster’s near death because he could not find the way and lost all moles who could have shown him. All are gone. Stone forgive me, for this is my confession spoken true. Mole Thripp there says forgiveness can be. Forgive me. Mole Thripp says nomole shall harm me. No, Stone, can’t be harmed more. Mole Thripp says forgiveness with thee, Stone, in your Light which I cannot see, in your Silence which I cannot hear; Stone, forgive this mole...”

But poor Rooster could not continue. He had said what he had wanted to say for so many years, and those moles who heard him and still had open hearts could surely not doubt that the Stone did hear, and somehow would help.

“Sooo... Brethren,” hissed Skua, his moment come, and grasping it before Thripp could take it from him and turn it to something weak like forgiveness or love. No, no, that could not be tonight. The mole had killed and killed again, had fornicated and not repented, had insulted every senior mole present, and the snake in him must be destroyed.

“So what are we to do? Can the snake in this mole be drawn out, or is he in too deep for that?”

“Too deep,” sighed the watching moles, taking Skua’s lead.

“Too deep,” moaned Squelch in falsetto song, “and death the only cure.”

“No, mole,” began Thripp, trying to stem the mounting, murderous flood of judgement, “no...” But his voice was too weak.

“Death will be his liberty!” said Quail with studied sadness, his sharp talons flexing behind Rooster’s back.

“For the snake must die for ever,” began the chanters from all over the chamber, and none could surely doubt, as the heartbeat of the chant began to swell, that once it found frill force nomole would stop before the passions that had been held in check so long found expression in a killing punishment on this great, rough, brutish mole who had made his incoherent confession and must suffer now the Stone’s judgement.

Rooster himself sensed what was coming for he raised his head from his dark despair, crying, “Stone forgive me...” Yet he did not move. He seemed about to say something more above the rising chant when another voice was heard, powerful enough to be louder than Rooster’s and audible to all above the chant.

“Listen now how the snake seems to vomit its filth from out of his mouth, but do not hear! Hear the sound of sin, but do not listen!” It was the voice of one of the ordinary brethren. “Let not this vile mole seduce us along with his black confession!” that same voice cried, maddened and enraged. “I shall take him forth from here while our brothers make their holy judgement in the Stone!”

The voice was pious, fervent and compelling, but to moles with ears to hear it had a faint but welcome ironic ring.

The voice was Weeth’s.

And no sooner said than done. Before anymole could react to his words, except to think that this was a spontaneous outburst from one of the delegates, of the kind officially welcomed, Weeth broke free of the group he was with and boldly headed for Rooster. In fact his action was only clearly seen by those moles in front and on the dais and already some. Skua among them, were signalling to guards to discreetly stop the zealot making his way towards the confessand Rooster.

They might have succeeded had not Privet after so long restraining herself in the face of Rooster’s desperate call for help, which is what she recognized his “confession” to be, finally decided to intervene. She did not mindlessly call out to Rooster as Maple had expected and as he now hoped she would. She had a better way by far of reaching out to the mole she loved, to touch his heart and rescue him from the void into which he had thrown himself She did something whose meaning was exclusive to herself and Rooster alone, but which had the effect of calling the attention of the whole Convocation to the place where she and the others had so far remained successfully in hiding.

She reached up her right paw to the high side-wall of the gallery, extended her talons and calmly made a vertical scribing, from roof to floor. At first the sound was no more than scratching but as the scribing took form, increasingly massive in shape and powerful in effect even in the half-light, it gathered volume, enlarged by the echoing nature of the place; loud, thunderous and dark, it brought the chanting below to a halt, and quelled all interest in Rooster and Weeth’s approach. As Privet bent lower to her task she seemed to gain strength and passion, and let out gasps and sharp cries at the effort needed to make the scribing on the soft sandstone wall.

Not only was the sound dark, but frightening as well. It scattered the moles below and all turned their gaze up towards the gallery, including even the moles ordered by Quail to intercept Weeth. Seeing which, Weeth naturally took his opportunity, and reached Rooster’s flank as the sound of Privet’s scribing, rebounding on itself and its own echoes, reached its most awesome point.

Rooster had turned as the others had, not in shock or fear, but in recognition. Indeed as Weeth reached up a paw to touch him and attract his attention the great mole was instinctively starting towards the sound.

“Rooster!” whispered Weeth urgently, and though Rooster did not look down at him, at least he paused.

“You’ve got to come with me, now. There is no time. This is your only opportunity.” Weeth had indeed seen Maple earlier, and his action now was the result of an instinctive understanding between them, aided by some subtle nods and signals.

But a new sound came now from the gallery above them, lighter and more pure, and like the first it increased in volume as the moments went by.

“It’s Privet,” muttered Rooster in blank astonishment. Then, acknowledging Weeth, perhaps simply because he was the nearest mole with whom to share his delight, he reached down his paw and buffeted the mole of opportunity in the chest. “That’s Privet. Now listen.”

“
You
listen,” said Weeth, looking round for inspiration and finding it in Rooster’s eyes. “Privet is alive and needs you. So come
on.
”

“Won’t forgive, not like Stone.”

“She’s forgiven,” said Weeth, trying once more to steer him over to Maple.

All this had taken but moments, and now in the gallery above them Whillan saw Privet complete her extraordinary scribing. Just two words – two names. “Rooster” for the first and “Privet” for the second.

“It’s the same as I did on Hilbert’s Top, when Rooster said it was like a delving. I
told
you,” said Privet calmly, looking over her shoulder at the sea of upturned faces below, not at all surprised at the dramatic effect her action was having.

“There was Silence between our names, you see, my dear, and if he can hear it again now he’ll know what to do.”

“He must go with Weeth,” said Whillan almost desperately, “but he’s not moving.”

Privet smiled, reached up her left paw to the Rooster scribing and her right to her own and with one swift movement scribed them both simultaneously. The result was like nothing Whillan had ever heard or imagined, it was not so much loud as powerful, not so much unbearable as simply overwhelming, and he instinctively did what most of the moles below did, which was to cover his ears and lower his snout to protect himself from a sound that taloned itself into his very heart.

“Yes!” said Rooster below them, grabbing Weeth by the paw and hauling him upright, for he had covered his ears and closed his eyes as well. “That’s Privet! Take me!”

As the sounds still echoed about them and slowly began to fade, and all the gathering seemed dazed and confused, Weeth began to push Rooster the short distance towards the entrance where Maple waited. As he did so he felt a paw and heard a commanding voice behind him. “Mole! Stop!”

Weeth turned faster than Rooster and saw the dark hostile eyes of Chervil on him, and Quail upon the dais gesticulating. There were but moments left. With a quick shove at Chervil, who though he was a stocky mole fell back and knocked off balance a guard who was approaching. Rooster and Weeth were away. Rooster buffeted aside two more moles, and they were out of the chamber into the cooler air of a tunnel, pushed forward by brave Maple who said, “Quick, straight ahead and stop when I shout.”

Above them, no less speedily, Whillan had ushered Privet and the others out of the gallery – though Privet did not leave until she was satisfied Rooster was gone. As the last to leave the gallery Whillan could not himself resist one final gesture, which was to sweep his right paw down Rooster’s name. How astonishing it felt to him! How different to a normal scribing! “Is this a delving?” he thought as he turned to follow the others into the gloom of the narrowing tunnels, and the dark and confused sound filled the gallery and chamber once more. “Is this really how a delver feels?” It was most strange, and most awesome, like a sublime irritation on his paw. “Is this the delving need,” whispered Whillan, “or just how Rooster really feels, as Privet knows him?”

Then the noise of the delving was overtaken by shouts of anger, and calls of command, and all about them was the thunder of the running paws of guards, seeking, searching, hunting.

“Up here!” came the cry.

“Down there!”

“They must not escape!”

Whillan caught up with the others, and all of them ran for their lives.

By the time Whillan had successfully guided his party through the tunnels, up and out on to the surface and down over the edge of Caer Caradoc’s west side, darkness had fallen. It was a night of moving cloud and chill air, but with enough light from occasional stars and the half-hidden moon for them to see each other.

Their journey had been hard and at times fraught, for naturally there were moles searching about, and twice they had to lie in what side tunnels they could find, as patrols went by. Arum fell badly at one point but had recovered enough to travel on with them rather than stay behind so as not to delay them.

“You’ll need me to stay on the route in case the others are not sure which way you have gone, as Maple suggested.”

Whillan had not for a moment doubted that Maple and the others would escape safely, and had half hoped that they might have reached the west side before his own party. If so they could all have set off downslope from Caradoc immediately, which would have given them a much better chance of getting clear away. But there was no sign of Maple, and Whillan did not hesitate to get Privet and Madoc, with the two older moles, off and away downslope. There was a brisk breeze blowing up into their faces which meant that both sound and scent might give them away to moles above. The lower they got the better.

Whillan had already decided not to attempt to return to the chamber to give Maple help as he had suggested, for by the time he did he would have no idea where to find the fleeing moles. No, what he would do would be to see the others well on the way, travelling down until the little path they had found split and Arum was safely posted to await the others and guide them on. This done, he said a brief farewell and retraced his steps up the hill.

Once there he snouted about to be sure that Maple had not already come and was in hiding waiting, and then settled himself down in a rocky spot from which he could see and hear all that might come that way without himself being seen.

Several times he heard moles nearby, and later a lot of commotion on the far east side, which he hoped came from moles mistakenly thinking that was the way the escape had been made.

But then, coming more silently than he expected, he saw the murky shapes of two large moles and a smaller one emerge from the same tunnel he and the others had used earlier. He approached cautiously, and when he was quite sure it was Maple, Rooster and Weeth, he whispered, “Over here!”

They needed no second call, and greatly alert and still unseen, Whillan guided them to the point on the hill’s edge where the path started and led them down and away from Caer Caradoc.

They made contact successfully with Arum and Boden, leaving those brave old supporters of Thripp to return upslope to the chaos and confusion left behind and, if necessary, to mislead any pursuers. There was no time for anything but the briefest farewell before they went on downslope the way Boden indicated and came at last to Privet and Madoc. Perhaps Whillan expected something more of the reunion of Privet and Rooster but it was neither the place nor the circumstances for effusive greetings.