Duncton Wood (13 page)

The mole moved about here and there in the system but finally went up to the surface again, searching back and forth until he found the main entrance. This was only a few moleyards from where Bracken crouched and he waited tensely.

It was a strange position to be in – defending a system not his own. Suddenly the mole came boldly and resolutely into the system and stopped still as death in the main tunnel. Bracken shuffled about a little to establish his presence, for he had no intention of either waiting to be found or running off and leaving Hulver’s burrow to the care of a stranger.

“Who is there, and what are you doing here?” the alien mole called in a commanding voice that took Bracken by surprise. He might have expected to ask the same question himself but had neither the presence of mind nor, perhaps, the courage, to do so. The mole was obviously tough and mature, and Bracken quickly persuaded himself that there was no possibility of fighting him successfully, even if he had wanted to, which he didn’t.

He had no sooner poked his snout out of the side tunnel than the stranger was coming toward him – bold, calm, dominant.

“My name’s Rune,” said the mole, “and you had better tell me what you are doing here.” He advanced the last few steps menacingly. For the first time in his life Bracken was faced by a mole he knew, with absolute certainty, would kill him if he felt like it. There was such indifferent power in Rune’s gaze that what little courage Bracken felt inside him shriveled up, to be replaced by a desperate clutching in blackness that simply wanted to escape. Rune seemed huge and all-powerful and, for all Bracken knew, might continue his menacing walk right over him, leaving him like a squashed moth that has happened into a hurrying mole’s path.

“Oh, Rune, sir, my name’s Bracken and I came too far from the westside,” he whined, his voice high from the tightness and constriction that, in his fear, had invaded his throat. He looked at the terrifying Rune, waiting to do his bidding. If Rune had said “Turn on your back and scratch the ceiling,” Bracken would have done it without question. But Rune said nothing, simply gazing searingly at Bracken who, had he had sufficient wits about him to consider the matter, might have concluded that it would be better if he
had
been asked to scratch the ceiling. Instead, he chose to fill the silence with another catchphrase from his stock of “little mole lost” excuses for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. “I also ran out of worms and this burrow was deserted so I stayed here.”

Rune knew perfectly well that Bracken was Burrhead’s son, and though the lad was by all accounts an idiot (a good reason for killing him there and then) he had no wish to aggravate Burrhead and the westside needlessly. The time was not yet ripe. Though as he watched the stuttering youngster making his excuses, Rune was inclined to think he would be doing Burrhead a favor to get rid of him.

“Weil, it’s not deserted, because I’m here now and I suggest you return to the westside
fast”
he said slowly. “Moles shouldn’t leave their territories and it’s only because you’re a youngster that I’m making allowances. If you get stopped on your way back to the westside you can tell them that I sent you back. But don’t try this kind of exploration again; it’s not safe. Now get going.”

“Yes, Rune, sir, thank you, sir,” said Bracken, adding with the effusiveness of a mole who has been let off the talon, “thank you, sir, I will go straight back now. Thank you, sir.” And he dashed away, up into the fresh air.

There he found himself shaking and sweating and running all at the same time, desperate to get away from Rune, who put the fear of diseased darkness into his soul. He had never been so frightened in his life, not by Root, not by the wildest noises on the surface out of reach of a tunnel entrance, not even by Burrhead.

Only when he was down below the slopes again and well into the oaks did he pause to think. He couldn’t go back to the westside, because he would almost certainly be killed by Burrhead or Root; he couldn’t hang about around Hulver’s tunnels. So he didn’t know where to go. Having reached this cul-de-sac he moved on to thinking about Hulver.

If Rune was here and Rune was an elder, the elder meeting must be over. Which meant that Hulver must also be on his way back. Hulver would be able to tell him what to do or where to go, so he turned away from the route back to the westside, cutting off toward the east-side, contouring round the slopes. He would try to locate the main tunnel Hulver had headed down when he had gone to Barrow Vale and which, presumably. Rune had come up. With luck he might reach it before Hulver passed by on up to his burrow – and Rune. Rune! It occurred to Bracken only then, after running so far and fearing so much, that Rune was the danger Hulver must have sensed would come. Rune had come to kill Hulver.

An urgency now came to his progress through the wood, for he speeded up, not bothering to run from cover to cover and shadow to shadow as any sensible creature normally does. No time. Not bothering to avoid the dry leaves because of the noise they made. No time. Dashing, running, scampering along the contour. Against time. His fear of Rune was replaced by an urgent desire to reach Hulver and warn him.

Strangely, as he ran through the wood, aware of direction, aware of scent, feeling the dangers, head clear as air after rainfall, an excitement he had never felt before crept over him. He felt more in control of himself than he had ever felt. All the skills he had added to his basic gift for orientation and exploration were now working together, taking him toward the tunnel he knew must be there to find. Probably no other Duncton mole but Rune and one or two of the marshenders could have found their way across the system to the communal tunnel with the concentration and skill that Bracken, still a youngster, was able to do. He
knew
where he was going. And he found the tunnel as surely as a wasp finds its nest or an owl its prey. He knew it by temperature change, by smell, and by location; he knew it by instinct. He lay above the tunnel for a moment or two and then ran up it toward the slopes, realizing that if he went down toward Barrow Vale it was just possible that Hulver might pass him. So he ran back up toward Hulver’s burrow and the danger of Rune until he found an old, barely discernible entrance, and went down it. He crouched low and silent. There was no vibration in the tunnel at all, not a mole for miles. If Hulver had passed by, he was now far on and there was no chance of catching him. So he waited, snout on his paws, just as Hulver sometimes lay in the wood, eyes closed. Above, on the surface, the midday sun shone down poised for its downward arc to the west.

Not long afterward Bracken felt vibrations and the briefest rush of air as a mole approached. He waited trembling, for if it wasn’t Hulver he would have to do some fast talking. He decided to claim that Rune had sent him down this way on his way back to westside. As the mole approached. Bracken decided to save time by announcing himself.

“Hello! I’m Bracken!”

The mole stopped, and Bracken heard a gentle laugh.

“Are you, indeed! Always finding your way into tunnels you shouldn’t be in!” It
was
Hulver, and Bracken felt relief rush over him. “There’s little time. Bracken, very little,” said Hulver quickly, “and there is a great deal to do. I assume that Rune found you in my burrow and sent you packing?”

Bracken nodded. “Whether he has gone there to kill me or simply to warn me for a final (and fruitless) time, I cannot say,” said Hulver. “But I’m not going to risk going back now that you are safe here with me. There are nine days left before Midsummer Night. We cannot return to my tunnels and so must hide somewhere else. I think the best thing is to head up toward the Stone and rely on its shadow to hide us for the days that remain. You have much to learn, more than you can know.”

Bracken felt, or thought he felt, alien vibrations far down in the tunnel. Hard to say, but he wanted to get away as fast as possible.

“There may be other moles coming,” he whispered. “I can hear something, or rather feel it.” Hulver looked at the youngster who crouched still before him, his head and snout on one side, body tense and ready: feeling fear for him. For himself he felt nothing; he had little time left now. But this youngster had so much to do, so much, and Hulver trembled for him.

“We
must
go,” said Bracken urgently.
“Please
may we go?” Hulver nodded and turned up to the entrance and out onto the surface into the afternoon sun.

Hulver led the way, taking the circular route below his own tunnels that Bracken had taken, then up toward the beech trees. At last the beech wood lay directly ahead of them, familiar to Hulver but as terrifying to Bracken in its tall silence as it had been when he had been alone by Hulver’s burrow. Each step they took left the friendly oak wood farther behind, with its bird chatter and song, its scurrying blackbirds searching the leaves, its squirrels starting and champing among the oak branches.

“We had better stop for a while,” said Bracken, his natural tracking instinct giving him a sense of command he had not felt before. “We’ll wait for the evening wind to give us noise cover before we climb on.”

Hulver smiled to himself. Just what he would have done – had he thought of it. Bracken certainly seemed to know his way about the wood. Yet, at the same time, the youngster was very nervous, jumping at every shadow and making Hulver himself start more than once. It
was
time to stop.

He let Bracken dig a temporary burrow, watching him tunnel away at the mold. The youngster looked vulnerable against the massive oak root that plunged into the ground beyond him.

He had a strong feeling that his long wait since the previous Midsummer, a wait that had often driven him to despair and doubt, had not been in vain.

Often on a dark night he had tossed and turned over in his mind why he, of all his generation, was still alive after six Longest Nights. Six! He shuddered at the number. When the long moleyears of winter had given way finally to the earliest stirrings of spring, the worst time came when the air was chill as ice and he knew he would not mate. Often, then, he would go to sleep in his burrow and wish that he might not wake up. He wanted never again to rise to the aches and pains, fears and doubts that had come upon him in old age. But as spring advanced, the feeling that Rebecca the Healer was there had come over him and gradually a tiny hope had come back that something might happen.
Something might happen,
He had remembered the stories about her which they had told him as a child when he was sure she was real and walked the tunnels when no mole was there. Now he saw she
was
real after all, but had gone away for most of his life, only to come back at the end. “Old foolish mole,” he scolded himself. “Living in the past.”

“The burrow’s ready, Hulver,” Bracken said, breaking into his thoughts. “Best go down it until the wind rises.” Hulver did, meek as an old mole. What could he give the youngster in the time he had left?

Well, he could tell him the old stories and instruct him in the rituals to pass on the heritage that is everymole’s, though so few want to honor it.

Seeing that Bracken was jumpy with waiting for nightfall, Hulver decided to start his education there and then by recounting the tale of Merton, chosen mole of Uffington, just as it had been told to him by his father, and to
him
by the very last scribemole ever to visit Duncton Wood.

It was a tale that recalled the mole whose task in life had turned out to be to save the secret song of Uffington, which only chosen moles sing and then only once in a cycle of seasons. How Bracken shuddered to hear of the plague that wiped out most of the scribemoles back in the distant past when Merton had lived. Now his heart stirred to hear of Merton’s escape from Uffington, and his survival, and his remembrance of the sacred song he had learned in secret and never forgotten. Then of his return, when his days were nearly over, so that he could pass on the song for other younger moles to sing so that it might be known to future generations and perhaps, if the Stone permitted it, finally be sung by all moles and not just a chosen few.

“Will that ever happen?” asked Bracken, breaking the silence that followed the ending of Hulver’s long tale. “And do they still sing the secret song in Uffington?”

Hulver shrugged, for how could he know if the song still lived? Had not most of the rituals in his own system died, and that within living memory?

“Perhaps, perhaps,” he said, “but I remember one thing my father told me, though blessed if I can make much sense of it. He said there was a special Stone nearing Uffington – the Blowing Stone, I think he called it – which sounds in the wind sometimes. He told me that the scribemole said that when that Stone sounded seven times
then
the secret song would be sung by all moles.”

It was just the sort of story to stir a youngster’s heart and Bracken asked the question any youngster would have asked: “What’s the song about?”

Hulver stayed silent; he had often pondered the question himself. He had asked it of his father, and got no clear answer. He could only answer it in terms of Duncton Wood, where he had spent his entire life, and think that perhaps there were times when belief in the Stone and celebration of its life becomes a hidden secret thing, carried forward to new generations by those few who are foolhardy enough, or brave enough, to trust in a power they cannot see, and belief that it is worth far far more than the comforts of food and shelter that a system like Duncton offers.

He was confused about it, so how could he ever hope to pass on anything useful to this youngster? All he could do was to try, and to believe that tales like this one carry truth forward in their own way.

This was the story a long-forgotten scribemole brought to Duncton Wood. It was handed down through the generations as the song it is about was handed down. Until one fraught day it was Hulver’s task to hand it on to young Bracken to carry it in his heart all his life, as Hulver carried the song.