Duncton Stone by William Horwood
“There may be only a few of us, and we may not have much fighting experience, but by the Stone we can have a go at saving Privet!” cried out one old female who was so weak she could hardly put one paw in front of another – yet her brave words brought forth a cheer, and a surge towards the nearest exit.
“Moles!” cried out Hamble, the only one among them who could lay claim to any real fighting experience. “I must remind you that I was sent to Duncton from Caer Caradoc by Privet herself, and she did not send me to kill moles, or even to fight them. I had grown sick and tired of such things, and she sent me to warn against violence. Her journey into Silence is, no doubt, many things, but one of them is a journey into the peaceful way of change.
“By all means set off towards the Stone if you must, but even if you survived – even if you achieved your objective of ‘saving’ Privet – she would not thank you for it, and nor would you feel better. No, no... that cannot be the way.”
The moles nodded their heads ruefully, even the female who had made the initial call to action, and pondered what they might do. That “pondering”, which lasted all night and into the next day and refused to be hurried, or to move to a quick decision because time was passing, is surely one of the high points of Duncton’s history.
Moleyears before, Master Librarian Stour had inspired a few moles to begin a search for peace, a search that might or might not have to do with the Book of Silence; now, here, finally, it came down to this: a few moles, mostly old, asking themselves what power there was that might be greater than force, and if it existed, did they possess it? It was a debate for all moles, and all time, but it was especially mindful of the modern history of Duncton, which had been concerned to protect the idea of tolerance and freedom and peace against the dogmas of the Word, and of the Newborn; but in the course of which violence had too often been used in the name of the Stone.
In the long course of that history, moles recorded, and many more unrecorded no doubt, had stanced up for the non-violent way: Boswell and Beechen; Rose; Mayweed in his special way; Tryfan, who had discovered the path of peace only through suffering and pain; and the Master Librarian of Duncton Wood, wise Stour.
Then, finally, Privet, a wandering female scholar from the north who came in search of a Book that might not even exist, and found in her pursuit of it, at Wildenhope, a violence so absolute and shocking that she had chosen the way of Silence, which is the hardest way of all.
These great names were all invoked in that long dark night when Pumpkin and the others, fearful for Privet and themselves, uncertain, without guidance other than that they could give themselves, harried by the sense that time was running out, debated what they might do.
Dawn came to a chamberful of tired and distressed moles, a dawn they felt that might well be the last for the mole who had set out from Duncton Wood in all their names, and now had come back to it in silence, and in grave jeopardy. Many had been the suggestions, but none had found favour with them all, and now, as grey light lit their tired faces, and uncertainty reigned in their tired minds, there seemed no way forward left to them.
“We must rest and sleep if we can,” said Elynor at last, “for one thing we have agreed upon, though future generations – if they ever know of our discussion and our plight – may blame us for inaction: we have agreed that we shall act together. Therefore, let us rest our bodies and our minds and hope that in slumber a solution may come to us which has evaded us in waking. It often does.”
“Aye,” said Hamble wearily, “that’s true, it does. Though how I’ll sleep knowing the peril that Privet is in...” He yawned, and others did the same, and some he saw were already lowering their snouts to their paws, and beginning to close their eyes.
So sleep came to them that morning – the morning of that great day – when busy crowds assembled outside Duncton beyond the cross-under, and Thorne was preparing his army for action. And they slept even as Maple was leading the followers and pilgrim army ever nearer, and Rooster was approaching from the east. Whilst nearer still, unknown to anymole, Arvon and that pawful of warriors still alive at his flanks, were making their hindered bloody way up through the tunnels and byways of the Eastside towards the Slopes.
So the hours passed in the cramped chamber where Pumpkin and his friends lay in fitful rest, until the sky darkened, and they woke to the sound of a far-distant chant, rhythmic and strange, that told them that many moles were nearby, somewhere down on the south-east slopes or beyond.
“Beyond! They’re beyond the cross-under – and there’s more than a pawful, I tell you.”
It was Hamble, fresh back from a stealthy journey by tunnel and secret shadows beneath fallen treetrunks, smelling of the musty odours of the fungi and rotted leaf-litter in which he had had to crawl.
“I’d tell you if you’d believe me, but you won’t.”
“Tell us,” said Pumpkin.
“If my ears did not mistake that chant it sounded first like ‘Maple’ and then, more recently, like ‘Rooster’.”
“Could they really be here, so near?” asked Elynor.
“They could,” said Hamble, “and I want to believe they are.”
“Well then, friends,” she continued, “our time for decision has come. We have argued all night, and wisely we have rested. Now there is no more time. If we can agree a course of action we shall follow it. If not we shall do nothing. There is no dishonour in doing nothing.”
There was silence, uneasy and concerned. There might not be dishonour in it, but allmole there felt that there must be a better way than doing nothing.
“‘Maple’, you said; and ‘Rooster’?” said Pumpkin.
“Yes, Pumpkin, I am sure it was their names that were spoken. But I could see very little – only the backs of ranks and ranks of Newborn guardmoles down by the cross-under, through which it will be very hard for moles to battle their way.”
“Then it is up to us, isn’t it?” said Pumpkin. “You know, perhaps we have talked so much that we have missed the obvious thing...” His voice wandered a little, as did his eyes, and all there recognized that this was Pumpkin thinking, thinking hard and yet trying not to think: this was Pumpkin reaching out for all of them beyond the words they said, for guidance from the spirit of the High Wood and the moles of Duncton past, and present, and future.
“You all know that until October it was my habit to go alone to the Duncton Stone to pray, as it had been all my life. Through good times and bad, through conviction and doubt, when I have been happy, and when I have sometimes been sad, though that affliction has fortunately not often been mine, why, it is to the Stone I have turned.”
“We know it,” they said.
“I have gone to it and bowed my snout down to it and I have said, ‘Stone, listen to me, for I have lost touch with the Silence that is in my own heart. Stone, help me, for I cannot help myself always. Stone, put your grace into me, for without you I am nothing.’
“My dear friends, with a prayer such as that I have often begun a contemplation before the Stone, and the Stone has not failed me. It has listened, and found an answer, though often the answer was not one I expected; it has helped me, though often I did not accept its help with gladness; it has shown me its grace, and I have found meaning.
“We have debated, and we have found no solution. We have agreed to act together, though we do not know how to act. And now I know only that I must turn to the Stone, as so often before, and pray to it, and seek its guidance.”
“But Pumpkin, that’s all very well and fine,” said Elynor, “but we’ve been through it so many times already... tell him, Hamble.”
Hamble scratched his head and shrugged a little, perhaps understanding rather better than Elynor what Pumpkin was getting at, and said, “You wouldn’t last long up on the surface before you were caught, Pumpkin, and what good would that do? If they didn’t kill you outright, they’d arraign you, or whatever it is they do, and then we’d have to try and rescue you as well.”
“Perhaps we were right to try and find a solution as a community, one we could all agree on. Well, we haven’t, and now I’ve made up my mind what I want to do, and I don’t suppose it is what anymole-else wants to do. You’ve been good enough to call me your leader since we first came here, and although I felt a little flattered I’ve never felt it was a task I’m fitted for. I’m a library aide, pure and simple. It’s what I’ve always been since I became adult, and it’s how I want to end my life.
“Well, now, so long as Privet was out of Duncton Wood I was happy to try my best to be your leader. Now she’s back and she needs help, it’s as a library aide I must go to her. I hope she’s up by the Stone, because then I can serve it and her at one and the same time.
“I have no speeches to make, or anything much else to say. She’s waiting and the Stone’s waiting and I must go to them and take what chances with the Newborns I must. These things feel right to me, and if my faith in the Stone is justified, as I think it is, and if my duty as a library aide is worthwhile, which I believe, then there is no other decision I can make, or want to make. So I will leave you now.”
“Pumpkin,” muttered Hamble, at a loss for words.
“You cannot go up to the surface alone,” said Elynor, “you won’t —”
“I must, my dear, and I shall,” said Pumpkin firmly.
How small he seemed, how suddenly frail, as with the gentlest smile of farewell he turned into the light of the slipway up to the exit and began to ascend to the surface.
“But, Pumpkin...”
But he meant it, and had said his last, and would not be persuaded otherwise.
“We can’t let him go alone,” cried Elynor to the others, “and I won’t, however foolish it seems.”
“Nor I,” said Hamble, frowning and looking about the astonished group. “You must each make up your own minds, but I’m with Elynor in following that... that... that library aide!”
Then they both followed after him, and with sighs, or shrugs, or even the occasional rueful swear-word, the rebels all followed one by one, up into the dangerous light of day, their difficult decision made.
“Pumpkin!” Elynor called out after him, for he was already wending his way across the surface between the great beech trees. “We’re coming with you. Wait for us!”
Pumpkin turned and saw that one by one, some irritably (like Elynor), some a little rueful (like Hamble), but all with real trust in their eyes, they were following him.
“Stone,” he grumbled under his breath, “I didn’t want them to follow me.”
He turned from them and proceeded on his way, leading as strange a procession of moles as the High Wood ever saw. Until, not so long afterwards, and when through the trees they caught the first glimpse of the Stone and the sound of singing and chanting, there came across their path, and from out behind beech trees to right and left, Newborn guardmoles, many of them.
“Whatmole are you?” one of them asked in astonishment.
“My name is Pumpkin, and I am going to the Stone.”
“My name is Elynor of Barrow Vale, and I am going to the Stone.”
“I am Hamble of Crowden in the Moors and I am going to the Stone...”
And as each of them spoke, each felt that they were rebels no more, nor skulking moles, nor anything but moles who could hold their heads high, for before them was the Duncton Stone and what lay between them was nothing, nothing at all, compared to the Stone’s glory, and the Silence it offered.
“You’re going to your bloody deaths, that’s where you lot are going,” said one of the guardmoles.
“No,” Pumpkin replied with what he regarded as simple truth, “we are going to the Stone, as is our right. The Stone is for allmole, whatever and however they believe, not just for a single sect. Therefore, let us pass.” Then, with a twinkle in his wrinkled eyes, Pumpkin dared add, “Better still, moles, come together with us, but come in peace.”
The Newborns blocked their way, angry but unwilling to bring their talons down on the rebels without proper authority; not sure what to do, eventually they sent one of their number on up the path to the Stone Clearing.
“We can wait, for a little while anyway,” said Pumpkin, stancing down where he was, “we have waited long enough.”
But only a short time later the mole came back with a couple of others with him, one of them a senior Brother Adviser judging by the dark look to him, and his natural authority.
He looked at them curiously, and then said the following extraordinary words, with evident reluctance and displeasure: “The Elder Senior Brother will permit these witnesses to his ordination in the Stone. But they are to be quiet, for the ritual of anointment is beginning.”
Pumpkin rose and followed the mole, ignoring the astonished guardmoles altogether. But Hamble, who had seen some strange things in his life, thought this was the strangest of them all, and exchanged a glance with Elynor, who evidently thought the same.
“With Pumpkin,” she whispered to Hamble as they followed on, “wonders never cease.”
“More’s the pity,” muttered Hamble.
Chapter Forty-One
Quail’s pains having grown steadily worse all along the long way from Banbury to Duncton Wood, once there he experienced a new depth of agony. For deep and nagging though his pains had been until then, now they became at times mortally profound, so that there was nothing inside and outside his head, but the pain.
This first occurred in that moment in which (at Snyde’s insidious prompting) he had hoped to know the first beginning of the absolution of the pain – not the opposite. This was as he passed through the High Wood and thence, at last, into the Clearing on its western side, and there set his eyes upon the Duncton Stone.
“I am nervous, Brother Snyde, I confess it,” he said as the trees thinned and the first partial glimpse of the great and soaring Stone was to be had.
“Your release shall begin soon now, Master, for the Stone is merciful. You have taken upon yourself the sins of all-mole, and dared confront the Snake and the Worm, and the Stone shall give you liberty of your pain.”
“Will it?” whispered Quail, racked and shaken by doubt for a moment, and perhaps by a premonition of the new degree of pain to come. “Will it love me?”
“Lean on me, Master,” said Snyde, and he led him into the light of the clearing about the Stone.
There, ready, waiting, stanced Thripp, aged now but staring as powerfully as ever.
“It has eyes, Snyde, that Stone has eyes and they look upon me,” whispered Quail, unsure what he saw.
“Raise yours to it, Master.”
Then Quail, turning in dismay from Thripp, saw Privet. She was worn and made thin by the journey into Silence upon which she had embarked. Yet from some place she had reached, which lay far far ahead, she seemed to look back now and her eyes were on Quail’s, and they were even brighter than Thripp’s.
“Its eyes pierce me and sting me and hate me,” cried the stricken Quail, and the new pain came upon him, and he could not be free of it.
“Reach your paw to the Stone, Master, and your pain shall be taken from you.”
Then Quail dared raise his eyes towards the Stone he feared, which he had always feared, dared reach out to it, and touch it... and he screamed and fell back, clutching at himself.
The new pain had seemed to turn and gnash inside him, more terrible than all that had gone before. His face contorted and stiffened, his eyes stared, and his paw reached out for comfort, not from the Stone but from Snyde, that he might know he was not alone.
Oh yes, from Snyde he sought comfort, not from the Stone.
“Take me from it, Brother, for I am not yet ready to be made c
Back across the High Wood they took him, and the further he was from the Stone the less his pain, until they took him down into the Library, and made a place of rest for him there, where the texts had been cleansed, and the old ways of thought destroyed. There he might find peace for a time.
“Rest, Master, for the journey has been long. We went to the Stone too soon.” In truth, Quail was so slow and ill that the journey from Stone to Library took until nightfall.
“Too soon it was... For they were there. Thripp was there and she was there and unafraid.”
“They suffer, Master,” Snyde lied.
“Do they?” asked Quail, hope in his horrid voice.
Snyde nodded his thin head.
“I suffer, Snyde, I suffer for all molekind,” Quail said, “and I am afraid now, afraid that there will come a time when the pain will not abate.”
“Master, only you have strength for this great trial, only you are blessed to suffer it,” Snyde replied. “Your pains shall be plucked from you before the Stone, as thorns from a mole’s paw, and when your pain has gone from you you shall be... holy.”
“Holy and divine,” corrected Quail, his body made peaceful at the thought of it, and the pains subsiding away even further. “Shall I have strength to survive until then?”
“Yes, Master, you shall. Now, sleep, Master.”
“But I am thirsty...”
They took him to the surface, to a pool of water caught in the ancient surface roots of a tree.
Quail stared into it and cried out, “I see their eyes upon me, evil, horrible, turned and twisted like these roots.”
“Drink, Master.”
Closing his eyes he thrust his toothless mouth down and drank at his own ancient image.
“I am hungry.”
“We shall find you worms.”
“Worms shall not be enough. By the blood of Thripp and Privet shall I be anointed, Snyde, and in their flesh shall I not find sustenance? I yearn for it now, I am so tired.”