Author: William Horwood
Category: Childrens
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/william-horwood/page,11,57691-duncton_found.html
They passed the ruined entrances to several tunnels in an area of the Marsh End that had obviously once been heavily populated. Then, turning south-east and a little upslope, the general air of dereliction gave way to a sense of order and life more appropriate to the season. They entered a clearing that was clean, sunny and had an inviting entrance down into a tunnel.
The moles living there must have been aware of their approach, because no sooner had they arrived but a stolid and worthy snout appeared at the entrance and a burly mole emerged.
Beechen already knew something about Borage from what he had heard. He knew him to be a big mole, one who had been tortured and diseased in his time – the evidence for which was still in the scars on his flanks and the patchiness of fur at his rump.
Before Borage had a chance to greet them, another mole came out of the entrance, a fixed and righteous smile upon her face, and eyes that had a disconcerting way of looking past a mole as if some golden land of goodness lay beyond him.
“Greetings! May the Stone be with you all!” said Heather with general good humour, the warmth in her eyes not failing to hide the sense of surprise and worry she seemed to have at being visited by three moles all at once. “The Stone does us an honour!” she went on, without complete conviction, “to bring to our humble burrows no less a mole than Tryfan and....”
“Beechen,” said Beechen.
“So you’re Beechen, are you? A solid-looking mole I must say, and a great credit to Feverfew, if I may say so. Yes, very good, very good. May the Stone be with you, Beechen.”
“Er, thank you,” replied Beechen, finding himself smiling inanely in response to Heather’s continual beatific smile.
“You’ve grown since the night you were born,” said Heather. “May the Stone be praised!”
“He’d look pretty odd if he hadn’t,” said Hay lightly, but Heather ignored his irony and, seeming eager to put a seal on her comments about Beechen, added, “Blessed be the Stone indeed, aye! Welcome to the Good News!”
Tryfan, evidently anxious to avoid too much evangelising, said hastily, “Beechen, Borage here knows more about Buckland, the grikes’ southern base, than most. You should talk with him.”
“I will tell you what I know of Buckland,” Borage said, “but not now. Today is not a day for remembering that dark place.”
“The Stone —” Heather began yet again, but Hay interrupted her.
“We’re in search of some tunnels Tryfan wants to see,” he said. “So we’ll be off now, Borage... Heather.”
“Then I shall come with you,” beamed Heather and before Hay could say anything to stop her Tryfan said, “A good idea, mole. Both of you come. The more the merrier. I want Beechen to meet as many moles as he can.”
“It’s being pupless that has done this,” Borage whispered to Tryfan as they set off. “She means well.”
“It isn’t bad to love the Stone,” Tryfan said soothingly.
The group now comprised five moles, and Beechen had little doubt that soon along the way they would meet others, for there was a sense of infectious adventure about their journey which, it seemed, gave it a life of its own which any individual among them could not control, and certainly, Tryfan was not trying to do so.
As they went along Heather talked loudly to Beechen of the goodness of life and of the Stone, while Hay nudged and winked at Beechen saying, “It’ll get worse before it gets better, and could get very bad indeed if we meet the wrong moles. It only needs... oh no!” Hay looked wildly about with mock alarm as they turned a corner and found, approaching them in a desultory kind of way, an old female. Snouting at the undergrowth she was, and singing tunelessly to herself.
“Moles coming,” she said quite loudly, putting her ear to the ground and then her snout, and then looking up.
“Teasel!” said Heather with distaste. “One whose entire life was based on deceit. One into whom the viper Word once burrowed. Out of the way, mole. Tryfan and I are on the Stone’s business!”
“Teasel is of the Stone, as you are, Heather,” Tryfan said firmly, and went forward to meet the mole whose sight appeared as poor as his own.
“Tryfan!” she exclaimed in pleasure and surprise. “Bless me, if you’ve not come back to us again! And not a minute too soon seeing as Midsummer’s almost on us. Where’s that pup you were looking after, eh? Where have you hidden him?”
“Why ’tis Teasel, getting younger by the day,” laughed Tryfan, touching her close and then stepping back to look at her. “You haven’t changed a bit since I last saw you.”
“Would it were so. But you’re older, mole, and thinner, and your face...” She reached out a paw and touched his facial scars tenderly. “I’ve missed you, I have, Tryfan, but since I always spoke my mind to you I’ll not lose the chance now. A system needs its leader, so you’d better make sure you’re seen about a bit more. Scribing and that, hidden away where none can find you, let alone see you... it’s not right, Tryfan! It’s not your task.”
“I’m not the system’s leader, Teasel, not in the old way any more. I’m not sure systems need leaders like that now.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Teasel. “Moles don’t go anywhere of their own accord, they need a mole to guide them.”
“And where should we be guided?” asked Tryfan quietly.
“Away from here where there’s so much misery and loneliness,” said Teasel.
“You’ll find that wherever you go,” said Tryfan, “and you might find worse beside. What we’re looking for is right here, under our snouts waiting to be found. I always knew that before but I didn’t believe it.”
“Show me then,” said Teasel. “Come on, mole, show me!” But Tryfan crouched in silence looking at her, and there came to the group a sudden quiet and a feeling of loss, as if all there sensed something important was missing and none knew what to say.
“Well,” said Teasel, looking suddenly very old and quite ill, her fur sagging on her thin old bones, “’tis sorry things we are to be so miserable before Midsummer’s Night and with that pup of yours to think of. Where is he, Tryfan? I’ll not let you be until you tell me....”
Her voice faded for she could see by Tryfan’s look that the mole next to him was the Stone Mole himself. And now she came to look at him – or she saw his eyes on her, bright and clear, with a look direct and true – why, she felt all a-fumble with herself, not knowing for the moment what to do at all.
“What we’re looking for is right here under our snouts,” Tryfan had said a moment before, and as she realised whatmole Beechen was she sensed around him, and through him, and in his presence, something greater than them all, which stilled a mole’s mind and put peace in his paws.
Hay later reported that there was something about Teasel’s trust and faith that made such a moment possible, and helped them all see what it was that Beechen held of the Stone about him.
“He was an ordinary enough mole for most of the time, or so it seemed,” he recalled, “but sometimes when one of belief, like Teasel, was with him it was as if together they made something far more than the two of them, and those of us watching were touched by the light that flowed between them. ’Twas then that what some called miracles might happen, and healings take place, and beset moles come right in the mind, as if they only needed to see the light in his true gaze to be at one again.
“Some think it was there all the time, but it wasn’t so. Why, I had seen him a good few times before that moment with old Teasel, and, to be truthful, I had been disappointed since he seemed nothing special at all. A wholesome lad, and likely to be a good scribemole and even a fighter if need arose, but nothing more... But once I saw him as Teasel saw him I never forgot it, and, having seen it, a mole would have followed him to the end of moledom and back just to see it once again....”
Whatever Teasel saw, or sensed, she at least was not long overawed by it. Her natural good nature made her come forward and touch Beechen with the same warmth she had touched Tryfan and say, �
��Welcome, mole, welcome. Let me look at you. Why, I remember you when no more than moments old and now look! Full-grown, near enough. There was such a light about you that night as dazzled all moles who saw, and as for this mole, she regained her sight that very same night, as all moles know but none do talk about. Well, I do! ’Tis true as I’m standing here, but you’ll not remember that.”
Beechen shook his head.
“I’m Teasel, as you’ll have gathered, and I daresay Tryfan here has never mentioned my name to you. But here I am, for what I’m worth, and if there’s anything a mole can do for another I’d do it for you.”
Tryfan saw that Beechen had no idea what to say to this, though his paw was touching Teasel’s in an affectionate way, so Tryfan explained that they were in search of some tunnels and since others had joined in the fun he hoped she would as well.
“Whatmole lives in the tunnels you’re seeking?” asked Teasel.
“Now? I know not. Once it was Rebecca, but that was before your time. Before allmole’s time but my own, and by then she had long since left the tunnels and moved on. But Comfrey showed them to me.”
“Aye,” said Teasel vaguely, more interested, it seemed, in Beechen than lost tunnels, “’twas before I came.”
They wandered on chattering, arguing, laughing, and occasionally pausing to admire the wood.
“Do you know if you’re any nearer these tunnels you’re looking for?” asked Hay at last.
Tryfan shook his grizzled head and looked about in a puzzled way.
“I’ll tell you whose tunnels we are near,” said Teasel, “Crosswort’s!” Hay and Borage groaned, but Tryfan suddenly brightened and his snout rose and scented at the air.
“It’s near here!” he said, going forward quickly.
“But this is Crosswort’s patch,” said Borage.
“Crosswort indeed!” said Teasel testily to Hay, and he too looked reluctant to stop at the place.
“Well this is the place,” said Tryfan, snouting about.
“She’ll not be pleased to see you!” warned Teasel. “Sullen mole she is, and when she’s not sullen she’ll sooner bite your head off than pass the time of day.”
“This is definitely...” began Tryfan with mounting certainty.
“The Stone is not with her at all,” said Heather, “and the last time I tried to bring her the Good News she used some very unpleasant language. It was a great effort of will on my part to find it in my heart to ask the Stone to forgive her, though I was finally able to do so after I recalled the story of —”
“You’re right, Heather,” cut in Borage, “she’s not exactly a friendly mole.”
Even as they talked a mean grey snout appeared at the nearby entrance, followed by mean grey eyes, followed by wizened little paws. Female certainly, unappealing definitely, and yet “cross” would not be quite the word though “cross” was scribed across her lined face and into her indignant eyes.
If ever a mole was making an effort to be nice this was she. For her face, despite its natural self, was trying to smile; something that clearly caused her much difficulty and pain.
But not nearly such pain and agony as she suffered as she spoke, or rather spat out with profound displeasure a word her mouth found difficult to encompass.
“Welcome,” she said.
A collective air of such surprise came over the little group that had the miserable trees about that place suddenly broken into song and danced about none of them would have had the energy left to be amazed at all.
“‘Welcome’?” intoned Hay, astounded.
“Yes,” Crosswort hissed, “welcome.” She began to look as if she was feeling ill with the horror of it all, and in the tone of a mole who can hardly credit what she herself is saying, she added, “I was expecting you. I hope you had no trouble getting here. Please to come down and make yourselves at home.”
“‘Please to come down’?” repeated Teasel, perplexed.
“‘Make yourselves at home’?” said Hay faintly.
“Something’s very odd here,” said Heather, “unless... aye! The light of the Stone has touched her! Blessed is he who bears the Good News when he sees lost moles such as thee, Crosswort, born once again!”
Fortunately Crosswort missed this nonsense as, eager to take them underground, she had turned back into the entrance with a general instruction to follow her.
So down they went into tunnels Tryfan only just remembered from the single visit he had made to them before in the company of Comfrey. Comfrey himself had remembered them better, for he had been raised here by Rebecca, with a diseased female called Curlew for company whose tunnels these had been and who had taken Rebecca in. Now the tunnels seemed small and dark, and though they were clean enough they were dank and restricted.
Crosswort went fussing ahead of them, saying she had not had time to get everything ready, that she had not been told there would be so many of them, and would they kindly mind the walls and where their talons went since the soil was friable and likely to scatter.
But when they eventually reached the communal chamber of the place the atmosphere changed unexpectedly.
“Er, welcome,” said Crosswort again, looking over her shoulder at somemole within whom she seemed afraid of.
One by one they squeezed through the small entrance and into the cramped chamber that was the system’s only communal place. And one by one they saw, stanced comfortably and crunching with pleasure at a chubby worm, a mole they all knew. One who looked up and smiled toothily at them with very great glee.
“Sirs and Madams, humbleness wonders what kept you so long,” said Mayweed, utterly delighted with the surprise and sensation created by his presence in so unexpected a place.
“Stunning Madam,” said Mayweed turning to Crosswort and raising a paw to quieten the exclamations of surprise and pleasure among the others that had greeted the sight of him, “now is your chance to be generous to a fault. Shall we be wanting food? We shall. Shall you fetch and carry it as a host mole should without complaint? Indubitably you will. Alas, appalled Madam, seven hungry moles stanced in your tunnels and waiting to be served – torment would be bliss compared to this, would it not?
“But as you grub about for some worms above and mutter to yourself about the injustice of it all, ponder this: you shall hear good conversation here, and stories, and come to share in such jollities as sensible moles indulge in during the last days and nights before Midsummer’s Night, and moles will ever after say “Remember that occasion when we had more fun than for many a year? Why that all began in Crosswort’s tunnels!” You shall be the envy, until-now-painful-to-know Madam, of generations still to come, and moles shall regret they were not here. So worms, Madam, and plenty of them!”
Mayweed’s friends greeted this speech with delight, and more than one of them called after Crosswort to bring at least two worms for them personally, and possibly three.
These arrangements made, the moles settled down as Mayweed, who seemed for the moment to be in charge, said, “Perplexed Sirs and Madams, you are wondering, I know, how modesty himself just happens to be ensconced here. Bold Beechen – and a special welcome to you, young Sir, since this Midsummer in Duncton Wood would be a sorry thing without your presence, seeing as you are the only hint of youth that our poor old outcast system has – is especially perplexed. But perplex no more.
“Mayweed had come to get you up and out from the
Marsh End when Hay arrived and asked where you were going. Hearing that your intention was to come to Rebecca’s former tunnels, and knowing your pleasure in finding them would be diminished if I led you straight to them (for finding the route is half the fun), and diminished still more if Crosswort had not been prepared for your arrival I decided to come on ahead.
“Knowing that her welcome can sometimes be austere, even to humbleness myself, I came to prepare the ground. In short, I threatened her saying, ‘Miserable mole, you will for once in your horrible life be pleasant to some visitors and if
you are not then I, Mayweed, an humble mole, will make you regret it!’ Those are the very words I spoke and she responded to my unwonted aggression by swearing, cursing, and striking. Accordingly (since a mole who makes a threat should carry it through) I kicked her here, buffeted her there, and generally did what moles do not expect Mayweed to do. Her anger knew no bounds for a time, but Mayweed did not weaken and, inevitably, she wept. Weeping is good for moles. Humbleness confesses that on rare occasions he has done it himself. Not much another can do for a weeping mole but shut up, which is what I did, though the waiting would have been more pleasant if I’d had food on paw. Eventually, she was quiet.
“‘Lachrymose Madam, now lapsed into muteness,’ I said, ‘do I have to go through this entire rigmarole again or can this route-finding modesty who is me, Mayweed by name, settle down and await the worm a guest expects?’ This she brought and I then instructed her how to welcome you. Which done, I have stanced peacefully here and enjoyed eating said rotund worm. Madam now seeks worms for each of you and, in the difficult circumstances she has faced, and faces still, Mayweed humbly suggests she has done very well indeed and deserves consideration and cautious respect. Why cautious? Because if others are not as direct with her as I have been she will revert to being the Crosswort she has always been. Crossworts are made, not born. If others treat her honestly, as I have, and stay their ground, then she may reform for ever. But ask her yourselves! Here she comes!”
Indeed it was so. Crosswort had reappeared with several worms, fat ones, and laid them, with a gesture that might almost have been meek, at the entrance of the chamber. For a moment not a mole spoke, but then, spontaneously, several cried their “Thank yous” to her and welcomed her back, insisting that she took stance among them and shared out the food gathered so far.
“The Stone has blessed thee!” declared Heather, but nomole encouraged her to say more, least of all Crosswort who, still unbelieving that she was in company in her own tunnels, was experiencing a new-found feeling called enjoyment and was staring around her in growing amazement. Then, when Hay buffeted her gently and said he would come and help her gather some more worms for they would soon be needed, her pleasure was complete. Was not Hay a good strong mole to look at, and male, and helping her? Crosswort almost fell over herself in her eagerness to be obliging and if, as she went, residual habits of complaint still surfaced – “’Tis going to get too warm down here”, and, “Maybe one other mole might have come to help” – they were easily lost beneath the rising tide of her new determination to please.