Duncton Tales

  DUNCTON TALES

  WILLIAM HORWOOD

  Volume One of

  THE BOOK OF SILENCE

  HarperCollins

  An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

  First published in 1991

  by HarperCollinsPublishers,

  77-85 Fulham Palace Road,

  Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © William Horwood 1991

  These ePub, Mobi and LIT editions v1.0 by Dead^Man May 2011

  v1.1 Sept, 2011

  The Author asserts the moral right to be

  identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  ISBN 0 00 223676 1

  Typeset in Linotron Caledonia by

  Rowland Phototypesetting Ltd

  Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  HarperCollins Book Manufacturing, Glasgow

  CONTENTS

  Moledom

  Prologue

  Part I

  A Pilgrim in Winter

  Part II

  Darkness Newborn

  Part III

  Rooster

  Part IV

  The Sound of Silence

  Epilogue

  Based on Mayweed’s map found in Seven Barrows

  Prologue

  Greetings mole, and welcome.

  Today, when moledom has its liberty, and all systems allow moles to speak their minds without fear of retribution or attack, and to worship as they will, only pilgrims like yourself visit sleepy Duncton Wood.

  Moles reared to a sense of history, who can never quite forget that their present freedoms were won by Duncton moles, and who, if only once in their lives, wish to visit this old place of ours, and see the tunnels and trek the surface where our great forebears lived.

  All moledom knows that it was they who a century ago, in those dark days when disciples of the cruel Word spread down from the north with their tyranny of dogma and destruction, had the courage to raise their talons in defence of faith in the Stone, and risked — and sometimes lost — their lives that future generations might be free.

  The inspiring story of that generation of Duncton moles has often been told, most notably by Woodruff of Arbor Low, whose Duncton Chronicles is as good and true account of the war of Word on Stone as is ever likely to be scribed.

  Yet you have asked for a different tale, which makes you rare, and doubly welcome. You’ve asked to be told the subsequent history of Duncton Wood, from the time of the arrival of a certain female scribe called Privet, and a modest little text she brought which is generally called the Book of Tales.

  How very interesting! What an acute mole you are! Most moles who come here as you have done, with the look of the hungry scholar in their eyes and their scribing paw at the ready, are not in the slightest bit interested in the Book of Tales. Oh no, they hurry old tale-tellers like me past such things, and try to get us to tell them about the lost Book of Silence, which is the greatest of the Seven Books of Moledom.

  But not you! You keep asking about Privet and the Book of Tales, and you evidently know something about it too, because you’ve been seeking information about certain other moles, like Cobbett and Husk, whose names are, to those who know about such things, also associated with Tales.

  So they’ve sent you to me, for they know I’m one of the last of the generation whose kin were living at the time and remember something of the facts, even though they know I vowed I’d never talk about such things again.

  But old moles can change their minds, and there’s something about you I recognize in myself when I was young, and, like you, just a little bit too earnest. But your heart’s in the right place, and you’ve understood something which few others have ever seemed to: there would have been no Book of Silence, no saving and redemption of moledom, without the ‘little matter of Tales’ (to quote one of your more impatient predecessors on the scholarly trail) in the first place. Aye, in its beginning is its ending, in its ending is its beginning.

  Mole, I’ll talk to you because you’re willing to listen to things others deem unimportant and you’re willing to indulge an old mole to get at the truth.

  Now, you’ve asked if you might scribe my words down, and so you may. But I’ve brought you here to the Stone Clearing in the High Wood so that if exaggeration or romance or an untoward love of horror, drama, thrills or even sensuality should begin to affect your scribing paw, you may glance up at the Stone and be reminded to scribe only as truly as I shall seek to tell …

  No, no, tell me not your name. It is easier if I know it not until I have done, for I’ve a feeling this is the last time I shall ever tell this tale, and I have an old mole’s fancy to tell it, as it were, to allmole, not just one. And anyway, as you’ll see, there’s subtlety in Duncton Wood and subtlety in this: anonymity is of the very essence of what I have to say.

  As for your questions, there was a time in the decades after the conclusion of the war of Word upon Stone when many moles asked as you have also done: ‘What of the Book of Silence? Where is it? What is its significance?”

  To which the answers were once many and the controversies varied, but it may be said that most moles at that time believed that this last Book had not been scribed and would never be. Its nature, even wise moles said, was unscribable. Yet in all generations there rise up a few exceptional moles who question, and who doubt, and in whom the spirit of enquiry and desire for truth is so powerful that they sacrifice much to wander moledom all their “lives in a search for satisfaction of it.

  Such moles as these moles were known in the decades after the events described in the Chronicles as wandering scribes, and sometimes as wandering scholars. Moles of open heart and open spirit, who travelled out into moledom to learn things for themselves and who often ended their days teaching other moles what they had found.

  Most were scribemoles like yourself, obsessed by some question they had asked when young to which the answers they received seemed less than satisfactory. In time most found their answers, or having learnt enough, lost interest or belief in the pursuit of final answers and settled down in some niche of their own, to leave another generation to take forward once more the spirit of enquiry.

  The tale, or rather tales, that I shall tell you concern the greatest of the wandering scholars of that time. Her name was Privet and she was born in a place to the north called Bleaklow Moor. Her greatness lay not only in asking the right question, but in pursuing its answer to its very end, even at the risk of faith, of love, of life itself.

  After suffering certain trials and tribulations, and a sojourn at holy Beechenhill, shy Privet, as moles called her, finally set off to Duncton Wood as you have done, bringing with her as her only offering a modest text.

  Few can have expected her to solve the mystery of the Book of Silence; none to have found a way to complete that circle of seven hallowed Books and Stillstones that lies within the eternal protection of the Chamber of Roots beneath the Duncton Stone.

  The tales you seek to scribe down from me make up something of Privet’s story, and tell of many moles whose destinies touched hers. Moles she learned to love, and who learned love from her.

  Some have called these tales the last of Duncton Wood. Others, whose understanding runs deep indeed, have said they really are the first. For after them, and after Privet’s extraordinary quest was done, Duncton slipped away into the mists of time and legend, its noisy moment in the pageant of history seen at last as but the preface to a time of renewal and peace.

  In that beginning, wise moles have said, was our ending; yet perhaps it is more true to say that in that ending was our
true beginning … and some would add that if moles first knew these tales, they could the better ken the deeper meaning of the Duncton Chronicles.

  Therefore, mole, from my heart to your heart I now tell these tales, my words spoken in the presence of the Stone I love, which has given my life meaning and faith.

  Yet I am weak, and sometimes the Silence calls me now, and all my tales begin to fade …

  Therefore fetch me food!

  Encourage me!

  And scribe well, for I’ll not repeat myself!

  As for this sun which warms my patchy fur, and the pleasant rustle of leaves about us, and that blue sky far above our pates, forget them all, mole!

  Imagine instead that you shiver with cold, and that your snout is freezing, and you’ve fluffed out your fur for warmth: for it is with a pilgrim in harsh winter that I must begin …

  PART I

  A Pilgrim in Winter

  Chapter One

  December, deep December, and the trees of Duncton Wood were restless with cutting winter winds. Then, somewhere high above, a dead branch cracked and swung dangerous and ready to fall, while far below, upon the surface of the wood, dead leaves swirled and gyred on themselves.

  The wind blew on, and brought a solitary traveller up the south-eastern pasture slopes to the edge of the oldest and highest part of the Wood, where she was halted by the sound of that branch finally crashing down. Anxiously she peered in among the trees. Her paws were muddy and torn from the long trek she had made that day to reach the safety of moledom’s most famous system before worse weather came.

  As she stanced and stared her fur blew this way and that, as if the wind were cruelly trying to make one last desperate effort to tear her away within the very sight of the place she had striven so long to reach. Indeed, she seemed to remain on the ground more from strength of spirit than of body, for she was slight, her flanks thin, and her face that of a thinker and scribemole, and not a normal venturing traveller. Yet, in truth, she did not even look as if she had much spirit left, or strength of any kind at all. She was of middle age, and seemed like a mole who had been hurt so terribly and lost so long that she had no faith any more in what lay ahead.

  So she stanced in the wild wind, before the great Wood, and stared into the darker light among the trees. Only an observant mole would have noticed that she had carefully placed the battered text she had been carrying on a dry root near where she stanced and occasionally glanced towards it, to make sure it was still there, and safe. She did not look like one who has ever pupped, or one with any friends, or one who has any expectation of love or comfort, or of ever finding a home to which she might be welcomed back by those who have long missed her. A mole alone; driven, it seemed, to make a long and dangerous journey by some urge far stronger than herself. But a journey that seemed almost at an end, judging by the curious combination of fatigue and excitement with which she seemed filled.

  For as she stared, once she had rested a little and seemed reassured by where she was, her timid eyes grew bright and she looked ready to venture on. But before she did she turned back to look behind her one last time, and paused for a long moment, like a mole who was saying goodbye, for good or ill, to all her past life.

  Then, talking to the Stone as if it were her only friend, putting a paw on the text she had placed down, she whispered, “Stone, I vowed I would bring this safely to Duncton Wood and I have. As you have guided me this far, may you direct my paws onward, to serve you and moles who have faith in you, as best I may! Help me know truth, help me to learn the truth of the mystery of all things, even of thy Books, and the Book of Silence. But Stone …”

  She fell silent, and how long she stared, how sadly!

  “Stone, wherever he is, whatever he does, give him strength all his days. Bless him Stone, keep him, guard him. Love him as I once loved him, and help him know thy love. Stone, my task is with this Book of Tales, that Duncton’s great Library may accept it, and in time send copies to other great libraries that it may be for ever preserved. Ask no other task of me, for I have strength for no more.”

  But more she could not say. But stanced in all the wind and bluster of the world with snout low, thinking of her precious text, and one final time of a mole to whom she was saying her last goodbye but whose name, even at such a moment, she seemed unwilling or unable to speak.

  Yet any wise mole who had seen her then would have known that had the one of whom she spoke appeared trekking up that slope after her, joy would have been at Duncton’s edge that day, and a whole life’s recovered happiness. But such dreams are not to be. She stared alone, and nomole appeared upon the wintry slopes below. Nor was there shape or form in landscape or cloud that might have been construed to be even the hint or shadow of the mole she had evidently loved and lost.

  The wind doubled upon itself, and a wall of grey hail swept across the pasture slopes below; she turned back to the Wood again, summoned up what little strength she had, bravely sought to seem a most courageous mole, and thrusting her snout forward, plunged in among the great beech trees of the highest part of Duncton Wood.

  Then, with the strongest winds roaring impotently among the branches high above, she peered this way and that, wrinkling her snout and scenting the gusting air in the hope that some instinct would guide her to where she wished to go. But none seemed to, and after a few steps forward she paused again and looked about the gloomy place.

  Gnarled and ancient beech trees were the only life, their grey-green trunks rising majestically through the surface covering of russet fallen leaves. The only bright thing she could see was a holly tree downslope to her right, whose green leaves and red berries gave some cheer to the sombre scene. It stood stiffly in the wind, shining leaves shaking slightly, and alone. She took up her text and made her way cautiously down towards it picking her path among dead leaves and fallen twigs and then past what must have been the great dead branch she had heard crash down earlier, soon finding that there was a track to follow which seemed to head towards the tree.

  The track took her out of the wind and soon afterwards, though with her ears still thundering with its sound, she reached the tree and paused for breath and to consider what to do next. She sniffled her snout, wiped her eyes on the back of a paw, looked up, and saw with a start, staring at her from among the shadows at the tree’s base, another mole, and a female at that.

  “Cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you?” said the mole by way of greeting. “A bit longer and you’d have been benighted and not known where to go, for even if they can find them moles don’t generally use the tunnels hereabout, least of all in weather like this. Dangerous, ruinous, haunted tunnels they are.

  “Anyway, my name’s Fieldfare and I’m Duncton-born, and seeing as I’m the only one daft enough to be here I’ll be the one to welcome you to our system and wish you well.”

  Fieldfare paused expectantly. She was a plump mole only a little older than the visitor, but with warm motherly eyes and pleasant grey fur. Either life had treated her well, or she had known how to get the best from it, for she radiated busy content.

  “My name’s Privet,” said the new arrival, “and I … I’m very glad to see you. I was wondering where to go. But …” Her voice was as timid as her appearance, and she seemed anxious to please.

  “If you’re wondering why I’m here,” said Fieldfare, “I’ll tell you. It’s because I’m a fool, that’s why. A fool that hopes a certain mole might get himself back to Duncton in time for Longest Night.”

  Privet nodded sympathetically, for Longest Night, the holiest night in all the cycle of the seasons, was but three days off. Most systems had a mole or two waiting at the main route around the time of Longest Night, hoping that their heart’s desire would return. Longest Night is not a time to be alone.

  “What’s his name?” asked Privet politely.

  “Chater,” replied Fieldfare very willingly. “He’s a journeymole and promised me he’d be back. Swore till his snout was blue. Said there was nom
ole else and he’d die of loneliness if he wasn’t with me on Longest Night. But … you know males, especially journeymales!”

  She laughed at her pun and Privet tried to laugh with her, though it was not in her nature to laugh quite so freely as Fieldfare seemed to, nor was this the moment. Yet, though she might not know much about males, she knew enough to know that journeymoles, whose job it was to carry copied texts from one library to another, had a reputation for fickleness and broken promises. A mole in every system, that seemed to be their way.

  “You got a beau?” said Fieldfare, coming closer in a conspiratorial way.

  Privet shook her head.

  “Just now, or never?”

  Privet said nothing and Fieldfare studied her.

  “Had one once, eh?”

  Reluctantly Privet nodded, plainly unsure whether to smile or cry.

  “I came here …”

  “… to forget,” said Fieldfare knowingly and with a sudden warmth, sensing she had touched on something the visitor was unhappy to talk about. As yet!

  “Have a bite of this worm, my love, and take a tip from long-suffering me: the more you try to forget the more you fail to. So tell the world, and its boredom about your troubles will heal you. Mind you, I must admit that having followed my own advice it’s so far failed. But then Chater, bless him, is something else again. So here I have been, day after day, hoping he’d show up and wishing to be on the spot to welcome him. But now ’tis getting dark and Chater may be lots of things but he’s not a fool. He’ll not trek up the slopes at night. There’s always rooks, and even in this weather owls can fly, and take prey. So failing him, perhaps you’ll keep me company?”

  “Well, I don’t know …” began Privet, “I mean I was thinking I’d go straight to report to the Master Librarian when I got here, or perhaps if I was too late for that to the Stone to give thanks. And I don’t want to cause you trouble. I have a text I wish to deliver to the Master Librarian. When I’ve done that I’ll feel more … comfortable.”