Free Duncton Stone by William Horwood Page B

ventured timidly into tunnels that had once echoed to the soft pawfalls and gentle chants of the brothers who had raised him, and taught him all he knew. There, skulking still, fearful of the Newborns’ return yet unwilling to leave the place again, he had lived alone through the spring years, the sun, the high song of the larks, the budding of dog’s mercury and the flowering of yellow celandine all beauties he could not enjoy.
    But he had prayed for the Stone’s help, as reverent followers will, for comfort, for strength through his time of trial, and for deliverance, and to occupy himself he had collected what fragments of texts and books the marauding Newborns had left behind. He sealed them up in the deep chambers where over the years the Cuddesdon brothers had hidden away the few texts and folios that told their short history, or which various of their members had been inspired to scribe, along with a few copies of texts that had been donated to them by Master Librarian Stour of Duncton Wood. As the libraries of moledom go this was modest indeed, but it was all Purvey had to guard, to protect, and to give him reason to go on living, and hoping, and praying.
    Then one April day he thought the end had come. Up the slopes came a mole fiercer-looking by far than any Newborn he had yet seen: scarred, tired, frowning with the effort of the climb and looking keenly about, as if for a fight.
    Purvey had hidden away from him, retreating as the mole expertly quartered the sorry tunnels, snouting about and finding, no doubt, signs of Purvey’s habitation. The old mole had contemplated fleeing, but surveying the vales below, in which he had earlier spent so long hiding, he could not bring himself to do so. This was his home, and here he would stay whatever the consequences. And in any case, was he not guardian of the Cuddesdon texts? Should he not therefore be prepared to stance ready by them, and defend them as best he could, however powerful the mole he faced? So Purvey had turned back from flight, and crept to that secret place where the texts lay hidden; there he waited, shaking with fear, praying, yet determined to do what he could.
    There it was Hamble found him, as sorry and fearful a mole as any he had ever seen, a mole he could have cast aside with one paw had he wished.
    “Mole,” growled Hamble, “be not afraid of me. I know not whatmole you are, but whether you’re a Newborn hiding from the rigours of the Crusades, or a follower trying to live them out without getting caught up in them, I’m not going to harm you.”
    “Not harm me?” Purvey had repeated doubtfully. “Not try to destroy the texts, not —”
    “What texts?” asked Hamble, not unreasonably, though texts had been the very last thing on his mind. Food, more like; sleep; and calming down this frightened mole.
    “I didn’t mean to mention them!” said the mole, now even more agitated. “I mean to say, I didn’t mention them. There aren’t any. You’re not going to harm me, you say! Hmmph! You don’t look very friendly to me.”
    Hamble laughed and said, “Mole, I’m tired and hungry and in no mood to try and persuade another I mean no harm. You’ll just have to find out for yourself, won’t you?” He thought for a moment that he might ask more about the texts which, plain as a hawthorn in blossom, lay beyond the badly sealed portal behind the mole. Not much of a guard, but a brave mole for trying!
    “Well then,” muttered the mole, squeezing uneasily past Hamble and leading him up towards the surface, “I’ll find you some food. I expect you’ve a long way to go and won’t be staying long.”
    “Nice to feel wanted,” said Hamble, following him. “Nice to feel welcome. I might just settle down here...”
    His guide looked back at him, eyes wide, unsure whether he was serious or not. Then he led him back across Cuddesdon’s rutted surface, down through tunnels and then into a chamber that despite the holes in its roof, and