Duncton Wood Read online

  And then back out of the tunnel Tryfan came, half carrying and half pulling old Boswell of Uffington, who was covered in dust and grime and barely conscious from the power of the forces that had so nearly overwhelmed him. And who carried, clasped against his old chest, a small pebble or stone that looked as if it had nothing special about it to make a mole want to carry it out from such destruction.

  Up on the surface by the Stone, where he had watched the storm continue into the first light of a wild, grey dawn, Comfrey saw the beech by the Stone finally sway back and back, and back and down, as its crown and branches and trunk crashed through the surrounding trees, and one by one its roots tore themselves from the soil around the Stone, which swayed and rocked on the edge of the crater they had left.

  Then, as he watched, the Stone slipped back and down into where the roots had been until it stood firm and upright, no longer tilted by the roots towards Uffington, but upright as it must originally have been, with its great sides and top thrusting straight up into the sky.

  But even though the crashing tree thundered and shook through all the tunnels of the Ancient System and the walls of the circular tunnel where the moles had gathered cracked and fissured from the shock, that was not what the moles noticed. What made them gasp in awe, and sing the sacred song that all moles thought they had forgotten, was that they saw that Boswell was changed. In the time he had been caught in the violence of the Chamber of Roots and seen the Stillstone’s light pass into Bracken and Rebecca, he had become a Holy Mole surrounded by silent love; and they saw that his fur had turned completely white. The White Mole had come. So they sang in exaltation and reached out to touch him.

  Chapter Fifty

  Duncton Wood stood quiet, bedraggled by the storm as last drops of rain dripped on to the damp leaf mould and the sky cleared to the west. Every tree, every bush, every plant seemed battered and shaken and there was a silent, almost wounded, air about the wood, as if a great mole were resting after a very long fight. Boswell crouched with Tryfan and Comfrey by the Stone. The other moles had finally gone back to their burrows, reluctant to leave the wonder and love they found in the presence of Boswell, beloved Boswell, Blessed Boswell, the White Mole of Uffington. Now only Tryfan and Comfrey remained, one who was in deep awe of Boswell and the other, Comfrey, who accepted him matter-of-factly, just as he had accepted Rebecca’s return to the system and her final departure with Bracken into the Stone where all moles must go.

  ‘So you found the seventh Stillstone but not the Book?’ said Comfrey, looking at the smooth, flinty stone that Boswell had placed on the ground before them; it did not look special at all.

  Boswell smiled wryly. ‘No, I know where the Book is, Comfrey,’ he said simply. ‘I have to scribe it myself.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Comfrey, ‘yes, of course.’ He should have thought of that. Bracken and Rebecca and Boswell had made the Book together, so it couldn’t have been scribed before. A mole couldn’t scribe a book until it was ready—it was probably just like picking herbs.

  Boswell had told them both something of what had happened, and Comfrey had understood that finally Rebecca was safe and so he could stop worrying about her. She was all right now.

  He looked at Boswell and thought what a contrast he made to Tryfan—one frail and white, the other strong and black-furred. He smiled, too, because he saw that Tryfan watched with love and care over Boswell’s every move, as if he were afraid that a puff of wind would blow Boswell away. Well, one day he would know Boswell better than that.

  ‘I will pray for your safe journey,’ said Comfrey finally. ‘But then there’s not much harm can come to you, Boswell, with Tryfan by your side.’

  Tryfan snouted about to size up the hour and the weather and decided that the time had come when they ought to leave. But he did not need to say a word of what he felt to Boswell, because Boswell knew.

  ‘It would be an honour to have your prayers, Comfrey,’ said Boswell, looking up for one last time at the Stone that now stood upright and towering over the base of the fallen tree. ‘If a mole could scribe on stone, I would scribe their names on it,’ he said.

  Then, with a last touch and final farewell, they left Comfrey by the Stone and set off across the clearing, out through the wood to the pastures and then off across them to the west, towards Uffington. Comfrey whispered a prayer after them and a journey blessing and crouched, wondering why he felt such a sense of relief. The air in the wood was so clear after the rain, it smelt so good, and he was at the start of a new spring in a system that had pride and memories and so much hope.

  He could teach some of the youngsters the rituals and show them how they should be done. And if he didn’t remember all the words, it didn’t matter, because true words come from a mole’s heart, not his memory.

  He looked back in the direction of Uffington and whispered again ‘May they return home safeguarded.’ Then he laughed, a rare thing for Comfrey. He liked its sound so much that he laughed aloud again, with relief and happiness.

  * * *

  Off to the west, on the pastures, Tryfan and Boswell wound their way downhill. The trees of Duncton rose behind them at the top of the hill, the pasture dropped away below, and Tryfan asked, ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘Not too long,’ said Boswell.

  ‘Will you tell me about the things that happened to you and Bracken, and to Rebecca? All the things they would never talk about? All the stories?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Boswell, smiling.

  ‘Will I become a scribemole?’ asked Tryfan.

  Boswell stopped and touched him gently. ‘You’ve begun already,’ he said, ‘just as I did, without ever knowing it.’ But Tryfan found this hard to believe, even though Boswell himself said it.

  ‘Tell me about them,’ he asked, and Boswell sensed that it was right to start doing so, for surely nomole held more of their joint spirit than Tryfan. And so Boswell began to tell the story, from the beginning, drawing on the memories of what Bracken and Rebecca had told him. Stories that gave him joy as well.

  While Tryfan, after taking a final look back to Duncton Wood, which was now almost too far away even to scent, moved protectively nearer to Boswell, whom he would see safely home to Uffington whatever dangers or trials they had to face. He felt strong and powerful, with the Stone of Duncton behind him and at his side the White Mole, who carried the seventh Stillstone and who would scribe the seventh Book, the Book of Silence, telling him stories that he had so long wanted to hear.

  As evening fell and they settled down into the first stage of their long journey, Tryfan thought to himself that if he ever did become a scribemole, then perhaps, with the Stone’s grace, he might one day record all that Boswell was beginning now to tell him of the story of Bracken and his beloved Rebecca.

  Thank you for reading Duncton Wood. William welcomes your comments and thoughts about the Duncton Chronicles, or any of his work, and can be contacted at [email protected].

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1980 by Country Life Books

  This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by

  Canelo Digital Publishing Limited

  57 Shepherds Lane

  Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU

  United Kingdom

  Copyright © William Horwood, 1980

  The moral right of William Horwood to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781911420521

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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