How tempted the young mole had been to confront Pumpkin with his discovery, but instinct told him not to, nor to confide in anymole-else, not even his mother Elynor. After his discovery Cluniac felt greatly in awe of Pumpkin and Sturne, astonished that moles he regarded as old and frail should be so steadfast and courageous. He understood then the true nature of the Duncton spirit, and saw with his own eyes the kind and calibre of mole who had always emerged from Duncton Wood when they were needed to uphold the followers’ traditions of tolerance, love, and faith in the old ways of worshipping the Stone.
Sometimes then, though Cluniac never admitted it, he would himself pray to the Stone, asking it to protect Pumpkin and Sturne, and others like Privet, Maple, Fieldfare and Chater, who had left the Wood for a time to see what they might do to conquer the Newborn.
“Stone, give me such courage. Teach me to be a true Duncton mole. Help me support Pumpkin in every way I can...”
So the days had gone by, and April had come, and Pumpkin saw as yet no answer to his prayers, nor any hope in the warmer sun and the return of spring. Yet still he crossed the surface to see Sturne, whose news was still of brutal Crusades, and disaster, and massacres, and all this time, unknown to him, Cluniac followed in the shadows, ready to do his young best to protect Pumpkin, with his very life if need be. For the day was surely coming when the Newborns would no longer tolerate the survival of the rebel followers in the High Wood, and begin to flush them out.
Finally, that day
did
come. In mid-April it started: surprise patrols, shouting through the wood, the sudden rush of guardmoles from out of nowhere, the eerie thumping up on the surface by Newborns who had deduced that such simple tactics would produce terrifying Dark Sound underground.
A shadow came over the followers’ spring as Pumpkin, Cluniac and the fitter of the others desperately tried to keep the followers together, and protect them from their own mounting fears and doubts.
“If we give ourselves up, like some of them have been shouting at dusk, they’ll surely treat us fair...”
“I can’t stand the strain any more, Pumpkin, sir, I just can’t...”
“It’s no good, Pumpkin, it’s never been any good; it’s all hopeless now...”
These last were the final words of an old Eastsider, worn down first by the winter, and now by being harried from tunnel to tunnel. He could take no more, and one April morning as a sun that might otherwise have seemed beautiful rose through the dew-gemmed High Wood, he died in Pumpkin’s paws.
Then, two days later, two foolish followers, disobeying all instructions, ventured out on to the southern pastures in the hope of finding better worms than they had fed on in molemonths past. They did not return. Their cries were heard, the hulking forms of guardmoles were seen, and then they were gone, and Pumpkin spent his last strength persuading Cluniac and one or two young moles from trying to rescue them.
It almost broke Pumpkin’s heart, and for the first time he could find neither words nor example to encourage the followers and give them hope. They waited in vain for their two friends to return, but nomole came until four days later when some guardmoles appeared up by the Stone, thumping and shouting.
“We know you’re there, and we know your numbers. There’s...”
The brutal voice told how many there were, mentioned many names, and spoke of the chamber on the far side of the High Wood where they had hidden, but which Pumpkin had forbidden them to return to against just such a discovery as this.
“Your friends died lingeringly and horribly, for they were sinners and suffered just punishment. Crush a mole’s snout slowly enough and he’ll tell you anything. By the end they had nothing left to say. Give yourselves up! Give yourselves a chance to live, for you’ll not be punished. But if you resist the true path longer you’ll one by one go the way of your two friends.”
Aye, April became a dark time in the High Wood, and Pumpkin had no way of alleviating it, for he felt as dark and oppressed as any of them. Even praying by the Stone became nearly impossible, and very dangerous, for the guardmoles were often posted there, and twice more he was nearly caught.
“Don’t risk it any more. Pumpkin!” Elynor begged him. “For all our sakes don’t! Things
will
get better; you’ve always said it, and now I’m saying it.”
But he was not cheered, for he could no longer believe it, much as he wanted to.
For three more days he barely moved, and scarcely tasted the meagre worms that Cluniac put before him. Then, finally, he slipped up to the surface, “Just to see the Stone, just to keep my spirit alive...” and at a nod from Elynor, who knew that part of the secret at least, Cluniac followed after him.
But he did not go over towards the Stone Clearing, but instead, as Cluniac had rightly guessed, he headed towards the Great Library, no doubt to try to meet Sturne. But Pumpkin never got that far. Somewhere along the way his luck ran out. Two guards reared out of the shadows of some roots and challenged him, and all he could do was turn back the way he had come, running for his life.
“Mo – ole, we’re going to get you...” the guardmoles called with playful menace, for what could a scraggy old mole like the one they had surprised expect to do against them! He could not hope to run far. So they tracked behind him, upslope towards the Stone, laughing, shouting mockingly ahead of him, hoping perhaps to bring out other followers and so increase their catch, enjoying their moment before they turned pursuit to capture.
Poor Pumpkin’s breath began to fail him a good way from the Stone, too far to hope to reach it, or rather one of the tunnel entrances about it that might afford him better opportunity of escape. He had often thought of this moment and such plans as he had made depended on reaching such an entrance.
“Must try,” he panted, glancing over his shoulder and seeing how big the guardmoles were, how fierce, how close. “Must try my very best!” And if anything gave him a little extra strength it was that they mocked him, and made him angry.
Then, suddenly, a greater shock, and a sadder one. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Cluniac, gesticulating him on, Cluniac... In a flash he knew whatmole it was had helped him before when the guards nearly caught him. Cluniac had watched over him, but oh dear, oh dear... it was too late now.
“I order you to run for your life, mole!” cried out Pumpkin, stopping dead and turning to face the guards. “Go now!” Pumpkin almost wept, for Cluniac did not, would not obey. Instead the youngster came to his flank to confront the guards with him.
“And an entrance so near!” muttered Pumpkin, afraid for Cluniac, not himself. “You’re a fool, Cluniac.”
But the guards had stopped, wrongly suspecting they might have been led into an ambush, assuming that such paltry moles as they saw upslope of them were capable of such a thing.
“Let’s make a dash for it,” whispered Cluniac, “the nearest entrance isn’t that far. It’ll be our only chance.”
“A dash!” panted Pumpkin. “At my age!”
Yet, brave and resolute as ever, he turned back upslope towards the entrance and was almost to it, with Cluniac close behind him, before the guardmoles realized what was happening. Then, with a roar of rage, they came crashing upslope after them, ambush or no.
With a scamper and a scurry Pumpkin and Cluniac tumbled through the entrance and down a short passage into a dusty and echoing tunnel which they had used from time to time to hide in. Full of Dark Sound this one, leading to nowhere near the Main Tunnel that might have given them respite. No, this ran to the darker centre, where nomole might venture.
“We can but try!” cried Pumpkin, and so they did, the guardmoles already through the entrance and rushing down towards them before they began moving again.
Terror lay ahead, dark shadows, cries and screams, and the thunder of paws: cloying, gripping, paralysing Dark Sound clouded Pumpkin’s sight as the tunnel narrowed ahead and ended. They had turned amiss, and were in some grim, vast chamber, talons of sound about them and behind them the guardmoles advancing, unaffected it seemed by what dismayed the two followers. Pumpkin slowed once more, knowing he could go no further, and Cluniac had stopped already, paws to his ears as the Dark Sound rushed over them.
“Well, you two bastards, we’ve got you now,” said one of the guardmoles from the huge arched entrance behind which the darkness seemed to Pumpkin to slip and slide, to mount and mill, to swing and become impenetrable.
“Come on!” he continued, with heavy patience. “You’ve done the best you can and now let’s get you out of this bloody noise.”
“And fast,” said the other, his snout growing grey in the gloom, “it’s beginning to get to me.”
The guards, much bigger and stronger than either of them, grasped them roughly beneath their shoulders, the pain of being gripped in so tender a place bringing a gasp from Cluniac.
“Come on!” said the first guard once more, suddenly angry. “Out! Fast!”
So, helpless, beset now by pain and echoing sound, they began the short trek back to the surface, and Dark Sound fading, the echoes in the chamber behind receding, the...
Voices. Deep and rhythmic, yet far-off. A distant song.
“Listen, Cluniac!” whispered Pumpkin, and even the guardmoles listened, more affected by this it seemed than the Dark Sound that had so tormented the followers.
“Come on, on you go!”
Deeper now the chorus of voices chanting, louder than they had ever heard them, yet distant still. Deep, purposeful, marching...
“Cluniac, can you hear them, can you hear?”
“Yes,” whispered the younger mole in wonder, “yes, I can, Pumpkin. But it’s too late for us. Others will know it though, others...”
The chant continued, swelling now, deepening, and then fading as the guardmoles hurried them away and they reached the slipway up to the surface, and final captivity.
“Help us!” cried out Pumpkin, turning to look back.
“Help us. Stone!” called out Cluniac into the receding darkness.
Marching paws, the chant almost a melody now, rich in the ancient tunnels, the song of moles on a pilgrimage through time, trying to reach forward to help those who lived long after they themselves were gone to Silence. Their voices preserved for ever in the Dark Sound – no, in that place that lay beyond it.
“Stone!” whispered Pumpkin finally as the guardmole’s rough paws pushed him ahead and up the slipway towards... towards...
Behind them the chant swelled, ahead the light of the dusk seemed almost to shine, then dim again as the way was blocked by one of the most solid-looking and frightening moles Pumpkin had ever seen.
“What the...!” began the leading guard, his paw-grip on Pumpkin weakening.
“What is it?” grunted the one behind him, with Cluniac. And then... “Stone me! What mole is
he
?”
Deep, deep the chant of moles behind them, as if the Ancient System was a community again, and on an unstoppable march towards the Stone.
“Let them go,” growled the strange mole, “and get out of here. OUT!”
The guardmoles needed no second bidding. With time’s great army of followers behind them, and the reality of this fierce unknown mole blocking the exit ahead, they wanted to get away from these dread tunnels and these mysterious moles. The intruder pulled aside, frowned and growled again, and the guardmoles were up and gone past him, crashing away through the wood above, the sounds of their flight subsumed by the extraordinary chant that now filled the tunnels.
Pumpkin stared at the stranger, then at Cluniac, and then turned back into the tunnel, towards the song. It came on to them in waves, so powerful, so glorious, that all three were struck still by its sound as three moles might be who turn a corner and are caught for a glorious and eternal moment by the rays of a rising sun, with a prospect of a moledom ahead with all its vales and valleys, fells and moors, trees and mountains flooded by light and peace. So the chant enveloped them, and knew them, and gave them the sense of the Stone’s grace. And then it faded, slowly, reluctantly, back into the lost tunnels whence it came, leaving only the whisper of hope, and the trace of a promise yet to be fulfilled.
“Did you hear it, Cluniac, did you hear it, mole?”
Silently Cluniac nodded. Then together they turned to face the fierce stranger whose coming had saved their lives. His face bore the scars of past fights; his paws were huge; his talons blunt. His eyes, which had blazed fiercely at the Newborn guards but moments before, now seemed diffident, almost shy.
“Whatmole are you, and whither are you bound?” asked Pumpkin, as Duncton-like as he could possibly be. Proud yet humble; brave yet frail; alone and yet with the sound of a great heritage and beloved community behind him.
“Bound?” repeated the mole. “I’m bound
here,
to Duncton Wood. And if my observations of the last few days are right, you are the library aide Pumpkin, and you, young mole, are named Cluniac. You’ve things to learn about not being seen. A crow with one eye could see you right across the wood, rustling and hustling about as you both have been! Aye, you’ve things to learn and I’ve come not a moment too soon by the look of things.”
“But whatmole are you?” asked Cluniac, in awe, yet affronted that he had been watched and knew nothing about it.
“My name’s Hamble,” said the mole, “and I’m of Crowden in the Moors. Privet sent me. She thought you might be in need of help. She was right.”
“Privet?” whispered Pumpkin, his voice faltering. “Scholar Privet? H... Hamble? The friend from her youth on the Moors?”
“The same,” said Hamble, smiling.
Pumpkin stared a moment more before it all became too much for him: the pursuit, the Dark Sound, the capture, the communal chant, being apprehended and then rescued. But more than that, hearing that
Privet
had sent this great mole to them, to help them, to help... And poor Pumpkin, who had led the rebel followers alone so long, sniffled and snuffled, his mouth trembled and all he could say was, “Privet sent him, Cluniac. I always said help would come one day. I always said...”