December had now come, and the weather that had blessed the travellers so long with clear skies, and pale sunny days, seemed holding still, but only just. The leafless trees along the way trembled sometimes, somewhat out of proportion to the light cold breezes, as if they sensed that winter storms were on the way.
There had been no expectation that other moles would meet them from Snowshill, the system that lay in the northeast lee of Shenberrow, and faced across the great flat Vale of Evesham, beyond which Caer Caradoc rose. But as they reached the last slopes of the hill they were surprised to see several moles on top, all of Snowshill, all old, and their greeting was not ready, nor many words forthcoming until one of them recognized one of the Taddington moles.
“Don’t tell me you lot have become Newborn! You look glum enough to have done so!”
The Taddington mole shook his head, puzzled, and introduced the three Duncton moles.
“
Librarian
Privet?
Strong
Maple?
Studious
Whillan?” repeated the Snowshill mole as others from his system gathered round the three, peering at them with a mixture of curiosity and dismay.
“There you are!” said another Snowshill mole, “I
said
these travellers must be the ones the Newborns are on the lookout for. You’re for it, you lot are. I’d get away while you can!”
“What’s apaw?” asked Maple quickly. “What Newborns, and what do they want?”
At which invitation, the Snowshill moles were only too eager to talk. It seemed that for many a moleyear the Newborns had not extended their sphere of influence above Broadway, a big system on the communal route east and west, and the same one Chater had predicted the Newborns would use as a base to watch for the Duncton moles” coming. Not content with sending scouts up to Snowshill, perhaps having heard already of the Duncton moles” proximity, they had sent a large missionary force as well.
“Aye, and a persuasive lot they are too!” said one of the Snowshill moles. “You should see how some of our females have already fallen for their smooth talk of the Stone and the right ways to worship, and now our young follow suit, They’ve only been with us a few days but we’re all that remains of those holding out against them. We just came up here for a bit of old-fashioned praying – not that the Newborns approve of course, since they say praying is best done in a group. Anyway, there’s moles down in Broadway awaiting you lot.”
“Do you know their names?” asked Maple.
“Oh yes, they’re quite open about information. There’s one of your own moles, name of Deputy Master Librarian Snyde. He’s there, kicking his paws and getting impatient. But the brother they go in fear of is the one they call Senior Brother Chervil, and he’s not best pleased with you for some reason or other. Oh yes, you’ve got a merry reception awaiting you.”
This exchange might have continued, and any one of the several courses of action that Maple was considering have been followed, had not another couple of Snowshill moles appeared, two females this time, and in something of a hurry.
“They’re coming up this way, lads,” they announced.
“Who are?” asked a Snowshill mole.
“The whole bloody system, led by the Newborns, to have a pray-in. Didn’t like you going off by yourselves so they thought they’d join in and swamp you.” Even as she spoke they heard the sound of moles singing from some way downslope to the north, the male voices somewhat overpowered by the high trills of females and youngsters.
“Stone me,” said one of the Taddington moles, “I’m clearing out of here fast.”
“And me!” said most of his friends immediately, with apologetic looks towards the Duncton moles.
“I think this is where you’re on your own! Unless you want to come with us?”
Privet shook her head. “I’m afraid our way is to Caradoc, and I think it may now be in the company of Newborn moles.”
“Well, if you don’t mind we’ll be off now,” said the Taddington leader, casting a fearful look towards where the singing swelled ever louder. “But you lot,” he looked towards the Snowshill moles, “are you coming with us?”
They looked hesitant, but then Maple went among them and said, “You go with them. If you’ve had the wits to come this far, you’d best be with moles you can trust. Send news of this down to Stow of Bourton who knows my feelings about the Newborns, and I’ve a feeling that others like you will begin to gather now in the Wolds, and perhaps down about the Bourton system.”
“And you, mole, what of you?” they said to Maple. “Stay with us; we need a mole like you, others will follow you. You’ve got a vision of things wider than we have, you and Privet, and Whillan.
Stay
with us...”
There was a stir of approval, and a sense of a movement forming as the moles surged nearer each other and waited for Maple’s reply. But after a quick look at his two friends he shook his head.
“My task isn’t here yet,” he said. “Whillan and I are to go to Caradoc with Privet to protect her, and that will give us a chance to see what kind of mole this Thripp of Blagrove Slide really is. Maybe our fears are exaggerated; but if not, my paws will be strengthened by knowing something more of my enemy than mere rumour and report. Therefore be patient, stance firm here up in the Wolds, follow the lead of the Bourton moles you know you can trust, and when we can get word to you we will do so.”
The singing downslope was louder still, and it could not be many moments before the first of the approaching moles came into sight.
“Now, be off! And be safeguarded in the Stone!” ordered Maple.
“And you mole, and you all!” they replied. “We’ve learnt a lot from you. Librarian Privet, and we want to learn more. Come back to us soon and tell us you regret having left us at all! Now... where will you go, or are you going to wait for the Newborns to capture you here?”
It was the normally silent Whillan who decided for them. “Let’s avoid them a little longer, for we’ll learn something of their intentions in the way they pursue us. We can drop down the wooded western side of the hill and make our way at our leisure towards Evesham. I fancy a day or two more of liberty!”
“Well spoken, mole!” said Maple.
With that, and final waves of farewell, the moles of the Wolds turned quickly south-east and were soon lost across the gentle folds of the ground. While the three Duncton moles, without more ado, turned towards the cover and shadows of the stand of beech trees not far to their west and set off, as the first of the Newborn-led moles came into view. But as they reached the darkness of the trees they were astonished to see a mole, stanced firmly and calmly in their path, with an overly weary expression on his face, as if he had been awaiting them for a long time, and they were late.
“And whatmole are you?” said Maple, eyeing him suspiciously.
“An opportunist whose special skills you are about to find you need,” he replied.
“You’re Weeth!” exclaimed Whillan, with certainly.
“My notoriety precedes me,” said Weeth smugly. “And no doubt they said I talk rather too much?”
“They did,” said Maple heavily.
“They’re right, I do ask rather a lot of questions. I am a curious mole.”
“And are you going to delay us by asking a lot of questions now, or can you let us by so we’re not seen by the Newborns up on the hill?”
“There is one question I wouldn’t mind an answer to, as a matter of fact,” said Weeth, who was a sturdy, compact mole with a ready grin and an easy energetic air.
“What’s that?” said Privet.
“It’s the question that every Newborn this side of Caer Caradoc has been asking,” said Weeth, “since they discovered that a delegation had been sent out from Duncton and was on its somewhat obscure way across the Wolds in the form of you three moles.”
“And what’s the question?” said Maple, advancing on Weeth and leading the other two into the shadows.
“Where’s Master Stour?
That’s
the question. Because if he’s not with you, and I see no sign of him, where is he and what’s he doing, and why is he doing it?”
Maple seemed about to say something, but with a magisterial dignity Weeth raised a paw to silence him.
“Oh, please don’t
answer
me,” said Weeth, with apparent alarm. “The opportunity lies in
not
answering. You see, it now seems that everymole who is anymole in moledom is intending to turn up at the Convocation of Caradoc except the one mole who makes it all worthwhile for. sinister Thripp to have summoned it: the good old Master Librarian Stour himself. Most intriguing, and redolent with opportunity. That’s why I sought you out, and have been following your progress for some days past. I am so glad you decided to come the way I thought you should – no doubt to stay clear of the Newborns for a few days longer?”
Whillan nodded, impressed by Weeth’s perspicacity.
“I will lead you on,” said Weeth grandly.
“And why should we follow a mole we don’t know we can trust?” said Maple, wondering what it was about Weeth that made him likeable.
“Oh, you shouldn’t and you can’t!” said Weeth, “and yet you will. I will lead you to Evesham and it will take three days. In that time you can assess me for yourselves. Regard me as an opportunity, a kind of resource to draw on.”
“And what are we to you, Weeth?” said Privet.
“
The
opportunity, the one I have been looking for all my life. The one of the decade, of the age, that’s what you are. Three moles from Duncton Wood, coming in all innocence to the Convocation of Caer Caradoc, without a hope of achieving anything at all but your own obscurity and probably your deaths! Amazing. Impressive. Just what I was always led to expect from Duncton moles. When I heard who you were, and what you were, and where you were going, I decided I would tag along, because this was
it!”
“
And if it isn’t?” said Maple.
Weeth grinned winningly. “Ah! Yes! That
is
a possibility. I might, as it were, have backed a pup, or three pups! I might be wrong. But like all opportunists I am also an incurable optimist. If the sense of destiny which your coming inspires in me proves mistaken then life will, I imagine – I confidently hope – offer me another opportunity to make up for my failure with you.”
“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” said Maple. “So lead us on, Weeth, and let’s find where your destiny leads us.”
“Incredible, inspiring,” muttered Weeth as he turned downslope. “This mole’s decisive, this mole backs hunches, this mole’s an opportunist too but doesn’t know it. “Maple and Weeth”! Sounds good! Sounds
right.
This
must
be the one, the opportunity of a lifetime!”
Without more ado Weeth turned confidently, and led them amongst the trees towards where the hill dropped even more steeply. Ahead the world seemed to open out, as far below, extending north-west, the Vale of Evesham stretched out. Beyond it a line of hills rose up, and behind them one darker than the others.
“Caradoc,” said Weeth; and it was all he needed to say.
Chapter Six
It seemed to Pumpkin that there was no air to breathe, no sound to hear, nothing, nothing to grasp on to in his tunnels as he tried to comprehend what Brother Inquisitor Fetter had said so calmly, so matter-of-factly, so chillingly.
Drubbins
dead?
But how could that be? He had been alive a few days ago, before Pumpkin had become ill. But then – when Pumpkin had left the good-natured old mole he
had
looked as if he was in fear of his life.
“Frightnehned,” repeated poor Pumpkin now, struggling to make sense of the confusion in his mind; his throat was so swollen and painful with his cold that just to speak was agony, and what he did get out was slurred.
Then, “Hewgh are
yewhh?”
he asked.
He looked through runny, puffy eyes at the moles who had come unbidden into his tunnels, and knew only too well who they must be. The Newborn Inquisitors, that’s who. The one in command, chewing the worm, was Brother Fetter. The other two were Brothers Law and Barre, the latter the cruellest-looking of the three with tiny eyes like bloodied talon-points.
Pumpkin felt a stab of fear as his mind suddenly cleared and his thoughts came out of the fug they had been in to a place where everything seemed all too plain, all too terrible.
They had asked him about Drubbins, and said he was dead. They were grouped around him, uncomfortably close, one of them eating a worm and all of them fixing him with stares such as he had never seen before. Was this the beginning of the kind of treatment poor Drubbins had suffered at their paws? Had they brought him death as well?
Had it already begun? And if it had, what was he to do? He felt scared stiff. But angry too. Yes, angry!
“Why’s Drubbins dead?” he asked.
“‘Why’s Drubbins dead.
Brother
,’” said the Inquisitor.
Pumpkin looked blank.
“You’re to call us “Brother”, Library Aide Pumpkin. You understand?”
Pumpkin stared, and did understand. If he called them “Brother” it showed them respect, but took something away from him. It meant they were making him behave as they wanted. Everything, every bit of him, protested at calling them “Brother”. He didn’t like moles who barged into his modest little burrow without a by-your-leave or thank-you; he didn’t like being crowded; he didn’t like
them
not showing him respect, even if he was merely a library aide and they were... whatever they were.
“Yes, Brother,” said Pumpkin as meekly as he could, because he wasn’t a fool, and he remembered Master Stour saying that his lot might be hard, and if he must pretend to be what he wasn’t the Stone would understand.
“Say it with respect, mole,” said the Brother Inquisitor.
“Got a cold,” said Pumpkin, gulping painfully, “throat hurts, difficult to say anything.”
“Brother.”
“Brother, Brother.”
“Well? And what have you to say about Elder Drubbins, as he was called here?” “I — “
“You are about to say you know nothing about Elder Drubbins, but we know you do. We know you talked to him only a few days ago, and he told you that he had suffered somewhat at our paws.”