“There are copies in most libraries, are there not?”
“In all of them but Beechenhill, I think, thanks to him,” said Privet. “But he is concerned for the originals, believing as he does that there is something special, perhaps sacred, about the texts and the folios they contain which were scribed by the holy moles who originally made the Books themselves.”
“And where is he preserving them from this supposed danger?” asked Chervil quietly. “He seems to have told you much, Librarian Privet, perhaps he has told you that as well.”
“He did not,” said Privet. “He is not a fool. Senior Brother Chervil. He would have realized the considerable dangers in our journey to Caradoc, and with all due respect, being dubious about the Newborn sect and their likely treatment of moles with dissenting views, he may have felt it wisest that we did not know, lest the information be forced out of us. Forgive me if I sound cynical – I am.”
“Which being so, Librarian Privet, a mole must admire your courage in coming at all.”
“A mole must stance up for what he believes,” was her quiet reply.
“You mean
she
believes,” said Chervil with a confident and now humourless stare. What Privet had said seemed to have angered him somewhat.
“Oh, do I?” said Privet innocently.
Chervil frowned with displeasure, discomfited by her assurance, which had increased with each moment, and seemed in some subtle way to undermine his authority with the other Newborns there. Then, with a brief and chilly smile, he turned and was gone.
News of this encounter was very soon all around Evesham and since even Newborns permitted themselves a moment of gossip here and there, the question of who got the better of the exchange between Chervil and the female Privet was much debated.
“What they seem to find strange,” said Weeth, who was able to get more out of their “captors” than anymole else, “is not only that a mole of Privet’s rank should be female, but that she should be taken seriously by Chervil. Some see it as a sign of weakness, others as an indication of his cunning in getting information out of moles. There is acrimony in the ranks over the failure to realize StOur was in Duncton, and annoyance with Snyde because he seems not to have known or guessed that Stour might so boldly preserve the originals of the Books of Moledom. You have caused a stir. Privet. And you undermined Snyde’s position.”
“I did as the Master Stour would have wished me to do,” she said demurely. “Perhaps sectarian moles find it dispiriting to discover that they cannot have everything their way.”
“Chervil did not seem
very
dispirited,” said Whillan, “just annoyed.”
Maple nodded and said, “Chervil strikes me as a very formidable mole indeed. It is he we should fear most, for he is the one who holds power.”
“Ah! That! Yeees...” said Weeth, his face glowing with the pleasure he normally felt when he was about to make a revelation. “The other piece of information I have gained, which Snyde conveniently forgot to tell us, and which everymole else in Evesham seems to know, is that Chervil is none other than Thripp’s own son. I am not sure how long he was in Duncton Wood...”
“A full cycle of seasons,” said Privet, “for he came some time before myself. So twelve moleyears or more.”
“Well, as they tell it. Chervil fell out of favour with his father and was banished, as it were, to Duncton Wood; as
I
interpret it, he was sent to Duncton to prepare the ground for whatever Thripp intends to do. If, as I believe, it is to take over the major systems while the Convocation is taking place, then the fact it was his son he sent to Duncton Wood does suggest what importance he attaches to that particular system. The one thing to remember about Thripp is he does nothing without a reason, nothing at all, obscure though it may be to everymole else. It would be nice to know why he was really sent there.”
“I shall ask Chervil himself,” said Privet calmly, “if the opportunity arises. We were frank with him, it may be he will be frank with us. For the moment I feel us to be safe – at least until we get to Caer Caradoc. History shows that moles like Chervil and Thripp, who wield power in the name of narrow truths, often have their dirty work done out of sight and out of mind by other moles who, they can claim with paws on hearts, they did not order so to do. Perhaps, to Thripp, such an evil shadow is the mole Quail.”
“And perhaps to Chervil,” said Whillan quietly, “such a mole may one day be Snyde.”
Maple nodded his head slowly. “The more I see and the more I hear, the less I like any of it. We are knowingly going into danger, and I do not say we should try to turn back. But the light on the way forward is dimming, and the shadows and obstacles are increasing, and I pray that the Stone will guide us to the moment we can turn our back on these moles and go into open opposition. A mole like me is happier with that.”
“We must go on as the Master Stour bid us do,” said Privet. “We must go to the very heart of matters, the better to judge how to conduct opposition in the future, if that is what it is to come to. For myself I can only pray that we shall not see another war, but rather be granted by the Stone a peaceful way through to harmony.”
“Aye,” said Maple slowly, “and not a word of that do I disagree with. But history is against it.”
“History, Maple, is all past. It is here and now where
we
live, and this is
our
chance to make a history for which moles may one day be grateful.” She looked away from him and the others. “I am afraid for all of us, I pray for all of us, and I believe in all of us.”
Whillan reached out a paw to her in reassurance and at its touch she turned to embrace him. “My dear,” she whispered, “whatever may happen, never forget that you are much loved.”
“You’re trembling,” he whispered, holding her tight.
“Yes,” she whispered, “oh yes, I am.”
Chapter Fifteen
For some moles that same long winter was a time of unremitting toil and danger without the relief of good company or any prospect of escape. Such a mole was Pumpkin of Duncton Wood, than whom nomole had a more lonely nor more difficult task in the struggle against the Newborns, unless it be Keeper Sturne, now Acting Master Librarian.
After Pumpkin’s discovery in November that Sturne’s conversion to the Newborn way was a brilliant but dangerous masquerade, the two had judged it best to see as little of each other as possible. As the days had gone by and winter set in poor Pumpkin had felt his faith tested and his courage in jeopardy as no news or instructions came from anymole as to what he could or should do. “Wait and see” is easy advice for moles to give who live in comfort and security, but very hard to follow when surrounded by enemies, and in undoubted danger, as Pumpkin was.
To make matters worse he knew that the Inquisitors, and particularly the bullying Brother Barre, disliked him, and would have had him eliminated long since but for Sturne’s insistence that he was indispensable to the Library. The trouble now was that time was running out, as the censoring of the Library neared completion and other Newborn aides came to know the nooks and crannies of the re-ordered stacks as well as Pumpkin did.
“It is getting hard to protect you from them. Pumpkin,” whispered Sturne in a snatched moment of privacy. “The trouble with you is you don’t
look
like a Newborn – can’t you try harder? You may at least have to submit yourself to some “education”.”
“Humph!” exclaimed Pumpkin. I’m not Newborn, that’s why I don’t look like one. I’m very “oldborn” and intend to continue to be! I could volunteer for instruction as some Duncton moles have done.”
He intended this ironically but Sturne, never one to see a joke, took him seriously.
But they were interrupted and with a quick nod followed by a harsh command to Pumpkin to get on with his work Sturne resumed his role as Newborn Acting Master Librarian.
He was right to give his warning, because some days later Pumpkin found himself being harassed by Inquisitor Barre for no better reason than his dislike of the old library aide. Barre called him insubordinate, and a nuisance, and more besides, and for a moment it looked as if he was going to dismiss him altogether from the Library.
“Brother!” piped Pumpkin in what he hoped was a manner at once abject and spiritually purposeful, “may I seek counsel?”
This surprised Barre and silenced him. He did not know what was coming – nor, in truth, did Pumpkin. But instinct had told him that if he did not do
something,
and fast, something worse than dismissal would very soon be upon him.
“When you and your fellow Inquisitors came to Duncton, Brother Barre, I must confess I was an unhappy mole, uncertain of my true way.”
“Yes, yes,” said Barre impatiently, for he was the muscular rather than spiritual element in Duncton’s inquisitorial triad.
“It is true I was given a certain amount of instruction, but my tasks here were many in those early days of your arrival and I was unable to get all the guidance I needed. Now the tasks are less, the Library is ordered and I would like to ask if you believe a mole as old as myself, and not of strong religious inclination, could benefit from instruction, or would it waste your time?”
“Instruction?” muttered Barre impatiently as he frowned with horrible ferocity. He seemed on the brink of ridding himself of Pumpkin for ever.
“Oh yes!” cried out Pumpkin ecstatically, deliberately misinterpreting Barre’s question as a suggestion, “I will receive instruction with glad heart and open mind. Praise the Stone! I knew that the Newborn way was wise and great enough to accept to its bosom even a broken-down old mole like me! But then, when there are moles such as yourself, good Brother...”
It is one of moledom’s pathetic truths that the more terrible, the more brutal, the more stupid a mole, the more he is susceptible to fawning flattery. Barre put on a token show of resistance, but the fact was the more Pumpkin blathered on in this vein, the more Barre’s scowling dislike softened into the self-satisfaction of a powerful mole hearing what he liked to hear. Had Pumpkin said such things to the more intelligent Inquisitors, Brothers Fetter and Law, they would have seen straight through it, but then having done so their response would not have been to brutally eliminate Pumpkin, as Barre’s would certainly have been.
Since few moles before had been so asinine as to appeal to Barre’s non-existent spirituality, Pumpkin got away with it – but only up to a point. For, having diverted Barre’s probably murderous intent, he now attracted the Inquisitor’s grotesque concern for his spiritual well-being and was forced to listen to a long and inarticulate lecture on the Newborn way, which included gobbets of the Newborn creed, and the significance of the confessional and – so carried away with it all did Barre become – he forced upon Pumpkin one of the most disagreeable experiences of his life, a mutual prayer.
“Great Stone,” said Brother Barre, his oft-bloodied paws on Pumpkin’s lowered head, “he’s a sinner, and done grievous wrongs, but give him a chance to try to learn your proper ways. He will confess. He will die to be reborn again. Praise the Stone.”
“Praise be!” bleated poor Pumpkin, wondering if his neck could sustain much longer Barre’s over-eager laying-on of paws. “Where to now? I want to begin! Hear me, Brother, lead me on!”
This outburst, which allowed Pumpkin to break free from Barre’s paws, had the unfortunate effect of attracting some of the more effusive and simple-minded of his Newborn fellow library aides to his flanks, sensing confession and redemption. Pumpkin was better known than he imagined as a mole who really had not quite embraced the Newborn way with the expected fervour. Everymole knew that it was only his expertise as an aide, and the special if mysterious trust Master Librarian Sturne placed in him, that had kept him ensconced in his senior position.
Now here he was proclaiming that he was Newborn, through the intercession of Brother Barre no less, and in the Library too! For such constrained and regimented minds as those gathered about him this was excitement, and a highlight, and deserved celebration. Praise be indeed!
Throughout the songs, chants and effusions of appealing little prayers that followed. Pumpkin was all too aware of what was coming, and it made his heart sink with gloom and apprehension. His mood darkened still more when Sturne, drawn to the Main Chamber by the noise of his diverted aides, decided his own best strategy was to take part in the rejoicing in his emotionless way which involved, among other things, grasping his old friend’s unwilling paw and saying, “These are glad tidings, Brother! Aye, gladsome indeed!”
But all good things must end, and when they had, and Sturne and Barre had restored order. Pumpkin found himself sent off down to Barrow Vale in the company of several of the Newborn aides, with no immediate prospect of returning to the Library at all. He could have done with a word of encouragement from Sturne but that had not been possible, though the two had exchanged a brief and meaningful glance which Pumpkin interpreted as, “Stone help us all if these are the moles who are now in power across moledom!”
Quite why his modest expression of the discovery of being “new born” should have caused such happiness among the aides Pumpkin could not guess. But since it seemed out of proportion – he was after all but one old and obscure mole in a large system wholly converted to the Newborn way – he thought there might be more to it than met the eye. He had, he thought, noticed a paradoxical sombreness on the faces of one or two of the delighted aides, as if their pleasure in his second conversion was no more genuine than the conversions themselves, and this puzzled him.
Meanwhile he went with apparent good cheer from the Library downslope into the communal tunnel that led eventually to Barrow Vale, accepting with what grace he could manage the joyful inanities and “Praise be’s” of his unwelcome companions. There were even times when their pleasure in his declaration seemed to have intoxicated them, as if they had eaten rather too much of the notorious cloven root of the spear-thistle which wise moles avoid except on hot August afternoons when they have nothing serious to do until nightfall.