Bracken watched as Boswell examined the book. First he snouted rapidly over its surface. Then, for the first time ever in Bracken’s presence, he used his withered left paw positively. He swung it on to the book and, with a gentle caressing motion beautiful to see, ran the paw across the embossments on the book’s surface.
‘It’s the Avebury Hymnal, with an appendix of carols and lays,’ said Boswell.
‘No, that’s not the one. What I want is the Book of the Chosen Moles. You know…’
‘Linden?’
‘Do you know where it is?’ asked the old mole eagerly.
‘I know what it feels like,’ said Boswell, ‘at least I think I can remember.’ He snouted rapidly along the rows of books, muttering and twittering to himself, touching one book after another, half pulling out one or two, shaking his head, umming and ahhing and, it seemed to Bracken who had listened to their conversation without understanding a word of it, having the time of his life.
‘Got it,’ he announced finally, pulling another enormous book off the shelves. He ran his paw over it. ‘Linden’s Book of Chosen Moles, with additions by sundry paws,’ he read out.
‘Not before time,’ said Quire ungratefully.
‘Sorry,’ said Boswell.
‘You youngsters are all the same. Think you know it all. You wait till you’re as old as me and you’ll find nothing at all.’ He peered at Boswell again. ‘Where was it?’ he asked.
‘Where it always used to be.’
‘Damnation!’ said Quire, almost lifting himself off his paws with the violence of the word. ‘I can’t get used to the new system—always put books back in the wrong place now. I know you, don’t I? How did you survive the plague?’
‘I wasn’t here,’ said Boswell. ‘I’ve been away.’
‘Oh, yes!’ said Quire, seeming to remember but making it obvious that he didn’t. ‘Mmm. Which system?’
‘Duncton.’
‘One of the Seven! Did you get there?’
‘Yes,’ said Boswell, ‘I did.’
‘Good. Glad to have you back, especially since most of the scribemoles here went away during the plague or succumbed to it, and there’s hardly any left who know enough about the library to be much use to me. I remember you. Boswell, isn’t it? Should have told me before. Crippled but useful, as I remember. Where have you been?’
‘Duncton,’ repeated Boswell patiently.
‘Good. Glad to have you back,’ repeated Quire. ‘They’re in a bit of a flummox at the moment because there’s hardly enough moles to sing the Song and even though I offered my services to Skeat, he told me I was not chosen. So anyway, you can help me here…’
He seemed about to dragoon Boswell into work when three moles entered the chamber from one of the side chambers.
They snouted about, saw Boswell, and there was a moment of absolute stillness as everymole looked at each other. It was Boswell who broke the silence.
‘May the grace of the Stone be with you,’ he said. They relaxed a little.
‘And with thee,’ said one of the three.
They continued to look at each other.
‘I do not know you,’ said Boswell quietly, his voice echoing among the books, ‘but my name is Boswell. I have returned from a journey to Duncton Wood.’
One of the moles darted forward and snouted at him, turned round, and signalled to one of the others, who ran out of the entrance near where Bracken was crouching in the shadows. Soon several more moles joined them, none seeming to notice Bracken, who kept quite still as Boswell had told him.
As Boswell crouched there, the moles about him began a curious chanting, nearer speech than song, which was deep and rhythmic and to which Boswell occasionally responded. Bracken could not catch most of the words, which were in a language strange to him, but Boswell’s response seemed to be ‘And with thee, and with thee…’ the same as one of the moles had spoken to him. He only recognised the word ‘thee’ because he had heard Boswell speak it occasionally to very old moles they had met.
The moles were all shapes and sizes, and Bracken was disappointed to see that not one of them was white. Many were grey, and some just common or garden black, like him. But he had to admit that they did have an air of authority—a strange, quiet way of carrying themselves—that fitted well with the reverential air in the place and made him reluctant even to think of speaking or making a noise. He felt as if just being there was disturbing something precious and holy.
It was strange and exciting for him to see Boswell in this setting, for he saw how well he fitted here and, as it seemed to him, what enormous peace and authority emanated from Boswell. Bracken might not be able to tell what was being said, but he could sense that nomole there was going to attack Boswell and that was all he was really worried about. When the others had first come, he had been ready to leap forward and defend Boswell to the death.
Without warning, the chanting suddenly stopped and all the moles seemed to relax. Especially Quire, who had been fretting about behind Boswell and now said to one of the moles, ‘I’ve got it, here it is, the book he wants.’
But before there was time to reply, there was a stir and a sound from one of the side chambers. Two older-looking moles came forward, both with calm, severe expressions on their faces, and their look about the library brought an immediate hush to all the moles there. They stepped to either side of the chamber entrance and a mole came forward in whose presence Bracken felt an immediate awe. He wanted to lower his snout in a gesture of submission and, indeed, he did so, but he could not help keeping his eyes open at the extraordinary scene before him.
The mole was old and thin, with a frail, silver-grey coat of fur that was patchy in places and the most kindly eyes that Bracken had ever beheld. Bracken had seen him before, or thought he had: he was the mole who had seemed to be at the entrance to the Holy Burrows watching them as they entered the libraries. As he entered the chamber, the other moles cleared a path between him and Boswell, and Boswell, snout low, stepped forward a few paces towards him. And they then had a chanting exchange in the language Bracken could not understand.
‘Steyn rix in thine herte,’ said Boswell.
‘Staye thee hoi and soint,’ said the Holy Mole.
‘Me desire wot I none,’ replied Boswell.
‘Blessed be thou and ful of blisse,’ finished the Holy Mole. A blessing, thought Bracken. That’s what it was!
Then the Holy Mole smiled and Boswell stepped forward, and for a moment they nuzzled each other.
‘Well, Boswell, so you have returned. By the Stone’s grace you have come back!’
Boswell seemed unable to say anything, but looked at the Holy Mole almost with disbelief in his eyes.
‘Yes,’ said the Holy Mole, ‘it really is Skeat, your old master. Look what they’ve done to me!’ He laughed, a delightful laugh, very like the one that Boswell, in his moments of puppish delight in something, sometimes let forth.
‘Well, well… I said the journey blessing when you left and here you are, so many moleyears later, to prove that a mole may trust its power. Have you nothing to say to your Skeat? Those few of us left who remember you are going to want to hear your story very much; and those others here, whom you will not know, will surely profit by it.’
‘Skeat, I…’ As he said this, there was a slight gasp among the other moles and Skeat raised his paw, smiling.
‘You’re meant to call me “Holiness”, but… these are strange times and anyway, if I’m not mistaken, you were relieved of your vows.’ Then Skeat spoke to all of them rather than to Boswell, and said, ‘Remember he has not been here for many moleyears—perhaps more than twenty—and has forgotten our ways. But then it is not our ways or rituals that express the truth in the Stone but what is in our hearts. The Stone has sent Boswell back to us, for what purpose none can tell, though I have my own ideas. But the Stone will not mind if he calls me Skeat, or any other name for that matter.’