So Bracken burrowed through the depths of snow that finally came to rest in silence far, far beneath the towering cliffs of Tryfan. And he burrowed down, not up, for just as the plants in the cwm into which he had fallen knew that the soil was lime-rich so he knew that he would find food there.
He stayed on there long after the snow had cleared, through April and May, living in an isolation that, at last, he had learned to be at peace with.
Sometimes he would peer back at the cliffs and slopes down which he had fallen and wonder if Celyn and Bran were still in the east beyond them and if they thought him dead. Some days he would pick his way among the tussocks of fescue and scurvy grass down to the clear cwm lake and drink at the dappled water, whose surface reflected the distant peaks that lowered over the cwm.
Often he would think of Rebecca, with whom he had never even mated, and of what the power of their love had been—and still was, since it lived on inside him.
But as the summer advanced into June he grew restless, for this was only a haven, not a home, and he wanted to go back finally to where beech trees soared in sunlight and oak trees rustled and the soil was rich. He wanted to see the white of chalk dust on his talons again.
But perhaps what made him finally make the move to leave the cwm was the thought that Boswell at least might still be alive and might have got back safely to Uffington. In any case, he felt an obligation to return to Uffington and tell them that he had reached the Siabod Stones and worshipped the Stone and even seen the Stones of Tryfan, which nomole could ever reach.
When he finally left the cwm and made his way down into the valley beneath it, he could not bear to turn north to trek a way back round to Siabod, because he feared the memories there would be too bleak. He had done what he had promised to do and now turned south, to make his way finally back to Uffington through other valleys and by way of other systems.
And so it is that systems south of Siabod to this day tell of his passing—Rhinog, Cader, Mynydd, Faldwyn and back to Caer Caradoc, through which he and Boswell had originally passed. He saw that system after system was beginning to recover from the plague, while they saw in him a strange, wild mole with a terrible loss in his eyes but whose power of spirit was so great that none dared oppose him. As he passed through their tunnels he asked for little and said less, just telling them his name was Bracken of Duncton and that he had been to Siabod and was going to Uffington. While they wondered if he was a scribemole or special in some other way.
They were right to see loss in his eyes, for once he was back to gentler country, where the plants were familiar and trees grew tall again, and the river water no longer froze in a mole’s mouth, he missed Rebecca more and more. The sun did not shine but that he thought of her; no shadow fell on him but that he ached for the comfort of her touch. But now that she was gone the only thought that sustained him through the moleyears it took him to travel back to Uffington was the hope that he would find his beloved Boswell safe and well in the Holy Burrows.
He reached them finally in December, climbing up past the Blowing Stone as he had once before and entering the tunnels at the top of the escarpment like a forgotten shadow.
But they remembered him and clustered about him, chattering with excitement, eager for his news. ‘Tell us! Tell us!’ they exclaimed, as he was led through the great holy tunnels to where the Holy Mole was. ‘Is Boswell safe?’ was all he wanted to know, but nomole seemed to hear him.
So, in great excitement and with an unaccustomed celebration in the Holy Burrows themselves, he found himself facing the Holy Mole himself, who was a mole he knew and remembered with love. It was Medlar, who had been in the Silent Burrows and who had come out on Skeat’s death and been made Holy Mole.
Medlar looked on him in silence and saw, without a word being spoken, how much the mole he had taught to fight had suffered, and learned as well. Not being a scribemole, Bracken did not know the traditional greetings and another scribemole there said the words for him:
‘Styn rix in thine herte!’
‘Staye thee hoi and soint,’ intoned Medlar.
‘Me desire wot we none,’ said Bracken’s proxy.
‘Blessed be thou and full of blisse,’ smiled Medlar into Bracken’s eyes.
They brought him food and made him rest before he began his tale, but when he did, he told it all quietly and with truth, as a warrior should, and they came to know that he had indeed fulfilled his promise to them. It was Medlar himself who raised the question uppermost in Bracken’s heart: ‘And Boswell, do you know what finally became of him?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Bracken, ‘more than what I’ve said. I had hoped… I thought he might be here.’
The scribemoles listening fell silent, one or two muttered a prayer of blessing, and the Holy Burrow in which they crouched grew still.
‘He is,’ said Medlar softly. ‘He did come back and he told us of your courage in leading him so far. He told us how you must have faced Gelert the Hound after he had been injured. All of us here have prayed for you many times, Bracken, and hoped the day would come when you might return.’
‘But what happened to Boswell?’ whispered Bracken, for there was nothing else that mattered to him anymore.
‘Come,’ said Medlar, ‘I’ll show you. For though few moles have ever been where you will go, I know that it is right that you should see. If you were a scribemole I would simply tell you, but you are not, and there are things that some moles such as you had better see and accept than wonder about for the rest of their lives.’ Then he added very seriously: ‘But you must promise me, or the Stone itself, that you will say not one single word in the place where I shall take you.’
But before Bracken began to nod his head and say, ‘Of course,’ Medlar went on: ‘This may be your hardest trial, Bracken, harder than anything you have yet faced.’
So, full of awe and fear, Bracken followed Medlar beyond the Holy Burrows into a tunnel that went west for two molemiles until he was inside the holy place where he had once crept unasked and heard the secret song.
The tunnels led down to a place where the soil was almost white with chalk and there was the deepest silence he had ever heard. There were one or two novice scribemoles there, who moved about with great peace and grace and silence and seemed to protect the tunnels into which Medlar led him. Until, at last, there stretched before him a great chamber, on one side of which were a series of simple burrows, some unoccupied with open entrances and many long since sealed. But there was one whose seal was fresh.
Medlar pointed to this one, and Bracken understood that his Boswell was inside it and had come of his own accord to live in the Silent Burrows.
Silently Medlar led him into a smaller tunnel at the end of the chamber that led to other smaller burrows running behind the bigger ones, each of which had a tiny entrance, no bigger than a paw, where food was put so that the moles who had chosen to live in absolute silence might stay alive. Griefstricken, Bracken gazed at the little opening that was the only contact that his Boswell now had with life. Never, ever, had he felt so desolate.
He returned to the main chamber and stared at the bleak, sealed walls, aching to dash his talons against them and cry out to Boswell to tell him that he loved him and had wanted to see him, and hear his voice, and feel his gentle touch once more. To tell him that Rebecca was gone from him and there was nomole left now who loved him as she and Boswell had.
Unable to move, unable to talk, unable to tell Boswell that he was there so close, Bracken found that all he could do was to weep and say a bitter prayer that Boswell, at least, might find peace.