In itself this entry was not unusual. What was remarkable was the effect it had on him. It seemed to him as he read it that he heard a calling to him from it, as if from an old mole lost in a place from which he could not escape, asking him to come.
He himself doubted this voice, believing it to be but his vanity and pride making an excuse for him to follow the urgings he felt to leave the system. But, over the weeks that followed, it persisted and eventually he too asked permission of the Holy Mole to see if he could find the system, whose location was known, though no scribe had visited it—or at least returned from it—for many generations.
He asked three times, and each time his request was refused. So finally, that September, the same in which Bracken and Rebecca first met, he trekked down to the Blowing Stone and began his vigil for truth by it. And so it was there, in the light brought to him by the storm and by the grace of the Stone that he made his decision, even though it meant breaking his vows. It is said that he begged the forgiveness of the Holy Mole himself and that it was given to him ‘for all the things you have done for Uffington and for all the things the Stone may allow you to do outside’.
It is also said, though there is no record of this, that Skeat accompanied his protégé and friend to the end of the eastern part of Uffington Hill, where, sadly, he must have watched Boswell slowly make the start of his journey.
There, too, we must leave him to make his perilous journey alone. It will be a long time before we hear of him again, for Duncton was distant and those days were dark and dangerous.
Yet as he starts upon it, let us repeat, as Skeat did then, the ancient journey blessing, which is traditionally said as a plea to the Stone when a beloved one is going at last from our protection:
May the peace of your power
Encompass him, going and returning;
May the peace of the White Mole be his in the travel.
And may he return home safeguarded.
Chapter Sixteen
Cairn’s vengeful chase after Rune eventually gave way to common sense. The deeper he got into the wood the more its great trees oppressed him, for he was only used to open sky, fresh wind, and tunnels that were sparse and smelt dry.
But he was at first reluctant to turn back. For one thing, his brother Stonecrop had told him once, ‘Never leave a fight half fought,’ which Cairn took to mean that an opponent was best killed rather than left free to sneak off and remain a danger.
Also, Cairn sensed that Rune was not truly beaten anyway and probably had some trick prepared. And then again, this Rune might bring other Duncton moles to attack him, and Cairn had no inflated sense of his own prowess. He could have beaten Rune, he knew that, but not two Runes, or three. So, finally, Cairn gave up the chase and turned back to try to find his mate.
Out on the pastures this would have been easy for him, but here in the wood with so many strange smells and sounds, and with the heavy rain half obscuring everything, Cairn found it impossible, and he was lost in the wood for hours trying to find his way back to the pastures. Eventually, when the rain lightened and a breeze returned, fortunately from the west, he got a scent of the pastures and was able to head directly for them and from there to the temporary burrow where he had left Rebecca.
He called out her name as he went down, but he could sense without waiting for the silence that greeted him that she was gone. Probably to look for him.
But how wet and forlorn the place looked bereft of her. How dank and desolate the wet wood about seemed, just as it always had when he had come near it from the pastures. How cold their burrow was with only the fresh wood scent of Rebecca there to give it a feeling of life and love.
He waited in the burrow, tending the scratches and wounds he had received in his fight with Rune and feeling lost. He wanted to see her again, if only to confirm that she had not been a dream—though, he thought ruefully, his wounds from Rune were evidence enough that she was not.
Rebecca, too, was miserable throughout that same night, for though she was tired, she could not sleep with fretting for her Cairn. When dawn came, and it came very slowly, she made her way back to the surface near the pastures, where the air was cool and clear from yesterday’s storm and the sun was beginning to shine. The wood gave her the feeling that it had shaken off the trial of the storm and was there again for moles to enjoy, sliding into autumn it was true, but with enough green leaf about to catch the morning sun and make a mole feel that he, or she, was back in summer again.
As soon as Rebecca came to the little clearing where her temporary burrow was, she knew that he was there waiting for her. Oh, she could smell again the strong young scent of the open pastures, where the wind blew and shadows seemed few and far between. She sighed for happiness and crept as quietly as she could into the tunnel, hoping to surprise Cairn, but he was ready for her. She heard him stir and laugh as he delighted in her scent coming to him, and there he was, waiting in the burrow, her Cairn! Her love! His love, Rebecca!
How quiet they both were, and how content. She tended for a while to his scratches and wounds, especially the one he had received on his face as he had run out of the tunnel after Rune. What special attention she gave to that one! What sighings and caresses, what entwinings and delights, what peaceful rest and waking dreams! How close they were!
‘Rebecca, Rebecca!’
‘Cairn, my love, my wildflower.’
They smiled and laughed and giggled to be so near, fur once more mingling with fur, and haunch soft against haunch. For a while they even mock-fought, until Cairn’s wound got scratched again and he surrendered in defeat to his Rebecca, and she licked and tended him once more. Then they slept again, the sweet sleep of love satisfied.
‘Been in a fight, have you, Rune?’ Mandrake asked the question with good humour, for after the confrontation with the owl face in Hulver’s tunnels he had felt weary, and in no mood to deal with the sycophantic mumblings of the henchmoles, so was glad to see Rune back again from wherever he had been.
When he entered the elder burrow where Mandrake was crouched, Rune had placed himself carefully out of the shadows where his wounds and scratches might be clearly seen. He had done so wearily and in seeming pain, his snout low but making a consciously brave effort to look cheerful.
‘Not exactly a fight, Mandrake, but it is of no matter. I hope.’
‘Mmm?’ Mandrake’s growl indicated that he wanted to know more.
‘It’s nothing,’ said Rune. ‘At least, I hope it’s nothing.’
He paused to give time for the doubt to sink into Mandrake’s mind and then said lightly, ‘Well! Everything’s quiet in Barrow Vale. That’s something!’
‘Where have you been, Rune?’ asked Mandrake, his curiosity now successfully aroused.
Rune sighed, licked his wounds, scratched, twisted and turned, coughed, put a brave smile on to his shadowy face, sighed again, and finally said: ‘Do you know where Rebecca is at the moment?’