‘What you mean is that you want us to go with you because three is safer than one,’ said Boswell.
‘That’s about it,’ Mullion agreed. ‘Unless you’ve got a better suggestion.’
Boswell knew what he, personally, wanted to do, what he must do, but he also realised that Bracken was not yet ready even to think about returning to Duncton. At the same time, Mullion’s story interested him, for (as he explained to Bracken when Mullion had put his plan to him himself) there were many accounts of such wandering fighters in the records of Uffington. Indeed, the Book of Fighting had been written by one of them after he had taken his vows, among them the vow not to fight again.
‘Seems a funny thing to do then—write a book about it!’ declared Bracken.
‘The book is not about fighting but about how not to have the need to fight,’ said Boswell mysteriously.
‘Where is this place, Mullion?’
Mullion hesitated, then admitted he wasn’t sure. One of the elders in the system had told him to ‘keep his snout to the Stone’ but he was not sure what he meant and the explanation was not very clear.
‘Is there a Stone at the system of Nuneham, then?’ asked Bracken. Mullion did not know.
The Stone, always the Stone. Bracken remembered the pull of the Stone, the power on its line between Duncton and Uffington. He knew what the elder meant.
‘Do you know what direction it’s in?’ persisted Bracken.
‘The story was, and it came from the mole who came to the pastures and had been to this Nuneham place, that it was towards the north.’
‘If there is a Stone there, I may be able to snout it out,’ said Bracken, surprised at his own audacity. He left them in the burrow and went up on to the surface and out into the field, where he crouched in some grass by a stand of last summer’s thistles, wondering quite what he was doing. It was midmorning and cold but the grass in the field, unlike the thistles, was just beginning to have a bit of life in it again, while from up in one of the bushes among the trees where his tunnels were, the shrill song of a blackbird, powerful and urgent, came across the field.
Bracken thought of the Stone, the Duncton Stone, and looked automatically towards where he knew, without knowing, it must be. Its pull had been there all the time, only he had not bothered to think of it before. But he did not face it directly—it made him feel too desolate and lost to do that.
He turned his back to it and snouted out again, seeing if he could feel any other pulls. Well, of course, there was Uffington; he could feel that. Deep and distant but always strong. He crouched silent and still, letting his mind wander out of his body and around the horizon in the circle. It was hard not to be continually pulled by Duncton and Uffington, the two Stone pulls with which he was familiar, but slowly he forgot them, putting them in the background of his body and mind and seeing what else he could feel.
Nuneham. He tried to reach out to it somehow. If it had a Stone, then surely he would feel it as well! But he suddenly grew tired and ran back for cover again.
For several days Bracken was irritable and wandered about on the surface alone, confirming once more Mullion’s prejudices about Duncton moles generally.
But Boswell understood well what he was trying to do, and realised that few moles had the ability to follow the Stones, and that it was sometimes hard for them. He had already seen how, if they talked about Uffington, Bracken unconsciously aligned himself to its direction and when they referred to Duncton, he would look over his shoulder in what Boswell imagined to be its direction, though Bracken never aligned himself directly to it.
‘Leave him alone to his own thoughts for a few days, Mullion,’ advised Boswell, knowing how impatient and restless the Pasture mole was becoming. ‘He got us out of the channel—he may be able to find the way to Nuneham.’
‘He’s so secretive he won’t even say if he’s willing,’ complained Mullion, ‘and I want to get going.’
Four or five nights later, Boswell was wakened by Bracken well past midnight. ‘Here. Wake up and come outside!’ said Bracken urgently.
Boswell followed him on to the surface.
‘I think Nuneham’s over there,’ said Bracken, pointing a talon to the northwest and aligning his body as well. ‘I woke up a short time ago and could feel it in my body. I know it’s there. There’s a Stone there, though it’s not nearly as strong as Duncton’s. I can feel it.’ He sounded happier than he had for days and Boswell could sense and share his excitement with him.
‘We’ll go there,’ said Bracken. ‘I’ll lead you there.’
He looked out into the night and then swung back towards Uffington. ‘I’ve always felt the pull of Uffington from the moment I first went to the Stone,’ he said. He glanced briefly over his shoulder to the east where Duncton lay, and then back, with relief, to where he said Nuneham was. Boswell could almost feel the pulls of the Stones that Bracken felt. Involuntarily he ran forward and touched Bracken’s shoulder with his good paw.
‘We’ll all go there, together,’ said Boswell.
‘I wouldn’t leave you here,’ said Bracken seriously, misunderstanding him, adding lightly to hide the way he felt: ‘Anyway, you haven’t told me all you know about Uffington yet!’
Boswell understood what Bracken meant and felt suddenly warmed by the power of his protection. It had been a long, cold journey from Uffington but now, watching Bracken returning to his burrow through the night ahead of him, Boswell felt that at last he had arrived.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rebecca’s escape with Comfrey and Violet from Duncton was made possible only by Mekkins’ intricate knowledge of the Marsh End, which allowed them to elude the henchmoles who sighted them almost immediately after Bracken’s departure into the marsh.
Even then they were not safe, for they were found trying to make their way to Rose’s tunnels by a group of Pasture moles who very nearly killed them. The only thing that saved them was Rebecca’s pleas that they at least be allowed to see Rose—whose name the Pasture moles seemed to respect— and also the audacity of Mekkins’ defence of the three of them.
‘You bloody well take your paws off of me, and let us talk to Rose the Healer! And don’t give me any of your lip, chum, because otherwise I’ll get really narked.’
The Pasture moles did not understand all the words, but they could make sense of the sentiment—and even the biggest of them quailed slightly at the sight of Mekkins in a rage. Duncton moles had a reputation for being brave and cunning fighters.
When Rose finally came, brought by an uneasy Pasture mole, the first thing that Mekkins said was, ‘’Ere, Rose, tell this bleeding lot of Pasture moles that we’ve not come ’ere to take over the Pasture system all by ourselves. We’re not bloody stupid. And anyway,’ he added, looking contemptuously around, ‘and begging our pardon, but this ain’t exactly the place I’d choose to settle down!’
Rose smiled at them all, though she knew that this was an escape and not a visit. She had long suspected that this might happen.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘This is Mekkins of the Duncton system and other moles I know. He is an elder and an honourable mole, even if he does seem a little rude at times.’
‘Yes—well—sorry,’ muttered Mekkins, shaking his shoulders and looking chastened. ‘But they needn’t have been so rough with Rebecca and the youngsters. This is Rose, you two,’ he added, turning to Comfrey and Violet, ‘so you say hello.’
‘Hello!’ said Violet, running up to Rose immediately.