‘So you found the seventh Stillstone but not the Book?’ said Comfrey, looking at the smooth, flinty stone that Boswell had placed on the ground before them; it did not look special at all.
Boswell smiled wryly. ‘No, I know where the Book is, Comfrey,’ he said simply. ‘I have to scribe it myself.’
‘Oh,’ said Comfrey, ‘yes, of course.’ He should have thought of that. Bracken and Rebecca and Boswell had made the Book together, so it couldn’t have been scribed before. A mole couldn’t scribe a book until it was ready—it was probably just like picking herbs.
Boswell had told them both something of what had happened, and Comfrey had understood that finally Rebecca was safe and so he could stop worrying about her. She was all right now.
He looked at Boswell and thought what a contrast he made to Tryfan—one frail and white, the other strong and black-furred. He smiled, too, because he saw that Tryfan watched with love and care over Boswell’s every move, as if he were afraid that a puff of wind would blow Boswell away. Well, one day he would know Boswell better than that.
‘I will pray for your safe journey,’ said Comfrey finally. ‘But then there’s not much harm can come to you, Boswell, with Tryfan by your side.’
Tryfan snouted about to size up the hour and the weather and decided that the time had come when they ought to leave. But he did not need to say a word of what he felt to Boswell, because Boswell knew.
‘It would be an honour to have your prayers, Comfrey,’ said Boswell, looking up for one last time at the Stone that now stood upright and towering over the base of the fallen tree. ‘If a mole could scribe on stone, I would scribe their names on it,’ he said.
Then, with a last touch and final farewell, they left Comfrey by the Stone and set off across the clearing, out through the wood to the pastures and then off across them to the west, towards Uffington. Comfrey whispered a prayer after them and a journey blessing and crouched, wondering why he felt such a sense of relief. The air in the wood was so clear after the rain, it smelt so good, and he was at the start of a new spring in a system that had pride and memories and so much hope.
He could teach some of the youngsters the rituals and show them how they should be done. And if he didn’t remember all the words, it didn’t matter, because true words come from a mole’s heart, not his memory.
He looked back in the direction of Uffington and whispered again ‘May they return home safeguarded.’ Then he laughed, a rare thing for Comfrey. He liked its sound so much that he laughed aloud again, with relief and happiness.
Off to the west, on the pastures, Tryfan and Boswell wound their way downhill. The trees of Duncton rose behind them at the top of the hill, the pasture dropped away below, and Tryfan asked, ‘How long will it take?’
‘Not too long,’ said Boswell.
‘Will you tell me about the things that happened to you and Bracken, and to Rebecca? All the things they would never talk about? All the stories?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Boswell, smiling.
‘Will I become a scribemole?’ asked Tryfan.
Boswell stopped and touched him gently. ‘You’ve begun already,’ he said, ‘just as I did, without ever knowing it.’ But Tryfan found this hard to believe, even though Boswell himself said it.
‘Tell me about them,’ he asked, and Boswell sensed that it was right to start doing so, for surely nomole held more of their joint spirit than Tryfan. And so Boswell began to tell the story, from the beginning, drawing on the memories of what Bracken and Rebecca had told him. Stories that gave him joy as well.
While Tryfan, after taking a final look back to Duncton Wood, which was now almost too far away even to scent, moved protectively nearer to Boswell, whom he would see safely home to Uffington whatever dangers or trials they had to face. He felt strong and powerful, with the Stone of Duncton behind him and at his side the White Mole, who carried the seventh Stillstone and who would scribe the seventh Book, the Book of Silence, telling him stories that he had so long wanted to hear.
As evening fell and they settled down into the first stage of their long journey, Tryfan thought to himself that if he ever did become a scribemole, then perhaps, with the Stone’s grace, he might one day record all that Boswell was beginning now to tell him of the story of Bracken and his beloved Rebecca.
Contact William Horwood
Thank you for reading Duncton Wood. William welcomes your comments and thoughts about the Duncton Chronicles, or any of his work, and can be contacted at william@williamhorwood.co.uk
Copyright
First published in the United Kingdom in 1980 by Country Life Books.
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by Canelo Digital Publishing Limited.
57 Shepherds Lane Beaconsfield,
Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © William Horwood, 1980
The moral right of William Horwood to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781911420521
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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