‘Oh, well,’ she sighed happily, ‘if everything tasted nice, then nothing would taste nice, would it?’ And with this thought she wandered straight into the range of a strong, clinging smell that was not horrible and yet not exactly nice… but definitely attractive, and began to make her way hopefully towards it.
She would have pressed straight on, but stopped when she heard the quiet singing of a mole ahead of her amongst the undergrowth. There wasn’t any tune to the song, but it had a tune; there weren’t any words, either, but it had words; you couldn’t say the voice was much… but it was lovely to listen to.
In other places in the wood Rebecca would have backed carefully away, unwilling to risk attack, even if moles who sang songs were rarely aggressive. But here, in this part of the wood, on this particular August day, she had never felt safer. So she made a semi-burrowing noise to announce politely that she was about and then went cheerfully forward through the undergrowth from beyond which the singing was coming.
There, right before her, was the singer—and the ramson. A female was crouched with head on one side among a clump of tall green plants with long, floppy, oval leaves that curled and fell back on themselves. She was quite old, by the look of her fur, and as happy as anymole Rebecca had ever seen. Between snatches of song, she was sniffing the plants up and down, almost as if caressing them.
The mole, who did not seem to notice Rebecca, was smallish, the tall plants all around her perhaps making her seem rather smaller than she was. But her shoulders were sturdy and there was a great solidity about her that reminded Rebecca of an oak root poking out of the ground to which there is a great deal more than the eye can see or the snout scent.
‘Why, hello, dear,’ the mole said, without looking around, ‘I wondered how long it would be before you summoned up enough sense to come and introduce yourself.’
Rebecca started forward but the old female raised a paw to signal that Rebecca should wait where she was while she finished whatever she was doing with the ramsons.
‘It’s best for you to wait there while I do this. I’m just getting these ramsons used to the idea that I’m going to pick one or two of them. It might slow things down if you came here among them.’
She sang a little more, touched one or two of the stems, peered at them through wrinkled eyes, and finally said, ‘There, now! That’s all right! They’re almost ready!’
Finally she turned to Rebecca, who saw what she had already sensed, that her face was one of the kindliest and most sympathetic she had ever looked upon.
‘So they’re ramsons, are they?’ exclaimed Rebecca, finally unable to resist the temptation to run forward and sniff at the leaves and stem of the one nearest to her. The flowers, which were withered and nearly done, were too high for her to reach, though their scent was strong enough to smell without getting near. Even so, Rebecca noticed something curious. ‘It’s strange,’ she said, ‘how they smell more at a distance than close to.’
‘It’s not strange at all, as a matter of fact,’ said the other mole, coming over to where Rebecca was standing. ‘It’s inevitable. If you can understand why and believe it, then you’ll hold a secret in your heart for which many moles you meet will have cause to be grateful.’
Before Rebecca could ask what this mystery meant, the mole asked, ‘What’s your name, dear?’
‘Rebecca. Mandrake’s daughter.’
‘And Sarah’s child, if I’m not mistaken. Well, child, my name’s Rose.’
‘Oh, at last!’ exclaimed Rebecca. ‘Rose the Healer! They said you’d know about ramsons and lots of things like that, and here you are to tell me!’
Rose laughed gaily and Rebecca began asking questions so infectiously that Rose quietly settled herself down in a spot warmed by the sun, for she knew she would be asked a lot more before this young thing had done with her.
But what Rebecca wanted to know about most of all was the little rhyme about ramsons she had heard. ‘I couldn’t see what it could possibly mean,’ she said, ‘unless it was that you can only pick them at dawn when the stars have shone. But then… well… that would mean you could pick them at any season, and I’m sure that wouldn’t be right.’
‘Why wouldn’t it be right, my love?’ Rose asked the question quite seriously, the cheerful content in her face subtly replaced by an excited curiosity about what Rebecca had said.
‘Well, because there’s only certain times you can pick plants and herbs like ramsons—I mean, times of seasons. Looking at growing things, I’ve often thought that they weren’t exactly ready but I’m not sure ready for what.’
‘What mole told you there were only certain times?’ asked Rose, now quite serious.
‘Well, nomole exactly. My mother, Sarah, told me about some of the plants, and other, older moles told me names and rhymes and how you can use them for healing, but nomole said when to pick them. Well… the plants told me!’
Rebecca finally got this out with some difficulty; she had never thought about it before, though it had always seemed obvious enough to her. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she finally asked.
Rose looked at her for quite a long time, her head on one side. Then she said firmly, ‘It’s not obvious at all; in fact…’ But a blackbird hopped and scurried near her, seeming to break her line of thought. So Rebecca asked, ‘Well, what does that rhyme mean?’
Rose laughed. ‘It’s the flowers, Rebecca; they’re like lovely, white stars when they come out. Here, I’ll show you… ’ And she led Rebecca through the clumps of ramson to a plant in a dark part of the wood over which an oak branch had fallen so that its growth had been stunted.
‘Look!’ said Rose, pointing to the moist shadows by the branch. There, among the small ramson leaves, Rebecca saw a stalk with a cluster of white flowers whose pointed petals were sharp and bright against the gentle, pale green of the long leaves. Several of the flowers were withered, but one or two were still fresh and their smell strong.
‘You’ll often find in a clump of plants that one or two flower very late, or their flowers stay longer after the others have developed towards seed. Perhaps the sun doesn’t reach them, perhaps, as with this one, they are stunted by accident; or perhaps, like some moles, they just naturally take a long time to develop. Never ever pick those ones, my love, never ever. They’re very special. Their spirit has a special beauty.’
Again Rebecca wanted to ask why, but Rose turned away and went slowly back to where they had been sitting before, touching the stems of the bigger ramsons with her paws as she passed them. The subject seemed closed.
‘Anyway, you can see now what the rhyme means, can’t you?’ said Rose.
‘Yes,’ said Rebecca, but rather vaguely, because something had occurred to her. ‘Do stars look like that?’ she asked Rose.
It was a good question. Everymole knows that stars shine some nights, usually when the moon is strong. But, of course, moles cannot see them. It had never occurred to Rebecca to wonder what mole it was that had been able to see stars so that other moles knew about them with such certainty that they never questioned their existence.
Rose thought about Rebecca’s question for some time. Indeed, it prompted a whole series of thoughts in her mind far beyond the question itself. The fact was that, in a very short space of time, Rebecca had made a deep impression on Rose. She had liked her from the first moment she scented her hesitating beyond the undergrowth, uncertain whether to show herself or not. But liking is one thing, feeling awe is another. And that’s what Rose felt.