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Authors: William Horwood
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along with her untidiness went a certain romantic whimsiness which meant she loved telling stories. And when Bracken was upset, she would comfort him with mole legends and tales, simple stories of honored, brave moles, or tales of line males fighting for their mates.
Many were traditional mole legends of which every system had its version; others were peculiar to Duncton and were usually set in the long-distant past, when the moles lived in the Ancient System up on top of the hill. She entered into the spirit of these tales to such an extent that she would often moan and weep as she told them, and Bracken, his head against her flank, would feel her breathing getting heavier and faster as she neared a climactic end, and for while he would forget his tears and the bullying in the drama of the tale.
He would enter into them as she did. His eyes perhaps half closed or affixed to some distant place beyond the walls of the burrow and soon he would be there, fighting to the death, weaving magic with his talons, facing the most dreadful dangers. Aspen loved to paint in the rich colors of her own whimsy the scene when the hero mole returns from his quest across the wood to fight owls, or outfox foxes, or find worms to save the system. This would move Bracken deeply, for he wished he might return home one day as his heroes did, to a snug burrow, warm with love, friendly and wormful. Wanted, not an outcast.
It was from these beginnings that Bracken’s fascination with the Ancient System grew, and when he ventured onto the surface, he would often stop and stare dimly up in the direction of the top of Duncton Hill far beyond his sight and hopes and wonder if he might ever climb there himself. One day Aspen told him about the Stone that was said to stand there, “though it’s a long time since anymole but the elders went up there, and then only at Midsummer and Longest Night. It’s probably just legend, but a nice one, don’t you think?”
The idea of the Stone fascinated him so much that he gathered his courage and dared ask Burrhead about it one day when he seemed in a mellow mood. To his surprise, Burrhead was very ready to give an answer: “Aye, the Stone’s up there right enough. I’ve seen it myself, though I don’t suppose that’ll happen much more because, if I have my way, we’ll stop the Midsummer trek.”
“Why?” asked Bracken tentatively.
“Owls and worms, two words you should get into your head, my boy. Owls is dangerous up there and worms is scarce. No point risking ourselves for some ancient ritual which no one but old stick-in-the-muds like Hulver can remember.”
“What’s the Stone like?” demanded Bracken, encouraged by his father’s unusual willingness to talk. And noticing that Aspen was listening too.
“It’s nothing, really,” said Burrhead, “just a stone. Well, a big stone. Tall as a tree, shoots straight up into the sky. It’s gray. It turns dark blue as night falls and then pitch black, blacker than night itself, except where the moon catches it and it’s silvery gray.”
So there were moments of stillness for Bracken in his burrow, when Aspen would talk to him and even
Burrhead would tell him things, and he was unmolested.
But as May advanced and Root and Wheatear gained in strength, such moments became rarer, and he had to use all his ingenuity to avoid being hurt in their rough-and-tumble fighting, which always had him as the butt.
There came a time, at the end of May, when Root would seek him out and deliberately intimidate him, trying to make Bracken raise his talons so that he would have an excuse to fight him.
“He started it,” Root would tell a despairing Aspen, faced once more by a bewildered, hurt Bracken.
As the days wore on. Bracken began more and more to spend time by himself, exploring away from his home burrow, finding he had farther and farther to come home again for sleep or worms. In this way he made his way to Barrow Vale one day, but found it too full
Many were traditional mole legends of which every system had its version; others were peculiar to Duncton and were usually set in the long-distant past, when the moles lived in the Ancient System up on top of the hill. She entered into the spirit of these tales to such an extent that she would often moan and weep as she told them, and Bracken, his head against her flank, would feel her breathing getting heavier and faster as she neared a climactic end, and for while he would forget his tears and the bullying in the drama of the tale.
He would enter into them as she did. His eyes perhaps half closed or affixed to some distant place beyond the walls of the burrow and soon he would be there, fighting to the death, weaving magic with his talons, facing the most dreadful dangers. Aspen loved to paint in the rich colors of her own whimsy the scene when the hero mole returns from his quest across the wood to fight owls, or outfox foxes, or find worms to save the system. This would move Bracken deeply, for he wished he might return home one day as his heroes did, to a snug burrow, warm with love, friendly and wormful. Wanted, not an outcast.
It was from these beginnings that Bracken’s fascination with the Ancient System grew, and when he ventured onto the surface, he would often stop and stare dimly up in the direction of the top of Duncton Hill far beyond his sight and hopes and wonder if he might ever climb there himself. One day Aspen told him about the Stone that was said to stand there, “though it’s a long time since anymole but the elders went up there, and then only at Midsummer and Longest Night. It’s probably just legend, but a nice one, don’t you think?”
The idea of the Stone fascinated him so much that he gathered his courage and dared ask Burrhead about it one day when he seemed in a mellow mood. To his surprise, Burrhead was very ready to give an answer: “Aye, the Stone’s up there right enough. I’ve seen it myself, though I don’t suppose that’ll happen much more because, if I have my way, we’ll stop the Midsummer trek.”
“Why?” asked Bracken tentatively.
“Owls and worms, two words you should get into your head, my boy. Owls is dangerous up there and worms is scarce. No point risking ourselves for some ancient ritual which no one but old stick-in-the-muds like Hulver can remember.”
“What’s the Stone like?” demanded Bracken, encouraged by his father’s unusual willingness to talk. And noticing that Aspen was listening too.
“It’s nothing, really,” said Burrhead, “just a stone. Well, a big stone. Tall as a tree, shoots straight up into the sky. It’s gray. It turns dark blue as night falls and then pitch black, blacker than night itself, except where the moon catches it and it’s silvery gray.”
So there were moments of stillness for Bracken in his burrow, when Aspen would talk to him and even
Burrhead would tell him things, and he was unmolested.
But as May advanced and Root and Wheatear gained in strength, such moments became rarer, and he had to use all his ingenuity to avoid being hurt in their rough-and-tumble fighting, which always had him as the butt.
There came a time, at the end of May, when Root would seek him out and deliberately intimidate him, trying to make Bracken raise his talons so that he would have an excuse to fight him.
“He started it,” Root would tell a despairing Aspen, faced once more by a bewildered, hurt Bracken.
As the days wore on. Bracken began more and more to spend time by himself, exploring away from his home burrow, finding he had farther and farther to come home again for sleep or worms. In this way he made his way to Barrow Vale one day, but found it too full
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