they’ve gone?” asked Spindle, looking worried.
“Get Boswell to safety,” said Tryfan, speaking almost as if Boswell was not there.
Boswell had settled down and was examining his worn talons and toothing them clean, first this way and then that, as calm as ever in a crisis in which he could do nothing.
“Humph!” was all he observed as the other two discussed his safety.
But when darkness fell, and the pawfalls above petered out and were replaced by a strengthening wind, he said suddenly, “Is there a moon up, and if so what is it?”
Tryfan went to look.
“High,” he said. “The Solstice will very soon be on us. Tomorrow or the next day. Hard to make out the moon clearly, but the light’s enough to see the nearest Stone.”
“We’re nearly finished here then,” said Boswell, sounding pleased. “Very nearly now, Tryfan.” And the way he looked at Tryfan, with compassion and with love, sent a pang through the young mole’s heart, and the premonition he had of a future separated from Boswell came back to him.
“We’ll get you to safety,” he said hunching his shoulders aggressively. “When it’s safe we’ll leave southwards, away from Uffington, away from the grikes.”
“No Tryfan, we will not. Your future lies northwards. And yours, Spindle, yours too. Now sleep both of you and I will wake you when the time is ripe. Soon now, very soon...” And his voice was soothing and sleep-making, and the two moles, tired from the grim excitements and discoveries of the past few days, slipped into slumber, the one weak-looking, scholastic and physically uncertain; the other powerful and sure, his fur good and his face maturing now into that of a mole who might in time be a leader of moles of the Stone.
Unseen, Boswell watched over them, his eyes kindly and concerned, and a silence came to their refuge, deep and good. At last, when the two moles were asleep, Boswell whispered prayers and invocations, and quietly left them to go out on the surface.
The moon, which had been masked earlier, was clear now, but occasionally high cloud drifted across it, too thin to obscure it, but making a halo that seemed to encircle the sky above where Boswell crouched.
About him the stonefields stretched out dark in the night, but the taller standing Stones caught the moon’s light, their sides pale and green and rising against the sky and stars. Grass stirred softly and was still; then stirred again.
Far below, near where the river ran in the darkened vale, an owl shrieked briefly, and another answered it, far away. There was movement in the grass across the vale, and then it was gone, and Boswell sighed. Far, far away, slowly, a roaring owl crossed the vale in the night, its eyes bright for a moment before it turned away, its gaze sweeping some trees, then shining for a moment towards the sky before the gaze and the moan of its call was gone. Grass stirred nearby again.
“Mole,” he whispered, and then, more softly still, “Mole. Yes, yes, mole. Your time is come.” And the moon’s light was on old Boswell, and his fur was white.
He turned, and limped back as if he carried a great burden, and then he reached the burrow leading to the chamber and went below; while on the surface the Stones seemed hushed and reverent, turned in a way towards the place where he had been. The wind veered, whispered change, and from somewhere near or far, there was laughter of mole, young and joyful and....
... And Spindle stirred. Turned in his sleep, snouted up as if some dream was waking him and then stretched out again as Tryfan, the stronger in waking, moved closer to him in the sleeping, and seemed more protected by Spindle than his protector. And then, when they were still again, Boswell took out the seventh Stillstone and laid it on the chamber floor before them and its light came and was on them all.
“Tryfan! Spindle! Wake now, wake.”
They woke as if they had never been asleep, and looked in awe at the Stillstone,
“Get Boswell to safety,” said Tryfan, speaking almost as if Boswell was not there.
Boswell had settled down and was examining his worn talons and toothing them clean, first this way and then that, as calm as ever in a crisis in which he could do nothing.
“Humph!” was all he observed as the other two discussed his safety.
But when darkness fell, and the pawfalls above petered out and were replaced by a strengthening wind, he said suddenly, “Is there a moon up, and if so what is it?”
Tryfan went to look.
“High,” he said. “The Solstice will very soon be on us. Tomorrow or the next day. Hard to make out the moon clearly, but the light’s enough to see the nearest Stone.”
“We’re nearly finished here then,” said Boswell, sounding pleased. “Very nearly now, Tryfan.” And the way he looked at Tryfan, with compassion and with love, sent a pang through the young mole’s heart, and the premonition he had of a future separated from Boswell came back to him.
“We’ll get you to safety,” he said hunching his shoulders aggressively. “When it’s safe we’ll leave southwards, away from Uffington, away from the grikes.”
“No Tryfan, we will not. Your future lies northwards. And yours, Spindle, yours too. Now sleep both of you and I will wake you when the time is ripe. Soon now, very soon...” And his voice was soothing and sleep-making, and the two moles, tired from the grim excitements and discoveries of the past few days, slipped into slumber, the one weak-looking, scholastic and physically uncertain; the other powerful and sure, his fur good and his face maturing now into that of a mole who might in time be a leader of moles of the Stone.
Unseen, Boswell watched over them, his eyes kindly and concerned, and a silence came to their refuge, deep and good. At last, when the two moles were asleep, Boswell whispered prayers and invocations, and quietly left them to go out on the surface.
The moon, which had been masked earlier, was clear now, but occasionally high cloud drifted across it, too thin to obscure it, but making a halo that seemed to encircle the sky above where Boswell crouched.
About him the stonefields stretched out dark in the night, but the taller standing Stones caught the moon’s light, their sides pale and green and rising against the sky and stars. Grass stirred softly and was still; then stirred again.
Far below, near where the river ran in the darkened vale, an owl shrieked briefly, and another answered it, far away. There was movement in the grass across the vale, and then it was gone, and Boswell sighed. Far, far away, slowly, a roaring owl crossed the vale in the night, its eyes bright for a moment before it turned away, its gaze sweeping some trees, then shining for a moment towards the sky before the gaze and the moan of its call was gone. Grass stirred nearby again.
“Mole,” he whispered, and then, more softly still, “Mole. Yes, yes, mole. Your time is come.” And the moon’s light was on old Boswell, and his fur was white.
He turned, and limped back as if he carried a great burden, and then he reached the burrow leading to the chamber and went below; while on the surface the Stones seemed hushed and reverent, turned in a way towards the place where he had been. The wind veered, whispered change, and from somewhere near or far, there was laughter of mole, young and joyful and....
... And Spindle stirred. Turned in his sleep, snouted up as if some dream was waking him and then stretched out again as Tryfan, the stronger in waking, moved closer to him in the sleeping, and seemed more protected by Spindle than his protector. And then, when they were still again, Boswell took out the seventh Stillstone and laid it on the chamber floor before them and its light came and was on them all.
“Tryfan! Spindle! Wake now, wake.”
They woke as if they had never been asleep, and looked in awe at the Stillstone,
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