Duncton Wood by William Horwood

with what he was saying that she said nothing at all. It didn’t make much sense to him, come to think of it, so quite what he could expect Rebecca to say he didn’t know. But after all this time away from friendly moles – his only appearance at Barrow Vale in the last few moleyears had been at elder meetings – it was a pleasure to be talking to a mole who listened to him with affection. So young, so much to live through that he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – be able to help with. He thought of Bracken again suddenly, up there in his burrow waiting for his return. He remembered the sad fear in the youngster’s face as he left him there.
    “Do you know a mole called Bracken, from the westside?” he asked Rebecca. She shook her head. “A strange thing,” he went on, half to himself. “I was drawn over to a part of my tunnels which I had more or less abandoned by... well... a feeling. A ‘Rebecca kind of feeling,’ as I call them. And there was a mole, bold as you please. A youngster looking as if he was hardly weaned. Not much to look at, inclined to complain about his home burrow, also inclined to steal other moles’ worms. Be that as it may. Since Rebecca seemed to have led me to him, it seemed the least I could do Was talk to him, which I did, though I was tired.”
    Hulver did not elaborate. It occurred to him that the fewer who knew Bracken was still in his burrow, the better.
    “Please, Hulver, did you tell him the story about Rebecca, I mean your story?”
    “No, no, he wouldn’t understand. He was more interested in adventure and fighting and exploring the Ancient System. Oh, and in scribemoles, though I couldn’t tell him much about those!”
    “Well, I want to know about the Ancient System, too,” said Rebecca, pretending for a moment to be just a youngster who has to be humored. “And about scribemoles as well.”
    Hulver ignored the sudden childishness in her voice and continued to speak to her as he had already – as if she were an adult.
    “This Bracken,” he said. “There’s something about him... I don’t know what. Perhaps I’m getting old. I wish I was young again so I could help him...” He stopped, his snout lowered, and Rebecca wanted him to go on. He was trying to say something to her, but he didn’t know the words.
    She looked at his old face and watched the struggle for words go across it and understood suddenly, in the way that often comes to youngsters, a truth they are still too young to articulate. She understood that a mole, even a wise one, may often not know what it is he is trying to say and that one who is listening to him must help, by being silent, and by listening to the silence between the sometimes stumbling words.
    “This Bracken, he’s a strange mole. He has given me hope, but I don’t know why. He really isn’t much to look at at all and certainly doesn’t look as if he could defend himself. And yet... well... Rebecca...” He looked at her again, struggling for the words, caught between these two youngsters, unable to express the power and relief they unwittingly gave him. “Rebecca, sometimes you’ll find there are moles you can help who don’t seem worth the trouble. You wonder why you tried. They may be weak, or selfish, or stupid, or lazy. But you’ll find that if you give such a mole your help, or in other words your love, they will often repay you in ways you could never have dreamed of. That’s how the Stone works, do you see? That’s it. These moles will pop up years later and suddenly the mystery of why they crossed your tunnel, and came briefly into your life, is solved. And then you know that there are powers beyond yourself over which you have no control and before which a mole should feel awe. That’s something many moles have forgotten. Don’t you forget it. Never forget it!”
    He looked at her intently and she was wide-eyed before him and wanted, oh how she wanted... and she did! She went up to him and nuzzled him and