At the same time she slept more, sometimes drifting in and out of sleeping and waking as a scatter of dandelion silk rises and falls on a warm evening wind in September. As the days went by, she seemed to say less and less and to smile more, and round her came a peace that descended even on Violet, whose normal ebullience grew quieter and gentler when she was near Rose.
Comfrey had quickly overcome his initial wariness of Rose and, together with Violet, he would spend long hours with her as she told them tales and legends of the system. Violet liked the dramatic ones, with heroes and villains dashing about from tunnel to tunnel, while Comfrey preferred to hear Rose tell stories of the flowers and trees, whose lore and mysteries held him spellbound.
Rose began each of her tales the same way—‘From my heart to your heart I tell this tale, that its blessing may touch you as it has touched me’—and Comfrey would snuggle down, while Violet looked all expectant as the magic of the story wove them into its fabric.
Although Rebecca was not aware of it, it was almost unknown for a mole to enter Rose’s burrow, and word quickly got about among the Pasture moles that ‘that Rebecca from Duncton must be very special, because Rose the Healer lets her inside her burrow. Inside!’
They were right to remark on it, for to Rose, Rebecca was very special. She had seen the power for life in Rebecca from the first, and valuing it as she did, understood better than any mole, better even than Mekkins, how near to a death of spirit the murder of her litter by Mandrake had brought her.
Even in Rebecca’s care of Comfrey, which could hardly have been more tender and loving—and now, in her acceptance of Violet—even now Rose could see that Rebecca had lost much trust in life. Sometimes there was a far-off sadness in the way Rebecca caressed Comfrey, or a sudden frailty in the laughter that had once always been so full and free.
So Rose opened her burrow to Rebecca and the youngsters, knowing that with the Stone’s grace, Rebecca might find again some of the life she had lost touch with. Rose did not waste time or breath on regretting what had happened. She had known since their first meeting that Rebecca would be a healer, and she knew that healing can only come from a heart that has seen the dark as well as the light. She feared that for Rebecca there was more to come, far more than she herself had ever known, and she silently prayed that the Stone would help her give to Rebecca the strength and trust to find her way alone when she, Rose, was gone.
It was for this reason that Rose was insistent that the youngsters should, for a period every day, leave her together alone with Rebecca—indeed, she made sure that the more friendly of the Pasture guardmoles, who still hung about, took Violet and Comfrey under their care and kept them occupied.
These were times of talk and silence, times in which Rose imparted to Rebecca her knowledge of herbs and healing lore and a trust in the Stone—a time in which there continued inside Rebecca the healing that had started with her communion with Bracken on Longest Night, in the silence of the Stone.
She taught Rebecca by instinct rather than by design, for her mind was as delightfully illogical as her burrow. Rhymes and sayings, thoughts and words, ideas and laughter, all came at their own pace and in their own way, and Rebecca was barely conscious that she was learning anything. Like the old flower rhyme that Rose taught her one day to illustrate the herbs that give a burrow a nice, long-lasting scent, and which Rebecca only discovered she remembered many moleyears later:
Germander and marjoram,
Basil, meadowsweet,
Daisy-tops and tansies,
Fennel with burnet;
Roses in August,
Lavender in June,
Maudlin and red mint—
None will go too soon.
They talked about a thousand things, but what Rose most put into Rebecca’s mind were seeds of thought to grow, rather than finished plants to fade. And she waited for Rebecca to ask the questions.
‘Rose?’
‘Mmm, my love?’
‘How do you know how to help a mole when you think he needs help?’
‘You don’t know, my dear. You never know. You may have an idea but you don’t know. No… you see, they tell you. What you have to learn is to understand what they are trying to say, because if there’s one thing certain, they won’t know themselves! In fact, Rebecca, one of the burdens healers have to bear is most moles’ inability to say what it is that’s wrong with them. Mind you, if they knew—really knew—then there probably wouldn’t be anything wrong.’ Rose crouched in silence, Rebecca letting the words sink in. Then Rose added: ‘The best way to start is to touch them gently with your paw just as you touch Comfrey when he needs comforting. Touching tells you far more than words ever can.’
