The tunnels were like those in the pastures by Duncton Wood, sparse, long and straight, with relatively few burrows or side runs, but the impression they gave was very different. For one thing, the soil was richer and darker, and having an element of sand or gravel in it from some distant past when the river had deposited its alluvium this high up the valley side, it tended to soften and slide in places, giving the tunnels a discarded air. There was an untidy litter on some of the tunnel floors while what burrow entrances there were were untidy and unkempt.
Once or twice they heard and saw moles nearby, but there was no feeling of hostility or even curiosity about them, and they, too, seemed to be coming and going rather than stopping still.
‘There aren’t even any pup cries up here,’ observed Bracken to Boswell. ‘In fact, I haven’t seen or smelt a female yet.’
Boswell was content to follow Bracken, whose instincts in route-finding he trusted absolutely, and so they wandered from tunnel to tunnel, generally slightly uphill, occasionally calling out for Mullion, though they knew that they could always meet him back at the Stone again.
Being April, the nights were still cold and as nightfall began outside, a chill settled down into the tunnel. They had some food and then decided to press on uphill to any outer limit the tunnels might have, and there to sleep.
But then, as they advanced, Bracken began to grow restless, feeling that he was going somewhere definite, though where, he had no idea. He scurried on forward, only occasionally stopping to look around and check that Boswell was behind him and to let him catch up.
‘Have you noticed that the tunnel is suddenly getting tidier and neater?’ asked Boswell, limping forward to where Bracken was waiting for him on one of these slopes. ‘Somemole’s cleared the litter and shored up some of these crumbling walls,’ he added.
And as he spoke, there was a heavy tread in the tunnel ahead of them which stopped some way beyond in the darkness.
‘What mole is there?’ asked a strong, deep voice from the depths behind. It was neither friendly nor hostile.
They pressed forward until they came to a big central chamber in which several routes met, on the far side of which crouched a very powerful-looking mole. He was slim compared with a Duncton mole and his fur was light. He was enormously muscular and strong—the kind of mole whose size only tells when a normal mole goes near him, and whichever way he stands he seems to feel dwarfed.
His face fur was thick and dark-silvery, his eyes full of self-confidence. Bracken noticed that his back paws were unusually large and that he crouched full square on the ground, giving the impression that he was ready to spring into action at any moment.
‘What moles are you?’ he repeated.
But before Bracken could reply, his manner, until now quite neutral, suddenly changed. His big snout came forward towards Bracken and sniffed at him, his front paws pushed powerfully into the chamber floor as his eyes narrowed and his tail started to twitch angrily. There was a deep growling from his throat as, very slowly, he drew himself up to his full height.
Bracken stopped quite still, his mind racing after reasons for this sudden hostility. Not finding any but being unwilling to argue, he backed away towards the entrance through which they had come, pushing Boswell protectively behind him. Better to have it out verbally from a position in which it was possible to retreat.
‘I said what moles are you and where are you from?’ repeated the mole, more angry by the second.
‘I am Bracken of…’
‘Duncton Wood?’ roared the mole inquisitorially. ‘From Duncton Wood are you?’
He came powerfully towards Bracken, his size seeming to double with each forward step he took. And before Bracken could even say a word or raise his talons to defend himself, the mole was on to him and had thrust a paw just behind his shoulder and with one massive heave pulled him round into the centre of the chamber. For a moment the mole looked back at Boswell, snouted at him and then turned away dismissively, back to Bracken again.
‘I would know your smell anywhere,’ he thundered, bringing down a massive talon blow in such a way that it did not seriously injure Bracken but cut across his shoulder and hurled him backwards several steps. His power and speed were extraordinary and Bracken was still desperately trying to think what was happening when the mole brought his left paw swinging round and tore a talon’s cut along his flank. As Bracken staggered back, gasping and frightened, a line of blood appearing on his fur, he watched as behind the great mole Boswell hobbled forward bravely to strike uselessly at the mole with one paw. With a terrible backward kick the other mole sent his back paw shattering into Boswell’s face and he fell back against the wall behind and slumped across the entrance they had come in by.
