It was obvious. You should never take Rune at face value. Oh yes, Mekkins was right—never trust Rune. He had not been beaten, but had cleverly seized the opportunity presented to him by the appearance of so many Marshenders on the pastures to redeploy his forces, tired though they were, out of the pastures and down to the now defenceless Marsh End. For there, as he must have guessed, only the spring youngsters remained with a few of the older females— offering him the perfect opportunity to wipe out the next generation of Marshenders, and make their annihilation from the system so much easier… As for disease, well! they wouldn’t all be here if that story was true. Never trust that Mekkins!
Then Mekkins was running, with three of his strongest moles at his side, up on the surface and ignoring the owls… running across the pastures, down the slopes towards the Marsh End, with the other moles following behind. Running through the night with a terrible fear at his paws to spur him on, an icy coldness in his heart to keep him company. It was so obvious!
Down, down through the night, the warm air no comfort to their fur, down towards the Marsh End that lay below them still and strangely silent. Running on and down to the edge of the wood itself, and there stopping and listening for sounds, hoping that somewhere they would see a youngster who should be aburrow, a female who couldn’t sleep, some kind of Marsh End life. But there was nothing.
Then, creeping skilfully by secret Marsh End routes towards the tunnels themselves, and his terrible fear confirmed—for the sound of the deep bully voices of henchmoles could be heard in the tunnels where Marsh End youngsters had so recently run and played and females gossiped.
No good four of them attacking—best find out the worst. Creeping again by secret ways, looking for what they feared to find—the massacre of their youngsters. Henchmoles here and there but no bodies yet … and then to the central place, in and out of the shadows, fugitives in their own tunnels, seeking the sight that would make them fugitives for life. Were they all dead, all killed?
It was only after peering down into many tunnels that Mekkins and his three friends began to realise that there were no Marsh End youngsters or females here at all, dead or alive. Not a single one.
‘They’ve all gone!’ said Mekkins. ‘They’ve gone!’ And it was confirmed by a conversation they overheard between two henchmoles: ‘Bloody waste of time, this jaunt were. That Mekkins must have taken the whole pack of them on to the pastures, youngsters and all! Cunning little bugger, isn’t he?’
But ‘that’ Mekkins had done nothing of the kind. Mekkins crouched in the shadows as a sense of wonder and disbelief settled over him. They could not all have gone!
‘But they have!’ said one of the three with him. They checked again on the surface, down to the marsh edge, creeping silently along for fear of disturbing the henchmoles, peering into tunnel after tunnel and burrows when they could. But not a sign of life could they find. Just a few grumbling henchmoles in the deserted tunnels of Marsh End.
They stopped still again up on the surface, which was bright with the cold light of a nearly full moon. Out from the marshes came the call of curlew and snipe, calls which every one of the four had heard a thousand times and which they barely noticed. Leaves of oak and ash rustled gently above them, catching the moonshine. Mekkins looked about him in wonder and then, very slowly, his face and snout rose to point up towards the moon.
‘It’s nearly full strength,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Nearly full. You know what tomorrow will be?’ There was silence so he answered his own question: ‘It’ll be Midsummer’s Night, that’s what!’ He turned away from the marsh to face southwards, up towards the distant hill now sunk in wooded darkness, where the Stone stood waiting.
‘You know where youngsters go for Midsummer Night, don’t you? I think I know where ours have gone. They’ve not gone, they’ve bloody well escaped!’ Then he laughed gently with wonder and relief and added, ‘And I’ve got a damn good idea who’s leading ’em there!’
Rebecca had sensed something wrong in Duncton Wood two hours after Mekkins had left in the early evening with a band of Marsh End males and the stronger females to enter the pastures to try to help Brome. They had gone off amid excited chatter and cheering, eager to be a party to a possible defeat of Rune.
