Boswell signalled to Bracken to move back into the shadows and not say anything as he advanced slowly on the ancient mole. He got nearer and nearer, but the mole did not seem to notice, muttering to himself and peering impatiently here and there among the books, turning over one or two half-heartedly and leaving them where they fell. Eventually Boswell made a discreet scratching noise to announce himself.
‘Yes, yes,’ said the old mole, ‘I’m coming. Can’t do everything, you know. Anyway, is it that important?’
He darted forward to an enormous book and started to pull it down, but its weight was too much for him to take it bodily off the surface. But it slid off on to him all the same and his tottering old paws struggled to keep in under control. Boswell stepped forward and relieved him of the book.
‘There we are!’ said Boswell. The old mole looked at him at last, peering at him with a frown. ‘I know you,’ he said.
‘Boswell,’ said Boswell.
‘Mmm, something like that,’ said the old mole.
Boswell stepped back a little and hesitated for a moment before saying, ‘Is it Quire? Are you Quire?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Quire. ‘Now what’s this?’ he muttered, peering at the book and then running his paw across its surface. He growled and grunted to himself and then stepped back, saying, ‘Here, you tell me. I’m losing my feel. Can’t even read any more. There was a time when I knew every book in the place by position alone, but since they changed it all round and then the plague came, it’s all gone to rack and ruin. I can’t keep it up all by myself.’
Bracken watched as Boswell examined the book. First he snouted rapidly over its surface. Then, for the first time ever in Bracken’s presence, he used his withered left paw positively. He swung it on to the book and, with a gentle caressing motion beautiful to see, ran the paw across the embossments on the book’s surface.
‘It’s the Avebury Hymnal, with an appendix of carols and lays,’ said Boswell.
‘No, that’s not the one. What I want is the Book of the Chosen Moles. You know…’
‘Linden?’
‘Do you know where it is?’ asked the old mole eagerly.
‘I know what it feels like,’ said Boswell, ‘at least I think I can remember.’ He snouted rapidly along the rows of books, muttering and twittering to himself, touching one book after another, half pulling out one or two, shaking his head, umming and ahhing and, it seemed to Bracken who had listened to their conversation without understanding a word of it, having the time of his life.
‘Got it,’ he announced finally, pulling another enormous book off the shelves. He ran his paw over it. ‘Linden’s Book of Chosen Moles, with additions by sundry paws,’ he read out.
‘Not before time,’ said Quire ungratefully.
‘Sorry,’ said Boswell.
‘You youngsters are all the same. Think you know it all. You wait till you’re as old as me and you’ll find nothing at all.’ He peered at Boswell again. ‘Where was it?’ he asked.
‘Where it always used to be.’
‘Damnation!’ said Quire, almost lifting himself off his paws with the violence of the word. ‘I can’t get used to the new system—always put books back in the wrong place now. I know you, don’t I? How did you survive the plague?’
‘I wasn’t here,’ said Boswell. ‘I’ve been away.’
‘Oh, yes!’ said Quire, seeming to remember but making it obvious that he didn’t. ‘Mmm. Which system?’
‘Duncton.’
‘One of the Seven! Did you get there?’
‘Yes,’ said Boswell, ‘I did.’
‘Good. Glad to have you back, especially since most of the scribemoles here went away during the plague or succumbed to it, and there’s hardly any left who know enough about the library to be much use to me. I remember you. Boswell, isn’t it? Should have told me before. Crippled but useful, as I remember. Where have you been?’
‘Duncton,’ repeated Boswell patiently.
‘Good. Glad to have you back,’ repeated Quire. ‘They’re in a bit of a flummox at the moment because there’s hardly enough moles to sing the Song and even though I offered my services to Skeat, he told me I was not chosen. So anyway, you can help me here…’
He seemed about to dragoon Boswell into work when three moles entered the chamber from one of the side chambers.
They snouted about, saw Boswell, and there was a moment of absolute stillness as everymole looked at each other. It was Boswell who broke the silence.
‘May the grace of the Stone be with you,’ he said. They relaxed a little.
‘And with thee,’ said one of the three.
They continued to look at each other.
‘I do not know you,’ said Boswell quietly, his voice echoing among the books, ‘but my name is Boswell. I have returned from a journey to Duncton Wood.’
One of the moles darted forward and snouted at him, turned round, and signalled to one of the others, who ran out of the entrance near where Bracken was crouching in the shadows. Soon several more moles joined them, none seeming to notice Bracken, who kept quite still as Boswell had told him.
