Boswell lowered his gaze to the floor, his normally peaceful face troubled with Bracken’s feelings of being excluded, which, of course, he was. Perhaps, though, what had happened to Medlar was something he could explain. Surely it would do no harm.
‘Medlar has gone to a place which is to the west of Uffington Hill where the Silent Burrows are. It is not far, perhaps two miles at most, and it is connected to Uffington by a tunnel.’
‘What happens there?’ asked Bracken.
‘Well, that’s hard to explain. Nothing really. Nothing at all. There are special burrows there in which certain moles, only a very few, choose to live and rarely leave. In fact, the entrances are sealed up and they stay there in silence.’
‘What for?’ asked Bracken, incredulous.
‘Because they have reached a point where the only way forward is sitting still. Do you remember what Medlar used to say about the importance of doing that?’
‘Is that what he’s doing now, up there?’
Boswell nodded.
‘But how does he stay alive?’
‘Other moles bring him food. It is an honour to serve a silent mole. At some time all novices take their turn in serving them.’
‘What about fouling the burrow?’ asked Bracken.
‘They use two burrows. One of them is cleaned out by the other moles. But, in fact, it is not a problem. After a while, a silent mole eats less and less and the process seems to purify him in a strange way.’
‘When do they come out?’ Bracken wanted to know next—he had never heard anything so extraordinary in his life.
‘Nomole can say. Some can only bear it for a few days, though that is very rare, for the preparation is careful. Medlar, for example, has been preparing for this for many moleyears, probably without realising it, although his case is unusual since he comes from outside and is not a scribemole in the normal way. Others, in fact most, stay in the Silent Burrows for at least two moleyears, often very much longer. Some choose never to emerge again and one day, when no movement has been heard for a full moleyear, and when no food has been taken, the Holy Mole orders that their burrow should be honourably sealed.’
‘But what do they do?’
‘Pray. Meditate. Forget themselves. Learn something of the glory of the Stone.’
‘What about the ones who come out?’
‘What about them?’
‘Well, what happens to them?’
‘They continue to live ordinary lives. You have already met one: Quire was in the Silent Burrows for ten moleyears. But do not think his forgetfulness is as a result of that—he is very old now and, for all his bad temper, much honoured.’
‘Do all scribemoles go there?’
Boswell laughed. He had never heard Bracken ask so many questions all at once.
‘No, very few. It requires great strength and simplicity. Medlar is probably the only one there now, and I think it is significant that he is not a scribemole. As Skeat has said, we live in a strange time when traditions are changing. I do not know if a nonscribemole has ever been in the Silent Burrows before, but I do not see why they shouldn’t. Getting close to the Stone is not a prerogative of the scribemoles only, as my journey to Duncton has shown me.’ He was referring to moles like Mekkins, Rebecca and Bracken himself who, in his opinion, had much to teach scribemoles. Hadn’t he learned much himself from them, and had he not still so much to learn?
Boswell yawned, scratched himself, snouted this way and that and finally wandered off to his burrow to sleep. Bracken scouted around for some food and then returned to his own burrow to sleep, his mind full of images of moles in silent burrows. Uffington was a strange place, and he was not sure he liked it much. Well, he had done his bit and come here and thanked the Stone. The Holy… Skeat had blessed him, and Rebecca as well. His half-sleeping mind transmuted the image of silent burrows into one of the burrows he and Rebecca had found under the buried part of the Duncton Stone and he remembered them lying there together, touching and caressing, the light of the Stillstone all over the place, and he smiled, for nothing seemed more pleasant or comfortable. But then, as half-dreams often will, the image slid into something more fearful as he saw Rebecca in a silent burrow alone, waiting through the long moleyears, waiting and waiting, and he wanted to go to her now and take her protectively to him; as he wanted her now, in this strange place, where he was alone with Boswell. Tears wet his face fur, but the sudden pain of their separation was so strong in his mind that he did not notice them.
‘Protect her,’ he whispered. ‘Protect her until I can return and protect her myself. ’ And with this prayer to the Stone in his heart he fell asleep.
Nomole is so strong or unfeeling that it does not suffer a time during a prolonged period of endurance when courage begins to fail and spirits sag.
