It was the chosen moles who sat in judgement on Bracken, Boswell present but not among them, and they did it in the chamber where the song had been sung and Skeat had died, believing that his spirit would guide them in their decision.
After Bracken had told them what had happened, as far as he could remember it, and one or two points of detail had been cleared up, there seemed nothing more to say at all, and they crouched in a deep silence which Bracken, in his guilt and before their calm, found almost unbearable. He would rather have faced the talons of Mandrake himself and accepted death there and then, than have faced the silent and tragic meditation of the scribemoles around him earnestly searching for a decision about his future.
Eventually, he, too, fell into a kind of trance and began to think of Skeat, of what little Boswell had told him and what little he had seen of him when they had talked. It was as he did so that an idea came to him, a suggestion, a possibility, that grew in his mind only slowly as light grows at dawn on a winter’s morning. He broke the silence around him with it, speaking it out almost before the thought was clearly into his mind:
‘There is one thing I could do, or try to do if the Stone would give me strength,’ he began, speaking in such a weak and broken voice that it was hard to hear him. There was a murmur among the chosen moles, and they looked up from their prayers at him.
‘Skeat said that Uffington has heard from all the seven major systems but one. He said what strength it would give all moles if here, in Uffington, you knew that the Stone was honoured in the last system—the system of Siabod, of which little is now known. Let me go there and seek to fulfil the dream that Skeat had. If I never come back, than at least I will have tried; and if I return with information, or can myself honour the Stone there, then give me no thanks…’ He bowed his snout and waited while his words sank in.
There was a chatter among the moles, and a voice said, ‘A fine idea, except that this mole, should he ever reach Siabod, and even more unlikely reach the Stones of Tryfan which are believed to stand by the legendary Castell y Gwynt, would bring no honour to the Stone. What he has done means that he can pray for nomole but himself.’
At this there was a murmur of agreement, and the light that had dawned in Bracken’s heart began to flicker and die away into despair again. Until, very softly, a voice broke through the murmurings, the voice of Boswell, and the others fell silent.
‘Then let me go with him,’ he said, ‘and if we reach this place called Siabod, I will speak the prayers of healing and forgiveness that Skeat, my former master, would have spoken, and I will call out the invocations of love through the Stone so that all will know that the Stone is honoured in every system, even after the plague has cursed all moles.’
As Boswell spoke, Bracken dared to look fully on him again at last, and felt the great power of his love, whose light and strength seemed capable of healing so much.
‘Let me go with him,’ repeated Boswell, ‘and surely the Stone’s will may be done.’
There was a silence as the chosen moles considered Boswell’s proposal and then the oldest one among them finally said:
‘Steyn rix in thine herte.’
‘Staye thee hoi and soint,’ chanted all the moles.
‘Me desire wot we none,’ said Boswell, stepping forward to join Bracken and to face the rest of the scribemoles.
‘Blessed be thou and ful of blisse,’ said the oldest mole, raising a paw to bless them and to give them the strength and forgiveness of the Stone. At which Boswell led Bracken out of the chamber and up through the tunnels to the main system of Uffington, and from there out on to the surface. Both knew the sacrifice they had made. For Boswell it was surely the end of his quest for the seventh Book and the Stillstone; for Bracken, the fear now grew into certainty that he would never see his Rebecca again, and the promise he had made in his heart so many times to return and protect her could never be fulfilled. They found a temporary burrow away from the main system and food, and when they had slept and were refreshed, they set off together northwards down the escarpment, veering off towards the dark northwest beyond whose dangerous distances the feared and unknown system of Siabod lay. Each leaving behind him the places and hopes they had cherished for so long.
By the time that Midsummer came round once more to Duncton’s Ancient System, the moles who had survived in it to burrow and mate and litter through the spring had formed a healthy and harmonious system. The tunnels they had recolonised smelt once more of the freshness of youth and echoed to the sound of growing litters and a laughter that would have brought a smile even to the faces of the sternest moles who lived there originally.
