Bracken relaxed when he heard all this, for the mole sounded old and good-humoured and unlikely to cause him harm. Still, feeling it is better to be safe than sorry, he took advantage of the noise the mole was making to sneak out quietly on to the surface again to wait and see who would come.
The muttering and humming continued and an occasionally heavy breathing of exertion, as the mole burrowed his way through Bracken’s block, until finally a snout appeared at the entrance, sniffing about the warm evening air.
‘Somemole’s here,’ he said loudly. ‘I can smell it.’ At which the snout disappeared back into the tunnel and there fell a deep silence. Bracken held his breath, waited for several minutes, and finally could stand it no longer. ‘Hello, I’m here,’ he said in as cheerful a tone as he could muster, ‘a youngster from the Westside.’ Silence.
‘I got lost.’ Silence. ‘I’m very sorry, really I am, but I thought your tunnel was deserted.’ Snuffling. Finally the mole spoke out from the dark tunnel.
‘It was deserted. I’ve not had time to come here for months. It’s merest chance’ (at this point the snout poked out of the tunnel again) ‘that I happened along at this particular moment.’
The mole’s head appeared—the head of the oldest mole Bracken had ever seen. ‘At least I think it was merest chance. I’m not sure that chance exists anymore.’
The mole emerged completely from the entrance and stood on spindly paws peering in Bracken’s direction. ‘By which I mean that I’m not anymore sure… if you see what I mean. Haven’t got a worm or two, have you?’ he asked abruptly, settling down with slow dignity and not saying another word.
Bracken, half hidden behind a fallen branch, came out a little and crouched down himself. The old mole evidently gave up hope of a worm from Bracken and asked the question moles traditionally ask of others on their territory: ‘Who are you and where do you come from?’ He asked it in a singsong, almost as if he wasn’t thinking about what it meant or expecting a reply. But he got one, all the same. ‘I’m Bracken from the Westside, exploring.’
‘Mmm, exploring! Very good.’ He dropped his voice a little and, in a stage whisper that Bracken thought might be sarcastic, said, ‘Haven’t explored out any of my worms, have you?’
‘Well, I…’ Bracken stuttered, because he didn’t like to admit he had done just that, yet didn’t want to tell a lie somehow. ‘Well, I could find you some worms in no time, I expect,’ he offered at last.
The old mole said nothing, but chomped his jaws together appreciatively and started to hum again. Bracken ran off busily to look for worms, pleased without knowing it to be doing something for another mole, even if the impulse was born of the fact that he had stolen some of the old mole’s worms. He rummaged happily under fallen branches and down an old tunnel he had seen, half dug and abandoned. He sensed that the other mole was not aggressive; indeed, he seemed positively friendly, and obviously wanted to have a chat. And that would be nice, thought Bracken: he might know something about the slopes that he wants to tell me. And the Stone.
Soon he had got six or seven worms together, enough for them both. He deposited four by the old mole and, as a mark of respect, bit their heads off so they could not escape, and sat down again. The old mole thanked him and crouched in silence, looking at the worms as if he was pondering something. Then he said:
‘Be with us, Stone, at the start of our feast.
Be with us, Stone, at the close of our meal.
Let no mole adown our bodies
That may hurt our sorrowing souls,
Oh no mole adown our bodies
That may hurt our sorrowing souls.’
The simple grace was over almost before it had begun and it so awed Bracken, so filled him with wonder, that he was shaken with silence. He had never heard a prayer before. He had never heard the Stone spoken to as if he were a friend at a mole’s side.
The evening fell about them and they ate their worms in silence, in great peace with each other. When the mole had finished the four worms, which he ate with slow relish, he stopped and cleaned his face and licked his paws.
‘That’s better. I am grateful,’ he said. ‘My name’s Hulver, by the way, and if I’m not much mistaken, your father is Burrhead from the Westside.’
‘Yes, that’s right. How did you know?’ asked Bracken.
‘He’s an elder, like me,’ explained Hulver, ‘and he’s mentioned you once or twice.’ Hulver leaned forward like a fellow conspirator and whispered, ‘He’s not pleased with your progress. You’re not nasty enough!’ Hulver laughed and Bracken decided he rather liked him, but still didn’t know what to say. He was in the presence of an elder he had heard of as the wisest in the system, so what could he say? Hulver fell into silence again, snout quivering in the blue evening light and slowly lowering on to outstretched paws as he contemplated nightfall.
