‘He defied her. He was always like that, from the moment she found him, it’s said. Nomole ever understood why she looked after him, for there was never a word of love spoken by Y Wrach. Not to him or anymole. Nor between them. They fought from the start and it’s said that the scars on her snout came from him, made then he finally left her.’
‘What did he do?’ asked Bracken.
Bran turned to Celyn and consulted with him. The two talked rapidly in Siabod for a while until finally Bran came closer to Bracken and Boswell, speaking in a low voice as if he was going to be overheard by the passionless slate walls of the tunnel or the empty depths about them.
‘He set off for Castell y Gwynt.’ Bran paused to let the words sink in before adding slowly, ‘That’s what he did, see. That’s what he did.’
‘But why?’ asked Bracken. ‘Why?’
Bran ignored his question, his gaze fixed on some image in his imagination as he continued. ‘He must have gone up through Cwmoer because that’s the only route to the upper slopes, up into the desolate place where Gelert the Hound lives. It was thought, until you told your story, that he must have been torn to death. But he must somehow have got through and then gone on up to the wormless heights of Siabod and on to the holy Stones of Castell y Gwynt.’ Bran paused and there was silence among them.
‘But why?’ persisted Bracken.
‘Why? What mole can say the true reason why a mole risks death where every other mole fears to go? The reason he gave, it is said, was that the Stone does not exist. There is no Stone. Therefore the Stones themselves mean nothing. He wanted to show that the Stone all moles worship and Siabod moles have always revered is nothing. He wanted at once to show how he despised our fears and mocked our belief. Remember, in those days before the plague, all moles were made to worship the Stone, but Y Wrach taught him not to, at least she told him to take no part in our rituals. But then Mandrake said, What Stone can exist when such suffering as was wrought by his own birth can exist? And after the plague came a lot of us came to see he was right, see?’
The thought hung about them, each considering it in a different way. For Boswell the answer was as simple and as peaceful as sitting still; for Bracken, who had seen plenty of suffering in his own time, it was a question he had never been able to answer. For Bran, it was not much worth thinking about. They could not tell what Celyn thought at all.
‘And she’s still alive, after so long?’ asked Boswell. ‘What is it that she’s waiting for?’ He asked it with compassion, looking not at Bran but at Celyn. Bran repeated the question in Siabod and Celyn answered it very softly.
‘Well?’ asked Bracken.
Bran laughed and shrugged. ‘He says that she thinks that Mandrake will come back,’ he said.
Bracken had never actually said Mandrake was dead and now was even less sure what to say. But Boswell got him out of the difficulty.
‘Take us to her,’ he said gently.
‘But we need to rest, to sleep…’ complained Bran.
‘Take us,’ Boswell repeated, saying the words to Celyn, who seemed to understand and got up to lead the way forward again.
The second journey consumed several molehours more and took them into tunnels whose size and appearance was more fearful than anything a Duncton mole could ever have imagined. The slate walls began to tower higher and higher above them, the floor to widen so broadly that it was sometimes hard to make out the far side. To keep a straight track they had to stay close to one wall, though that was difficult sometimes because the continual running of water down the walls had created great pools on the floor, which was made of slate flakes rather than soil. In several places great tunnels entered the one they were travelling down and there was the continual sound of the running of underground streams and even in one place of some subterranean waterfall. The quality of the echo became deep and sonorous so that even the smallest paw sound seemed made by a giant mole.
‘What moles burrowed these?’ asked Bracken in awe at one point, his voice echoing harshly into the distance.
‘Not moles,’ said Bran. ‘This is not the work of moles.’
In some places there were great chambers of slate, higher than a hill, taller than the biggest beech tree, and littered about the flat, lifeless floors were twisted, jagged shapes of rusting metal such as they had seen sometimes near where roaring owls ran. The air was chill with a death that had been dead many generations before.
‘She lives here?’ asked Bracken.
‘No, this is just a quick way to reach her when there’s too much wet on the surface above. But we’re nearly there, see,’ said Bran.
