She awoke in a delicious summertime reverie, when each thought comes crystal clear but leisurely. She was aware of birdsong around her and the gentle buzz of flies and bees along the edge of the wood. The thought she was thinking was how curious it was that some parts of the wood seemed safer than others, carrying in their every plant and creature a greater sense of peace and calm. She had mentioned this feeling to other moles before now, but they looked puzzled and didn’t seem to understand what she was talking about.
Still, on a day like this, what did it matter what other moles thought? Indeed, it didn’t even matter much that she couldn’t find the wild garlic, because there were plenty of other things to experience.
She listened to a blackbird hopping impatiently about the wood’s floor, turning over this and that in search of grubs; she came upon a dusty little ants’ nest and, as once before, tried licking up one or two. They tasted horrible and she spat them out again.
‘Oh, well,’ she sighed happily, ‘if everything tasted nice, then nothing would taste nice, would it?’ And with this thought she wandered straight into the range of a strong, clinging smell that was not horrible and yet not exactly nice… but definitely attractive, and began to make her way hopefully towards it.
She would have pressed straight on, but stopped when she heard the quiet singing of a mole ahead of her amongst the undergrowth. There wasn’t any tune to the song, but it had a tune; there weren’t any words, either, but it had words; you couldn’t say the voice was much… but it was lovely to listen to.
In other places in the wood Rebecca would have backed carefully away, unwilling to risk attack, even if moles who sang songs were rarely aggressive. But here, in this part of the wood, on this particular August day, she had never felt safer. So she made a semi-burrowing noise to announce politely that she was about and then went cheerfully forward through the undergrowth from beyond which the singing was coming.
There, right before her, was the singer—and the ramson. A female was crouched with head on one side among a clump of tall green plants with long, floppy, oval leaves that curled and fell back on themselves. She was quite old, by the look of her fur, and as happy as anymole Rebecca had ever seen. Between snatches of song, she was sniffing the plants up and down, almost as if caressing them.
The mole, who did not seem to notice Rebecca, was smallish, the tall plants all around her perhaps making her seem rather smaller than she was. But her shoulders were sturdy and there was a great solidity about her that reminded Rebecca of an oak root poking out of the ground to which there is a great deal more than the eye can see or the snout scent.
‘Why, hello, dear,’ the mole said, without looking around, ‘I wondered how long it would be before you summoned up enough sense to come and introduce yourself.’
Rebecca started forward but the old female raised a paw to signal that Rebecca should wait where she was while she finished whatever she was doing with the ramsons.
‘It’s best for you to wait there while I do this. I’m just getting these ramsons used to the idea that I’m going to pick one or two of them. It might slow things down if you came here among them.’
She sang a little more, touched one or two of the stems, peered at them through wrinkled eyes, and finally said, ‘There, now! That’s all right! They’re almost ready!’
Finally she turned to Rebecca, who saw what she had already sensed, that her face was one of the kindliest and most sympathetic she had ever looked upon.
‘So they’re ramsons, are they?’ exclaimed Rebecca, finally unable to resist the temptation to run forward and sniff at the leaves and stem of the one nearest to her. The flowers, which were withered and nearly done, were too high for her to reach, though their scent was strong enough to smell without getting near. Even so, Rebecca noticed something curious. ‘It’s strange,’ she said, ‘how they smell more at a distance than close to.’
‘It’s not strange at all, as a matter of fact,’ said the other mole, coming over to where Rebecca was standing. ‘It’s inevitable. If you can understand why and believe it, then you’ll hold a secret in your heart for which many moles you meet will have cause to be grateful.’
Before Rebecca could ask what this mystery meant, the mole asked, ‘What’s your name, dear?’
‘Rebecca. Mandrake’s daughter.’
‘And Sarah’s child, if I’m not mistaken. Well, child, my name’s Rose.’
‘Oh, at last!’ exclaimed Rebecca. ‘Rose the Healer! They said you’d know about ramsons and lots of things like that, and here you are to tell me!’
Rose laughed gaily and Rebecca began asking questions so infectiously that Rose quietly settled herself down in a spot warmed by the sun, for she knew she would be asked a lot more before this young thing had done with her.
