But what Rebecca wanted to know about most of all was the little rhyme about ramsons she had heard. ‘I couldn’t see what it could possibly mean,’ she said, ‘unless it was that you can only pick them at dawn when the stars have shone. But then… well… that would mean you could pick them at any season, and I’m sure that wouldn’t be right.’
‘Why wouldn’t it be right, my love?’ Rose asked the question quite seriously, the cheerful content in her face subtly replaced by an excited curiosity about what Rebecca had said.
‘Well, because there’s only certain times you can pick plants and herbs like ramsons—I mean, times of seasons. Looking at growing things, I’ve often thought that they weren’t exactly ready but I’m not sure ready for what.’
‘What mole told you there were only certain times?’ asked Rose, now quite serious.
‘Well, nomole exactly. My mother, Sarah, told me about some of the plants, and other, older moles told me names and rhymes and how you can use them for healing, but nomole said when to pick them. Well… the plants told me!’
Rebecca finally got this out with some difficulty; she had never thought about it before, though it had always seemed obvious enough to her. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she finally asked.
Rose looked at her for quite a long time, her head on one side. Then she said firmly, ‘It’s not obvious at all; in fact…’ But a blackbird hopped and scurried near her, seeming to break her line of thought. So Rebecca asked, ‘Well, what does that rhyme mean?’
Rose laughed. ‘It’s the flowers, Rebecca; they’re like lovely, white stars when they come out. Here, I’ll show you… ’ And she led Rebecca through the clumps of ramson to a plant in a dark part of the wood over which an oak branch had fallen so that its growth had been stunted.
‘Look!’ said Rose, pointing to the moist shadows by the branch. There, among the small ramson leaves, Rebecca saw a stalk with a cluster of white flowers whose pointed petals were sharp and bright against the gentle, pale green of the long leaves. Several of the flowers were withered, but one or two were still fresh and their smell strong.
‘You’ll often find in a clump of plants that one or two flower very late, or their flowers stay longer after the others have developed towards seed. Perhaps the sun doesn’t reach them, perhaps, as with this one, they are stunted by accident; or perhaps, like some moles, they just naturally take a long time to develop. Never ever pick those ones, my love, never ever. They’re very special. Their spirit has a special beauty.’
Again Rebecca wanted to ask why, but Rose turned away and went slowly back to where they had been sitting before, touching the stems of the bigger ramsons with her paws as she passed them. The subject seemed closed.
‘Anyway, you can see now what the rhyme means, can’t you?’ said Rose.
‘Yes,’ said Rebecca, but rather vaguely, because something had occurred to her. ‘Do stars look like that?’ she asked Rose.
It was a good question. Everymole knows that stars shine some nights, usually when the moon is strong. But, of course, moles cannot see them. It had never occurred to Rebecca to wonder what mole it was that had been able to see stars so that other moles knew about them with such certainty that they never questioned their existence.
Rose thought about Rebecca’s question for some time. Indeed, it prompted a whole series of thoughts in her mind far beyond the question itself. The fact was that, in a very short space of time, Rebecca had made a deep impression on Rose. She had liked her from the first moment she scented her hesitating beyond the undergrowth, uncertain whether to show herself or not. But liking is one thing, feeling awe is another. And that’s what Rose felt.
Rose had been a healer in the pastures and Duncton Wood for many moleyears past and had felt many times the great wonder of the life about her which she was sometimes graced to have the special power to cherish and preserve. She was loving and modest in her service to other moles, going to them when they needed her and expecting nothing in return. Some, however, would bring to her useful herbs which grew near their tunnels, while others would tell her the stories and tales that had been told them by their parents, knowing they delighted her. She loved to tell stories herself, especially to the youngsters in spring (when she noticed with a smile that many adults would stop to listen as well). But she never spoke about one mole to another or of Duncton Wood in the pastures—or the pastures in Duncton Wood. Such knowledge was her own and she never passed on the secrets of the moles she helped and healed.
