A strange thing happened to Rebecca as she asked this question. As it hung in the air between them, she saw very clearly that it was a question impossible for Rose to answer. Perhaps it was because Rose was not trying to answer it that she saw this; perhaps it was also that she understood instinctively that Rose knew there were stars, even though she had never seen one. In that moment, Rebecca understood something quite different from what she had been asking about, that there are a lot of things moles can only come to know for themselves. Why, she had thought she knew all about treetops when she ‘saw’ one, but, of course, she didn’t! ‘Why, they really are majestic and powerful, just as I thought they were when I was a pup!’ she exclaimed to herself. It didn’t matter what stars looked like—Rose knew they were there and perhaps one day she would really know it, too.
‘Oh, I wish I could answer your question,’ exclaimed Rose, ‘but there are so many things that a mole can’t explain. You see, if you tried to explain to most moles about plants talking to you, they…’
‘I have, and they didn’t,’ sighed Rebecca. ‘I’ve given up trying!’
‘Well, it’s like that with most important things. A mole will come to know things if he’s going to, and no amount of talking about it will make him understand if he’s not going to. And even if he or she is going to get to know something, it’s no good trying to hurry the process up—it happens when it’s meant to and there’s nothing you or I can do about it. Well, perhaps we can encourage it sometimes.’
Rebecca liked talking to Rose because she talked to her as an equal. She made her feel that she wasn’t just a youngster who hadn’t mated yet. She made her feel that her paws were firmly on the ground.
‘Now,’ said Rose firmly, ‘I really must finish these ramsons off. You sit there quietly and listen if you like. You’ll want to ask questions, I wouldn’t wonder, but you won’t get any answers from me while I’m talking to the plants.’
Rose’s eyes twinkled with affection at both Rebecca and the ramsons and she re-entered the clump of wild garlic and began her strange enchanting song again. Her voice went gently up and down, in and out, as if weaving and winding among the stalks and leaves of the ramsons like thin wisps of mist among the trees on an early summer’s morning.
Gradually Rebecca noticed that she seemed to be talking to two or three plants in particular and though Rebecca couldn’t see that they looked different from the others, they definitely were, in some way. They seemed more… more… there.
Suddenly Rose’s words became more distinct and Rebecca heard her singing:
‘Wild flower, kind flower,
Petals for the sick;
Wild plant, kind plant,
A healing for the ill.
Leaves for the sorrowful
And stem for the sad,
Bless them with your essence
And their bodies will be glad.’
As Rose sang these words, she picked a stalk from each of the plants she had been concentrating on, touching the rest of each plant gently with a paw. Then she brought the stalks over to where Rebecca was and placed them on the ground by her.
‘All over, all done,’ she said, yawning. ‘Oh, I am tired today!’ Then she told Rebecca, ‘Now, don’t you forget about picking plants at the right time, although you already seem to know something about that.’
But before Rebecca could ask herself if she did know something about it, Rose continued: ‘And never pick too many, because you won’t need them. The less you use, the further they go—that’s why you can smell them better from further off than near to.’
‘But I don’t understand what you mean at all,’ said Rebecca, ‘or what you meant before when you said…’
Once more Rose didn’t let her finish. Instead she laughed and said, ‘Now, Rebecca, my love, you take “understand” right out of your vocabulary as quickly as you can and then you’ll understand all the faster. I don’t understand anything myself, my dear, not one single thing. Well, of course, I do, so that’s silly. I understand that when you pick plants you must get on and use them, otherwise you’ll lose so much.’
‘I don’t understand again…’ sighed Rebecca. Rose didn’t seem to answer any of her questions. ‘What do you mean, Rose?’ she asked finally.
‘That’s better! What I mean is that generally when plants are ready to pick, they’re ready to use, which is what I’ve got to do with these now. There’s a mole that needs me in Duncton and I really only came here just to pick these and take them with me.’
By now it was mid-afternoon and the wood had a warm, sleepy air about it. There was little birdsound, for with the passing of spring and early summer, their calls and songs had died away, leaving only the trills and whistles of yellowhammer and greenfinch along the woodland’s edge. Sometimes, as now, the distant harsh call of a crow would come cawing through the wood high above their heads, making it seem vast and roomy in the summer stillness.
