have come from Duncton, which is one of the Seven Systems,” replied Boswell. “To Uffington have we been bound these many long and troubled years. I am myself of Uffington. I am a scribemole. My name is Boswell and we will do you no harm.”
Then Spindle simply stared at Boswell, all his feigned aggression gone and replaced by a look on his face of pathetic vulnerability as if, after many years of being brave, he had finally admitted that he was much afraid, and much alone. His mouth trembled and his eyes filled with tears, and then he lowered his snout into his front paws and began to sob with such sadness mingled with joyful relief that tears came to the eyes of Tryfan as well.
After a while, his face fur now quite wet with tears, Spindle looked up and tried to speak, eventually managing to say in a whispery broken voice, “Are you really Boswell. The Boswell?”
Boswell nodded and smiled, and went forward and laid his paw on Spindle’s paw, and then briefly caressed his face.
“I have heard of you many times,” said Spindle, regaining his composure a little. “Oh yes, many, many times. And I have prayed that a mole such as you might still be alive, but I never thought, I never...” and once more his voice broke, and he wept.
“Well, now thy wait is over, good Spindle, and thy fear can be at an end,” said Boswell gently. “Thy loneliness is no more and it will never return.”
Tryfan listened in silence, for Boswell spoke with power and respect and the gentleness of one who heals another.
Poor Spindle, who had been so determined a moment ago to defend the Library against them, now seemed to lack the courage even to look into Boswell’s eyes.
“This is a mole of very great courage and strength,” Boswell whispered to Tryfan. “We are well met and the Stone’s will is done.” And in that moment, with Boswell’s voice powerful about them, Tryfan knew that somehow the task he was to be given was inextricably bound up with Spindle, and so he too went forward and touched paws with him, as if only by touching might all three affirm that they were really together and well met.
Spindle finally said, “You see I have waited for your coming, though I did not imagine it would be Boswell himself who would come. I said — “And there was still a slight sob in his voice. – “I said to the Stone after the scribemoles were killed or snouted, ‘I’m asking you to send me help. You promise to do that and I’ll stay and do what I can.’”
“What did the Stone say?” asked Boswell.
“Not a lot,” said Spindle so naturally that Tryfan wanted to laugh and cry at the same time in sympathy. “Nothing to tell the truth. Dead silence in fact.”
“So why did you stay?”
“Nowhere else to go. I’m a mole from the south side of Uffington and we used to serve the scribemoles. Most of my system perished with the plague and the few who survived that were killed by the grikes. Nomole left to tell me what to do. And anyway...” He looked up for the first time... I knew the Stone was listening though there was silence. I knew somemole would come. I trusted the Stone to do things right,” he said simply. “And here you are! Better late than never!”
“I think you have much to tell us, Spindle, and there is no better place to tell us than in the ancient Library. So lead us there and on the way show my young friend Tryfan how you made the sound of an army of moles.”
Spindle rose up again and led them back the way he had come. As he passed a curious carving in the tunnel wall he rasped his talons over its indentations and around them the sound of mole started, an army of moles, paws a-marching.
“Clever, eh?” he said.
“Er, yes,” Tryfan had to agree.
“Scared the living daylights out of me first time I discovered it,” said Spindle shortly. “They call it dark sound. All the moles of old could make such scribing, and we have the classic text on the subject, and that’s survived at
Then Spindle simply stared at Boswell, all his feigned aggression gone and replaced by a look on his face of pathetic vulnerability as if, after many years of being brave, he had finally admitted that he was much afraid, and much alone. His mouth trembled and his eyes filled with tears, and then he lowered his snout into his front paws and began to sob with such sadness mingled with joyful relief that tears came to the eyes of Tryfan as well.
After a while, his face fur now quite wet with tears, Spindle looked up and tried to speak, eventually managing to say in a whispery broken voice, “Are you really Boswell. The Boswell?”
Boswell nodded and smiled, and went forward and laid his paw on Spindle’s paw, and then briefly caressed his face.
“I have heard of you many times,” said Spindle, regaining his composure a little. “Oh yes, many, many times. And I have prayed that a mole such as you might still be alive, but I never thought, I never...” and once more his voice broke, and he wept.
“Well, now thy wait is over, good Spindle, and thy fear can be at an end,” said Boswell gently. “Thy loneliness is no more and it will never return.”
Tryfan listened in silence, for Boswell spoke with power and respect and the gentleness of one who heals another.
Poor Spindle, who had been so determined a moment ago to defend the Library against them, now seemed to lack the courage even to look into Boswell’s eyes.
“This is a mole of very great courage and strength,” Boswell whispered to Tryfan. “We are well met and the Stone’s will is done.” And in that moment, with Boswell’s voice powerful about them, Tryfan knew that somehow the task he was to be given was inextricably bound up with Spindle, and so he too went forward and touched paws with him, as if only by touching might all three affirm that they were really together and well met.
Spindle finally said, “You see I have waited for your coming, though I did not imagine it would be Boswell himself who would come. I said — “And there was still a slight sob in his voice. – “I said to the Stone after the scribemoles were killed or snouted, ‘I’m asking you to send me help. You promise to do that and I’ll stay and do what I can.’”
“What did the Stone say?” asked Boswell.
“Not a lot,” said Spindle so naturally that Tryfan wanted to laugh and cry at the same time in sympathy. “Nothing to tell the truth. Dead silence in fact.”
“So why did you stay?”
“Nowhere else to go. I’m a mole from the south side of Uffington and we used to serve the scribemoles. Most of my system perished with the plague and the few who survived that were killed by the grikes. Nomole left to tell me what to do. And anyway...” He looked up for the first time... I knew the Stone was listening though there was silence. I knew somemole would come. I trusted the Stone to do things right,” he said simply. “And here you are! Better late than never!”
“I think you have much to tell us, Spindle, and there is no better place to tell us than in the ancient Library. So lead us there and on the way show my young friend Tryfan how you made the sound of an army of moles.”
Spindle rose up again and led them back the way he had come. As he passed a curious carving in the tunnel wall he rasped his talons over its indentations and around them the sound of mole started, an army of moles, paws a-marching.
“Clever, eh?” he said.
“Er, yes,” Tryfan had to agree.
“Scared the living daylights out of me first time I discovered it,” said Spindle shortly. “They call it dark sound. All the moles of old could make such scribing, and we have the classic text on the subject, and that’s survived at
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