Duncton Wood by William Horwood

mean. Haven’t got a worm or two, have you?” he asked abruptly, settling down with slow dignity and not saying another word.
    Bracken, half hidden behind a fallen branch, came out a little and crouched down himself. The old mole evidently gave up hope of a worm from Bracken and asked the questions moles traditionally ask of others on their territory: “Who are you and where do you come from?” He asked it in a singsong, almost as if he wasn’t thinking about what it meant or expecting a reply. But he got one, all the same. “I’m Bracken from the westside, exploring.” “Mmm, exploring! Very good.” He dropped his voice a little and in a stage whisper that Bracken thought might be sarcastic, said “Haven’t explored out any of my worms, have you?”
    “Well, I...,” Bracken stuttered, because he didn’t like to admit he had done just that, yet didn’t want to tell a lie somehow. “Well, I could find you some worms in no time, I expect,” he offered at last.
    The old mole said nothing, but chomped his jaws together appreciatively and started to hum again. Bracken ran off busily to look for worms, pleased without knowing it to be doing something for another mole, even if the impulse was born of the fact that he had stolen some of the old mole’s worms. He rummaged happily under fallen branches and down an old tunnel he had seen, half dug and abandoned. He sensed that the other mole was not aggressive; indeed, he seemed positively friendly, and obviously wanted to have a chat. And that would be nice, thought Bracken: he might know something about the slopes that he wants to tell me. And the Stone.
    Soon he had got six or seven worms together, enough for them both. He deposited four by the old mole and, as a mark of respect, bit their heads off so they could not escape, and sat down again. The old mole thanked him and crouched in silence, looking at the worms as if he was pondering something. Then he said:
     
“Be with us Stone at the start of our feast
Be with us Stone at the close of our meal
Let no mole adown our bodies
That may hurt our sorrowing souls
Oh no mole adown our bodies
That may hurt our sorrowing souls.”
     
    The simple grace was over almost before it began and it so awed Bracken, so filled him with wonder, that he was shaken with silence. He had never heard a prayer before. He had never heard the Stone spoken to as if he were a friend at a mole’s side.
    The evening fell about them and they ate their worms in silence, in great peace with each other. When the mole had finished the four worms, which he ate with slow relish, he stopped and cleaned his face and licked his paws.
    “That’s better. I am grateful,” he said. “My name’s Hulver, by the way, and if I’m not much mistaken, your father is Burrhead from the westside.”
    “Yes, that’s right. How did you know?” asked Bracken.
    “He’s an elder, like me,” explained Hulver, “and he’s mentioned you once or twice.” Hulver leaned forward like a fellow conspirator and whispered, “He’s not pleased with your progress. You’re not nasty enough!” Hulver laughed and Bracken decided he rather liked him, but still didn’t know what to say. He was in the presence of an elder he had heard of as the wisest in the system, so what could he say? Hulver fell into silence again, snout quivering in the blue evening light, slowly lowering down onto outstretched paws, contemplating the fall of night.
    Bracken’s mind was in a whirl – the prayer had left him feeling very strange and, as far as he was concerned, it hung magically in the air about them, making everything beyond it seem dim and unclear. He felt lost in his thoughts, literally lost, for he couldn’t find where among them he actually was. The old mole crouched before him as if he were one of the trees, or a plant growing or the soil, part of the whole thing that seemed around him contained in the prayer. He was finally dragged – that’s what it felt like –