The Mole

Build a wall, call it a shelter. Tell a story, call it the truth.

There was, and there was not, a time when the Raven flew low along the edges of the city, where concrete met soil and stories rooted themselves in silence.

It was here, in the tangle between structure and earth, that she found the Mole.

The Mole worked beneath the foundations, digging tunnels to support what others had designed. Her paws were skilled, her mind sharp, her eyes unused. She was known in the Kingdom for her precision, her determination, her loyalty to the blueprint.

And she had heard of the Raven.

“You’re the one they whisper about,” the Mole said, without looking up. “The bird who abandoned the tightrope. Left mid-design. Caused complications.”

Her voice was flat, as if reading from a report.

The Raven landed softly nearby. “You know my name, but not my story.”

“I know enough,” the Mole replied. “The Grey Squirrel said you stirred dissent. That your version of the truth made others question what had already been decided.”

The Raven tilted her head. “Do you believe everything that comes from power? Did he say what was the purpose of the tightrope and how it was used?”

“I believe in order,” the Mole said, still digging. “In instruction. In progress. I do not have time for riddles or feathers.”

The Raven watched her move earth like a metronome. Methodical. Unquestioning. A body of rhythm, not reflection.

“You are building,” the Raven said gently. “But are you sure you’re building toward something real?”

The Mole didn’t pause. “I don’t build the vision. I follow it. That’s how foundations work. Someone draws the lines. I dig the path.”

“But what if the lines are wrong?” the Raven asked. “What if they were drawn to protect some truths while burying others?”

Now the Mole paused. Only for a moment. “That’s not my concern.”

The Raven sighed, a sound like wind through dry leaves. “It should be.”

She moved closer. From above, she could see the tunnel taking shape, cutting clean and deep through the soil. But just ahead, embedded like a forgotten truth, was a rock. Wide, solid, and unmoving.

“You’re about to dig into stone,” the Raven said.

“I’m following the plan,” the Mole insisted.

“And yet the ground shifts. Not all things follow the plan.”

The Mole stopped and lifted her snout. “Show me.”

The Raven stepped forward. With her beak, she scraped away the soil just enough to expose the smooth surface beneath.

“It won’t yield,” she said. “But if you curve your path here”, she motioned slightly to the left, “you’ll go around it. It will take longer, but the tunnel will remain true.”

The Mole stared at the stone, then at the new curve. She began to dig, carefully, thoughtfully this time.

When the path cleared, she rested. Her breath slowed. “The Grey Squirrel never mentioned this.”

The Raven gave a quiet nod. “Not everything he says is false. But not everything is truth, either. Myths have a way of serving the speaker.”

The Mole turned toward her. “I believed them. The stories about you. I thought you were unstable. Disruptive.”

“I was,” said the Raven. “But not in the way they told you. I disrupted a lie. I left a design that demanded silence in place of substance. I questioned what was labeled unquestionable.”

The Mole was quiet. She dug her claws into the dirt, feeling its cool weight. “Perhaps... perhaps the story was shaped to make me afraid to ask.”

The Raven nodded. “That is the oldest kind of architecture. Build a wall, call it a shelter. Tell a story, call it the truth.”

For a long while, the two sat in the unfinished tunnel. Above them, the Kingdom moved. Beneath them, the soil remembered.

Finally, the Mole spoke again. “If I keep digging, carefully, honestly, will you walk with me a while?”

The Raven opened her wings, but did not fly. “Yes. For a while.”

And so, beneath the surface where blueprints fade and memory clings, the Raven and the Mole worked side by side, reshaping the path not by force, but by understanding.

© 2025 Sarah Dooley. Story and images by the author. All rights reserved.