Barry the Mole
Barry the mole loved nothing more than burrowing far and wide. For as long as he remembered and knew, he had burrowed over most of the known mole world.
He had gone left as far as his little paws could carry him, and he was out of energy and needed a good snooze to recover for the journey home.
He had gone as far right as possible until he hit an object so solid his tiny paws became bloody with frustration as he attempted to claw through it in vain. That was a bad day for Barry, and he barely scraped his way home, hiding his beaten mittens in shame from the other moles.
He had burrowed down so far that the earth became heavy, laden with strange, unfamiliar substances that stuck to his fur and made further progress slow. It was warm that far down, and strange creatures lurking in the under-earth greeted him silently as he clawed past them. He stopped for a snack, exhausted from the effort and gobbled up a passing worm. It was paler than the worms he knew so well. It was chewy and bitter, not as succulent and sweet as the ones that wandered and wiggled past his home. As he munched, he heard distant disturbing noises around him and was filled with the first fear and trepidation he had ever known.
Even the solid object he had hit to the right was merely an obstacle to overcome. But this experience was something else. This was unsettling. Not wanting to linger any longer than needed, he swallowed another passing worm-like-creature scuttling above him whole. It stuck in his throat, and he felt it squirming down his gullet, trying to return to its oppressive dark home. Barry gulped hard and felt the work descend, sitting uncomfortably in his stomach while he pawed as fast as his claws could back upwards to safer and more familiar ground.
When he returned home, the other moles saw the look of distant fear on his face. And Barry being the bravest mole they knew, they asked what was wrong. He shrugged his tiny paws and shuffled back to the corner of the mole hill and slept, dreaming of what he’d seen.
After that adventure, he wandered less far and stayed closer to familiar ground. He showed the pups how to dig and passed on the wise subterranean knowledge of the moles. The braver pups would ask him questions. What lies above, they would ask. And he told them of the mostly harmless bipeds above whose food made tasty mole treats. What lay to the right, they asked, and he told them of the solid surfaces that denoted the end of the mole world. What lay to the left, they asked, and he told them of the wide expanse of fallow play ground. When they asked him what lay beneath, he paused. He changed the subject. He said there was nothing beneath and not to ask stupid questions. The pups would drum discontent and dare each other to dig. But they never did.
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