This is a story from the days when the world was flooded by darkness and water, and all creatures wandered in the caves and the spaces below the surface of the world, lost and preyed upon by monsters and other things which lurked there. In those days the way of things and memory of the spaces above were kept in great songs, which the creatures sang amongst themselves in the shadowy places underground.

In those times, the greatest of the singers was Vagabond Mole, who went from place to place throughout the underworld, and fought many monsters and did mighty deeds to help the creatures in their time of need. All the while he did this he was looking for his brother, Black Serpent, who he had lost when the surface became flooded by the waters, and who he has yet to catch. And as he went he sang his traveling song.

Under rock and under hill
And under mountain shall I go
Notes above hear notes below
Listen to this song I know!

This was the song of Vagabond Mole that kept him safe against the monsters and lurking shadows, for he kept a powerful magic in his breath that spoke of dreams and sunlight and places above. His song echoed far and wide through the underground spaces where water dripped and silence lay as thick as dust, and the lurking things fled from it.

It is said that Vagabond Mole could summon the winds themselves into the darkness below the world; that his song could cause mushrooms and roots to grow, or create images and figments of imagination that tricked the eyes and other senses. Any creatures who heard his whistle in the tunnels flocked to it and knew it meant safety, for where Vagabond Mole went and whenever he lay down to rest, he would sing to the earth and the stones to shelter him. So moved were they by his music that they rose up around him, and glowing mushrooms sprouted to give him light. In this way, all those who followed Vagabond Mole found these places and were protected, and to this day we build wayhouses and keep their fires lit, to shelter those on the road.

But Vagabond Mole never remained still, never settled into one place. To any who asked, he said, “this is a place, but it is not my place, not yet. Perhaps there is no place for me, but I cannot know unless I look!” And with a wink he would travel on, into the darkness beneath the world, leaving behind himself a glowing trail of mushrooms lacing through the stone.

Such it was that Vagabond Mole was going along, humming to himself and chuckling and coming up with new snatches of tune, when he happened upon a great Well, a hole that descended deep into the uttermost darkness below the roots of the world. Peering down, he could make out little save strange shapes moving, like glowing eyes in the dark, and the sound of rushing water. Vagabond Mole was not so easily frightened, rummaging about in his pack for a bucket and a long length of rope; singing and traveling had given him quite a thirst. He licked his lips as he cast the line into the hole, eager for a cool drink. But no sooner had he done so when the stone beneath his paws shook, and the Well emitted a great and horrible sucking sound, pulling the all the air of the cavern into itself. With a yelp, Vagabond Mole was sucked in too! Down he fell, for long and long again, until with a great bumpathump he splashed into what seemed to be a great pool of water.

“Ho ho ho,” chuckled the walls, and Vagabond Mole felt the water slosh as the Well spoke. “Another joins me in the darkness. Welcome home traveler, for there is no leaving this place once I have drunk you up!”

Vagabond Mole felt around, and came upon a small rock onto which he pulled himself, wet and dripping. The strange and terrible eyes seemed to press close, but scattered as he pulled in a breath and whistled a sharp note. “Well met, my fine Well!” he said, and chuckled warmly, not at all perturbed. “I would be delighted to rest a spell, and share a tale or two. But then I must be on my way, for this is a place, as surely as can be, but it is not my place, and so I’ll be much obliged to be on my way.”

The Well merely rumbled with laughter. “Be that your way or no, but none leave here traveler. There is nothing that walks nor crawls nor flies who can escape my pit. Such is the way of it.”

Vagabond Mole nodded his head slightly in reply, shrugged, and hummed a bit of tune under his breath as his gaze caught on the bucket, which had come to rest near to where he sat. “Very well then, my friend. At the very least, let us toast our new friendship together! I came in search of a drink, after all.” And dipping the bucket into the water he lifted it to his lips and drank a long swallow down, smacking his lips in appreciation. “Your water is clear and cool, and I feel as if I could drink it nigh on forever! In fact, perhaps I shall, and then I shall have drunk all you have and more, Well! What say you to that?”

“There is no way you could drink more than I,” the Well replied, and the walls of the pit rumbled again, but this time with a menace that echoed through the dark. “I shall show you. You may try first!”

And Vagabond Mole laughed aloud, and bent to fill his bucket once again. The water tickled his whiskers, and he felt a slow current, and a plan came to him. For a current meant a hole, and a hole might lead him out. But he lifted the bucket and drank it down, then again he filled it and drank, and so he continued for nearly ten full buckets before he collapsed onto his rump. “Hah, this is too easy! Let us race then, for I shall drain all of this, before you even have a chance to begin!”

The Well shook with a dark glee. “Now you shall see drinking, traveler.” And it began to suck up air as it had before, roaring and rushing into its mouth. Faster and faster, until far above streams and rivers that flowed through the caverns were pulled from their course, and the water came tumbling down into the dark. But above the roar, Vagabond Mole struck up a drinking song.

Fill the cups, fill the bowl!
Drink long and deep to those who went
Before; the road is long and long
Our thirst is quenched by wine and song!

Vagabond Mole’s magic seeped out in the music, and down through the chilly water, and through the tiny, tiny crack that his whiskers had felt. And up through it sprouted mushrooms, tiny at first, but the roots crept and spread faster and faster. And they drank up the water at the bottom of the well, even as more and more poured down from above. And they drank and spread and burrowed into the cracks in the bottom of that Well, who drank all the faster as it felt the water draining away, until at last the stone at the root of the world groaned and cracked and gave way. And leaping to his paws, Vagabond Mole doffed his cap with a flourish as he brought his song to an end. “And with that, my friend, I must be on my way. Perhaps we shall cross paths once again!”

Off he burrowed, following the roots of the mushrooms up and away, and leaving the Well there at the bottom of all things, drinking and drinking and never filling no matter how hard it tries. So it goes even to this day, and this is why things are drawn down to the ground, and do not float up into the sky; it is the Well’s great thirst, pulling us down.

There was another time when Vagabond Mole was going along, singing in the dark below the world. Behind him the mushrooms spread and glowed dimly in the darkness; ever since he had broken the Well, the air hung thick and humid in the underworld, and the fungal roots clustered more thickly to his song. And as he went he spied a house of stones and clay, and all about lay scattered bones. Vagabond Mole licked his lips, and said, “Aah! Surely they will show me hospitality, and I am quite hungry.” So up he went, bold as anything, to the house surrounded by bones, and he knocked on the door; rappity raptap!

It creaked aside, and Vagabond Mole sniffed the air and stepped through into a warm space, with a bubbling pool that glowed with heat, and a table, and two chairs. Eager to rest a spell, he moved towards the chairs even as the door swung shut suddenly behind him, bang! And the house shook with laughter, and Vagabond Mole saw that he had been tricked, and had come into the lair of the Watcher. The hot, glowing pool was instead a panting tongue, and the table and chairs were hands and feet, as the Watcher had been curled up and waiting for passerby to come into its domain. And the wooden walls were the Watcher’s body, and the eyes in the grain were eyes for true; eyes that peered and glared and stared from all about now, fixing Vagabond Mole with their gaze.

“Now you are trapped, Vagabond Mole!” said the Watcher, for both had encountered the other before, always with Vagabond Mole escaping. “This time I have caught you, and you cannot get away while my gaze is upon you!” This was how the Watcher was, liking things to stay in one place, and not to change. It had always hated the way in which Vagabond Mole moved about.

Vagabond Mole merely sat down on the ground and held his hat in his paws. “Hello again, Watcher! If we are to sit here and be companions for a spell, perhaps you might share some food with me, and we can pass the time. And then I must be on my way, for this is a place as sure as any other, but this is not the place for me.” But he was met with only silence, and the piercing gaze of the Watcher. This continued for a while, until Vagabond Mole began to whistle a jaunty tune.

“Silence!” roared the Watcher, but Vagabond Mole burst into a dreamy melody at that, for he knew the Watcher could only keep him, watch him, for any move to stop him would change the way things were. So on he whistled and droned and sweetly sang, until the Watcher’s eyelids began to droop, and the notes called up images of stone and soil and sleeping stillness, peaceful thoughts to lull the Watcher to into sleep. And when the last of its eyelids fell with a heavy thump, Vagabond Mole hopped once more to his feet, and quick as you please had plucked out every one of the Watcher’s eyes.

The Watcher woke at once, howling in pain, but Vagabond Mole merely scattered the eyes about in great handfuls, and when the Watcher went to retrieve them he gave it a mighty kick to its backside, shattering it into many, many smaller pieces, the watchers of stones and seeds. And these he sent scurrying with the final chorus.

Out, out, away! Know no peace yourselves
But patience; in your solitude will things buried
Sleeping in the earth, understand that they
Are needed, and must not tarry!

And so the watchers were tasked with seeing to the slow and steady regard of things best buried, and the eyes of the Watcher became all the seeds in all the Isles, which seem so still but burst forth with all the life and growth the Watcher tried to keep hidden. Many of these seeds sprouted then and there, to give thanks to Vagabond Mole, and to listen to his songs. So off he went, munching on a piece of fruit, roots and vines and glowing fungus flowing along behind.

The tales of Vagabond Mole are many, for many are the deeds and songs that he did and sang as he wandered back and forth across the caverns below the surface of the world. And yet no matter how deep he went, no matter what he came across, there was always one place where he could not go, for it was barred to him by a great Gate, with doors shut fast and locked. There were many gates of course, but only one Gate - unmistakeable, for it filled the mighty cavern in which it sat from floor to ceiling and from wall to wall, and it took a creature half a day to travel from one hinge-post to the other. The Gate was wrought in a strange stone, and shone dimly in the bobbing lights of torch and mushroom-glow.

Here and there and back again had gone Vagabond Mole, always looking for his brother, always searching for his place, but never finding it. And it came to him that the place he sought lay beyond the Gate, that perhaps somehow Black Serpent had slipped through it. But how to follow him? For each time Vagabond Mole came to the Gate, he would say, “Hello, friend! Perhaps a new tale, a new song, in return for you allowing me to pass?” But for all his mightiest songs, the Gate only ever replied with one thing.

“I was tasked to keep shut, and shut I shall remain.”

So here and there and back again went Vagabond Mole, until at last he had gone everywhere within the underworld that there was to go, and all of it had bloomed in his wake with fungal root and twisting vine. And returning once again to the Gate, he asked once more, “My friend! Here I am, and for the last time, for there is nowhere else in all the caves below the surface to go. Will you not at last open, and show me the places beyond?”

“I was tasked to keep shut, and shut I shall remain.”

Vagabond Mole sighed from the tips of his whiskers to the bottom of his heart, and then began to sing.

Long have we wandered in this dark night
Home beneath the rock and stone,
‘Neath root and moss, our love and care strive for light,
Crack solitude to touch, and know we’re not alone

It was a song of openings, of tunnels and connections, of roots breaking through stone and shoots reaching upwards. And all around the mushrooms pressed close, and the vines grew up around him as Vagabond Mole sat down with his back to the Gate, settling down against the stone. “Then here shall I remain, friend Gate, until the time comes at last for you to open.”

And with that he passed into Dream, still singing, and the mushrooms and vines grew up all about him, listening so intently that the song passed from Vagabond Mole’s dreams into their roots, into their stems. And all throughout the caves deep below wherever Vagabond Mole had gone, his song echoed along the winds and flowed through the roots of his passing. Seeds sprouted, roots pushed and heaved, and all the underworld was full of green and growing things. The creatures who wandered there looked about in awe as stone and soil shook and gave way before bark and thorn, and great cracks split the ceilings of the caverns, full of pale and shining light. And all knew that their days of wandering below had come to and end, and with a strange and wonderful song echoing in their hearts they came together and climbed up, up up, returning once more to the surface of the world.

Far below slept Vagabond Mole, dreaming of a day when the Gate opens and allows him passage onwards to the place he spent so long in seeking. And there he sleeps still, we know, far far below the Isles; and yet his song still seeps upward, through root and through stem, the voice of Mycorzha whispering softly to us all.

Such is the way of it.