Townsend Vole

Townsend Vole

You slip off the beaten trail into a thicket of grasses so tall they whisper secrets above your head. Beneath a stalk stained pale by summer, the medallion glints, nestled at the base of a rotting log. You stretch down and touch it—and the grass hushes.

A tiny voice pipes up, crisp and matters-of-fact.

You look around. A vole no larger than your palm is perched on the log, legs pressed close, eyes bright with curiosity.

He stands tall, whiskers twitching. “Do be careful where you tread, human. These blades hold stories you can’t stamp out.”

You steady yourself. He clears his throat.

“I am Abramelin Townsend Vole. Yes—Abrasive name, I know. But my aunt long claimed it sounded scholarly.”

He waves a minute paw.

“You touched the medallion. Excellent. That means you listen. Do you know what happens if you gather them all?”

He frowns, tilting his head. “You stitch the world closed again. Or… unravel something tighter than silk. Depends how you hold the thread.”

You ask, “Why mammals? Why not birds or fish?”

Abramelin snorts. “Because mammals carry secrets in our bones. Fish forget in currents. Birds trade their stories with wind. We voles… we burrow. We store truths in tunnels. We remember.”

He scuttles forward, peeking into the grass.

“I once hosted a council beneath a rock. Met the porcupine, who spoke in riddles. Quite prickly character. And the raccoon—terrible at chess, I hear. Also verbose.”

He ponders silently.

“A little chaos isn’t threat—it’s antidote. Just like those medallions. You gather them, you’ll find out which side of chaos you’re on.”

Then, with a final thoughtful sniff, he darts down a narrow tunnel beneath the log—leaving only the rustle of grass and a faint echo of small, steady footsteps.