The Vole and the Vulture

There was once a vole, who lost everything. One afternoon, he was telling his litter of young a story about a bird who could teach rodents how to fly when a terrible rumble passed through their den. The four of them looked at him with shocked eyes, frozen in fear.

“I’m sure it’s n…”

As quick as lightning could strike, the walls to their den collapsed, and muddy water flooded in. The swirling current tumbled the five of them, and the young were torn from the vole’s white-knuckled grip with such force that a part of him worried that he had scratched their delicate skin. Still, he regained his composure and curled into a tight ball, waiting for the rapids around him to quiet before attempting to swim.

The vole had survived a flash flood like this before; he had managed to stay calm and save his energy for settled waters. He did the same this time, waiting for the gushing to become quieter.

When it did, the vole unfurled and kicked his legs rapidly, rising to the surface quickly and breaking it with a gasp. He looked around wildly for a sign of his family, but what he saw was far worse than he anticipated. The flood had run along the entire river, washing a great many animals onto a field miles away from the rivers source.

Fish twitched and rodents scurried in the mess left by the flood. An otter lay dead in the middle of the field, a wet bundle of fur. The vole soon found his children's bodies among the muck.

He pulled his children’s bodies from the water with care. Tenderly, he placed them on dry land and stared at them, willing them to show signs of life - but they were gone.

The vole sat with his loved ones, quite unable to leave their side. He sat resolutely as the rest of the survivors hobbled back to what remained of the river, and he was still as the nights descended, his thick fur failing to fend off the frigid air.

His head only lifted when the vultures came.

‘Nasty, selfish creatures,’ the vole thought bitterly as he watched the white, yellow-faced ghouls descend onto the dead.

One vulture buried its face into the stomach of the dead otter with reckless abandon. It pulled chunks of flesh from the carcass and guzzled them whole. The wake of birds’ plumage was soon stained deep red, and their beaks dripped ominously, each drop into the mud echoed a footfall of death itself.

Many hours passed, but the vole refused to move. He was determined to protect his family from the vultures’ greedy talons. They would not be reduced to dinner for full bellies.

Eventually, a vulture did approach the vole. They landed heavily and gazed down at him, sour-faced with scowling eyes.

“Why do you protect the dead?” the vulture asked, a rich, feminine voice leaking from her blood-stained beak.

“They are my family!” the vole screeched, shaking with fear.

“Family?”

“My young! My beautiful children…” the vole wailed, pulling the rigid bodies of his young closer and weeping.

The vulture was silent for a moment; she seemed to be thinking.

“They are dead; that is all,” she stated, not unkindly.

The vole bristled at her words, scowling up at the vulture with venom. Her deathly black eyes stared back openly.

Soon enough, the vulture flew away but continued to watch the vole from a high tree branch with looming curiosity.

There they stayed, fixed in their positions as time continued to pass. The vole did not dare seek food or water while the vulture cast her shadow over his family.

At night, they would trade a few words, every exchange starting with the same question.

“Why do you protect the dead?”

Sometimes the vole spat insults back; other times he tried to argue that it was his duty to guard his young in life and death, that if he allowed them to be eaten, it would be desecration.

“They are not sacred, only flesh,” the vulture would reply in her awful, silky voice.

As the nights wore on, the vole grew weaker. He was malnourished and so very tired. His small limbs shook as he tried to hold his position over his young’s bodies.

“You will die if you do not let them go,” the vulture said matter-of-factly.

“I know," the vole sighed heavily, "to be honest, I wish I was… To be without them is a worse fate.”

“Wasteful.”

More silence settled between the pair, the vulture still perched on her branch, and the vole still clutching the bodies of his young.

“Wasteful?”

“Yes. I will eat your young, whether you join them is up to you.”

The vulture’s words were cruel, but her voice betrayed a neutrality.

“Why can’t you just leave?”

“There is flesh here,” the vulture replied almost sadly.

The situation finally made sense to the vole. His days of protecting his children were over; his job was done. They were dead...and that was all.

“You’ll let me leave, before you consume them?” he asked defeatedly.

“I will.”

“Thank you.”

It was then that the vole remembered the ending lines to the story he was telling his young the day of the flood, the one about teaching rodents to fly. He whispered the final words of it to them.

“Carry their souls into the sky, until they can hold the stars…”

The vulture let out a breath.

“…and with me, they will soar,” the vulture finished, the comfort of her voice sinking into the vole.

He attempted to move then, but his bones protested.

“The first step is always the worst,” the vulture said softly. “Don’t stop once you have started.”

The vole took a deep breath before digging his claws into the mud; one step, then the next, each one lighter than the last, until he reached the river, and washed them clean.

The vole did not look back; he looked up. Where, sure enough, he saw the vulture soar into the open skies.

Moral: Holding on too tightly to the dead could result in you joining them.

A/N: This fable is a very dark one, but one I felt I needed to write. I hope the message shines through and brings peace. This is grief, and how nature can be so awful to snatch away the joy it once brought.

There's a few notes about this piece. One is that the vulture that features within it is an Egyptian vulture, but there are not any pictures of them on vocal! That's why my descriptions don't match. I wanted the vulture to have white wings: like angels.

I wanted the vulture to feel like a 'force' rather than an actual animal in this fable. To me, she represents nature, and how visceral death can be, but also how merciful.

Also, I mislabelled two fables and I skipped a number! This is fable 6/10!

-TWW