Letters from the Underneath

She told me. She told me one should never answer when they first hear their name called out in the lonely dark. Never answer until you’ve heard your name spoke once and twice and thrice. I didn’t listen.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

I was born a mutt and a stray, and though the orphanage raised me tenderly, I longed to strike out and find my own community, my own family, my own space. There was a call for good and hardy dogs to apprentice under the tutelage of a tunneller. I answered.

Acclimating out of the sight of the sun and the breath of the wind, it was no easy thing. But I had the fortune to learn under a most able and wise mouse, my mentor in the craft of tunnelling. She taught me many things. She told me tales of the Hungry Earth. I admit I scoffed at that as so much fireside embellishment. Then, the Hungry Earth came for me.

I know. I know. There’s nothing so mundane as gravity doing what gravity does, making earth fall unto earth. But it’s different when you’re there. I heard it growl. I heard the rumble of its hunger. I saw the glee of its rocky jaws closing in on me with terrible agency. The tunnel collapsed. Cut off from my fellows and my mentor, I had naught but the glow of a dying handful of fungus to hold back the pitch blackness.

Then, the light went out. That’s when I heard my name.

“Copper?”

It was the voice of my mentor.

“Copper?”

But my mentor had instructed me to never answer my name in the dark, not until I heard it a fourth time. She said the things that might call your name with wicked intent usually don’t bother calling out more than three times. Usually.

It might’ve been on account of my terror. It might’ve been on account that nothing occasions a dog to perk up so much as hearing their name. I answered on the second call.

“I’m here! I’m here!”

Then I saw it. So pale that I could somehow see it dimly in the tar-dipped darkness. Smelled sickly sweet, like fruit that’d give if you but touched it. It had strangely shaped hands that were not hands, bent and folded over like a shepherd in prayer. So many sets of hands! And eyes and eyes and eyes!

“Copper?” it said in the voice of my mentor.

I ran from that pale shepherd. I ran and I whined and I yelped. Mandamnit, you would too! Eventually, I was found. Now, I don’t answer to my name no more. I don’t answer it to no one, no matter how many times they call it.

My Liege,

I pray this letter reaches you directly, rather than be caged indefinitely in the paws of an overzealous go-between. As you may know, I am a scholar — of no inconsiderable repute — specialized in the lore of the Underneath. I am concerned with our kingdom’s recent mass exploration and migration into the realms below.

I know my reputation is one of rantings and ravings regarding the dangers and horrors that lurk below, particularly in light of a positively manic display I made at a recent social gathering. I’m afraid I let my passions get the better of me after reading the recent journal entries of the dog formerly known as Copper, and I acted most inappropriately… but I digress. No, my more urgent concerns are for the life of the Underneath.

Regarding stepping into a new frontier, when we lead with industry rather than with learning, we have a tendency to trample our fellow creatures. There are entire civilizations down there, of lagomorphs, rodents, and more — entire, delicate ecosystems whose rules we simply do not yet understand. Seeing these strange wonders and only seeing new land to claim comes to the detriment of those who already have lives down there. I implore you to consider slowing down our deluge of delving into the Hungry Earth. Instead, send small expeditions led by learned scholars. Let us learn before we hew.

I realize my measured voice may be drowned out by the din of many. Yes, we could send in every treasure hunter, explorer, and merchant with a glint of greed in their eyes. We could fetch and fetch and fetch until our coffers hemorrhage with new treasures. We have the power to do all these things, with no regard for anyone who is not of our kind, but after all of that is done, if we looked in a mirror… would we see a good dog?

Ever your servant,

Aloysius Poodle

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