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Francis Has Been Fighting a War Against a Mole Recently
Not a fight. A war.
He took it dead seriously, for he had lived far too long not to know what deserved his full attention.
Fighting a mole was one such thing.
It started a month ago.
He had been crouching in his yard, enjoying the sun, when he noticed a new hole in the corner.
Round, dark, with a small pile of fresh earth at its mouth.
He stared at it for a long time.
“Who gave you permission to dig this?”
No sound came from inside.
He asked again.
Still nothing.
After a moment, he found a stone and blocked the hole.
The next day, the hole was open again.
The stone had been pushed aside, and the entrance was wider than before.
Francis stood there, looking at the hole, his expression complicated.
“You’re picking a fight with me, aren’t you.”
On the third day, he used an even bigger stone.
On the fourth day, the hole was open once more.
This time, two new holes had appeared beside it.
Francis fell silent for a very long time.
Then he turned and went back inside, pulling out a dust-covered book.
He had brought it back from Russia in 1812.
That winter had been unimaginably cold.
When he retreated from Moscow, the roads were littered with frozen bodies.
One man lay face down in the snow, clutching this book.
He knelt down and checked. The man was already stiff, but the book was intact.
So he took it.
He flipped through it later.
It was about siege warfare.
How to dig tunnels, fill trenches, besiege cities, break down walls.
The author was Vegetius, a Roman, writing about events from fifteen hundred years earlier.
He’d thought at the time: What use is this?
Now he knew.
II
Francis crouched in the corner, the book open on his knees.
“How did the Romans deal with tunnels…” he turned the yellowed pages. “Found it. Counter-tunnels.”
The book said: If the enemy digs tunnels toward you, dig down from above and cut them off.
He closed the book and glanced at the holes.
“Fine.”
He went back for a shovel and began digging next to them.
He dug all afternoon, making a pit half a meter deep.
The mole’s holes remained untouched.
He knelt inside the pit, stared at the holes, and thought for a long time.
“Did I dig in the wrong place?”
III
The next day, old Père walked by with his cane.
He stood on the hillside and looked down.
Francis was crouched in a pit, holding a book, his face covered in dirt.
“What are you doing?”
Francis looked up.
“Fighting a war.”
Old Père squinted for a long while.
“Fighting who?”
Francis pointed at the holes.
Old Père looked down at the holes, then at Francis, then at the pit.
“You dug that?”
“Yeah.”
“What for?”
“Counter-tunnels.”
Old Père was silent for a moment.
“Counter what?”
“Tunnels.” Francis held up the book. “The Romans taught me.”
Old Père stood there with his cane, his expression complicated.
He had lived more than eighty years and seen many strange people,
but this man crouching in a pit fighting a mole ranked in the top three.
“That book of yours,” he said. “Did the Romans teach you how to fight moles?”
“They taught tunnel warfare.” Francis said. “Same thing.”
Old Père thought for a moment.
“Did the Romans lose?”
Francis froze.
“Pardon?”
“The Romans,” Old Père said. “Did they win?”
Francis thought of Roman history.
They fought countless wars, won many, and fell in the end.
“They lost.” he said.
Old Père nodded and continued on his way.
“Then why are you still learning from them.”
Francis knelt in the pit, watching his back.
Strangely enough, that almost made sense.
IV
On the third day, Francis changed tactics.
The book said: When besieging a city, surround it and cut off their supplies.
He looked at the holes and thought it was a good idea.
That was what Caesar did at Alesia — built two walls, one to protect his own men, one to trap the enemy, starving the Gauls into surrender.
Seventy thousand, sixty thousand… all dead in the end.
He found several large stones and blocked every hole.
Then he crouched nearby and kept watch.
He waited all morning. No mole.
All afternoon. Still no mole.
As the sun set, his legs went numb.
He stood up to stretch, turned around —
and saw two new holes on the other side of the house.
Francis stood there, staring at the new holes.
He thought of Alesia.
Of the Gallic chief trapped inside who finally surrendered.
Vercingetorix, or something close. He forgot.
Either way, he’d been locked in a Roman dungeon and starved to death.
Just him. Just a mole.
The front line had already spread to the other side of the house.
He was silent for a very long time.
Then he went inside and slammed the book on the table.
“Vegetius, you liar.”
V
On the fourth day, Francis decided to think differently.
The book also said: If a siege fails, dig tunnels inside and attack the center directly.
He looked at the holes and thought that could work too.
That was what Vauban did when building fortresses — rows of bastions to keep enemies from digging in.
That was what Napoleon did — sent engineers ahead to dig right up to the enemy walls, then set off gunpowder and blow them sky-high.
He took a small trowel, chose one hole, and started digging inward.
Half a meter in, the tunnel turned.
He followed the bend.
Another half meter, and it split in two.
He stared at the two forks, thinking for a long time.
Left? Or right?
He chose left.
Half a meter more, and it split again.
Francis lay on the ground, staring at three openings, and fell silent.
Just how long had this mole been digging?
He thought of Verdun. 1916.
The Germans dug like this, the French defended like this, back and forth.
Seven hundred thousand dead, and no one won.
Lying there, he suddenly felt no different from those soldiers.
VI
On the fifth day, Francis had a new idea.
He crouched in the corner and spoke to the holes.
“Come out. Let’s talk.”
No movement.
“I know you’re in there. Come out and negotiate.”
Still nothing.
“If you don’t, I’ll pour water down the holes.”
The soil at the entrance twitched.
Francis stared at the hole.
A mole’s head poked out.
Small, black, two eyes fixed on him.
Francis stared back.
Man and mole held eye contact for three seconds.
Then the mole vanished back inside.
Francis knelt there, stunned for a moment.
Was that a refusal to negotiate?
He waited a while longer. No mole.
A little longer. Still nothing.
He stood up, went inside for a bucket, and fetched water from the well.
When he returned, a single wheat stalk lay at the hole — still muddy, stolen from someone’s field, no doubt.
He stared at it, thinking for a long time.
A bribe? A truce? Or mockery?
He picked it up and set it aside.
Then he set the bucket down.
VII
On the sixth day, Francis changed his mind entirely.
He sat on the doorstep, staring at the holes, thinking all morning.
He remembered many things.
1793, when the street he lived on was burned, everything he owned gone.
1830, the young man on Rue Saint-Honoré clutching a stone, eyes bright, later fallen in blood.
1848, the ones moving stones to build barricades, shouting, singing — all dead in the end.
1871, the people of the Paris Commune reading leaflets in taverns, then dead too.
1914, 1916.
He thought of trenches, shell craters, fortresses, defensive lines.
Of holes dug and filled, filled and dug again.
He had lived for over two hundred years.
He had seen too many people dig holes, and too many die in them.
Why did they dig? To win? To lose? To not die?
They all died anyway.
The holes remained.
He sighed.
“Come out.” he said.
No sound.
“I won’t fight you anymore.”
Still nothing.
After a moment, he took a piece of bread from inside, broke off a small part, and placed it at the hole.
A little while later, the entrance moved.
The mole’s head poked out, small, black, eyes on him.
Francis looked back.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
The mole didn’t move.
“You dig your holes. I’ll live in my house. No more fighting.”
The mole still didn’t move.
“If you agree, nod.”
The mole stared at him. After a long, slow moment — it nodded once.
Francis froze.
He hadn’t actually expected it to understand.
The mole picked up the bread and disappeared.
Francis knelt there, watching the hole, for a very long time.
VIII
After that, Francis never blocked the holes again.
When harvest came, he left a handful of wheat at the entrance.
The next spring, several wheat shoots sprouted beside it —
whether planted by the mole or grown by accident, he never asked.
The mole never asked where he stored his wheat, either.
Every morning, as he sat on the doorstep drinking coffee,
he sometimes saw the mole poke its head out, glance at him, then vanish again.
He never greeted it. Just watched.
One year, old Père died.
Another year, Mathilde died.
The people in the town turned over and over.
No one remembered when he had arrived.
Only the mole remembered.
In 1918, when news of the armistice came,
Francis sat in the yard all day.
That night, he found seven grains of wheat lined neatly at the hole.
He didn’t know what it meant.
Celebration? Something else?
He picked them up and stored them in a jar.
In 1945, when news of the war’s end arrived,
he sat there all day again.
That night, more grains. Five this time.
He stored those too.
IX
May 1968.
Francis went into town for bread and found the streets full of people.
Young people, students, holding signs, shouting slogans.
He didn’t catch exactly what — something about “love not war.”
He stood on the corner and watched.
A young man ran over and handed him a leaflet.
“Sir, do you support us?”
Francis looked down at the paper.
It said: Reject the old world. Build a new one.
He thought for a moment.
“Old world?” he said. “How old counts as old?”
The young man hesitated.
“It’s just —”
“As old as Rome?” Francis asked. “Or as old as 1812?”
The young man looked at him strangely.
“Sir, how old are you?”
Francis thought.
“Forgot.”
He handed the leaflet back and left.
Back in the yard, he sat on the doorstep and looked at the holes.
“Do you know what those people were saying?” he asked.
No sound.
“They say they’re building a new world.”
Still nothing.
He smiled faintly.
“I’ve seen seventeen new worlds,” he said. “They all got old.”
He took a piece of bread from his pocket, broke off a small part, and placed it at the hole.
The hole twitched. The mole poked its head out, looked at him, took the bread, and vanished.
The sun was warm.
The wind blew, carrying the scent of wheat fields.
In the distance, the town was still shouting. He couldn’t make out the words.
He leaned against the doorframe and closed his eyes.
X
December 31, 1999.
Francis sat on the doorstep, staring at the sky.
The church bell in town struck twelve.
Then someone set off fireworks.
Red, green, gold, bursting one after another, lighting up half the sky.
He watched them.
Someone walked up the hillside. A young man, with a sketchboard and a bottle of wine.
“Sir,” the young man said. “Happy New Year.”
Francis looked at him.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Jean,” the young man said. “My grandfather used to live here.”
Francis thought.
“Which Jean?”
“Jean,” the young man said. “The painter. He said he had a friend who lived here.”
Francis fell quiet for a moment.
“Is he dead?”
“Yeah. Thirty years now.”
Francis nodded.
The young man held out the wine.
“My grandfather said you taught him to paint.”
Francis took the bottle and looked at it.
“I didn’t teach him,” he said. “He taught me.”
The young man blinked.
Francis uncorked the bottle and took a sip.
“Your grandfather,” he said. “He was a good man.”
The young man nodded. He stood there, looking at the yard, at the holes.
“These holes,” he said. “My grandfather painted them.”
“I know.”
“The painting’s still hanging in my house.”
Francis said nothing.
The young man stood for a moment, then turned and left.
Francis sat on the doorstep, drinking wine, watching the fireworks.
One after another, blooming and fading, fading and blooming.
He remembered a long time ago, someone had shown him fireworks too.
Who? He couldn’t remember.
Only that the person had said: Beautiful?
And he had said: Yes.
Then that person died.
He took another sip of wine.
The hole moved.
The mole poked its head out —
whether it was the original one, or its child, or its child’s child, he couldn’t tell.
All the same: small, black, eyes on him.
He broke off a piece of bread and set it down.
The mole took it, looking at him.
“Happy New Year.” he said.
The mole vanished.
He stared at the hole, and suddenly remembered something.
He looked down at the bottle in his hand.
It said: 1999.
This was 1999.
So what about next year?
He thought.
The year 2000.
He had lived for thousand years.
When the thought struck him, he was stunned.
Two thousand years.
How many things had he seen? How many people? How many holes?
Too many to count.
Fireworks still exploded in the sky.
He leaned against the doorframe and finished the wine.
Far away, the bell rang once more.
A new year had come.