“He’s dead.” Jon-Tom’s voice turned accusing. “You killed him. At least, this place killed him.”
“Life killed him. Slain by dullness. Murdered by monotony. He did what comes naturally to all life. He decayed.”
“Decayed? You flourish amidst decay, don’t you? You thrive on it.”
“He calls this thriving,” mumbled another toadstool. “He went the way of all flesh, that’s all. Sure, we broke down his organic components. Sometimes I wonder why we bother. It’s all such a waste. We live for death. Talk about dull, man. It’s, like, numbsville.”
Jon-Tom turned and walked over to shake Roseroar, shoving hard against the enormous shoulder. “Wake up, Roseroar. Come on, wake up, damn it!”
“Why bother?” she murmured sleepily, eyeing him through half-closed eyes. “Let me sleep. No, don’t let me sleep.” The feeble plea hit him like a cry for help.
“Don’t worry, I won’t. Wake up!” He continued to shake her until she sat up and rubbed at her eyes.
He moved over to where Mudge lay sprawled on his side, kicked the otter ungently. “Move it, water rat! This isn’t like you. Think about where we’re going. Think of the ocean, of clear salt air.”
“I’d rather not, mate,” said the otter tiredly. “No point to it, really.”
“True true, true,” intoned the fungoid chorus of doom.
“I’ll get up in a minute, guv’nor. There’s no rush, and we’re in no ’urry. Let me be.”
“Like hell, I will. Think of the food we’ve enjoyed. Think of the good times ahead, of the money to be made. Think,” he said with sudden alacrity, “of the three days you spent at the Elegant Bitch.”
The otter opened his eyes wide, smiling weakly. “Aye, now that’s a memory t’ ’old tight to.”
“Useless, useless, useless,” boomed the a cappella ascomycetes.
“’Tis kind o’ pointless, mate,” said the otter. For an instant Jon-Tom despaired, fearing he’d lost his friend for good. Then Mudge sprang to his feet and glared at the surrounding growth. “But ’tis also one ’ell of a lot o’ fun!”
“Help Roseroar,” Jon-Tom ordered him, a great relief surging through him. He turned his attention back to their subtle, even indifferent, assailants.
“Look, I can’t help what you are and I can’t help it if you find your existences so depressing.”
“It’s not how we find them,” said the first mushroom. “It’s how they are. Don’t you think we’d change it if we could? But we can’t. This is life: boring, dull, unchanging, gray, depressing, decay …”
“But it doesn’t have to be that way. It’s you who let it remain so.” Unslinging the duar, he launched into the brightest, cheeriest song he could think of: John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High.” He finished with Rick Springfield’s “We All Need the Human Touch.” The gray sky didn’t clear, the mist didn’t lift, but he felt a lot better.
“There! What did you think of that?”
“Truly depressing,” said the toadstool. “Not the songs. Your voice.”
Eighty million mushrooms in the Muddletup Moors, Jon-Tom mused, and I have to get a music critic. He laughed at the absurdity of it, and the laughter made him feel better still.
“Isn’t there anything that can lighten your existence, make your lives more bearable so you’ll leave us alone?”
“We can’t help sharing our feelings,” said the second mushroom. “We’re not laying all this heavy stuff on you to be mean, man. We ain’t mean. We’re indifferent. What’s bringing you down is your own knowledge of life’s futility and your own inability to do anything about it. Face it, man: the cosmos is a downer.”
Hopeless. These beings were hopeless, Jon-Tom told himself angrily. How could you fight something that didn’t come at you with shields and swords and spears? What could he employ against a broadside of moroseness, a barrage of doubt?
They sounded so sure of themselves, so confident of the truth. All right then, he’d show them the truth! If he couldn’t fight them by differing with them, maybe he could win by agreeing with them.
He took a deep breath. “The trouble with you is that you’re all manic-depressives.”
A long silence, an atmosphere of consideration, before the toadstool inquired, “What are you talking about, man?” In the background a couple of rusts whispered to one another, “Talk about a weird dude.”
“I haven’t had that much psychology, but pre-law requires some,” Jon-Tom explained. “You know, I’ll bet not one of you has ever considered psychoanalysis for your problems.”
“Considered what?” asked the first mushroom.
Jon-Tom found a suitable rock—a hard, uncomfortable one sure to keep him awake. “Pay attention now. Anybody here ever heard of Franz Kafka?”
Several hours passed. Mudge and Roseroar had time to reawaken completely, and the mental voices surrounding them had become almost alive, though all were still flat and tinged with melancholy.
“… And another thing,” Jon-Tom was saying as he pointed upward, “that sky you’re all always referring to. Nothing but infantile anal-retentive reinforcement. Well, maybe not exactly that,” he corrected himself as he reminded himself of the rather drastic anatomical differences between himself and his audience, “but it’s the same idea.”
“We can’t do anything about it,” said the giant toadstool. “The mist and clouds and coolness are always with us. If they weren’t, we’d all die. That’s depressing. And what’s even more depressing is that we don’t particularly like perpetual mist and clouds and fog.”
Jon-Tom struggled desperately for a reply, feeling victory slipping from his grasp. “It’s not the fact that it’s cloudy and damp all the time that matters. What matters is your outlook on the fact.”
“What do you mean, our outlook?” asked a newcomer, an interested slime mold. “Our outlook is glum and miserable and pointless.”
“Only if you think of it that way,” Jon-Tom informed it. “Sure, you can think of yourselves as hopeless. But why not view your situation in a positive light? It’s just a matter of redirecting your outlook on life. Instead of regarding your natural state as depressing, think of the constancy of climate and terrain as stabilizing, reassuring. In mental health, attitude is everything.”
“I’m not sure I follow you, man,” said another mushroom.
“Me neither, mate.”
“Be quiet, Mudge. Listen, existence is what you make of it. How you view your surroundings will affect how you feel about them.”
“How can we feel anything other than depressed in surroundings like these?” wondered the liverworts.
“Right, then. If you feel more comfortable, go with those thoughts. There’s nothing wrong with being depressed and miserable all the time, so long as you feel good about it. Have you ever felt bright and cheery?”
“No, no, no,” was the immediate and general consensus.
“Then how do you know that it’s any better than feeling depressed and miserable? Maybe one’s no better than the other.”
“That’s not what the other travelers who come our way say,” murmured the toadstool, “before they relax, see it our way, and settle down for a couple of months of steady decomposition.”
Jon-Tom shivered slightly. “Sure, that’s what they say, but do they look any better off, act any more contented, any more in tune with their surroundings than you do?”
“Naturally they’re not as in tune with their surroundings,” said the first mushroom, “but these surroundings are …”
“… Damp and depressing,” Jon-Tom finished for it. “That’s okay if you accept it. It’s all right to feel depressed all the time if you feel good about it. Why can’t it be fun to feel depressed? If that’s how your environment makes you feel, then if you feel that why it means you’re in tune with your environment, and that should make you feel good, and secure, and confident.”
Roseroar’s expression reflected her confusion, but she said nothing. Mudge just sat
quietly, shaking his head. But they were thinking, and it kept them from growing dangerously listless again.
“Hey,” murmured a purple toadstool, “maybe it is okay to feel down and dumpy all the time, if that’s what works for you.”
“That’s it,” said Jon-Tom excitedly. “That’s the point I’m trying to make. Everything, every entity, is different. Just because one state of mind works for us ambulatories doesn’t mean it ought to work the same way for you. At least you aren’t confused all the time, the way most of my kind are.”
“Far fucking out,” announced one enlightened truffle from beneath a clump of shelf fungi. “Existence is pointless. Life is decrepit. Consciousness sucks. And you know what? I feel good about it! It all fits.”
“Beautiful,” said Jon-Tom. “Go with that.” He put his hands on his hips and turned a circle. “Anybody else here have any trouble dealing with that?”
“Well, we do,” said a flotilla of mushrooms clinging to a scummy pile of dead weeds near a small pool.
“Tell me about it,” said Jon-Tom coaxingly.
“It started when we were just spores… .”
It went on like that all through the night. By morning, Jon-Tom was exhausted, but the fungoid forest surrounding him was suffused with the first stages of exhilaration … in a maudlin manner, of course. But by and large, the group-therapy session had been wildly successful.
Mudge and Roseroar had recovered completely from their insidiously induced lethargies and were eager to set out again. Jon-Tom held back. He wanted to make certain the session would have at least a semipermanent effect, or it wouldn’t last them through the Moors to the Glittergeist.
“You’ve certainly laid a heavy trip on us, man,” said the large mushroom that served as speaker for the rest of the forest.
“I’m sure that if you hold to those thoughts, go with the flow, make sure you leave yourselves enough mental space, you’ll find that you’ll always feel better about your places in existence,” Jon-Tom assured it.
“I don’t know,” said the big toadstool, and for an instant the veil of gloom which had nearly proved lethal descended about Jon-Tom all over again. “But just considering it makes me more inclined to accept it.”
The cloud of despair dissipated. “That’s it.” Jon-Tom grew aware of just how tired he was. “I’d like to stay and chat some more, but we need to be on our way to the Glittergeist again. You wouldn’t happen to know in which direction it lies?”
Behind him, the shapes of three giant amanitas crooked their crowns into the mist. “This way, friend. Pass freely from this place … though if you’d like to join us in our contented dissolution, you’re more than welcome to remain and decompose among us.”
“Couldn’t think of it,” Jon-Tom replied politely, falling in behind Mudge and Roseroar as they started southward. “See, I’m not into decomposition.”
“Tell us about it,” several rusts urged him.
Worrying that he might be leaving behind a forest full of fungoid Frankensteins, Jon-Tom waved it off by saying, “Some other time.”
“Sure, that’s it, go on and leave,” snapped the toadstool. “We’re not worth talking to.”
“I’ve just spent a whole night talking to you. Now you’re bringing out new feelings of insecurity.”
“No I’m not,” said the toadstool, defensive. “It’s the same thing as depression.”
“Isn’t. Why don’t you discuss it for a while?” A rising mental susurration trailed in his wake as he hastened after his companions.
Word of the therapy session preceded them through the Muddletup. The intensity of the depression around them varied considerably in strength according to the success of Jon-Tom’s therapy. They detoured around the worst areas of despair, where the mental aura bordered on the comatose, and as a result they were never again afflicted with the urge to lie down and chuck it all.
Eventually the fungi gave way to blossoming bushes and evergreens. The morning they emerged from the woods onto a wide, gravelly beach formed of wave-polished agates and jade was one of the happiest of Jon-Tom’s life.
Pushing his ramwood staff into the gravel, he hung his backpack from the knobbed end, sat down, and inhaled deeply of the sea air. The sharp salty smell was heartbreakingly familiar.
Mudge let out a whoop; threw off his bow, quiver, pack, and clothes; and plunged recklessly into the warm surf. Jon-Tom felt the urge to join him, but he was just too damn tired. Roseroar sat down next to him. Together they watched the gleeful otter porpoise gracefully through the waves.
“I wish I had my board,” Jon-Tom murmured.
“Yo what?” Roseroar looked down at him.
“It’s a flat piece of fiberglass and epoxy resin. It floats. You stand on it and let the waves carry you toward shore.”
Roseroar considered, decided. “That sounds like fun. Do y’all think yo could teach me?”
He smiled apologetically. “Like I said, I don’t have my board with me.”
“How big a board do yo need?” Rising, she started stripping off her armor. “Surely not biggah than this?”
“Now, wait a minute, Roseroar. I thought cats hated the water.”
“Not tigahs, sugah. Come on. Ah’ll race yo to the beach.”
He hesitated, glanced up and down the gravel as though someone might appear on this deserted section of shore.
What the hell, he told himself.
The clean tropical salt water washed away the last lingering feelings of depression. Though Roseroar’s back wasn’t as even as waxed fiberglass, his toes found plenty of purchase in the thick white fur. The tigress’s muscles shifted according to his instructions as she steered easily through the waves with powerful arms and legs. It took no time at all to discover that surfing on the back of a tiger was far more exhilarating than plying the waves on a hunk of inanimate resin.
As the afternoon drew to a close, they lay on the warm beach and let the sun dry them. Clean and refreshed, Jon-Tom made a fire and temporary shelter of driftwood while Mudge and Roseroar went scavenging. Life in abundance clung to the shore.
The two unlikely hunters returned with a load of crustaceans the size of king crabs. Three of these—killed, cracked, and cooked over an open fire—were sufficient to fill even the tigress’s belly. This time Jon-Tom didn’t even twitch as he snuggled up against the amazon’s flank. Mudge curled up on the far side of the fire. For the first time since they’d fled Malderpot, they all slept peacefully.
VI
AS USUAL, MUDGE WOKE first. He sat up, stretched, and yawned, his whiskers quivering with the effort. The sun was just up and the last smoke fleeing the firepit. Something, some slight noise, had disturbed the best night’s rest he’d had in weeks.
He heard it again, no mistake. Curious, he dressed quickly and tiptoed past his still somnolent companions. As he made his way over a sandy hillock flecked with beach grass, he slowed. A cautious glance over the crest revealed the source of the disturbance.
They were not alone on the beach. A small single-masted sailing craft was grounded on the gravel. Four large, ugly-looking specimens of varying species clustered around a single, much smaller individual. Two of them were arguing over a piece of clothing. Mudge shrugged mentally and prepared to retreat. None of his business. What had awakened him was the piteous cry for help of the person trapped among the ruffians. It was an elderly voice but a strong one.
There was a touch on his shoulder. Inhaling sharply, he rolled and reached for his short sword, then relaxed. It was Jon-Tom, with Roseroar close behind.
“What’s happening?”
“Nothin’, mate. None o’ our business, wot? Let’s leave it be. I’m ready for breakfast.”
“Is that all you ever think of? Food, money, and sex?”
“You do me a wrong, guv’nor. Sometimes ’tis sex, food, and money. Then again at times ’tis—”
“Never mind,” said the exasperated Jon-Tom.
“Foah against one,” muttered
Roseroar angrily, “and the one looks none too strong. Not very gallant.”
“We’ve got to do something,” Jon-Tom murmured. “Mudge, you sneak around behind the trees off to the left and cover them from there. I’ll make a frontal assault from here. Roseroar, you …” But the tigress was already over the hill and charging down the slope on the other side.
So much for careful tactics and strategy, Jon-Tom thought.
“Come on, Mudge!”
“Now wait a minim, mate.” The otter watched Jon-Tom follow in Roseroar’s wake, waving his staff and yelling at the top of his lungs. “Bloody fools!” He notched an arrow into his bow and followed.
But there was to be no fight. The assailants turned to see all seven feet and five hundred pounds of white tigress bearing down on them, waving twin swords and bellowing fit to shake the leaves off the nearby trees. There was a concerted rush for the boat.
The four paddled like fiends and were out of sword range before she entered the water in angry pursuit, throwing insults and challenges after them. Mudge might have reached the boat with an arrow or two, but saw no point in meaningless killing or antagonizing strangers. As far as he was concerned, the best battle was the one that never took place.
Meantime Jon-Tom was bending solicitously over the exhausted subject of their rescue. He put an arm beneath the slim furry neck and helped it sit up. It was a ferret, and an old one, distant kin to Mudge’s line but thinner still. Much of the normally brown fur was tipped with silver. So was the black mask that ran across the face.
The stranger was clad in beige shorts and vest and wore sandals instead of boots. A plain, floppy hat lay trampled in the sand nearby, next to a small leather sack. Several other similar sacks lay scattered along the beach. All looked empty.
Gradually the elderly ferret’s breathing slowed. He opened his eyes, saw Jon-Tom, then looked around wildly.
“Easy, easy, friend. They’re gone. We saw to that.”
The ferret gave him a disbelieving look, then turned his gaze toward the beach. His eyes settled on the scattered leather sacks.