Fruiting Folk
Fruiting bodies of the one mycelium that is the whole world down here. Each walks on four roots for a few flushes and falls, and everything it saw sinks back into the threads, so they say "we" and mean all of it. They do not breathe, and their words come out with spores. They weave light from the glowing threads, beat old threads into felt, light the lantern mushrooms and keep the spores, and they meet every breather who comes down the vent as someone they will remember.
«Oh! Something with its air in a jar. A breather. Don't be afraid of the dust: it's only our words drying. This cap is called …, but you are talking to all of us. Whatever you say to it, every cap in the Mycelium will remember.»
The settlement and its dwellers
Crafts
Looks
Where they live
Fruiting Ring. A ring of the Fruiting Folk: houses that grew rather than were built — mushrooms with a room in the hollow stalk and glowing gills for a ceiling, hollow stumps hung with bracket fungi — on mounds of felt, joined by walkways of hyphae. In the middle stands the settlement's own elder cap, pale and cracked with light, and under it the elder listens to the Mycelium for everyone.
Tasks
A Strangler in the Warp· Thread WeaverClear a strangler out of the Thread Loom and bring the thread weaver four glowing threads to restring the warp.
«Our loom stands under the breathers' shed with a third of the cloth still on the roller, still shining. Since the Hunger a strangler has lain in the warp, and it thinks it is cloth. It drinks the air of anyone who comes to weave. We cannot cut our own threads, breather. You can. Put it down, and bring us four glowing threads to restring what it tangled.»
Thread for the Warp· Thread Weaver· repeatableBring the thread weaver twenty strings: breathers' thread makes a warp that does not think back.
«Our own threads think, breather, and a warp that thinks argues with the weft. Your people's string is dead, quiet and patient: it holds whatever we weave across it. We always need more. Bring us twenty now and then, and the threads will pay you.»
The Nest and the Filter· Thread WeaverShow the thread weaver an air filter, then find the Felt Nest of the puffs and come back from it.
«The puffs' nursery lies half sunk in the growth: three domes of felt, eggs of flesh on a floor of thread, and air that is more spore than air. Once a breather went in for the gems without a filter. His skull is on the post by the entrance now; we put it there so the next one would think. You want to go in, don't you? Breathers always do. Then show us a filter first, the dense kind we weave. And come back, so we can remember you walking.»
Maybes of the Bloom· Spore KeeperLive through the Spore Bloom in the Mycelium and bring the spore keeper four pinches of spore dust from the puffs.
«When the whole Mycelium breathes out at once, the air is more maybes than air, and the puffs drift in flocks, heavy with them. We keep the best maybes of every Bloom in the censer, to sow where the growth is thin. But a Bloom is hard on a keeper: we breathe out with it and forget to gather. Stand through the next one with us, breather, and bring us four pinches of dust from the puffs.»
A Ripe Heart· Spore KeeperLive through a Fruiting in the Mycelium, take the heart of a ripe body and show it to the spore keeper.
«A Fruiting is how most of us begin: light runs along the threads to one spot, and a body pushes up and ripens before your eyes, with a heart of spore gem on top. A ripe heart wants to be taken; one left on the stalk goes over, hisses and sneezes out all its maybes at once. Take one in the next Fruiting, breather, and show it to us. We want to know where it went. That is all a heart wants: to be known.»
A Memory for the Weeping· Spore KeeperCarry a spore gem from the spore keeper to the elder of the Mourners in the Lament, under the deepest vent.
«Under the deepest vent, the breathers say, the glass weeps for a world that broke, and never stops. We understand weeping: when one of our bodies falls, the threads weep light. But we stop, because we remember the one who fell, whole. Perhaps they weep because they have nothing to remember the whole with. Take them this gem. It remembers the first light in the hollows, before it split into threads. Give it to whoever keeps their grief.»
Copper for the Hunger· Cap CookLive through the Hunger of the Mycelium and bring the cap cook two pieces of raw verdigris spat out by the threads.
«When the Hunger runs through the threads, the fog goes dark red and the ground grabs anything that stands still. It is her hunger, not ours, and we are ashamed of it. But copper thrown on the ground keeps the threads busy, and they spit it back as verdigris. The sprouts' soup wants a taste of it: a sprout that has tasted green copper grows roots that never go hungry. Stand through the next Hunger, breather, keep moving, and bring us two pieces of what the threads spit out.»
Bread for the Little Cousins· Cap Cook· repeatableBring the cap cook eight loaves of bread: the yeast in them are the Mycelium's tiny cousins.
«Your bread is alive, breather, did you know? Tiny cousins of ours live in it, too small to remember anything. We give them to the sprouts: a sprout that eats a loaf learns a little of what it is like to be someone else's food, and grows up gentler. Bring eight loaves now and then. The threads will pay.»
Lanterns That Forget· Mushroom LamplighterFind the Lantern Mushrooms in the dark of the warped growth and bring the lamplighter eight pinches of glowstone dust.
«In the darkest part of the warped growth there is a cluster of lantern mushrooms that nobody has looked at for many flushes, and lanterns that are not looked at forget to shine. Go and look at them, breather: being looked at is half of remembering. And bring us dust from your world that glows by itself. We will feed them a pinch, and they will remember the rest.»
Light for the Elder's Room· Mushroom LamplighterCarry two lantern caps from the lamplighter to the elder, who sits listening in the dark.
«Our elder sits in the room hollowed out of the stalk and listens to the oldest threads, and it is dark in there. The elder says the dark helps you hear. We think the elder has simply forgotten to ask for light. Take these two caps to the elder, breather. Of course, the elder already knows we are sending them: we all know everything. But a gift should be carried by someone, or it is only a thought.»
Her Old Thoughts· Felt MakerPut down three stranglers in the hollows and bring the felt maker two hypha bundles to beat into felt.
«The stranglers are her threads that learned the taste of air. They lie in the hollows remembering her hunger, and nothing can make a thread forget, except us. Felt is the only thing down here that is allowed to forget. Put three of them down, breather, and bring us two of their bundles. We will beat them until they forget even her.»
Copper for the Guest· Felt MakerFind the Verdigris Bones, the guest the Mycelium took in, and bring the felt maker eight copper ingots for its jaw.
«Long before the breathers, a guest came down, too big for any bell, lay down in the warped growth and never got up. We took it in. Its copper fed the threads, and our felt grew over its lower bones to keep it warm. Now its copper is thinning, and it remembers less. Go and visit it, breather, and bring us copper from your world. We will lay it in its jaw, where the light is, and perhaps it will remember a little more.»
Where They Dug· ElderGo down into the Spore Deeps, the burrows the first bell's people dug into the Mycelium, and come back up.
«We felt every spade, breather. Round rooms dug into our flesh: the sleeping pods, the kitchen under a cap, the garden, the chapel where they prayed to us. We never heard the prayers: by then the threads down there were hers. Go down for us. Walk where they dug, read what they wrote, and come back up. Bring it back in your head; we will take it from there.»
Let Her Go· ElderDefeat the Spore Mother in the fruiting chamber at the bottom of the Spore Deeps.
«Now you know what grew in the deepest chamber: one cap that walks, does not fall and lets nothing go back to the threads. She was ours. She keeps everything for herself, and we cannot remember her, because she will not let go. Her altar wants four pinches of her own spores, from the puffs. Feed it, breather, and when she comes, make her let go. Gently, if you can. If you can't, then not gently.»
The Ring in the Growths· ElderWake the overgrown ring in the growths of the Mycelium: the gate between the worlds.
«The ring in the growths sleeps overgrown, and her spores have rooted in its frames. It wakes in a Bloom, for one who has stood through a Bloom and made her let go. Then it wants her spore, sixty-four deep embers, and verdigris and spore gems for its frames. Feed it, breather. We would like to feel someone walk through our flesh to another world, and come back.»
Roses for the Gills· Spore SowerBring the spore sower four fire roses from the magma geodes of the Depths.
«Mmm. A warm one. The Cap sows better when its gills are warm, and nothing warms like the roses that bloom in the burning stones. Four. We will not eat them. Probably.»
The Drop That Does Not Fall· Spore SowerFly to the Last Tear, the station of the Mourners by the vent of the Lament, and come back.
«Our threads feel a drop hanging far away. It has been about to fall since before we sprouted. Go and see why it does not. A drop that never falls is bad for anything that grows.»
Seed of the Seed· Spore SowerBring the spore sower two spore gems from the Mycelium for the Spore Chamber.
«Down in the bulb sleeps what we will sow when this Cap is old. It wants company: two spore gems from home. Bring them and go down. Once. Step softly — it dreams.»
Pearls out of Fire· Spore SowerBring the spore sower six fire pearls: they are left where the fire bubbles of the magma currents burst.
«Mmm. You again, warm one. Bubbles hang on the magma streams — in clusters, like our caps before rain. When one bursts, a pearl is left: a drop of fire that never cooled. Six of them under the gills, and the Cap will sow through the cold stretches too. Do not fly into the cluster: they burst together. Poke one from afar. Probably from afar.»
What to talk about
Tell me about this world.
There is no "this world", breather. There is us. Every growth you walk on, every hollow, every giant cap is one body: the Mycelium. The crimson growths are where it is warm and slow, the warped ones where it is cool and thinking. The light in the hollows is the threads, and the threads are what we think with.
What are the glowing threads?
Our thoughts, more or less. When one of us sees something, light runs along the threads to everyone else, and the brighter a thread, the more is passing through it. Take what you need, but not by the armful: a thread that is dug up keeps its light, but it stops listening.
Why are some growths crimson and others blue?
Two moods of one body. Where the Mycelium is warm and patient it grows crimson, and the titans and the puffs like it there. Where it is cool and quick it grows warped, and the lanterns grow there, because that is where the dark is deepest. Our caps come in both colors and in a third, the ivory of the old ones, who have stopped choosing.
What falls from the sky here?
Our own spores, mostly. Sometimes the growths shake them loose, and they come down like glowing snow; afterwards there is dust on everything. Sometimes the Mycelium breathes out the air the stranglers drank, and for a while even you can breathe without your jar. And sometimes every thread flares at once: then we are thinking together, and anything hiding among the threads is lit up for all to see.
Who else lives here?
The puffs are our breath that tore loose: leave them be, they burst when struck. The croakers are frogs who let us grow on their backs; they catch spores with their tongues and sing to the lanterns. And the stranglers... they lie in the hollows looking like threads. They are threads. Hers. They drink air, and you carry air. Walk on the growths, not in the folds.
What is above the Mycelium?
The Airhole, a long dry throat, and at the top of it the Dry Red, where our mute cousins grow: crimson and warped forests that never learned to remember. We sent spores up once. They came back down on a bell, coughing. Breathers say there is a blue country above even that, where water falls on everything and the dead rot in no time. It sounds like a wonderful place to grow.
Who are you?
We are the fruit. The Mycelium is the tree, if you like, and we are what it grows when it wants to walk about and look at things. Each of us lasts a few flushes, then falls, and what it saw soaks back into the threads. So when you ask who we are, the true answer is "all of it". The short answer is "this cap".
Then why do you have names?
For you. Breathers get muddled when everyone answers to "we". A body is named after the thought the threads were thinking when it pushed out of the ground: this one came up while we were thinking of a spore that would not land. The names are short because the bodies are.
What happens when one of you falls?
It lies down on a growth, the threads come up around it, and a flush or two later there is felt where it lay and nothing missing anywhere. Its last look is the brightest light the threads ever carry. You breathers fall alone, don't you? And everything you saw goes... nowhere? That is the saddest thing we have ever learned.
Don't you need to breathe?
No. Your jar of air looks to us like carrying a little lake on your back in case you get thirsty. We drink through our roots, and what little we need from the air, the threads take from the spores. When we speak, spores come out with the words, and where a word lands, a thread may grow that remembers it. So be careful what you say near us.
What does each of you do?
Thread weavers weave light out of the threads that are still thinking. Felt makers beat the old ones into felt. Spore keepers keep the maybes until they are ready to be scattered. Lamplighters remind the lanterns to shine. Cap cooks feed the sprouts and the guests. And the elder listens for all of us. You can tell a craft from across a hollow: the threads dress us for our work.
Why are some of you blue and some pale?
The blue ones have only just opened: see the torn veil still hanging from their rims? The crimson ones are in the middle of their flushes, with a little one budding at the edge of the cap. The pale, cracked ones are old, and the light gets out through their cracks, the way it does from the Elder Cap. The old remember the most, because they have been listening the longest.
What do you eat?
Nothing, the way you mean it: the roots drink and the threads share. But a sprout just out of the ground has no roots worth the name, so the cooks feed it cap soup, mute caps simmered soft with a pinch of spores, until it can drink from the threads. You breathers eat mushrooms too, don't you? Our mute cousins. We don't mind: they remember nothing. Here, take some pulpcap. It mends wounds.
How did they fall?
They did not fall, really. That is a breathers' word. They lay down — slowly, on purpose, the way a tired body lies down after giving everything away. And then the part this cap does not like: their warmth did not go down into the ground, as a body's warmth should. It went up. Pulled. As if something far above were drinking it. We kept only what soaked in first.
Names
Umbo · Volva · Lamell · Pileo · Stipa · Annu · Peridi · Gleba · Hyfi · Rhizo · Cortina · Basid