Fungi

by Orrin Grey

  “This is an outrage!” cried Colonel Edwin, loyal to the last.

  “I want that merkin!” yowled the King, pointing rudely at McMungus’s crotch.

  “For Bastet’s sake, don’t touch it!” exclaimed Lady Widdershins.

  Now, if you have ever observed a cat, any cat, noble-littered or not, around an object he or she desires, you know it is not possible for that species to resist their thieving impulses — especially when that cat knows the object in question is beloved by another. Leave your delicious sandwich on a table for the briefest of moments and, if a queen takes a fancy to it, she will eat it; leave your ball of worsted on your floor and if a gib is in a playful mood, he will do what he will with it.

  So, you can well imagine how the next few minutes played out: King Chester II darted forward, running on all fours like a common dog in the street and attempted to wrest the merkin from McMungus. The noblesse, seeing their king in such a state, scooted after him (One must, after all, follow the mode!) and, soon, the entire Cat Court had fallen upon McMungus. There was a great ruckus of howling and spitting and scratching and biting —

  Then the sound of rending material —

  A heavenward puff of sparkly dust —

  And the riot of noblecats broke up, each clutching his or her own scrap of merkin!

  “Oouf,” said McMungus again, trampled, battered and denuded of his life’s work. He could not hoist his tumescent body off the flagstones of the hall without assistance — but the worst was yet to come!

  “Stop!” screeched Lady Widdershins at the top of her lungs.

  All the cats of the Cat Court, including King Chester, looked up from admiring their beautiful merkin-scraps and saw the molly hovering, curiously, in the entryway, her handkerchief held up over her nose. She looked desperate, ready to fly to pieces — or, at least, out of the room.

  “What is it, my Lady?” asked the King, somewhat calmed from having seized the finest piece of the wig for himself.

  “That merkin …. ” she shook her head. “I daresay it was made from —” She gasped. “— Truffalo hair!”

  “But the Truffalo has already departed, returned to its home along the Silk Road!” protested the King.

  “No, it has not,” said Lady Widdershins, still not lowering her handkerchief. “It was buried in a lime-lined grave weeks ago. It … died. Hemorrhaged to death from the pain of his ailment, ah, we think? It wasn’t really … oh, the shame! But all of you, put down that merkin! The Truffalo wasn’t really … a Truffalo. It was a common Yorkshire Tree-Tapir.” She hung her head. “It contracted some sort of — well, we don’t really know. The farrier suspected a fungal infection from eating rotten grain. It causes sores and hair loss and bloating — and it spreads like wildfire, I’m afraid, which is why the handlers at the Menagerie wore those long gloves. The sores get all … powdery. If it gets on you …. ”

  And then she fled the hall.

  As one, the cats turned to look at McMungus, where he still lay on the floor, prone as a flipped tortoise and wide-eyed in horror. He writhed a little under their accusatory stares.

  “Have you experienced any of these symptoms, Mr. McMungus?” asked the King, very quietly, indeed.

  “No!” protested McMungus. “The long hours … eating poorly. You know how it goes! Don’t you? Look at me — do I look … infected to you? Where, then, are these sores? What hair-loss can you see?”

  It was then — at that very moment — that we exacted our revenge.

  “Liar!” we squeaked, descending en masse from the rafters. “Murderer! Will you cause more deaths this night?”

  Our cousins who had escaped the massacre in the garret at Grimalkin’s had told us all, of course — there are no secrets among our people — and thus, we knew not only of McMungus’s crime, but also his deception. We swooped down upon him and tore from his arms and legs and belly and back the dozen or so small, plain merkins Miss Mousha had crafted from leather and orange fur. Under them, as you already know, McMungus was riddled with the same telltale whorls that had so impressed at the Mad Menagerie, but now horrified the Cat Court!

  “You risked all of us … for the sake of a wager?” King Chester looked appalled, the Cat Court furious.

  “Er,” said McMungus, wishing, we are sure, that he had the power to get up and run for his life.

  “Seize him!” cried King Chester. “To the dungeons with him! Hold him until we confirm Lady Widdershins’s allegations. And if we are all subjected to this plague … well, your fate will be decided then, Tubby McMungus!”

  Over the next month, the Cat Court experienced some significant life changes. Merkins, perhaps not unexpectedly, fell out of fashion … among the surviving members of the court, that is. More than one noblecat, we are sad to say, succumbed to dropsy, and some to blood loss from scratching too hard at the fungal whorls that affected most everyone who had attended the Ball.

  But the noblesse were hardly the only ones claimed by the patch-plague, or the Great Itching, as the unfortunate faux-Truffalo’s malady came to be called by Londoners. It did indeed spread like wildfire and the noblecats, heedless of anyone but themselves, infected their servants, who spread it further afield: to the apothecaries, grocers, prostitutes and other merchant-types who satisfied the needs of the wealthy. Those merchants, of course, spread it to their errand-kittens and under-housemaids, their suppliers and, of course, prostitutes, and when those unfortunate souls went home, they spread it to their brothers and sisters and parents and uncles ….

  Thankfully, before too many had died, a Dutch physick by the name of Dr. Poes discovered an easy and inexpensive remedy made from grated garlic and lavender essence. Yet, being cured was not enough to satisfy unhappy London-Town. They had been sorely troubled by the patch-plague, after all — but, as is always the case, no one thought to blame the aristocracy. Thus, it was not Lady Widdershins who was punished for bringing the Truffalo to court in the first place: It was, of course, Mr. McMungus.

  The merkin-maker had languished, untreated, in the dungeons for the duration of the Great Itching, increasingly swollen, increasingly hairless. He did not know those of his profession had become persona non grata; he did not know a cure had been found. He did not even know what had become of his apprentice, Miss Mousha (We do; she died). All he knew was that one day, when he was idly batting at dust motes in the meager sunshine that came in through the high window of his cell, he was seized by palace guards, had each of his four paws tied to a hungry carriage-hog, and, though he screamed for mercy, was drawn and quartered for his crimes against cat and country.

  And so ends the ignominious tale of Tubby McMungus. His name has passed into legend; his crimes have been largely forgotten; and all that is left of him are two silly songs. None remember the glory of his merkins, save us — but history is written by the victors.

  WILD MUSHROOMS

  By Jane Hertenstein

  Jane Hertenstein is the author of over 30 published stories both macro and micro: fiction, creative non-fiction and blurred genre. In addition she has published a YA novel, Beyond Paradise and a non-fiction project, Orphan Girl: The Memoir of a Chicago Bag Lady, which garnered national reviews. Jane is the recipient of a grant from the Illinois Arts Council. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in: Hunger Mountain, Rosebud, Word Riot, Flashquake, Fiction Fix, Frostwriting and several themed anthologies. She teaches a workshop on Flash Memoir and can be contacted through her blog http://memoirouswrite.blogspot.com/

  WE ONCE HAD AN infestation of oyster mushrooms sprouting in the corner of our unfinished basement after a heavy July downpour. Mother used straight bleach to kill them, but they came back, again and again, a persistent, pervasive fruit. A blight impossible to get rid of.

  Hunting for mushrooms wasn’t simply recreational for my family; it was how my parents put me through college, made the down payments on the living room carpeting and eventually paid for Tata’s treatments. In the early years, it was mushrooms that sustained us. My
mother would freeze a Chicken of the Woods like one would a whole fryer, adding slivers of it to stews or flavouring soup throughout the winter.

  My parents came to the States from Czechoslovakia (when it was Czechoslovakia), where it was a tradition to forage. One generation taught the next what to look for. Very rarely did someone die from eating a “bad” mushroom. Once you know the difference between a cep and a Death Cap, it is difficult to confuse the two. Mom and Tata came to America in 1969 after “Prague Spring”. (My mother remembered the morels as being particularly abundant that year.) They simply walked out. I was skeptical; how was that possible? People didn’t just walk out of a Communist country. “You mean you escaped,” I corrected her.

  I’ve always had doubts about my ability to fully understand them. I grew up hearing Czech spoken in the house, but, as soon as I entered kindergarten, I forgot the language, left it far behind. I often found myself correcting my parents’ floundering English in an incriminating tone of voice.

  “We just walked out,” she repeated. “We say, ‘Okay, today the day.’ We put on layers of cloths.” (Mother always mixed her words up. I blame her — I frequently have trouble remembering the difference between ‘breath’ and ‘breathe’.) “Pretty hot outside, we sweat. We walk through forest with basket. No one see us. Just look like peasants. Mushroom pickers. Cross border; make our way to Austria.”

  I was embarrassed by their thick Slavic accent. During a time of Cold War, kids were always asking if we were Russian. I especially hated Mom and Tata’s combination of clothes (cloths?). From October to April, my father liked to wear over his shirts a thick wool vest that smelled heavily of human perspiration, much like an overripe toadstool, and Mother lived in floral housedresses, the kind that, when you bend over, reveals the lardy part of the upper thigh. For her, it was either the housedress or an all-over apron paired with rubber mackintoshes for slogging about in the fields. When you’re 13, the worst thing you can think of is running into a classmate while at the IGA in town, with your mother pushing the grocery cart dressed like a babushka mushroom hunter.

  I suspect that the difficult relationship I had with my parents stemmed, not so much from language confusion, as from a gap, a failure to grasp all that they’d been through. We were worlds apart, like the difference between an emerging nation and a developed country. It’s hard for me to believe I might have once dreamed in Czech.

  It was always my job to clean the mushrooms. Saturdays and Sundays were reserved for houba hunting. I’d bring homework with me and sit in the car, or else read in the backseat while they walked off into the woods. It was bad enough to have immigrant parents, but I was petrified of having to explain to my friends why I couldn’t spend the night or come to their birthday party or simply hang out on the weekend.

  Mom and Tata would haul their harvest back to the car, where they’d unload the basket onto a moth-eaten Hudson Bay blanket. Immediately, my sinuses were attacked, a fusty odour on the order of old gym shoes, mildewed crawl spaces, fermented yard waste. Basic. Organic. Rusty pine needles and black, mulchy earth clung to the thick stems or thread roots. I used an old hand towel to brush them off. “No water!” my father hysterically warned. Mushrooms, when wet, seem to melt, perhaps because they are 90% water, a fact I learned in biology class. Dirt ringed my fingernails, embedding beneath them, and stained the calluses on the outside of my index finger. It took successive washings (“Too much water!” my father would complain, tsking. “You waste.”) before my hands came clean. The smell, though, lingered in my nose as if imprinted on that part of the brain.

  My first year at college, I met a boy. I was so surprised; it felt like luck, which is why I suspected it was love. I hadn’t been on the look-out, going to bars or floor parties. We met outside the movie theater on Court Street when I ran into his car on my bike. He had pulled up and flung open his door, just as I was riding by. I was thrown over my handlebars and landed on my head in the middle of the sidewalk. Good thing I was wearing a helmet. I never lost consciousness or suffered a concussion. He stayed with me the whole time until an ambulance arrived. I was actually more worried about my bike, which got even more mangled when a passing truck scooped it up and dragged it down the street. The boy and I stayed in touch over the Christmas holiday. At first, he felt guilty. The police cited him in their report as being the one at fault. So, Matt had to pay for my hospital bill — or, rather, his insurance, actually, his parent’s insurance, paid — but it was only one night and just for observation because I complained of a stiff neck.

  We dated for three years off and on, and not always exclusively, and then, in my senior year, we got into a big fight, broke up, and immediately got back together in a way that convinced me he was serious. With graduation looming and our future staring us coldly in the face, it was time to make post-collegiate plans. We both wanted to be in a big city and, since I didn’t have a car, it made sense to apply for jobs in Chicago — he in sales and me in PR and/or communications. He suggested that we live together. Over spring break, I brought Matt home to my parents’ house in downstate Illinois.

  Mom made a glazed puff pastry wreath with a dyed egg in the centre and slow-cooked pork tenderloin in the oven. She garnished the baking dish with carrots and potatoes, and, of course, mushrooms. Matt took a bite and groaned as if in ecstasy. “Oh my God!”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “the meat melts in your mouth. Good job, Mom!”

  “No, no, something else. A rich, nutty flavour. What is it?”

  Chanterelles and bay boletes dried from last season and reconstituted with the other vegetables. When I told him, he was immediately intrigued. “Wild mushrooms. Wow, how do you know where to find them?”

  My father tapped his temple as if insinuating inside his head. “We hunters have our secrets,” he said, smiling cryptically.

  Matt had to check it out for himself, so he and I drove out to a nature preserve. Snow had only recently receded. In the shadows was honeycombed ice as intricate as lace, easily crushed underfoot. The spongy ground was perfect for spawning mushrooms. We parked by the roadside and I retrieved out of the trunk of his car the old Hudson Bay blanket I’d thrown in at the last minute. “Don’t be surprised if we don’t find anything,” I cautioned him. “It’s a bit early.” Though I was hoping we’d get lucky and find a morel. Morels were fetching $10 a pound at the time. Maybe we could put a deposit down on an apartment. After walking around for about an hour, we threw the blanket on the ground and made out, the aroma of warmed earth beneath us.

  Things, though, didn’t work out. He took a job in Phoenix and I ended up renting a studio. Later, I revisited the spot of our lovemaking and discovered a fairy ring, like eggs nestled in the short grass. I crouched down to inspect the tops, just to be sure, because there is a poisonous look-alike, not lethal but enough to make one sick.

  After two decades of living on the rural edge, my parents suddenly found themselves in the suburbs. Bridal Path Estates, Stonehenge Terrace, mini mansions on what used to be soybean fields. The three-car garages were bigger than our two-bedroom bungalow. Run-off from the chemically treated lawns caused the mushroom mortality rate to spike. Mom and Tata had to drive farther and farther away for their mushrooming forays.

  A lot of people think mushrooms can grow anywhere, like rodents and other kinds of common pests. Indeed, in the most unlikely of places, Antarctica, there is a mushroom which grows at the rate of one inch for every five years. In the Chilean desert, there is a variety that survives on a diet of fog. Aside from those two extreme examples, conditions for mushrooms have to be just right. One degree hotter or colder affects them, the amount of rainfall or moisture in the soil, their tentative relationship to surrounding vegetation. Some mushrooms can only be found growing in tandem, or under a certain kind of tree, ergo the hedgehog fungus’ reliance on the old fir tree. It’s a mystery, a wonder. I can still see my father standing in dusty, forest-filtered light, giant puffballs at his feet like alien pod people. Unaware of
me, he was in the presence of something much greater.

  Tata left the house in the middle of the night in order to get an early start at daybreak. It’d been a hard winter, made harder by the chemo. The doctor said he was in remission. The cancer was still there, but under control, manageable. Tata had lost a lot of weight. He resembled a photograph taken of him and Mom in Czechoslovakia before they escaped, walked out. High cheekbones hung on a lean face surrounded by a bounty of hair, a blond pompadour. Only now, his cheeks were grizzled and the hair was thinned, dull, with blue veins showing through. He left Mom asleep on the couch, no note. Likely, he was in too big of a hurry to get going. It was the prime season for black morels.

  A veteran hunter can go his whole life without ever seeing one. They are like the golden egg of mushroom hunting, a hole-in-one, the big pay-off. Like a truffle pig, my Tata had a nose for morels, an intuition for where to find them, such as beneath an elm log or under a layer of rotting apples in an abandoned orchard.

  The typical morel is about four inches tall, with the texture of a sponge, all wrinkled and hollow, phallic-shaped. It tastes like no other, a combination of surprising flavours like pineapple and filet mignon. And unexplainable, like hope and love, longing and regret. To eat one is to experience transcendence on par with a religious conversion.

  He never came back. It was the end of March and nights were cold, below freezing. A search party was formed, but, without a definite idea of his whereabouts, it was like searching for a needle in a haystack, or a black trumpet, tough to spot because of its colour, which tends to blend in with the ground cover. Then, in the beginning of April, it snowed and the rescue teams switched to recovery efforts. Tata had kept his secret patches secret, even from Mom. She suspected he had gone into the woods to die. She reverted to talking to me in Czech, though I understood very little.