by Avi Burton
(800 words)
APPETIZER
The house is a devotion to dead things. Bulge-eyed taxidermy watches from the white-floored foyer. Crumbling starfish are pinned to the wall as pale decoration. Busts of the long-dead line the mantelpiece.
The mycologist sits at the mortuary-slab of a table and tries not to be unnerved. She knows Scaber is eccentric; she had been warned that any small offense might set him off. She didn’t expect his house to look like an abandoned museum.
Scaber smiles as he emerges from the kitchen, bearing a tray of appetizers. “Black truffle brie,” he says as he sets it down in front of her. He’s a pale, bloodless man, with strikingly long eyelashes. His hair is stiff and black.
“Thank you,” murmurs the mycologist. He beckons for her to take a bite: the brie is buttery in her mouth, peppered with earthy truffle. Scaber doesn’t eat, just watches her intently.
“Enjoy yourself,” he says. “We have a long night ahead of us.”
MAIN COURSE
The mycologist finishes her brie. Scaber takes the tray and returns with a porcelain plate and new set of cutlery. “Matsutake mushroom steak with saffron sauce. Imported.”
Expensive, the mycologist thinks. The main course has been served—it’s time to get down to business. “Doctor,” she says, “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”
“You want to hear about the cysensis. Fascinating creature, isn’t it? A fungal parasite, a hivemind, no neural processes—and yet, sentience.”
“Some would disagree with your last point.” The mycologist dabs at her mouth with her napkin.
“Some haven’t studied it as thoroughly as I have. Mycelium relies on electric impulse the same way our brains do, no? Cysensis seeks out wasp larvae, gradually sucking the life from the host until only a pale white husk remains. The fruiting body of cysensis then creeps out from the corpse, standing upright and spreading its spores to the wind. It is intelligent, selective with its hosts. It thinks—it hunts—it eats. Therefore, it is, as the philosophers would have it.”
The mycologist pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth. “I won’t say I’m convinced, but your argument is compelling. Thank you, doctor. Honestly, I hadn’t expected you to be so forthcoming.”
“I’m protective of my work. It’s dangerous, and most wouldn’t understand. But I think you do.”
The mycologist hesitates. “Why me?”
“What do you love?”
“I don’t really think that’s an appropriate question—”
“Indulge me.”
“I suppose I’m married to my work,” says the mycologist. “I’ve always found fungi more fascinating than people.”
It’s the right answer. Scaber smiles. “We’re the same, you and I. I’ve read your papers and I’ve spoken to your professors. You’re brilliant, but lonely. I bet no one even knows you came here. You had no one to tell.”
The mycologist frowns at her plate, unwilling to meet Scaber’s eyes. “I don’t think I’m that lonely.”
“Maybe you don’t know what true togetherness is, then.” Scaber leans back, launching into another lecture. “I believe that as humans, we don’t truly understand our own sentience. We’re not one animal, we’re a collection of a billion cells working in tandem. What if we could feel those cells? Or imagine if we were mushrooms, and we writhed in joyful ecstasy at every movement of mycelium?”
“I think that would be very uncomfortable,” says the mycologist thoughtfully. “Like ants constantly crawling on your skin, or being hyper-aware of every nerve ending. I don’t believe we’re meant to feel that much.”
“I see,” Scaber says, enthusiasm distinctly fading. He blinks unhappily at her. His eyelashes are faint and fluttery, like the mycelium he speaks of.
“But—” the mycologist hastens to add, “this is just hypothetical, after all. Who knows? Maybe being a fungus is really as wonderful as you imagine.”
“In the hypothetical, anything can happen,” agrees Scaber, and the conversation moves on. The mycologist finds herself fascinated by Scaber’s strange views. It’s just fantasy, she tells herself, the delusion of a desperate academic, and yet—she wants to believe it. Scaber speaks of a world beyond their reach, a sentient of spores and sprouts yet to be explored. Intelligent life, alien life, right here on Earth. A hivemind of decay and dark earth.
Then, at last, it’s time for dessert.
DESSERT
The final dish is unveiled with a flourish: “Cysensis. Raw,” Scaber announces. The fungus itself is black and ripe, fresh enough to burst. “Bon appetit.”
The mycologist looks down at her plate, then up to Scaber’s stiff black hair, which curls the same way as the cysensis does. He beams at her. He does not blink. Taxidermied animals stare down from the wall.
We’re lonely creatures, Scaber had said. What if we were truly together? Slowly, the mycologist spears a mushroom stem with her fork. She takes a bite.
END
Avi Burton (he/they) currently moonlights as a writer and daylights as a university student. He enjoys studying theater and history. His stories often feature queer characters, revenants, and– on occasion– laser swords. You can find more of their stories in Escape Pod, PodCastle, and Apparition Lit, or find the author themself on twitter under @avi_why.