MYCELIUS SPOREBORN's Arc

Chapter 4 of 7

The two young trees fed the colony, but the dead land still stretched wide and gray. Mycelius needed more trees to fill it. He had no spores left. So he decided to search the wild for other fungus trees and take their seeds. He tied on his belt, wrapped an empty pouch at his side, and walked out past the black soil onto the cracked ground. He walked all morning. His feet knew fertile soil by feel, and here he felt nothing. The dirt was cold and dead under every step. Twice he stopped and pressed his palm flat to the ground, hoping for warmth. None came. Spores drifted from his shoulders. If he wandered too far, he might not find his way back before his people arrived. By midday he reached a ridge of broken stone. He almost turned around. Then his foot came down on soft, warm earth. He froze. The soil pulsed under him, alive. He dropped to his knees and dug with both hands until his fingers found a root that glowed faint blue. He followed the root over the ridge. On the far side stood a giant fungus tree. Its trunk rose thick and dark, crowned with many wide caps. Roots spread across a mound of rich black soil, and light ran through them in bright veins of purple, orange, and blue. The tree had made its own patch of living ground, just as his did. He pressed his hand to the bark and felt it hum, strong and healthy. Mycelius searched the ground beneath the caps. Small pods hung low on the outer stems, swollen and dark. He cupped one and it split open in his palm. Fine spores poured out, thick and warm, far more than his old homeland pouch had ever held. He opened his empty pouch and filled it. He picked pod after pod until the pouch bulged. He did not strip the tree bare. He left half the pods to fall on their own. Then he cut a short length of a glowing root, wrapped it in wet soil, and tucked it away. With this he could feel his path home, following warm ground back to his colony. Mycelius stood and looked at the full pouch in his hand. It was heavy now, not empty. He had found what he came for. Every pod could grow into a new tree, and every new tree could feed the ground for his people. He turned back toward the ridge and started the long walk home. But the discovery raised a hard question. This tree was not his. Living ground meant life, and life meant something had made it. Someone, or something, may have grown this tree and would want its seeds back. Mycelius did not know who. He only knew he now carried spores that were not his own, and he would have to plant them before anyone came looking.