MYCELIUS SPOREBORN's Arc

Chapter 5 of 7

Mycelius planted the stolen spores before dawn, in a line near the second young tree's roots. By the third day, small caps pushed up from the black soil. On the sixth day, the ground itself began to shift. Not the trees. The soil. It bulged and cracked, and pale shapes rose out of it. Mycelius stood still and watched the first of his people climb into the light. They came up as full-grown Fungolians, not children. Their caps were soft and damp, their skin new and pale. The first one stood on shaking legs and stared at him. Then a second rose, and a third. Soon a dozen stood in the dirt, blinking their amber eyes, silent. They knew nothing. Not their own hands, not the trees, not why they were here. Spores drifted from Mycelius's shoulders. He had brought them out of the ground, and now he had to teach them everything. He started with the simplest thing. He pressed his palm flat to the warm soil and held it there. The nearest colonist copied him. Her fingers spread in the dirt, and she flinched at the heat, then smiled. Mycelius nodded. One by one, the others knelt and touched the ground. He showed them the trees. He showed them the trench that fed the colony. He walked them to the tall mushroom home at the center, its wide red cap curved over clustered growths, its stone steps leading into a dark doorway. "This is where we plan," he said. He did not know if they understood words yet. But they followed his voice into the spire and looked up at the high hollow cap. He taught them by doing. He split a pod and let them watch the spores pour out. He guided their hands to plant a cap in fresh soil. When one colonist pulled a growth too hard and tore it, Mycelius did not scold. He showed her how to pull gently, and she tried again. By evening, some spoke their first words. By the next day, three of them could feed the young trees without help. But a new weight settled on him. He counted the colonists inside the spire. Twelve now stood. Twelve mouths, twelve bodies, and only two young trees and one weakened great tree to feed them. He remembered how the first tree had sickened from carrying the colony alone. Two young trees could not carry twelve grown Fungolians for long. Mycelius climbed to the top of the spire and looked out over the dead gray land. His people were awake. They had learned to touch soil and plant a cap. But the trees he had were already stretched thin. The colonists would eat, and the ground would not hold. He needed far more living trees, and soon, or the people he had just raised would starve in the home he built for them. He names his new colonists.