Page 20 of Shroom for Improvement

John gave a contented, “Ooh-ho-ho,” and wiggled his butt on his chair.

“Helena reckons she can shred all my clothes without consequence. Look at these blasted shorts. They’re not even shorts, they barely contain my junk. Good thing I’m not aroused right now, or I’d take your eyes out. These bees are going straight to her bedroom.”

I looked at Willow, who mouthed, “Mrs Ziegler,” to my unspoken question of,“Who’s Helena?”

“So, I’m gonna chuck these in her room and we can all go to the ley lines together.” Mr Dupont whistled as he left the reception area, box of furious—and probably half-dead from being shaken—bees held proudly in front of him.

“Why didn’t you stop him?” I asked Willow and Oggy. “He’s going to put bees in a woman’s bedroom. In a bedroom you rent out as part of your bed and breakfast.”

“Correction. It isyourbed and breakfast,” Willow said, as Oggy said, “We do not get involved in the affairs of Mr Dupont and Mrs Ziegler.”

John looked at me, puffed out a lungful of air, and shook his head. “Amateur hour.”

“Besides,” said Oggy, ignoring John scribbling eagerly on his notepad. “Now we can sneak out to the ley lines.”

Above us, we heard a door slam shut, a scream like the gates of hell opening, and heavy footsteps running away.

“Quick! Go, go, go! Now, now, now!”

Willow and Oggy ran at full pelt from the building, John trailing them, his sandals slapping against the soles of his socked feet. He laughed—giggled actually—and I had no choice but to follow them. I didn’t want to be the only one in the foyer when Mr Dupont returned. Or worse, if Mrs Ziegler showed up.

As I left the reception area, the three of them disappeared into a gap in the hedge. I followed them through, jogging to keep up, somewhat lamenting my second portion of eggs royale, and absolutely rueing my third.

When I finally caught up with them, they were standing in the middle of an empty field, evidently waiting for me.

“The ley lines!” Oggy declared, holding her arms wide in atah-dahfashion.

The field was unremarkable in every way possible. It was just that—a field. The uneven, tufty green grass beneath my feet stretched out for at least an acre before hedgerows and trees broke the expanse. In the dead centre between Oggy, Willow, John, and me, lay a lichen-crusted stone no bigger than a fold-down tray table on a U-Rail train.

“Getting any magical vibes?” Oggy asked me, her huge eyes brimming with hope.

I paused, waited to feel... anything. Something heavy dropped in my stomach. “No, I’m not.”

John scribbled on his notepad, slapped a bug on his calf.

“So, what am I meant to do, then?” I asked, dread and panic now rising up my gullet like vomit.

“I was really hoping that bringing you here would ignite some long-dormant mushroom-magic knowledge.” Oggy flopped down onto the grass and immediately lay in a snow-angel position.

“Did my father never tell you what he did here?”

My mind reeled with the possibilities. A spell, an incantation, lighting a special candle, an offering to a god—doughnuts?—a blood sacrifice, a human sacrifice. It could be anything.

“Every time we asked him, he’d say,“Secrets must be kept,”and then giggle like a schoolboy.” Willow sat cross-legged next to Oggy and took her hand in theirs.

John also sat down.

Again, I didn’t want to be the only one not doing something, so I inspected the patch of grass at my feet for deer faeces, and once I’d satisfied myself I wouldn’t be facing a larger than usual dry-cleaning bill, I sat. “So, nobody ever watched him do this ritual?”

“We weren’t allowed,” Oggy said to the cloudless blue sky.

“Sometimes he took women with him when he performed the ritual,” John offered, not looking up from his notepad.

“Women?” I asked. So was it a sexy thing? Did he have to have sex with a fertile woman under the full moon? Would explain the privacy he needed.

But if that was the ritual, the house was as good as dead, and Oggy and Willow and John and Mr Dupont and Mrs Ziegler were as good as homeless. I was gay, and even if I wasn’t, I hadn’t had sex in roughly a decade. I’d practically forgotten how.

“Yes, but not always. Sometimes he came alone,” Willow said, and a nugget of pressure eased from my chest. “Though, he brought your mother with him a few times. About five, six centuries ago, maybe.”

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