Page 63 of Shroom for Improvement

“But we know that the number of people doesn’t affect the ritual,” I said, trying to steer my mind clear of the whole “romantically involved” comment. Something in the back of my subconscious switched a tiny light bulb on. “We also know it’snot dependent on seasonal forces, like weather, since it was performed routinely during both summer and winter. It could be a weather spell, and I want to discuss that in a bit, but for now I think we’ll cross off a couple of obvious things. Have you tried touching it?”

He looked at me from the side of his eyes.

“Well, have you?”

Claude said nothing. He reached across and touched the rock with a fingertip. Then he splayed both palms against it. We both held our breaths, waiting for... anything.

“What does it feel like?” I asked.

“Kind of warm. Like, warmer than a stone should be. Even one that’s been basking in the sun all morning. And it’s humming a little. Feel.”

I placed my hand next to Claude’s. Tried not to breathe in the scent of him. “It’s cool. Cold even. And definitely not humming.” But at least that confirmed what we already knew. It had to be Claude. “Is it saying anything or just vibrating?”

Claude leaned closer. “I don’t think it’s—oh, hang on.” He got closer still. “It’s...” He placed his ear flat against the stone. “It’s speaking. Or singing... Like a chant, over and over. Can you hear that?”

I shook my head. I only heard the wind whistling through the distant trees, birds singing, insects chirruping.

“Amor sui vitas salvat—”Abruptly, he pushed himself to his knees and rolled his eyes to the heavens. “How wonderful! I can hear you all the way out here.”

Jenny. The house.

“It’s laughing,” Claude said. He sighed and rejoined me on the blanket.

I took a small plastic tub out of my backpack. “I thought we’d start by trying an offering?” I phrased it like a question because I really wasn’t sure.

“What is it?” Claude peeled open the lid at the corner and peered inside. He recoiled instantly.

“What mushrooms love to eat. Substrate. A hearty mix of decaying leaf mould, high-nutrient organic compost, and a lovely dead mouse.”

Claude opened the lid all the way and gagged. “Where did you get this from?”

“I asked Oggy and Willow, and they came back with this. Pretty sure this is my compost from back in Remy, but it’s impossible to be certain. And the dead mouse?” I shrugged. “Maybe try sprinkling some onto the stone?”

He shut the lid and pushed the tub towards me.

I pushed it back. “It has to be you.”

He motioned to tip the contents of the tub onto the stone.

“Uh, I’d assume for the ritual to be effective, you’d have to touch the offerings with your bare skin.”

“No,” he whimpered. Gagged. Then shut his eyes and dug his fingers into the tub. He closed his hands around some of the leaf mould, soil, and the mouse’s hind, gagged again, and practically threw the offerings onto the slab.

And we both watched for some kind of reaction. Some sign we’d uncovered the ritual first time around.

Nothing.

“Jenny, is that it?” Claude asked... paused. “It’s laughing again, so no.”

I scooped the matter off the tablet and tucked it into a nearby clump of weeds. A gift to nature and whichever small scavenger stumbled upon it later.

“Not gonna lie, kinda glad I don’t have to fondle a dead animal every six months.”

Secretly, I agreed, though it would have been nice to have figured out the ritual so quickly.

“So, the other thing we should try is a blood offering. Like the mouse, but with your blood.” I handed Claude a small flip knife from my backpack. The one I usually used to split plant stems, but for this occasion I’d disinfected the blade with surgical alcohol.

“I cut myself?” Claude squeaked, each syllable of his sentence higher than the last.

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