Page 93 of Shroom for Improvement

“A little. You?”

“I feel like the sky has never been more beautiful. That this time of day, with the long evening shadows, has always been my favourite, but bloody hell, it’s stunning.”

I laughed. “Are you seeing colours you never knew existed?”

“Yes!”

“That’ll be the shrooms. We should try weather glamour before they take a hold.” There was a distinct window between that intense hyper-focus the mushrooms brought—the moment when you felt like the drugs had opened a direct channel between you and infinite possibilities—and tripping so hard you’d forget your own name. Not that we’d really taken enough for the latter to happen, but it was Claude’s first trip, and who knew what he’d experience. Shrooms were organic, and therefore it was impossible to know exactly how much you’d exposed yourself to. Impossible to quantify or regulate in any real way. At least without drying, powdering, and measuring beforehand.

Claude sat up again, turned towards the stone tablet, and crossed his legs. He closed his eyes, held his hands out, and was silent for the longest time.

“Can you feel the energy?” I asked.

“Yes. It feels bubbly. Like cola in my veins.”

“Amazing. That’s the glamour. We need to concentrate on pooling it all together into your palms.”

“You keep saying we.”

I faltered. I did, didn’t I? Perhaps he didn’t want me to say “we.” After all, it wasn’t down to me to save the house. It was Claude’s responsibility.

“Can you stand up?” I said, choosing to archive the discussion on “we” until later.

“I think so.” Claude got to his feet and beamed at me as though it was his first time doing so.

“Okay, tell me if this is too close. If I’m making you uncomfortable, let me know.” I moved behind him and then slowly, so slowly it was nearly painful, I closed the gap between our bodies.

Claude’s back slotted against my front. My hands slid under his to support them. His breaths stuttered, and I had to close my eyes against the sudden onslaught to every one of my senses. His body heat pressing through his thin cotton shirt, his wide shoulders against my chest and arms, the musty, earthy scent of him invading my nostrils.

“Is this okay?” I asked, my voice too breathy, my eyes still closed.

“Yes,” he whispered back.

The plan was to start him off. Get the ball rolling quicker so we weren’t standing around waiting for the glamour to build and the drugs to wear off.

“I’m hoping I can transfer some of my energy to you.” I felt the magic drawing from my core and funnelling into my hands, and then almost evaporating into Claude’s. The surrounding air crackled. Claude gasped. He could feel it, too.

“Okay, I’m going to step back. Keep that energy there.” I eased a gap under his hands and between our bodies, so we no longer touched. I took another step away and came to stand by his side. “Now, push! Throw all the energy—the glamour—into the clouds.”

Claude closed his eyes, but the very next second a bolt cleaved into the sky and smashed down onto the stone tablet at Claude’s feet. And just as quickly, it was over. White lines striped the centre of my vision. I blinked them away.

Claude laughed, and spun around, pulling me into an embrace. “We did it! We did it!”

He did it, too. Said “we.”

He pulled away and looked upwards. “Was that it, Jenny? Was that the ritual?”

“Well?” I said, after apparent silence.

“It says, ‘yeah, whatever. Warmer.’”

“So, that’s it or not?”

Claude paused. “It says it can’t tell us when we’re right, it can only say when we’re definitely wrong. It says the shrooms are not part of the ritual butmaaaybeI should practise the lightning more.”

“Oh.”

His smile morphed into a laugh. “So, that’s it then, no? If Jenny can’t tell us when we’re right, but it tells me to keep practicing, it has to be the lightning!”

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