Foster, Dean - Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance

said the spokesthing. "Why should we make the effort to

do anything to anyone?"

"We've changed since we entered this land. We feel

different."

"Different how, man?" asked the toadstool.

"Depressed. Tired, worn-out^ useless, hopeless. Our

outlook on life has been altered."

"What makes you think we're responsible?" said the

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Alan Dean Poster

second mushroom. "That's just how life is. It's the normal

state of existence. You can't blame us for that."

"It's not the normal state of existence."

"It is in the Moors," argued the first mushroom.

Jon-Tom held his ground. "There's some kind of telepa-

thy at work here. We've been absorbing your feelings of

hopelessness, your idea that nothing's worth much of

anything. It's been eating at us."

"Look around you, man. What do you see?"

Jon-Tom turned a slow circle. Instead of the half-hoped-

for revelation, his gaze swept over more of what they'd

seen the past dreary days—rocks, mushrooms, lichens and

mosses, mist and cloud cover.

"Now, I ask you," sighed the first mushroom, "is that

depressing or what? I mean, it is de-press-ing."

Jon-Tom could feel his resolve slipping dangerously.

Mudge and Roseroar were half-asleep already. He had the

distinct feeling that if he joined them, none of them would

ever wake up again. The sight of white bone nearby

revitalized him. How long had it taken the owner of that

skeleton to become permanently depressed?

"I guess you might consider your existence here

depressing."

"Might consider?" moaned the toadstool. "It is de-

pressing. No maybes about it. Like, I'm afiingus, man.

That's depressing all by itself."

"I've eaten some mushrooms that were downright excit-

ing," Jon-Tom countered.

"A cannibal, too," said the tall toadstool tiredly. "How

depressing." It let out a vast telepathic sigh, a wave of

anxiety and sadness that rolled over Jon-Tom like a wave.

He staggered, shook off the cobwebs that threatened to

bind his mind. "Stop that."

"Stop what? Why sweat it? Just relax, man. You're full

of hurry, and desire, and all kinds of useless mental

baggage. Why knock yourself out worrying about things

that don't matter? Nothing matters. Lie down here, relax,

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73

take it easy. Let your foolish concerns fly bye-bye. Open

yourself to the true blandness of reality and see how much

better you'll feel for it."

Jon-Tom started to sit down, wrestled himself back to an

upright stance. He pointed toward the skeleton.

"Like that one?"

"He was only reacting sensibly," said the toadstool.

"He's dead." Jon-Tom's voice turned accusing. "You

killed him. At least, this place killed him."

"Life killed him. Slain by dullness. Murdered by mo-

notony. He did what comes naturally to all life. He

decayed."

"Decayed? You flourish amidst decay, don't'you? You

thrive on it."

"He calls this thriving," mumbled another toadstool.

"He went the way of all flesh, that's all. Sure, we broke

down his organic components. Sometimes I wonder why

we bother. It's all such a waste. We live for death. Talk

about dull, man. It's, like, numbsville."

Jon-Tom turned and walked over to shake Roseroar,

shoving hard against the enormous shoulder. "Wake up,

Roseroar. Come on, wake up, damn it!"

"Why bother?" she murmured sleepily, eyeing him

through half-closed eyes. "Let me sleep. No, don't !et me

sleep." The feeble plea hit him like a cry for help.

"Don't worry, I won't. Wake up!" He continued to

shake her until she sat up and rubbed at her eyes.

He moved over to where Mudge lay sprawled on his

side, kicked the otter ungently. "Move it, water rat! This

isn't like you- Think about where we're going. Think of

the ocean, of clear salt air."

"I'd rather not, mate," said the otter tiredly. "No point

to it, really."

"True true, true," intoned the fungoid chorus of doom.

"I'll get up in a minute, guv'nor. There's no rush, and

we're in no 'urry. Let me be."

"Like hell, I will. Think of the food we've enjoyed.

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Alan Dean Poster

Think of the good times ahead, of the money to be made.

Think," he said with sudden alacrity, "of die three days

you spent at the Elegant Bitch."

The otter opened his eyes wide, smiling weakly. "Aye,

now that's a memory t' 'old tight to."

"Useless, useless, useless," boomed the a cappella

ascomycetes.

" Tis kind o' pointless, mate," said the otter. For an

instant Jon-Tom despaired, fearing he'd lost his friend for

good. Then Mudge sprang to his feet and glared at the

surrounding growth. "But 'tis also one 'ell of a lot o'

fun!"

"Help Roseroar," Jon-Tom ordered him, a great relief

surging through him. He turned his attention back to their

subtle, even indifferent, assailants.

"Look, I can't help what you are and I can't help it if

you find your existences so depressing."

"It's not how we find them," said the first mushroom.

"It's how they are. Don't you think we'd change it if we

could? But we can't. This is iife: boring, dull, unchanging,

gray, depressing, decay..."

"But it doesn't have to be that way. It's you who let it

remain so." Unslinging the duar, he launched into the

brightest, cheeriest song he could think of: John Denver's

"Rocky Mountain High." He finished with Rick Springfield's

"We All Need the Human Touch." The gray sky didn't

clear, the mist didn't lift, but he felt a lot better.

"There! What did you think of that?"

"Truly depressing," said the toadstool. "Not the songs.

Your voice."

Eighty million mushrooms in the Muddletup Moors,

Jon-Tom mused, and I have to get a music critic. He

laughed at the absurdity of it, and the laughter made him

feel better still.

"Isn't there anything that can lighten your existence,

make your lives more bearable so you'll leave us alone?"

"We can't help sharing our feelings," said the second

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75

mushroom, "We're not laying all this heavy stuff on you

to be mean, man. We ain't mean. We're indifferent.

What's bringing you down is your own knowledge of life's

futility and your own inability to do anything about it.

Face it, man: the cosmos is a downer."

Hopeless. These beings were hopeless, Jon-Tom told

himself angrily. How could you fight something that didn't

come at you with shields and swords and spears? What

could he employ against a broadside of moroseness, a

barrage of doubt?

They sounded so sure of themselves, so confident of the

truth. All right then, he'd show them the truth! If he

couldn't fight them by differing with them, maybe he

could win by agreeing with them.

He took a deep breath. "The trouble with you is that

you're all manic-depressives."

A long silence, an atmosphere of consideration, before

the toadstool inquired, "What are you talking about,

man?" In the background a couple of rusts whispered to

one another, "Talk about a weird dude."

"I haven't had that much psychology, but pre-law re-

quires some," Jon-Tom explained. "You know, I'll bet not

one of you has ever considered psychoanalysis for your

problems."

"Considered what?" asked the first mushroom.

Jon-Tom found a suitable rock—a hard, uncomfortable

one sure to keep him awake. "Pay attention now. Anybody

here ever heard of Franz Kafka?"