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

Several hours passed. Mudge and Roseroar had time to

reawaken completely, and the mental voices surrounding

them had become almost alive, though all were still flat

and tinged with melancholy.

". . .And another thing," Jon-Tom was saying as he

pointed upward, "that sky you're all always referring to.

Nothing but infantile anal-retentive reinforcement. Well,

maybe not exactly that," he corrected himself as he

reminded himself of the rather drastic anatomical differ-

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Alan Dean Foster

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

77

ences between himself and his audience, "but it's the

same idea."

"We can't do anything about it," said the giant toad-

stool. "The mist and clouds and coolness are always with

us. If they weren't, we'd all die. That's depressing. And

what's even more depressing is that we don't particularly

like perpetual mist and clouds and fog."

Jon-Tom struggled desperately for a reply, feeling victo-

ry slipping from his grasp. "It's not the fact that it's

cloudy and damp all the time that matters. What matters is

your outlook on the fact."

"What do you mean, our outlook?" asked a newcomer,

an interested slime mold. "Our outlook is glum and

miserable and pointless."

"Only if you think of it that way," Jon-Tom informed

it. "Sure, you can think of yourselves as hopeless. But

why not view your situation in a positive light? It's just a

matter of redirecting your outlook on life. Instead of

regarding your natural state as depressing, think of the

constancy of climate and terrain as stabilizing, reassuring.

In mental health, attitude is everything."

"I'm not sure I follow you, man," said another mushroom.

"Me neither, mate."

"Be quiet, Mudge. Listen, existence is what you make

of it. How you view your surroundings will affect how you

feel about them."

"How can we feel anything other than depressed in

surroundings like these?" wondered the liverworts.

"Right, then. If you feel more comfortable, go with

those thoughts. There's nothing wrong with being de-

pressed and miserable all the time, so long as you feel

good about it. Have you ever felt bright and cheery?"

"No, no, no," was the immediate and general consensus.

"Then how do you know that it's any better than feeling

depressed and miserable? Maybe one's no better than the

other.''

"That's not what the other travelers who come our way

say," murmured the toadstool, "before they relax, see it

our way, and settle down for a couple of months of steady

decomposition."

Jon-Tom shivered slightly. "Sure, that's what they say,

but do they look any better off, act any more contented,

any more in tune with their surroundings than you do?"

"Naturally they're not as in tune with their surround-

ings," said the first mushroom, "but these surroundings

are.. •"

"...Damp and depressing," Jon-Tom finished for it.

"That's okay if you accept it. It's all right to feel de-

pressed all the time if you feel good about it. Why can't it

be fun to feel depressed? If that's how your environment

makes you feel, then if you feel that why it means you're

in tune with your environment, and that should make you

feel good, and secure, and confident."

Roseroar's expression reflected her confusion, but she

said nothing. Mudge just sat quietly, shaking his head.

But they were thinking, and it kept them from growing

dangerously listless again.

"Hey," murmured a purple toadstool, "maybe it is

okay to feel down and dumpy all the time, if that's what

works for you."

"That's it," said Jon-Tom excitedly. "That's the point

I'm trying to make. Everything, every entity, is different.

Just because one state of mind works for us ambulatories

doesn't mean it ought to work the same way for you. At

least you aren't confused all the time, the way most of my

kind are."

"Far fucking out," announced one enlightened truffle

from beneath a clump of shelf fungi. "Existence is point-

less. Life is decrepit. Consciousness sucks. And you know

what? I feel good about it! It all fits."

"Beautiful," said Jon-Tom. "Go with that." He put his

hands on his hips and turned a circle. "Anybody else here

have any trouble dealing with that?"

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Alan Dean Foster

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

79

"Well, we do," said a flotilla of mushrooms clinging to

a scummy pile of dead weeds near a small pool.

"Tell me about it," said Jon-Tom coaxingly.

"It started when we were just spores. ..."

It went on like that all through the night. By morning,

Jon-Tom was exhausted, but the fungoid forest surround-

ing him was suffused with the first stages of exhilaration... in

a maudlin manner, of course. But by and large, the

group-therapy session had been wildly successful,

Mudge and Roseroar had recovered completely from

their insidiously induced lethargies and were eager to set

out again. Jon-Tom held back. He wanted to make certain

the session would have at least a semipermanent effect, or

it wouldn't last them through the Moors to the Glittergeist.

"You've certainly laid a heavy trip on us, man," said

the large mushroom that served as speaker for the rest of

the forest.

"I'm sure that if you hold to those thoughts, go with the

flow, make sure you leave yourselves enough mental space,

you'll find that you'll always feel better about your places

in existence," Jon-Tom assured it.

"I don't know," said the big toadstool, and for an

instant the veil of gloom which had nearly proved lethal

descended about Jon-Tom all over again. "But just consid-

ering it makes me more inclined to accept it."

The cloud of despair dissipated. "That's it." Jon-Tom

grew aware of just how tired he was. "I'd like to stay and

chat some more, but we need to be on our way to the

Glittergeist again. You wouldn't happen to know in which

direction it lies?"

Behind him, the shapes of three giant amanitas crooked

their crowns into the mist. "This way, friend. Pass freely

from this place.. . though if you'd like to join us in our

contented dissolution, you're more than welcome to re-

main and decompose among us."

"Couldn't think of it," Jon-Tom replied politely, falling

in behind Mudge and Roseroar as they started southward.

"See, I'm not into decomposition."

"Tell us about it," several rusts urged him.

Worrying that he might be leaving behind a forest full of

fungoid Frankensteins, Jon-Tom waved it off by saying,

"Some other time."

"Sure, that's it, go on and leave," snapped the toad-

stool. "We're not worth talking to."

"I've just spent a whole night talking to you. Now

you're bringing out new feelings of insecurity."

"No I'm not," said the toadstool, defensive. "It's the

same thing as depression."

"Isn't. Why don't you discuss it for a while?" A rising

mental susurration trailed in his wake as he hastened after

his companions.

Word of the therapy session preceded them through the

Muddletup. The intensity of the depression around them

varied considerably in strength according to the success of

Jon-Tom's therapy. They detoured around the worst areas

of despair, where the mental aura bordered on the coma-

tose, and as a result they were never again afflicted with

the urge to lie down and chuck it all.

Eventually the fungi gave way to blossoming bushes and

evergreens. The morning they emerged from the woods