It landed heavily on the leafmould, extended dozens of little legs, and turned around ponderously to look at the shaman. That is to say, it had no face, but even through the mycological haze he was horribly aware that it was looking at him. And not a nice look, either. It was amazing how baleful a keyhole and a couple of knotholes could be.
To his intense relief it gave a sort of wooden shrug, and set off through the trees at a canter.
With superhuman effort the shaman recalled the correct sequence of movements for standing up and even managed a couple of steps before he looked down and gave up, having run out of legs.
Rincewind, meanwhile, had found a path. It wound about a good deal, and he would have been happier if it had been cobbled, but following it gave him something to do.
Several trees tried to strike up a conversation, but Rincewind was nearly certain that this was not normal behaviour for trees and ignored them.
The day lengthened. There was no sound but the murmur of nasty little stinging insects, the occasional crack of a falling branch, and the whispering of the trees discussing religion and the trouble with squirrels. Rincewind began to feel very lonely. He imagined himself living in the woods forever, sleeping on leaves and eating... and eating... whatever there was to eat in woods. Trees, he supposed, and nuts and berries. He would have to...
‘Rincewind!’
There, coming up the path, was Twoflower—dripping wet, but beaming with delight. The Luggage trotted along behind him (anything made of the wood would follow its owner anywhere and it was often used to make luggage for the grave goods of very rich dead kings who wanted to be sure of starting a new life in the next world with clean underwear).
Rincewind sighed. Up to now, he’d thought the day couldn’t possibly get worse.
It began to rain a particularly wet and cold rain. Rincewind and Twoflower sat under a tree and watched it.
‘Rincewind?’
‘Um?’
‘Why are we here?’
‘Well, some say that the Creator of the Universe made the Disc and everything on it, others say that its all a very complicated story involving the testicles of the Sky God and the milk of the Celestial Cow, and some even hold that we’re all just due to the total random accretion of probability particles. But if you mean why are we
‘Oh. Do you think there’s anything to eat in this forest?’
‘Yes,’ said the wizard bitterly, us.’
‘I’ve got some acorns, if you like,’ said the tree helpfully.
They sat in damp silence for some moments.
‘Rincewind, the tree said—’
‘Trees can’t talk,’ snapped Rincewind. ‘It’s very important to remember that.’
‘But you just heard—’
Rincewind sighed. Took,’ he said. It’s all down to simple biology, isn’t it? If you’re going to talk you need the right equipment, like lungs and lips and, and—’
‘Vocal chords,’ said the tree.
‘Yeah, them,’ said Rincewind. He shut up and stared gloomily at the rain.
‘
‘I do, I do,’ he snapped.
‘Well, what kind of tree is this?’ said the tourist. Rincewind looked up.
‘Beech,’ he said firmly.
‘Actually—’ began the tree, and shut up quickly. It had caught Rincewind’s look.
‘Those things up there look like acorns,’ said Twoflower.
‘Yes, well, this is the sessile or heptocarpic variety,’ said Rincewind. The nuts look very much like acorns, in fact. They can fool practically anybody.’
‘Gosh,’ said Twoflower, and, What’s that bush over there, then?’
‘Mistletoe.’
‘But it’s got thorns and red berries!’
‘Well?’ said Rincewind sternly, and stared hard at him. Twoflower broke first.
‘Nothing,’ he said meekly. ‘I must have been misinformed.’
‘Right.’
‘But there’s some big mushrooms under it. Can you eat them?’
Rincewind looked at them cautiously. They were, indeed, very big, and had red and white spotted caps. They were in fact a variety that the local shaman (who at this point was some miles away, making friends with a rock) would only eat after first attaching one leg to a large stone with a rope. There was nothing for it but to go out in the rain and look at them.
He knelt down in the leafmould and peered under the cap. After a while he said weakly, ‘No, no good to eat at all.’
‘Why?’ called Twoflower. ‘Are the gills the wrong shade of yellow?’
‘No, not really...’
‘I expect the stems haven’t got the right kind of fluting, then.’
‘They look okay, actually.’
‘The cap, then, I expect the cap is the wrong colour,’ said Twoflower.
‘Not sure about that.’
‘Well then, why can’t you eat them?’
Rincewind coughed. It’s the little doors and windows,’ he said wretchedly, ‘it’s a dead giveaway.’