The Lord of Opium

“Let’s get out of here,” whispered Listen, but Matt hesitated. Mirasol looked no different from the other women, swaying, clapping, and singing praises to Mother Earth. No one had noticed that she wasn’t normal. He wished then that she could stay here forever, but they would soon discover that she could do nothing on her own. He took her hand and led her away.

They hurried through this building because the heat was really unbearable. But the Mushroom Forest was just as warm, and the air was heavy with the smell of fungi. It was also fairly dark. White, brown, orange, and luminous green mushrooms sprouted on every side. A group of teenagers, swathed in gauze masks, were harvesting while others scooped up the soil the plants had grown in.

An old man with white hair rushed up to the visitors. “Hey! You’re not wearing masks.” He thrust four at them. “If you’re not careful, you’ll grow a little mushroom forest of your own inside your lungs.”

“Mil gracias, señor,” said Cienfuegos. “We didn’t know there was a danger.” He quickly fastened a mask over Listen’s nose, and Matt did the same for Mirasol. “This is a most unusual place, sir. I would be most honored if you would tell me about it.”

The white-haired man seemed pleased by his interest. “You are obviously a person of intelligence,” he replied. “These young ones”—he waved his hand at the teenagers—“are newly awakened from Dormancy and have the brains of rabbits. Not,” he hastened to say, “that I have anything against rabbits. All Gaia’s creatures are blessed.”

He proceeded to list the name of each fungus and what its specialty was. “These,” he said, “are Shaggy Manes.” Matt looked out over a sea of white humps covered with tattered fringes. “They’re experts at killing E. coli, which gives you the runs, and Staph aureus, which makes you grow pimples. They munch them up like candy. Wonderful plants!” The man’s enthusiasm was contagious, and Matt couldn’t help smiling at him. “You look as though you could use a little of their help,” the man said, smiling back.

Matt self-consciously ran his hand over the remnants of the acne he’d acquired at the plankton factory.

“Never mind. The pimples go away when you get older,” the old man said kindly. “Shaggy Manes eat chemicals, too. Once upon a time farmers put so much fertilizer and pesticides on their crops that the ground became polluted. Nowadays we aren’t so foolish, but if we were, the Shaggy Manes would come to our rescue.” He smiled proudly at his mushrooms as though they were a herd of prize cattle.

“You mean . . . you mean these little things can pull poison out of the soil?” asked Cienfuegos.

“They not only pull it out, they digest it so that it’s harmless. It’s like a snack to them. Mmm! Yummy pesticides!”

The jefe looked stunned. “All those years of failed crops and sickened farmers . . . It could have been avoided so easily.”

“Not so easily,” cautioned the white-haired man. “You have to learn how it’s done—which mushrooms to grow, how to grow them, and what to do with them. The ones that eat mercury, for example, must be burned. You can reuse the metal.” The man led them around the fields, pointing out fungi that ate oil or pesticides or bacteria. “This little beauty,” he said, gesturing at a dull purple mushroom glistening with slime, “likes radioactivity. Positively wolfs it down. It’s called a Gomphidius.” He patted it fondly.

“Surely you don’t have radioactivity here,” said Cienfuegos.

“Never,” the old man said, “but if we did, we’d be ready.”

“This is what I’ve been looking for all my life,” murmured the jefe. “May I ask your name, sir?”

“I’m the Mushroom Master,” the man said.

“I would give anything to learn your skill. I could take one day off every week and come here. Please, sir, would you teach me?”

“Of course,” said the Mushroom Master, looking somewhat startled by Cienfuegos’s fervent plea.

The jefe turned to Matt. “You’d order me to come, wouldn’t you, mi patrón?”

“Of course,” said Matt, understanding that Cienfuegos couldn’t leave his work unless directly ordered.

“Then it’s all right.” The jefe closed his eyes briefly.

They toured the rest of the building, for only part of it was kept for renewing the soil. The rest grew edible mushrooms. By now Listen was complaining loudly that she was crotting tired, that she’d had it up to here with weird people, and that she was going to eat a Gomphidius, slime and all, if they didn’t get going.

“Patience,” said Cienfuegos. He picked her up and thanked the Mushroom Master at great length. They headed for the area labeled KITCHEN.

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