Black Mould - Twenty-One - Where Those Who Have Passed Rest

I considered what to do after the Gremlins left.

Fighting was… tempting. Looking at what they’d done to my farm, all the stuff they’d just taken, it made my blood boil. I was clenching my jaw so hard it hurt.

I didn’t have the ability to fight, though. I was small, weak. All I had was a bit of magic and some mushrooms. I couldn’t exactly trick people into eating poisoned mushrooms twice now could I? If all my adversaries were that stupid, then I didn’t have much of a challenge at all ahead of me.

No, I couldn’t fight. What did that leave me with?

Flight? Running away? I couldn’t move out, but… they probably didn’t know where I lived. There were hundreds of little homes packed tight around us. Assuming that each one held a small family, there had to be thousands of people for every square kilometre of the city. More, maybe. I didn’t bother to count.

My family didn’t stick out much. We’d be fine where we were.

The farm though… I looked around at the opened racks and the mess they’d left. Jars tossed aside, some mushrooms just casually ripped apart. I’d need to fix the mycelium and resettle the dirt. More mana to fix the broken stems and, and basically a lot more work.

Could I move the farm?

Probably not.

Could I start a second farm?

That idea had some merit. Finding a place wouldn’t be too difficult; ‘dark and damp’ pretty much described half of the lower-levels of the slums. Small, private places that no one would bother had to be pretty common.

What would I need to bring with me? Spores would be a start, but a weak one. No, it would be better if I had isolated, growing mycelium that I could place on some fertile spot. I didn’t need a full mushroom, just enough of its root system that it would grow.

Which samples would I be taking with me, then?

I rushed around the room, collecting the mason jars and tin cans that I used for spore growth and placing them all on the work table.

My farm was mostly dividing itself along three lines: nutrition farming, for mushrooms that were edible, weaponizable farming, which I hadn’t really started in earnest, but which had just gotten a bump in priority, and finally, experimental farming. I wanted, needed, to discover and create new strains of fungi.

My end goal, for now, was being able to feed my family, maybe earn some money on the side, and maybe I could help Feronie, if it wasn’t too inconvenient. There had to be some way to magic up an anti-pollution fungus. Something that leeched heavy metals from the soil was very plausible.

“Okay, okay,” I muttered to myself as I flitted around the farm. I didn’t just take samples. There was no point in entirely abandoning the place. I could leave the more hardy mushrooms behind for a week or two. Besides, that blessing was still in the air, which would keep them going.

I packed in my [Dead Man’s Agaric] and [Dead Horse Head]. Those two were my most lethal variations to date. I wanted more, not because they were useful on their own, but because I could conceivably combine them with other things to make them even more lethal.

I let out a big sigh maybe an hour later as I looked over my work: two dozen jars with samples of all my best remaining fungal bodies in them. They also held some dirt, some rotting meat, and some old wood, depending on the fungus’ preference.

What was I doing?

I stared at everything, packed in a rush, and just… paused.

Was I really going to do this? Sneak out to secretly plant mushroom gardens across the city?

I sighed. What else was I going to do, ask the Bullies for help? They didn’t even come down this far into the city. I cursed under my breath and picked up my jars. I had a small satchel, one that was far too big for me. I shoved my jars in with a bit less care than they deserved, then hefted the bag up over one shoulder. The bottom edge of it almost trailed on the ground.

Stomping out of my farm, I stopped dead when I noticed two figures standing nearby and looking nervous.

Debra and Stew, both looking apologetic and… worried. “Hey,” I said.

“You’re okay?” Debra asked.

“Course they are,” Stew said. “Tough little shit.” He hobbled over, moving with an awkward hop and a clack every time his crutch tapped the ground. When he got closer, he leaned in to look me in the eyes. “You alright?” he muttered.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“I… I wanted to do something,” Debra said. Her hands worked together. “But there were three of them, and you don’t mess with that sort if you know what’s good for you.”

“Okay,” I said. What was I going to do? Insist that she take them on in a fistfight? She was an older woman who lived off the streets. I was happy enough that she watched over the place as she did. I couldn’t expect much more than that from her. “Look, I don’t think I can keep the farm here. I was thinking that it might be best if I had a lot of little farms.”

“Smart,” Stew said. He stood a little taller. “Truth be told, I’m not as familiar with the slums as I ought to be. Not for someone living in them.”

“Me neither,” I said. I’d been complacent in that regard. “I just know the farm and your camp, and maybe a few little shops and places along the way. I’m not bad with directions, I just never had any reason to explore.”

We both turned to Debra, who blinked dumbly. “Oh,” she said. “I might know my way around a little, but I’m hardly an expert.”

“Yeah, fair,” Stew said. “But you know everyone.”

Debra’s cheeks puffed, and she placed her hands on her hips. “Hardly. I’m just a friendly sort.”

“A gossip, more like,” Stew said. He was smiling though, and there was no bite to his words. “Kid’s just looking for… ah, what are you looking for?”

“I just want to grow my mushrooms in peace,” I said.

Stew nodded and rubbed at the scruffy beard clinging to his chin. “Think you know anyone?”

Debra hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “I know someone. She’s an acolyte of Galen, goes around the city to help people with things. You know the sort. Was from around here before joining the cowl and mask, I think.”

“What’s her name?” I asked.

“Eight-Three-Eleven,” Debra said. “She comes by the camp every so often. I can tell her that you want to meet. I’m sure she’d accept.”

“Ah, okay,” I said. So, we couldn’t meet her right away. Also, what sort of name was that? I shook my head. “Right, that would be helpful, but I’ve got all my things packed up already. I don’t really want to put them all away.”

“What kind of place are you looking for?” Stew asked.

“Damp, dark, not too much traffic,” I said. If other mushrooms grow there already, then the place is perfect.”

He frowned for just a moment before grinning. “Cemetery,” he said. “By the Ditz Dungeon.”

“You can’t,” Debra said. “It’s not proper to use a place like that for farming.”

“Who’s going to complain, the dead?” Stew asked.

“Dearil might. Or his servants,” Debra said.

“They’re too busy patrolling around the nice cemeteries. No one’s going to bother the kid at the one near Ditz. Besides, I’ll be there. If anyone bothers us, I’ll say that we’re paying respects. It’s even true. Got a friend or six stuffed in a box there.”

Debra sniffed, but when Stew took off at a surprising fast pace considering his lack of limbs, she followed after him.

I hastened to keep up. “Who’s Dearil?” I asked.

“God of funerals and suchlike,” Stew said. “When you start working a dangerous job, you need to find one of his folk and pay them three coins: two to keep your spirit in your body, the third for them to stuff you in a box. Dour folk, mostly. But not bad. Just weird.”

“Is he like a god of death?” I asked. I could vaguely remember a few of those from Earth’s ancient pantheons. “Undead and stuff?”

“No,” Debra said. “The opposite. No one hates the undead more than Dearil’s people. This city is a shithole, pardon my common, but we don’t have zombies and wights roaming around thanks to him. We should be thankful, not using his sacred grounds to grow mushrooms.”

“Bah, you worry too much,” Stew dismissed. “Come on! It’s a quiet place, you might like it.”

***