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