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
onto a wide, gravelly beach formed of wave-polished
agates and jade was one of the happiest of Jon-Tom’s life.
Pushing his ram wood staff into the gravel, he hung his
backpack from the knobbed end, sat down, and inhaled
deeply of the sea air. The sharp salty smell was heartbreak-
ingly familiar.