Chapter 3
Alfred had been home for several months and winter was fast approaching when one morning, well before sunrise, Alfred’s mother knocked on his bedroom door, “Alfred, would you be a dear, and go into the wood to fetch me some of the mushrooms for my mushroom soup? It’s rained overnight and there ought to be a fair few to be had.” Jessica Perkins’s mushroom soup was famous several miles around Carlisle, particularly for its rarity and freshness. Jessica only used a certain kind of mushroom, and then only fresh picked. Alfred stumbled out of bed, pulling on trousers and a jumper his mother knit for him last Christmas; it being a chilly morning. Alfred had a quick bite of toast and glug of coffee and went out into the mist.
It is about two miles from Alfred’s home to the edge of Fey Forest, so Alfred had to walk by the old church St. Nicholas’s, which had burn marks on the stones still from some attack back in the late middle ages or early renaissance. Alfred could never remember. Local history did not interest him too much, and no one could settle on the date anyway. Some said it happened during the reign of Queen Elizabeth when some of the old Catholic churches were being burnt down. Others said it was during the time of Oliver Cromwell. Still others said it was a much more ancient and diabolic attack from early in the church’s history. Whatever the truth was, no renovation was allowed since it was deemed a historical landmark.
When Alfred reached the forest’s edge the mist became even worse. “It’s going to be damn near impossible to find mushrooms in this mist,” he said to himself. “Oh well, in I go.” With that he plunged into the wood. The trees were close together in this small wood and blocked out whatever sunlight might be burning the mist off outside of it. Alfred put his headphones in his ears and was listening to music as he searched, none too carefully. He yawned, another thirty minutes and he would simply give up and tell his mother there were no mushrooms yet. Off in the distance Alfred saw a light. As he walked closer to it, he could tell it was several lights, as if from torches. Wondering what on earth could be going on he decided to walk towards them.
If Alfred had not had his headphones in he would have been surprised still to be hearing music. He would have heard music that could leave no listener unmoved. It was both morose and jovial. It sounded both as if it were the music of another world and yet as if it were the rocks, trees, streams, Nature herself singing this song. But all Alfred could hear was his own music pulsing through his ears as he walked ever closer to the torches, looking like phantoms of red and orange in the mist.
Although Alfred could not hear the merry voices and beautiful music, he could smell the food: roasted meat, delightfully prepared vegetables, and wine. The mist obscured his sight even more as he ventured closer. He was quite near the torches and could almost taste the food when suddenly all the torches vanished. The dark enclosed his senses and he fell.
“I must have fallen asleep,” said Alfred out loud as he pulled his headphones out of his ears and stowed them in his pocket. He looked around confused. “Well,” he thought, “I must have been more tired than I realized this morning. Imagine me thinking there was a party going on out here in this mist, this early in the morning.” He looked around for any signs, but all he saw was a fairy ring, mushrooms in a perfect circle with one enormous mushroom directly in the middle.
“Well, today’s my lucky day,” Alfred said. “Just the mushrooms Mum needs for her soup. I think I’ll grab this big one first.” Alfred reached down, but as he did so he knocked the top off the mushroom before he even got his hands round its base.
“That’s not a very kind way of introducing yourself, knocking off my hat, Alfred Perkins.” Alfred looked around. “Down here, my son. My how you humans persist in not seeing what’s right before you. I said down here.” Alfred could not believe what his eyes beheld. Standing before him not more than two feet off the ground was a brown, dry looking figure with a sort of green tunic and shoes on. It had almost no nose and its eyes were a loam brown, and it appeared to have no teeth or discernible ears. All Alfred could see at the moment, however, was a talking mushroom without its cap.
“Well, it seems I will have to re-collect my own hat. Oh, and don’t be worried, my son, you are not dreaming. I promise you I am quite real. My name is—” The creature bent over to pick up its cap and Alfred took his chance and ran.
Alfred ran past several other collections of mushrooms, shuddering as he did. “I was still half asleep,” he told himself. “I couldn’t find any mushrooms, laid down, and fell asleep dreaming of fires and talking mushrooms. Yes, that’s it. There can’t be such things as talking mushrooms. There just can’t.” Alfred stopped running when he reached the church. He needed to collect his thoughts before he got back home. He decided to tell his mother that it was too soon after the rain for there to be any mushrooms yet.
“Well, no mushroom soup today, then,” his mother said when he arrived back at home. “You look a little put out, why don’t you lay back down.”
“That’s alright, I’ll go see if Dad needs me in the brewery.”
Alfred went down into the brewery where he found his father next to a large wooden beer barrel. “Alfred!” He shouted. “Just in time, my boy. I was about to do a little taste test. I’ve got a new amber ale I want you to try.” Alfred’s father took great pride in his beer. It was part of what gave The Broken Spoke its charm, all house brewed cask ale. Alfred was lost in thought. He wandered out of the cellar, leaving his father to his brewing revelries and spent the rest of the day in a kind of a stupor. He helped his parents in the garden, milked the cows, fed the chickens and served in the inn at night.
Alfred was collecting mugs and pint glasses outside when he saw him. Old Mr. Cyning was sitting outside, as he had to nowadays, smoking his pipe. “How old is he now?” Alfred thought to himself. “He seemed ancient when I was a little kid.” Old Mr. Cyning was old indeed, probably the oldest member of the village of Carlisle. If you wanted to know anything about the history of Carlisle or Britain in general he was the man to ask. He could tell you stories about Alfred, Merlin, and Gildas; or about Churchill and the War. He noticed Alfred staring at him, took a big puff on his pipe, blew out a glorious smoke ring, tamped his pipe, placed it back between his teeth and said, “Bee in your bonnet, Alfred?”
“Just a bit distracted today, Mr. Cyning.”
“Yes, I heard you fell asleep out in the woods. Right next to fairy ring, if young Sammy’s eyes didn’t deceive her.”
“Oh, um, would mind not mentioning that to my mum. I was supposed to be collecting mushrooms for her soup—”
“Your mother makes a damn fine mushroom soup.”
“Yes, well I was supposed to be collecting mushrooms, but I must’ve fallen asleep and had a terrible dream. When I woke up I forgot all about the mushrooms and ran straight back home.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Cyning. Taking a long draw on his pipe, he closed his eyes. Alfred thought he had fallen asleep when suddenly he heard Mr. Cyning murmur, “And what was your dream about?”
“Um,” said Alfred nervously. “I can’t really remember, mushrooms I think. A-a talking mushroom.” Alfred did not want to say too much. He was not sure which frightened him more, the idea that people