She Gives Us Mushrooms is the riveting and strange story of Bella, a mushroom hunting tour guide living in the woods, who finds the popularity of her tours growing rapidly out of control whilst old friends from her past appear uninvited.
Thoughtful, psychedelic, rainy and enigmatic. This debut novel follows Bella for three eventful days as she contends with a looming ecological disaster, lurking drinking problem, endless mushroom hunters, mysterious happenings and a world that might be ending.
She Gives Us Mushrooms is the riveting and strange story of Bella, a mushroom hunting tour guide living in the woods, who finds the popularity of her tours growing rapidly out of control whilst old friends from her past appear uninvited.
Thoughtful, psychedelic, rainy and enigmatic. This debut novel follows Bella for three eventful days as she contends with a looming ecological disaster, lurking drinking problem, endless mushroom hunters, mysterious happenings and a world that might be ending.
And I dreamt that it was raining mushrooms. Toadstools were pouring from the sky. Tumbling out of the flossy clouds. And below my feet, more mushrooms were sprouting. Appearing like parachutes. Bursting through a tangled carpet of mycelium and mould. And they were spelling out my name: Bella, Bella. Bella. Bella.Â
And when I woke up it really was raining. The sound of it beating on the cabin roof. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Like wet nails. And a wet tapping hammer. So I tried to stir myself. Whilst listening to the storm. The trickling sounds of the forest. Also I could hear the mushroom hunters. As they gathered outside in their cars.Â
Later I am in the shower, as more and more vehicles arrive. I can hear their tyres crunching and splashing across the muddy yard. I am straining to hear them over the hiss of the hot water. Whilst trying to keep a rudimentary count. Imagining mushroom hunters moving like brightly coloured abacus beads. Tallying up. Self organising. Into some greater structure than themselves. Also I am lathering my hair. Bundling it up with soap. Then clumping it to the top of my head like a dessert.Â
And I am thinking that a shower is a kind of domesticated rain. As the sound of the car engines and hand brakes and car doors rolls through the open window. Along with the cold rainy day draft. Churning the bathroom air into steam. And I am dancing around underneath the scolding spout. Getting burnt. Taking dominion over nature. While washing with thin slivers of soap. Watching the suds slide off of me like icebergs. And spiral into the drain.Â
And I often dream that Iâm in the city, looking over grey stretches of water. Knee-deep in flooded office buildings. Or wading through toffee coloured floods. They are wet reflections of another life. I suppose. Rainy time travel. As though my past was visiting. Splashing on the ground. Churning with the present. But last night I was in a sort of endless meadow. With my bare feet springing on the slimy grass. And I felt like I was keeping busy. As mushrooms rained down from above.
Anyway, in the shower, I turned the faucets closed. Shutting off the water. Pulling back the curtain. Lending to everything a sense of finality. And it felt as though I had made some monumental decision. As I stepped out the shower I could still hear the car engines idling outside. But also boots slapping against the muddy ground. And people calling out to one another. Their voices shortened by the rain. So I drew the window shut. Clawing back a bit of privacy. Then I wrapped myself in a towel. Tip toeing across the bathroom. And into the living room. Leaving pools of water wherever I went. As if performing an art piece. About how humans are mostly made out of water. Or about how our touch on the world is messy. And undignified. And evaporating.
And the entire cabin is drumming with rain. Whilst I am shuffling around in a damp towel. I am hunting for whisky. A little artificial motivation. And the cabin windows are trembling in their frames. Being rattled by the mossy wind. And I canât think of a week when it hasnât poured down most days. Not this year. Maybe longer. Sometimes I have to remind myself that it isnât normal. That it wasnât always like this. It used to stop for a few weeks here and there. But lately, there is no real relief.Â
Eventually I found an unopened whisky bottle. Under a magazine. So I unscrewed the lid. And took a nip. Pondering over the mystery and abundance of nature. Whilst breathing noisily through my mouth. And I was thinking that things were changing. You know. But theyâre changing in the same way. If that makes any sense. There is more of the same. Sameness. Perpetually increasing. Every day. I am facing a crisis of ever increasing sameness. If something stopped or delayed or changed flavour it would be a blessing. But it wonât.
And I am heading back to the bedroom to get dressed. Whisky in hand. Leaving wet footprints across the cabin floor as I go. With the damp ends of my hair touching my back. Feeling like worms. I am navigating stacked up piled up books when I hear the knocking on the door. It is Alden. I can spy him through the foggy windows. He is huddled in a long waxed coat. Rattling the door shutters with his knuckles. Waving at me to get my attention. And he reminded me of a church gargoyle. The way he was grimacing. With the rain dripping from his nose.Â
So I started laughing. And I could see him shaking his head at me. Not amused. Water running down his face. Through his greased back hair. A damp cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Then I opened the door. Turning the latch. Swinging it wide. The cold air pouring into the cabin.
âTheyâre here,â Alden said. Pointing to the parked up cars. At the growing crowd of mushroom hunters splashing around in the yard.
âI know,â I said. Holding the towel closed with one hand. Whisky bottle in my other.Â
âI see youâre ready then,â he said.
âTheyâre early,â I said. Taking his cigarette. Blowing out a plume of smoke. Handing it back.
And I could feel the freezing wind and rain blowing in at me from outside. Â
âAny coffee?â Alden said. Giving me a long look. Then stepping past me into the cabin. Stamping the rain off of his boots.
A little later, we are sat opposite each other on the sofas. After finishing chipped mugs of coffee. I am pulling on my wellingtons. Alden is playing absently with a damp matchbox. He has thick sandpaper fingers. Roughened by wood and metal and old broken down scrap. And his hands are always fidgeting. As if trying to make something. Or tame or alter something. Or change somethingâs function or form. Even unconsciously. Sitting there now. His hands are striving to bend the matchbox. Transforming it. Against its will.
âThereâs a lot out there,â he said.
âI saw,â I said. âIâm excited. Are you?â
âThrilled,â he said.
âNo, youâre not,â I said.Â
Alden watched me as I finished topping up a hip flask. A tired look on his face. I wiped the dripped whisky off of its sides. Then slipped it into my boot. Rather than my pocket. Hoping it didnât get too warm. As sometimes whisky gets to body temperature when it's been in your pocket too long. And there is something transcendent about that. Something bodily. It's as though you are drinking some part of yourself. And that glugging hip flask sound can feel sacred.Â
âSo do you have a route?â Alden said. Giving me a serious look.
âSure,â I said, âof sorts.â
Then I stand up and start pulling on my raincoat. Filling the pockets with accessories and vital instruments. I could hear Alden clap his hands together. And breathe out sharply. As if to say, OK, letâs go. I liked the way it sounded. And liked how the sound of it was a code that I could decipher.Â
And I was thinking about how much of a wreck the cabin was when I first met Alden. That there were ferns and mushrooms growing out the corners of the room. And spider webs in the window frames. Instead of glass. How he helped me fix everything up. Get grounded. I mean I got a lot of help from everyone in those days. But Berenice and Alden especially. They kind of swept me up. Dusted me off. Straightened my edges. Brought me back to some sort of sanity. It seems like a lifetime ago now. Â
When Alden stands up too, all the keys in his pockets sound like shaking leg irons. He is my mechanical assistant on the mushroom tours. Jangling and jingling beside me. I donât know how a man who lives in a small wooden hut has so many keys. I would ask him, but I know he would just ignore me. Itâs a touchy topic. One that heâs refused to broach in the past.
So I picked up my mushroom basket. Hanging it on my arm. And I tried to imagine all the mushrooms waiting for us in the forest. Willing them out of the soggy ground. Poking up out from under the pitch pine trees. Through the rotting cones and conifer leaves. Out from between peopleâs feet. The edible. The irritable. The psychedelic. The colourful. The camouflaged. The medicinal. And the dangerous. Appearing in a time lapse. Unpacking and unbundling like parcels.
Alden and I stood by the door for a little while. Watching the rain beating against the glass. Trying to motivate ourselves to leave. Our hoods up in anticipation. With our long coats hanging down past our knees. Looking like we were wearing capes. Alden was fumbling a cigarette together. Fishing the papers and tobacco out of his top pocket. Rustling it into existence. Bringing it to his lips. Then sealing it like an envelope.
And I was thinking about the foolâs mushroom. Also known as the destroying angel. Amanita Verna. Which is one of the most toxic mushrooms that there is. The problem is, in addition to being deadly poisonous, a young foolâs mushroom looks pretty similar to an edible button mushroom. And I mean, youâd probably think itâs pretty nondescript too, if you didnât know anything about mushrooms.Â
The foolâs mushroom, like a lot of poisonous mushrooms, has none of the bright tropical warning signs that you grow up learning about. None of nature's lexicon of poison. Unlike those colourful paralysing tree frogs. Alien looking caterpillars. And candy ringed snakes. The foolâs mushroom is totally white. Not remotely attention worthy. Itâs not dirty or dangerous or exotic looking. It looks clean. And commonplace. Like a bar of soap.
âI need to talk to you later, Isabella,â Alden said. Looking at me sideways.Â
And there was something stern in his voice. Like he was getting down to business. Iâve heard him speak like that before. But rarely. I thought maybe he wanted to talk tree salvage or cabin repairs. Discuss selling me some repurposed furniture.
And I donât know if I can recall the first time Alden knocked on my rackety leaking cabin door. But I do remember how in those days, when anyone rapped on the door, however gently, I would worry their hands would bust through the wood. Thatâs how dilapidated and tentatively held together the cabin was. Which was also, incidentally, how I felt at the time too.
And I am thinking of those first few months we spent patching the ceiling together. Standing on Aldenâs homemade stepladders. Hammering scraps of wood. Stretching reclaimed tarp. Before that the living room would drip like a faulty shower each time there was a storm. But thankfully back then, it didnât rain as hard and as often as it does now. And after it was fixed, I admit that I missed the way the morning sun would peep through holes in the roof looking like constellations of stars.
âOK, Alden,â I said. Giving him a wink.Â
âIs that a promise?â he said.
And I raised my arms. In a complicated gesture. Forming a promise. With the elaborate configuration of my hands. Then I adjusted my dress under my heavy coat. Focusing my attention on the task ahead. On the cabin door. The lurking weather. And mushroom hunters outside. Feeling as though we were about to plunge out the side of an aeroplane. And I closed my eyes. Clutching my hands into fists. Taking a deep breath. Preparing myself to swing open the cabin shutters. And confront the menacing outdoors.
*TW: moderate use of alcohol*
In Tom Offlandâs curious, intriguing novel, She Gives Us Mushrooms, weâre taken on
a tour of Bellaâs world, where she lives in a rain-soaked cabin, taking city folk on mushroom tours in the nearby woods.Â
The novel is, essentially, a book about humanness: our relationship with ourselves, the people we find ourselves in relationships with, and the natural world. In the case of She Gives Us Mushrooms, that relationship with the natural world comes mainly from, unsurprisingly, mushrooms: throughout the book, extensive knowledge of mushrooms is expertly woven into the storyline so you donât truly notice youâve grown your knowledge base until youâre done reading and are out in the world, thinking about mycelium networks and death caps.
In between mushroom tours and meeting old friends, Offland peppers in a significant, creeping string of unusual events which donât always make senseâbut maybe they donât need to.
It took me until near the end of the book to recognize what She Gives Us Mushrooms reminded me of: Twin Peaks. Not in the plotâthereâs no murder here, no Great Northern hotelâbut in the srtange, weaving way its written. Incongruous, almost fantastical things occurâthings that are not often acknowledged by the charactersâwhich provide She Gives Us Mushrooms with its dreamy feel.
What Iâm not entirely fond of was the choppy sentences used throughout. I admit Iâm uncertain as to whether these were intended to add to the effect of the bizarre events in the story, but if thatâs the case, it felt a little more disjointed than intendedâat least for me. A little disjointed as well was Bellaâs story. I know her past was intended to be vague, but I would have appreciated a few more hints to her past, especially earlier on. I feel that any true glimpse into her past life was left until quite near the end.
This aside, She Gives Us Mushrooms was a captivating read. Anyone who enjoys a bit of the strangeâTwin Peaks fans especiallyâwill enjoy this book.