One Hundred and Twenty-Two Suns

We wait for you, our special one, as we always do. We’ve come to expect you, and we are afraid that you are long overdue. Please come home, our special one; have we not proved how much we love you?

Love, yes, we think we understand this word. When we first met, we were small and weak. And yet you looked our way. To the ground, and not towards the trees. There on our face, a smile meant only for us, a smile that understood that we too were gods. We were not afraid, though the trees and ferns told us your kind only brings despair and pain. In your hand, you carried a thing made of dried tree and metal. Shovel, the trees named it, and said it was meant to rupture our skin, shred our fine threads, bring us to an end. But what could we do? For as deep as our filaments ran, we could not flinch away. Plus, there was something else with you, like a secret, and we could smell it. Taste it too, even through the bag. Its scent was so sweet, something we wanted to wrap our hands around so that we might drink, and because of that sweet scent, we trusted. The trees said it was poison—death. That from it, only bad would come, but when you placed it in the upturned soil, we finally could reach and wrap our hyphae around it. It was just as sweet as it smelled. Not death, not poison, you left us a gift!

And what a gift it was. All the broken connections from your digging that would take us many suns and moons to regrow became nothing. As your kind might say, worth it, even. The offering you left us with would fuel us more than enough to fix and to thrive. With it, we could finally become something great. Many suns and many more gifts you brought us. Soon, our network wove among the roots of the trees, like how they were meant to all along. To them, we offered samples of your labor—your sacrifice. The tree’s numbers grew; more of their children sprouted from patches that once lay bare. Soon, even the trees agreed you were the chosen one, the little life-bringer, and our sweet, sweet, special one. Can you not see how strong the forest—this network has become because of you and your love? Before, from your kind, we only knew pain. Fire, blades that screamed. Trees slayed. Our network left to decay. Without you, we cannot undo what has been done. A few more centuries of your gifts, then perhaps we can do it on our own. So please, our little life-bringer, won’t you come home?

Have you abandoned us? Have we not given you enough? Our reach is great; we instructed the trees to grow thick so that you might come during the day. Yes, we noticed that you like to hide, that you too are frightened of the sun, much like us. Once, we watched as you consumed your own nutrition one evening after you had labored so hard. Because of this, the brambles, we caressed them, and now they grow you sweet fruit. Ones that will leak purple and red on your tongue. Your gifts have also encouraged those that crawl and fly. Those too, your body can consume and grow strong and wide. The trees laughed at us, telling us your kind prefers meat. Perhaps you were offended by this, and truly we apologize. Now we have called upon things that are not too dissimilar to you. The ones that run. The ones that hide. The ones with eyes that glow at night. On these things we beg you to come and feed. Stay with us, even come dawn, and deliver us your precious gifts.

One hundred and twenty-two suns since you’ve come. Too long. We grow hungry. We grow weak. There isn’t much left for us to feed. The trees, even they have released their leaves. This forest you have made strong may very well perish. Please, special one. Bring your next tribute. In return, we’ll do better. We’ll give you whatever you need. No more flies, no more fruit; anything you ask, we will find.

There in the distance! Someone comes, and not just one, but many. You heard us. Come to us, all you special ones. This sun, we will rejoice with your gifts. More and more come. Enough that it was worth the one hundred and twenty-two suns. But something strange. Many faces, but yours, our special one, we cannot see.

In their hands they carry the thing the trees named shovel, and like you, they too dig and break our shell. It burns, and we do our best not to scream. The pain is worth it in the end, after all, and we open our arms to your gift. But this time, the place that was most strange was chosen. You had already placed your last gift at this spot, and we had not yet finished consuming it.

Then they take it. Not all at once. The flesh rips and drips, more for us to hang on to. We beg, as it has only just reached the point where the soup is sweetest and easiest for us to absorb. We do our best not to let go, not to let them take, but our threads outside the ground are weak. And we break. Our meat, your gift, stolen right out of our mycelium fingers.

Through the void where your gift once lay, we see better. A man in white with his face covered, making him look machine-like, nothing like how you looked, our special one. This one is ugly. No smile, and certainly no gift to replace the one he stole. Then he takes everything, including the honey that leaked from your last gift and the bits of desiccated flesh that begged to stay wrapped in our threads. Each of the places where you buried your gifts these men dug and took. Even the bones—foolish men! What would they do with those? There is nothing left to absorb.

Our special one. These men, we cannot help but fear they are here because of you. Please return and feed us once again.

Weeks the men spent digging holes, bruising and cutting our delicate connections. Most of the trees we can no longer hear. They are left to themselves. Soon, they very well may die unless we can regrow our network. To the eldest of trees, we remain connected. He tells us these types of humans he has seen before. We believe the word he used was police. The tree does not believe you will return to feed us. He said that once the police come, the gifts are done. We are left only with the bits they have missed. Fingers. A tongue. Flakes of bone that we can no longer use. One tree has fallen ill. On him, we may have to feed. He will not sustain us in the same way that your gifts did. A shame—this tree, while we did not know its name, once gave us the sweetest secrets and ancient sugar.

Without our special one, it will not be long before the trees fall one by one. And without their shade, we too will die, unless we find a new special one who feeds us their own kind.