Mushroom.Man

  Agaricus campestris. The Field Mushroom.

  Medium sized. Cap 1–5 inches.

  White with pink gills.

  In pastures. Late summer to autumn.

  Edible and boring. Grown commercially worldwide.

  nine

  It had become obvious to me that the mushroom. man drew his strength from his contact with nature. Yet perhaps it was that very solitary contact that made some of his ideas so distinctly odd. I found the idea that mushrooms were somehow at the root of so much of our culture to be unbelievable and almost certainly drug-induced. To suggest that somehow the world would be a better place if everyone was high on mushrooms was certifiable, to put it mildly. Yet his view of our society split unhappily between a technological world with monotheistic roots and a covert remnant of shamanism was almost believable. Every day I was in contact with bright young minds who longed for magic in their secular lives. This longing expressed itself in endless quests into the New Age. How new this age was in its thinking was something that they never probed. To me it appeared as a re-statement of the Platonic ideals – there was nothing new in it at all.

  The mushroom. man seemed to me to have combined elements of his life that I would previously have considered too diverse to combine. Where I grew up rural values and high technology did not sit together. The impression that I was building up of the mushroom. man was of someone who lived an entirely rural existence – by his own description one governed by seventeenth-century technology – and yet who combined that with a high level of competence in new technology, at least as a user. He appeared to draw no distinctions between what I had always assumed to be separate disciplines. Like Greeks in the golden age of Athens, his ‘technos’ made no distinction between a statue by Praxiteles or a ploughshare made by a blacksmith.

  What I needed now was some background information on how he ordered his daily life. How did he fill the average day? How did he cope with the everyday need of obtaining the basics, like shelter, food and heat? Did his computer suffer from the damp? What kind of social interaction did he have?

  One thing I had learned from my reading was that there seemed to be a connection between the effects of psychedelic drugs and schizophrenia. There is not only a psychic similarity, but a neurochemical one as well. Osmond and Smythie had suggested in a paper that schizophrenia was caused by an inability of the body to handle its own adrenaline – a substance close in structure to mescaline. In their view a schizophrenic is being poisoned by one of his own body’s hallucinogens. This research has been confirmed by Friedhoff and Van Winkle, who were able to isolate another mescaline-like chemical from the urine of schizophrenics. The thought had occurred to me that if this research was correct, then it was equally possible that the effect might be two-way; that is, that prolonged exposure to hallucinogens could bring about the onset of schizophrenia.

  If I could find evidence in the mushroom. man’s writing of schizophrenia then I had the basis of a good paper which would certainly be noticed. There seemed to be little wrong with my theory that if schizophrenics could produce psychedelic substances in their bodies, then maybe psychedelics could produce schizophrenia. It had a neat circularity to it. I decided to look for instances that would confirm the theory.

  I knew by now that whoever this man was at the other end of my modem, he was more comfortable summarizing what he believed were universal truths than describing personal feelings. And yet I felt that perhaps he had actually come to enjoy the process of writing down parts of his experience and sharing it with me. Maybe not, but I hoped that it was true. I asked him to tell me a bit of how he spent his days now, because I was still unclear as to the chronology of what he’d sent me. Two e-mails came within a week of each other. I seemed to have tapped into a vein.

  Attn. mushroom.seeker.

  Subject: personal history.

  27 August.

  It was autumn. A weak sun shone through the light cloud cover, a dull, diffused source of light in a grey sky. The fine rain had stopped and the cobwebs on the gorse bushes were highlighted in mist droplets. I stepped out into the moist air, my gun in hand. Sirius, my dog, was hopping about, half-sitting, half-standing, waggling uncontrollably, unable to contain his excitement. Dogs, I think, enjoy the hunt more than humans.

  He’s a scruffy dog – part sheepdog, part cocker – but a good gun dog. He can retrieve from water or land, and can flush pheasant and rabbits from the densest cover. Maybe twice a week we go through this ritual, Sirius and I. It’s an atavistic trade: we both want meat so we co-operate in the hunt. He’s an unforgiving partner, quick to sulk if I miss a bird he’s spent a long time rooting out. He stares at me and sits down in protest. He needs to be cajoled into starting again.

  We worked the edges of the upper wood; the one above the river. There are rabbit burrows all along the forest edge in the sandy banks. Between the burrows and the river is a sward of grass where the rabbits graze. Our technique is to approach from the woods so that to get to the burrows they have to run towards the gun. Mostly they scatter instead and Sirius puts them out of their scrapes and hides so that they bolt over the open ground where I can shoot them. I rarely take more than two on any day, one for me, one for the dog. We moved slowly through the wood, toward the rabbit burrows, Sirius never more than ten yards from me, checking under every fallen tree, in every stand of brown and brittle bracken. A few deer droppings, some tracks in the soft earth of the path. Mushroomy, damp smells rise from the leaf litter. Slower now, as we come to the river, senses heightened, walking carefully through the dry and broken twigs. As we reached the bank Sirius dashed forward into the grazing rabbits.

  I shot a big buck, two or three years old, torn ears and a heavy scruff on his neck. I waited for Sirius to bring it to me, but he didn’t; he was nosing around a gorse clump. As I walked toward the rabbit, a hind leg still twitching, the whirr of wings made me turn. A cock pheasant took off, heading downstream. I wasn’t really ready, my gun was down, my concentration gone. I should have kept my eye on the gorse clump just in case. By the time I had the gun to my shoulder the bird was flying fast and far – a long shot. I fired and it came down in the river wounded and flapping. Sirius brought it back, wet and still alive. I pulled its neck and hung it on the strings of my belt, followed by the rabbit. A good day.

  We walked back towards the house, the catch banging off my leg as we walked. Approaching the bridge I saw a lone figure leaning on the railings. As we got closer a young woman turned and stared. I’m never quite sure how to greet strangers out here; I’ve noticed that city people like you to ignore them, they seem uncomfortable with a greeting. Even on the top of mountains I’ve had them pretend not to see me. It’s bizarre; miles from anywhere their strange manners dictate that you can observe all of nature with the exception of people. They still behave as they do in a crowded street. This woman’s gaze didn’t falter; she kept her eyes on me, the rabbit, the pheasant and the dog. Every time I looked back toward her I met her eyes. I suppose I could have crossed to the other side of the bridge but that seemed an odd way to behave. As we came alongside her she spoke.

  ‘You’ve got blood on your hands.’

  I looked down at my hands, not blooded but a little feathered. I couldn’t think of anything to say, but I felt that a comment this bald deserved a reply.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Of course you do. And you’ve got blood on your shoes.’

  The rabbit was dripping blood from its mouth, spatters were on my shoes and a little on my trousers.

  ‘It’s disgusting,’ she continued.

  ‘Look, I don’t kill for fun, I kill for food.’

  ‘People like you should be shot.’

  ‘People like you should mind their own business.’

  I walked on, angry that I could think of nothing better to say. Angry that this woman should have made me angry. I’d been enjoying the day, the walk, the successful hunt. Even the bloody dog was happy. Who the hell do these people think they
are? I have the right to eat what I please, and kill it too if that’s the way to obtain it. Fuck it, it’s no one’s business but mine what I do. Jesus, these interfering, woolly-minded, lentil-eating freaks should stay near their local health food shop or whole-food or whatever the fuck they call it. Proselytes. Can’t leave well enough alone, no, they have to go around forcing their half-arsed opinions on the rest of us. I came here to get away from this sort of shit. I’ll turn the skin of this rabbit into a hat and wear it, just to annoy this silly woman.

  My thoughts stilled for long enough to hear footsteps behind me. I turned: she was following me. I stopped, hoping she would walk past and out of my life. She stopped beside me and patted the dog. The stupid dog rolled over and let her rub his belly; silly beast has no idea of dignity.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Sirius.’

  ‘You smell of dead animals.’

  ‘Me or the dog?’

  ‘You.’

  I looked over her head to the forest. I counted slowly to ten. I looked at her and saw that she had a very pretty face; thin and bony but attractive. Large blue eyes. Her hair was light brown, hazel; thick and shiny. I couldn’t make out much else; she wore a padded coat and cords tucked into wellies. I wondered did she have thick ankles.

  ‘Do you live near?’ she asked.

  ‘Just across that field.’ I wanted to say it was none of her business, but it didn’t come out.

  ‘I’m thinking of moving here.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘If you find death so offensive you’ll never hack it here. Death’s all around, darling.’

  ‘Don’t patronize me.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m serious.’

  ‘I thought that was your dog’s name.’ She laughed at her little joke, a tinkling laugh that brought an unwilling smile to my lips. I wanted not to like her, her insulting tongue, her odd beliefs. She looked really good when she laughed, soft, female and sexy. I really hate that in myself, a whiff of pheromone and I’m fighting to remain a man rather than a lump of putty. I hate the weakness of it; the beguiling allure that makes me think of beds and warm bodies instead of responding to her insults. It demeans me; if this was a man there’d be no bother, I’d tell him to fuck off and if that didn’t work I could punch him. Instead I find myself trying to make myself attractive in the hope of getting laid. What a pathetic way to order your life.

  ‘Don’t be angry.’ She tilted her head to one side and her hair moved like shiny gold threads on her collar.

  ‘I’m not angry. Just surprised at your directness.’

  ‘I’m always direct.’

  ‘Where were you thinking of moving to?’

  She pointed downstream. ‘The old mill, there.’

  ‘It’s a ruin.’

  ‘I’ll do it up.’ She looked upstream across the field to my house. ‘We’ll be neighbours.’

  I wasn’t sure what to make of this. I mean, directness is something I find hard to take in a stranger – but in a neighbour? I’d meet her a lot if she lived in the old mill. It could be awful. And yet she was pretty. Attractive. I liked her laugh. But then again, she had little in common with me. Anyway, who says she’d find me attractive? Maybe she’s already got a man. Or a woman. Who knows. Stupid thoughts; wondering about her and me. I might never see her again.

  ‘I didn’t know the mill was for sale.’

  ‘It’s not. It’s got about twenty owners, most of them live abroad. Half of them don’t even know they’ve been left it. No forwarding addresses. I’m just going to move in.’

  ‘What if they find out?’

  ‘What if they don’t?’ She laughed again and I liked it. It was a good sound.

  I started to mumble a goodbye and move on.

  ‘Do you mind if I walk with you?’

  ‘If you like.’

  We walked, Sirius running forward, back to us and forward again. She moved from the side where the game hung to the other side. We were silent, she for whatever reason, I because I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was determined to say nothing banal.

  ‘Why do you want to live around here?’ just slipped out.

  ‘I’m following my ley line.’

  ‘Your ley line.’

  ‘I marked on a map where I was born, then where I grew up, then where I live now. It makes a straight line. Isn’t that weird?’

  ‘Suppose so.’ That three random points should make a straight line isn’t that odd. I mean, I’m not going to calculate the odds, but it can’t be too unlikely.

  ‘So I drew the line on the map and projected it. It comes through here.’

  Here and a million other places along the way, I thought. Why do people only ever pick out the bits that they want and ignore the rest?

  ‘What about the other direction?’

  ‘That’s north. My heart is pulled to the south. It had to be this way.’

  ‘I see.’

  I didn’t, of course. This is a kind of logic that I am unfamiliar with. Maybe this is what they mean when they say that it’s a gender thing. The whole process of this reasoning seemed unlike anything else. Why should points on a map make any difference one way or another? It’s a kind of divination, I suppose, like yarrow sticks or tarot; random event generators from which we hope to make sense.

  ‘I couldn’t find the circle,’ she announced.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The stone circle – I couldn’t find it.’

  ‘What stone circle?’

  ‘I think it should be there.’ She pointed to the field in front of my house. ‘I’ve got an old map that shows one. I might be wrong, but I think it’s marked in that field. It’s another reason that I wanted to follow my ley. It’s a power spot.’

  It flashed before me. Greg sitting on a stone in the middle of the henge. In front of my house.

  ‘What year is this map?’

  ‘1776.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘Sure. It’s in the car.’

  Where the forest track meets the main road there’s a clearing where you can park a car. We were walking that way and I felt a sense of excitement. If she was right then my dream or vision had some grounds of reality in it. I mean, if the henge was on the map, placed where I’d seen it, then I had to reassess. I’d never thought of moving through time any way but forward. Or maybe I’d stayed here and the henge had moved forward two hundred years. Either way I wanted to see the map.

  She drove an old, small green van. Of course, I thought, green in everything but its emissions. I could see that the inside was a tip. Wouldn’t surprise me if it had mice. Paper, litter, bags, boxes, clothes, all strewn around front and back.

  ‘I know it’s in here somewhere.’

  As she rummaged, bent over through the door, I tried to imagine what was under the bulk of the winter clothing. Thin face and hands, probably a flat, wide bum. Thin thighs? Maybe a gap at the top, a crotch gap. Liked that. She was still rooting. Maybe this was a waste of time. Maybe she’d imagined the map. Imagined the stone circle. I couldn’t make out anything of her legs. Pity it wasn’t summer.

  ‘Here it is.’

  ‘Great. Can I see?’

  She handed me a book, Dolmens, Henges and Triliths.

  ‘Page 87, I think.’

  She was right. There was a fold-out map of the area to a good scale. A house was marked where mine stands, a stone circle in the field in front. I turned to the title-page and found the date. Published by Eben Pringle & Sons, MDCCLXXVI.

  ‘Found it?’

  ‘Yeah. Do you mind if we walk down again with the book and check it out?’

  ‘No, I’d be interested. Let’s go.’

  The book covered most of this part of the country, listing the standing stones, the ring forts, the henges and dolmens. I flicked through as we walked. This whole area was a mass of megalithic works, hundreds of them.

  ‘Do you know much about stone circles?’ she asked.


  ‘Not much. They marked the periods of the moon, didn’t they?’

  ‘And the sun. Mid-winter was the important one. It marked the new year, and therefore you knew when to plant your corn. Guessing gave bad results as a rule.’

  ‘I see.’

  We crossed the stile into the field, Sirius forcing himself through the sheep wire. I orientated myself with the map. The field seemed to be exactly as it was two hundred years ago, the boundary hedges unchanged.

  ‘It should be here.’ I stood where the middle should be. For a brief moment I had two images before me; the one I normally see and the one I’d seen once. Like a dissolve on film, for an instant the stones were nearly there, transparent, but there.

  ‘You see them, don’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The stones. You see them.’

  ‘I did, just for a second. They’re gone.’

  ‘I wonder where they put them.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The people who took them away. A lot of circles were dismantled by fundamentalist Christians who thought that they were pagan temples. They thought they were tied in with witchcraft and black magic’

  ‘They couldn’t have taken them far. They’re big stones.’

  I began to walk the ditches around the field. Hawthorn, blackthorn, bramble, bracken and gorse. A dry-stone wall in decay, fallen and overgrown, like a skeleton inside the browning autumnal vegetation. She walked some ten paces in front of me, copying me. I get irritated at things like that, mainly because I don’t like the feeling of pettiness it inspires in me. But if there’s a discovery to be made, I should make it. It’s my field and my idea.