What the actual fuck?
“I wasn’t planning on making a stop,” Rasmus says to the mushroom lady, getting to his feet. He reaches down and pulls me up, noting the bewildered expression on my face. “Hanna, this is a dear friend of mine. Sammalta.”
I stare up at the mushy lady, feeling painfully normal and mortal. “Pleased to meet you?”
She has no eyes or mouth in that mushroom cap head of hers, and yet I can sense her expression all the same. She’s not amused.
“You should be pleased,” she says haughtily. “I just saved your life.”
I look over to where the ground caved in right beside her. A few of the white tendrils are retreating underneath the moss.
Holy shit. Those tendrils are actually mycelia belonging to the mushy lady. I try to think back to my biology classes in high school. Or is it that the mushroom lady belongs to the mycelia? Either way, even though she did save our lives, and Rasmus seems to know her, I’m not trusting anyone anymore, especially not talking mushrooms.
“My apologies,” I say to her. “It’s been a whirlwind since I left the castle.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment and the pause feels weighty. There’s no feeling like you’re being scrutinized by a twenty-foot-tall naked mossy mushroom lady.
Then she says to Rasmus, “So you did it. She’s here. I suppose congratulations are in order. Or at least a thanks.”
“I didn’t want to bring her here,” Rasmus says quickly. “You know my aim was Death’s Landing and then home.”
“So I’m guessing this weather isn’t because of you,” she muses, thunder crashing nearby as if on cue. “Then Death has discovered your plan. You’re lucky you even made it this far.”
“It was all thanks to Alku,” Rasmus says, looking around the wind-whipped forest. “Have you seen the unicorn?”
“Alku is taking shelter,” she says. “Which is something I advise you do as well until this passes.”
“What if it never passes?” I ask, trying not to sound panicked.
“Never is a strong word,” the mushy lady says. “It doesn’t apply in place like this. Come on. Let’s get you out of this weather.”
The mushy lady starts to sink straight into the ground until all that’s left is moss and a tiny mushroom.
“Remember when I told you to not eat the mushrooms here,” Rasmus says to me as I stare wildly at the place where the mushy lady was. “That’s part of the reason.”
Suddenly the white strands of mycelia come shooting out of the ground right for us.
I scream, more out of surprise than terror this time, and the tendrils wrap around both Rasmus and I, lifting us a few feet off the ground, then start moving us at a rapid rate over the moss and through the trees. Falling branches nearly flatten us a few times, the ones from the iron pines landing like bombs.
“What’s happening!?” I manage to cry out. Can’t I have a moment of peace where I’m not being groped by skeletons or dragged around by mushrooms?
“She’s taking us to her home,” Rasmus says. I look over at him and with his red hair blown back by the wind and the sparkle in his eyes, he looks like he’s having a hell of a good time. “It’s where I was hiding out, planning to free you.”
We zip through the forest until we start to slow, a clearing opening up in front of us. The most god-awful smell fills the air and I grimace, my stomach turning sour.
“Oh god,” I say, scrunching up my nose. “What the hell is that smell? The Bog of Everlasting Stench?”
“Not quite,” Rasmus says. “It’s decay. The Pile of Decay to be exact. You’ll get used to it.”
“Pile of Decay? Sounds like they should be opening up for Corrosion of Conformity.”
“Didn’t figure you’d listen to metal,” Rasmus comments, grinning at me. “You might be a true Finn after all.”
The mycelia come to a sudden stop. In front of us, in the middle of a clearing surrounded by what look like birch or poplar trees, is a massive pile of bones, fur, skin, and other things I don’t want to get too close of a look at. At the front of the pile is a ribcage that looks like it belongs to a blue whale, big enough to walk under.
The mycelia yank us back to the ground and disappear under the earth until I’m on my feet beside Rasmus. He reaches out and grabs my elbow to steady me before looking me over.
“I have to admit, you must have looked like a beautiful bride.”
I’m pinching my nose shut, trying not to inhale the disgusting fumes from the Pile of Decay. “Looked like?” I say in a nasally voice.
He smirks and looks me over with a shrug.
I glance down at myself. The wind is whipping my dress around, or what’s left of it. The long train is now torn to mid-calf, and the once pristine fabric is wet in places and black and brown with dirt. I can only imagine what my face looks like.