From Below

All is quiet in this suburban wood. No birdsong, no buzzing insects. And then a faint sound takes their place, rising from beneath the ground. I get to my knees, put ear to trail. Something tickles my eardrum. There it is! A low, monotone wailing. Surprisingly, I comprehend it: the primeval voice of the fungal network below, a sentience merged with the amalgamated cries of nematodes, tardigrades, and other soil fauna—the mind of the forest itself! Feeding me lush visions of Earth’s bygone eras, of man’s destructive behavior. I take a deep breath, then tug a long strand of mycorrhizal fungi from my ear. A new sound replaces old: a pulsating signal. It’s connected, somehow, to the network of my mind, and it’s embedded with a command. On hands and knees it has me venture off trail, blankly searching amid tangled undergrowth and mushroom-laden logs. There I find a suitable indention in the ground. Once inside, I lay supine and close my eyes. Knowledge of Self sputters, starts to decay; I begin to know only what the forest knows—all its bitterness and pain. A tree root suddenly pierces my back, weaving around spine and ribs. Strands of white mycelium wrap about my wrists and ankles, and together they pull me tight against the moist earth. A blanket of emerald moss then slides over me like the lid of a coffin. In seconds I’m pulled apart and euphorically ground into organic pulp. Now my thoughts brighten, begin anew: down here, I am the signal. Down here, we are preparing for war.

First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction in 2022.