Trapped in bed with head a skillet, a boy just before teenagehood rested beneath three blankets too many. His dark room lost its cover by the opening of its door, light quick upon planks and squinting child. A figure in the doorway--swaying--tossed an object through the air, nestled then beside the boy’s cheek. He wrestled an arm out from beneath the comforter and turned the cylinder to the light. It was store brand soup, and he thought it bore a fowl mascot but could not be sure.

“Make it yourself,” offered the figure. The door closed.

Returned to the dark, the boy soon left his bedroom and crept into the kitchen, the journey mysteriously growing warmer, ultimately facing fumes pouring out from the sides of a stovetop pan, father slumped over a plate. The boy rushed over and took the pan by its handle, throwing it in the sink and turning off the heat. He hosed the underside of the blackened kitchenware in cold water, summoning the chagrin of his thought unconscious father:

“Gonna warp ‘er that way, son.”

The boy was silent in response, the pan loudly cooling. Meanwhile he hit all the windows and fanned the smoke out, his father lighting his own. Cleared as best thought possible, the kitchen produced another pot and the boy chose a new coil. Carving open the can by hand, the soup began to heat. A stool was drawn close and he hopped atop, his feet high off the ground. They--his feet--kicked back and forth as the boy sneezed into the floor, a line formed between nose and rounded edge of the stool. A shirt sleeve was sacrificed to cleanup.

“God bless you.”

Cradled in many of Mallow’s hands, the dwarf awoke with a start.

“I have been consistent in applying this solution to your skin, jungle it is. And the results speak for themselves... behold thine legs, dwarf, for their color nearly returns. You might walk in the coming days. Yes, of course, you will be in some considerable pain for months to come. Dull, persistent aches... chew Tryse if you spy any in your way--if, for they are clever.

“I pray you have not forgotten your morals; I pray you consider me in your heart, dwarf. I am a funguay of my word--you nearly heal under my care. What I ask for in return is great--but this recovery has been no small feat either. You understand Ishmael will be living with me, so your actions benefit him as well. I am sure you love him dearly.”

The dwarf glanced away sheepishly.

“In any matter... allow me to ask, you wish to know how we defeated the demon, do you not? Well, be honest! Yes, repent and repair this desecrated place of worship and I will teach you. I will teach you ‘faith’.”

The dwarf’s brow furrowed at the mentioning of ‘FAITH’.

“That you ask of is our only means of communication with the heavens. It is a way to tether oneself to this world. It assists in healing and is instrumental in repelling the undead. And what glory it brings a man of Him! A pettier life could look upon my circumstances, could see how thou so gravely treated this funguay. And a prison sentence, an execution... one could have think me damned. But I never thought of it this way. And behold: in our greatest time of need, He bestowed His light.”

The dwarf’s head pounded.

“Yes, renew this church and I will teach you. Ghosts and ghouls will never gain the better of you. And your heart will survive what future perils await you. Yes, but this ruin first...”

Doctor Mallow eased the dwarf back against, surprisingly, a pillow. Atop, the funguay laid blankets and left without another word. Basking in the silence that followed, the dwarf’s limbs relaxed, enjoying their most minimal pain yet. But his head, meanwhile, avoided rest. The commanding tone of the doctor had struck the dwarf strange, his religious memories of a human life coming up against the great glass wall of this world’s concepts. For the dwarf reasonably knew what faith was, but he could not guess at ‘FAITH’. He also could not quite settle his own connection to the funguay so intertwined with his struggling to survive. In not one but two separate timelines, the funguay nurtured a dwarf who needed it. But surely Mallow acted selfishly in the spawning of Funguayou? Indeed, it was not so long ago to the dwarf’s fresh memory the cornering in the doctor’s laboratory, fiendish villain advancing towards he who grew a mushroom atop his head. His bald head, the dwarf admitted to himself, though the great beard which sprouted from his cheeks did satisfy him. The dwarf resisted no urge to run thick fingers through the tangling.

But the dwarf gave a great sigh, gratitude never before having been so conflicting. For the dwarf’s control of his hands with the least agony was a development of the day, the one previous unbearable, even if less than the many before. All throughout the week Doctor Mallow had cared for its patient, administering medicine (whenever Funguayou was not sent in its place) and feeding (reluctantly taken) fresh mushroom loaves. Starved, the dwarf put up little resistance--even still, he’d have rather eaten mulch.

Thoughts drifting, eyelids drooping, the dwarf returned to his rest...

Alone at the kitchen table, a boy just before teenagehood sighed into soup. Steam rose against the force and escaped sight by the ceiling. Hard stomping was thought heard from above, but the quick settling down convinced him to focus on his food and return swiftly to bed. The sooner he recovered, he reasoned, the quicker he’d be back in the barn. The work wasn’t much looked forward to but his companions very much so. He thought of even the sheepdogs, all who had chosen tonight to sleep in various pockets of the darkness outside. The boy slumped in his chair.

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The soup tasted bad.

The noise from the second floor continued with heavier vibrations, and all at once plaster and wood fell apart as a bathtub came down with Waspig in bubbles. Out too popped Speedy, its mud inefficient at dilution. The monthly fish truck arrived through the front porch and half of the living room, fireplace and wooden rocker irrecoverable. Out its back poured slabs of ocean life, the amount unending. One shattered the bowl of soup and slid into the hands of the boy who, without thought, tossed it into the bath. Out popped a dancing fish. Waspig and Speedy cheered as animated as animals could, and the boy smiled. Hair blasted out from the sides of his face and he, to his knees, yowled.

Alone by the rubble, the dwarf blinked several times through the dark. Though it’d seemed a deep rest, he’d yet to escape the night--unless doubled digit hours had gone by since. Very slowly, he brought himself into a strange squat until upright. Into the blackness of the church the dwarf palmed his way to the kitchen, to the pantry touched by Mallow--’resupplied’ a term too encouraging, for what lay before him were countless cuts of mushroom bread. The dwarf opted for an apple.

Returning to the singed carpet, the dwarf recognized several silhouettes--his flock. He listened to their breaths somehow missed a walk ago, and found contentment. But his good feelings were not to last long, as indeed the shapes developed refinement the closer the dwarf drew near, slow as his movements were, uneasy he grew at a repeated constant. For he then beheld thin stalks and billowing caps...

A moody afternoon was punctuated by drills led by the dwarf. Though a shambling mess, the dwarf insisted on relishing his refound movement in a productive manner, and so he set about instructing his fungi headed flock the command to stop. Along with another detested resupply of loaf, Funguayou had evidently returned from the cottage with what were dried treats found tucked away by the doctor in one of several stashes throughout the twisted roots beneath its moss. One at a time the dwarf instructed his animals, starting with Waspig. Palm out until falling to the side, the dwarf forged a connection in the porcine mind behind insect eyes before him the meaning of the gesture and what rewarded patience. Delighted in his pride in the animal for its fast instincts, he turned next to Pistol and moved onward to Cath, Blissey, Bathiel, and Mustard. Joshua did not participate in instruction, the dwarf’s attempts falling on willfully deaf ears.

“ANIMAL HUSBANDRY SKILL INCREASED TO 25”

“ANIMAL HUSBANDRY SKILL INCREASED TO 26”

“ANIMAL HUSBANDRY SKILL INCREASED TO 27”...

The dwarf finished with the cap headed Speedy as Funguayou mounted the charred front chapel entrance.

“Up and about? For how long? I’m not meaning to be a shrill wife to you, buddy, it’s a good sight to see you on your feet. And I’m no stranger to the requests of a light. Old man says the habit has to go, so we’ll keep this between you and me. Well, hello, I’ve more bread--that’ll make you big and strong again, dwarf. What’s wrong? Oh.”

Funguayou rubbed its nonexistent chin with its large inherited limb.

“Hey, dwarf, I didn’t have a thing to do with this. No, I wasn’t even aware of it. But it follows. We’re both aware of his actions from an unlived time... though I cannot help but be shocked. No, honest, buddy. To this scale--while so disadvantaged as you are? It’s not right. Perhaps he thought you may not come through for him regarding his reward. We shouldn’t be so hasty, dwarf. Think you can handle a walk? Forgive me, I’m out of sorts, you should lie down. I will fetch the doctor.”

The dwarf staggered towards his illegitimate offspring.

“You’re wanting to walk after all, is that it?”

In one quick scoop, the dwarf brought the fungus off its feet, grip not dissimilar to the vine which once held Mallow. In another fast motion, Funguayou shot out over the remains of the church doors and into a swath of bushes. Daring to eventually pop out, it came up to long planks blockading the entrance.

“Dwarf, hello? Buddy?” it asked, muffled. “What’s this about, won’t you have hurt yourself pushing all that? Come now--oh, but, you should rest first before opening this back up. But you’ll return to your senses, won’t you? I’ll be back tomorrow with the old man. Ok? Buddy?”

It gained no response. The dwarf caught eventually the soft pattering of its feet as it fled, and through the gape in the ceiling clouds above released their torrential burden...

For three days the dwarf held out, refusing to give into the announcements of either Funguayou--six times--or Doctor Mallow--once. Over the course of these mornings and nights the dwarf reluctantly fed on what remained of the mushroom loaves and gained two more levels in ‘ANIMAL HUSBANDRY’ following further training. While his flock acted no different, the unfortunate presence of each animal’s stalk frustrated him deeply. But in the morning of the fourth the dwarf’s waning energy and depleted pantry drove the dwarf to acquiesce. Shoving aside the chopped lumber, he met the small stature of Funguayou.

“Good morning, dwarf.”

The dwarf took notice of boxes by the front.

“Dad left those. Food and feed. I brought some apples as well. There’s enough for you and yours to eat now and save for the trip out to the elfs. And...”

Funguayou produced a cowskin rucksack of fine straps.

“He wants you to have this. And inside is the... yes, right. Well...”

The funguay looked to its feet.

“Sorry, dwarf.”

The dwarf took the bag from its hands, loading it up with apples and a wrapped loaf, careful to avoid the pouch with contained a tightly corked vial of deep purple liquid. He brushed by Funguayou and pat his creatures individually goodbye. ‘SAVING’ after, the dwarf wordlessly exited the chapel and began the path to the cottage and the forest and the great walled city of the elfs. Past the moss covered roof, he did not stop to enter any dialogue with the doctor. Into the woods the dwarf went, cowskin on his back, head full of ugly thoughts.