Chapter 10 Cloudmire

For a time, the specter of danger that had pursued Roland through the realmlands kept him alert as they dashed between craters and washed out gullies. But after two days passed with no more sign of Raxxars, the tension dissipated to the point that he barely went through the motions of concealment. With little to occupy his mind during these long hours of travel, he was reduced to rubbing the sporadic soft whiskers on his chin, as if any new ones could possibly have sprouted in the moments between his last inspection.

“There they are,” whispered Digtry.

Roland froze. They were caught in the open--no cover within a hundred yards! He tried to melt into the bleak surroundings, like a chameleon changing color at will. Digtry, however, jogged on, seemingly ignoring his own warning. One of the few facts of which Roland was certain was that the safest place on that exposed high plain, or anywhere else in the realms, was at Digtry’s side. As he scurried after him, he finally saw that the “they” were not Raxxars, but their old travel companions.

Windglow and the others had spotted them, too, for they stood in plain sight, declining the cover of a nearby wind-polished mound of rock. As they drew near, Roland could hear Berch’s congested panting. Either the man was seriously ill or those three had not been idle the past few minutes.

“Digtry! Roland!” Windglow cried, through tears of joy and disbelief. He engulfed them both in rib-crushing hugs. “We were certain you had sacrificed yourselves to draw the Raxxars away from us.”

Digtry raised one eyebrow.

“Never thought I’d see you again, Roland,” said Berch.

“Wasn’t sure I’d be seen again.” What a luxury to encounter a familiar face and have his name spoken out loud! Even if the face and voice belonged to a Class A jerk.

“Would you excuse me for asking how you slipped out of the Raxxars’ clutches?” asked Windglow.

“No problem,” said Digtry.

After a puzzled pause, Windglow yielded to Digtry’s irritating habit. “How did you, then?”

“Magic,” he said, with a sour glance at Roland, and left it to him to provide a fuller explanation.

“You must be fairly fit to have caught us so quickly.” said Windglow, a few minutes later, struggling to hide his frustration with the pace of his companions.

“Who couldn’t overtake the waddling oyster brigade?” said Puddles.

No amount of sherrott insults, however, could dampen the mood of the travelers as they resumed their journey. Success, Roland decided, was a miracle tonic. It had even stripped Berch of a layer of negativity. The old guy commandeered Roland to the back of the line, where he began to to fill him in on the details of their wolf encounter.

Roland went along reluctantly. Taking nothing for granted anymore in these realmlands, he made a point of forcing the pace to keep in close contact with the others. He was not going to risk being picked off by some skulking Raxxar just to hear Berch gloat. Why Berch was so eager to single him out for instant companionship baffled Roland, who had been certain the old codger did not care for him any more than he cared for Berch. But eager he was; in fact he kept backpedaling to add new details to his account of the wolf attack, with many a biting criticism of Windglow’s role, or lack of it, in the incident.

While he made an effort to tolerate Berch, Roland was less interested in his heroic autobiography than in the change in the female to whom he could finally affix a name. At one point he actually established eye contact. Instead of turning away with her usual dazed expression, Delaney let escape a flicker of a smile as she smoothed her dark hair from her eyes. It reminded him of a fern unfolding its frost-burnt leaves in the first warm breath of spring. If only they could reach

civilization soon, get her into a soapy tub and wash those bugs out of her scalp, she might come out of this all right.

Such optimism lasted only until Digtry again sidled up to Windglow for a brief conference.

“My gut tells me we’re in for another round of bad news,” said Berch.

“When your bowels speak, pay attention,” squawked Puddles. “You got more brains there than in your head!”

Windglow turned and shrank under the anxious stares of his travel mates. “I feel I must inform you that Digtry has just seen more Raxxar scouts,” he said, limply. His resigned manner startled Roland. Normally such news would have thrown the Tishaaran on the edge of panic.

Berch swore savagely.

“It goes without saying that where there is one, there will soon be more,” Windglow continued.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with that hornets’ nest Roland stirred up back in that other realm, would it?” asked Berch, accusingly.

“Of course not,” said Windglow.

“Yes,” countered Digtry.

Raw terror flushed through Roland’s veins. Digtry’s terse answer also jolted Windglow out of his funk. His face lost what little color it remained and his eyes swelled like poached eggs.

“What are you suggesting? That the Raxxars are in league with Rushbrook? That they are working together? Forgive my bluntness, but such an alliance is absurd! The Raxxars are scarcely more than beasts. Why, they neither make speech nor understand it. Second Realmers rarely venture into the Third to treat with civilized beings; how could they negotiate any sort of agreement with such creatures? You cannot reason with Raxxars any more than you can hold a discussion with a scorpion.”

“Or a Tishaaran,” snapped Puddles.

“Someone got through to them,” said Digtry.

“Who?!” spluttered Windglow. “Who could possibly have the power to speak to Raxxars and get them to do his bidding?” He gaped at Roland as if he were the devil himself. “What is going on? Roland, who are you?”

“We need to move,” said Digtry. “Now.”

“Lord,” sniffed Berch. “That boy picks up enemies like a dog collects fleas.”

“So what’s the plan this time?” asked Roland, his apprehension tempered a great deal by supreme confidence in Digtry.

“We could give them what they want and hope they leave the rest of us alone,” said Digtry.

Roland’s heart nearly bolted from his chest. “But you said-”

Windglow rushed to his defense. “We cannot just serve up Roland into their arms like a lamb to a slaughter!”

“True,” said Digtry, dismissing his own suggestion. “If they think Roland knows something, they would assume he told us. They’ll need to kill us all to be safe. The alternative is to travel a route that takes us beyond the reach of the Raxxars.”

“If we can go somewhere and avoid the Raxxars, then for the love of Pete, why are we standing here?” roared Berch.

“No one goes through Cloudmire unless they have to,” said Digtry.

“Well, any fool can see we have to!” said Berch. “So what is Cloudmire?”

“Forgive me for not embracing this alternative,” answered Windglow.

“What is Cloudmire?!”

“It is a valley of eternal fog. Impossibly dense. I want nothing to do with it,” said Windglow.

“Raxxars could not track us in there,” Digtry pointed out.

“Cloudmire is a cesspool of decay,” said Windglow. “It is no fit place for the living. Those who enter seldom return. The few exceptions of which I have heard had not a shred of sanity when they emerged. A violent death would be sweet n comparison.”

“Wonderful!” cried Berch. “Slashed to death or driven insane. Windglow, is there anything you haven’t screwed up?”

“Only the things he’s never tried,” chirped Puddles.

“My little puffball, you have finally made an intelligent comment,” said Berch.

“Be patient; maybe your day will come,” shot back Puddles.

“That’s the only choice?” asked Roland, with an eye on Delaney, who had begun that peculiar fetal-position rocking motion. He could see her freshly healing nerves ripping apart at the mere mention of Cloudmire. He fought back the guilt that had gnawed on him since day one of this nightmare--that all these people were in mortal danger because of him. At least one man had died because of him. Perhaps the entire village of the Meshoma had suffered as well. How many more would die for the sin of having encountered one unlucky Roland Stewart?

No! I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m a victim as much as anyone.

Windglow danced in agitation. Tough decisions were not his strong suit.

Digtry shrugged. “Let’s go.”

* * * * * *

“There it lies!” announced Windglow, miserably, as the others worked their way down the north face of the mountain, squeezing between cracks in the wind-scoured cliff. He stood upon a ledge overlooking what was allegedly a valley. It was impossible to confirm this rumor because a dense gray cloud smothered whatever lay between them and a ghostly, distant line of craggy peaks. Not a wisp of vapor escaped the impenetrable fog. No mist swirled or boiled or fomented. The sodden mass hung together as though anchored to the valley floor.

“A land flowing with milk and mildew,” quipped Roland, trying to keep up a bold front before his companions.

Long before they reached the bottom, the dampness began to seep into his clothes. The omnipresent cedars and junipers, knobby and twisted with age, floated around them in a mist. Carpets of shaggy moss and thick stands of mushrooms covered the rocks.

The travelers paused at the edge of the haze for a final glance behind at their tormenters. The upper slope resembled a giant anthill; it teemed with shadowy, winged, hawk-faced figures. Their numbers astounded Windglow, who shook his head and gaped at Roland with a fresh measure of respect and suspicion.“Every Raxxar in the August Mountains must be stalking you!”

Roland was impressed by a different observation. The Raxxars, whose courage was legendary, made no move to follow their quarry into this pit known as Cloudmire. Did that mean they were entering a place that even the fearless dared not enter?

“Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I shall fear no evil,” recited Roland, with what he hoped was enough conviction to make it stick.

After a deep breath, Windglow nodded and edged forward. In just two steps he disappeared into the wall of fluff.

“Wait!” cried Delaney. Roland saw her lips part and heard the word escape, yet could hardly believe his ears. He had never heard her speak. Her voice was soft, yet tipped with an edge of defiance. How could a voice like that flow out of such a brittle exterior? He was even more surprised when she reached for his hand. What had gotten into her?

“She is right!” said Digtry. “We must hold hands if we wish to stay together.”

The others agreed and made a huge point of thanking Delaney for her sensible suggestion, (although upon later refelction, Roland was certain that she merely beat Digtry to the punch; he could not imagine Digtry slipping up on such a vital point. The only objection came from Puddles who complained that holding hands with Second Realm breadsops would give him warts.

After hearing Delaney’s silky voice, Roland was surprised and disappointed by her dry, cracked skin and horny cuticles. Nothing remotely feminine about them. His excitement over her progress toward recovery was tainted by the approval she had earned, tinged as it may have been by condescension. He felt a needle jab of envy at the contributions that first Berch and now Delaney had made. Even Delaney now. Delaney! That leaves only one conspicuously useless member of the party. Me.

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Even worse, he felt ashamed of himself for the thought. Have I really stooped so low that I am actually jealous of those two pathetic people?

They moved forward gingerly. It seemed as thought they were walking in the clouds--a snow-blindness seen through dark glasses. It seemed as though they were walking in the clouds. Roland raised one hand slowly to his face.

“What are you doing, you pervert?” demanded Berch, to whom Roland's other hand was unfortunately joined. Though he stood but an arm’s length away, he sounded as if he were calling from the bottom of a deep well.

“I’m trying to see how close you have to get before an object is visible in this fog.” Not until his fingers--perhaps they were Berch’s--nearly touched his eyelashes could he make out their shadowy form.

“Digtry, how do you think you’re going to find your way through this soup?” asked Berch.

Roland strained to hear the faint response.

“The surrounding land slopes into Cloudmire. Left feet higher than right keeps us near the edge.”

Roland found it comforting to note that, once again, Digtry had the situation well in hand. “Welcome to the birthplace of athlete’s foot,” he said, cheerily. “Can anything live in here besides mold?”

“It is anyone’s guess what, if anything, lives in Cloudmire,” came Windglow’s muffled voice. “The area has never been explored. As I mentioned, one hears of people who have gone in for one reason or another and never came out. I suppose they are still here, although they can scarcely be alive.”

Roland felt a shudder in Delaney’s arm. “How about we don’t talk about things like that!”

“Forgive me,” said Windglow. “I was merely trying to answer your question. Perhaps it would be more to the point to say there are no permanent dwellings of any kind within many miles of Cloudmire.”

Digtry made some response, which Roland could not make out. “Everything sounds like a bad connection in here,” Roland muttered. “I don’t get it. Unless I was brain dead in physics class, sound is supposed to carry better in liquids than in air.” No one showed any interest in a physics discussion, however, and he felt dumb for bringing it up.

They waded for hours through the dense vapor, linked by cold, clammy hands. At last Digtry consented to a sniff of freedom; they could take a moment to step out of Cloudmire to check their bearings.

The group’s spirits soared as the mist thinned and ghostly shapes floated back into view. Even that watered-down, filtered, secondhand light felt as soothing as a warm, fluffy towel after a winter shower. But the enjoyment was abruptly cut short by a frenzy of snarls and fierce barking.

“They are waiting for us! Get back to cover!” shouted Windglow.

Roland, who had not gotten clear enough of the mist to enjoy a long-coveted glimpse of the open sky, held his ground, in spite of his fear. He could no sooner give up a taste of sunlight than a parched desert wanderer could turn his back on a bubbling spring. Never mind the freakin’ beasts! If I can’t look out on a clear, dry world for just an instant, I’ll go insane!

He found, though, that he was fighting both Berch, who had seen the familiar black gums, dripping fangs and curled snouts of the savage canines, and Delaney, who recoiled violently on the other side and proved to have more iron in her wrist than Roland had imagined.

“They are coming in after us!” shouted Windglow. The snarling and the hoarse barks, although muted, grew louder. Everyone was falling and pulling and being pulled into the foggy blindness, scrambling away from the danger they could hear more than they could see.

“Wolves!” said Berch, who had glimpsed a foreleg of one of the attackers. “Here to avenge their dead.”

“That is simply not true!” cried Windglow.

“Let go,” said Berch to Roland. “I need to get me a rock. He pulled loose.

Roland heard splashing and muttering. He felt disturbingly exposed on that side and kept reaching out a hand to reconnect. He could not imagine how Berch expected to find a rock in this slime. Amid the splashing and muttering, he heard a growl and felt a snap of teeth that grazed his extended forearm. He instinctively jerked his arm free from Delaney’s grip as well.

“Son of a . . .!” cried Berch, who even in the midst of the attack was still trying very hard to keep his language civil for Louise.

As Roland was wondering to whom he was referring to and hoping it was not him, Digtry’s tinny voice rang out: “Silence!”

The command, as soon became clear, was aimed not at stopping a quarrel but at saving their lives. For as soon as the travelers stopped speaking, the pitch of the invisible attackers’ howling rose. No noise meant no targets. The beasts lashed out, terror mixed with their brutish rage. Roland began to hope they had completely lost their orientation.

Ah, there she is! Delaney’s probing fingers found his arm and slid down to his hand.

Such a small thing, and yet how good it felt to be connected again. Somehow it felt even better that she had sought out and found him. Almost made him feel important. Too bad she had skin like a lizard.

Roland winced as a finger came closer to poking him in the eye. It was Berch, whose hand slid down over Roland’s shoulder to his hand. The relinked line began to move, following Digtry’s lead. Slowly, they crept away from the beasts, thankful for the muffling quality of the dense fog over the sloshes and slurps of their feet through the puddles. Eventually, they heard only the faintest of howls and barks rising in terror and anger.

“I thought we came in here to get away from the Rockstars and the wolves and such,” grumbled Berch.

“Dogs, you whiffling mugwallop!” squawked Puddles. “You wouldn’t know a wolf from a pile of fried onions.”

“Quiet!” urged Digtry. “We have nearly lost them. Don’t give us away now.”

They waited until long after the cloud had completely absorbed the howls before breaking the silence again. This time it was Windglow who announced, “They are gone. Unless they blunder upon us by the rarest of chances, we need not fear that particular pack. Normally, those animals could sniff our scent over a week-old trail on bare rock. But they can smell nothing here. They have no way to get their bearings. I am afraid they shall need a miracle to blunder their way out. “Oh!” he gasped suddenly.

Roland needed no explanation, for he was thinking the same thing. His left foot was on the same level as his right, and of course, he had no idea which direction he was facing. In the confusion of the attack, how could anyone have maintained their orientation?

But before panic could mount, Digtry spoke up. “We’re fine.”

The calm voice soothed Roland’s shivering body like a warm lotion. Of course Digtry would maintain his composure! Nothing rattled him. He was always three steps ahead of any danger and had an answer ready for any problem.

“That was no accident,” said Digtry, as they continued on.

“What was no accident?” came a chorus of responses. Roland hoped against hope that the answer had nothing to do with him and the island. Everything that breathed in these realmlands seemed somehow caught up with his falling into that accursed island.

“Are you saying that those wild dogs are in on the chase, as well?” asked Windglow.

“Yes.”

“Is that a fact?” said Berch. “If that’s so, it seems we owe that mangy wolf on the high plain a bit of thanks, after all. If he hadn’t come along to distract the dogs when he did, they would have had us dead to rights.”

“What are you saying, Digtry?” asked Windglow, with what seemed to Roland to be uncharacteristic annoyance. Windglow had lately been a bit queasy, as though he were battling a flu bug. He seemed particularly agitated whenever Berch opened his mouth. Not that Roland had any problem with that--Berch truly was a pain in the butt. Maybe even a Tishaaran’s patience had limits.

“They were waiting for us,” said Digtry. “But I did not see anger or blood lust in their eyes. I saw terror. Why would wild dogs plunge into a place that terrifies them while the Raxxars, who fear nothing, keep their distance?”

They all considered this for a moment.

“Why, I confess I can think of no explanation at all,” said Windglow, speaking for the rest of them.

“What if someone were directing both dogs and Raxxars? Someone who knew that it was senseless to waste an army of Raxxars in Cloudmire. Who restrained them and instead had them drive a more expendable pack of dogs into this place?”

“How can that be?” protested Windglow. “I keep trying to tell you: Raxxars are both as savage as the north wind. They do nothing for anyone. No one has the power to shape them to his will. The same and double for the dogs."

“Somebody does,” countered Digtry. “And that somebody has a secret he is desperate to keep from the world.”

Roland felt sick to his stomach.

In a halting voice, Windglow said, “If what you say is true, Digtry, then Rushbrook has made an unholy alliance, indeed. One that seals our fate. An enemy with the powers you suggest surely has the resources and the will to patrol all approaches to Tishaara. I fear we shall never see the place.”

A dark, slimy swamp of fog was not the best place for contemplating such a thought, Roland decided.

“We’ll cross Cloudmire,” said Digtry. “If we travel away from Tishaara, we may find thinner patrols. With luck, we could reach the Lumberjacks.”

“Is that good?” asked Berch.

“We get along with the Lumberjacks,” said Windglow. “And they are a powerful people. No Third Realmer would challenge their strength in open warfare. But what you are asking means at least another day of flirting with madness. And how could anyone keep his bearings crossing through the midst of this accursed place?”

“You know, I’ve had it up to here with your whining,” snapped Berch. “The choices may not be good; in fact, they’re crap. They’re always crap. It’s always Option A: this pile of crap; Option B: this bigger pile of crap. I don’t like it either, but if Pile of Crap A is our best option, let’s get moving and quit crying about it. Digtry, lead the way.”

They trudged on after Digtry in increasingly miserable silence. Water squished through Roland’s shoes with each step until he was not sure whether it was wetter inside the shoe or out. Great blisters sprouted and swelled and chafed with each step.

A worse problem was the matter of rest. Although night transformed Cloudmire into blackness darker than a tunnel at the roots of a mountain, there was no place to lie down to sleep. Nor could they sit or even kneel. All they could do was stop frequently to rest upon their haunches, and then resume their onward slog through the cold, ankle-deep slime. No one had any enthusiasm for the last of the pasty, once-dried fruit, soggy once-hard bread, and limp jerky that Windglow insisted they choke down to keep up their strength.

Soon they all began wheezing. Berch spluttered loudly and fell into fits of cursing when his swollen, arthritic knees locked up. Nonetheless, they held onto hope, if not high spirits. By all estimates, less than a day’s journey remained before they emerged from Cloudmire into the forest domain of Tishaarans’ allies, the mighty Lumberjacks.

At one of their utterly insufficient rest stops, as they knelt in the rotting compost, Roland’s elbow bumped something large, and soft, and pulpy.

“Hold on a second,” he called, as he let go of Digtry’s hand for a moment. He reached out to feel the object and immediately jerked his hand back. “Yuk!”

“What is it?” called everyone at once.

“I don’t know,” said Roland, with a shiver. Nor did he want to know, but his fog blindness proved an effective catalyst for imagination. “Some kind of rotting tree trunk, or slime mold, or giant maggot, maybe .” He refrained from mentioning a fourth possibility that occurred to him--decaying flesh.

Instinctively, the chain of travelers pulled away from the object, only to have Delaney and Berch bump into something very similar on the other side. Delaney screamed and jumped back while Berch kicked at the soft, slimy pillar, which splattered into dozens of pieces under the blow.

“What are these things?” cried Berch. “What else haven’t you told us about Cloudmire?”

“I have told you all that I know,” said Windglow.

"Which, if you remember, took all of two seconds." said Puddles.

“They’re mushrooms,” came Digtry’s calming voice.

Windglow apparently was probing one of the objects. “Yes, of course. One would expect mushrooms to thrive in such a place. These are absolutely immense. But nothing to be afraid of, I should think.”

As they continued on, brushing and kicking a great number of the fungi, Roland felt a tickling on his ankles. He bent down to scratch it and picked off a pair of stringy tendrils that stuck to the hair of his legs. No sooner had he disposed of them, however, than a living web of vines, thicker and stronger than before, latched onto his ankles and coiled up his calves.

He had fallen into such an exhausted stupor that by the time this began to alarm him, others were caught in the same trap. Suddenly everyone was calling for help at once. Roland tried to pull free from the vines, but the harder he struggled, the more tightly the tendrils drew around his legs. They wound around his thighs, crawled up his stomach and onto his chest, and began pulling him to the ground.

Flailing blindly against the attack, he landed face-down in a mass of greasy, pulsating flesh, from where he could barely hear the stifled cries of companions.

“Aaauugggh!” cried Berch. “Nothing to be afraid of, huh!?”

Fresh horror gripped Roland as he clearly sensed a pulse in the squeezing, twisting mass. He had the sense of being caught not by some random evolutionary adaptation of the plant world, like a venus fly trap, but by something conscious and purposeful. Terrified, he sank his fingernails deep into the soft tissue surrounding him and ripped it away, but the effort seemed to accelerate his demise. Mucus-slathered limbs multiplied and pulled him with overwhelming force down into the mass that closed on him from all sides, smothering him in a relentless grip. The pressure grew unbearable. Just when he was certain his last sensation would be the feel of his eyes popping out of their sockets, he barely heard, over the throbbing pulse in his ears: “These are plants, not animals. Don’t fight!”

So they’re plants! What difference does that make? They’re still going to kill me!

“Lay absolutely still!”

Roland found himself obeying that faint, yet strangely commanding voice. Not that it will do any--Hey!

Moments after he stopped moving, the vise around his chest relented. As he lay utterly limp, enjoying the trickle of air that seeped into his lungs, he understood that Digtry had saved them again. Mr. Cool had figured out that movement triggered the plant’s carnivorous response. If a person lay absolutely still, it lost awareness of the victim’s presence. For once Roland was glad of the fog. He sensed that if he saw the writhing fungus that pressed against him, no amount of concentration could induce him to relax.

Muffled grunts near his head told of someone still actively resisting.

“Delaney, do not move!” warned Digtry.

Her hearing loss, courtesy of her shrill transport into the realms and made worse by the slimy tendril completely blocking one ear, cost Delaney dearly. Unable to hear the warning, she continued her frantic struggles. She was on the verge of unconsciousness when the combined screams of all her travel companions finally got through to her. With the blood of her choked arteries pounding in her temples, she tried to heed their advice to lie still, to somehow keep from shaking.

For a long while nothing happened. The death grip held and the plant continued to draw her in so tightly that had she not found a small channel in the putrid mass through which she could draw air, she would have suffocated.

But at last, the pressure eased. The contracting vine slipped ever so slightly from her chest. Air--thick, dripping wet but nonetheless delicious--seeped into her lungs. The crushing weight slid off her back.

Quivering like the wings of a hummingbird, Delaney tried to sit up. But at her first movement, the coils wound back around her and dragged her down. She imagined the plant’s digestive juices already breaking down her tissue.

“Please! Somebody!” she pleaded.

“How do we get out of here if we can’t move?” gasped Berch.

“Good question,” said Digtry.

For once, the little man’s detached calm did nothing to soothe Roland. We’re fighting for our lives, not doing a crossword puzzle, for God’s sake!

He lay motionless in the loose grip of his captor, totally spent from fear and exertion, locked in an apparently insoluble stalemate. He began to feel a burning sensation all over his skin.

Digestive juice. It's eating me. It's going to digest me alive. If only he had taken up Crabford's offer on the Rushbrook island when he had the chance. At the moment, a simple, clian killing sounded like heaven.

Time ceased to exist. Eventually, despite the loathsome conditions and the feeling that his skin was dissolving, he drifted into something between a daydream and unconsciousness. He imagined he was home, although there was nothing in any of his imaginings that he would have recognized as home. It induced no emotions--neither pleasure nor sense of loss. Nothing happened; he was simply suspended in a sterile, generic place that his subconscious labeled home, for so long that he grew bored by his own dream. The next thing he knew, he was being roused by a tiny voice from far away, so distant that it barely registered in his mind, called him back to the world of the living.

“Roland.”

“What?”

“Got something for you. All of you, lie still until I get to you.”

“What are you doing?”

It was Digtry, who seemed to be laboring at some strenous task. A few moments later, breathing heavily, he called out in a strange voice that seemed to echo from deep within a cavern or a tunnel, “Okay. Roland, where are you?”

“Over here.”

“Keep talking. As Roland kept up a banal chatter, he heard some muffled sloshing drawing near. “Hey! How did you get out?”

Digtry grunted. Whatever he was doing took considerable effort. “Slip this on.”

“No!” Roland cried as his attacker suddenly reared up and struck him with far greater force than he would have thought possible from a plant. Its gaping mouth closed over his head and began swallowing him whole. “Digtry! Help me!”

“I am helping you. That’s me.”

“What?” cried Roland, still fighting to escape.

“It’s a mushroom stem I cut down. Get inside it.”

“What?!”

“Do it. The trigger mechanism of this fungus won’t attack itself. Hollow out the stem as much as you need to so get it over your body. The tentacles won’t attack you if they think you’re a mushroom.”

This time Roland obeyed, trying to block out the feeling that he was scooping out the entrails of some monstrous beast. But once he had burrowed into the gelatinous fungus, he found that Digtry was right--he could sit, stand, and even walk around with impunity, untouched by the tentacles.

The process of equipping everyone with a freshly felled stem took considerable time, hindered as they were by the unwieldiness of their protective suits. But eventually all worked themselves free, except for Delaney, who was so far beyond coping with the latest in her endless series of horrors that she could not force herself to slip into that slimy coat to save her soul. Windglow, once he escaped from the mushroom pit, had to reach in from an awkward angle and pull her loose. He tried to carry her out of the trap but his fungal coating was too awkward and slick, and she slipped from his grasp. As the tendrils pounced on her yet again, Digtry jammed a stem over her head, which sent her into a series of violent convulsions.

Digtry moved behind her and nudged her into motion. “This way,” he called, neither apologizing nor inquiring as to her welfare.

Fortunately, the mushroom bed was not large. Before long, they regained the swampy slop they had traversed before entering the fungus nest. Once they were certain they had left out the danger zone, they tore off their disgusting garments. Gasping for air, they began groping for each other’s slippery, muck-covered hands.

Delaney was the last to reconnect. She had been wretching violently inside her viscous prison and was in no condition to reach out to anyone. When Windglow groped his way to her, she recoiled in panic at his touch. Eventually, though, she allowed herself to be swallowed in the Tishaaran’s enthusiastic and slimy embrace.

It took some time and a good deal of gentle, repetitious encouragement, but at last Delaney was ready to continue. Still racked with irregular sobs from the ordeal, she squeezed Rolands' hand. He beamed with both pleasure and embarrassment. Self-consciously, he pulled his hand away from her for a moment and tried to wipe some of the mucus off on his equally slimy jeans.

“I’m not surprised they mistook you for mushrooms,” Puddles announced to the group. “I have trouble telling you apart in broad daylight.”

“Amazing!” said Windglow. “Simply an astonishing display of wits."

“Yeah, real clever, Puddles!” agreed Berch, sarcastically.

“I was referring to Digtry, and I am sincere,” said Windglow. “Still, it was rather a close call and I would be pleased to be rid of this foul land. If you would be so good as to resume the lead, let us be off to Big Timber.”

The linked travelers moved on in the gray blindness, stepping gingerly in case there were more fungi runners lurking in the area. Roland was so numb with relief that he missed the clue that hinted they had escaped one danger only to fall into one even more terrifying.