It hadn’t hurt. A nick here. A slice there. Now the wounds were scabbed over, sucked into the cuts like an old man’s toothless grin. What was left of the Amanita had been moved from its wrapping in the bag to a small box with a window. Drying out was an ongoing problem. The discarded wrapping had helped to hold in the moisture.
It was cold. No mushroom had lived through a winter before. From the tales other mushrooms told, the Amanita should have decayed and dropped its spores for germination the next season. But how could it when it was wrapped up? For some reason it had been spared to survive through the cold winter alone.
But where?
It was always dark.
And always cold.
Colder still when it was moved, nestled in the small box. There was motion, a big up, and a big down, and lots of roaring in between. Then a couple of quiet months before there was more roaring, and another up, and another down, until it was carried away again, and shoved under something. At least it was warmer there.
What a relief. It must be spring.