Day 57. 161 pages, 58,131 words.
There are plenty of oracles, wise ones, prophets and holy madmen in the world. One way or another, for one problem or another, I’ve consulted them all. I owe quite a few of them money.
I owe some of them considerably more than that.
There’s one I haven’t really talked about before, because she’s … well, she’s not what you’d expect from a mystic seer. Oh, she’s mysterious alright, and she talks in riddles that often mean absolutely nothing and very rarely reduce the number of questions the hopeful traveller has brought before her. She’s difficult to find, but always seems to show up when you’re searching for her with sincerity of intent, which is certainly another thing she has in common with most of the other ancient and abiding minds that dwell in the quiet places behind places.
She’s the Myconet, and that’s enough.
The Myconet is … how to put it?
She lacks the loud voice and the soapbox of the Saint. She lacks the hocus pocus, flimflam, glitz, glamour and unfortunate habit of throwing in an undercoat you didn’t need for a vehicle you don’t own for 10% under the list price of the hallowed and revered Oracle at Delphi Used Cars Dealership Co. She lacks the … everything of the Three-Quarters Man.
But it’s entirely possible that she’s older than them all. And it’s just as possible that she’ll still be around when they all return to the dust and the hardpan from whence they came. Okay, maybe not in the case of the Three-Quarters Man – I believe he’s had the simple capacity to be outlived seared from him as part of his definitive, nay titular reduction – but she’s been around. And she’ll be around.
About the first thing you notice about the Myconet is, she’s a mushroom.