Things I learned from the monastery of fungoid forms

Choosing a votive squash is not as easy as it first appears. Many people, monks and abbots included, vouch for the most gnarled and lumpy of growths to secret away behind the amber glass of the votive cells, where they hope it shall ferment and birth significant merit for themselves and all living beings. However, other factors need to be taken into account. A balance of blemishes must be sought in order to correctly draw the eye, like any fine painting. A uniform colour can assist in the ‘pop’ of a fungal form growing in a lurid shade, much as a smooth or faintly crooked shape highlights the extent of the rot. Indeed, some of the most perfect offerings I have seen started off as unassuming gourds – a less discerning follower would have dried and repurposed them as water bottles!
The clothes of the monks are curious, yes, but there is a purpose to every item they wear and every symbol they adorn themselves with. Take their hats, for example. Dark and woollen, with a wide floppy brim. These hats are useful not only for keeping the head warm in the winter, but during the punishing summers they have excellent (and most unexpected) wicking properties. The craft of these hats remains the sole trade of a family down in Busmarsh, who have a steady business due to the custom of burning a monk’s hat upon his death and sprinkling the ashes on the gardens. As for the symbols – while we may all have discovered the fungal doctrine and it’s numerous benefits, our god is a rhizomatic one. It is able not only to coexist with other creeds but to weave inside them, creating something stronger and more resilient in the mind of the believe than either faith would be able to accomplish on it’s own. Do not be surprised if you hear the jangling tread of a monk long before you see them – he is merely a devout fellow, eager to spread the good word amongst the fertile roots and watch what grows with unalloyed curiosity.
Intimidating though the overlarge foxes that prowl the monastery grounds may be, they will do you no harm. The monks keep them well-fed on squash and rabbit, believing them to be spirits of the natural world and guides of the dead. I was a skeptic of this particular strand of fungal wisdom until I saw a most curious sight last summer. Those foxes, each the size of two men laid out, were frolicking and squeaking in the meadows, chasing flying seeds and suchlike. At some unknown signal, they seemed to stiffen and assume a loose formation, a newfound solemnity overcoming them, and they began escorting something I could not see down to the treeline. Little did I know, a particularly overgrown abbot had died at that exact moment within the dirt walls of the monastery. I have also heard tales of these foxes snarling and snapping at the souls of bandits or crop thieves upon their day of execution…a sobering thought for wrongdoers in these most peaceful of all times.