The Morning After the Mushroom Festival

The Neighborly Wellness Check

By nine-thirty the next morning, Bramble End had reached the sort of silence usually reserved for funerals, bad marriages, and the exact moment a person realizes the mushroom tea had not, in fact, been regular tea.

Thimblewick Porridge sat on the cold stone step of his cottage with a pewter mug clutched in both hands and one boot missing. His red cap had slipped sideways in a manner that suggested it, too, had made a decision it regretted. There was mud in his beard, glitter in his left eyebrow, and a long strip of festival ribbon tied around his wrist that read:

HONORED GUEST OF THE MIDNIGHT SPORE PROCESSION

He had no memory of becoming an honored guest of anything.

Beside him, Pickle the dog sat proudly in a patch of flattened moss, tail sweeping the ground with the confidence of a creature who believed the entire evening had been an enormous success. The missing boot hung from his mouth.

"Don't," Thimblewick said.

Pickle blinked at him.

"I am not ready to know why you have that."

The dog placed the boot gently in Thimblewick's lap.

It was filled with what appeared to be dried flower petals, a brass spoon, two acorns, a tiny wooden whistle, and a note written in purple ink.

Thimblewick stared at it for a long while.

"No," he whispered.

Pickle wagged.

"That is not a useful answer to any question I might eventually ask."

From somewhere inside the cottage came a soft, irregular thumping.

Thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump.

Thimblewick closed his eyes.

"Please tell me that is not the festival drum."

Pickle's ears lifted.

The thumping continued.

Thump-thump.

Then, faintly, a woman's voice began singing from beneath the kitchen table.

"Mushrooms in moonlight, mushrooms in rain…"

Thimblewick rose too quickly, sat back down too quickly, and held his forehead.

"Right," he said. "We are going to be calm. We are going to clean up whatever happened. We are going to avoid all direct eye contact with the village. And we are going to pretend that song is coming from a perfectly normal place."

Pickle trotted through the open cottage door.

"Pickle," Thimblewick called after him. "Do not retrieve anything. Especially not anything ceremonial, damp, or capable of naming me in a legal document."

The dog returned carrying a silver ladle nearly as long as his body.

It had been engraved with the words OFFICIAL SOUP AUTHORITY.

"That," said Thimblewick, "is exactly the sort of thing I meant."

Before he could take it, a familiar voice rang out from the garden path.

"Thimblewick, darling, are you alive?"

He froze.

Pickle dropped the ladle and barked once.

Three woodland neighbors came around the hedge in a tidy little procession: Mrs. Brindlecap carrying a covered pot of broth, Old Rumblefern gripping a walking stick and a look of delighted concern, and Juniper Sprocket with a folded blanket over one arm and the posture of someone who had already heard a story too good to keep private.

Thimblewick considered crawling into the rain barrel.

Unfortunately, he remembered the rain barrel.

At least, he remembered falling out of it while wearing what may have been a crown made of mushroom caps.

"There he is," Mrs. Brindlecap said, setting the broth beside him. "You look dreadful."

"That is very kind."

"It was not meant kindly."

Juniper's eyes traveled over the mud, ribbon, bare foot, and faint glittering trail leading from his doorstep into the cottage. "We were worried. There was a great deal of noise from this direction after midnight."

"Wind," Thimblewick said.

Old Rumblefern looked toward the clear blue sky. "In your kitchen?"

"A complicated wind."

Pickle emerged again, this time dragging a long velvet sash behind him.

Juniper made a tiny noise through her nose.

Thimblewick lunged for it.

Too late.

Across the sash, in large gold letters, were the words:

GRAND MARSHAL OF THE SECOND UNPLANNED PARADE

There was a long and terrible pause.

Old Rumblefern adjusted his spectacles. "Second?"

"I am sure it refers to someone else," Thimblewick said.

Mrs. Brindlecap lifted the sash and inspected the muddy fringe. "It has your name embroidered on it."

"Could be a different Thimblewick Porridge."

Juniper looked at him.

"A cousin," he added weakly. "A reckless cousin. A curse upon the family."

Pickle, clearly sensing that everyone was enjoying themselves, raced inside once more.

"No," Thimblewick said, getting to his feet. "No, no, no. We are finished participating."

But the dog had already returned with a small wicker basket in his teeth.

Inside sat three dented lanterns, a wooden badge shaped like a dancing mushroom, and one furious badger asleep beneath a napkin.

The badger opened one eye.

Thimblewick stared back at it.

"I honestly cannot explain that."

The badger sneezed, rolled over, and began snoring again.

Old Rumblefern's face brightened. "Ah. So the badger story was true."

Thimblewick turned slowly toward him. "The what story?"

Mrs. Brindlecap patted his shoulder with the tenderness of a woman comforting a man while quietly deciding which detail she would repeat first at supper. "Drink your broth, dear. We can discuss the parade float after you have something warm in you."

Thimblewick's mouth opened.

Then closed.

Then opened again.

"The parade float?"

Pickle barked happily.

From beneath the cottage table, the drum began thumping harder.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump-thump.

And the badger, without waking, muttered one single word into the wicker basket.

"Majesty."

Thimblewick sat back down on the stone step.

"I am going to need a much larger mug."

The List of Complaints

Thimblewick Porridge sat on his cottage step with Mrs. Brindlecap's broth cooling between his knees, a sleeping badger in a wicker basket at his left, and the sort of headache that had begun making formal demands.

Across from him, Old Rumblefern unfolded a sheet of parchment.

It was much longer than Thimblewick felt was socially appropriate.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Nothing alarming," said Rumblefern.

Juniper Sprocket leaned sideways to read the heading.

COURTESY NOTES REGARDING THE MIDNIGHT SPORE FESTIVAL

Thimblewick held out a hand. "I would prefer not to receive courtesy notes."

"Too late," said Mrs. Brindlecap. "They've been very courteous."

Pickle settled beside Thimblewick's bare foot, looking up at him with bright, innocent eyes.

"You," Thimblewick told the dog, "are not helping."

Pickle put one paw on the parchment.

Rumblefern cleared his throat.

"Item one. The west meadow lantern arch."

Thimblewick winced without knowing why.

"Apparently," Rumblefern continued, "you declared it insufficiently festive and attempted to improve it with a wheelbarrow, six paper flowers, and what witnesses describe as 'extreme confidence.'"

"That does not sound like me."

Juniper gave him a long look.

"No," Thimblewick said, "I mean the confidence."

Mrs. Brindlecap hid a smile behind her hand.

"Item two," Rumblefern said. "The moonlit parade float."

The words settled over the cottage yard like a cold rain.

From inside the house came the distant thump of the festival drum.

Thump.

Thimblewick stared toward the open door.

"What happened to the float?"

Rumblefern adjusted his spectacles. "Well. That depends on which account you consider most charitable."

"I would like the charitable account."

"You led it into the pond while attempting a three-point turn."

Thimblewick squeezed his eyes shut.

"And the uncharitable account?"

Juniper's mouth twitched. "You shouted, 'Let the moon steer!' and drove it directly through the refreshments table."

There was a pause.

"The refreshments table was in the pond?"

"Not before you arrived," said Juniper.

Pickle made a delighted little huff and sprang up.

"No retrieving," Thimblewick warned.

But the dog was already gone again.

Thimblewick tried to stand.

The world tilted hard to the left.

Mrs. Brindlecap pressed him gently back onto the step. "Drink your broth, dear."

"I cannot drink broth while learning I have weaponized a parade float."

"It is excellent broth."

Pickle returned with something red clenched between his teeth.

Thimblewick recognized the fabric before the dog dropped it.

It was his cap.

Or rather, it had once been his cap.

Now it bore a cluster of small brass bells, a hand-painted mushroom crest, and a white feather nearly as tall as Pickle.

Juniper took it from the dog and read the gold stitching around the brim.

HIS SPORELY MAGNIFICENCE, THIMBLEWICK THE UNREASONABLY BRAVE

Thimblewick stared at it.

"I did not authorize that."

The badger woke in the basket.

It yawned, glared at Thimblewick, and climbed out with the solemn, stiff-legged dignity of a tiny judge who had been insulted in public.

"You did," it said.

Everyone went quiet.

Thimblewick lowered his mug. "You can talk."

The badger blinked. "You can sing."

"I cannot sing."

"You sang for forty-seven minutes from the roof of the cider tent."

Thimblewick looked to his neighbors.

They all suddenly found the hedge extremely interesting.

"What did I sing?" he asked.

The badger considered him with great personal disappointment.

"A ballad about turnips, freedom, and a duchess named Ethel."

"There is no Duchess Ethel."

"There is now."

Pickle barked once, then raced toward the kitchen.

Thimblewick pointed at him. "If that animal brings out a turnip, I am moving."

When Pickle returned, he was dragging a small wooden sign.

It read:

OFFICIAL FESTIVAL MAYOR FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY

Thimblewick dropped his spoon into the broth.

Old Rumblefern folded the complaint list carefully. "Ah. That explains the bell."

"The bell?"

Mrs. Brindlecap sighed. "You rang the village bell at two in the morning and announced a public safety initiative."

"What initiative?"

Juniper finally gave up trying not to laugh.

"Mandatory dancing for anyone who looked too smug."

Thimblewick put both hands over his face.

The badger climbed onto the stone step beside him.

"For what it's worth," it said, "the initiative had broad support."

Before Thimblewick could decide whether that made things better or infinitely worse, a sharp knock sounded from the garden gate.

Everyone turned.

Standing beyond the hedge was a tall figure in a brown festival coat, holding a leather ledger under one arm and a tiny gold-capped mushroom on a staff.

The official smiled.

"Good morning," he called. "I'm here regarding your mayoral obligations."

Thimblewick looked at Pickle.

Pickle wagged so hard his entire back half moved.

"I hate you a little," Thimblewick said.

The dog sneezed.

The Mayor's Obligations

The festival official stepped through the garden gate with the practiced cheerfulness of a man who had spent his entire career delivering terrible news in a pleasant hat.

He wore a brown coat with brass mushroom buttons, polished boots, and a tiny gold-capped fungus on top of his staff that winked every few seconds.

Thimblewick did not trust it.

"Good morning," said the official. "Festival Clerk Bumbershade. How are we feeling?"

"Like a wheelbarrow full of regret," Thimblewick said.

Bumbershade nodded and opened his ledger. "Excellent. Clear memory loss confirms the office has been transferred properly."

Thimblewick stared at him.

"What office?"

"Festival Mayor."

"For one night only," Juniper said helpfully.

"That is the part that worries me," Thimblewick replied.

Pickle bounced in a circle, delighted that someone official had arrived to discuss the greatest night of his life.

Bumbershade turned a page in the ledger.

"By unanimous vote of the midnight crowd, and after your rather stirring speech from the cider tent roof, you were granted temporary mayoral authority until sunrise."

Thimblewick looked toward the roof of the cider tent in the distance.

It seemed farther away than it had any right to be.

"What did I say?"

The official smiled.

"Your speech?"

"Yes."

"Mostly turnips."

The badger cleared its throat.

"And freedom," it added.

"Right," said Bumbershade. "A great deal of freedom."

Thimblewick pressed two fingers to his temple. "I do not remember granting myself civic authority."

"You did not grant it to yourself," said Old Rumblefern. "You won it in a dance-off."

There was a long silence.

"Against whom?" Thimblewick asked.

Rumblefern looked at the badger.

The badger looked away.

"I had a bad knee," it muttered.

Mrs. Brindlecap covered her mouth to hide a smile.

Bumbershade turned another page. "The good news is that your term ended at sunrise."

Thimblewick exhaled.

"The less-good news is that you signed three official orders before then."

Pickle sneezed.

"Naturally," Thimblewick said.

The official lifted one finger.

"First: all woodland residents who look too smug must dance when instructed."

Juniper glanced at Old Rumblefern.

Old Rumblefern immediately looked offended.

"Second: the annual Mushroom Festival parade must include a floating moon, a public soup fountain, and at least one badger in formalwear."

The badger narrowed its eyes.

"I looked magnificent," it said.

"Third," Bumbershade continued, "you promised to personally oversee the repair of the parade float."

Thimblewick's shoulders sank.

"There it is."

"There it is," said Mrs. Brindlecap.

"You cannot expect me to repair a parade float in this condition."

"No," said Bumbershade. "We expect you to tell us where you parked it."

Thimblewick blinked.

"I parked it in the pond."

"That is where you left the refreshments table."

"Then where did I park the float?"

Pickle suddenly went rigid.

His ears lifted. His tail began wagging with such violent enthusiasm that a loose ribbon jumped off the ground.

Then he bolted down the garden path.

"Pickle!" Thimblewick shouted.

The dog disappeared around the hedge.

The neighbors exchanged looks.

Bumbershade closed the ledger. "Well. That is promising."

"Nothing involving that dog has been promising since dawn," Thimblewick said, but he pushed himself off the cottage step anyway.

Mrs. Brindlecap handed him his mug.

"Take the broth."

"Why?"

"Because you are pale, barefoot, and apparently responsible for municipal float recovery."

That was difficult to argue with.

They followed Pickle through the back garden, past the rain barrel Thimblewick refused to look at, through a curtain of hanging ivy, and toward the old blackberry clearing behind the cottage.

The distant festival drum thumped once.

Then twice.

Thimblewick stopped walking.

"Do you hear that?"

"Everyone hears that," said Juniper.

"It was in my kitchen."

"It was in several places last night," said the badger.

Thimblewick chose not to ask.

At the edge of the clearing, Pickle barked triumphantly.

There, half-hidden beneath a tangle of blackberry vines and draped in damp festival bunting, sat the moonlit parade float.

Or most of it.

The enormous painted moon had tipped sideways into the grass. One silver wheel was missing. The front lanterns hung crookedly from their hooks. A wooden sign reading GLORY TO THE SPORES had been nailed upside down across the back.

And in the center of the float, beneath a pile of crushed paper flowers, lay the festival drum.

Thump.

Thump-thump.

Thimblewick approached it slowly.

"I do not like that drum."

"You liked it very much last night," said Bumbershade.

"That is becoming clear."

Pickle leapt onto the float and began pawing at the paper flowers.

Underneath them was a small wooden steering wheel.

Attached to the wheel was a note in purple ink.

Thimblewick picked it up.

It read:

Dear Future Me,

The float is safely hidden. Do not let anyone convince you it belongs in the pond. Also, remember: you promised the village a breakfast parade at noon.

Thimblewick stared at the note.

"I promised them what?"

Bumbershade checked his ledger.

"A breakfast parade."

"At noon?"

"You were very firm about it."

The badger climbed onto the float and placed one paw on the steering wheel.

"You also promised me a tiny hat."

Thimblewick looked at the badger.

"Did I?"

The badger's expression did not change.

"You did."

Pickle barked.

Then, from somewhere beyond the blackberry clearing, the village bell began ringing.

Once.

Twice.

Then three times.

Across Bramble End, cottage doors opened.

Faces appeared at windows.

Someone shouted, "The mayor's awake!"

Thimblewick looked at the crooked float, the glowing drum, the badger, the grinning festival clerk, and Pickle, who had already climbed into the driver's seat with his front paws on the steering wheel.

For one brief, tragic moment, he considered running into the woods and allowing the mushrooms to elect someone else.

Then Mrs. Brindlecap handed him his red cap with the bells, feather, and terrible golden title.

"On you go, Your Sporely Magnificence."

Thimblewick put it on.

The bells jingled.

Pickle barked like a creature announcing the arrival of a king.

Thimblewick climbed onto the float, took the steering wheel from the dog, and looked out toward the gathering villagers.

"All right," he called. "Nobody asks any questions."

The crowd cheered.

The drum began to thump.

And somewhere in the front row, a smug-looking squirrel immediately started dancing.