cloudy and damp all the time that matters. What matters is
your outlook on the fact."
"What do you mean, our outlook?" asked a newcomer,
an interested slime mold. "Our outlook is glum and
miserable and pointless."
"Only if you think of it that way," Jon-Tom informed
it. "Sure, you can think of yourselves as hopeless. But
why not view your situation in a positive light? It's just a
matter of redirecting your outlook on life. Instead of
regarding your natural state as depressing, think of the
constancy of climate and terrain as stabilizing, reassuring.
In mental health, attitude is everything."
"I'm not sure I follow you, man," said another mushroom.
"Me neither, mate."
"Be quiet, Mudge. Listen, existence is what you make
of it. How you view your surroundings will affect how you
feel about them."
"How can we feel anything other than depressed in
surroundings like these?" wondered the liverworts.
"Right, then. If you feel more comfortable, go with
those thoughts. There's nothing wrong with being de-
pressed and miserable all the time, so long as you feel
good about it. Have you ever felt bright and cheery?"
"No, no, no," was the immediate and general consensus.
"Then how do you know that it's any better than feeling
depressed and miserable? Maybe one's no better than the
other.''
"That's not what the other travelers who come our way
say," murmured the toadstool, "before they relax, see it
our way, and settle down for a couple of months of steady
decomposition."
Jon-Tom shivered slightly. "Sure, that's what they say,
but do they look any better off, act any more contented,
any more in tune with their surroundings than you do?"
"Naturally they're not as in tune with their surround-
ings," said the first mushroom, "but these surroundings
are.. •"
"...Damp and depressing," Jon-Tom finished for it.
"That's okay if you accept it. It's all right to feel de-
pressed all the time if you feel good about it. Why can't it
be fun to feel depressed? If that's how your environment
makes you feel, then if you feel that why it means you're
in tune with your environment, and that should make you
feel good, and secure, and confident."
Roseroar's expression reflected her confusion, but she
said nothing. Mudge just sat quietly, shaking his head.
But they were thinking, and it kept them from growing
dangerously listless again.
"Hey," murmured a purple toadstool, "maybe it is
okay to feel down and dumpy all the time, if that's what
works for you."
"That's it," said Jon-Tom excitedly. "That's the point
I'm trying to make. Everything, every entity, is different.
Just because one state of mind works for us ambulatories
doesn't mean it ought to work the same way for you. At
least you aren't confused all the time, the way most of my
kind are."
"Far fucking out," announced one enlightened truffle
from beneath a clump of shelf fungi. "Existence is point-
less. Life is decrepit. Consciousness sucks. And you know
what? I feel good about it! It all fits."
"Beautiful," said Jon-Tom. "Go with that." He put his
hands on his hips and turned a circle. "Anybody else here
have any trouble dealing with that?"
78
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
79
"Well, we do," said a flotilla of mushrooms clinging to
a scummy pile of dead weeds near a small pool.
"Tell me about it," said Jon-Tom coaxingly.
"It started when we were just spores. ..."
It went on like that all through the night. By morning,
Jon-Tom was exhausted, but the fungoid forest surround-
ing him was suffused with the first stages of exhilaration... in
a maudlin manner, of course. But by and large, the
group-therapy session had been wildly successful,
Mudge and Roseroar had recovered completely from
their insidiously induced lethargies and were eager to set
out again. Jon-Tom held back. He wanted to make certain
the session would have at least a semipermanent effect, or
it wouldn't last them through the Moors to the Glittergeist.
"You've certainly laid a heavy trip on us, man," said
the large mushroom that served as speaker for the rest of
the forest.
"I'm sure that if you hold to those thoughts, go with the
flow, make sure you leave yourselves enough mental space,
you'll find that you'll always feel better about your places
in existence," Jon-Tom assured it.
"I don't know," said the big toadstool, and for an
instant the veil of gloom which had nearly proved lethal
descended about Jon-Tom all over again. "But just consid-
ering it makes me more inclined to accept it."
The cloud of despair dissipated. "That's it." Jon-Tom
grew aware of just how tired he was. "I'd like to stay and
chat some more, but we need to be on our way to the
Glittergeist again. You wouldn't happen to know in which
direction it lies?"
Behind him, the shapes of three giant amanitas crooked
their crowns into the mist. "This way, friend. Pass freely
from this place.. . though if you'd like to join us in our
contented dissolution, you're more than welcome to re-
main and decompose among us."
"Couldn't think of it," Jon-Tom replied politely, falling
in behind Mudge and Roseroar as they started southward.
"See, I'm not into decomposition."
"Tell us about it," several rusts urged him.
Worrying that he might be leaving behind a forest full of
fungoid Frankensteins, Jon-Tom waved it off by saying,
"Some other time."
"Sure, that's it, go on and leave," snapped the toad-
stool. "We're not worth talking to."
"I've just spent a whole night talking to you. Now
you're bringing out new feelings of insecurity."
"No I'm not," said the toadstool, defensive. "It's the
same thing as depression."
"Isn't. Why don't you discuss it for a while?" A rising
mental susurration trailed in his wake as he hastened after
his companions.
Word of the therapy session preceded them through the
Muddletup. The intensity of the depression around them
varied considerably in strength according to the success of
Jon-Tom's therapy. They detoured around the worst areas
of despair, where the mental aura bordered on the coma-
tose, and as a result they were never again afflicted with
the urge to lie down and chuck it all.
Eventually the fungi gave way to blossoming bushes and
evergreens. The morning they emerged from the woods
onto a wide, gravelly beach formed of wave-polished
agates and jade was one of the happiest of Jon-Tom's life.
Pushing his ram wood staff into the gravel, he hung his
backpack from the knobbed end, sat down, and inhaled
deeply of the sea air. The sharp salty smell was heartbreak-
ingly familiar.
Mudge let out a whoop; threw off his bow, quiver, pack,
and clothes; and plunged recklessly into the warm surf.
Jon-Tom felt the urge to join him, but he was just too
damn tired. Roseroar sat down next to him. Together they
watched the gleeful otter porpoise gracefully through the
waves.
"I wish I had my board," Jon-Tom murmured.
"Yo what?" Roseroar looked down at him.
80
Alan Dean Foster
"It's a flat piece of fiberglass and epoxy resin. It
floats. You stand on it and let the waves carry you toward
shore."
Roseroar considered, decided. "That sounds like fun.
Do y'all think yo could teach me?"
He smiled apologetically. "Like I said, I don't have my
board with me."
"How big a board do yo need?" Rising, she started