Mycora

Introduction

Taxonomy

Kingdom: Plantae
Subkingdom: Dendrofungi
Phylum: Aerofungi
Class: Pneumomycetes
Order: Meteormorphides
Family: Psychomycetidae
Genus: Mycora
Species: Ludens

In this essay, dear reader, I shall endeavor to describe what may be the most bizarre and unearthly of all the People of Arborea: the floating fungal spheres to which I have given the common name Mycora. In truth, these are the People I understand least well, for their biology differs profoundly from any other organism I have studied. From this strangeness of form follows, perhaps inevitably, a manner of thought that often seems alien to my own, and I confess that more than once I found myself questioning why they are included among, and so highly valued by, the other species that together constitute Arborean civilization. Nevertheless, my dear friend Odysseus was adamant as to their irreplaceable importance to that society, and in this matter I must bow to the superior knowledge and experience of those who have dwelt long upon Arborea.

Nomenclature

In my home realm it remains the common practice to place organisms of a fungal nature within the Kingdom Plantae, and you will observe that I have followed this convention here, though not without some hesitation. During my travels I have learned that many natural philosophers advocate alternative arrangements, whether by granting the fungi a kingdom of their own, or even by assigning them to the Animalia, on the grounds that their mode of nutrition and certain aspects of their behavior suggest a closer affinity to animals than to plants. While I am not wholly persuaded by these arguments, my encounters with the more animated fungi of Arborea have left me with lingering doubts as to their proper categorization.

In the end, I have adhered, albeit tentatively, to the prevailing system of my home realm, where this volume is intended to be published. I would, however, readily accept a reclassification should the scientific consensus of my peers shift upon this question. In anticipation of such a possibility, I have devised a subkingdom to encompass all fungal life of Arborea, so that any future adjustment might be enacted with minimal disruption. This subkingdom I have named Dendrofungi, the fungi of the trees. All organisms of Arborea that meet the classical definition of a fungus are placed herein.

Within the Dendrofungi are several phyla, representing the manifold strategies by which fungi thrive in Arborea. I have assigned the Mycora to the phylum Aerofungi, distinguished by the trait that at least some portion of their life cycle is spent airborne, beyond the mere dispersal of spores upon the wind. Members of this phylum possess bodily structures adapted for aerial existence, whether by drifting or gliding, though I have observed no species that can be said to achieve true flight.

From within this phylum I have established the class Pneumomycetes, which is defined by the biological generation of lifting gas, that remarkable substance which permits both the floating fungi and the balloon ships of the People to remain aloft. All species of Pneumomycetes produce lifting gas to some degree, though in many cases it is employed only sparingly, and with little control over direction or altitude. These faculties are far more fully developed among the species of the order Meteormorphides, whose members spend the greater part of their lives in the air. Many of these fungi dwell exclusively among the clouds, and all exhibit extravagant production of lifting gas, coupled with ingenious means of directing their course through the open sky. They are commonly observed drifting through the cloud layers, feeding upon the abundant microscopic life found there, and will scatter from predators with remarkable speed when threatened.

Within the Meteormorphides I have placed the family Psychomycetidae, among the most astonishing organisms I encountered in Arborea. These fungi display behaviors more commonly associated with animals, and their apparent intellectual capacities range from the simplest insectiform responses to the true sapience observed in the Mycora themselves. I find myself at a loss to explain, in physiological terms, how such faculties are achieved, for these organisms possess no structure that I would readily recognize as a brain. The Mycora whom I questioned upon this subject suggested that their cognition arises from the manner in which their internal fungal colonies are interconnected. It is certainly true that all members of this family consist of such colonies, and that while individual portions may be separated from the main body without immediate death, they cease under these circumstances to exhibit the behaviors that suggest animal intelligence.

We arrive next at the genus Mycora, which may be distinguished by its capacity to physically manipulate the surrounding environment. While tentacular structures are found in many species of Aerofungi, serving either as anchors against turbulent weather or as dangling stingers to deter predation, only within this genus do such appendages advance to the ability to seize and manipulate external objects. This faculty is employed chiefly to draw food into an internal digestive cavity, rather than engulfing nourishment wholesale, as is common among other genera. Members of Mycora may even grow specialized tentacles adapted to particular tasks, and their range of articulation rivals that of the more familiar anatomies of other sapient species.

Finally, we come to the species Ludens, defined by its playful disposition and its fully developed intellectual powers, that sapience which marks its members as one of the People of Arborea. They are, beyond question, self-aware and clever, though regrettably inclined toward pranks and jests rather than serious inquiry. Even so, they are regarded as an essential component of Arborean civilization by Odysseus and others with whom I have discussed the matter. And thus, dear reader, I present to you the scientific name by which they shall be known within this volume: Mycora Ludens.

First Impressions

When Odysseus first brought me to the town of Highmarket, I was quite overwhelmed by the extraordinary diversity of forms, customs, and modes of thought presented there. In that initial surfeit of novelty, I took no particular notice of the Mycora at all, perceiving them merely as drifting globes adorned with shifting patterns of light. Indeed, it was several days before I fully apprehended that they were among the People, a lapse which I can only attribute to my limited facility with telepathic communication.

Odysseus, for their part, did not at first realize my error. That good Ceph was long accustomed to the immediate recognition of the source of any telepathic communication, and to the instinctive assessment of intelligence by that faculty alone. As such, they made no special effort to point the Mycora out to me, assuming their nature to be self-evident.

The Mycora themselves, however, were far quicker to perceive my ignorance. They soon realized both my inability to distinguish the origin of a given telepathic message and my failure to recognize that they themselves might be its source. Rather than correcting this misunderstanding, they elected instead to take impish delight in it. For several days thereafter, I found myself suddenly assailed by unexpected thoughts and strange mental impressions, clearly designed to startle, and invariably followed by an unplaceable sense of amusement, rather like the laughter of invisible fairies at the expense of a foolish mortal upon the stage.

On more than one occasion, these pranks were timed to coincide with my traversal of some perilous gap among the branches. It is only by the grace of God that I did not lose my footing and plunge from the arboreal ways altogether. When at last I mentioned this curious persecution to Odysseus, they immediately identified the pranksome Mycora as the culprits, enlightened me as to their nature, and administered a firm rebuke for having placed me in such danger.

Following this intervention, the attempts to startle me largely ceased, and those that persisted were carefully restricted to circumstances in which I could not fall to my death. Nevertheless, the Mycora continued to prod me with their jests and playful deceits for the remainder of my stay in Arborea, a habit which I came to understand as both an expression of curiosity and a mark of a peculiar, if exasperating, affection.

Anatomical Description

The Mycora most commonly present themselves as roughly spherical masses of spongy, yielding flesh, suspended freely in the air. This remarkable buoyancy is achieved through several internal chambers filled with a naturally produced lifting gas, the precise composition of which has thus far eluded my analysis. By the controlled ejection of small jets of this gas, the Mycora are able to propel themselves with surprising speed and agility in any direction they desire.

They are further capable of producing a dense internal fluid which they employ as ballast, and which may be expelled to produce a sudden increase in buoyancy. This latter method appears to be reserved for situations of urgency, when more extraordinary measures are required. Far more commonly, when threatened, a Mycora will discharge a cloud of irritating spores. This maneuver serves the dual purpose of driving the creature rapidly away from its adversary while simultaneously assailing the eyes, nose, and mouth of the threat. Exposure to these spores results in burning of the eyes, copious tears, and violent coughing, and recovery is sufficiently protracted as to make pursuit entirely impractical.

The surface of the Mycora's body is typically marked by a mottled array of pallid fungal hues, including whites, greys, and muted greens or pinks. They are also capable of producing luminescent patterns across their flesh, which may serve either as artistic expression or as an outward manifestation of their emotional state. At night, these gentle illuminations are sufficient to light the way for the People, though I must confess that they remain, to human eyes, frustratingly dim.

Suspended beneath the central sphere is a variable number of tentacular appendages, which the Mycora employ to manipulate tools, anchor themselves to their surroundings, or to feed. The latter process consists of placing food, which may be almost any organic substance, into an internal digestive chamber through the sole external orifice they possess. The colony then absorbs such nourishment as it is able over the course of several days or even weeks, before expelling the indigestible remainder through the same opening. Should a given meal impose too great a burden upon their buoyancy, they may elect to eject it before digestion is complete.

These tentacles are wholly replaceable, and their number varies considerably between individuals. The Mycora appear capable of growing new appendages at will, and I have observed specimens possessing as few as four or five, and others bearing more than a dozen. The tips of these tentacles frequently divide into three or four radially arranged segments, which function in a manner closely analogous to fingers.

One of the most persistent mysteries surrounding the Mycora is their apparent lack of any discrete sensory organs. That they perceive their environment is beyond dispute, for I have observed them respond readily to visual, auditory, and tactile stimuli. Yet I remain entirely unable to account for the means by which such perception is achieved. The Mycora themselves deny that it arises from any psychic faculty, but I can offer no satisfactory alternative explanation, any more than I can adequately describe the manner by which they have attained true sapience.

The size of the Mycora varies greatly, from smaller individuals scarcely a third of a span in diameter to immense specimens approaching ten times that measure, or more. The smaller Mycora exhibit greater agility, but appear to possess less intellectual sophistication. The larger individuals, while slower and more ponderous in their movements, display markedly greater cognitive capacity. This distinction, they assert, arises from the increased complexity of their internal connections, an assertion which accords well with my own observations, and one whose underlying mechanism I hope, in time, to better understand.

Lifespan and Reproduction

The Mycora are colonial organisms, and do not reproduce in any fashion comparable to that of animals. Instead, when they elect to propagate, they simply divide their colony into two or more smaller configurations, each thereafter capable of independent existence. This process is neither swift nor crude, but unfolds over the course of several days, during which the Mycora carefully reorganize their internal chambers, cavities, and connective networks to sustain the newly separated forms.

Of particular interest is the manner in which memory and acquired skill are apportioned during this division. Rather than being duplicated in full, the accumulated experiences of the parent colony are divided between the resulting offspring, such that each "child" retains only a portion of the original whole. In the days immediately following division, these new colonies engage in intense telepathic exchange, laboring to communicate essential facts and establish a workable understanding of their surroundings. During this period, they can be remarkably incoherent, for their memories appear to have been distributed in an almost arbitrary fashion, leaving each with a fractured and incomplete apprehension of the world.

This confusion is gradually resolved after several days of sustained communication, once sufficient information has been exchanged to permit each colony to function independently. Even then, their recollections remain incomplete, as only those memories deemed vital are typically shared. Over the course of repeated divisions, this progressive fragmentation becomes effectively total, and it is therefore uncommon to encounter a Mycora whose memories extend with any coherence beyond two or three such separations.

In certain cases, a Mycora will postpone division in an effort to preserve the integrity of its mind. This reluctance, however, carries its own dangers, for continued growth without division increases the mass of the colony. Should it grow too large, it eventually loses the ability to remain aloft, and will sink, slowly and inexorably, into the Webs below.

Mental Qualities

The Mycora are widely remarked upon for their playful dispositions, which incline them toward constant joking, prodding, and the devising of pranks at the expense of those around them. This levity should not be mistaken for shallowness, for they are capable of considerable insight, though it often arrives in a fashion reminiscent of a young child's observations, striking unexpectedly at the heart of a matter through a kind of earnest naivete. Their criticisms are frequently oblique and cryptic, and more than once, in discourse with them, I was reminded of Lear's Fool. I confess that I found being cast in the role of Lear himself every bit as uncongenial as one might suppose.

Their telepathic communications are layered and intricate, possessing a quality akin to the wordplay of spoken language. Symbolism and metaphor are employed with great enthusiasm, often in ways that appear nonsensical upon first reception, only to disclose their true import after prolonged reflection. It must be admitted, however, that the Mycora are equally fond of interspersing genuine nonsense within these exchanges, solely to sow confusion and amuse the colony responsible for its composition.

One aspect of their psyche demands particular attention. The Mycora do not conceive of themselves as individuals in the manner familiar to animals or to ourselves. Rather, they regard each colony as an explicitly plural entity, a union of innumerable minute components acting in concert. This communal nature is evident in their mental "voice", which presents itself as something akin to a crowd speaking in near unison, though no analogy can fully capture the experience. This plurality of self lies at the very core of Mycora identity, and must be accepted as such, even if it remains profoundly difficult for unitary beings to apprehend.

With regard to psychic faculties, the Mycora are most frequently associated with Telekinesis, followed closely by manifestations of Aerokinesis. Other psychic gifts do occur, but only rarely. Of particular note is the fact that such abilities may be lost during division, when one or more of the resulting colonies fails to inherit the talents of the parent. Conversely, the Mycora are unique among the People in that they may occasionally manifest new psychic gifts over the course of their lifespan. When such unusual abilities arise, they are almost invariably observed in the largest and most complex colonies.

Social Organization

The Mycora are intensely social beings, yet they display no particular preference for the company of their own kind over that of the other species of the People. Indeed, they are far more inclined to insert themselves into social structures formed by others, most often occupying the role of an observant outsider within the group. As the Mycora do not appear to require sleep, it is not uncommon for a single colony to maintain membership in several such circles simultaneously, participating in one during the daylight hours and another through the night.

Their adoption of these groups is undertaken without any formal request for consent, and efforts to discourage their presence are, by all accounts, nearly futile. Depending upon the temperament of the group in question, a Mycora may come to be regarded as a sort of living mascot, a valued senior advisor, or a genial adversary whose function seems to consist largely of provocation. During my own residence in Arborea, I became the particular focus of one such adversary, who made it their continual practice to mock and interrogate the sense of my actions and observations. The People, to my considerable irritation, appeared to regard this treatment as a kind of compliment, rather than the infuriating nuisance it so often proved to be.

I must concede that, on occasion, these pointed observations did succeed in exposing unconscious biases and errors in my own thinking. Nevertheless, I never succeeded in reconciling myself to the manner in which such lessons were delivered.

Societal Role

While most of the roles the People ascribe to their constituent species strike me as both clear and sensible, I find myself compelled to question the value of the Mycora in particular. Odysseus assures me that they are indispensable to the smooth functioning of Arborean society, arguing that their playful critiques and caustic observations serve as a necessary counterweight, a constant check upon the excesses and unexamined impulses of the other species. Without this corrective influence, I am told, the social order would drift rapidly toward imbalance.

I confess, however, that I often found these same qualities to be as disruptive to harmony as any benefit they might confer. Their humor cuts sharply, their satire spares no dignity, and their impish mischief frequently seemed calculated to unsettle rather than to instruct. Once again, I must defer to those whose understanding of Arborea far exceeds my own. I have been assured, by voices far more authoritative than mine, that the Mycora are essential to the maintenance of social order, and that without their wit, mockery, and persistent irreverence, the other six species who together constitute the People could not, in truth, function as a coherent whole.

Notable Individuals

As I have noted above, I became the particular focus of one Mycora who took it upon themselves to make me the object of their mockery, ostensibly for my own improvement. My initial inclination was to name this individual Puck, after the impish trickster of folklore and stage, a designation which seemed to me entirely apt. When I raised the matter with Odysseus, as I did with all the appellations I proposed to employ, they objected in the strongest possible terms. Over the course of several conversations I suggested a number of alternative names, some of them rather less charitable than others, before we at last arrived at a mutual agreement.

The name ultimately chosen was Socrates, selected in reference to that philosopher's sobriquet as the Gadfly of Athens. Odysseus claimed that this role, of relentless provocation and uncomfortable inquiry, most closely mirrored the purpose which this Mycora appeared to have adopted in relation to me. In the end, I consented to the use of this honorable moniker, if only to bring the matter to a close.

Socrates accompanied me for nearly two thirds of my time in Arborea, following me across much of the world and joining me on many of my voyages. They were a larger specimen, measuring over a span and a half in diameter, and had evidently progressed beyond crude physical pranks as the summit of humor. I was grateful to find that they no longer regarded the pratfall as the highest expression of wit. Instead, Socrates confined themselves to commentary, inserting observations into whatever activity or conversation I happened to be engaged in, and unfailingly identifying any weakness, inconsistency, or concealed fracture in my reasoning.

I have rarely, since attaining my professorship, felt myself reduced to the intellectual condition of an uneducated child, yet this was a state which Socrates could induce with remarkable regularity. More galling still, I found myself taking a perverse pride on those rare occasions when I advanced a line of thought which the Mycora could not immediately dismantle.

In candor, I must acknowledge that their criticisms were, in the end, instructive. I was compelled to confront my own limitations and habits of thought, and at the very least to recognize them, if not always to correct them. Nevertheless, the experience was not one I found agreeable, nor one for which I felt any particular obligation to express gratitude, whatever Odysseus may think on the subject.

Conclusion

And so, dear reader, we come at last to the end of our examination of the Mycora. They are, without question, among the most perplexing and trying of the People, and yet I would be dishonest were I to deny the peculiar vitality they bring to Arborean society. If I have recorded my frustrations with them at some length, it is only because they so persistently contrived to place those frustrations before me.

In the next essay, we shall turn our attention to the final of the seven species of the People: the Roark, a race of notable wisdom and sensitivity, whose capacity for shared telepathic communion sets them apart even within the already extraordinary world of Arborea. I invite you to turn the page with me, that we may at last complete this survey of the People of Arborea, and lay these observations before you as a finished whole.

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