[Gift] #42 Strange Shrooms [Story]

“Hey,” the calm, maternal voice of an elegant mare landed in the ear of a neighboring stallion. “You. Your mane is completely drenched in sweet feed…”

The stallion, commandingly large in frame, lifted his head and tried to turn to see the abundance of his leftovers from lunchtime. “Where?” he asked energetically.
“What in the…” the mare muttered. She shook her head and turned away, ready to leave. She had happened to be grazing close to the fence line when this mammoth of a Loshenka pranced his way over near her on the opposite side—clearly aiming for the lush patch of clover that was growing between the pastures. She hadn’t arrived at this training facility to make friends—she was there to improve her craft and perform excellently enough to be left alone in the pasture as much as possible. The grassy hills and mountainsides were her happy place, and this Wyoming-based facility was well known for its gorgeous landscape. This was just the trip she needed—so much so that she almost forgot that other horses came here to train too. And a stallion like this could throw off the energy of any room he walked into.

“Hey, wait!” the stallion called, almost a longingness in his voice.

Banshee’s ears pricked. His deep, silky voice was alluring, even when mixed with an image of his thick mane with food all stuck up in it. She halted, slowly craning her neck back. Her expression was cautious but curious.

The massive stallion trotted to the fence, hovering his head over it shyly.
“Have you seen a human with dark skin and yellow in his hair? He brought me here, but I haven’t seen him since…”

The mare’s heart felt a little weighed down by his words. It seemed as if this was his first time at a training facility, even though he looked like an older stallion.
“How old are you?” she asked gently.
“I just turned five…” he murmured.
“You’re only five?!” the mare exclaimed.
“Everybody reacts like that, and I have no idea why…” he responded, seeming dumbfounded.
“Wow, sorry, you’re just so large and so..." A beat. Banshee composed herself and cherry-picked her next words. "...And lean. You look like a horse that’s either been here ten times or been strength-trained for years.”
“Well, I like to lie and say that my great-great-grandpa was a halter-bred Quarter Horse. Sometimes it makes other horses laugh.”
“Yeah, I bet they believed you too,” Banshee nickered. “But I’m sorry, I can’t help you. I’m just trying to get home as quickly as possible.”

Banshee’s ears pressed against her head as she thought of all the discomfort this facility had brought her thus far. White Oak Stables, the name of this scenic training facility and boarding center, was a place she’d only visited one other time—with her owner. This time, her beloved owner was nowhere to be seen for the past two days. Even though Banshee’s mindset was to be efficient so that she could be sent out to pasture as a reward every day, she knew in her heart that if any of these handlers did try to mount her, it wasn’t going to go so smoothly anymore. A disgusted shudder raced down her spine as the visual coursed through her mind; there was no way she was going to let an unknown human onto her back. Not in a million years.

“I’m Marcello,” the stallion nickered happily. “And you seem pretty cool.”
“Banshee,” the mare responded tentatively.
“You said you’re trying to get home as quickly as possible. I know a shortcut to getting out of the field. Would that help?”

Banshee’s ears pricked. While she had no intention of escaping, the thought was arousing to her. Maybe if she knew this so-called “shortcut,” she could explore the mountains while she was out to pasture and return before any humans caught on.
“A shortcut? Where? How?”
“There’s a weak bar in the fence out at the end up here,” he said, nudging toward the north of them. “You’ve got long legs. You could probably jump it!”

Banshee bashfully stepped back. The thought of this young, burly stallion eyeing her build like that without her knowing felt a little invasive for some reason.
“Okay… I’m interested,” she whinnied softly. “Can you tell me where?”
“Better yet,” he neighed happily, stomping his large, heavy hooves against the earth, “I’ll show you. Follow me!”

He reared with a powerful movement, launching himself right into a rotary gallop. Banshee, surprised by his quick acceleration, did her best to follow. As they galloped side by side, divided only by the pine fencing, it was like he commanded the wind with his graceful movements. His feathering was thick and bushy, but his coat was wispy and velvety, and the oil in his coat glistened with the late afternoon sunlight. Whoever his human handler was, they clearly knew their way around a Loshenka coat. He was beautifully groomed and maintained—aside from his unusually thick and heavy hair in his mane and tail. On any other horse, this heavy head of hair would have been a huge burden, but on him, it seemed effortless to bear.

Once they arrived, Banshee’s ear tipped toward the opposite end of the pasture for any signs of discovery. However, it was evident she was the only one who was concerned. Marcello considered the lopsided fence between them, chest broadening with optimism. “Now… we fly.”
“You will hop,” Banshee said dryly. “I will fly.”
He backed up, kicking up the grass and earth with his heavy, clumsy steps. “Okay, lead the way.”

Banshee sighed—the kind of sigh that trimmed the edges off a problem—and trotted three light steps. “Observe,” she said. She coiled. She rose. The fence became a decorative line under her tidy knees. She landed in the earth right outside the pasture, her mane and tail flowing after her like punctuation. She looked back toward him.

To her horror, Marcello was backing up to prepare for his jump, almost like a dog waiting for the command to go and fetch.
“Here I go!” he nickered, stomping furiously until he reached the spot he thought was the perfect launch point. He certainly flew—but only for the first half of the jump. He brought his legs up too quickly, knocking the already loose fence beam right off of the frame, taking out the main post with it. He crashed with a messy landing, stumbling to his feet and turning to see the damage. Two long poles of wood remained behind him as if he had never even attempted to jump, and instead tried running right through the fence. He grimaced and looked at her with an awkward smile.
“Maybe it’s harder than it looks…?” he chuckled nervously.
“Well,” Banshee sighed—the kind of sigh that trimmed the edges off a problem—“since this will clearly be my only trip outside the pasture after they see this, I had better make it count.”
“Ooh, but you, though!” Marcello said with excitement. “You were like a bird in the sky! Oh, and the face. The jumping face.”

Marcello attempted to copy her serious look. Banshee rolled her eyes.
“It’s okay, you just have a lot to learn. You never get it the first time—you’ll know that for yourself soon enough.”
“Technically,” Marcello said, “the landing was a success. I didn’t fall!”
“The landing was a disaster,” Banshee corrected. “It was actually the worst part.”

The two of them followed the natural path of the shrubbery into the woodlands. The heat fell away as the cedars took them; shade stitched itself over their backs. The forest pressed close with fern-breath and damp dirt.
Marcello stopped, nose stretched, ears drinking in the soundscape. “It smells like… salad,” he said reverently. “And old bread. And… wet.”
“Loam,” Banshee said, because saying accurate things soothed her. “And a hundred small decisions.”
“Decisions?” Marcello asked.
“Every leaf you choose not to eat is a decision, breakfast-head,” she said, stepping over a branch with the kind of care that would have made her handler proud.

He placed his giant hooves carefully, delighted by the project of it. His eyes still hovered over all the unknown green plants below them, restraining himself despite his growling belly. “You might have to lower your expectations for me just a little bit more…”
“Why are you following behind me anyway?” Banshee asked.
“Well, I guess I’m curious to see where you’d go. I figured if we went too far, I would just turn back.”
“Fair enough,” Banshee agreed, “but I’m not responsible for you, okay? If you get lost, I’m not your personal navigator.”
“Aye-aye,” Marcello answered, a little confused at the random pushback. He shrugged it off and kept trotting behind her.

They wandered until the sun lowered deep into the sky, spreading thin beams of light into the thick leaves of the forest. The landscape glowed eerily with the golden-hour sunlight. The path widened into a mossed bowl of a clearing. In the center sat a ring of mushrooms: fat-capped, handsome, edges frilled like skirts.
Marcello’s ears shot forward. “Look,” he breathed. “Cakes that grow out of the ground!”
Banshee lowered her head and sniffed, nostrils flaring, breath stirring spores. “I don’t recognize this smell,” she said cautiously. “We should—”
Marcello had already plucked one with a precise smooch. He chewed. His eyes became very sincere. “Banshee,” he murmured, as if confessing to a priest, “it tastes like the good pellets and a secret.”
“Put it down!” she ordered.
“I can’t,” he said, mouth full, voice rumbly with bliss. “It has become me. Plus, it’s sooo good…”

She circled the ring, inspecting caps, skirts, stems. The smell was an unfamiliar, buttery aroma. Her stomach, usually so reasonable, made an interesting grumble.
“Is it really that good? Maybe it’s not poison if you’re saying that…”

She took a small piece. It was rain and bread and the shadow of a woodstove, all mashed together with a potato-y fullness. Banshee’s taste buds were far from objection. “Well,” she said faintly. “That’s strange.”
“I think you meant to say,” Marcello added solemnly, swallowing another, “that’s delicious.”

Very quickly, the ring became ragged. The forest watched them eat with moral superiority. Then, the woods shifted its weight.
“Banshee?” Marcello said, blinking. “The ground is… humming.”
“Just your legs are humming,” Banshee replied, trying to place all four of her hooves in one coordinated idea. “But also, possibly my eyeballs.”
Marcello turned slowly in admiration of a tree that had become three trees and then reconciled. “I love you,” he told the tree earnestly.
“This isn’t good,” Banshee said, then reconsidered. “Or maybe this is a good thing. Wait—no, we need to leave.”
“Leaving sounds great, but currently, you’re upside down. I don’t know how to follow you like that.”
“You’d better invent a way, then, because I’m leaving now,” she said, and began to walk.

Walking was a collaborative art. Banshee’s body tried a sway unfamiliar to her schooling. Marcello, discovering a gait between foxtrot and prayer, trailed at her hip wearing a fern like a distinguished mustache.
“Take that off,” Banshee hissed.
“It gives me gravitas,” he said.
“It gives you photosynthesis,” she said. “Come on. The creek is this way. I remember the smell of it in the morning—cold metal and fresh earth.”
“I remember the grain room,” Marcello said dreamily. “The scoop goes clink, and then the glorious sound of food in my little red bucket…”

They bumped a stump and apologized to it, causing a squirrel to run out and scold them. Marcello bowed to the squirrel. “My bad, dude,” he said.
“Don't talk to squirrels,” Banshee muttered, hurrying him along with an impatient stomp. “Talk to your center of balance. If you tip over, you might cause an earthquake!”

The route they were coming back wasn't the same. An unfamiliar creek lay before them like a winding snake in their path. To Banshee, it looked wider and more intimidating because of the mushroom hysteria. She gathered herself, to the best of her ability, and sprang. Landing sent a friendly wobble up her spine. Marcello stared down at his reflection—a shaggy cathedral bent over water—and flared his nostrils. “Hello there,” he whispered to himself, loopy and giggling. He bunched his weight, launched, and—in a feat of physics—hovered for a beat midair. The toxins turned what Banshee saw into something like a giant falcon. Or maybe a lion. It was hard to tell.

He arrived with a splash on Banshee’s side and let out a delighted snort. “I leapt in the sky.”
“You leapt over a small stream,” Banshee said, fighting a smile. “Focus.”
“You know,” Marcello began, deep in thought, “I see why they named you Banshee. When you move and jump, you float—just like a ghost.”
Banshee looked back at him, in awe of his words, even though her experience of them was shrouded by dancing colors and warped vision. “Huh? What are you saying?”
“Or, at least, what I think a ghost would move like. I’ve never seen one—I just heard the stories as a foal…” he continued.
Banshee grunted. “I can’t see straight, and now nothing you say makes sense. I guess that means I’m dying! Great.”
Marcello laughed, half-choking from the deliriousness of the toxins. “You’re not dying! We’re still having a conversation, see?”

He walked up closer to her, looking into her eyes intimately. “I’m saying you move so beautifully. It’s incredible. I want to learn how to move like you.”

This big, tall, muscular stallion speaking so softly in her ear like that mixed with toxic spores did not pair well together at all. Banshee’s face grew hot as she blushed, and her footsteps grew ragged from her fluster. She immediately tripped—something she hadn’t done since she was a filly. Pain seared through her foreleg—it was definitely a sprain. She couldn’t believe it.
Marcello gasped with concern. “Are you okay?” He nudged her gently. His hot breath against her shoulder like that made her even more upset.
“Back off!” she roared. “I couldn’t see where I was going because you were in the way…”
Marcello looked crestfallen. “I’m so sorry…”

Banshee’s leg swelled up quickly, making the next few steps she took immediately painful. The joint must have gotten shocked when she tripped, and now it was too sensitive. She stopped where she stood.
“I need a minute,” Banshee breathed, feeling defeated.
“But the sun is going down,” Marcello said worriedly. “I can see the pasture, too. We should keep going.”
“I know,” she replied. “But it already hurts too much, so I can’t…”

Marcello inspected their surroundings. If he ran at top speed, he could probably make it to the other side of the pasture and call for help, then be back before sundown. He felt a surge of confidence as he considered the idea.
“Wait here,” he said gently. “I’ll be right back for you.”

Banshee watched helplessly as he took off. With no other option, she painfully kneeled down to a resting position. The buzz of the forest and the rustling of the leaves were so peaceful. If she was going to be punished or confined to a stall for this little adventure of theirs, at least this place where she injured herself was calm and relaxing. She was in her happy place—one with nature. One minute went by, then two, and then Banshee’s eyelids became heavy…

Just as quickly as she had nodded off, the thundering of hooves up the slope echoed as two handlers arrived on two other horses behind Marcello. They followed Marcello closely, where they were able to reach the mare quickly. They both dismounted and knelt, hands gentle and sure, checking gums and eyes before turning to her swollen leg.

“Easy, girl,” one handler murmured, stroking her neck. “You really found trouble this time, huh?”
The other leaned closer, sniffing at the faint residue on her muzzle. “I’ve seen this before,” the handler commented. “It’s those toxic mushrooms not far out in the woods,” she said grimly. “Another horse got into them and then crashed into the wall at the indoor paddock. The poor thing swelled up like a balloon right away, and labs came back saying it had something to do with the toxins in his blood.

Marcello stood off to the side, chest heaving, mane tangled and eyes wide. “I wish I could tell him this is all my fault…” Marcello lowered his head, ears drooping.

A lead rope clipped softly; the first handler slid an arm over Banshee’s neck and breathed with her until the world steadied. “Easy now. We’ve got you,” she said quietly. Together they eased her up, supported her weight, and began the careful walk home, Marcello pacing at her shoulder like a contrite shadow.

Back at the barn, the routine unfolded with practiced calm. They cold-hosed Banshee’s leg until the heat bled from it, then wrapped it snugly while another handler drew up a dose of activated charcoal for both culprits.

Marcello eyed the black slurry suspiciously. “That doesn’t look edible.”
Banshee, in the neighboring care stall, nickered with laughter. “Says you, who will eat anything! It’ll make our heads stop spinning, so just drink up. I had this once when I got into some human food as a foal. Something called chocolate.”
Marcello grimaced through the first mouthful. “Bleh. Tastes bad.”
Banshee, trying not to laugh any harder, accepted hers with queenly composure.

Water came in measured sips, then slow walks in the aisle, then lots of rest in clean, spacious stalls. As the charcoal did its work and the dizziness lifted, the handlers murmured reassurance. “You’re lucky,” one facility handler said softly. “That swelling came on so fast because of the toxins—but you’ll be fine by morning.”

Marcello stretched his nose through the bars until it nearly touched Banshee’s. “Next time,” he said, voice small but warm, “no mushrooms.”
Banshee flicked an ear toward him, the smallest sign of forgiveness. “Next time?” she laughed. “I’m never going anywhere with you ever again!”

The handlers chuckled as they dimmed the aisle lights. Marcello sighed and settled into his straw, and Banshee rested her leg, watching the last slant of moonlight on the barn floor. They were home, detoxed and steadied, and by the time the night settled fully, the forest and its bright, foolish mushrooms were only a lesson softened by care—and a story they would both pretend not to tell tomorrow.