The Fabled Forest and the Harbinger of Doom.

In a far away land, beyond mists never navigated, upon shores uncharted, there grows a fabled forest. Not the sort of forest one might find in a park or around a great lake, or even at the edge of a frontier. It is vast, it is deep, and it is self aware. Every living thing that dwells beneath the sentient canopy possesses a measure of cognition, emotional intelligence, ethical idealism and above all, a hubris much like any member of a community that is ill content to become part of the scenery, to drift through existence unnoticed or apathetic towards what makes one unique. The fabled forest is filled with such highly attuned characters.

Many fascinating events have transpired over the centuries but on this particular day, in one particular grove, a shallow valley through which a gurgling stream meanders carelessly, a committee has been established and a meeting is underway. If you listen closely to the branches rustling there are whispers on the breeze.

"As chair of the fungal board of diversity and equitable forest relations, I would like to call this meeting to order," a large toadstool announced. Its bright red flat cap lifted high, its lamellae bristling haughtily. The willow tree, upon whose root the toadstool stood, swished its branches to silence all the other gathered fungi and fauna.

"I second that motion," called a mossy rock from the middle of the stream. The water giggled incessantly causing a mighty bending of consternation from the willow. Her shallow rapids bashfully stilled.

"That's better.” The toadstool turned his demeaning glance to a piece of bark set before him. “I see here there are a number of items on our agenda. The most pertinent, in my mind, is the assertion from the tree guild that the dispersion of spores has been somewhat oversaturated of late."

"Well of course it has," bellowed an oak at the edge of the grove. His ancient baritone voice reverberated anguish.

"Out of order," retorted the toadstool. "Stricken from the record."

"Says you."

"Who said that?" the red cap turned three shades darker. All the gathered fungi, moss, shrubs, flowers, and trees looked at one another to discern the guilty party. None of them admitted as much. The red cap cleared his throat and sporulated unintentionally. The stream giggled. Unperturbed, the churlish toadstool demanded silence with his stare.

"That's better. Now then, this alleged activity is nothing more than a course of natural occurrence."

"No one is disputing that," the oak yelled from the back. "But there has to be a balance in place. I have sixteen spores on my trunk! Sixteen is too much. Far too much. All the saplings wither under such a burden. You need to spread further." The branches of all the surrounding trees shook with leafy applause. They fully agreed with the sentiments as the oak so addressed the quorum.

"We need to be as close to the water as possible," explained the red capped toadstool as if to a sapling.

"No you don't," countered the moss covered rock. The myriad gathered fungal contingent immediately raised their voices in a cacophony of complaint. The red cap called for order. After a few moments of lingering protestation, the toadstool reminded the trees of their obligation to host fungal dwelling space since they take up the majority of the available real estate. To which the oak tree reminded the fungal contingent that without the trees there would be no forest. To which the mossy rock reminded anyone who would listen that it hadn't seen direct sunlight in over a decade. To which the red cap demanded to remain on topic and asked if the rock would like that discussion added to the agenda. To which the rock, rather chuffed, agreed that yes it would like that to be added. The stream giggled her assent to second the motion and the toadstool made the necessary amendment on the piece of bark...

Throughout all that kerfuffle no one involved in the meeting noticed a completely new, completely foreign creature lurking in the shadows, probing amongst reeds and bushes, and then skipping over rocks and roots.

She hummed a merry tune and held a large wicker basket propped over the crook of her arm. Her sky blue dress and matching bonnet caught the eyes of the uppity blue-bells. Their noses turned out of joint at the audacity of something so crudely mimicking their beautiful petals. Every now and then the creature would bend at the waist, causing her tiny bustle to rustle like the wind in the willows. It caused the nearest trees to gasp at the audacious language imbibed. She would bend and she would pluck. She would straighten and inspect what she had plucked. A yellow daffodil twirled in her fingers until she dropped it in her basket.

The stream vomited at the sight of such a horrendous crime. The beheaded flower caused waves of shock and nausea throughout the undergrowth. The toadstool, its stipe gaping wider than ever before, accidentally knocked over the agenda.

The little girl looked up. Curious as to the cause of the sound, she skipped over the stream, one foot deftly alighting on a mossy rock. A mossy rock that was suddenly so apoplectic with rage that it could not put two thoughts together. She landed on this side of the stream, using her waving arms and basket as leverage to prevent a slip. She looked down at the gaping toadstool and her face lit up with a wide toothy grin. In a swift blur of motion she snapped the chair of the fungal board of diversity and equitable forest relations up with such enthusiastic speed that it left his twitching mycelial threads still attached to the root, and all the other fungi sporulating in fear. Delighted with her find she set her basket down directly on top of a family of fly agaric. At least they were spared the sight of what she did next. To the utter dismay of every witness, (with perhaps the exception of the oak) she pulled the bright red cap off the stem, parted her thin red lips, and promptly bit it in half. She squealed with delight, twirled on her tiptoes, grabbed her basket, and sprinted back along the deer path she had come, once again humiliating the mossy rock as she left.

The shocked audience sat in stunned silence.

"Apparently the meeting is adjourned," said the oak after a lengthy reflection. He shuddered and dropped a few acorns.

"You're going to pick those up, right?" The mossy rock was still furious. "The last thing we need is more oak trees blocking even more sunlight."

"I told you. We need balance. With that narcissistic toadstool gone we might well be better off. And hopefully that thing comes back and takes all you sixteen freeloaders next."

Their fear kept them all silent. As all in the grove contemplated the wise words of warning from the great oak they unanimously decided to dissolve their committees and guilds. Meetings would be indefinitely postponed. For indeed, they dared not risk attracting another visit by, as the oak tree dubbed, the harbinger of doom. From that day on, the fabled forest was never the same again.