Lucky
A tree root is a mouth, lapping up wet nutrients from the flesh and foliage mushrooms break down. Any organism buried beneath a tree will be consumed, and the roots—the mouths—are thick and twisting. They are the worst part of digging in a forest, and the most necessary. No one will dig under a tree for fun, so anything slipped in their shelter becomes unreachable, unknowable, digested.
The trees in Malheur National Forest are tall, pointed, and coniferous. Late afternoon sunlight washes over their autumn-bronzed needles, igniting them into thousands of heatless flames.
I pull on my rose-pink gardening gloves and clear brush, weeds, and soft dead wood from beneath a weighty pine. Its orangey needles have already fallen, leaving it bare and brown like a round comb. Mushrooms sprout around its trunk, golden and distinct like a pile of season-turned maple leaves. The air is warm and smells of autumnal decay and damp earth. It’s the perfect day to be outdoors.
Once the ground is exposed, I retrieve my shovel from its clip. The first scoops are soft with foliage so rotten that it is almost dirt. This easiness will not last—it never does. Even the loosest beach sand hardens after a few feet.
I break into older dirt and find a system of thin black roots, almost like shoelaces. Strange.
A sharp crack echoes through the trees. I glance around, but I can’t tell where the sound came from or whether it was made by an animal. It doesn’t matter. I have bear spray and my pack looks innocent enough. It’s pink, stuffed full, and smells of lavender and rose essential oils—just what a bored suburban divorcee would carry on a hike.
Why are you digging, ma’am? I imagine a park ranger asking. Are you aware it’s illegal?
I’m so sorry, sir, I would reply, bowing my head, loose strands of blonde hair slipping in front of my face. My brother and I buried a time capsule somewhere around here when we were kids. He died overseas a few months ago. I guess I wasn’t thinking.
The ranger might make me leave, but I wouldn’t get in trouble. He wouldn’t look deeper. No one wants to be the asshole who calls the cops on an innocent, grieving woman from a military family.
I hit a root and it splits open. The inside is splotchy white, like a painting, like chiaroscuro in abstract.
“Stop!” A man shouts.
I bite my tongue and turn around. A man dressed in khakis and a blue windbreaker stands a few yards away, waving his hands above his head. He’s a real Dennis Christopher circa 1990. Shit. He is not my type.
“Why?”
“Fungus!”
“Excuse me?”
He takes a deep breath and cups his hands around his mouth. "Do not dig! Dangerous fungus!"
"Dangerous how?" I back out of my shallow hole, brain filling with images of spores and diseased lungs.
"Didn't you see the signs? Malheur is home to a fungus that covers thousands of acres and kills trees by the roots.”
I reexamine my pine tree. It is awfully brown for an evergreen.
“Thanks for the tip, Mr…?”
“Oh!” He strides off the path until he is a foot away from me. “You can call me Roger.”
He holds out his hand and I take it. Strong grip. He looked short from far away, but he’s well over six feet.
“I’m Carole.”
“What’re you digging in the mushroom for, Carole?”
“A time capsule,” I say. “My brother and I hid them all over the forest as kids. He died overseas and I wanted to bury a new one with some of his ashes inside.” I yawn in my closed mouth to pull a few tears to the surface.
“I wish I could help, but I’m afraid it’s just not safe. I’m sorry.”
I look up at him through wet lashes. “Can you take me to a part of the forest that’s okay to dig in? He loved it here.”
“It’s your lucky day, Carole.” Roger adjusts his thin, silver-framed glasses. “My kids are with my ex-wife and I have nowhere to be.”
“Thank you.” I smile and suck in my stomach. “I’m divorced, too.”
He looks down the length of my body and grins, revealing deep dimples. “Then I guess it’s really my lucky day.”
“I guess so.” I clip my shovel to my pack and hoist it onto my back. The straps dig into my shoulders. It’s true I burned what I could, but campfires don’t get hot enough, and even a quarter of a large man is a lot of weight to carry.
“Milady.” Roger holds out his arm. His muscles are hard and corded beneath his freckled skin. Heat floods my body until I am tingling all over. I won’t be able to take Roger home, but he, at least, will dig his own grave.
***
Sarah E. Adriance is a contemporary mystery, horror, and general adult fiction writer. You can visit her website at https://saraheadriance.com/ or follow her on Twitter at https://twitter.com/seadriance