#fungalcore

“The Whisper Beneath the Grove”

Deep in the forest where no trail dared tread, beyond the choke of brambles and the memory of sun, there was a glade held not by trees but by silence. Beneath the moss and roots pulsed the ancient mind—the Mycelith—a fungal network so old it had forgotten its beginning. It did not think as animals do, but it remembered, and it spoke in pulses of light, in whispers of Tsh’vruun, Zalka, and Glo’eth.

Long ago, when the trees were still young and the stars closer to the earth, the Mycelith reached its threads into the first sapling and gave it song. That tree is now a column of fossil and memory, but the language remains—etched into the soil like scripture in living lace.

The few who wander too far into that glade begin to dream. Not dreams of people or places, but sensations: the sudden awareness of a nearby wound (Tsh’vruun), the arrival of dew felt through the soles of the feet (Glo’eth), the embrace of unseen kin like a thought wrapped in velvet (Zalka).

One such wanderer was Callen, a boy born mute but alive with rhythm. He didn’t speak in words but in drumming palms and dancing limbs. One night, drawn by a rhythm deeper than music, he slipped from his village and followed the moon down a corridor of whispering bark.

In the glade, the earth breathed. He knelt, pressed his ear to the moss, and heard the Nurrr—a perfect silence that wasn’t empty, just waiting. Then it came. Yel’sen. A signal of gentle finality, as if something had returned that had long been missing.

The mycelium welcomed him—not as a visitor, but as a voice.

His body stilled, his breath aligned with the earth. He did not hear the words as much as he became them.

Oth-them was near, the invader of steel roots and burning teeth—machines from the outer world. They tore through forests thinking them silent. They never knew the trees screamed in slow waves. But now the Mycelith had a translator.

Through Callen, the language would return. On stones, on cloth, on circuitry.

He would teach them that the world is not made of resources—but of messages.

That when the soil says Keth-Vuu, we are safe.

And when it no longer does, we are lost.