"A Study of Mushrooms" | The Plague Doctor

Written by Speaker for the NPCs

A beetle slowly trundled over a rotting log, nosing his way around mushrooms. The cool dark night was soothing after such a warm day, and the moonlight was a welcome reprieve from the relentless sun. A large shadow crossed the sky, blotting out any light. It bent down and carefully picked the beetle up between his finger and thumb. The strange figure brought the insect up to his face and examined it, his expression obscured behind the beaked mask. “Hmm, how terribly ordinary.” The crunch that announced the beetle’s demise was obscured by the chirping of crickets.
The Plague Doctor straightened and gazed about him. A few firecap mushrooms flickered softly in the forest, aiding the moon in lighting the area. It was quite interesting, really. He had heard of places like this—this was a Living Dead Forest. Rotting trees and thick loam covered the ground with hundreds of mushrooms springing from every crevice. The standing trees were all in various stages of rotting as well, though they had not yet fallen. After inspecting the place for a while the Doctor concluded that several years ago a shift in the ground had resulted in a large area of forest sinking pretty far underground, resulting in a damp and cool environment—perfect for letting the decomposers flourish. This information was vital in helping him determine the species of mushroom found here.
“Ah, yes. Come with me, by dear.” He crooned as he plucked a small purple mushroom from the ground. He turned around and spotted a large white one. “You sir. Yes, you. You will honor me at my house tonight, eh? Very good.” Talking quietly, he moved among them until his knapsack was full to the brim. He then carefully placed some in his hat and left the Living Dead Forest.
Back at his newly erected cottage he moved about preparing supper and poisons at the same time—a dangerous multitasking effort for most people. As he worked he spoke to himself, running through the plan for the night.
“I’ll finish up eating soon, yes. Then I’ll have to feed that sweet little rat some of the little purple mushroom, yes? Or no—it must not be that. Too quick. Heltwort, instead, of course. Then sprinkle what’s left of poor Gale with that nasty orange stuff. It’ll be over for him soon, yes. There won’t be nothing left! After that I go to the town. The job’s all done there, yes, but now I must go take notes! All the moaning and groaning has to be recorded. Do they suffer? Who is infected? How long does it take?”
It didn’t take long to polish off a meal of hash browns and goose feet, and he had finished his ‘chores’ ahead of time. Why not go to town early? See if there is any activity? Of course, some people didn’t like his mask...that was always troublesome. But what was the point of being a Plague Doctor—a master of sickness—if you didn’t wear a beaked mask? So he would go, even at the risk of being kicked out of town, brought to jail, or getting a rotten pumpkin in the face. All of which had happened at one time.
For better or worse, however, he saw the carcass of a dead bird on the way into the village, and he *had* to stop and try a little Fencradle powder on it. The results were fascinating and took a whole hour to properly observe and record.
By the time he made it to his destination the evening was old and twilight was fading into night. The Doctor glanced at his watch. Two minutes left.
A cat meandered out of alleyway and looked at him.
One minute.
After tonight, if all went well, these families lives would never be the same again. Death was such a strange thing—everyone ended up dead and everyone knew it, but everyone lived in mortal fear of that day. The day when something broke the inexplicable bond between body and soul, and set the soul free to wander the paths of the Beyond, and left the body to be buried in so much pomp and ceremony. Where was that vital link? That tether that bound soul to carnal flesh? That was the question that had obsesses him for decades, driving him to ever more depraved lengths in his search for the Link.
Thirty seconds.
In a house near him a glass broke, shattering across the floor. Cries of concern and rebuke sounded, and the Doctor almost smiled at their prophetic nature.
Ten.

A lone figure stood silhouetted against the night sky, the full moon casting eerily vibrant shadows across the still town. The black beaked mask gave the head an unnatural shape, like some dark insect that had crawled form the festering loam.
He glanced a timepiece on a chain. “One.”
A few muffled thumps were audible from the town, but nothing else for a few moments. A woman’s scream sliced the stillness, and in almost perfect unison several others followed. Shouts and more screams followed, and people began to burst from their homes to run down the street. The beaked figure walked slowly down the hill, the wind rustling the cape that he had donned particularly for this occasion. Fires leaped up along the street as torches flared and lamps were lit, casting the entire scene in the dancing glow that recalled to the Doctor’s mind a time long ago when he had stood in the center of a fire-lit procession...but then was not now. Amid the chaos and terror he walked the street, singing in a sweet, low voice.

* “The Master is calling, who answers?
The first son was called, he answered.
The first son raised his head,
and it was lifted from his shoulders.
Tick tock, Ragnarok.
The Master is calling, who answers?
The second was called, he answered.
The second bowed his head,
it fell to the ground for the new Master.
Tock tick, Dagor Dagorath

The Master is calling, who answers?
The third son was called, he laughed.
‘My head is my own.
have you not enough blood in your coffers?’
One day yet til the Grey March.” *

He closed his eyes and for one moment reveled in the sheer perfectness of the situation. Now, finally, he had implemented a scheme truly worth his years of study. Only a few days ago he had began spreading a highly contagious virus that was sensitive to the chemicals in the body that fluctuated in accordance with the magnetic intensity of the area, which in turn fluctuated according to the phases of the moon. So on the night of a full moon all of the viruses went into action simultaneously, affecting only men, and instantly cramped all the muscles of the body. Hearts stopped, throats closed, lungs squeezed, and the whole body curled into a tight ball.
He would need to observe one of these bodies, of course, and in the commotion it was easy to slip into a house. He relented and removed the mask before he did so, however. Inside was strangely empty, and only low moaning came from one room. The Doctor stole to the half-open door and looked in. An old woman sat on the floor beside a man that was contorted into a grisly huddle. His facial muscles were strained in a mask of uncontrollable agony, and his hands were clenched into fists. The Doctor stepped forward slowly, intentionally letting his boots fall heavily. The woman turned her head, still slightly dazed. At the first sight of him she sucked in a breath . . . Then fainted.
That was unexpected. But helpful. He hoisted the dead man over his shoulder and left the building, careful to avoid large groups of people. Of course, they were all women or children, so they posed little threat anyway. After placing the body behind a hillock just outside of town the Doctor was struck by an idea. Here was an entire town without a single man to guard it! Now would be the perfect time to acquire a few test subjects, or even some slaves to sell to fund his projects. With his connections to the black market it wouldn’t be hard. It was simply too good to pass up.
He ran back into the village and into the sheriff’s office. A man—probably the sheriff, or maybe a deputy—was curled on the floor. Aha! He found several pairs of handcuffs in a drawer. “Why so many, eh? This must have been a terror of a town in its day.”
He went to the hardware store next and grabbed a thick cloth and two long chains. Dropping the supplies in an alley, he pulled a bottle from a pocket and sloshed some of the liquid onto the cloth. Now for the hunt.
Since the village herbalist’s house had by far the most people milling about, the Doctor posted himself in the near pitch-black dark of a doorframe a couple of buildings down. The night would hid any almost any action that he might make, but one could never be too careful. Well, almost never.
Soon his chance came. A young woman ran down the plank sidewalk and right into his waiting arms. He wrapped the cloth around her head, and in a few seconds it was over. She sagged, and he pulled her back into the alley to handcuff her. Again he waited. A boy of eleven or twelve years fell prey his time, and was quickly bound and cuffed as well. For almost an hour the Doctor roamed the streets, catching any woman or older child that he could. He finally ran out of handcuffs, and decided that an even dozen would suffice for his needs.
He hurried back to where he had stashed the captives, and sure enough they all still lay dormant under the effects of the strong sedative. He quickly strung a chain through the handcuffs...then stopped. How was he supposed to bring them out of here? Cursing heavily, he ran to the stables. Surely a wagon would be hitched and ready! If not, then at least a cart. There! Two black stallions were champing at their bits in front of the large double doors. A man was curled in the front seat, still clutching the reins.
The Doctor tried prying his fingers loose, but soon gave up and cut that part of the rope away. He rolled the man into the bed of the wagon and opened the doors. A cool breeze blew in, relieving the the stagnate air of a stable. He slapped the reins across the backs of the horses and they trotted briskly out and down the street. Attempting to avoid notice while driving a large wagon through a town still in an uproar wasn’t easy, but he managed. At least he hoped so. The galloping of hooves sounded on the other side of of the village. Lots of hooves.
Almost frantic now, the Doctor began loading the captives up as fast as he could manage. He had to leave as soon as possible! Someone must have gotten men from another village to come and assist. With a sigh of relief he dragged the next to last body into the wagon, and turned to see something that horrified him in a way that none of the corpses he had seen that night would. The young woman he had drugged first stood swaying, silhouetted against the glare of the torches. And screamed.
Yep. Time to go.