Where God Once Lay

Encounter

He is about 30 feet from the shadow and there is no longer any doubt as to its shape: before him is an immense mushroom, not unlike a portabella. It rises at least eight feet out of the water, like some alien monolithic pillar to a temple long sunken. The color of the fleshy stem is the dingy yellow that white things get after a long time exposed to the elements. That's just what he is out here -- exposed -- the only omnifarious speck on an otherwise featureless blue landscape; other than this strange growth, that is. He stares at the damp neck of the mushroom, which plumes up into the empty sky above him. The cap at the top of the stem must be at least eight or ten feet across. He is suddenly reminded of neglected teeth, but he isn't sure exactly why - perhaps the color? He has unwittingly stopped swimming towards it, treading water about ten feet away. His long dormant fear of deep water, momentarily forgotten in the wake of such a discordant sight.

The entire thing unsettles him. Despite being the only solid object for miles, he finds himself unaccountably reluctant to touch the thing. He swims slowly closer; however, the sight becomes even stranger as his proximity increases. The underside of the mushroom is faintly luminescent, with the sleepy red-orange heat of hot coals. As he watches the underside, he notices a slow pulsing to the crepuscular glow, exactly like the tail end of a cigarette smoked in the dark. ...the grimy yellow of bad teeth... It even seems to radiate with the timing of regular breathing. It is very unsettling to watch. He cautiously swims closer, all panic and terror leached away by the sight of this bizarre ocean mushroom. He doesn't want to touch it, let alone climb it, but his fear of the ocean begins to return as his shock wears off. Hesitantly, he swims up to it and when he is within touching distance, he feels a faint heat emanating from within the fungus.

Gingerly, he places his open palm against the warm stem. Once he makes contact with it, he feels his reserves melt away with the warmth. Why was he so hesitant to touch it anyway? Now that he is underneath the cap of it, the vague crimson glow is much more salient. Below the transient heat of the mushroom's cap, he realizes the task of climbing atop it will be exceedingly difficult. He wraps his legs around the trunk - it is much more of a trunk than a stem - and squeezes it with his thighs. There is a slight give to the flesh of the trunk, and his legs leave an impression that makes it easier to hold on. Cautiously, he pulls himself up the stem - his arms just barely reaching around to touch on the other side. The glabrous trunk is soft and smooth, yet it isn't difficult to climb. He very quickly ascends high enough that his head is brushing against the underside of the cap.

The dark lines of frills against the subtle glow of the cap give an otherworldly effect. The frills are soft, radiating outward, and they give off a sickly-sweet scent. The smell reminds him of hospice and beds on wheels. He gingerly reaches his hand backward, blindly groping for the edge of the cap. His fingertips find the lip, just as he loses purchase and splashes down into the water. He tries again with several more unsuccessful attempts. This time he climbs the trunk as high as he can manage, with his head lost in the forest of soft fringes. The bitter-sweet smell is almost overwhelming. He places his hand against the underside of the cap, then punches as hard as he can. There is a dull oomph sound with the contact, almost as if the fungus groans softly, and the man feels his fist sink into the cap. With a few dozen more well-placed strikes, he's through. The man's hand bursts out of the topside of the mushroom like a restless corpse.