The Liturgy of the Pale Bloom

Fiction

Kneel. The air in this cellar is thick for a reason. You can see the drift, those tiny white motes dancing in the candlelight. They are not dust. They are the Pale Bloom, the will of the Great Mycelium, come to claim the ruins of your breath. Do not hold your breath. That is the instinct of the frightened animal, and it is exactly how you lose yourself. If you fight the entry, the Bloom will perceive you as a hostile organism; it will flood your system with toxins to break your will, and you will become nothing more than a walking garden, a mindless husk tending to the groves. Instead, you must open the gates. Draw it in deep. Feel the coldness of the spores as they settle into the moist lining of your lungs. It will feel like a thousand tiny needles, a slow frost spreading through your chest. This is the Invitation. Here is the secret of the Priesthood: the anchor. While the Bloom weaves its threads into your veins, you must hold a single, sharp memory of your own. Think of the smell of wet iron. Think of the sting of a winter wind on your cheeks. Hold that one singular, human pain. It acts as a wedge, a splinter of individuality that the collective cannot easily digest. If you let go of the pain, you disappear into the white noise of a million other souls. You will know everything, but you will be no one. But if you hold the splinter, you become a bridge. You will hear the whispers of the earth, the slow pulse of the forest, and the hunger of the soil, all while remaining the master of your own hand. Breathe now. Deeply. Let the white lace coat your throat. Do not flinch when you feel the first filament touch your heart. Welcome it. Be the vessel, but remain the captain.