The Errant Tree

The Whale-Like

The first thing he notices is that it is warm. The second thing he notices is that he is tumbling in place as if trapped in the flooded hold of a ship in a storm, and that the walls seem to be closing in. And then there is hot, slick, organic matter enveloping him, pressing in on him, and then finally, he slides out of that esophageal purgatory onto a soft floor.

His lungs take the opportunity to empty and then fill themselves. He coughs, sinuses burning, and pushes himself miserably to his knees, dripping. He kneels in several centimeters of water, which ebbs and flows, rushing between his thighs. For a fleeting moment, he hopes he has somehow been regurgitated back into his own waterlogged vessel, but that fantasy flees when he opens his eyes.

He is, of course, inside the monster. Its bowels are cavernous, the walls pulsing and throbbing with the work of concealed vital functions. A spine of thick vertebrae bisects the ceiling, which every meter or so sprouts a pair of ribs that inform the curvature of the walls. Oskar can see all this because of the light radiating from an enormous mass of luminous fungi sprouting from the center of the chamber, its various stalks and caps throwing an eerie, green light that fall unsettlingly upon the otherwise ruddy hues of the gastric chamber.

And sitting regally upon a throne comprised of those glowing mushroom caps is a man.

Mostly, to Oskar's eyes, the man is a silhouette, because he is ensconced within the sole source of light. But he can tell that this man is of a relatively modest stature; short despite his great, thick boots; thin despite his roomy, sprawling cloak. Of his face, Oskar can determine little. Of his hair, Oskar sees there is not much.

"Master Beaumont tells me you speak English, thief," he said. "Is that correct?"

The tone is haughty—utter confidence, with no recognition that further resistance on Oskar's part might even be possible.

"It is," Oskar replies.

"Good. Do you still possess the item you stole?" the man asks.

"Yes," Oskar says.

"Good," the man says. He leans forward. "Do you know who I am?"

"Yes," Oskar replies. "You are the Errant-Minder."

"Good," the man says, falling back into his fungal chair with a satisfied nod. "So there is no need for exposition."

"If you're going to kill me, get it over with," Oskar says. "I've wronged you, and now you've caught me. I understand how these things work."

"Yes, I could kill you now," the Errant-Minder says, "but I would hesitate to do so before I am satisfied that you fully understand the magnitude of your crime. Some would argue that whether or not you understand the gravity of your actions is irrelevant—that the primary function of your death is as a deterrent to other would-be transgressors—but is that not a rather nihilistic view? We shall all die one day, but that does not, in my view, discount the value of the lessons we learn while we are alive. Your consciousness, Oskar, contains within it one of a finite number of symbolic impressions of the living universe, and therefore the state of your understanding matters immensely. No, I would not waste this opportunity to bring you up to speed concerning the justification for your execution."

"Is this my punishment, then, to be lectured to death?"

The Errant-Minder chuckles.

"It would be no worse fate than whatever fate might have befallen you, had you completed your transaction with Inspector Herc."

Oskar droops.

"Yes, I know all about that," the Errant-Minder continues with a dismissive wave. "It wasn't very difficult to work out. There are only two reasons to steal what you have stolen, and trading with the Lunar Guard is one of them. What was your promised compensation? Admittance to the colony of your choice, perhaps inserted directly into an upper-middle-class rotation? That's typically the offer."