Image Description: A warm, golden-toned illustration in a storybook style. Four silhouetted figures walk along a winding path through a sunlit forest: a woman (Lady Biscotti) walks beside a large, sturdy Labrador–Retriever (Biggie), while a man (Sir Dunkalot) walks alongside a smaller fox red Labrador (Indy). The scene glows with soft amber light. Floating above them in the sky is a custard cream biscuit with a raspberry swirl in the centre. In the background stands a crumbling stone chapel framed by tall trees, giving the setting an enchanted, mysterious feel.
Chapter Three: The Ones Who Live Beneath the Roots
The mushroom-shaped hut stood quietly in the clearing, bathed in the soft golden light of the setting sun. Small windows glowed gently. A vine curled around the wooden door. Everything about it whispered, this shouldn’t be here… and yet it is.
Lady Biscotti’s camera was already in hand. ”Look at this… such structure. Such texture. If these are wild fungi, they’re far more organised than the ones in my field guide.”
Biggie gave a soft chuff and looked up at her, shifting from paw to paw. He wasn’t afraid, just impatient. That familiar let’s go then restlessness was starting to bubble beneath his otherwise calm surface.
Indy, meanwhile, sniffed the air and tilted his head. His tail wagged low and steady.
Sir Dunkalot approached the hut cautiously. ”Do we knock? Or just… wait?”
Before anyone could answer, the door creaked open.
Out stepped three small figures — caps glowing faintly, eyes wide but kind, their round faces a perfect balance of moss and mischief. Each wore a woven sash made from twisted root fibres and fallen leaves. Their movements were gentle but certain.
“Mushroom Men,” Lady Biscotti whispered. “They’re real…”
The tallest of the three stepped forward and gave a slow, respectful nod. ”I am Shiitake,” he said. “And these are Portobello and Chanterelle. We’ve been expecting you.”
Sir Dunkalot blinked. ”You have?”
Shiitake nodded. ”The ground told us. Vibrations. Crumbs. A shift in the jam-flow. The forest listens more closely than most.”
Lady Biscotti lowered her camera. ”Have you seen whoever left the trail?”
Chanterelle stepped forward — the smallest, with a voice like a bubbling stream. ”We saw the rogue. Raspberry. Sour-hearted. Fast-footed. They passed this way three dusks ago.”
“Left a bitter trace in the soil,” Portobello added. “And a warning in the wind.”
Sir Dunkalot took a slow breath. ”We think they’re after the Custard Crumb.”
The Mushroom Men exchanged a glance.
“You’ll need more than fig rolls and instincts,” Shiitake said gently. “You’ll need balance. Courage. And… this.”
He reached into a small bark pouch and handed over a glowing spore-crystal. It pulsed softly, like the heartbeat of the forest itself.
Lady Biscotti took it carefully. ”It’s beautiful.”
“It’s a guide,” Shiitake said. “It’ll light your path when jam runs dark.”
Biggie gave a low woof, and Indy echoed it with a soft grunt.
Sir Dunkalot nodded. ”Then let’s not waste time.”
And with that, the party of four — now armed with knowledge, camera, fig rolls, and fungal wisdom — turned once more to the trail.
The forest behind them shimmered. Ahead? Crumbs. Clues. And the taste of something bitter stirring in the undergrowth.
To be continued…
Blind Man Makes 