I lifted my head from the rough carved shape of the wooden spoon I had been working on. I raised it to better see its overall shape in the light that filtered through the sparse planks of the shed wall and through the plastic covered window holes far above my head. The shape I had been working on wasn't absolutely symmetrical, but the handle twisted around itself nonetheless beautifully. I was content.

Once my concentration was broken, I became suddenly aware of my surroundings and the fact that two voices conversed almost right by my ear. Actually, I more than heard them. Timothy's yellow t-shirt peeked between planks and Plume's watch caught the afternoon sun.

"...or a raven, free in the open skies?"

Then silence fell.

The shirt sleeve disappeared from my view. Something thudded against the shed.

A soft laughter, the like of which I had never heard before.

"Well, now, isn't this a surprise... I don't think anyone counted on–ufh."

"Now, tell me, what did you do?"

"To you? Or to him?"

But there was another type of laughter. Chimes in the wind, so high it couldn't be Timothy's.

Silence. Something dropped into the bushes.

Then someone clearly rounded the shed.

I opened the door just in time to see Timothy disappearing back inside the pub. He had Plume's bag with him. Had his hair been shorter this morning?

I swiftly crossed the yard and got into the pub at Timothy's wake.

Other customers had apparently continued their days, for inside I found only Nettle and my father in the most peculiar positioning I could have imagined. Moth was holding Nettle by a shoulder, with a concerned look on his face. Nettle was holding the empty soda bottle by the neck and seemed intent on leaving. But she also leaned onto the arm that both gripped her tight and supported her upright. Her eyes seemed unable to focus on one spot. Her gaze traveled the room and her jaw hung open. Timothy was nowhere to be seen.

"Please, Nettle, you can't drive in that state. You know it. You'll hit a tree." Moth tightened his grip as Nettle tried to pull free.

"No. I really need to go. Don't you see them! They are everywhere. They are beautiful. But I have to see one! I have to meet an elf!"

Moth straightened her as she almost fell to her face.

"I am sorry, Nettle, but I really don't think that is such a good idea."

Nettle turned to him. "Why didn't you give me any before! I came to you and Daisy at least a million times, begging!" Her eyes had a tearful sheen. "But you never let me have a spoonful! And this is my time! This I will remember! I want to see an elf and remember. It's all I ever wanted."

Moth looked long at the young woman. His brow had furrowed.

"Nettle," he said then. "You have a brilliant life ahead of you. You are talented with the arts and have a good education ongoing. You can live anywhere you want. Unlike me or Daisy, or Rose. You can go anywhere.

"But if you get addicted to mapa, you won't be able to leave. You will stay. And be a slave to the elves like the rest of us."

"I don't care!" she cried. "I just want to see them. Just once! I want to go to the circle with the other ladies, and dance with them. You have no idea how it is in the city. I need proof that there is something else on this Earth than statistics and data."

She looked at Moth pleadingly.

"Please. Let me go."

Moth stood his ground.

"You are not sober, Nettle. I can't let you go. That bottle was not meant for you."

Suddenly the pair noticed me standing in the doorway. I knew I had my eyes the size of two small plates. Moth had tried to feed Timothy dried pasmanger in powder. That was why he had insisted on bringing the soda himself. My father had spiked the drink.

Why had he done that?

As he himself had said, the mushrooms were highly addictive. They caused all sorts of hallucinations and affected the nervous system unpredictably. Every third person around the town was an addict. And Moth was the biggest supplier by far. Why would he have wanted to reveal any of this to Timothy?

Before I could make up my mind on what to ask or do, a sudden third party made himself known:

"What is mapa, exactly? If I may ask?"

As if he had materialized from the shadows, Timothy was suddenly sitting only a few meters away from Nettle, on the same couch he had previously shared with Plume. But looking at him, I suddenly wondered if my beer hadn't also contained something besides a moderate percentage of alcohol.

Timothy had changed since I had last seen him. His brown hair had grown over his shoulders, his eyes had turned gleaming orange, and his lips were violet, as if he were suffering from a terrible cold despite the warm weather. Plume's bag was hung over his shoulder and on the couch beside him rested a pair of curious wooden high heels. He had raised his brows in open questioning and was looking at my father expectantly.

Moth stared at him. His grip of Nettle slackened. But Nettle was staring as well and suddenly made no move to leave.

"You look different," she said.

"Do I?" Timothy countered. "I tried the bathroom mirror and couldn't see a thing. Now, please, what did Nettle drink?"

Moth licked his lips. He had paled. I doubted anyone else noticed though, as his facial expression hadn't truly altered. And my father was a tanned man.

"It's nothing truly harmful. A wild mushroom powder with psychedelic properties..."

Suddenly, Timothy abandoned his position on his seat. He somersaulted over the table with agility I had never suspected and landed on his feet just short of where my father and Nettle stood. He looked down at Nettle who returned his orange gaze apparently truly fascinated.

"What do you see?" Timothy asked her.

Nettle Blinked and swayed. Timothy caught and steadied her.

"There are lights," she said. "Like smoke, gathering and parting, moving shapes... Your eyes are orange."

Timothy smiled at her. The smile was almost vindictive. It had something bestial about it and I suddenly wanted to separate him from the girl.

"So, you see me and spirits. Anything else that's odd?"

Nettle shook her head.

He looked at my father, still supporting most of Nettle's weight with one hand.

"Let's try this again. What does this mapa do to a person, exactly? What were you trying to achieve by spiking my drink?"

After a long silence, Moth ran an agitated hand over his gray hair and said:

"I spike everyone's drink. When they come by for the first time. It's my welcoming gift for outsiders."

This was news to me.

"Not mine though. Never mine." Nettle was staring at the ceiling, seeing something that was invisible to my eyes.

Timothy waited. When neither Nettle, nor Moth seemed willing to continue, he asked:

"So, you spiked my drink. And apparently Nettle wanted whatever was in it." He looked down at the girl he was holding upright. "Why?"

Nettle cast a dreamy gaze to him.

"To remember," she whispered. "To see. And remember. Everything."

She cupped Timothy's face with a hand.

"I will remember you, Timothy. Forever. Even if I get Alzheimer's in the end and can't remember the names of my children, I will remember your eyes, just like this. Orange and gleaming. I'll remember."

She beamed up at him happily like a three year old with a cookie jar.

Timothy reached for the hand she held against his face and gently guided it away. He was still holding her when he told her:

"And even so, you wake up tomorrow wondering if all this was just the work of the fungus. Isn't that so?" He turned to Moth. "That is why it is addictive. People want more and more of these magical mushroom memories they can conveniently either believe or discard as the psychedelic effect of this special fungus."

Dad nodded his head but kept silent.

"I see," Timothy noted, more to himself than us.

He looked at me then. Involuntarily, I found myself taking a step back. A shiver ran through.

"Your father is the dealer. But you don't seem mushroom high. Are you going to remember this, or just have a headache?"

"He is immune," Moth said. "Nemangerpas has absolutely no effect on him. Has never had. I doubt he'll have a headache though. He is tough."

"Interesting." Timothy didn't look interested though. His face was unreadable. And devoid of the usual polite smile. Absolutely blank, as if he had simply forgotten to put on any emotion at all.

"Now, then. My drink was an accident. I get that, accidents happen. All the time. But what did you do with my nephew, exactly?"

Suddenly he wasn't looking at us, but past me.

"Maybe I can shed light on that. Just put the girl down, and I'll show you."

I turned to look behind me. Daisy stood in the doorframe. She waved and winked at me, and adjusted her glasses. The music teacher seemed suddenly absolutely ordinary in her plain summer skirts in the middle of this odd gathering. Like a wooden ladle amongst silverware.