Grave Matter

by Karina Halle

“Lying to ourselves is more deeply ingrained than lying to others” DOSTOYEVSKY

“You likely didn’t notice,” he goes on. “Wouldn’t be the first time a new student has become enraptured by the scenery here. We’ve even had a person fall off the dock because they were so distracted. It was quite the welcome, I’m sure,” he adds with a chuckle.

I try to stay silent when I first meet people, trying to figure out how to wear my mask, what kind of person I need to be for the conversation.

I wonder if when I filled out my application, I had answered a “what’s your favorite fungus?” question and they tried to make the room as personalized as possible. If so, that was awfully nice of them.

Life has a way of conditioning you, and when you’ve gone to the school of hard knocks, you expect those knocks each time.

“We have a saying here,” she says softly. “Don’t try to change the lodge. Let the lodge change you.”

When I was eight years old, I decided my goal in life was to become a mad scientist. Not just any scientist but a mad one.

See, boys are allowed to be mad scientists. But when women do it? We’re simply labeled crazy. And even at eight years old, I knew there was a difference.

And the guy at the end of this table? His name is Munawar, and he said he’s only packed shirts with fungi puns on them.”

“Hello, I’m Munawar Khatun from Bangladesh,” the man says with a wave, leaning forward at the end of the table. “I’m wearing such a shirt today. It says ‘I’m a real fungi.’ Get it?” He points to his shirt. “Also, Munawar has really good hearing,” Lauren whispers, leaning in close.

“He is not a fungi,” Munawar says, using air quotes around “fun-guy.”

Grief is funny like that. It lives alongside you, sometimes in silence, and then a random thought, or memory, or smell will punch through you like a fist, your bleeding heart in its grasp, and you have to relive it all over again. I often think of grief as a cycle from which there is no escape, an ouroboros, a snake of sorrow eating its tail.

And where is home? I think, panic simmering. I have no home anymore.

“Amani,” I say, scouring the area. “She has a pink hijab. She wasn’t in the class, but she was on my plane.”

But if she’s new, what happened to Amani? There’s a dozen of us here. Amani would make thirteen?

Standing beneath the cedar, lit only by the burning ember of a cigarette, is a shadowy figure. I can feel their eyes on me, even though I can’t clearly see who it is. They watch me, unashamed, unabashed. Until they slowly turn and walk away. And only then do I recognize him. Kincaid.

“I want you to tell me to shut the fuck up and take it like a filthy slut.”

“Amani left early this morning on the first plane out. She wasn’t feeling well.” I stare at him, blinking. “Wasn’t feeling well? Is she okay?” “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” he says. “Homesickness, I think. It can present itself in different ways.”

“Shirt of the day,” Munawar says as I approach the horde of students standing outside the lab building. I glance at it. It says Morely Grey with a picture of a morel mushroom.

Is it possible that the famous fungus has been ingested by the wildlife here? We all know by now that Ophiocordyceps unilateralis affects certain ants. What if it’s in the wolves? What if this strain of fungi can create zombie wolves instead of zombie ants.”

Sydney Denik, I know all about Sydney Denik. So much terrible loss. You must wonder why death is so fixated on you.”

Okay, I really need Everly to come back now. “I just chalk it up to bad fucking luck,” I say, an edge to my voice warning him to stop talking.

“Men lie,” she says simply. “Especially men with power. They gaslight you.”

If my missing Miss Piggy shirt reappears like my shoes did, it really means I’ve lost my marbles.

“Fuck,” I swear. “Why the hell wasn’t that in your brochure highlighting the dangers? Warning: in addition to not having internet access, students might stumble into a bear, a rabid wolf, or become unsubscribed to life.”

“You’re a neurosurgeon?” Somehow, he got even sexier.

After I’m done, I wash my hands, admiring the soap. It’s some fancy shit with a black-and-white label, the kind you see on a lifestyle influencer’s feed. I sniff my skin. Smells like being a rich neurosurgeon.

“Are you trying to get my shirt off?” he muses. Don’t say yes. Don’t say yes. “Maybe.” Damnit, Sydney. He smirks. “I’ll take my shirt off if you tell me why you asked about Farida’s hair.” “That’s extortion.” “Take it or leave it.”

“Are you going to take your shirt off now?” He manages a laugh. “While I’m cooking bacon of all things? I like inflicting punishment, not taking it.” I try not to let my mouth drop open. Did he really just say that? Damn.

He’s wearing his shirt of the day. This one says M.I.L.F., with the subtitle underneath Man, I Love Fungi.

“Now what? Now the only people who loved me unconditionally are gone and I have no one else. There’s just me. I only have myself, and I don’t even feel like I know myself anymore. I don’t even like her.”

Girl fucking same

It’s as if he doesn’t know that I love to rebel against authority.

But he is my doctor. I am his patient. He is my teacher. I am his student. He says he’s the one keeping me safe. But every moment I’m with him, I feel I’m one step closer to danger.

There’s a fenced paddock on one side of it where the goats are grazing, and the chicken run on the other. I lean against the fence and decide to watch the goats for a bit. They’re one of my favorite animals, and despite them being all creepy-eyed, I find them super cute and entertaining to watch.

“Because you are my future, Syd,” he says, his voice low and gruff. “Because that’s all there is. The past doesn’t exist anymore. Only now and tomorrow is what does. And I want you—now and tomorrow.”

“You’re right about that, my pet,” he growls. “But I’m the one who gets to judge, not you. Now shut the fuck up and don’t speak until you’re spoken to.” Holy fuck. Yes, doctor.

“Shit,” he swears. “You know exactly what to say. Such a little slut, aren’t you? Just willing to be used like this, used solely for my fucking.”

“Ravens are also psychopomps,” I tell him, remembering my lit classes, and also because I like the word psychopomp. “Connecting the living world with the world of the spirits. A mediator between life and death.”

“I’m staying for you, sweetheart,” he says, grabbing my hand and holding it up to his mouth, pressing his lips against my skin. “I’m burning up for you. You’re my fever, Syd. No cure.”

I think I’m right. I think they picked me because I was broken and alone, and they wanted to see whether I would crumble further or whether I could be saved.

What if Kincaid never emailed the airlines? Don’t even think that, I tell myself, but I can’t help it.

“You’re one of us again. You gave up on trying to change the lodge. See what happens when you let the lodge change you?”

But he pushed you, I think. He shoved you. Laid his hands against you. Did he though? Wes had mentioned that there were cameras on the boat. Could I get ahold of that footage to see? Wouldn’t Everly and Michael have seen that footage? Why did she try to make it seem like it was believable that Wes would have done that?