"Do you believe in ha'ants" I asked my armchair acquaintance in a hushed tone, full of trepidation.
"Truly?" he asked, somewhere 'tween amused and unsettled. Mr. Forrer's brow furrowed slightly as he half turned to face me, apparently to gauge whether or not to laugh heartily or to call for the nice men to whisk me straight away to the asylum. "You are, I suspect, speaking of some type of apparition?" he said finally, breaking the tension that I felt tightening around my chest.
"Yes, that is precisely what I am speaking of." I hissed conspiratorially.
I must take a moment to apologize for the mode in which this is being penned. I realize that this is a dishonest approach, more in the style of the yellow rags and their shrill banners of deceit. A beginning such as this begs for excitement and titillation, to grasp the reader by their lapels and shake them about a bit, creating an air of such dark malevolence that every word has to be crept up upon in order not to let the lurking fear leap out from the page and into one's soul. Lamentably, this has to begin in this unorthodox way to let the story be told for what it is; a disturbing event that I shan't be allowed to forget, until my shroud is drawn o'er my still form. That being said, let us push on.
"What would you say if I were to tell you that I saw a phantasm?" I said, upping the ante, with only my credibility and reputation at stake.
"Do you reckon that it is something you're likely to say?" he said with a smile fluttering faintly, directly behind his lips.
"On the evening of Wednesday, as I was led afield by the map you procured for me." I said flatly, laying the blame at his doorstep, as it were, although I knew in my heart of hearts that the map held no blame in this matter, only my inability to read it properly.
"Wednesday?" he replied somewhat disconcerted by his apparent involvement in the realm of the supernatural.
"Wednesday." I said with more of a funereal tone than this conversation warranted.
On Tuesday afternoon, the bright light from the mid-summer sun pounded the hard-pack dirt between Reid's Inn and the large barn out back. I sat in what had become my favorite willow wood rocker as Mr. Forrer slumped into the cushioned, wickerwork chair aside of me. We exchanged the familiar banalities, then tilted our heads back to catch the dampened breeze taken from the river.
I had grown accustomed to the company of Mr. Forrer over my last few weeks in Dayton, admiring his stature and standing within the community. He was a surveyor of some renown, traversing the countryside with his cartographer's gear and such. I found myself enthralled with the stories he spun concerning his travels across Ohio. He had only just arrived back from the northernmost part of the State where he was embarking on some type of enterprise at the behest of a Mr. Steele. It had something to do with connecting the Great Lake Erie with the Ohio River. Although I was entranced with his tales, there were times when I did not know whether his stories were padded fabrications or the whole truth. Channeling into the Earth to move a lake into a river just seems so absurd.
Everything aside, he seemed such a hearty man, full of verve and drive. He was an exemplary conversationalist, always quick of wit and able to fill the silence with anecdotes that were neither boastful nor boorish. His appetite for the full tables set by Mrs. Reid were hearty yet not gluttonous, and were both relished and complimented by his sophisticated palate. He was as a stalwart man among the hierarchy of the town, meeting with and being sought after for advice by some of the great minds and personalities that comprised this burgeoning city. Even Mr. Reid, the owner of this fine Inn, seemed to defer to Mr. Forrer in some matters of importance.
Mr. Forrer was one of the signatures scrawled on the letter I received some months back while still residing at my university hall. One of my professors had brought my name into a discussion with a group of educators concerning a school in Dayton, an Academy really, which was seeking fresh minds. Shortly thereafter, I received a letter extolling the virtues of this fine Academy. I was asked whether I felt that I could fill a position in an Economics and Business department that the regents had recently developed. My room and board would be provided for, at the Reid's Inn temporarily until lodgings that were more permanent became available. I had slender few other offers for employment, most being located in some unfathomable backwater countryside. I had heard some very promising things about Dayton, with its ever widening role in trade and industry, and that had my curiosity piqued. I sent an affirmation with the day's following post stating that I would arrive on the next available carriage.
I arrived at Reid's Inn with a satchel, a large travelling bag and bruised kidneys. I noticed that there was a peculiar sign hanging from a post in front of the Inn with a large portrait of Captain Lawrence and a scroll proclaiming "Don't Give Up The Ship!" in gold leaf. Almost as an afterthought, a small sign hung under it stating mutely, "Reid's Inn". Mrs. Reid met me almost immediately upon my entering the two-story structure. She offered me a small repast of leftovers from the kitchen and ushered me to my room. I fell into a deep sleep, not awaking until the following day.
Mr. Reid himself met me at the foot of the stairs. I should say Colonel Reid, as he was a decorated veteran of the War of 1812, still possessing a commanding demeanor. I found him to be quite temperate and thoughtful in his perspectives and philosophies as we sat discussing the academy and the direction they were trying to steer the young minds in Dayton towards. They had adopted a radically new teaching form and the faculty felt that a strong business acumen and a head for economics fit into their vision of a the Academy becoming one of the premier teaching facilities for young men. I nodded in earnest, agreeing with every single point he brought to the fore. It was totally in line with my own studies, being the exact concept that I held while becoming an educator. I felt at home almost immediately.
The weeks passed languorously for me due to the new appointment of a head principal to the Academy. Mr. Smith had passed the torch onto a Mr. Gideon McMillan, a graduate of the University of Glasgow. This made the priorities at the academy somewhat in turmoil, so I was left to my own devices, squandering the hours away sketching the ferry at the road to Salem in my drawing pad. Had I been here only a scant few months prior, I would have been able to se an actual elephant displayed in Reid's barnyard, but such was not my lot. Mr. Forrer, in one of our earliest conversations, told of the townsfolk paying twenty-five cents admittance to view an African lion, secured in a stout metal cage, only one year ago.
The Reid's common room was a welter of activity, and seemed to be an impromptu meeting place for the peoples of the city to converge. The barnyard, most evenings, would transform into a genial gathering of friends, guests and locals, congregating and conversing. People could be seen conferring with one group, then slowly that group would melt away and another group would form and meld. Most evenings, some form of music would ensue, from the strident call of the fiddle to the melancholy strum of the dulcimer.
It was on one such night that I had the most interesting dialogue with a young fellow hauling cargo down river. He told me tales of the river and Indians and of the mighty Miss. I reveled in his description, living vicariously through him, as I know my own heart would grow faint in the face of such adventure. I told him what my role in the town was to be, and I could see his inability to find common ground with my vocation plainly printed on his face. Suddenly, his expression brightened and he told of a local man who owned several hundred acres to the Northeast. He said this man had a fine head for trade, having a hand in many of the businesses found right here in town. I asked what his name might be and he told me it was a one Jonathan Harshman. I had heard the name bandied about a bit in the parlor now and again, and I filed it away to ask Mr. Forrer about him later. Perhaps a meeting could be arranged between us sometime before the start of classes.
Samuel Forrer laughed when I brought the name up to him the following day. I thought this boded badly for me, but he assured me his laughter was at the serendipitous nature of fate, as he was to meet with Mr. Harshman later that very day. He assured me that he would bring Jonathan around after they had conducted their business. Mr. Forrer told that Jonathan was a fine, affable man with a impressive sense of commerce, and that we should get on quite well. I still felt a sense of being a small fish in a very large pond; the feeling following me and growing as the afternoon waned.
Samuel strode through the door just as the afternoon gave way to early evening, alone. He sat down and related the events of the day. They met up earlier in the day, but Jonathan had to take his leave unexpectedly after one of his farmhands came riding in on horseback with news of a mild crisis at his homestead. Samuel told me that he was able to convey my request for a meeting to exchange thoughts on commerce and the like. Mr. Harshman extended a standing invitation that he and I should convene at his farm on any given day that was convenient.
I was elated to finally have a purpose to perform, since my work at the academy was waylaid and I could find only so many ways to draw horses upon a raft. I asked Samuel if it would seem perfunctory of me to make the journey the next day. I used the excuse that I was not sure when I would be called upon to present my lesson plans to the regents and would not want to jeopardize my tenure with my new employers. Mr. Forrer said that he thought it was a fine idea and he would procure a small map of the area for me that very evening.
The morning dawned brightly and I felt that a wonderful adventure lay before me. I ate breakfast quickly and Mrs. Reid provided me with a little parcel of food to sustain me until I reach my destination. Samuel had arranged for a young boy to pilot a skiff to carry me to the point of the river's convergence. I struck out boldly, feeling like the pioneers themselves must have. Off course, they didn't have the luxury of asking directions from passing footmen or farmers in their fields, but that did not dampen my portrayal of a dynamic explorer one whit.
It was becoming dusky when I finally admitted to myself that I was hopelessly lost. The rutted carriage track that I thought was the ordained path ended abruptly, dumping me unceremoniously in a field. I walked onward, convinced that I must be heading in the right direction at least. By the time I had given up on that hope as well, darkness covered me completely. By chance, I came upon a dilapidated outbuilding which gave me assurance that, even if I wasn't anywhere near Jonathan Harshman's house, I was at least on his property. I settled down on a flat wooden cart inside, ate the sweet black bread and cheese Mrs. Reid had provided and fell into a fitful sleep.
I fully awoke some unknown time later with the urge that nature provides. I stumbled without grace into the night, heading towards a small copse of trees to relieve myself. I sleepily gazed across the fields in wonderment. An almost full moon shone down from overhead and the stars twinkled in icy purity. Everything had taken on that singular quality of absolute lucidity with every blade of grass and dewdrop standing out in muted clarity. Every sound was seemingly without origin, boisterous and muted all at once. As I completed my purpose, buttoning my trousers, I froze in terror.
Off to my left, perhaps twenty paces or so, an unearthly glow emanated. It was a greenish-white luminescence, radiating from what appeared to be pods of some sort. They were scattered densely within a hundred-foot area, numbering around thirty or more. They were shaped as orbs, smooth and of the size of a bald man's head. I was unable to move for an interminable amount of time. I had never encountered anything of such a powerful, supernatural origin and was terrified to my very core. I finally unhinged my knees and coerced my feet to follow my screaming spirit back into the shed where I would at least have the illusion of safety.
I stayed up the whole night watching them. There were times that I thought, perchance, that they had moved, but I did not know whether they actually did or if it was a hallucination provided by my overtaxed mind. I left hurriedly as the first crescent of gray light penetrated the horizon. I was jubilant when I fount the rutted ox-cart lane leading back to civilization and sanity. I wended my way back to town and once there, I kept my mouth shut...until now.
"So these "ha'ants", as you refer to them, were by a stand of trees by a broken down wagon house?" Mr. Forrer asked, with an air of curiosity that made me that he gave credence to my tale.
"Yes. Do you know the area?" I inquired.
"Oh, surely! In fact, I am going to be in that vicinity come morning to review a disputed property line farther north." He said with a little more enthusiasm than I would have liked.
"You will take care, what with all I have told you concerning that area?" I asked, fearful for the possible demise of my newfound friend.
"Trust me lad, I know every inch of that area. 'Twas me who surveyed the property for Jonathan some years back!" he chuckled.
I awaited Samuel Forrer's imminent return that evening and my heart lifted as I saw him ride into view from Water Street. He was in a fine humor that evening, spinning stories, past and recent, with the dinner party. I leaned in during a lull in conversation and inquired as to whether he had found the area I had spoken to him about. He hushed me assuredly, with a smile and a gesture of his hand. Mrs. Reid and a servant girl whisked the entree plates away and replaced them with another plate. I looked down credulously as I could not identify what lay atop the china. It was white with brown grill marks and sprinkled with what smelled like cinnamon and sugar.
"Try it, my friend!" Samuel said goading me. "It is a delicacy that you shan't have often. They are only edible for a short time a year. Another week and they would have been pithy with spores and quite inedible."
"What is it called?" I asked as I tried a small amount. Underneath the cinnamon and sugar, the taste buttery with an earthy taste that recalled marshmallow, of all things.
"It is called 'Calvatia gigantea' or more commonly known as a puffball mushroom. They are quite delicious and could be prepared in any number of ways. They grow just about anywhere across the countryside, but they especially like the dampness provided by bogs or, say, a copse of trees. They are even known to have a luminescent fungus grow all round them which makes it take on an eerie glow in the night." He said this last with a sidelong glance at me.
"A mushroom." I stated in tired resignation. How could something so terrifying in the twilight wilderness turn out to be so mundane?
"A mushroom." He replied with a paternal smile.