The Perambulating Philosophers
Being a Tale of Mycological Metaphysics
It began, as many Garden surprises do, on a perfectly ordinary Friday morning. Miss Hazel was organizing the library's theoretical physics section (which had developed some rather strong opinions about quantum uncertainty), when she heard Mr. Thistledown's voice raised in scholarly alarm:
"Most irregular! Most extraordinary! Most... mobile?"
She found him in the Garden square, frantically taking notes while a group of mushrooms — the philosophical ones that usually grew behind the herb patch -- wandered past in what appeared to be a lively discussion about the metaphysical implications of root systems.
"But consider," said a tall mushroom with a cap that looked remarkably like a thinking cap, "are we truly moving, or is the Garden moving around us while we maintain our relative position in the universal matrix?"
"That seems unnecessarily complicated," replied a shorter mushroom wearing what appeared to be a monocle made from morning dew. "Though I suppose it depends on one's definition of 'moving.' And 'Garden.' And 'we.' Actually, are we quite certain we exist at all?"
"Oh dear," Miss Hazel murmured. "The philosophical mushrooms have become ambulatory."
"And argumentative," Mr. Thistledown added, his pencil flying across the page. "Though I must say, their views on mycelial networking as a metaphor for interconnected consciousness are quite fascinating..."
The mushrooms had already begun to spread throughout the Garden, sharing their particular brand of wisdom with anyone they encountered. They were found in the cricket pavilion, engaging the orchestra in detailed discussions about the harmonic resonance of reality.
"But what is music, really?" a particularly tall mushroom asked the cricket conductor. "Is it not simply the universe's way of dancing with itself? And in that case, isn't silence simply music that hasn't yet decided to exist?"
The Cricket Orchestra spent the rest of the day trying to compose a piece that captured the sound of potential sound, with rather irregular results.
In Mrs. Nutkin's herb garden, a cluster of smaller mushrooms had set up what they called a "philosophical tea salon," though their idea of tea involved some rather unconventional brewing methods.
"You see," explained a mushroom with a scholarly stoop, "if one steeps the tea leaves in pure possibility rather than mere water, one might taste not just what the tea is, but what it might have been in all potential realities."
Mrs. Nutkin was initially skeptical, but after trying their peculiar brewing technique, she had to admit that her chamomile tea did seem to contain hints of starlight and summer dreams. Though she drew the line at their suggestion to steep the tea in "the concept of wetness rather than actual water."
The library proved particularly attractive to the wandering philosophers. Nigel the bookworm found himself engaged in a lengthy debate about the nature of literary digestion with a mushroom wearing tiny spectacles made from spider silk.
"But when you consume a book," the mushroom pondered, "do you digest merely the physical page, or do you absorb the very essence of the story itself? And in that case, are you not becoming part of every narrative you consume?"
Nigel had to lie down with a simple cookbook after that conversation, complaining that philosophical discussions gave him metaphysical indigestion.
Young Timothy, working on his night-silk poetry in the deeper shadows, found himself surrounded by a group of mushrooms deeply interested in the relationship between darkness and creativity.
"Perhaps," suggested one with a cap shaped like a sonnet, "the shadows aren't absence of light but rather light's way of thinking about itself. Have you considered incorporating more existential uncertainty into your verses?"
Even the Wall Guard wasn't immune. Captain Prickleweed discovered a pair of mushrooms conducting what they called "a thorough investigation of the theoretical boundaries between Garden and Wild."
"But what makes a wall a wall?" one asked while the other nodded sagely. "Is it not simply space deciding to become slightly more solid? And in that case, are we not all walls in some fundamental sense?"
"Most irregular patrol patterns," Captain Prickleweed noted in his report. "Though their observations about permeable realities did prove unexpectedly useful during afternoon tea with Miss Hazel."
Mr. Thistledown attempted to document the mushrooms' movements, but found it challenging as they kept questioning whether documentation itself was merely an attempt to trap time in words. He finally settled for what he called "probability mapping of philosophical perambulation," though the mushrooms suggested he title it "Spatial-Temporal Recording of Thought-Forms in Motion."
The situation came to a head when the mushrooms decided to organize what they called a "Grand Symposium on the Nature of Everything (And Possibly Nothing)" in the Garden square. Mice found themselves drawn into discussions about whether cheese could dream, if stories wrote themselves and merely used authors as instruments of manifestation, and whether tea was simply the universe's way of trying to understand itself.
It was Grandmother Elderberry who finally brought some order to the philosophical chaos. She invited the mushrooms to tea (properly brewed in actual water, though she did add a splash of captured starlight as a compromise) and engaged them in a long discussion about the relationship between roots and reality.
"You see," she explained, pouring another cup with her usual grace, "movement is all well and good, but some thoughts need still places to grow properly. Like herbs in a garden or books in a library, wisdom often needs roots to reach its full potential."
The mushrooms considered this while sipping their starlight-steeped tea. "There is profound truth in rootedness," agreed the one with the thinking-cap cap. "Though perhaps we might still take the occasional philosophical stroll? For perspective, you understand."
And so a compromise was reached. The mushrooms returned to their patch behind the herbs, but they now hold regular "walking philosophicals" where they wander the Garden paths in orderly groups, sharing their wisdom with any who wish to listen. Tuesdays are reserved for metaphysics, Wednesdays for epistemology, and alternate Thursdays for contemplating the true nature of time (though those discussions tend to get rather theoretical).
They've even started a small philosophical journal, written on leaves and edited by Nigel (who finds philosophical prose quite nutritious, though he recommends consuming it in small doses). Mr. Thistledown keeps a complete set in the library's reference section, carefully cataloged under "Most Irregular Publications: Metaphysical Mycology Division."
For as every mouse knows (and philosophical mushrooms know best of all), sometimes wisdom needs legs to find its way to those who need it most. Though as the mushrooms would be quick to point out, the very concept of "knowing" assumes a level of certainty that might be philosophically problematic...
Mr. Thistledown's Scholarly Addendum: Most irregular ambulation! Most extraordinary cogitation! Though perhaps some thoughts are best left to wander while others keep their roots... Further research required, pending philosophical approval of the very concept of research.
Mushrooms' Metaphysical Marginalia: But what, really, is an addendum? Is it not simply a thought that arrived fashionably late to the textual party? Further contemplation suggested, though the very nature of "further" might need examination...