Scrungle Bungus and the Magic Fungus

M.K.R.Lambert

Scrungle Bungus & The Magic Fungus

Copyright © 2024 by M.K.R.Lambert

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

M.K.R.Lambert asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

First edition

Cover art by Kelsey Lambert

Advisor: Reece Lambert

Editing by Susan Young

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com

To Susi, Sis, Kelsey & Reece

Thank You.

‘I saw a cloud shaped like a cloud."

Peetles

Contents

Foreword

Preface

Acknowledgments

Introduction

1. Scrungle Bungus

2. Knights of Colour

3. Up a Tree

4. Klepto and Steve’O

5. Mountain Pass

6. At the By-Pass

7. The Horse Shoe and Bucket

8. Homicidal Cockerel

9. At the SCS

10. Hob-Goblins are Bell Ends

11. A Unicorn

12. Never Bet

13. Sugartits Lane

14. It’s Yellow

15. Castle Tours

16. Windmills

17. Picnic in the Garden

18. Travelling with Malcolm the Falcon

19. Fork in the Road

20. Oh Bugger

21. The Mansion

22. Lets Howl at the Moon

23. Wanted Criminals

24. Monocycle or Unicycle?

25. Mushroom City

26. The Slippery Bastard

27. Bollocks

28. Not Again

29. What’s the Plan

30. Lots of Steps

31. Well Then

About the Author

Foreword

This is a book with lots of words in it. Hope you enjoy it.

Preface

BE WARNED:

THIS IS NOT A CHILDREN’S BOOK.

The book starts as a fairy tale and stays that way, to be honest. It does, however, deal with adult themes, is satirical at times, takes the piss out of the establishment, and blatant stupidity of the human race.

There are bits of swearing throughout.

Also, most of the words are from the English spelling, i.e., colour, labour, etc.

Hobgoblin Translations

Ya

[Youː]

pronoun

From the English (you) used to refer to the person or people that the speaker is addressing: What ya deein like?

deein

[ˈdoing]

noun

From the English (doing) the activities in which a particular person engages: What ya deein like?

Gan

[go]

verb

From the English (Go) move from one place to another; travel: Gan on get lost.

Reet

[right]

adjective

From the English (right) forming adverbs and adjectives of time and place; travel: Reet where’s ya papers, like.

Used for emphasis with adverbs and prepositions:

Acknowledgments

Thanks to the constant UK roadwork that inspired a large section of this book, all the people who voted for Brexit, and Donald Trump, they are all a continuous source of inspiration.

There are a lot of vacuous individuals out there, and for the most part, in positions of power. I am constantly amazed by the human race and our ability to champion the ridiculous, inane, and pointless.

I would also like to thank the individual who dealt with my claim at Universal Credit; you will be thought of forever, by me as a complete and utter BASTARD.

Introduction

THIS IS NOT A CHILDREN’S BOOK.

A bit is of swearing throughout.

One

Scrungle Bungus

Our story, like most good stories, starts up a tree. Not an everyday tree, but the only one of its kind, the Chananananananana tree. This was its official name, but it sounded like you were freezing to death while falling down a well, so everyone shortened it to the Chana Tree.

Here, in its highest branches, an unusual creature called Scrungle Bungus had made a home. From the outside, it looked like the nest of an exceptionally large bird with an appreciation for medieval cantilevered turret design. Inside, there was a kitchen, a living room, a library, a small observatory, and a bedroom with an en-suite.

The scent of the Chana tree was of shoe polish and Thursday afternoons, which Scrungle liked very much. In the summer, the leaves of the Chana tree, a deep and beautiful purple, grew in a variety of different sizes. It didn’t shed its leaves in winter; they just grew larger like enormous cabbage leaves, creating a blanket that kept all that lived in the tree cosily cocooned until spring.

The bark had the texture of smooth leather, cream in colour, which became a deeper beige as it neared the base. On the longest day of every fourth year, the tree would bear one fruit in the shape of an anvil, which was confusing for blacksmiths or scrap metal merchants.

Scrungle was a solitary creature and for the most part, content with how things were. He did feel lonely at times, but then he would find ways to amuse himself. Like putting things on hooks that were just out of reach. This was tricky as he was seven feet tall and his ceilings weren’t that high.

A large portion of his time was spent reading. With no particular preference in genre, he would spend hours sitting in the high-backed wing chair, lost in an adventure, crime thriller, or mystery. It was Scrungle’s way of learning about the larger world around him without actually having to go there. On occasion, he would sport a red crushed velvet smoking jacket while he sat and read. He didn’t wear it often, as he didn’t smoke.

When the weather was fine, he would walk around the little area where he lived, collecting mushrooms or finding sticks to throw out of the Chana tree when it became windy, as it felt like he was recycling and doing his bit for the environment.

He didn’t have friends on the ground or neighbours; the one exception to this was the farmer, who owned the only farm for miles around. It was well away from Scrungle and the Chana tree, on the other side of the hill. In all the years Scrungle had lived in the Chana tree, the two had never spoken, just nodded at each other from a respectful distance. Then the farmer would shuffle slowly away, chewing on a hoof that used to be attached to a caribou. Scrungle was happy about this, as the farmer was usually high on cannabinoids and naked, except for a pair of hand-stitched moccasins, tied together with a piece of string, one green and the other yellow.

It was only in the evening that Scrungle would sometimes think he could do with a friend. Using his little telescope, Scrungle would gaze at the stars, making charts of the planets’ positions. The enormity of the vast cosmos would make him feel profoundly small and insignificant. A simple longing to connect with another creature would come over him, to share in observing the sheer beauty and magnitude of the constellations—someone to talk to and, in doing so, feel less alone.

One day, just before the arrival of the first day of summer, Scrungle found himself feeling rather hungry. After building up an appetite spending the morning sorting through shoes that he had found while fishing in a pond for house bricks, it prompted him to opt for his usual meal of fungus. Scrungle had an extraordinary affinity for all types of fungi, and, unbeknownst to him, he was magically immune to the effects of fungus poisoning.

This was, in retrospect, fortunate, as it was the only thing his body would absorb.

There was one particularly special kind of fungus that was not for eating, as Scrungle used it to get in and out of the Chana tree. This magic fungus he kept in a special lidded clay jar, an amphora, in the kitchen. To use the magic mushrooms, he would just walk out to the branch that served as his front door, then simply snap one in two and throw it up over himself; it would explode into what Scrungle thought of as confetti fireworks, falling on his head and shoulders. As always, a light and floaty feeling would engulf him. Stepping off, he would gently glide to the ground below. To get back in, he would snap another magic mushroom in half (obviously having remembered to put one in his pocket before he decided to go out), flex at the knees, and with a bounce, Scrungle would float up.

He didn’t wear clothes as such, only a top hat, and then only when he felt the need to impress. His body just made pockets when he needed them. The pockets had unknown depths that could accommodate a large number of things without getting full.

The exception to this rule was the magic fungus. Over the years and through experimentation, he found that he couldn’t put more than one of the special magic mushrooms in his pocket at any given time. Scrungle had tried to add a second, but the following glittering explosion had left him floating in the air for a good twenty minutes. This was confusing, as the long clay amphora in which he had found the fungi had been stuffed to the brim. However, it did have writing carved into the lid, which Scrungle surmised must be some form of spell or a use-by date. Either way, the stone jar did something to stop the fungus from self-detonating and creating an early new year.

Scrungle now stood on the creamy-coloured branch that served as his front door (or back door, depending on which way you decided to orientate yourself) and took a precautionary look around before going down to ground level, as you never knew who or what might be lurking. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, so back inside his home, he removed the lid of the large amphora and peered into its depths. To his utter dismay, there was only a single mushroom left.

Oh dear. He said out loud.

Well, not really out loud, as he was telepathic and didn’t have a mouth. It was an unusual kind of telepathy, as he couldn’t literally read thoughts but could hear, see, feel, and interpret the meaning of the sounds, twitches, and movements that humans and creatures made. And, when Scrungle communicated back, it was into the mind of the creature he was conversing with in such a way that they could understand his meaning. Scrungle was oblivious to his power and how he could comprehend any form of communication. Being such a solitary creature, he assumed that everyone conversed this way. Standing now, looking into the nearly empty jar and thinking, Scrungle couldn’t remember if he had ever refilled it.

The jar had been found many years ago when Scrungle and his parents had all lived together in a huge wicker basket on the open grasslands near Splandoolie. They had taken a day trip to see an outcrop of rock on a nearby hillside that looked like the face of a depressed horse. The young Scrungle had been running in a field, pretending he was in the last throes of radiation poisoning when he had tripped. One of his stilt-like legs had caught the lid of a hastily buried clay jar. Some of the contents spilled out, breaking in two. Almost at once, the glittering, exploding fungus made him float up, then bob gently at head height. His parents had to tie a piece of string around his ankle, holding onto him like a balloon. Having no idea how long the floating would last, they started a sincere and earnest conversation, speculating that Scrungle would have to get a job as a wind chime or a weather sock when he grew up. Scrungle, on the other hand, was joyous and believed this was the best fungus he had ever found, pleading with his parents that he should keep it. This was after he had stopped all his floaty business and was firmly on the ground again. Eventually, they said yes, as long as he washed his hands.

What to do? He said out loud, in his head.

The idea of a ladder or rope jumped into his head, which he dismissed, as he was a terrible climber. Long legs that tapered down to a stubby point; no feet; long, thin arms with a hand that only had three fingers (and one of those doubled as a thumb).

Scrungle was also completely white, with a large, slightly flattened onion-shaped head, two round black eyes, and a drooping, rotund body that wobbled when he walked. On top of all this, there was his long, white nose, the kind you may find on a baby elephant without the nostril part. It kind of hung like a white sausage pendulum, which tended to get in the way while he played the violin. Not that he played the violin. He just thought it would so he didn’t.

There was only one thing he could do, and that was to search for more of the magic fungus. Scrungle spent the rest of the morning filling his pockets with an odd assortment of things he thought he might need for an unspecified period of walking.

Once he felt he had finally packed into his pockets what he needed to pack, especially the now empty clay amphora jar and lid, Scrungle stood, taking one last look around his lovely, comfortable home, his telescope, his collection of peculiar-shaped chunks of coal, the rude vegetable compendium, the closet where he kept his smoking jacket, his books, and his reading chair.

Walking back to the branch and taking a deep breath, heart racing a little, he snapped the last of the magic fungus in two and threw it over his head. It exploded into fungus confetti, and a familiar floating feeling washed over him. Then he took a step off the tree branch as the last of the special fungus did its usual magic.

He descended at an even speed towards the ground. As his spindle-like legs touched down, a terrible thought washed over him. Standing and looking up, he felt a sense of dread. Maybe this was the last time he would ever be able to get back into his home, forever left to look at it longingly from afar. Had he just made a terrible mistake?

* * *

The day was warm, but not overly hot. Far away to Scrungle’s left was a mountain range, hazy in the distance, its dark brown base blending into purple and dark blues, capped at the top with peaks of white, partly obscured by low clouds. To his right was a field of sweetcorn. The rustling sound of the leaves was carried over to Scrungle on a light breeze. The breeze got tired of carrying the rustling sound over and started carrying birdsong instead. Then it stopped its carrying entirely to lie down in the middle of the dirt track and have a nap.

Ambling along, feeling the grass on the stubby ends of his legs, he could see that straight ahead lay the King’s Road. Scrungle had only been on the road once in his life when he was searching for his father. It was then that he saw the Chana tree for the first time, deciding it would be a lovely place to build a home and promptly giving up the search for his missing parent. Well, the home had already been built—turrets and all. Only after investigating a little closer did Scrungle realise it was abandoned, so he just sort of took it over.

As he drew nearer to the King’s Road, he remembered that it was paved with solid flagstones and that some stones were made of flags. The stones made of flags weren’t the best to walk on, as they had a damp and squishy feel from last night’s rain.

With absolutely no idea which way to go, where to look, or how to get there. Scrungle turned and stood looking back at the Chana tree, admiring how beautiful it was, nestled in the little valley of the hills. Eventually, he turned away and stepped onto the King’s Road. Setting off along it in a state of mild apprehension, he knew with unfettered certainty that the hunt for magic fungus had begun and that at some point he would need to fill in his life insurance documents.

Scrungle walked at a leisurely pace, stopping now and then to investigate fungus at the side of the road or an outcrop of fungi growing from a tree stump. He ate most of what he found, delighting in the different tastes he discovered. Some tasted like candy floss, some like toffee apples, and others like shepherd’s pie. Then others might taste like broccoli, plastic, and sometimes industrial cleaner. There was no way to tell how it would taste just by looking. The most plain-looking toadstool could have an amazing flavor, while the most decorative fungi could taste like a wet paper towel or a speech from a politician.

The corn fields bordering the King’s Road had soon given way to rows and rows of tall and elegant sunflowers, turning their heads to follow the sun. The field of bright yellow flowers kept Scrungle company until they abruptly ended, and the forest began with big, strong oaks, beeches, and sycamores to fill the gaps, and now and then, a larch for variety. The road had narrowed a little, and tufts of grass had sprung up in between some of the uneven flagstones. The tree leaves that shaded the road obscured the midday sun. A little trickle of a stream ran along the side of him as he walked.

He saw a particularly lovely-looking crop of fungi. The heads of the mushrooms were a deep red, with little pink spots shaped like hearts. They were a decent size, but not so big as to look bloated. Scrungle stooped down and picked one up. His nose snuffled around it to get a scent of how it might taste before he absorbed it into his skin by mushing it all over himself as if he were rubbing pastry in.

Oi, said a voice.

Hello,

Scrungle threw out the reply telepathically and slowly turned his head to find the source of the ‘Oi’. A fairy, no bigger than three inches, sparkling in yellows and greens, its little wings buzzing, floated into Scrungle’s field of vision. The little face was red with annoyance.

You’ve just ate my home, you big stupid twat.

The fairy waggled a tiny finger at Scrungle.

Oh, I am sorry! Although I think it should have been ‘eaten’ rather than ‘ate’,

Scrungle replied, brushing what was left of the little fairy’s home out of his spindly hands. They stood staring at each other. The fairy flew closer to Scrungle, who went a bit cross-eyed trying to keep her in focus.

What are you, the grammar police? What’re you gonna do then?

Her voice had a high-pitched sharpness to it that hurt the ears.

Digest, I would imagine,

Scrungle said after taking a moment to think about what the fairy had said. The little fairy, getting herself rather vexed, deliberately flew in and out of focus.

If I had known, I wouldn’t have eaten your home.

Said Scrungle, pleased with himself that he had accidentally made a rhyme.

I had all my things in there.

There was an indignant tone to the fairies’ voice. The happiness that Scrungle experienced with his rhyming prowess was short-lived after the fairy accusation of home wrecker. Scrungle did feel a little bad that he had eaten someone’s dwelling, but the more they stood looking at each other, the more Scrungle thought that it didn’t seem big enough to accommodate the fairy.

Did it have a living room?

He inquired, trying to get his head around how the fairy could have lived in such a small space.

Yes, of course!

Where was the living room?

What are you, an interior designer?

Said the fairy getting annoyed.

I’m just trying to get a feel for the space.

The fairy hesitated for just a moment.

It was in the stem.

It looked a bit small to have a living room there; the stem was as thick as your body. Did you just stand all the time?

Scrungle’s tone was inquiring, but the question could easily be misinterpreted. He hadn’t had many dealings with the wider world, so his social skills were a bit rusty.

I’m flexible; I do pilates, countered the fairy. She had flown back a little and wasn’t making eye contact anymore.

Did it have a lot of rooms?

Scrungle asked, trying to imagine the living conditions.

I’m not going to describe my home to you. I’m minding my own business, and the next thing I know, a big, lumbering simpleton comes along and eats it!

The fairy’s face flushed red as she flew closer. Her fists were up and ready for a fight.

Well, my father always said, Do unto others as you would have done unto yourself. I will help you find a new home.

Not expecting the reply to be as accommodating some of the fight melted away.

Err, no, umm, I’m not happy with that. I want to be recompensed.

Recompensed?

Scrungle questioned, not sure what the little fairy meant. The fairy then crossed her arms while hanging perfectly still in mid-air, which Scrungle found rather impressive.

Gold

I don’t have any. Said Scrungle.

Rubies, emeralds, sapphires, or diamonds, then? Rattled off the fairy.

I haven’t any of them either.

Precious metals: silver, platinum, ruthenium, osmium, rhodium, palladium, bitcoin?

The fairy was becoming more and more desperate. Scrungle shook his head, then visualised his pockets. As they materialised, he started to rummage around in them for something that might help the situation.

I have a hat stand.

He then started pulling out, hand over hand, a long, ornate wooden hat stand made out of cedar.

My father made it from a single tree branch that fell and hit my mother on the head after a really bad storm. When she regained consciousness, she had no memory of who we were, who she was, or why we were all standing on a fridge. The next day she ran away, leaving a note saying she was going to seek her fortune as a french polisher.

Scrungle stopped for a moment and patted the hat stand as one would a jar full of methamphetamine.

As a reminder of their love, my father whittled the tree branch into the hat stand using a salad fork and a spoon. He left not long after its completion to search for her. I now carry it with me to remember them both. When I have it, I don’t feel so alone. You can have it to help pay for a new home or as a house-warming gift.

Scrungle ended the story, and then the fairy sighed and buzzed over to the hat stand to sit on it. She mumbled something that Scrungle couldn’t understand. He moved over so he could hear her better. Then remembered he was telepathic, but moved closer, all the same as mumbling is mumbling.

It wasn’t my home. The fairy said it in a quiet voice.

Oh. Said Scrungle.

I was just sitting on it. I heard you coming and hid. I just thought I could make some cash out of the situation.

The fairy was still not looking at Scrungle, who then tilted his head.

Why do you need the gold?

Bloody taxes! A stupid little man on a donkey came around, taxing everyone on behalf of bloody King Fromp. They’re building some stupid new bypass that no one needs. I’ve had to downsize.

Scrungle heard this and thought of the day, which seemed a long time ago to him now, when an emissary to the King of Plomb had turned up sitting astride a small donkey.

The rotund representative of the king had started shouting up at Scrungle about paying taxes and his civic duty as a homeowner. Scrungles’ engagement in the conversation came across as rather odd, as being telepathic. Scrungle was in a three-way conversation with the little man, and the donkey who he found out was named Kevin. He did try to include the little man, but he just kept shouting about taxes and who the hell was Kevin.

Scrungle found this terribly rude, so eventually he tuned out the little man and talked directly to the donkey. Scrungle had chatted away with Kevin about shoes, how tricky it is to get a good haircut, and what it would sound like to freeze to death while falling down a well. This one-sided conversation increasingly disturbed the little man, who started shouting even louder. It had a marked effect on the man’s complexion as he proceeded to turn a nice shade of blue the more agitated he became. Eventually screaming himself into a very attractive shade of azure, giving up the demand for taxes and leaving on Kevin.

Did you know that the donkey’s name is Kevin? He’s working on his portfolio of watercolours so he can put on an exhibition. I didn’t like the man he was carrying either; he turned blue with shouting so much. All a bit odd, thinking about it.

The fairy looked up with surprise. Then surprise thought better of itself, realised it wasn’t where it should be, and settled on the face of the fairy.

You’ve met him, then? The fat blue bloke on the donkey? She asked.

Yes, obsessed with taxes, just seemed to go on and on about them. Then he got angry and went away.

The fairy paused, then sighed again.

I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m just finding it hard to make ends meet at the moment. Thank you for the offer of the hat stand; it was really kind of you.

Then she smiled a sad little smile. Scrungle extended his thin hand for the little fairy to shake.

"Well, my name is Scrungle Bungus. You are?’’

Chicken Beak, said the fairy, brightening up a little. Most people call me Chick, or Ken.

Nice to meet you, Ken.

Then the fairy flew into Scrungle’s outstretched hand and did a little dance to a salsa come boss nova rhythm that came out of nowhere. As she did this, Scrungle used his free hand to put the hat stand back in his pocket. He had to shake it a little to get it in.

I’ve not seen you around here before, said Ken as the music did a nice even fade.

No, I don’t go out much, you see. I’m off to find some magic fungus that can help me get back into my house. Scrungle offered in the way of explanation.

I understand. Rent arrears. Find them, sell them, and pay the landlord off.

Well, not exactly. When I throw a piece of the mushroom up into the air, it breaks into tiny pieces, covering me like confetti and making me float. My house is high up in a tree, you see. Scrungle, mildly amused, that the end of the sentence rhymed.

You own your own home? Well done, you. Why don’t you put stairs in, though, or a ladder? Ken said, trying to be helpful.

Good point, Scrungle replied stroking his long white nose, it did occur to Scrungle that he had thought about installing a staircase, but being high up in a tree meant that no one bothered him. Most creatures just ignored his home, and he liked it that way. Admittedly, he did feel a little lonely at times; sometimes the winters felt too long, and having a good friend would certainly help pass the time. Maybe someone to talk to about mushrooms or play a game of ‘Guess where I stuck my finger last.’ Having stairs would mean that if he did make some friends, they could come and go whenever they pleased. On the other side of this reasoning was that he was never bothered by uninvited guests, and he didn’t want any friends. Putting something in that could be used by strangers without permission or, fungus forbid, a tax inspector. That would never do.

I think I’ll stick with the fungus.

After a little deliberation, it occurred to him.

You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find some fungus like that, do you?

I never heard of anything like that, Said Ken, then continued.

But in Plombree there is the Sorcerers Collective Society, or SCS for short. I did hear they had merged with Amazing Shine. Might be able to help there. It was a place to learn magic, but now it’s just a place to buy a lot of stuff you don’t need with guaranteed one-week speed delivery. Just keep following the road. Well, until you come to the roadworks and the detour,

The little fairy took flight from Scrungles hand and flew up to his eyeline. Producing a wand from the folds of her dress she sprinkled a little fairy dust over Scrungle.

A blessing, and a safe journey. Sorry, I tried to scam some cash out of you. Then she disappeared in the blink of an eye and a light popping sound. Scrungle pondered what Ken had said. He had never been to the capital or even a large town.

In his mind, Plombree City was a distant rumour, like the idea of garlic bread or statutory workers’ rights, but it settled Scrungle’s mind some, knowing that if he didn’t find the magic mushroom by random chance, he could seek help from the SCS and Amazing Shine.

As he walked on he hoped that he would meet more people along the King’s Road who were just as stimulating. The sun, low on the horizon, colored the sky in reds and purples of twilight as it began to set. He was very deep in the forest now. The road went straight on through the trees, lost in the distance without a turn or bend, its form blurring in the approaching darkness. The stone flags had become uneven, and the flags that had been put down instead of stones were filthy. Some of the paving at the edge of the road, lifted by the tree roots, had become a tripping hazard. Scrungle took all this in and still managed to take a tumble. Someone needs to put a warning up, he thought as he regained his feet. Further on, after dusting himself down, he passed a fox that was writing a sonnet. Its back was propped up against a tree. A lantern hung on a low branch.

A quill lashed to one paw with heavy twine and a piece of parchment glued to the other. The fox paid little mind to Scrungle only to ask if he knew of any word that rhymed with orange. Scrungle admitted he didn’t.

Scrungle yawned and realised he had not walked this much for a long time. Where to sleep, he thought. Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out a loyalty card for the Inn of the Horseshoe and Bucket. It had been a gift on his eighteenth birthday, in case he ever went travelling. The franchise, he had been told, spanned the length and breadth of the land, with easy parking and a children’s play area at every inn. He had used it once, while he was trying to find his father, who was looking for his mother, who was trying to find herself. He stayed at the first inn he came across, and since he didn’t have any gold, he found it steeply overpriced. The trolls at the bar, seasonal workers under a nearby bridge, kept pointing and laughing at his nose. He decided after that day he would only use it in an absolute emergency. Now, standing on the King’s Road at dusk, Scrungle wasn’t sure if this counted as an emergency or not.

After a glance up and down the road, he realised he had no chance of finding one of the franchised inns tonight anyway. He had no option but to