Communion by Daniel Addercouth

The sun was shining through the forest canopy, casting beams of light on the ground, as Father Terry and I searched for mushrooms. Rust-coloured leaves crunched beneath my feet, and there was a pleasant earthy smell from last night’s rain. It was as good a moment as any to ask about converting, I reckoned.

“I’ve been thinking about becoming Catholic,” I said. “What do I need to do?” 

“Look at this one,” the priest said, holding up a little grey specimen with a bulbous head. “I can’t decide if this is a horse mushroom or a yellow stainer. One is delicious in a risotto, the other will land you in A&E. What the hell, let’s live a little.” He dropped it in his basket. 

I wondered if he’d heard my question. “Is there a course I should take? An interview? Application forms?”

Father Terry rummaged in the undergrowth and produced a white mushroom with a broad brown cap, which he put in his basket. “These are delicious but very rare. At least, they are if they’re the ones I’m thinking of. It’s so hard to tell.”

I was beginning to understand why I was the only person who’d joined the foraging session advertised on the St. Catherine’s noticeboard. Father Terry seemed different from the priests I’d seen online. I decided to change tack and ask about his hobby. Maybe that would get his interest. “How long have you been collecting mushrooms?”

“A few months.”

“How did you learn to identify them? Did you train with an experienced mycologist?”

The priest shrugged. “I watched a few YouTube videos. To be honest, half the time I’m not sure what I’m eating. They say to watch out for toxic copycats, but people make too much fuss about the risks. I trust God to protect me. It’s worked so far.”

He took off his sunglasses and placed them on top of his head, being careful not to disturb his perfectly coiffed hair. His eyes narrowed as he studied my face. “Why are you so keen on the old Romish religion anyway?”

I had my answer prepared. “I want to belong to a church with a long and deep tradition, the church of Thomas Aquinas and St. Augustine. I love the grandeur of the Mass and the gravitas of the liturgy.”

Father Terry nodded. “Good answer.” He held out the white mushroom. “Eat it.”

“But I don’t know if it’s safe.”

“Doesn’t matter. God will protect you.” He frowned. “Or don’t you have faith?”

My mouth had gone dry. “It’s not even cooked.”

He stared me straight in the face. The whites of his eye had a yellowish tinge. “Makes no difference. What do you say? Are you ready to take a leap of faith?”

I looked at the mushroom in his hand, wondering if I should eat it. I imagined Father Terry in his white and gold robes at Mass, holding out the communion wafer in just the same way. 

Daniel Addercouth (Bluesky: @ruralunease) grew up on a remote farm in the north of Scotland but now lives in Germany. His work has appeared in New Flash Fiction Review, Trampset and HAD, among other places. His story “The Good Prizes” was included in Best Small Fictions 2024.

Photo by Amy Humphries auf Unsplash

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