When the sun rose the next morning, both plumpins were sleeping soundly in a nest of dried leaves under the shaggy bough of a great root. The pair had been farming toadstools late into the night and Philbert’s toadstool sack was well full with all sorts of shrooms and buttons, penny buns and bottlenecks, blue caps and even mighty trumpets. Mullaby had shown endless enthusiasm for the pursuit—enthusiasm of the sort that makes a good deal of noise. But Philbert supposed that this would not be so much of a problem, as toadstools generally seemed ill-equipped to mount any sort of escape, even if forewarned.

They woke to find that the boar they had admired the night before had already found their secret stash of eggs and was happily lapping away at the messy remains, muzzle sticky with clumps of yolk and flecks of shell. But Philbert viewed this as a fortuitous turn of events, as it put their mighty hoggish friend in good spirits. And he and Mullaby spent a goodly portion of that morning stroking the beast’s fur, speaking to it in pleasant tones and feeding it some of the more savory toadstools, which it ate from their hands with snuffling grunts and licked their faces to ask for more. When it seemed proper, they clambered onto its back.

Philbert ascended with ease, much practiced as this was his preferred method of travel throughout the Hillocks. And travel he did. Always on the move but always within the Hillocks. Mullaby had never before traveled by pig and apologized to this one multiple times as he scrabbled up the side of its big wrinkled face, little feet finding purchase on tusk and in crevice, with Philbert finally plucking him up by the scruff of his neck and depositing him astride the beast’s bony spine.

“Now stop fidgeting,” he said.

“But he’s bristly!” Mullaby whined, shifting and scratching at his legs and hindquarters.

“Grab a hold of his mane, like this.”

Philbert reached around the smaller plumpin and grasped a tuft of the boar’s wild black mane. The animal was old and the hair had that rosinous dusty quality and some of the bristles were thick as tendrilous creepers. Mullaby followed suit and took hold with both hands as Philbert drew out his dangle-bob.

Little more than a lithe willow-whip branch with a length of string at one end, this minor invention of Philbert’s own devising secured him passage from one end of the Hillocks to the next without fail. Digging through his toadstool sack, he pulled out a large and rather fragrant specimen, a bulbous boarnip, to be precise, and knotted it to the end of the string. Doing so, he felt the big boar shift beneath him, snuffling at the air and searching for the source of his snout’s temptation.

“Easy, friend,” Philbert said, patting the boar’s side with one hand. Mullaby followed suit, giving the animal little taps with one hand.

When Philbert had the bulbous boarnip properly secured to the end of the string, he cast it like an angler’s rod overhead so that it drooped right in front of the boar’s face. The animal’s eyes narrowed in on the intruding toadstool at once, snout working in fits. It rose to its feet and poor petrified Mullaby let out a low and fearful moan, clutching at its mane for dear life. But for every step forward that the boar took, the tempting toadstool dangled and bobbed just out of reach. With the rod looped through his belt and levered across his leg, Philbert could hold it in place with one hand, playing his fingers across the handle to send the toadstool, and therefore the pig, in any direction he wanted. Before long, he had the boar trotting south at a good pace.

They rode along the banks of a burbling spring that wended through the vales like an icy blue ribbon, streaming south like all creeks and brooks of the Hillocks. South to where the great Hogwash gave the Hillocks its roaring southern border in the form of a monstrous river.

No smooth sailing was to be had on those waters, the culmination of a continent’s watery fury, as all other rivers of the land, no matter their size, were mere tributaries to this great and fearsome flowing. Waves broke upon its surface like wild seas and eddies formed without warning, as did ghostly waterspouts that moaned through the air and spit shells and salt upon the shores. It was a raging course that few shipmasters even dared to venture and no steady trade was to be had. Yet there were those who braved its waters, occasionally seen wrestling their vessels in its stormy mists and some even making landfall on the Hillocks’ pebbly beaches. But they were few and far between, and veterans amongst them even fewer.

For now, however, the stream was small and gently flowing, an acorn to the mighty oak it would soon enjoin, and Philbert enjoyed the steady rocking of the beast below him as they rode through the dappled sunlight.

“Thank you, Rufus.”

Mullaby stroked the animal’s fur lovingly, having quickly become not only accustomed to riding boar-back but rather fond of it. And fond of the boar too. He named it Rufus many miles back and had not gone more than half an hour without thanking the creature for bearing them. Of course, Rufus got his share of toadstools as well. The dangle-bob worked well enough, but part of the trick was allowing the pig to catch its prize every now and again, stopping short to let the animal enjoy its well-earned meal and take a sup of water, before affixing a new treat to the string and casting them off towards the horizon yet again. Every pig has its limits and can only be frustrated for so long before it bucks at the game and its rider both. Philbert had learned this the hard way and nearly broken his neck. He hadn’t needed to learn it again.

“Yes, thank you, Rufus,” Philbert intoned, not noticing Mullaby’s smile at the echoed sentiment. They had made good time this morning, sticking to the banks of the stream where the underbrush was thinnest. Rufus was a strong pig and could probably go further still, but Philbert saw no need to press their luck.

“What do you say we give ol’ Rufus a break?” he asked.

Mullaby turned his head just about backwards, straining to get a look at Philbert’s face to see if he were joking again. He had not quite mastered telling the difference.

“You’re asking me?” he said.

“I don’t see anyone else. I guess we could ask Rufus.”

“Rufus!” Mullaby yelled down at the boar, which ignored him and stolidly plodded towards the apple of his eye, which was, at this moment and in fact, a toadstool. “Do you want to stop? Do you want some water?”

“I think he does,” Philbert said, pulling back on the dangle-bob and effectively swinging the toadstool right into Rufus’ open mouth, sending the pig suddenly back on its haunches and the plumpins tumbling off its back. Philbert landed on his feet. Mullaby did not.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Philbert said.

They took their lunch in a small glade beside a series of shallow cataracts, watching the water roil and roll over the rocks while they munched on ground nuts and toadstools. Philbert found a patch of wild strawberries, red and fat and ripe in the late season and they ate those too. Afterward, they lay on their backs atop a warm flat stone and let their bellies do their work.

“I feel funny,” said Mullaby after a moment.

“That’s because you ate the green one,” Philbert replied. “I told you not to, you know. But you did it anyway.”

“I know.”

Among the many toadstool varieties that Philbert knew how to find, most fell into two basic categories: food and medicine. Some were even both, but most all could be described as one or the other. And these were Philbert’s bread and butter, so to speak. The sort of fungi fundamentals that passing plumpins came to expect from a toadstool farmer and were at least somewhat predisposed to bartering for. But then there were the few toadstools that couldn’t rightly be described as either. They were few and far between and usually found in dark smelly places. They tasted foul and turned your tongue black and most plumpins, as if by instinct, avoided them as best they could. But nibbling just a little, Philbert found out, made you feel pretty good.

Mullaby, much smaller than Philbert, had eaten a whole one.

Philbert lifted his head to see how his companion was doing. The smaller plumpin sat upright on the rock, motionless, eyes wide open and a pendulous thread of drool dangling from his bottom lip. He was deep in it by now and there was nothing for him to do but ride it out. Philbert lay his head back down and let his lunch digest in the increasingly rare silence.

When he broke camp and rode off, it was with his toadstool sack over his shoulder and a comatose Mullaby trussed up like a bundle of wood behind him. It would still be a two-day ride to Gusly’s farm, depending on whether or not they got lost along the way. To be certain, Philbert knew the Hillocks like the back of his hand, but all plumpins recognize that there are two distinct ways to get oneself lost.