Dryness is a problem. To be a successful slug, one must retain a healthy coat of protective slime. Travelers to the summit often fortify themselves with extra slime from those not ready to make the journey. These slime sharing parties are sacred events, down amongst last year's leaves in the moist dark rot several layers removed from the surface, in the company of pale fungus and the blind, questing custodians of the earth.

It is hard to leave this womb of contentment, and it wouldn't be done at all if it weren't crucial to the shaping of the planet.

And so the journey begins, with a few brave souls easing their careful way towards the gravelly, weed choked foot of the speaking tree. The wood is still warm from the day, but a gentle mist paves the way with much needed moisture. Verticality doesn't pose much of a problem for slugs, but they must make haste. Those not at the top by daybreak will never make it. Near the top, the path is littered with grim reminders of the price of failure.

Tonight, conditions are right for a quick climb. The travelers are well rested and thoroughly moistened. Each carries a rotting leaf on his back, for the provisioning of the camp on top. The splinters along the trail have been mostly worn or broken away by previous generations of climbers.

The climb takes nearly all night, but for once all of the climbers make it, perhaps spurred on by the grisly remains of those who have failed.

They are welcomed at the top by their fellows, and their burdens are thrown down in relief.

But there is little time to rest, for there is much work to be done. Each slug takes up a position by a speaking strand, which are connected to the immense speaking cables that bridge the vast distances between this tree and the hideous dwellings of the Thunderous Ones.

The origin of the technology that made the speaking strands possible is lost in the distant reaches of archetypal memory, as is the learning of the Thunderous Ones' speech. This knowledge is passed down from generation to generation like a priceless heirloom.

And so the job at hand begins, with the slugs whispery little voices cutting into the stream of communication and subliminally altering it. They are merely suggesting things to the recipients, things that will make the world a better place for slugs. They don't often see the results of their labors, but continue to operate with faith that they are making changes.

They would be happy to know that within a two-mile radius of their speaking post there were now seventy mushroom farmers and three times as many composters. Twelve local developers had committed suicide and left instructions in their wills that all of their properties be turned into swamplands. The Thunderous Ones had also stopped raking leaves and cutting grass.

And thus, the seeds that are planted in the night sprout and blossom, and the world continues its slow transformation into paradise.
J5b(4)