Olly & the Spores of Sapphire Creek

PROLOGUE: LOCAL HEROES

Littleton, Massachusetts

The “Great Oak Hill Fire of 2022” is still the big story around town and is talked about almost daily in Littleton High School. Em and I have become local heroes, and we keep getting asked to retell the events of that day. I believe our story gets better each time I tell it.

Today’s rendition was for the enjoyment of some of the ninth-grade girls in the Littleton High School cafeteria:

“Em and I outsmarted the school bullies, landing them into juvie and out of our lives forever. Starting the fire on Oak Hill in an attempt to destroy our homes and build a mall didn’t pan out as Buzz Dalton and Trent McNabb had expected. I guess you could say their plan ‘went down in flames.’ Those two will no longer terrorize the fine folks here in Littleton. And the infamous Dalton Mall will forever be a distant dream of Henry Dalton with no chance of ever being built on Oak Hill.”

To add some flair, I recounted the story with a fake Western accent, which I claim is getting much better. Em disagrees. Regardless, I think it makes us sound more like gunslingers each time I tell the story, and the crowd seems to enjoy it.

Stanley Blackwell was behind bars for admitting to killing Poppy, my grandpa, in a plot to take my family’s land for the Dalton Mall development. Henry Dalton, who we know hired Mr. Blackwell to do his dirty work, was spending his days trying to avoid jail time. After tarnishing his reputation and being forced to close all of his Littleton businesses, Mr. Dalton’s vast empire quickly evaporated. Any money he has left now goes toward any cheap lawyer willing to take his case.

Although still sad about Poppy’s murder and Grandma’s passing from cancer a while ago, Mom and Dad seem happy that they moved back to the family estate in Littleton, Massachusetts to start a new life. Mom loves the home that Poppy and Grandma had willed to us. She also enjoys sharing the latest town gossip with the “Ladies of Littleton,” as she called them. Her new salon, which she named “Hair, Hare,” is the perfect place for the ladies to meet monthly. The salon got its name from the rabbit habitat just down the road, “Oren’s Rabbitry,” named in honor of my grandpa, Oren Appleton.

Dad enjoys working with Harry Sawyer at Sawyer’s Hardware Store. Harry had been a best friend to Poppy ever since Dad could remember. He has also taken on a grandfather-like role with me.

Harry recently decided it would benefit everyone if my dad took over the hardware store operations so Harry could finally think about retiring.

My geeky, loner status has disappeared since I stood up to those school bullies and met a cute, new, redheaded girlfriend, Ember Fein (I call her Em). Maybe my dream of being voted the class president still has a chance after all!

Although we can’t tell anyone, Em and I have become the protectors of more than just the students at Littleton High School. We are now the protectors of a secret community of magical, mushroom-like creatures living under my home on Oak Hill.

They’re called Spores, and they’ve become more than just friends. They’ve become a second family to Em and me.

Cremini, the leader of the Spore community here in Littleton, Massachusetts, trusts us to help his community expand into new towns. We get to watch the new Sporlings, or baby Spores, hatch under the moonlight during “Harvests”—magical events that happen only twice yearly. Then we help ship them out with their foster families to new Spore communities across the United States.

Lately, we’ve been sending these special packages of Spore families across the country to Littleton, Colorado to a friend of Poppy’s named Amanita Muscaria. Under her care, they live in the Sapphire Creek Spore community, hidden in an abandoned gold mine that my grandpa had purchased for that purpose.

Em and I have become great friends with Cremini’s two children, Truffle and Magpie. Truffle is the funny, mischievous Spore, and Magpie is the silent, smart one. “The Four Mush-keteers,” as we call ourselves, have fostered a great friendship since our fight with the Daltons, McNabbs, and their murderous goon, Stanley Blackwell.

Em and I have made it a habit to visit our Spore friends every day after school, using the many secret tunnels under Oak Hill to gain access to their Grand Cavern. Our visits usually include an adventure in the woods of Oak Hill or a trip into town to drop off a new shipment of Spore families headed for Littleton, Colorado. These trips almost always involve visiting Kimball Farm for ice cream.

Em and I have discovered that Truffle likes the peanut butter Butterfinger flavor, and Magpie loves the vanilla honey. We’ve also learned that Truffle gets even more mischievous when pumped up on chocolate and peanut butter. Keeping him in my leather pouch and out of view of other families enjoying their ice cream is always a challenge. We usually find the seats farthest from the crowds just for that reason.

This friendship with Em, Truffle, Magpie, and other Spores has provided many adventures, including the one I am going to tell you now.

1: THE BLACK OOZE

Sapphire Creek Mine, Littleton, Colorado

The barrel slipped from their grip, crashing to the ground and splitting the metal seal meant to hold the black liquid now seeping out. The two men reeled backward, and the dangerous substance poured from the barrel and into the dirt. Both men hesitated to get anywhere near the black ooze.

Frankie, the shorter of the two men, noticed the liquid had splashed across the barrel and onto the boot of his partner’s stark-white hazmat suit. The darkness of the substance was amplified when contrasted against the bright-white hazmat suit and the fluorescent-yellow barrel. It reminded him of a combination of used motor oil and syrup.

“You idiots!” snapped a third man who jumped from the truck’s cab when he heard the barrel fall. He was the only one not wearing a protective suit, as he hadn’t expected to get anywhere near the barrels or their dangerous contents.

“Sorry, Rocco. These gloves just don’t have much grip to them,” Frankie said, cringing in anticipation that Rocco might hit him again. That’s what Rocco did the last time he and Tiny dropped a barrel, and he still has the bruise to remind him.

Rocco walked up to the two men, and instead of smacking Frankie, he angrily kicked some loose dirt onto the black substance that pooled, trying to cover it up as best he could.

“Just get that last barrel into the mine,” Rocco said, gesturing to the old mine entrance thirty feet away. “We have to get back soon if we’re going to make it into town to meet Jimmy and settle up.”

Frankie and Tiny flipped the barrel so the broken seal was on top, halting the leak. They started rolling the heavy barrel toward the mine entrance, careful not to touch the black ooze now dripping down its side.

“How does Jimmy account for these missing barrels, Rocco?” asked Tiny, the tallest of the three men.

Rocco and Frankie thought it was funny when they started calling him Tiny because he was the furthest thing from small. Tiny was almost seven feet tall and a musclehead who was able to dead-lift 450 pounds easily.

That’s why Frankie knew Rocco would never hit Tiny. It’s also why he was sure he would receive any punishment instead.

“It’s a nice little side hustle for us. The Air Force pays companies like mine a thousand dollars for each barrel that I take to the hazardous waste storage facility. I just need to show the Air Force a receipt to prove how many barrels we dropped off. As luck would have it, my cousin, Jimmy, got the job as receiving manager at the waste facility.

“So here’s the racket—I only deliver seven of the ten barrels to the waste facility, which Jimmy marks in his company ledger. But he makes a fake receipt showing that I delivered and paid for ALL TEN barrels to be stored there. I show that receipt to the Air Force and get reimbursed for all ten. We pocket the money for the difference. I store those extra three barrels in my warehouse until we have a full load to bring up here. You each get a fair share of the money after I pay all of my expenses.”

“This is the easiest three hundred dollars I’ve ever made, I have to admit,” said Frankie. He had decided that the money was worth getting hit upside the head by Rocco on occasion.

“Well, as long as you two keep your mouths shut, we can keep this up forever,” Rocco said gruffly. “There’s plenty more barrels coming from that waste pit and enough space in these old mines to store hundreds of them. We’ll fill this shaft with one more load and then use a stick of dynamite to cover the entrance and move on to another shaft. No one will ever return to these mines since they’ve been dry of gold for a hundred years. And the way I look at it, these mines are just as safe as the storage facility, so what’s the harm? A man’s got to earn a living, right?”

“What’s in these barrels, anyway?” Frankie was almost afraid to ask.

“I don’t know what that black crap is, exactly. I just know a company used to test missiles at the plant during the Cold War, and I can only assume whatever fuels, oils, and other chemicals they were testing got dumped into that sludge pit we’ve been clearing out,” Rocco replied. “The Air Force took it over in the ’50s and now uses the land to test Titan IV launch vehicles. Oddly enough, the Skyline Hunting and Fishing Club now manages some of the land, and the Jefferson County police and local Boy Scouts use some for training. I don’t think they have any idea this black sludge is seeping into the ground right next to them.”

Frankie and Tiny shook their heads as they moved the barrel closer to the mine entrance. They seemed ashamed that their government had the nerve to spoil the earth like that. Ironically, they expressed this disgust while rolling the barrel of toxic liquid into the mine entrance, which would almost certainly leach into the soil and groundwater.

2: FRA-GEE-LAY

Back in Downtown Littleton, Colorado

Amanita Muscaria stood at the post office counter, tapping her foot anxiously.

The post office looked and smelled like she imagined it must have at its creation in the late 1800s. That is, except for the walls, which looked to have been painted over a dozen times. There were so many coats of white paint on the walls that the fine details in the moldings were hardly noticeable anymore.

A large piece of pine counter offered Amanita a place to lean her tired body. Scratches and stains proved its many years of use. Behind the counter were small cubbies that she guessed must have held the mail for the original 245 residents of Littleton, Colorado.

Five minutes earlier, the desk clerk had walked into the back room to retrieve the Priority Mail package that Amanita eagerly awaited. She had been tracking the package since Olly and Ember shipped it out of Massachusetts a few days earlier. She stared at her watch, worrying about how long it took for the clerk to retrieve the package. The post office wasn’t big enough to lose anything.

What if they lost the package or, worse yet, damaged it?

As she thought about the worst-case scenarios, the clerk reappeared from the back room. He violently shook the box next to his ear, trying to guess its contents. Amanita could hear the loose items inside the box jostling, and she winced.

“Oh, please be careful with that. As it says on the box, the items are very fragile,” Amanita begged.

“Fra-gee-lay,” the young mail clerk said with a snide grin and then spun the package onto the counter like a DJ spinning an album, ignoring her concern over the contents.

“Just sign here, ma’am,” the clerk said when he stopped the spinning box with his index finger. Amazingly, his finger landed exactly where Amanita needed to sign the slip of paper on the box.

He’s been practicing that little trick.

Amanita gave him a look and scribbled her name. Just as she finished her signature, the clerk ripped off the top copy with a firm tug of his hand, jerking the package hard enough to send it sliding across the counter. Amanita caught the box just as it was about to slide off the edge.

She glared at the clerk again.

“Good catch!” the clerk said, impressed with Amanita’s reaction time.

Amanita grabbed the box before the clerk had more opportunities to harass it.

“Will that be all, then?” the clerk asked as he peered past Amanita, looking for the next victim standing in line behind her.

Amanita shook her head in disgust and grunted at the clerk, deciding not to say anything she might regret later. She turned to leave and whispered to the older lady standing in line behind her, “Good luck with that one! He’s a treat.”

It was a humid, 83-degree day in Littleton, Colorado. Amanita had purposefully left all of the windows of her yellow 1978 Ford Bronco open. She didn’t want the sun to turn the truck into an oven for her new guests.

The yellow color and dark rust spots around the fenders and wheel wells made the truck look like a big, spoiled, unpeeled banana. Because it stood out like a sore thumb in the parking lot, she decided to park it far from the post office entrance and away from prying eyes.

She yanked open the rusted truck door and gently pushed the box across the front seat, jumping in behind it. After looking at her surroundings and ensuring nobody could see inside the truck, she reached into the pocket of her torn jeans and pulled out a small pocketknife.

“I’ll have you out in a minute, folks!” Amanita spoke to the box.

She slowly and carefully separated the tape from the box with the small knife, careful not to cut through the cardboard. She didn’t want to risk harming any of the occupants.

She lifted the lid, fully expecting to see Spores injured and scattered about the inside of the box. But all six Spore families and their new Sporlings were sitting in their feather-and-moss compartments, staring up at her. They looked a little ruffled and tired but were alive and grinning. Amanita breathed a sigh of relief.

“Sorry about the bumpy trip! And welcome to Littleton, Colorado!” Amanita exclaimed with a glowing smile.

A collection of greetings and little cheers burst from the box, loud enough that Amanita worried someone outside the truck might have heard it. She quickly held her finger to her mouth and cranked her neck to look around the truck’s perimeter.

Thank God no one heard the commotion.

“We’re not in a safe place yet, so you’ll need to whisper for a little bit longer,” she said.

The Spores looked a little embarrassed. After a few long days of being trapped in a box and thrown around the inside of airplanes and box trucks, they had forgotten the rules about being careful in public. Those rules seemed to have taken a back seat to their happiness about having fresh air and hearing their voices at more than a whisper. But they now realized they should have waited until they could talk at normal levels.

Amanita smiled at them and winked. “You’re going to love it here. We have a beautiful community growing as we speak and plenty of space ready for you to call home. And you’ll find the animals in the hills of Sapphire Creek are just as friendly as the ones you grew up with in Littleton, Massachusetts. That is, except for one mountain lion we’ve fondly nicknamed ‘Fang,’ who hasn’t yet realized you Spores are friends and not chew toys. But I’m sure she’ll come around.”

The Spores looked at each other with concern.

Amanita took a big bottle of water and small paper cups from her backpack on the passenger-side floor. She had already trimmed the cups so the Spores could easily reach over the edge and drink from them. She filled three cups with fresh, cold water and set them on the seat next to the Spores’ traveling box.

They must have been thirsty because they quickly crawled out of their compartments to get a few sips of the cold water. The moms holding the Sporlings were quick to share some of the water with the little ones. The Sporlings were still tightly bundled up in cabbage leaves, but the cabbage had wilted and started browning during the trip.

Once the Spores had enough water, Amanita started the truck.

“Ready to see your new home?”

The Spores all got excited but only responded with a thumbs-up. They had learned their lesson about being less vocal until it was safe to speak again. They all quickly climbed back into their compartments for the ride.

As she drove, Amanita told the story of Sapphire Creek’s founding.