Mikhail ducked under the rusted arches, careful to not cut himself on their sharp edges. Before him lay the mouldering remains of the ancient theme park, four of the six flag poles remained upright though decomposing. He marvelled at the race of people who could have made such a miracle of metal and stone.

Rodents scared up by his footfalls scurried into less conspicuous hiding places as he made his way deeper into the forest of concrete and rusting steel pillars. Mikhail knew the reputation of the place, but he was intent on seeing the hermit who resided within. The illness had spread rapidly within the village, and rumors had soared that this man might know how to cure it. Ever skeptical, Mikhail had ventured forth at the behest of the king to find this “medicine man” among the hulks.

He had travelled three days and nights, blazing a trail deep into the forest and across impenetrable grasslands to find the land where the rusting iron stood high into the air and trees feared to grow. Finally, he thought to himself, I found the hulks.

He deftly navigated his way across and around the ancient brown beams and columns, wary that a single scratch could be a death sentence.

It was true, what they had said about this place. No trees would grow through the thickly paved concrete and blacktop, though none knew exactly why nothing grew anymore.

He passed the old stalls of games and rides, now only dissolved structures that served no purpose other than providing shelter for the various vermin which still called the place home. He passed through under the thick clouds that threatened to burst forth a heavy rain at every instant. They loomed overhead and provided an air of foreboding to his quest.

He turned his footsteps toward the only building which seemed like it may be habitable. Its low walls and carefully thatched roof lent the appearance of occupation and Mikhail espied a wisp of smoke rising from the chimney and into the close atmosphere. Drawing nearer, he felt a change in the air and landscape as the surroundings became more ordered and cultivated. Shrubs found root in the sparse dirt that filled in among the concrete and edible vegetation grew around.

A magnificent pair of apple trees framed the doorway to the cabin and Mikhail raised his fist to rap on the door. It swung inward before his knuckles made contact with the wood and he nearly struck the man who stood within. Taken by equal surprise as Mikhail, the man started back and challenged him with an interrogative “Can I help you?”

“I believe you can,” Mikhail replied. He launched into an explanation of the symptoms of the disease, sparing no detail. The man invited him inside and told him of an ancient manuscript which had led to his finding a medicine for nearly all ailments.

“It was called penicillin,” he explained, “but I will need some time to produce enough to treat the whole population of your village.” He led Mikhail to another room which was full of various bottles of cures and tinctures, and dishes with sundry molds growing. He pulled a dish from a high shelf and presented it to Mikhail. “This should cure the infection.”

Looking at the greenish-blue mold sitting in the glass dish, Mikhail turned up his nose at it “How does this cure anything?”

“They must eat it, routinely for several days.”

Skeptical, Mikhail doubted he could get anybody, let alone everybody, to eat such a repulsive blob of mold, but he would try.