But he was smiling. As much as a mushroom can smile.
Plomp. Plomp. PLUMP. He waddled faster than he had ever waddled in his life.
The otter chieftain splashed a grateful fin. "And you are not too mushroomy. You are just right ."
From that day on, no one whispered his name. They sang it. And every evening, when Coloso’s gills pulsed their soft, sleepy light, the animals of the valley would gather beneath his cap. They didn't hide from his glow. They read stories by it, told jokes, and fell asleep to the gentle plomp, plomp, plomp of his heartbeat.
The animals panicked. The rabbits’ burrow was filling with water. The raccoons clung to a thin willow branch. The otters, strong swimmers but exhausted, were being swept downstream. The valley was being erased.
The flood hit him with the force of a mountain. Water crashed against his golden cap, split in two, and roared harmlessly past on either side. He shuddered. His roots strained. But he held firm.
Coloso Champi Coloso heard the screams. He felt the trembling of the earth. And he stopped feeling sad.