In the shadow of recent global health crises, Australian author Romy Ash has crafted a provocative new novel that envisions a future pandemic not as a viral scourge, but as an eerily beautiful fungal outbreak. Titled Mantle, the book explores themes of human connection to nature through the lens of a mysterious mushroom-like disease that binds people together in unexpected ways. Published this year, Ash's second novel draws on the lingering reflections of the COVID-19 era to question whether catastrophe could finally force humanity to reconsider its isolation from the natural world.
Ash, now 43, first gained prominence with her debut novel Floundering in 2012, when she was just 31. The book earned her widespread acclaim, including shortlistings for prestigious awards such as the Miles Franklin Literary Award, the Commonwealth Book Prize, and the Prime Minister’s Literary Awards. Featured in glossy spreads in Women’s Weekly, Ash was hailed as a rising star in Australian literature. After a decade marked by personal growth and professional shifts—including a stint as a food blogger and columnist for The Guardian—she returns with Mantle, a work that blends depth, humor, and wry observation drawn from her lived experiences.
The story centers on Ursula, a 50-year-old academic from Melbourne who is single, childless, and grappling with midlife uncertainties. According to the novel's narrative, Ursula takes a break from her research on geology—specifically mudstone geography—to visit her aging mother, Delores, in a remote, self-built home in the far south of Lutruwita, Tasmania. The house, overlooking controversial salmon farms in the Huon Valley, features unconventional elements like shower screens for windows and a composting toilet. Delores, described as independent and fractious, bought the property because it was "the cheapest block" available, embedding herself deeply in the rhythms of small-town Tasmanian life.
Ursula arrives intending to focus on her paper, but her plans unravel when she discovers her mother is dying from growths in her lungs, possibly cancer. Delores refuses treatment, instead prioritizing practical advice for her daughter: the family Corolla is serviced at the local BMW mechanic with the mossy cars out front, the best lemons come from "the driveway with one goat," and there's a list of town businesses to avoid at all costs. As Delores fades, she leaves Ursula not just grief, but a house cluttered with hoarded junk—and a persistent rash that soon reveals itself as something far more ominous.
The rash, initially dismissed as a local affliction, spreads widely among Huon Valley residents and proves untreatable. In her mourning, Ursula begins a fleeting romance with Toby, a diver working at one of the salmon farms made infamous by Richard Flanagan’s environmental exposé Toxic. The next morning, they awaken connected by fine, sticky threads—"pale, translucent, a soft earthy white"—where their skin had touched. What follows is the onset of a new fungal pandemic, closing borders and sending alarming reports trickling in from the mainland.
Yet, amid the horror, Ash infuses the outbreak with a haunting beauty. As Ursula and Toby spend nights together, their bodies grow increasingly entwined, allowing Ursula to dream Toby’s dreams, acquire his diving skills, and overcome her fear of the deep ocean. Eventually, her own body begins to "fruit," symbolizing a profound, if terrifying, merging with the environment. Set in a near-future Tasmania where swift parrots are extinct—Ursula gazes into the night hoping for their flash, knowing it's futile—the novel avoids simplistic dystopian tropes.
Ash’s portrayal of Tasmanian life, particularly in the Huon Valley, rings with authenticity, capturing the "small slight, large grievance, long held" fabric of the community. Despite being a "mainland" writer from Melbourne, she nails the intricacies of rural existence, from landline phones to the economic pull of salmon farming jobs in areas plagued by high unemployment and low education levels. The novel eschews easy villains, even regarding the salmon farms, and delves into the nuanced ethics of living off the land and sea.
One vivid scene introduces Ernie, an old fisherman who quietly breeds and plants endangered giant kelp to restore ocean nurseries. Ursula teases him as a "greenie," prompting his retort: "I wouldn’t sit next to a greenie at the pub, but I know giant kelp is a bloody nursery, and I know its disappearance is one reason why we aren’t pulling any lobster out of the sea." When Ursula identifies as a greenie herself, blaming the salmon farms, Ernie dismisses her: "You’re not a greenie; you’re a city slicker." She laughs it off, adding, "Latte drinker." This exchange highlights class divides in environmentalism—being a "greenie" as a privilege for urban elites, while locals navigate survival pragmatically.
Delores’s best friend, Joc, offers another perspective on ethical living. "I don’t eat meat. I do no harm. This is my philosophy," Joc tells Ursula. She describes local divers who carry knives and spear guns yet appreciate the ocean’s wonder: "Those men who know the ocean is going to hold them, they’ve got a dive bag with a knife in it, they’ve got a spear gun, but they are also appreciating the wonder." Through such voices, Ash rejects binaries in environmental discourse, exploring how people intertwined with nature develop their own moral frameworks.
Reflecting on the early COVID-19 days, Ash evokes a time when lockdowns sparked fleeting optimism: emissions plummeted, Venetians saw clear canals, and apartment dwellers created spontaneous balcony concerts. People even sprayed muesli bar boxes with Glen-20 disinfectant, fearing everyday items as vectors. The novel channels that spirit, pondering if a pathogen could jolt humanity into embracing our "porousness"—recognizing bodies as ecosystems and hosts in a communal web, rather than isolated individuals.
Ursula herself defies eco-fiction stereotypes. Middle-aged, grumpy, and sexually frustrated, she’s an expert in her field but terrified of the ocean and hardly a nature enthusiast. Her voice broadens the genre’s appeal, inviting readers who might not typically engage with tales of environmental peril. Food weaves through the narrative as a sensory anchor; Ursula obsesses over cooking and eating, a nod to Ash’s background in food writing. The book practically begs for a mushroom-centric recipe companion.
At its core, Mantle probes connection and permeability. As Joc puts it, the world "asks for a numb heart, the patriarchy." Ash’s story counters with a call to feel deeply, to let vulnerability bridge human and natural realms. In a landscape scarred by extinction, wildlife depletion, and climate change, the novel urges an exploratory approach to conservation, acknowledging individual roles without self-righteous judgment.
The release of Mantle comes at a time when eco-fiction is surging, with authors worldwide grappling with planetary crises. Ash’s work stands out for its Tasmanian specificity and refusal to moralize, instead fostering empathy for diverse viewpoints—from fishermen to academics. As global discussions on biodiversity and health pandemics intensify, the book offers a timely, if unsettling, mirror to our porous existence.
Looking ahead, Ash’s nuanced take may spark conversations in literary circles and beyond. With her track record of awards and media attention, Mantle is poised for critical acclaim, potentially earning nods from major prizes. For readers in Appleton and elsewhere, it serves as a reminder that literature can illuminate paths toward change, even through the threads of an imagined fungal fate.