Thu, 15 Oct 2026 00:00:00 +0000

When sunlight becomes scarce, some plants defy the textbook rules: a small forest plant discovers an invisible symbiotic relationship – and shows that the forest shares far more than meets the eye.

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The short story

In the forest, light behaves like a shy guest. It drops by for a moment, hesitates at the edges, and then slips away again. Some patches of forest floor never see it all. They stay dark, always.

Right there, in the half-shaded space between “just bright enough” and “was that already it?”, stood a plant with four striking leaves, a green flower, and later a single black berry at its center.

Her name was Herb-Paris. Her friends simply called her Paris.

Paris was green. Properly green. She was proud of her green outfit – and proud of her craft. Whenever a patch of sunlight touched the forest floor, Paris spread her legs wide – well, her roots – and stood as confidently as one can when one has no back and no knees. All right, she thought. No interruptions now. Production time. And out loud she said, “Today, I am making my own breakfast.”

“Sun in, sugar out. That is called photosynthesis”, she muttered. Not as a slogan – more the way some people say, “Coffee first. Talk later.”

A few steps away – steps that were not steps, but growth decisions – lived Arum. Arum was a plant who liked clear rules. “Do it yourself”, Arum said, “Only do it yourself. Then you know exactly what you’re getting yourself into.” He had the air of a plant who kept a small notebook somewhere inside herself. Almost like a manual: This is how things are done in the forest.

Arum often watched Paris and commented in that particular tone only very conscientious neighbors can master: “You must do everything yourself. Sun in, sugar out. Done.” – “If you are green, you photosynthesize. Period.”

Arum worked hard. But in the shaded forest, light was scarce, and some days were simply exhausting. Paris nodded politely. In the forest, one prefers not to be rude. Besides – arguments tend to drag on when no one can walk away.

And yet, Paris had a secret.

Beneath the ground – where everything smells of damp leaves, mushrooms and old stories – a delicate web of white threads stretched in all directions. Not a net you could see. More one you could sense, if you stopped to imagine how many things happen in the soil at the same time, without anyone recognizing and applauding.

The threads belonged to fungi.

Not the kind of with large caps that people collect in baskets and photograph proudly, proper mushrooms. The other kind. The quiet one. They ran through the soil and wound their way around roots like a vast underground network – something between a telephone line and a message service, only older, slower, and much more reliable.

One day, when the light was nowhere to be seen, Paris felt a faint tickle at her roots. As if someone were knocking very gently.

“Psst,” whispered the fungi.

Paris pretended not to hear anything. You never know. But the tickling stayed.

“Paris”, said the fungi. “Psst. Do you have a moment or two? We might have something.”

“If it is water”, Paris said, “I will take it immediately”.

“It is… breakfast”, said the fungi. “Or lunch. Or dinner. At any time.” They paused. Fungi are good at pausing. “It is carbon”, they added at last, with the kind of care usually reserved for gift-wrapped words.

Paris hesitated. Carbon – that was her material. Her sugar material. She made that herself, up there, with light. “Carbon… from you?” She asked carefully. Wit a minute, she thought. You are not supposed to take things from strangers!

The fungi did not laugh out loud. Fungi are not loud laughers. It was more a dry, underground smile. “Suit yourself”, they said calmly. “We can wait.”

That surprised Paris. Strangers usually do not wait.

“We have been here a long time”, the fungi explained. “We have lived with many plants in harmony, since the beginning of things.”

“We do not give without taking. And we do not take without sharing.”

“Sometimes”, they added, “when there is not much light above, a little help from below doesn’t hurt.”

“We trade”, said the fungi. “We trade carbon – and you give us space and shelter inside your roots.”

Paris took her time. She felt her inner plant-mind stumble for a moment. Only when she understood who the fungi were – and how they lived – did she let them come closer. All right, she thought, this does not feel foreign. This feels like neighborhood.

“But… you get your sugar from other plants”, Paris said slowly. “Which means…“

“Exactly”, said the fungi. “It means we are well connected.”

Paris tried to picture it. A network linking several plants. Here, one plant released something. There, a fungus picked it up. Somewhere else, it moved on again – not as charity, but as motion. As flow. As the simple fact that a forest is a system.

Paris thought for a moment. She was green. She was hardworking. But she was also realistic. In the forest, light was sometimes a bit like a bus schedule – one was already grateful if anything showed up at all. “And how does it… get to me?” Paris asked quietly.

The answer did not arrive as a sentence, but as a sensation.

Inside Paris’ root cells, the fungi formed dense loops – tiny coils of hyphae, curled like miniature balls of wool.

Close.

Tight.

Connected.

“Like this”, said the fungi. “Very directly.”

Paris had to laugh – at least as much as a plant can laugh. Her leaves trembled slightly.

“So you are building yourselves tiny loop-apartments inside my cells”, she said.

Paris paused. Not for long – plants do not think in extended monologues – but long enough for a small aha.

“That is funny”, she murmured. “This reminds me of orchids.”

The fungi became attentive. Orchids were a well-known topic underground.

“The ones with the extravagant flowers?” the fungi asked.

“Exactly those”, said Paris. “They have always done it this way. They start early, as a seedling, accepting help. Some of them live almost entirely off your help.”

Paris shifted one of her leaves slightly towards the light, as if sorting a particularly good idea. “Maybe”, she thought, “this is not a trick at all. Maybe it is simply… a tried-and-tested way of living – a good thing, sometimes, to accept help.”

The fungi said nothing. They often said nothing when something was right.

Paris let the thought settle. “All right”, she thought. “If orchids – the largest plant family on earth – manage just fine this way, then this cannot be entirely wrong.”

Somewhere in the soil, among countless fine threads, something occurred that felt very much like agreement.

And the forest nodded.

That was when Arum stepped in.

Arum was not only dutiful, but also curious in that very strict way.

“What is going on here?” Arum asked. It looked the way plants look – without eyes, but with a very clear posture. “This looks like cheating.”

Paris considered this. A secret does not become less true just because it is kept quiet. “Sometimes I receive a bit of carbon through fungi”, Paris said.

“It is not cheating. It is… cooperation.”

Arum was ready to object. The opening line was already forming. “Cooperation”, Arum said firmly, “is when I give sugar to fungi and fungi give me minerals and water, called Mycorrhiza. That is how it is done. Not else. At least in theory…”

But at that very moment, something happened that even knocked Arum slightly off balance.

Humans entered the forest.

They knelt down, as if they had suddenly understood that soil is not just soil.

They did not take whole plants – neither Paris nor Arum – but small samples, carefully, and carried them away.

In the laboratory – where machines hum and numbers are taken very seriously – the humans took a closer look. Not only at green or not green, but at tiny differences within carbon itself. At isotopes. At small deviations that act like fingerprints, quietly revealing where something comes from.

And there it was. Not written in ink but glowing on a screen. Paris carried a clear signal in her leaves: Part of her carbon did not match “sun only”. It matched “sun and fungus”.

Arum heard about it later.

In forests, news does not travel through loudspeakers. It travels through time, through wind, and through the unspoken knowledge that one somehow always notices what happens to one’s neighbors.

Arum was quiet for a long time. Then he said, more softly than usual:

“So… maybe in terms of the run for carbon in the forest, it is not only everyone for themselves after all.”

Paris let a patch of sunlight rest on their leaves, as if it were a small medal.

“I make my sugar”, she said. “Really. I am not lazy. But I do accept help when it is there. I am… well connected.”

Beneath the ground, in thousands of fine threads, the fungi responded with their dry, underground smile.

“Discreet”, they said.

“Very discreet.”

And the forest did what it does best. It went on, with light and shadow, and with a network no one can see, but which holds quite a lot together.

This story was translated to English by the author with the help of AI.

The study

Giesemann, P., Rasmussen, H. N., Liebel, H. T., & Gebauer, G. (2020). Discreet heterotrophs: green plants that receive fungal carbon through Paris‑type arbuscular mycorrhiza. New Phytologist, 226, 960–966. https://doi.org/10.1111/nph.16367

Connection between story and study

We learn at an early age that green plants ‘make their own sugar, and sugar building blocks are essential for their survival’ – thanks to photosynthesis. The study shows that some green forest plants (primarily orchids, but not exclusively) can also obtain carbon via fungi – in other words, energy that does not come exclusively from the sunlight they absorb themselves.

Two forest species with different forms of so-called arbuscular mycorrhiza (Arum type vs. Paris type) were compared. Stable isotopes in leaves (including 13C and 2H) were used to determine whether the carbon came ‘as usual’ from photosynthesis or whether a proportion could be attributed to fungal partners. Paris quadrifolia showed significant isotopic enrichment and was classified as partially mycoheterotrophic: the model estimated ca. 48% of carbon to be of fungal origin. Arum maculatum and the majority of neighbouring plants, used as ‘reference plants’, did not exhibit this pattern and appeared in the data to be completely photoautotrophic. The findings suggest that Paris-type mycorrhiza in green plants may be more frequently associated with ‘shared’ fungal carbon than previously thought. This closes the gap and forms an evolutionary continuum with fully mycoheterotrophic plants, which do not carry out photosynthesis and obtain all their sugars from the fungus. This would alter our understanding of forest nutrient flows and underground networks in plant communities; however, its widespread occurrence could spark a controversy.

The short story reveals the invisible: a green plant does not merely live off its own ‘sun-sugar’, but also obtains carbon (= sugar) via fungi – which is precisely what the study describes for Paris quadrifolia. As a point of contrast, there is a plant that remains ‘classical’ and obtains all its carbon through photosynthesis (similar to Arum maculatum). A dialogue ensues.

The author

Philipp holds a PhD in biology. His research focused on the symbiotic relationship between plants and fungi, particularly mycoheterotrophy. To uncover different ‘plant feeding strategies’, he primarily used the method of isotope mass spectrometry. Philipp has been working at the Joachim Herz Foundation since 2021, supporting science, research and knowledge transfer through various projects.

Wed, 15 May 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Discover how the soothing sounds of healthy reefs can lure fish back to damaged coral habitats, sparking a new way to restore underwater ecosystems.

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The short story

Can you find the story in the dance? :)

Once upon a time, in the vast underwater world, coral reefs faced a big challenge. Humans had unknowingly caused great damage to these vibrant underwater cities, leading scientists to search for innovative ways to protect and restore them. One thing was clear: keeping fish populations strong could help prevent further reef decline. But there was a catch - damaged reefs didn’t sound or smell appealing to young fish looking for a new home.

To find a solution, a team of researchers set up a six-week experiment. They played the soothing sounds of healthy reefs around damaged coral patches, hoping it would attract more fish. And guess what? It worked! The reefs playing the healthy sounds had twice as many fish and 50% more species than the silent, untouched areas nearby.

This boost was seen across all kinds of fish, creating a lively, balanced community. The scientists believed that by combining this clever “acoustic enrichment” with other reef restoration efforts, we could help rebuild fish populations and speed up the recovery of coral reefs. So, by simply bringing back the music of a thriving reef, these researchers found a new tool to restore these precious underwater worlds.

This story was originally written in English and without any help of AI.

The study

Gordon, T. A., Radford, A. N., Davidson, I. K., Barnes, K., McCloskey, K., Nedelec, S. L., … & Simpson, S. D. (2019). Acoustic enrichment can enhance fish community development on degraded coral reef habitat. Nature Communications, 10(1), 5414. https://www.nature.com/articles/s41467-019-13186-2

Connection between story and study

Climate change and human impacts are causing widespread damage to coral reefs, demanding new management strategies. Maintaining healthy fish populations is crucial for reef recovery, as they play key ecological roles. However, degraded reefs often lack the sensory cues needed to attract juvenile fish. This study explores using “acoustic enrichment” (broadcasting healthy reef sounds) to attract young fish and aid reef restoration. Experiments on Australia’s Great Barrier Reef demonstrated that reefs with acoustic enrichment had double the number of juvenile damselfish (a key family) compared to control reefs. Moreover, the enriched reefs had healthier fish populations across various feeding guilds, with improved abundance, species richness, and diversity. These results suggest that acoustic enrichment could be a promising tool to complement existing reef management techniques. Further research is needed to understand its effects in different contexts, impacts on adult fish, and long-term benefits for natural settlement.

The author

Kohinoor holds a PhD in Cognitive Neuroscience and explores the cognitive mechanisms of social interaction and aesthetic appreciation. She’s a trained Indian classical dancer who blends dance and neuroscience in her work. Find out more about her on her website.

plants | Science and Fiction

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The short story

The study

Connection between story and study

The author

Content warnings

The short story

The study

Connection between story and study

The author