Our First Forage

I rose before the sun had fully shaken the fog from the low places, when the woods still hold their breath and the birds speak softly, as if afraid to wake something older than themselves. This is the hour best suited to my trade. Plants do not hide as well in half-light, and the land is more honest before men begin trampling through it with boots and noise.

I carry no banner and wear no lord’s colors. My work is quieter. I walk the hedgerows, the creek bends, the forgotten margins where fields surrender back to green. There, the useful things grow. Not the loud, showy herbs folk brag about in taverns, but the subtle ones—leaves that soothe fevers, roots that steady the stomach, blossoms that carry memory and calm when steeped just right.

I never take more than the land can spare. That is an old rule, older than coin. A careless forager starves the ground, and a starved ground remembers. I cut cleanly, leave offerings of water or seed when I can, and mark places in my mind rather than with stone. The woods prefer to be remembered, not claimed.

Today I was hired in quiet words. No names spoken. Only a need: something rare, something natural, something that could not be bought in a market stall already handled by too many hands. I accepted as I always do. Not for glory, not for ownership of what I gather, but for the labor itself—the walking, the searching, the knowing.

By midday my satchel was heavier, fragrant with green life and damp earth. I had what was asked for. I did not sell the leaves or the roots. That is not my way. I sell the hours, the knowledge, the careful eye that knows the difference between what heals and what harms.

When the sun leaned westward, I turned back. The forest closed behind me without complaint. Tomorrow, it will look as though I was never there.

And that is how it should be.