Three hours into the hunt, my phone vibrates. “Final three,” the message reads.
I’ve nearly made it, nearly found Amanita sapientia, the priceless mushroom growing under the tree of wisdom.
I hear a whooshing sound and turn. An owl is flying straight at me. Shapeshifter! I duck and cast a paralysis spell. The bird hoots indignantly and drops to the ground. I gently place it on a tree stump and continue walking.
“Oi!” A squat, red-faced man approaches.
“Go away. Look for mushrooms,” I say, annoyance exaggerating my accent.
“You one of those Polish professional pickers?” he asks, instinctively prioritising xenophobia over his own best interests.
“Professional witch,” I drawl, flicking a palm his way.
Hedera helix, native British ivy, he’ll be pleased to hear, wraps him up tightly. He’s secure but not in too much pain.
Only then do I realise that I’m the only one left. I’m going to win! The tree of wisdom has to be close, what with the last three candidates all converging here.
Eyes on the ground, I methodically work my way from tree to tree. There they are!
I kneel, knife and basket at the ready, when a red squirrel jumps right in front of me. It chitters angrily, front paws firmly placed on the largest mushroom.
“Yours?” I ask. It takes an affirming bite, then looks up at me, surprised, proof that the mushrooms really do work.
“Yours?” I repeat.
The squirrel nods.
I cut the mushroom and hand it over. It hugs it close, staring over the cap, clearly assessing me. Satisfied, it climbs into my basket, mushroom and all, curls up and goes to sleep. All that new wisdom must be tiring.
I harvest the remaining mushrooms and leave, having won both the hunt and a rather endearing familiar.
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