Under the Sycamore

Down the lane and into the woods, past the edge of town there stands her hut. Goodie Grizzlecap left the fine folk of the village long ago to pursue the hermitic existence of a wood-witch, though is still very friendly and you should certainly visit her more often. Beneath an ancient sycamore tree sits the bulbous hut, sturdy of construction if ramshackle in appearance. The roof is graced with a great many pipes, into which falling seed pods are funneled. From thence, landing on various bells, chimes, and gongs, these sounds resound throughout the glade and inform Goodie of the wills and whims of the forest. Today rings clearly as an auspicious one as Goodie Grizzlecap sits at her gristmill, grinding besmutted rye berries to harvest their black, powdery goodness. Pungent of flavor and possessed of potent power, this fungus is an alchemical ingredient of the highest order. Soon the apprentices to the Auld Mage in town will arrive, each hoping to test their mettle at walking the fungal path and advance their own skills in the brewing arts.

The Argot Ergot is indeed a potent stuff. Harvested from malted grain, the spores of this fungus are known to bestow extraordinary communicative powers. Indeed, as the circle of apprentice brewers and mages begin their ritual dance, sounds of tongues from near and far can be heard. Today’s strain, it seems, may be one of the most powerful yet. The potions it produces may fetch a small fortune among dignitaries and diplomats as far away as Rixton in the Vale and Pernost to the far south. When Goodie finishes brewing this batch, she will have to immediately dispatch her speediest of messenger moles to deliver word to her whole network of couriers and vendors. Such a rare potion cannot be produced just any day…

nhale of the spores. Exhale all doubt. No greater is the clarity of mind than one can obtain from the pink woodland mold that grows on the husks of fallen Arkwood trees on the mountain slopes of northern Casterbreeland. Goodie Grizzlecap doesn’t walk quite so far or fast as she used to, so scrapings of this silken fuzz most often arrive in baskets brought by caravaneers in her employ. Today her stock is running low, but it should be enough to put the latest batch of apprentices through their paces…

Not all of alchemy and brew-craft is just the making of potions, oils, unguents, philters, balms, balsams, and salves. Indeed one of Goodie Grizzlecap’s most prized products is her finest quality ink for scrolls and manuscripts. For this, she carefully cultivates her own oak galls by inoculating small side-branches with a preparation of the very Argot Ergot from which her potions of comprehension are brewed. Harvested each autumn, these she then grinds and mixes with green vitriol, to be bound with beeswax and diluted in sour wine. After no less than three weeks’ maturation, this is certainly the most brilliant black pigment to be found anywhere in the counties Casterbrockland and Casterbreeland, and perhaps the finest as well in the lands of the tallfolk North and South. Blue is also available upon special request.

The hut is quiet, save for the sounds of Goodie stirring the vat. With a punch of strong powder in hand, she sings a small incantation in the language of bubbling cauldrons, “Bloop blup blup blup blub blop. Blup blupple blip bulp bloop blop. Glop. Bulble blipple gulp slop. Blup blup blup bloople. Blop.” For a moment she muses, “Now what was that last line? I never can remember it… Oh, well, I can always brew the antidote later…”

With rapt gaze and wide-casting hands, Goodie strews the broth with herbs as a pair of apprentices frantically rip and chop to keep up with her relaxed yet blistering pace. The broth rolls and seething steam bears vapors laden with sage and spring savory. Strains of fennel, hyssop, and rosemarine sing to the senses under lavender notes and spearmint. Another apprentice bustles through the door bearing bushels of thyme and kingsweed. Dill fronds adorn his visage as he peers over the piles of freshly-picked herbs. “Is this enough, miss? We've been through the garden three times now,” He asks, mildly exasperated. “Almost,” Goodie replies. “One more trip should do. We just need one more herb now, and I know just the one…”

“No finer can there be of forest edibles than the wrinkly-crinkly cups of the brown miracle. Fit for gods and men, and all food-loving ken, with butter in the skillet sings the noble morel. On your bread and with your meat, no better thing in spring to eat than the most savory fungus. E’en dried in fall, beloved by all, let none have the gall to doubt the miracle. Sing hi-ho-hey, sing hi-ho-hey, sing hi-ho-hey for the morel miracle.” -Written by an anonymous bard after a brief stay in Goodie Grizzlecap’s hut

Estragon, Tarragon, Dragonweed; many are the names of this saintly leaf, the king of all mushroom herbs. Goodie Grizzlecap needed not to utter its name for the apprentice to run off once again in the direction of the herb garden. Empty bushels clacked at his sides, waiting to be filled with brilliant green leaves. Time was of the essence and rain was in the air, so bunches of the tender stalks needed prompt gathering. Several other apprentices pitched in, and before long the bushels were full once again. Off the first apprentice sped toward hut, hearth, and cauldron as the mighty old sycamore shook free a few of autumn's last leaves. Soon the autumnfests would be upon them, and Goodie’s potions would need to be sat in neat rows of bottles to age and mature for next year. Besides, the apprentices all wanted to be safe in their homes before dark. This time of year is no time for being caught out in the cold, with the spirits and will-o-wisps wandering about…

“Fireglow, fireglow, amber bottle’s blessing. Fireglow and fiddlebow while we see to the dressing. In the pan the butter goes, and get thee to a-stirring. Heed the call, remember all, of what to do unerring. The spirit of the cider is the spirit of the feast. The harbinger of seasons from the west and to the east. For Casterbrock and Casterbree and lands which we call home, let none forget this song wherever we will roam. Come thee to the table and on mushrooms we now dine, with butter, cider, and estragon none are made so fine. Then when the dish is empty to your pipes and books and beds. Let none stray to the out-of-doors where soon arise the dead. Fireglow, fireglow, here’s to another year. Embers, embers, let them fade and have no fear.” -Traditional halfing song for Autumnfest, translated from the original Danduthric