The Crest

by Jerena Tobiasen

  “Where’s mine, Papa?” Gerda asked, jumping up and down with impatience.

  “Here,” Gerhard said, handing her the smallest basket. “Go with your mother. She’s the best mushroom hunter. Boys, don’t go further than you can hear us talking.”

  “Yes, Papa,” they said together and headed into the brush.

  “What are you going to do?” Emma asked, holding her hand out to Gerda.

  “I’m going to stay right here. That tree,” he said, pointing at the injured oak, “is about to part company with some brackets.”

  Gerhard placed his wicker basket at the base of the oak tree, removed his jacket, and reached for his spatula. Setting to work, he gently tickled brackets from the tree, marvelling at how easily they came away. It’s as if they’ve been waiting for me!

  One of the brackets was bigger than anything he had ever seen. As it peeled away from the tree trunk, Gerhard’s heart began to race. Mein Gott, this could be the one that wins the prize!

  Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he braced himself to take the weight of it. His hands shook, betraying his excitement. I’m glad I kept the largest of the baskets for myself. It will easily hold this bracket. Perhaps even a few more.

  When the basket was full, Gerhard gently tugged a piece of cotton fabric from inside the basket until he had enough of it free to cover the contents. He bent his knees, gingerly embraced the basket, and slowly rose, feeling his body protest against the weight. As he manoeuvred the sizable basket, he waddled toward the cart. Mein Gott, if I were a betting man, I’d say this monster weighs close to forty kilograms! I’ve heard they can reach that weight, but would never have believed it possible. Until now!

  Soon, Emma and the children returned with brimming baskets of their own.

  “I didn’t bother looking for chicken of the woods,” Emma said. “I expect that you collected enough for all of us. Gerda and I found some lovely chanterelles.”

  “We didn’t either,” said Paul, Gerhard’s eldest son. “We thought we’d have a better chance of winning with these.” He held up his basket filled with pig mushrooms, and Arthur proudly displayed the stone mushrooms in his.

  “Clever boys,” Emma responded. Her sons grinned at her praise.

  “I’m glad I brought the cart,” Gerhard said. “There’s no way I could carry my collection, and you all have full baskets, too. Boys, help me organize it. You may have to lend a hand to get this thing moving.”

  When they returned home, Emma took Gerda into the house. “Boys, help your father store the mushrooms,” she said. “When you come in, the midday meal will be on the table.”

  The boys helped Gerhard manoeuvre the cart into the cellar and gently place the bursting baskets on a special shelf built for just such treasures. Each basket was labeled with the name of the collector, just in case the fungi in it happened to be the winning collection. Tomorrow would be the day of telling.

  A walk in the forest, fresh air, the anticipation of a fall fair, and the possibility of winning a prize was enough to exhaust everyone, including Gerhard. They all slept soundly that night, each with their own dream of winning the prize for best mushroom.

  The following morning was a cacophony of sound and activity as everyone prepared for a day at the fair. Gerhard hitched a plough horse to a flatbed wagon. He had divided the deck into two portions. Under the driver’s bench, he safely stashed the baskets, including a large picnic basket packed by the cook with sufficient food and necessities for the day’s outing.

  An assortment of blankets and other articles that might be needed throughout the day—hats, shawl, mittens, and coats to keep them comfortable—held the baskets secure. At this time of year, the sun set earlier, bringing with it a damp chill. The blankets could be used for the picnic, and later to make soft beds for exhausted children on the ride home. The chill did not concern Gerhard. Emma would be snuggled next to him, after all.

  Time passed unnoticed by the Lange family. They were happily distracted by chatter, filled with anticipation and speculation.

  Presently, the wagon full of family and fungi approached the gates of the 1928 Fall Fair. It was mid-morning, and the fair was well underway. Emma and the children planned to wander through the alley of travelling entertainers. She and Paul wanted to have their fortunes told, while the two younger ones hoped for mystery and magic.

  Gerhard grasped Emma’s waist with familiarity and helped her hop to the ground. The boys jumped down on their own, forgetting to help Gerda.

  “Papa, catch me!” Gerda hollered, jumping off the wagon bed. Gerhard turned sharply from Emma and caught his daughter mid-air.

  “Careful, my small one,” he warned, setting her safely on her feet and straightening her coat and hat. “Next time, be certain that I’m watching. I almost missed you. You could have been hurt.”

  “Yes, Papa,” she said, a look of petulance on her face.

  Gerhard climbed back into the wagon and watched for a moment as Emma shepherded her brood safely down the alley.

  “Have fun,” he said. “I’ll find you later.” He waved them good-bye and flicked the reins.

  The wagon rolled on, following its horse to the fungus drop and weigh-in: a huge drive-through tent made by raising two tents with door flaps evenly matched side-by-side. By placing the tents so, drivers could roll their carts into the first tent to deposit their secret fungus collections, then roll through the dividing drop curtain to the next tent where other cargo—fresh vegetables, baked goods, preserves, crafts, and the like—could be deposited. From there, the goods would be distributed in small hand carts, hauled by volunteers, to other parts of the fair.

  The deposit, weighing, and storage of the fungus collections was an interesting process, taken very seriously by all who participated in the competition, and even by those who did not. Everyone, to a person, religiously respected the process.

  Many waited in line, mostly men and a few women with horses, wagons, fungi, and other goods, for their turn in the secret tent. They called competitive remarks to one another, each bragging about their winning entry.

  Finally, Gerhard was motioned forward. He flicked the reins, and the horse leaned into the pull. The curtain closed behind the wagon and an officious-looking marshal approached him. “What goods have you today, sir?” he asked.

  “Oh, you know: the usual children’s collections. My wife found some nice brackets worth looking at,” he offered, but he said nothing of his own basket, the last one to be drawn out and weighed.

  Gerhard held his excitement in check as each basket was gently weighed, first in aggregate after noting the name of each fungus collected, then, after ascertaining the largest single piece, its weight and type. Each basket was labeled with the contestant’s name and placed reverently on shelving built for the competition.

  Gerhard looked around him, noting the several constables posted strategically to ensure that no tampering would occur during the competition. The air was pungent with the fragrance of earthy fruit, kept humid by the weight of the tent fabric and its closed curtains. Only one lantern was permitted to cast light for the marshal’s task.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ENTERTAINMENT ALLEY THRUMMED with activity: travelling musicians, singers, actors, and readers. The smell of fall and aromatic foods filled the air—roasting meats, quick breads, and sweets.

  “Where shall we go first?” Emma asked.

  “Candy?” Arthur, her youngest son, asked with a hopeful grin.

  “It’s a little early for candy,” she said, guiding her children toward a group of musicians dressed in colourful costumes and playing lively music. A crowd had gathered to listen. She and Paul stood the small children in front of them, and they clapped their hands in time with the beat.

  When Gerda and Arthur began fidgeting, Emma moved them along.

  “Paul,” Emma addressed her nine-year-old son, “you said you wanted to have your fortune told.”

  “Yes, Mutti,” Paul replied with enthusiasm.
“Look over there. The wagon with the gold paint. That lady doesn’t appear to be occupied.”

  Holding Gerda’s hand, she guided her sons toward the wagon. “Hello,” she said to the woman as they approached. “We’re the Lange family, and some of us have come for a reading.”

  “And who will have a reading?” the woman asked.

  “My son Paul and I will, please,” Emma answered. “You go first, Paul. When it’s my turn, you can watch your sister and brother.”

  Paul dipped his head, acknowledging his mother’s instructions.

  “I am Rosalee, Master Paul,” the woman said, inviting him up the stairs and into the wagon.

  The boy followed Rosalee into her reading wagon, marvelling at the bright colours of her clothing and the copper disks sewn into her skirt. They tinkled like music as she moved.

  Rosalee closed the door and directed Paul to a chair, then filled the dark interior of the wagon by lighting candles and incense.

  Very mystical, Paul thought, watching her prepare.

  Rosalee sat opposite him. A table covered with a red-and-white checkered cloth stood between them. In the centre of the table rested a crystal ball mounted on a golden base. To Paul’s left sat a square of black cloth, something bulging beneath it.

  Rosalee lifted the crystal ball and its base, and placed it on the table to his right, covering it with the black fabric. She retrieved the stack of tarot cards that lay exposed and shuffled them. She gazed at Paul with sincerity. He relaxed, resting his hands on his knees.

  “Have you any concerns today, young sir? Any questions for the cards?”

  Rosalee fanned the cards on the table before her and the reading began. Sometimes she exposed a card, sometimes she dealt them. She invited him to ask questions, and when he did, she asked him to choose cards. She then placed his choice on the table and interpreted the answers.

  “I see you come from a powerful lineage,” Rosalee remarked at one point. “You will be an inspiring leader in a conflict to come, and a hero to your people one day; but before you are called a hero, you will see much danger: much death and horror. You must take great care, or you, yourself, will die.”

  “Shall we ask the crystal ball if there is more in store for you?” she said cheerily, as if her ominous prediction had never been made.

  Before Paul could answer, she folded the cards and returned them to their original location, covering them with the black cloth. Rosalee placed the crystal ball between them again and sat quietly for several moments, her focus on the crystal ball. Paul looked about him, contemplating the interior of the wagon and Rosalee’s warning.

  “Ah!” Rosalee lifted her head and smiled, her dark eyes shining in the candle light. “I see that you will have three children and the youngest – a son – will have great adventures.” She frowned. “But, alas, love will break his heart.”

  “Does it say why?” he asked.

  Rosalee shook her head.

  “Curious,” Rosalee muttered to herself, “eyes like melted dark chocolate.”

  “Pardon me?” Paul asked, leaning toward her.

  “Do you know anyone with eyes the colour of melted dark chocolate?” Rosalee demanded. Puzzlement and fear appeared to shadow her face.

  “Aside from you, no,” he answered. “Will I?”

  “That is not for me to say,” she said abruptly, before adding, “The reading is over for today, young master. The crystal has gone silent.”

  “But, what about those brown eyes?” he insisted.

  “I can only say that they will play a significant role in the future of your family. What that role might be, I cannot say. But you must take care!”

  Paul was shaken by her words. His thoughts clogged with churning questions.

  “The reading is over,” Rosalee said firmly, rising from her chair and indicating Paul’s way to the door.

  Paul left his payment on the table and thanked Rosalee for the reading. Outside, he hailed his mother for her turn, and wandered into the alley with his siblings in tow.

  “Watch for your father,” Emma hollered as she ascended the ornately-carved stairs painted red and gold. “And don’t wander out of sight. I need to be able to find you when I’m done.”

  Paul acknowledged her instructions and allowed the banter and curiosity of his siblings to lead him along the alley while he contemplated the curious predictions of the fortune-teller.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  WHEN THE BASKETS of mushrooms collected by his wife and children had been processed, Gerhard took a deep breath and reached into the wagon again, bracing himself for the weight of the last basket. He could feel beads of excitement trickle down his spine.

  Although the tent was warm and humid, and the shirts of the men within were stained with great marks of moisture, Gerhard knew that his was steeped with adrenaline. The winning kind.

  “Ho! That looks like a heavy one,” the marshal said. “You there … come and lend a hand.”

  In response to his bark, one of the constables approached. Between the three men, the basket was gently shifted from wagon to table. As Gerhard slowly peeled back the cotton cover, the others gasped.

  “I’ll need some help,” he said. “It was all I could do to get this monster into the basket without breaking it.”

  Each man cautiously slid his fingers in and under the fungus bracket.

  “Easy; we don’t want to break it,” the marshal said. “On three: one, two, three!”

  The three men braced themselves and lifted the awkward giant onto the scale. The pan of the scale fell sharply, and each man reached to steady it before it hit hard on the table.

  “Phew!” said the constable. “That was close.”

  “It wouldn’t be promising,” the marshal agreed as he stretched his back, “for my future as marshal of the Fairest Fungus competition if this prize smashed.”

  Gerhard knew that every man in that tent was sworn to secrecy. Nothing could be said of the specimens until the unveiling later that afternoon. They all stood with eyes bugged, mouths agape. Those on guard dared to step a little closer, as if to assure their eyes that what they saw was indeed real, then quickly returned to their posts.

  The marshal weighed the specimen, recording the weight and type. “It appears that all of the specimens in this basket are the same,” he said.

  “That’s correct,” Gerhard said. “The old tree was covered with it.”

  “What tree is that?” the marshal asked.

  “There’s a little glade at the back of our property,” he said with a glint in his eye. “Last spring an ancient oak was hit by lightning …”

  “… creating a perfect spore field,” the marshal completed the sentence, shaking his head in wonder.

  “Indeed,” Gerhard said.

  “Well then, Herr Lange, if that’s all you’ve got for us, you’d best be on your way. There are other folks outside waiting to have their monsters weighed, too.” The marshal smirked. “It may be a waste of time to process the rest, but I have a responsibility to see it done.”

  As with the others, the monster fungus was covered and stowed until the great reveal.

  Gerhard flicked the reins again, and the wagon jumped to life behind the steady horse. The curtains parted, allowing a breath of fresh air into the humid mushroom tent. The wagon moved forward into the next tent, where Gerhard deposited some contest entries—Cook’s preserves and Otto’s famous sausages.

  Customarily, Otto and his wife, Hildegard, would have brought the sausages themselves, but Hildegard’s mother was ailing, and they had gone off earlier in the week to care for her.

  Having deposited all of the contest entries, Gerhard drove the wagon to a field set aside as a wagon drop. He unhitched the horse and turned it loose into a fenced pasture, where other horses lounged and grazed on late sweet grass and hay.

  On foot, carrying the picnic basket and some blankets, Gerhard sought out his wife and children. It was time for lunch.

  Gerhard found hi
s family watching an ancient game called “kubb.” Kubb was rarely played except at exhibitions and fairs, and the faces of onlookers, including his wife and children, were filled with curiosity.

  “Papa, watch them play,” Paul said enthusiastically. “It’s similar to a game of horseshoes.”

  The other children were just as excited to see him, and told him of their adventures amongst the entertainers. Emma slipped her hand around his arm and leaned into him.

  “Missed you,” she whispered. “How did it go with the weigh-in?”

  Gerhard cast a soft smile at her. “The usual. You had some nice pieces that could give folks a run for their money.”

  “And yours?”

  “We’ll see,” he said, his mischievous smile telling more than he did. He squeezed his arm against his chest, pressing her small hand into him.

  She squeezed back and smiled coquettishly.

  “Let’s have lunch,” Gerhard encouraged, and marched his family off to the picnic area. They found a shady spot, and while the children helped Gerhard spread a blanket, Emma opened the basket prepared by the cook.

  Gerhard watched her covertly, remembering the first time she had opened a picnic basket for him and Otto more than ten years past. She is still as graceful as she was that day.

  Emma broke through his musings. “The cook has prepared a lovely basket for us. Come children. Find a spot on the blanket, and I’ll pass you something to eat.”

  They eagerly ate their lunch, their hunger piqued by the fresh air. Afterward, Gerhard and Emma tidied up the leftovers, then savoured a few minutes enjoying each other’s company and catching up on fair gossip.

  The younger children frolicked with their friends. Like a magnet, Paul migrated to a group of boys his own age and bantered with them. Gerhard noted the sun’s movement across the sky and checked his pocket watch.

  “The fungus judging will take place in an hour,” he remarked to Emma before calling the children back. They packed up the remnants of their lunch, returned it to the wagon, and wandered off to enjoy the fair, heading in the general direction of the fungus-judging tent.