The Ginseng Gnome

The Ginseng Gnome by Dominick Morrello

Terry stared at a letter from the bank asking for two months’ payment to keep his truck from being repossessed. He had tried to find work after being laid off from the lumber mill for two months, but no one was hiring. He even applied to work in the mines, something he said he would never do. Still no luck. Feeling hopeless, he invited his friend Steve over to build a bonfire and drink some beer. After bragging about past adventures and drinking themselves clearheaded, Steve belched, crumpled his beer can and threw it into the fire. “Terry, it’s ginseng season. Maybe we could find enough seng to catch up your loan.”

“Can you dig enough to make two truck payments?”

“If you find the right honey hole. Some people make a good portion of their income senging.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t went senging since I was eight years old with my grandpa.”

“You have any other options? I hate to see you lose that clunker of yours.”

“I guess not.”

“I will see you first thing in the morning.” Steve started wobbling down the gravel road. “I mean, at the break of dawn.”

Terry gave him the finger even though he knew his friend didn’t see him.

Steve threw his hand up in the air, returning the gesture, “back at you.”

Terry laughed and thought they knew each other way too well. He turned to go inside, allowing the screen door to slam behind him, stripped his clothes off and climbed into his bed.

At sunrise, Steve pulled the covers off Terry. “Let’s get a move on. Rise and shine.”

“Damn you,” Terry protested. “Why’d you do that?”

“We need a pick or shovel, not a big one, but we have to have something to dig with and some bags. Circle the wagons.”

“Please, just slow down a bit,” Terry complained.

Steve snickered and put a dip of Copenhagen in his mouth.

After a disorganized search to find his clothes and a cup of coffee, Terry and Steve threw some plastic bags, a pick and shovel into the back of his truck and headed into the mountains of West Virginia. Twisting and curving through the mountainous roads bordered by a mix of deciduous trees with a few pines scattered about, Steve directed Terry to turn onto an uneven dirt road. Terry looked at Steve skeptically.

“If you are going to find enough seng to pay up your loan, we have to get where no one’s been,” Steve answered.

The road was rough, and Terry’s truck bounced them from side to side and slid and spun its way forward. As they came around one sharp turn, a man standing in the road caused them to brake quickly.

The man startled, causing his belly to bounce up and down, and his brown eyes bulged with fear. He wore a black denim vest over a brown tee shirt that struggled to cover his stomach. The man had a brown, disheveled beard styled into a peak that hung down to his collarbone. He had on a naturally distressed red hat that covered his hair, except for the brown and gray tufts sticking out around his ears. He carried a brown burlap sack on his back as he waddled to the side of the truck.

“Whew, I thought you boys had me.”

“Sorry, we don’t know our way around these hollers. First time,” Terry answered.

“Please be careful.”

“Do you care if I ask what you have in the sack?” Steve asked.

“Just some stuff I have been foraging: roots, moss, fruit, seeds.”

“Steve and I plan to do some ginseng hunting. You know where a fellow might find some seng out here?”

“Sure, if you drive around the bend there and walk to the top of the ridge, one might find some seng. Just be careful not to harvest the seng at the bottom of the mountain. It’s young and won’t bring you much at the market. Be sure you make it out of the woods before night comes.”

“Why is that?” Terry asked.

“Normal stuff. Bobcats, bears, and coyotes.”

Steve pulled a pistol out of his pocket.

The man’s brown eyes bulged again. “That will help with the critters, but in the evening, these mountains tend to fog up. It could cause a fellow to get lost.”

“Okay. Thank you, sir.”

“Remember to always replant the berries so we have some seng next year.” The man turned to the side of the road, parting the brush with his walking stick. His red hat appeared to sink into the ground as the old man lowered himself down a steep slope. Then he disappeared as if the brush had swallowed him up.

Terry and Steve progressed down the dirt road until they found a wide spot to pull over. They got their plastic bags, pick and shovel and prepared to ascend to the ridge the old man told them about.

“Damn, that seems like a steep climb.” Terry complained.

“Terry, hunting seng is not an easy job, but if you can find that honey pot, it pays well.” Steve spat tobacco and headed into the brush.

It didn’t take long for Terry to start panting for his breath and wiping sweat from his brow. Within minutes, his white t-shirt had dark circles under his armpits. Steve used the pick as a walking stick to help him, but the soil was moist, making it difficult to make much progress. Unexpectedly, Steve’s foot slipped on some moss, sending him tumbling down the hill.

He brushed the dirt off himself and used a stump to push himself back to his feet. “That man had better be telling us the truth,” Steve stopped mid-sentence to brush the mud off his jeans. “We had better find some seng at the top of this mountain. Holy be! Look over there. That’s a nice seng plant.”

“You heard the man. We have to get to the top of the mountain before we start digging.”

“Terry, this is a three pronger. This is not a young plant.” Steve pulled three berries off the plant. “Here, put these in your bag. We’re going to make our own honey pot behind the house.”

Terry put the berries in his plastic bag and handed Steve the pick. Then sat patiently as Steve dug carefully around the plant so he didn’t break the root. When he finally got the root from the ground, he held it up to the sunlight that speckled through the trees.

“How much will that bring at the market?” Terry asked.

“We’ll have to dry him out first, but a good penny.” Steve smiled and pointed across the forest hill. “Over there’s a couple more.”

Ginseng fever took hold of them. They became so excited and hyper-focused on digging and filling their sacks that they forgot to mark their path. They had found their honey pot and nothing else mattered. Unable to stop, they kept digging, losing track of time and their location. The sun began casting weird shadows as it began its drop behind the mountain. The forest started to look different; shadows moved across the ground as the wind blew through the branches.

“Is your bag full, Terry?” Steve groaned as he held his lower back.

“As full as I can get it. I put a few roots in my pocket, but they broke.”

“Well, I am tired. Maybe it’s time to head back to the truck. We have more than enough. Let’s get home.”

“Which way to the truck?”

“What do you mean, which way? It’s over there, right?”

“I guess. I don’t know.”

They began walking, and at times, sliding down the mountain. The underbrush appeared to become thicker as the sun continued its descent from the sky. The forest looked different: thicker, darker, and seemed to be close in on them. They struggled to keep branches from snagging holes in their plastic bags, causing the roots and berries to fall back to the ground. To complicate matters, a dense fog developed, making it harder for them to keep their bearings.

A root grabbed Terry’s foot, causing him to stumble headfirst down the slope. His bag of ginseng launched through the evening sky, scattering half of the bag’s contents across the ground. “Shit.” Terry plodded down the mountain until he found his plastic bag still half-full of roots. He scurried through the woods, brushing through the leaves and twigs, trying to find the lost roots, but the lack of light made it almost impossible to see.

“Shit!” Terry screamed. “Steve, where are you?”

“Right behind you.”

“Where’s the truck? We should have been there by now. Get me out of this place.”

“Calm down, we still have enough to pay up your loan. Just calm down and think. We should have paid attention and marked our trail.”

“You mean we’re lost. Lost! Tell me we are not going to have to sleep out here.”

“I think if we just keep going downhill, we will come to the road.”

Terry threw his hands up in surrender and started following Steve to what appeared to be a downward slope. The fog grew thicker. Steve almost walked headfirst into a tree, stopping just short of crashing, and Terry bumped into his back.

“Get off me, Terry.”

“I’m not on you,” Terry shoved him.

“You want to go?” Steve pulled back his fist but paused. “The truth is, Terry, I have no idea where we are. I don’t want to admit that, but we may have to stay in the woods tonight. With this fog. I can’t make any sense of where I’m going. I don’t know my right from my left.” Steve examined his bag, finding a big hole in the bottom of it. He flung it down on the ground. “I’ve lost most of my seng. This is a fucking nightmare.”

“Maybe we should just find shelter and wait until the morning.”

“Terry, do you see any shelter? I don’t see anything but soupy fog, and it’s making my clothes cold, wet, and heavy.”

Terry brushed past Steve. Trying to understand which was up and which was down, one foot in front of the other, but now the ground became muddy and stuck to their shoes. Fifteen minutes later, Terry recognized the tree that Steve had bumped his head against. “We’re going in circles. We need to stay put until the sun comes up or someone finds us.”

Wanting to cry, Steve shook his head, trying to hold back the tears. “I guess we don’t have much choice.” Steve knelt down putting his back against an oak tree.

Terry stood in place until he startled.

“You didn’t replant the seeds.”

“Steve, did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Someone’s out here.”

“Don’t go losing your mind, Terry. We have enough problems.”

“Okay.” Terry moved some leaves at the bottom of another tree before he planted himself next to it.

Steve spat tobacco on the ground and stared into the mist.

Then the form of the old man’s face appeared in the fog. “Plant the seeds.”

Steve pulled his pistol. “What the fuck, old man. Quit playing around and help get us out of here.”

“So, you heard it, too.”

“Did you see the old man? It’s the old man. That fat fuck is messing with us. If he doesn’t stop, I’m going to put a cap in his fat belly.”

“I didn’t see any old man. What do you mean?

“His face came out of the fog.” Steve raised his hand to his mouth and hollered. “It would be nice if you could get us out of this God-forsaken place, instead of fucking with us.”

“I told you to get out of the woods before dark.”

Steve fired his gun into the air. “That’s your warning. Next one’s for real.”

“Where are you, Steve?” Terry asked. “I can’t see anything in this fog. Where are you?

“Over here.”

“Where?” Terry shuffled his feet towards Steve’s voice. “Please keep talking, and I will follow your voice.”

“This way, over here.”

Terry continued towards Steve’s voice.

The old man’s vision came through the fog again, “Over here.”

Steve fired his gun, and a huge thud followed. “I got you, you son of a bitch. I got you.” Steve dragged himself through the fog and brush only to find Terry struggling for his breath and blood oozing through his t-shirt.

“Fuck, how can this get any worse.” Steve looked into Terry’s eyes. “Hang on buddy, we’re going to get out of this. We’re going to get home.” Steve pressed against the wound and looked for something to use as a bandage. “Don’t you give up, fuck.” Steve walked back to the oak tree, looked inside his bag, but there was nothing. No first-aid kit, no pieces of cloth, just a couple of ginseng roots. When he crawled back to Terry, he couldn’t find him. Only some scrambled vines, moss, and leaves. “Terry, Terry, say something. I can’t find you.” Nothing but silence. No birds. No critters. No old man.

Steve started crying, which made it even more difficult for him to see, but some how he made it back to the oak tree. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and his body started to shiver. He brushed the dirt off his arm and found it peculiar how dry and brittle his skin seemed. He put the gun in his mouth but came to his senses, dropping it to his side. His hair felt wet. He brushed his hands through it, clearing what appeared to be a spiderweb. Not knowing what to do, he stayed seated against as the oak tree as it began absorbing his body into it.

The next morning the old man walked through the forest, picking the moss off the logs and digging up a few roots. Eventually, he came upon the plastic bags and gun, but there was no sign of Terry and Steve. He picked up the ginseng roots and put them in his burlap sack. Carefully, replanted the berries and walked away. “They never learn. You don’t disrespect the forest.”