Wild One

Content notice: swearing and sex

‘Naturally, we have placed some specimens here which could harm, or even kill you, if improperly handled,’ Guy said, with a wink.

Ottilie, Crispin and Jase all nodded knowingly, as if a statement followed by a wink set the whole thing out in black and white. I don’t do ambiguous statements, and dishy though Guy - our Chief Forager - may be, I wasn’t letting that one slip by.

‘What is that, a joke?’ I said, never one to mince my words.

Ottilie and Crispin startled, probably didn't expect an oik like me on a bougie little getaway like this.

‘Look, I came here for something true to life as it was,’ I said, ‘and I know I signed the form and all that, but don’t tickle my tits and call me Tiffany about whether you could kill me or not. Give it to me straight.’

A voice piped up out of the ether.

‘Shelley, try and mind your Ps and Qs!’

I looked around. ‘Who the fuck’s that? Who invited my mother?’

Jase sniggered.

‘You’ll be pleased to meet our AI companion, Briar,’ said Guy.

‘AI?’ Jase wrinkled his forehead. It was a sight to see - his buzz-cut head was all forehead. He gestured out to the landscape before us, the “curated ancient woodland” so proudly introduced to us by Guy only moments before.

We’d obviously knocked Guy off-script but to give him his dues, you could hardly tell. He almost had a chance of breaking through my charm-repellent.

‘Briar is a key safety feature,’ he said. ‘We aim for the Ancient Foraging Experience to have minimal intervention, and she helps us keep tabs without having to get in your hair.’

Even though he looked like a soap star who'd escaped into the wild, I wouldn’t have minded him getting in my hair, maybe just a bit. He carried on.

‘You shouldn’t notice the speakers, cameras - all the standard tech features. But she may occasionally -’

‘Stick her oar in.’

‘So to speak,’ he acknowledged. ‘Now, to recap.’

He paused, eyes to the sky, just for a moment. As he tilted his head, I spied a very small, flesh-coloured earpiece, tucked neatly in the hollow of his ear. I had a feeling Briar had more than one channel. I looked at the shadow on his bicep and decided I could live with that.

‘You have the weekend. Here at Foraging of Yore we want to focus on a very free experience. But remember: what you find must remain onsite. You’ll have to wow your dinner guests with your one-of-a-kind stories, not your ingredients.’ His gaze slid to Ottilie and Crispin. ‘I’m here if you want guidance. If not, you can locate the clues and information we have left within nature itself to help you unlock its mysteries, and I encourage you to do so. It’s a blast. But remember - true foraging is in navigating the dangers of the forest. And, to answer your question Shelley - there are real dangers here.’

He let the statement hang. Jase’s eyes widened. Ottilie and Crispin squeezed each other’s hand. He was smirking. He was so daytime TV.

‘This is your last chance for a pit stop,’ he said. ‘Ask questions, make friends, you never know, you may even want to team up out there.’

As if.

Ottilie and Crispin had their own lifestyle brand. That’s what they called it, though after I poked all the gibberish out of them, turned out they made gin.

‘We’re keen to diversify,’ explained Ottilie, like I cared whether she woke up in the morning and had crumpets or porridge. ‘We are so interested in heritage flavours -’

‘Preservation -’ Crispin snorted. ‘Sorry, sorry.’

He wasn’t.

‘I’m dying to try a bullace, or a greengage, or a service tree berry,’ she wittered. ‘The kinds you can’t get in the wild these days.’

Crispin caught Guy’s eye. ‘Don't worry! We, er, noted the commercial confidentiality clause. Just here to learn.’

Guy nodded. ‘I can sense none of you are troublemakers,’ he said. ‘You may be interested in our “rarest varieties” trail. It’s -’

‘No!’ Jase jumped in, waving his hands. ‘Not yet, not yet. I don’t want to know anything.’

‘Ah,’ said Guy, clapping him on the back. ‘Real man of the wild here, eh? Going in blind?’

Jase gave him an intense, wordless, stare.

‘There won’t be any handbooks when everything falls apart.’

We all stood in silence for a second.

‘Have you checked Amazon?’ I suggested, unable to resist.

He tried to stare me down, but I’m not scared of boys like him. Big man muscles probably pumped up on creatine and panic. The collapse of society - give me strength.

Guy kept things moving.

‘I’m guessing you won’t be staying in the cabins?’ he asked.

Jase shook his head.

‘Hammocks?’

Jase shook his head again. No bag, empty pockets. This guy was either special forces, or thick as two bricks.

‘Getting close to the earth itself. Nice.’ Guy turned to me. ‘And what about you, Shelley? What brings you here?’

‘Just wanted to get away from the kids,’ I said.

Well, it wasn’t that far from the truth. Just got sick of the screens, didn’t I? Never used to think I could do ten things at once until I got a little screen in my pocket, and then suddenly I’m wonder woman, but hey, I’m also biting my nails down so hard they’re getting infected, I’m overwhelmed by sound, but I’m not listening to a single bloody word. Can’t tune into anything.

I used to be a wild one, back in the day.

Come and experience the wild - the green and pleasant lands of the past. Nourish yourself from the fruits of the earth. Learn the ancient truths of our ancestors. Show yourself that you can do it: you can survive. We have an entirely customisable experience: from those who want to fly solo, to those who would prefer a fully guided weekend. Foraging of Yore is yours for total immersion: in nature, and in purer times.

All the guff about ancient truths didn't fly with me, but when I read it, I was feeling pretty undernourished. I thought - what the hell. It’s payday.

‘I can see you’re all raring to go,’ said Guy. It’s true that Jase was edging slowly towards the trees. ‘I’ll be here a while longer if you want me. And if you don’t - good luck. Ask Briar for help if you need it. Happy foraging!’

* * *

We all split immediately - I took the trees, Jase went into the hills, and Ottilie and Crispin followed the river.

I didn’t want to ask Guy or Briar for help straight away. I wanted to get out there au naturel. Problem was, much like in other areas of my life, I was falling back on my die-hard habit of “winging it”.

“Don’t worry!” all the literature had chirruped. “No need to do any homework! We’ll make things easy for you!”

Maybe if I stared hard enough, or touched loads of wood, something might ring a bell.

I dragged my hand along a low branch that cut across the path. Definitely not an oak… Beech? Hazel?

Boredom got the better of me.

‘What’s this, Briar?’ I asked.

‘It’s an oak,’ she said. Was I imagining the smugness? ‘If you’d like, I can guide you to our calmest copse. It sits in a naturally sound-softening bowl. Many participants find it restorative. Would that be something you’d like to do?’

‘Yes,’ I said sullenly. It was absolutely what I wanted to do.

She led me through the foliage, to a turn I’d never have taken, on a path which looked untrodden, to a small clearing. I stood in its centre, hearing nothing but the gentle brushing of the leaves, and the occasional tweet from a bird, singing like a summer morning from a hedgerow.

This was supposed to be it.

Bliss.

Instead, the hush was making me itch.

I thought of the kids, shrieking about snacks or screens or whose turn it was, and felt a release so strong it surprised me. Was I missing being clung on to like a buffalo being attacked by a pride of starving lions?

Nothing else for it. ‘Right, show me the berries, Briar.’

By the end of the morning, my hands and face were sticky and stained in smeared indigo. Wild strawberries, elderberries, cowberries, bilberries. Bilberries were my favourite: stubborn, sharp, tiny little bursts, but they leave a mark. Briar tells me that “In Wales and the West Country, the last Sunday in July or the first Sunday in August was traditionally known as Bilberry Sunday, when whole families would go into the hills to harvest them”. She says: ‘would you like to know about other local harvest events?’

I didn’t answer. I sat cross-legged by the bush, pinching berries loose, rolling them between my fingers, watching the skins split and bleed - purple inking across my hands.

‘Would you like me to suggest some herbs that pair well with the berries?’ asked Briar.

‘Nope,’ I said, chewing.

‘Perhaps I could share some traditional motifs for you to create artwork using the berry stains?’

I closed my eyes and breathed out through my nose.

‘Briar, get stuffed.’

I heard laughing behind me and jumped, which was stupid, because the whole place was meant to be idiot-proof.

Jase lumbered into the clearing. He leapt up, grabbed a tree branch, and started doing pullups. I rolled my eyes.

‘Jase.’

I nodded. He squinted at me.

‘... Susie?’

‘Shelley.’

‘Riiiight.’

‘She’s on at you as well, then?’ he said, jerking his chin at the ether.

‘Shouldn’t have asked her anything.’

‘They don’t mention her in the literature,’ he said. ‘I came here for something pure. Not for tips and a commentary while I’m trying to boulder.’

‘Give it time,’ I said. ‘When society collapses I imagine it’ll take the robots, and all.’

‘I might do something about the robots first, though,’ he said, and then he was off again, unencumbered by a single possession, or, it seemed, the handicap of giving one single fuck.

* * *

I had, technically, paid for a human guide. By mid-afternoon, after hours of fiddling about in the ferns and no conversation, that was starting to feel like money down the train. A missed opportunity.

‘Briar, where’s Guy? I want him.’

‘I can contact him for you,’ she said, pleasant as ever. ‘One moment.’

I straddled a tree trunk and waited. He appeared not long after, picking his way carefully over the bracken, the afternoon sun offering a flittering bronze sheen to his tan.

‘I want to find a cave,’ I said.

‘Afternoon to you too, Shelley,’ he said.

‘I want to go now.’

He blinked, then nodded, resetting himself. ‘Of course. The lady knows what she wants.’

Oh, and he knew it, too.

I held out my hand. ‘Steady me?’

It was him who looked unsteady, if anything, but I still felt a little something as our hands met. The buzz of sensing that he was corruptible. As we walked, he kept stopping, glancing around, touching his ear. Once or twice he spoke quietly, as though muttering to himself.

Maybe I wasn’t the only one around here asking for a little extra help.

The cave mouth was shallow but deliberate, stone catching the light. It curved just enough to shut the forest out.

‘There may be some funghi -’ he started.

‘Can Briar see in here?’ I whispered.

‘Yes,’ he said, nodding. ‘But I’m in charge.’

‘Good to know.’

I took off my top. I mouthed an instruction to him - short but unmistakeable.

He didn’t need telling twice. Next thing I knew I was being shagged up against a stalagmite.

Only the thing is, with every thrust, I think I wanted him less and less. Maybe it was the jagged bit of rock sticking in my back, or maybe it was the mechanical thrusting, but in all my life I’ve never felt attraction go so quickly over a cliff edge. I’d started out by wanting to eat him alive, and by the end - it was like when you shove in the cake then realise you’ve chomped down on the case as well.

He was earnest. Too serious. Bared his teeth, which were definitely veneers. I thought to myself - he doesn’t just look like an actor. He is one, and not a good one.

At least he was quick.

He stepped back, adjusted himself, pulled up his trousers. I looked at him with my arms folded.

‘Quick one,’ I said. ‘Hawthorns. You can eat them raw, can’t you?’

‘Are hawthorns edible raw,’ he said, as though considering it. He gave an expression which said: I’m thinking. He cleared his throat. He said ‘hmm’, thoughtfully. He “thought” for a long time.

Eventually he said: ‘No no, I don’t think so. Shelley, I’m really sorry, I think there’s an issue I need to deal with.’

He was already turning away.

‘That’s great,’ I called after him. ‘Thanks, Guy.’

When he was out of earshot, I asked: ‘Briar?’

Nothing.

‘Briar, can you show me to Ottilie and Crispin?’

No response at all - so that was why Guy was in a flap.

As I left the cave, I ran my fingers along the wall. It was consistent in a way rock usually isn’t. The cave sat neatly inside the hill like a fitted drawer.

I wanted a word with the gin twins.

Look, now. Those two had rubbed me up the wrong way at first. But god knows if they didn’t actually seem like two people around this place who actually seemed like they might have a clue. Maybe I was just desperate for an actual connection.

Without Briar nosing me in the right direction, it took a while. I headed back in the direction I’d seen them go - ended up doubling back twice, following the wrong stream.

They were by a small waterfall, crouched low, heads together, examining a hedge that looked, to me, like a hedge. Ottilie had something out - a slim metal instrument - while Crispin held a notebook open on his knee.

They looked studious. The contrast between us couldn’t’ve been plainer. Me in baggy-kneed leggings and an old t-shirt with a bleach stain on the hip, them in their North Face gear, a million straps, gadgets - Ottilie looked like she’d been dunked in a hardware shop head-to-toe in magnets. They clocked me and immediately stopped what they were doing.

‘Foraging of Yore,’ I said. ‘Who made it.’

Crispin glanced at the trees. ‘Hard to say. Contractors. Designers. Heritage consultants.’

‘Who owns it.’

They looked between each other, neither seeming to give the other permission.

‘BlueberryCorp,’ Crispin said at last.

‘BlueberryCorp,’ I repeated. ‘And they are?’

Ottilie opened her mouth, closed it again.

‘Briar’s gone quiet,’ I said. ‘If you’re worried about being overheard. I have good reason to believe Jase dunked her in a stream somewhere.’

Crispin raised a finger. ‘I don’t think you can dunk -’

‘I never said I was the expert,’ I said. ‘But even Guy can’t hear her any more.’

Ottilie tried anyway. ‘Briar?’

Nothing.

‘So, BlueberryCorp?’ I asked.

‘It’s a … multi-national corporation,’ said Crispin. ‘Mostly deals in blueberries.’

‘No shit.’

‘That bit’s obvious. Their investment in tech, less obvious.’

By this point, I thought I had an idea about why it might be more obvious, but I didn’t interrupt.

‘They’ll never sell any of this.’ Ottilie motioned to the hedge which looked like a hedge. ‘This fruit is sour, small, doesn’t grow in the States. And now you can’t find it. Most young people have forgotten it exists.’

‘Can you take it, grow it?’ I asked.

‘Not if they can prove it’s their variety,’ said Ottilie, but as she spoke, she was nodding.

These two were craftier than they let on.

‘Do you really own a gin brand?’ I asked them.

‘Regrettably, yes,’ said Crispin.

‘We’re not good businesspeople,’ said Ottilie. ‘Otherwise we’d do what’s convenient. This? This is inconvenient.’

I watched water from the stream slide over stone, clear and constant. Probably pumped in from somewhere unseen.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if you’ll ever get me drinking hawthorn gin, but I’m great at being inconvenient, and I do like to put a bit of flavour into the world. Whilst we’ve got the edge on you-know-who - do you need any help?’

There was a beat, which crucially, wasn’t a no.

‘You didn’t come here to meditate,’ I said. ‘This is a one time offer. Do you need me or not?’

‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘They’re quite fond of lawsuits.’

‘Just shut up and give me that plant snipper,’ I said, indicating the tool she was holding.

As Ottilie talked me through the process - cut here, not there, never mix samples, hide it like this - I thought about how much else I’d learned like this over the years. What to say. What not to ask. Which bits to savour. Which to abandon, the flavour never to be tasted again.

I looked at my fingers, stained purple. Gleefully unfamiliar.

Some fruits are forbidden; others are forgotten on purpose.

Well, fuck that.