My parents pulled the car up to the gate and let the engine hum for a while in the cool September air. Billy stood on the faded path between the flowerbeds, his old rucksack the one with the little aeroplane patch clutched in his hands. Yellow leaves rustled all around, settling on his boots and catching on his heels.
Granddad shuffled out onto the porch, tipped his flat cap back and gave me a grin that deepened the lines around his eyes. I felt that something important was about to begin, not quite like any ordinary Saturday.
Mum kissed Billy on the crown of his head and gave his shoulder a gentle pat.
Dont muck about out there, alright? And mind what Granddad says, she said.
Of course, Billy answered, a little shy, glancing toward the windows where Grandmother had just flickered by.
When they drove off, the yard fell quiet. Granddad beckoned his grandson toward the garden shed. Together they chose two wicker baskets a larger one for himself, a smaller one for Billy. Beside them lay an old canvas tarp and a pair of rubber boots; Granddad inspected everything to be sure nothing would leak after the nights rain. He checked Billys jacket, zipped up all the fastenings and tugged the hood into place.
September is mushroomseason! Granddad declared with the confidence of someone whod read the forests secret calendar. The birchcap mushrooms are hiding under the leaves now, and the chanterelles love the moss near the firs. The honey mushrooms have started to turn up too.
Billy listened intently; he liked the feeling of being part of a real adventure. The baskets creaked as they carried their handles; his boots were a touch big, but Granddad only nodded the only thing that mattered was keeping the feet dry.
The garden smelt of damp earth and the faint linger of last nights campfire. A thin mist rose over the puddles along the fence; when Billy stepped on the wet leaves they stuck to his soles and left dark prints on the stone steps.
Granddad talked about past forays: how once, with Grandmother, theyd found a whole clearing of honey mushrooms by an ancient birch, and how important it was to look not just at your feet but all around, for mushrooms sometimes hide right beside the trail.
The road to the woods was a short ride down a country lane, past a field of strawcoloured grass. Billy kept close to Granddad, who moved at an unhurried, steady pace, cradling his basket against his hip.
In the forest the air changed fresh with sapwet wood and the sharp scent of moss under the pine roots. The ground gave a soft spring beneath a carpet of fallen leaves; somewhere off to one side, droplets fell from the branches onto the soil.
Look there a birchcap, Granddad said, crouching to point out a lightshaded mushroom. See the stalk? Its covered in dark scales
Billy knelt, brushed the cap with his finger cool and smooth.
Whys it called that? he asked.
Cause it loves birch trees, Granddad replied with a smile. Remember the spot.
They twisted the fungus free, split the stem to show its white, spotless interior.
Further on a tiny yellow chanterelle caught Billys eye.
Chanterelles always have that wavy edge, Granddad explained. And theyve got a distinct nutty smell
Billy gave the little cap a tentative sniff and caught a faint almond note.
What if its a lookalike? he wondered.
Fakes are brighter or scentless, Granddad said. We never pick those.
Soon the baskets grew heavier: a sturdy birchcap here, a clump of honey mushrooms sprouting from a fallen log there thin stems, tiny sticky caps with a pale rim.
Granddad taught Billy how to tell the real honey mushrooms from the impostors.
The false ones are vivid yellow or orange underneath, he showed. The true ones are white or a creamy colour down below
Billy loved finding each specimen himself, calling Granddad over to confirm. When he made a mistake, Granddad calmly pointed out the difference again.
Red flyagarics appeared, bright with white specks on the caps.
Those are beautiful, Billy said. Why cant we take them?
Theyre poisonous, Granddad said seriously. Just admire them.
He stepped around them carefully. Billy began to understand that not everything pretty belongs in the basket.
Every now and then Granddad would ask, Remember the differences? If youre unsure, leave it.
Billy nodded, eager to be careful, feeling the weight of responsibility for his own basket and for walking beside his grandfather.
Deeper in the woods, shafts of light pierced the low branches, throwing long ribbons of sunshine across the damp floor. It grew cooler; Billys fingers sometimes went numb on the basket handle, but the thrill of the hunt kept him warm. A squirrel darted past, birds chattered in the canopy, and somewhere ahead a twig snapped perhaps a rabbit or another forager on his own route. The forest felt like a living maze of trunks, moss, rustling leaves and muffled sounds. Even where the ground was carpeted with last years foliage, Granddad showed the best places to step so his boots stayed as dry as possible. Billy followed his lead, scanning every side for new mushroom patches, hoping one day to impress Grandmother with his haul. He felt like a proper helper, almost an adult companion, though sometimes he still wanted to grip Granddads hand for reassurance when the wind grew fierce or darkness fell between the trees, as if the woods were revealing their secrets only to the two of them.
One afternoon, between two towering pines, Billy spotted a cluster of orange spots on the moss. He moved a little off the path, crouched and examined it turned out to be a whole patch of chanterelles, just as Granddad had praised earlier. Joy surged through him; he filled his basket rapidly, forgetting to look around. When he finally stood, he was surrounded only by tall trunks, no familiar silhouette, no voice, just the soft murmur of leaves and an occasional snap of a branch. His heart hammered faster than usual. For the first time he was truly alone in the autumn woods, even if only for a moment. Fear rose, but Granddads words echoed: stay put if you lose me, shout loud Ill answer. He called out, his voice barely louder than his breathing, then a bit firmer:
Granddad, where are you? Hey, Im here!
A faint fog clung to the trunks, making each tree look the same, the sounds hushed. From the left a familiar voice called back:
Oioi! Im here, follow my voice, keep calm!
Billy drew a deeper breath, stepped toward the sound, called again, straining to be heard. His steps grew steadier, the ground familiar underfoot, and the fear eased as Granddad emerged from behind an old oak, smiling warmly, leaning against the trunk as if nothing untoward had happened. The forests chorus revived, and Billys pulse settled into a steady rhythm. He realised he could trust an adults words the way he trusted his own instincts.
There you are! Granddad patted Billy on the shoulder, his touch free of reproach, just quiet joy. Billy stared at the crinkled face that felt as familiar as his own bedroom. His heart still thumped, but his breathing evened with Granddad beside him he felt safe again.
Scared, lad? Granddad asked softly, lifting his basket.
Billy gave a brief nod. Granddad crouched to meet his eye level.
I once lost my way in these woods when I was a bit older than you, he said. I thought Id been wandering for hours, but it was only ten minutes. The trick is not to run blind; stop, call, and listen. You did exactly right.
Billy looked down at his mudsplattered boots, the bits of moss clinging to the rubber. He sensed Granddads pride. The lingering nerves slipped deep down, becoming just a memory.
Shall we head back? Its getting dusk, we need to get out before its dark, Granddad said, straightening his cap and gripping his basket.
Billy fell into step, almost shouldertoshoulder. Each crunch of leaf beneath his feet now felt like a familiar rhythm. Together they walked, the evening wind scattering dry leaves across the lane, and ahead the roof of their cottage peeked through the thin birch branches. The handles of their baskets bore dark streaks of wet grass; their palms tingled from the long walk, yet the pleasure of returning warmed them more than any strong tea could.
The house welcomed them with a soft glow and the smell of fresh bake from the kitchen. Grandmother waited on the step, a towel draped over her shoulder.
Oh, youve done well! Show us the catch! she exclaimed, helping Billy out of his boots, the soles still clinging to leaf litter, and took Granddads basket, setting it beside her own bowl for cleaning.
The kitchen was cosy, the stoves heat fogging the window in narrow streaks, only the dim glow of the garden lantern visible beyond the hedges. Billy perched near the table as Grandmother skilfully sorted the mushrooms birchcaps here, chanterelles there while Granddad produced his folding knife for the delicate honey mushrooms.
Even as night fell outside, the house felt especially snug. Billy listened to the adults chat about the days walk, relaying his own finds and how hed called out for Granddad in the woods. They listened attentively, and Billy felt hed truly become part of this family tradition. A kettle hissed on the stove, filling the room with the scent of fresh mushrooms and warm pastries. Outside darkness deepened, but inside it stayed bright, calm, and pleasant just the way it does after a small trial thats been faced together.
