The lofty and substantial ceiling of bare branches softened and scattered the mid-morning sunshine into elegant patterns on the plants filling the vast sanctuary below. Grace wondered at the hubris of anyone who would raise a hand to destroy this.
“Happy birthday, Pops.” She raised her thermos full of hot sweet tea in salute and took a long drink. Pooka lifted his head, sniffed the air, then lay back down.
Spread out before her in the forest clearing that Pops had called the mountain’s cathedral was the vast ginseng bed Zachariah Woodruff had stumbled into over a century ago. At this time of year, when there were thousands of pale yellow leaves shivering above the rich mulch of the forest floor, it looked like a vast bowlful of gold. Acres of wild ginseng that had been growing and reseed
