The whispering forest

The rumour was true: there is a forest, an old and murmuring one, and things grow at its edge that grow nowhere else. The villagers do not pick there. Not forbidden, they say. Just polite to ask first.

Mutjo, who has no idea how one asks a forest for anything, brings what he has: a thermos, six bowls, and the Matji.

What follows is not exactly a conversation. The wind moves. The leaves argue softly. The Matji stand in their neat row and are, in some way Mutjo has given up trying to explain, understood.

They leave with a basket of green leaves that smell of rain and mornings — and the distinct impression that the forest expects them for tea next week as well. It gets it.