The Twin Who Got The Ring And The One Who Got The Altar Chapter 09
I didn’t waste time.
The next day, I traded the white gown for regular clothes, packed my bag, and went to visit the elders who worked with mountain goods.
Old Man Jessup, who’d been dealing herbs for thirty years. Dottie Perkins, famous for her pickled morels -a family recipe passed down.
Uncle Gus, who farmed sweet potatoes on his mountain plot, a variety you couldn’t find anywhere else.
I went house to house, sat down for coffee, asked them where they sold, how, what they made in a year.
Old Man Jessup puffed his pipe. “Town pharmacy takes ‘em. They give us a price per pound, we take it.
No negotiation.”
for?”
“And what does the pharmacy sell them to the city
He thought. “Heard it’s higher, but don’t know the number.”
I wrote it down.
Dottie said, “City folks like my pickled mushrooms, but I don’t know anyone there. I send ‘em through a middleman. He takes twenty percent.”
“Twenty percent.” I wrote. “How much do you clear a year?”
She counted on her fingers. “After his cut, two or three thousand.”
I didn’t say anything–just wrote it.
Uncle Gus said, “Some city buyers came for the sweet potatoes once. But they never came back. We don’t know how to reach ‘em.”
I went home and spread my notes across the table.
The problem wasn’t the product. It was the market or lack of one. They were either stuck with low prices or had no buyers at all.
I’d thought about this in college. Back then, I assumed I’d be the one leaving, not the one coming back to fix it. But now this was my job.
I opened my laptop and started researching
produce platforms in major cities, organic market prices, herb wholesale rates. I worked until my eyes
burned, slumped over the desk to rest, then woke up and kept going.
Sera came in once, saw me working, said nothing –just quietly shut the window and left.
By day three, I started writing a plan. Not one of
those flashy proposals–just real, practical steps, what
the hollow had, where to sell it, how to sell it, first move, second move.
I wrote, rewrote, revised. Three drafts before I felt like it was ready to show anyone.
On day five, I went down to town and talked to a local shipping depot.
On day six, I took the two thousand dollars I’d saved from college jobs and registered an online storefront.
On day seven, I came back and took photos, Jessup’s herbs, Dottie’s morels, Gus’s sweet potatoes. The pictures weren’t great, but the descriptions were honest.
I wrote about where they came from, how they were made, the stories behind them. Thirty years of Jessup’s craft. Dottie’s two–generation recipe. The sunlight and soil on Gus’s land.
Week one–no orders.
Week two–someone bought a jar of Dottie’s pickled morels. Eighteen dollars.
When Dottie heard, she stood at her door, folding her apron over and over. “Someone really bought them?”
“Really,” I said. “I’ll ship it in a couple days.”
She went quiet, then lowered her head and wiped her eyes with her apron.
I pretended not to see.