The Crystalberry Harvest of Moonridge
By Micah Siemens
In the lavender valleys of Moonridge, where the air always smelled faintly of hopeful pollen and night magic, there grew the famed crystalberry orchards. Every year, for one day only, the berries ripened all at once, glowing like bottled starlight on thornless vines. If left unpicked, they tended to pop into harmless bursts of color—which was lovely unless you valued having eyebrows.
At the center of these orchards lived Mistress Bramblethorn, a practical woman with a wide sun-hat, a walking stick of polished oak, and an impressive collection of aprons. Though not affiliated with any guild, she commanded great respect for her steady hand and sound judgment.
Crystalberry Day was her busiest time of year.
When dawn shimmered over the valley, she stepped outside with her basket and surveyed the orchard. The berries shone softly, as though winking to get her attention.
“Ah,” she said. “Already glowing like gossip at a wedding feast. I’ll need help.”
Outside her gate stood a familiar group of unguilded laborers who often gathered at what locals called the Waiting Tree—a huge willow whose branches whispered rumors about the weather.
Four workers waited there:
• Henrick, stooped but strong
• Dalla, nimble with a laugh too loud for mornings
• Marn, steady as a mule and twice as quiet
• And Finch, who could talk to berry bushes whether they wanted him to or not
They brightened when she approached.
“Mistress Bramblethorn!” Henrick called. “Are you hiring today?”
“I am,” she answered. “I need hands for the harvest. A full day’s wage for each of you, if you work until dusk.”
The four exchanged quick, grateful glances. A day’s wage was fair. On Crystalberry Day, it was generous.
“We’ll take it gladly,” Dalla said.
“Then come,” Mistress Bramblethorn said. “The berries won’t pluck themselves today — at least, I hope they won’t.”
The dawn crew entered the orchard. They worked diligently, filling baskets with the shimmering fruit. As the sun climbed, the berries grew brighter, shimmering beneath layers of morning light.
By midmorning, however, a surprising thing happened.
The berries began to hum.
It wasn’t a dangerous sort of hum — more the sound of contented bees on vacation — but it did suggest the berries were ripening faster than usual.
Mistress Bramblethorn frowned. “Oh dear. If they ripen too quickly, they’ll burst before dusk.”
She grabbed her hat and hurried toward the Waiting Tree. A second cluster of workers had gathered there, newly arrived and hopeful: a lanky orchard runaway with a missing shoe, a middle-aged bookbinder whose hands were clearly not used to picking anything but pages, and a seasoned herbalist carrying a basket of questionable mushrooms.
“Mistress!” they said, almost in unison. “Any work?”
“Yes,” she replied. “My harvest is ripening faster than anticipated. If you work until dusk, I will pay each of you a full day’s wage.”
They accepted immediately—of course they did. Day-work in Moonridge didn’t come often, and Mistress Bramblethorn was known for paying exactly what she promised.
Together the midday workers followed her back. The orchard was busy now, baskets filling quickly. The dawn crew welcomed the extra hands, for their fingers were already sore.
By afternoon, things were going smoothly.
Until… a moon sprite sneezed.
Moon sprites did not generally sneeze. But when they did, the pollen they released caused every nearby crystalberry to shine suddenly brighter, accelerating ripening by an alarming degree.
The berries gleamed so brightly that several burst like tiny firecrackers, sending sparkles into the air.
“again!” Mistress Bramblethorn sighed. “I must hire some more.”
She rushed again to the Waiting Tree. This time only three individuals lingered beneath its branches:
• Bram, a troll-friendly fellow who insisted he wasn’t lost (though he was)
• A half-asleep traveling bard whose lute had only one string left
• And a small creature that looked suspiciously like a raccoon wearing a hat, standing on its hind legs and trying its best to look employable
Mistress Bramblethorn blinked. “Are you… seeking work?”
The raccoon straightened, nodded rapidly, and held up tiny hands as if to show they were ready for serious berry business.
The bard mumbled, “Work? Yes. Please. Anything but walking.”
Bram scratched his ear. “I guess I could help? I was told shade existed somewhere around here…”
Mistress Bramblethorn smiled warmly.
“If you’ll help me pick berries until dusk, I will give you each a full day’s wage.”
Their eyes widened—even the raccoon’s.
They followed her back for the final hour of harvest, each contributing in their own way:
• Bram’s large hands plucked whole clusters of berries at once (sometimes too enthusiastically).
• The bard played his single-stringed lute to “encourage ripening,” though it mostly encouraged birds to flee.
• The raccoon proved shockingly efficient, scampering up trunks and depositing full handfuls of berries into baskets before anyone could blink.
Dusk finally rolled over the hills, its violet glow deepening the orchard’s shimmering light.
“All right,” Mistress Bramblethorn called, “that’s enough. Thank you, all of you.”
She asked them to gather at the orchard’s edge, where she kept her purse of silverleaf coins — currency that shone faintly in moonlight and never tarnished.
Following the custom of her mother—and entirely confusing everyone present—she told them to line up with the last hired first.
The Payment
The last-hour workers stepped forward.
Mistress Bramblethorn placed one full day’s wage in each of their hands.
Bram stared.
The bard nearly cried.
The raccoon hugged the coins, then her ankle.
Next, the midday workers stepped forward.
To them too, she gave a full day’s wage each.
They thanked her profusely, surprised and delighted.
At last, the dawn crew approached. Henrick whispered to Dalla, “If she gave them a full day’s wage, imagine what we will receive for working all day!”
Marn nodded in quiet excitement. Finch twitched with anticipation.
But Mistress Bramblethorn placed into each of their hands… one full day’s wage.
Exactly as she promised.
The dawn workers stared at their coins.
Their excitement curdled.
“Wait,” Dalla said, “we worked through the morning—and the midday heat—and that humming nonsense—and the sprite sneeze!”
Henrick added, “We worked the longest! Why do they get as much as we do?”
Finch, who normally spoke only to plants, spoke now to Mistress Bramblethorn: “It isn’t fair.”
She folded her hands calmly, her voice warm but firm.
“My friends… did you not agree with me for a full day’s wage?”
They hesitated.
“Well… yes,” Henrick admitted.
“And have I not given you exactly that?”
They looked at their coins again.
“We… suppose so,” Marn muttered.
Mistress Bramblethorn smiled gently. “These coins are mine to give. If I choose to be generous to those who came late, why should that trouble you?”
The workers fell silent.
A sudden pop echoed through the orchard as a leftover crystalberry burst into harmless glitter above them. The display reflected off the silverleaf coins in their palms, turning the whole scene softly radiant.
Dalla sighed. “I suppose generosity’s not such a terrible thing.”
Finch nodded, speaking now to the berries: “She’s right, you know.”
“And besides,” Mistress Bramblethorn added cheerfully, “you all helped save the harvest. Without every one of you, we’d be up to our ankles in burst-berry glitter.”
At this, Bram chuckled.
The bard strummed his one string.
And the raccoon, seated proudly atop a crate, applauded approvingly.
The workers left the orchard not with more money than expected—but with the knowledge that Mistress Bramblethorn was generous and fair in her own way: true to her word, and kind beyond it.
As night settled over Moonridge and the crystalberries’ leftover glow faded to sparkles in the dark, the valley felt just a bit fuller—of light, laughter, and the simple sort of magic that comes from generosity freely given.
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