The scent of exotic spices and dried herbs announced the merchant's arrival before Jukrit saw her. Through the morning mist came a fox pulling an elaborate cart, its wheels creaking under the weight of countless pouches, bottles, and mysterious wrapped parcels. But something was wrong—her russet fur hung dull and matted, her brush dragged in the dust, and her eyes held a desperate weariness.
"Please," she called out before Jukrit could offer a greeting. "You're the shaman of the waterfall sanctuary? I need your help."
Jukrit set aside the willow bark he'd been preparing. "Peace, friend. I'm Jukrit. Come, sit. You look as though you've traveled far."
"Marisol," the fox said, barely pausing to catch her breath. "And distance means nothing anymore. I could travel to the moon and back—it wouldn't matter. Everything I trade turns to dust. Everything!"
She pulled a beautiful woven scarf from her cart, pressing it into Jukrit's paws. "See? Count three sunrises. It'll be nothing but powder."
Jukrit examined the scarf, sensing no obvious curse or poison. "When did this begin?"
"Two seasons ago." Marisol's voice cracked. "I was the most successful merchant in three territories. Creatures would wait weeks for my arrival. Now..." She gestured at her full cart. "No one will trade with me. Word spreads. They call me the Dust Merchant."
"Tell me about your last successful trade before this started."
Marisol's ears flattened. "I... I'd rather focus on solving this curse."
Jukrit's whiskers twitched—his first hint that this puzzle might be more complex than simple spell-work. "The beginning often holds the key to the end. Please."
The fox began reluctantly. "There was an old rabbit, lived alone past the birch valleys. She had these seeds—silver morning glories that would bloom even in winter. Incredibly rare. Priceless, really."
"And you traded for them?"
"She was desperate," Marisol said quickly. "Her grandson was sick. Needed medicine. I had feverfew and goldenseal."
"Enough to cure him?"
A long pause. "Enough to... help."
Jukrit's tail swished slowly. "But not enough to cure him. And the seeds—how much were they worth?"
"That's not—" Marisol stopped, her mask of indignation crumbling. "Twenty times what the medicine was worth. Maybe thirty. I knew she didn't understand their value. She just saw pretty flowers."
"What happened to her?"
"I don't know. I left quickly. Trading routes to maintain." Marisol's voice had grown very small. "I heard later that other merchants wouldn't trade with her. Said she had nothing left of value. And the medicine..."
"Wasn't enough," Jukrit finished gently.
"I've tried everything!" Marisol burst out. "Cleansing rituals, protection charms, offerings at every shrine. Nothing works!"
Jukrit stood, brushing dust from his fur. "Because you're fighting the wrong battle. This isn't a curse someone placed on you—it's a consequence growing from a seed you planted yourself."
"So sanctimonious," Marisol snapped. "Easy to judge when you shamans live on donations and goodwill. The merchant life is harder. We have to survive too."
"I'm not judging," Jukrit said. "I'm diagnosing. Come. We're going to the birch valleys."
"What? No! I can't—what if she—"
"What if she what? Curses you?" Jukrit's gentle humor took the sting from his words. "Besides, you'll need to face her if you want this to end."
The journey took two days. Marisol grew quieter with each passing mile, her usual merchant's chatter fading to silence. When they finally reached the small burrow past the birch trees, smoke still rose from the chimney.
The old rabbit who answered the door was thinner than Marisol remembered, her silver fur more white now. But her eyes were sharp. "The Dust Merchant," she said flatly. "Come to trade more worthless powder?"
"Rose, I—" Marisol began.
"My grandson lived," Rose continued. "No thanks to your 'medicine.' A traveling healer gave us what we really needed. Cost me my winter stores, but he lived." Her eyes narrowed. "Those seeds I traded you? My grandmother's legacy. Planted one—turned to dust in three days. Just like everything that passes through your paws, I hear."
Marisol's legs trembled. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
"Sorry doesn't restore my grandmother's legacy. Sorry doesn't undo a trader taking advantage of someone's desperation."
Jukrit stepped forward. "What would?"
Rose studied him, recognizing the shaman's beads. "Nothing can restore those seeds. They were the last of their kind."
"But," Jukrit prompted gently.
The old rabbit's stern expression cracked slightly. "But an honest trade might start to balance things. The real value of what was taken for the real value of what was given."
Marisol's eyes widened in understanding. She returned to her cart, pulling out pouch after pouch—rare herbs, precious stones, bottles of extracted essences. "Take whatever equals the seeds' value. Take it all if you need."
"I don't want your current goods," Rose said. "They'll just turn to dust anyway."
"Then what?" Marisol pleaded.
"Time," Rose said after a long moment. "And truth. One day of honest work for every piece of silver those seeds were worth. Here, helping me tend what's left of my garden. And a promise—sworn before this shaman—that you'll never again take advantage of someone's desperation."
Marisol looked at her cart, her life's work. Then at her paws, already seeing the dust they'd been spreading. "I swear it."
Jukrit performed the witnessing ritual, binding the promise with sacred words. As he did, he noticed something—the scarf Marisol had given him three days ago was still intact, showing the first signs of lasting.
Marisol worked in Rose's garden for two full moons. She hauled water, pulled weeds, learned the true value of growing things rather than just trading them. Rose, though stern at first, gradually began teaching her which plants grew well together, how to read the weather, the patience required for seeds to sprout.
When Marisol finally left, her cart was lighter but her spirit somehow fuller. The goods she carried no longer turned to dust. Word spread slowly—the Dust Merchant had become the Honest Trader. Some creatures remained wary, but others began to trust again.
Seasons later, Marisol returned to Jukrit's sanctuary with a small potted plant. "From Rose's garden," she said. "She found one viable seed at the bottom of an old pouch. The silver morning glories weren't extinct after all. She wanted you to have this—said every sanctuary should have at least one impossible flower."
As Jukrit accepted the pot, its delicate silver petals catching the light, Marisol added quietly, "I make less profit now. Trade honestly, never exploit desperation. But somehow... somehow I sleep better."
"The best trades," Jukrit replied, "are the ones where everyone gains what they truly need."
The silver morning glory bloomed in Jukrit's sanctuary for many seasons after, a reminder that even the deepest wrongs could be transformed into wisdom, and that the true currency of the forest was trust—a treasure that, once lost, could only be rebuilt through patience, honesty, and time.
