eyes again, the
effortless whispering returned. Sometimes it was no more than a beat under the
surface of life, a rhythm, an existential hum. Then it
was the versifying rustle again, which she knew must be the leaves in the
trees, but which was urgent in its desire to speak, to tell, to reveal. She had
opened a faucet on something shut down for a very long time, and now it would
not be closed off. It waited for the twilight between dozing and sleeping, and
then it began again, elusive, at the periphery of consciousness, but relentless
as a river.
The following day, with Alex at work and Amy at
school, Maggie set about cleaning up in the kitchen. The pan of dirty herb
water sat on the stove. She tossed the reeking remains into the sink where they
instantly formed a pattern on the stainless steel. A face suggested itself in
the mash of leaves; but Maggie had had enough of
clairvoyance for a while, and she rinsed the leaves away.
She did some washing, and when she
came to peg it out she found something dangling from the line. It was the
wooden doll on puppet strings which Ash had given Sam to play with in his shop.
Maggie couldn't think how Sam had managed to bring it home with him unnoticed,
but there it was. She took it down. It was an expensive toy, hand-carved and
brightly painted. She decided to return it, or even to offer to pay for it,
that afternoon. She also decided to show Ash the diary.
Fetching the thing from its hiding place, she began
leafing through the pages. It was a curious feature of the diary that she
continued to discover, here and there, pages of faintly pencilled entries she'd
previously dismissed as blank. As if the volume of contributions increased
every time she closed the book. Her eyes fell on an entry on the right-hand
page, dated 21st March. There was the usual list of herbs written in pen, and
underneath a pencilled entry in the same fastidious hand.
First day of spring, and so I have a one should any
ask me for help with a-courting. And why not, for I do love the
young, let them do, I being too old, well not so old but here it is, and it is
the handfasting . Gardenia for
harmony. Musk for passion. Jasmine
for love. Rose geranium for protection. Yarrow for seven years' love and to stop all fear.
Maggie read it again. It was almost
identical to the recipe given to her by Ash! Only the yarrow was different.
These being all essences, but for the yarrow, which
wants the dried herb, a pinch mixed with these essences. Then pour off into two
jars, and then each anoint the other from their own jar, by the moon, asking.
And after the seventh night, the remaining poured into one jar and both jars be hidden in some secret place. And there's the handfasting .
Maggie looked at the recipe sadly.
It would be fun to try, she thought, but the idea of coaxing Alex to agree to
join in a witch's love ritual, smearing each other with oil, depressed her. She
might as well try to persuade him to fly from the bedroom window after their
last spat. On the left-hand page of the diary, the previous day's entry, was another recipe:
Dwale . Now she is a harsh mistress. A. says she is my
lady, as she has my name. She is from the valley of shadows, and she stales
those who would use her. Sleeping, madness and death. The leaves soared in wine vinegar and pressed against the temples
brings sleep and eases intolerable headaches and agues. Two of her beautiful
berries might kill a small child. A. told me they once used her juice as
cosmetic — well she can keep it. Deadens pain of
childbirth. A. says now I must use her against my enemies. Dwale is sacred to Hecate and
should be picked May eve. It is one for the flying, as last night I found out.
God help me, for I may have come too far in this
The entry seemed to have broken
off. Underneath these words, and scrawled in another, barely literate hand, was
a further entry. Maggie had to turn the diary on its side and squint hard to
make it out.
Ha for there
ain't no turning
effortless whispering returned. Sometimes it was no more than a beat under the
surface of life, a rhythm, an existential hum. Then it
was the versifying rustle again, which she knew must be the leaves in the
trees, but which was urgent in its desire to speak, to tell, to reveal. She had
opened a faucet on something shut down for a very long time, and now it would
not be closed off. It waited for the twilight between dozing and sleeping, and
then it began again, elusive, at the periphery of consciousness, but relentless
as a river.
The following day, with Alex at work and Amy at
school, Maggie set about cleaning up in the kitchen. The pan of dirty herb
water sat on the stove. She tossed the reeking remains into the sink where they
instantly formed a pattern on the stainless steel. A face suggested itself in
the mash of leaves; but Maggie had had enough of
clairvoyance for a while, and she rinsed the leaves away.
She did some washing, and when she
came to peg it out she found something dangling from the line. It was the
wooden doll on puppet strings which Ash had given Sam to play with in his shop.
Maggie couldn't think how Sam had managed to bring it home with him unnoticed,
but there it was. She took it down. It was an expensive toy, hand-carved and
brightly painted. She decided to return it, or even to offer to pay for it,
that afternoon. She also decided to show Ash the diary.
Fetching the thing from its hiding place, she began
leafing through the pages. It was a curious feature of the diary that she
continued to discover, here and there, pages of faintly pencilled entries she'd
previously dismissed as blank. As if the volume of contributions increased
every time she closed the book. Her eyes fell on an entry on the right-hand
page, dated 21st March. There was the usual list of herbs written in pen, and
underneath a pencilled entry in the same fastidious hand.
First day of spring, and so I have a one should any
ask me for help with a-courting. And why not, for I do love the
young, let them do, I being too old, well not so old but here it is, and it is
the handfasting . Gardenia for
harmony. Musk for passion. Jasmine
for love. Rose geranium for protection. Yarrow for seven years' love and to stop all fear.
Maggie read it again. It was almost
identical to the recipe given to her by Ash! Only the yarrow was different.
These being all essences, but for the yarrow, which
wants the dried herb, a pinch mixed with these essences. Then pour off into two
jars, and then each anoint the other from their own jar, by the moon, asking.
And after the seventh night, the remaining poured into one jar and both jars be hidden in some secret place. And there's the handfasting .
Maggie looked at the recipe sadly.
It would be fun to try, she thought, but the idea of coaxing Alex to agree to
join in a witch's love ritual, smearing each other with oil, depressed her. She
might as well try to persuade him to fly from the bedroom window after their
last spat. On the left-hand page of the diary, the previous day's entry, was another recipe:
Dwale . Now she is a harsh mistress. A. says she is my
lady, as she has my name. She is from the valley of shadows, and she stales
those who would use her. Sleeping, madness and death. The leaves soared in wine vinegar and pressed against the temples
brings sleep and eases intolerable headaches and agues. Two of her beautiful
berries might kill a small child. A. told me they once used her juice as
cosmetic — well she can keep it. Deadens pain of
childbirth. A. says now I must use her against my enemies. Dwale is sacred to Hecate and
should be picked May eve. It is one for the flying, as last night I found out.
God help me, for I may have come too far in this
The entry seemed to have broken
off. Underneath these words, and scrawled in another, barely literate hand, was
a further entry. Maggie had to turn the diary on its side and squint hard to
make it out.
Ha for there
ain't no turning
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