Herba Mythica E-Book

Xanthe Gresham-Knight

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 466

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Stories are spells. Healers have long recognised the need to travel to psychic realms, from heaven to Hesperides, to effect cures. Ancient medicinal manuscripts pair myth and magical incantation with instruction on how to dig up roots, make salves and concoct tinctures. Herba Mythica draws on this tradition and is a handbook for story-lovers and herbalists alike. Acclaimed storytellers from around the world choose plants that reflect their heritage or specialism, and notes on plant origins, symbolism and healing properties complement each tale. Mythology suggests that every bush, every flower is a deity who mirrors the healing action of the plant: Hecate is the hypnotic Poppy, Osiris the oracular Laurel and Tara the regenerative Lotus. And in folk tales, there are Willow fathers, Hawthorn mothers and brides who marry trees. Throughout, Sherry Robinson's characterful drawings capture the light and shade of each plant, reminding us of their power to kill or cure.

Leseprobe

First published 2024

The History Press

97 St George’s Place, Cheltenham,

Gloucestershire, GL50 3QB

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

Text © Xanthe Gresham-Knight, 2024

Illustrations © Sherry Kathleen Robinson, 2024

The right of Xanthe Gresham-Knight to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 1 80399 573 1

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Designed by Jemma Cox

Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ Books Limited, Padstow, Cornwall.

eBook converted by Geethik Technologie

When I was 6, my mother let me collect the petals from the Roses in our garden to make Rose perfume. She grew old Roses with heady scents like Rosa gallica officianalis. I remember my excitement at the buckets full of water and fallen petals. After days of soaking, however, the water still had no perfume. I recently learned that it’s necessary to use a fixative to anchor the aroma.

I’d like to thank all the contributors who have gifted their stories, each fixed with its own vibrant scent.

Dedications

For my mum, Christine – may our ancestors connect hands like the petals of a rose –Xanthe Gresham Knight.

For Norman and Eileen – and Redfern, the magical, wildlife garden they created –Sherry Robinson.

For all the storytellers, for it is they who create life –Seema Anand.

To Mother Earth, Tree, Ni’ima, Safia, Tamam and Father Sky –Fidaa Ataya.

Thanks to all the family back in the Punjab who share their stories with me –Peter Chand.

For Joshua Crisp, for walking the myths with me –Amelia Armande.

To Hugh and Eric and autumn mornings at Ty Newydd, 2011 –Jo Blake.

To my beloved grandad Anton Luigi, who showed me how to use two stones to crush pinecones to get the nuts and to Pina, my mum’s nanny, who blends the best pesto –Paola Balbi.

To Mother Earth, who endures our human failings yet patiently helps us heal –Kate Corkery.

To the Mothers, Grandmothers, She-amans, Priestesses andWitches who preserved plant knowledge –Maya Vassallo Di Florio.

To my ‘Guardian Ash Tree’, a graceful, defiant being and friend, who is currently struggling for survival, as are all the Ash trees throughout Europe –Malcolm Green.

For Órla, who will not be taken by fairies –Tamar Eluned Williams.

For Abuelitito, who shared with me his stories and taught me to live a life withthe curiosity of a goat, the compass of a bee and the solidarity of an ant –Clare Eulate.

For my daughters, Ludmilla and Alvilda and their sister trees.May their roots be strong and their days full of stories –Katrine Faber.

I blant y cymoedd – to the children of the valleys –Michael Harvey.

To the Lorax and everyone who speaks for the trees –Michael Holland.

To Yiannis Pittis, who brought me to meditation, and Nick Scaramanga, who brought me to Zen –Robin Knight.

To Sally, who had the greenest fingers –Lucy Lill.

For all the Brazilian healing women who kept the tradition alive –Ana Lines.

To the selflessness of the Iranian women –Laily Mahoozi.

For all those who hear the call of the wild mother –Vicky McFarland.

For my Granny, Joan, ‘It’s all in the language’ –Kestrel Morton.

To L., may you outgrow the past, may you blossom and thrive –Martina Piscali.

For Granny Cleo, who shared her stories with me –Wendy Shearer.

For Jeff and Max –Fleur Shorthouse.

For Muriel Bloch and Joyce Zonana, women of Rose-tinged words –Laura Simms.

To all the healers of the world –Nana Tomova.

For all the storytellers who continue retelling traditional oral art –Godfrey Duncan, aka TuuP.

Mrs Nelson, passionate, brave, outraged woman of peace –Alys Torrance.

For Nonna and for Sid –Sara Liisa Wilkinson.

To all my brave and inspiring friends and family whose grace in suffering still inspires hope and fulfils love, which is all there is –Bernadette Vallely.

To Helena Antoinette Walker, my mum –Anna Walker.

Contents

Introduction

A Note on the Text

Foreword by Michael Holland

Foreword by Lisa Schneidau

A Story Explaining Why the Names of Plants in this Book are CapitalisedXANTHE

Acanthus mollis(Acanthus): Flower of Rebirth, GreeceXANTHE

Achillea millefolium(Yarrow): Macha, IrelandANNA WALKER

Agrimonia eupatoria(Agrimony): Dian Cécht – The Well of Healing, IrelandKATE CORKERY

Alnus glutinosa(Alder): Mis, IrelandALYS TORRANCE

Anemone coronaria(Anemone): Aphrodite and Adonis, GreeceXANTHE

Artemisia vulgaris(Mugwort): The Dreaming Plant, NorseKESTREL MORTON

Ho Hsien Ku Becomes an Immortal, ChinaXANTHE

Bellis perennis(Daisy): Pearl, Middle EnglishXANTHE

Betula pendula(Silver Birch): Birch Mother, Britain/Northern EuropeXANTHE

Camellia sinensis(Black Tea): Tea, JapanROBIN KNIGHT

Cannabis sativa(Hemp): The Origin of Kīf, Middle EastPAT CHILDERHOUSE

Castanea sativa(Sweet Chestnut): The Man Who Planted Chestnut Trees, Cantabria, SpainMIGUEL ÁLVAREZ DE EULATE PEÑARANDA

Colchicum autumnale(Crocus): Medea, GreeceLUCY LILL

Commiphora myrrha(Myrrh): The Soul’s Scent, GreeceXANTHE

Crataegusspp. (Hawthorn): Mother of the Maypole, UKXANTHE

Cytisus scoparius(Scotch Broom): The Broom Hill, England/ScotlandSTEPHE HARROP

Dictamnus albus(White Dittany): A Samodiva Doesn’t Keep House, BulgariaNANA TOMOVA

Euphrasia officianalis(Eyebright): The Healing Eye of Horus, EgyptXANTHE

Filipendula ulmaria(Meadowsweet): Blodeuwedd, Queen of the Meadows, WalesJO BLAKE

Fraxinus excelsior(Ash): A Walk with the Ash Tree, UKMALCOLM GREEN

Helianthus annuus(Sunflower): The Sunflower Towelling Wrap, UK/FranceXANTHE

Clytie and the Sun, GreeceXANTHE

Hylotelephium telephium(Stonecrop): Trust-Me and Trust-Me-Not, ItalyMARTINA PISCALI

Laurus nobilis(Laurel): The Wadjet Eye of Healing, EgyptXANTHE

Lilium regale(Lily): Mother of AngelsXANTHE

Madhuca longifolia(Mahua): Mahua and the Wandering Penis, Santhal, IndiaSEEMA ANAND

Malus domestica(Apple): Avalon, the Isle of Apples, UKXANTHE

Medusa and the Golden Apples, GreeceXANTHE

Mandragora autumnalis(Mandrake): Snakes and Mandrakes, EgyptXANTHE

Morus alba(White Mulberry): Mulberry and the Sacred Tanbur, KurdistanARASH MORADI

Myosotisspp. (Forget-Me-Not): Stream and the Blue Flower, SufiXANTHE

Nelumbo nucifera(Sacred Lotus): Tara and the Lotus, TibetXANTHE

Neurolaena lobata(Jackass Bitters): The Pumpkin Seed, GuyanaWENDY SHEARER

Nymphaea caerulea(Blue Water Lily): The Blue Lily Makes a New World, EgyptXANTHE

Hathor’s Golden Lotus, EgyptXANTHE

Olea europaea(Olive Tree): The Olive Tree, a Blessed Tree, Morocco/FranceHALIMA HAMDANE

The Eyes of Serapis, Greece/EgyptXANTHE

Opuntia ficus-indica(Sabra Cactus): Fart Roman Thab and the Golden Pomegranate Seeds, PalestineFIDAA ATAYA

Papaver rhoeas(Red Poppy): Hekate Poppy, GreeceXANTHE

Phoenix dactylifera(Date Palm): My Grandfather was a Palm Tree, IranLAILY MAHOOZI

Pinus pinea(Stone Pine): The Magna Mater and the Pine Tree, ItalyPAOLA BALBI

Primula vulgaris(Primrose): Carys of Nant Carfan, WalesTAMAR ELUNED WILLIAMS

Prunella vulgaris(Self-Heal): It’s all in the Name, ChinaXANTHE

Prunus armeniaca(Apricot): A Bee is Always Behind the Flower, KurdistanARASH MORADI

Prunus spinosa(Blackthorn): The Man and the Blackthorn Stick, IrelandVICKY MCFARLAND

Quercus robur(Common Oak): The Magical Flower, CantabriaCLARA EULATE

Diana and the Golden Seed, GreeceBERNADETTE VALLELY

Rosaspp. (Rose): The Rose, America/RomaniaLAURA SIMMS

Rose Kitchen Magic: A Ritual for Self-Love, ItalyMAYA VASSALLO DI FLORIO

Rubus chamaemorus(Cloudberry): Cloudberry, FinlandSARAH LIISA WILKINSON

Ruta graveolens(Rue): The Herb for the Opening and Closing of Doors, BrazilANA LINES

Salixspp. (Willow): The Willow Flute, RomaniaXANTHE

Sambucus nigra(Elder): The Tree of Freja, NorseKATRINE FABER

Silene dioica(Red Campion): The Red Flower of Silenus, GreeceXANTHE

Silene latifolia(White Campion): Snake Flowers, WalesMICHAEL HARVEY

Tabernanthe iboga(Iboga): Tiger’s Whisker, AfricaGODFREY DUNCAN, AKA TUUP

Taraxacum officinale(Common Dandelion): Brigit’s Favourite Flower, IrelandXANTHE

Thymus vulgaris(Common Thyme): The Massage Oil, IndiaPETER CHAND

Tiliaspp. (Linden): Sister Trees, DenmarkKATRINE FABER

Tracheophytaspp. (Fern): The Golden Seed of the Fern, EuropeXANTHE

Ulex europaeus(Common Gorse): When the Gorse is Out of Bloom, Kissing’s out of Fashion, IrelandXANTHE

Urtica dioica(Nettle): The Nettle Pharisee: A Philosophy of Nettle, EuropeFLEUR SHORTHOUSE

Vitis vinifera(Vine): Dionysus and the Wild Vine, GreeceAMELIA ARMANDE

Zea Mays(Maize): Corn Mother, First Nations, AmericaTANYA BATT

Glossary of Healing Plants

References

Bibliography

Thanks

Introduction

Stories are spells. In Old English, spellian meant to speak and was connected to the Old French espelir, meaning to recite, and Old High German spellon, meaning to tell.

Ancient medicinal manuscripts are full of plant spells. Information on how to dig up roots, make salves and tinctures is interwoven with magical incantation. In an Old English book of remedies, the Lacnunga (the Nine Herbs Charm), the healer is instructed to sing a spell over the herbal remedy and then to repeat it three times, ‘into the man’s mouth, into both ears and onto the wound’ before applying the medicine.

And you, Waybread, mother of plants

open to the east, mighty within,

carts ran over you, ladies rode over you,

brides cried over you, bulls snorted over you,

you withstood them all and you were crushed,

so may you withstand the poison and infection

and the evil that travels round the land.

(Pollington, 2008)

In this chant to Waybread (Plantain), the plant is invoked as if she were a Goddess doing battle with illness in the invisible realm. Shaman herbalists have long recognised the need to journey to healing domains such as the Land of the Ancestors, Avalon or Hesperides. One way of accessing these lands is through myths and symbols.

The sign for medicine is the caduceus. It can be a rough branch bound with a snake-like root or two snakes wound around a staff of the kind born by the Greek God Hermes. As God of Messages, Hermes conveyed patients between the material world and the world of the Gods: a vital dimension in any ancient cure. Hermes’ caduceus had the power to raise the dead and draw them from Hades (Walker, 2013).

A vibrant sculpture of Medusa on a pediment of the Temple of Artemis at Corcyra, Corfu (580 BCE) shows her with snakes twining at her navel. In Ayurvedic healing, the feminine and masculine energies are portrayed as intertwining snakes. The ida is the female, the pingala, the male, and their energies are constantly coiling around a central, neutral column of energy, the shushumna, that runs up the spine like a staff or wand. The purpose of the spiralling is to remove disturbance from the body and create equilibrium; the symmetrical coiling of the snakes suggests constant movement because health is never static or assured (Muktibodhananda, 1993).

As in nature, the elements within our bodies are in a constant process of change and, like snakes, we shed metaphorical skins. In my thirty-year career as a storyteller, I have always found stories the best company during life transitions. An unquestioning acceptance of the dogma of my Christian upbringing eventually led me to revolt and seek out the myths of Goddesses.

After decades of telling stories about them and raging about the old patriarchal Gods, I realised that Goddesses can be seen as metaphors for the action of plants: Brigit for the Dandelion, Hekate for Poppy, Mary for the Lily. This realisation led to A Herba Mythica. Consequently, I’m falling in love with Gods like Hermes, Osiris, Serapis and Christ, champions of the earth and the female, and tend to think ‘Goddex’ (an inclusive term coined by Alex Etchart in 2022) might be a better word than Goddess.

If a Goddess is a metaphor for a plant, then plants reproduce in an abundance of ways, by pollination, spore, root, runner, bud. Dioecious plants have male organs on one plant and female on another. Monoecious plants hold both male and female within one plant. What matters is that the multiplicity of life is revered and protected.

These days, I crave the ‘caduceus moment’ when a plant effects a transformation. I might drink a cup of Rose tea, stumble across the plant Self Heal creeping across the grass or make a sudden connection between a plant’s botanical name and her myth. That’s when I feel it. My spine straightens like a wand and it’s as if two snakes are dancing around it, embodying the flow between male and female, this world and mythical worlds. If I’m lucky, the snakes grow wings, I come into balance and harmonise with my environment for a time.

Ancient civilisations from Africa to Europe used snakes, plants, symbols and oracles in an attempt to restore equilibrium. The balance of the body reflects the balance of society, and both are fragile. At Delphi in Greece, the last snake-priestess, the Pythia, declared to the Emperor Theodosius in 393 CE:

Go and tell the king the temple has fallen to pieces.

Apollo dwells here no more.

There is no more oracular Laurel.

No talking spring.

And the voice of the water has been silenced.

All is finished.

(Redmond, 2013)

How incredibly hopeless that sounds, as hopeless as current news about climate change, but it helps to remember that the oracle site at Delphi was called the omphalos, the navel of the earth, the centre of the world.

The storyteller Ben Haggarty often begins, ‘Long ago, in the lands where north, south, east and west meet, which is, of course at your feet …’ Everywhere we stand is the centre of the world, the omphalos, the oracle.

Although it may be a small thing to reach out and connect with a plant, it is in line with ancient snake-wisdom. These days, we don’t generally seek out a shaman when we lose equilibrium. If we are fortunate enough to have access to healthcare, we usually consult a regular doctor and let the white coats, hospital rituals and logos of pharmaceutical companies create the healing loop between medicine and our parasympathetic nervous systems. Working directly with plants, however, growing them and foraging, telling their stories and speaking their magical names offers a complementary enchantment. As TuuP says in ‘Tiger’s Whisker’:

You are the potion.

You are the amulet.

You have the power.

A Note on the Text

Herba Medica is Latin for Herbal Medicine. This book is a ‘Herba Mythica’, a compendium of myths and folktales with a focus on healing plants. The name reflects a work called Materia Medica written around 2,000 years ago by the Greek physician Dioscorides, a treatise on the medicinal properties of plants and other substances.

My mother loved Latin and set about learning all the names for the plants in her garden. It was one of her many ‘nine-day wonders’. When she became accomplished in something, be that lacemaking, square dancing, the guitar, tapestry or upholstery, she moved on. I remember thinking the Latin names were simply one of her brain-teasers – along with sudoku, the quiz show, Countdown and crosswords. When she was dying, I reversed my opinion. Gardening was her one, constant hobby. Even when her garden was gone, I knew I would be able to hold in my heart the plants whose names she knew by heart. In honour of my mother, each story in this book is listed alphabetically by the Latin or Latinised Greek name of the plant it features.

The stories are independent and can be read in any order. As writer and storyteller Seema Anand says when asked to tell a story from the Indian tradition, ‘You’ll have to tell me where to start and where to stop; in the cycle of mythology, there is no beginning and no end.’

The authors chose their own plant to work with, reflecting their heritage or specialism. Although I have supplemented these stories with tales from many traditions, I have found it difficult to tear myself away from Ancient Egypt, where healing and mythology hold hands. The Ebers Papyrus, a collection of over 700 remedies and incantations from 1500 BCE, was said to have been written by Thoth, the God of Wisdom, a prime example of the way Ancient Egyptians combined their exceptional knowledge of anatomy with mythology. Notes on symbolism and meaning follow each story in this book.

Plants are treated as deities throughout this collection and subsequently their names are capitalised, for example rose is Rose, whereas in the case of direct quotes from other poets and authors the original lower case is used:

A sunflower strong, with petals bright

Each morning turns in love’s pure light.’

William Blake 1757-1827.

When describing trees and flowers ‘she’, or occasionally ‘he’ is used instead of ‘it’, a habit I learned from herbalist Andrea Hughes. For me, ascribing a personal pronoun to a plant brings them closer.

As plants heal on both the physical and spiritual plane, their curative properties have been listed.

While plants like Fern, Crocus and Mandrake are poisonous, their stories and symbols are vital to the spiritual medicine cabinet.

If the plant is not poisonous, recipes offer a simple way of meditating on the plant. They are a starting point for exploration and not meant as a replacement for a consultation with a doctor or professional herbalist.

Xanthe Gresham Knight, 2024

Storyteller and author of Goddesses and Heroines –Women of Myth and Legend

Forewords

Foreword by Michael Holland

In my very first memory, I was about 3 years old and lost in a forest of Stinging Nettles (Urtica dioica) in an overgrown garden in beautiful Buckinghamshire. Everywhere I moved, I was stung. I called out to my mother, who was only a few steps away and she came to rescue me. Although it was traumatic at the time, perhaps this experience gave me a fear of and respect for nature. Despite this trauma, and because of my awe and respect, I’ve spent most of my life teaching others about the wonders of Nature – the connections between all things, including our reliance on the natural world. These days, I know that as well as providing food, beer, dye and medicine, Stinging Nettles can also be spun into threads and woven, just like the themes in the stories of Herba Mythica.

During my many years as Head of Education at the Chelsea Physic Garden, my aim was to bring the power of plants to the forefront of learners’ minds. As Storyteller in Residence, Xanthe supported the tours, trails and tales, connecting people to plants via stories. Sometimes, Sherry accompanied her. When she is not drawing and painting, she is playing music.

It’s a real honour to be asked to write the Characteristics sections of this wonderful book and to input suggestions for the notes. Researching and writing the ecological and ethnobotanical backstories of these remarkable plants adds another dimension to this already multidimensional and rich compendium.

Michael’s Guide to Botanical Naming

Plants can have many nicknames, known as ‘common names’, which are sometimes used for more than one plant. Scientific names are used to avoid confusion. These are usually in Latin or Greek and include the plant’s genus and species. Its genus name comes first (and is like a surname), followed by its species name (which is like a first name). So, there may be many Greshams, but there’s only one Xanthe Gresham. In the same way, there are many species of Acanthus, but only one called Acanthus mollis.

Sometimes, if the exact species isn’t known, its name is followed by ‘sp.’ – meaning a species in that genus – or sometimes ‘spp.’ – meaning many species in that genus. In Xanthe’s case, it would be like saying ‘one of the Greshams’ or ‘the Greshams’.

Michael Holland

Educator and author of I Ate Sunshine for Breakfast

Foreword by Lisa Schneidau

If we dare to lift our eyes from our busy lives and look around us, there are plants, always plants. Our lives are filled with objects shaped from timber, our landscapes are defined by towering, photosynthesising giants. Our plates are filled with leaves and roots, our transport is powered by ancient, compressed plants. From great trees to microscopic leaves, green life is everywhere, quietly growing, living, dying, underpinning all of life on earth. But all too often, we walk blind to these wonders.

How can we reconnect? Science helps us to understand plant strategies and the elegance of plant mechanics. But we humans need more than fact – if we are to care, we need the meaning: what makes our relationship with plants thrum with life and joy?

Myths, legends and folk tales not only describe our traditions of plants, but they also strengthen our bond of curiosity, provoking a childlike fascination and wonder that is all too easily lost in modern lives. This is why I use storytelling in environmental campaigns. A good story will help to give plants a place in our human circle, so our decisions include them consciously.

In this compilation of leafy tales and plant magic, Xanthe has drawn on storytellers’ experience and heritage from across the globe to produce a flora with heart. She has brought green enchantment to every page, strongly coloured by her deep understanding of myth.

Xanthe is one of many storytellers in Herba Mythica who speak of the plant inspiration from their mothers. It’s a strong thread of tradition: I wrote Botanical Folk Tales of Britain and Ireland after my own mother’s death. All of us now find ourselves passing on this inherited wealth of story treasure to those who will walk the land after us.

There is much in Herba Mythica to tickle your imagination and reawaken your wonder in the natural world. I hope you enjoy this book as much as I have.

Lisa Schneidau

Storyteller and author of Botanical Folk Tales of Britain and Ireland

A Story Explaining Whythe Names of Plants inthis Book are Capitalised

Xanthe

Before our world came into being, the Gods played, erupting into dust, planets, cosmic rays. Before and behind them, time expanded collapsed as the Gods pitched their energies against each other. Whether fighting or creating, their laughter made the planets ring.

But over time, a light grew inside each God. They conversed in flashes of colour:

‘What shall we call this light?’

‘It needs a name!’

‘What name?’

‘Let’s call it Soul.’

‘It needs a home.’

‘Let’s give Soul a home.’

The Gods spat light into the void and World came into existence. World was full of water, ice, snow, earth, rocks, animals, and insects. World was an oasis in the exploding, imploding universe. The Gods loved to wander through it, invisible as the wind, looking at the shapes and colours their light had made.

One morning, they sighed a collective sigh and their breath created humans.

Storms and rainbows. The Gods wept and danced.

It wasn’t the bright eyes, soft lips and supple limbs of the new beings that inspired them; it was because beneath the human skin, the Gods saw their own Soul, flickering.

The Deities carried on striding through the cosmos, hurling energy, creating folding and unfolding space. But every so often, formless as the wind, they would return to World.

When a human being crashed into the presence of a God one morning, in an instant, they were filled with a lust to create and destroy. Other humans bumped into other Gods, and each time they did, a hunger for power would possess them.

‘No!’ Shouted the Gods, ‘Nurture the animals and each other. Protect the water, soil and sky.’

The humans didn’t hear.

The Gods spoke to each other.

‘Why are they fighting?’

‘They’re just doing as we do.’

‘We must change.’

‘We must take a different form.’

‘Something to feed hunger.’

‘Something full of water, earth and sky.’

The Gods changed themselves into plants and trees who sucked water from the soil into their roots, gave their energies to the earth and pushed their heads towards the sky.

But the humans didn’t notice the new plants, crushing shoots and leaves beneath their feet.

The Gods had an idea:

‘Let’s give ourselves colour, scent, fruit!’

The plant Gods produced petals and pollen, perfuming themselves to attract bees and butterflies. Finally, they caught the attention of the people who stopped warring against each other. Instead, they began to thresh grain and make bread, press grapes and make wine, gather herbs and make medicine.

And because we eat plants, drink plants and bathe in the essence of plants, because they heal us and clothe us, they are part of us, and we are part of them: we share the same Soul.

Since the God energies inhabit our flora, the names of individual plants such as Oak, Forget-Me-Not and Rose, are capitalised in this collection.

Acanthus/ Bear’s Breeches/ Oyster Plant/ Sea DockAcanthus is derived from the Greek word akantha, meaning thorn, alluding to the plant’s spiny foliage. Mollis means soft or smooth, a reference to the texture of the leaves.

Family: Acanthaceae

Acanthus mollis

(Acanthus)

Flower of Rebirth (Greece)

Xanthe

There was once a Nanny who had no children of her own. She looked after a little girl, her heart-companion. As soon as she woke, the child would run towards her and leap, arms outstretched. The Nanny would catch her, laughing as the girl twined her little arms and legs around the old woman’s hips. Over the course of the day, the child would follow her as she completed her tasks, the two of them chuck-chucking like a pair of blackbirds. Every spare moment, the Nanny would spend with the girl, cracking walnuts to make boats from the shells, spending any money she had on spinning tops, marbles and knucklebones.

The child fell ill. The Nanny mopped her brow through the fever and held her fading body as she shook with malaria.

Soon after the disease had claimed the child, the old woman fetched her wicker basket, filled it with the girl’s toys and went to the grave. Settling her skirts on the rough ground, she took a spinning top from the basket and said, ‘Do you remember how you couldn’t make it spin? There’s the chip where you smashed it on the stone. But you got the knack in the end. When it whirled you danced.’

Taking the toys out one by one, she continued talking to the grave as if the girl were sitting beside her. Eventually, she stood up and brushed her skirts, ‘I won’t be able to come back for some time. You know I hardly get a minute.’ She picked up an old roof tile and placed it firmly on the basket. ‘But this will make sure your toys don’t blow away. I’ll be back in spring.’

When the woman returned to the grave, she realised she must have placed the child’s playthings over the roots of an Acanthus plant, because large, shiny leaves were curling round the basket and purple-white flowers had pushed through the cane and grown around the tile. ‘I knew you’d find a way to keep talking to me,’ the old woman laughed. ‘Good friends are never separated.’

Not long after, the Greek architect Callimachus passed by and saw the basket wreathed in flowers and leaves. He put his hand to his chin and stared for a good long while before turning on his heel and walking briskly to his studio. There, he picked up a slab of terracotta and a brush and painted the Acanthus basket with rapid strokes, hardly taking a breath. On completion, he held up the sketch, squinted, smiled and exhaled with deep satisfaction. It was perfect.

The design was carved on top of the pillars of Corinth. Good ideas travel fast and soon the pattern appeared in architecture all over Greece. As the old Nanny hurried through the square one day, she noticed her basket twined with Acanthus on the top of a column. Without breaking her stride, she smiled, nodded and continued with her tasks.

SYMBOLISM: ART; FORTITUDE; REBIRTH

Acanthus can thrive in diverse environments, on a mountain or by the sea, making her a symbol of endurance. She reseeds herself and returns vigorously every spring, producing a tall-stemmed, elegant flower that emerges unexpectedly from massive, jagged leaves.

The Dancers of Delphi emerging from Acanthus leaves and upholding the omphalos (navel) stone covered with a pattern of bees, Greece fourth centuryBCE.

The relationship between the Nanny, the child and her immortalisation in art is echoed by a column that was found at the Oracle site at Delphi. Three dancers, symbolising birth, life and death, emerge from Acanthus leaves. These dancers upheld the omphalos stone, considered by the Ancient Greeks to be the earth’s navel and source of ancient, prophetic wisdom.

Acanthus attracts bees with her honey-sweet pollen. Bees were thought to carry messages from the dead to the living, hence the navel stone was covered with bees. Prophesies at Delphi were notoriously poetic and oblique, reminiscent of the fact that bees sometimes get stuck in Acanthus flowers.

CHARACTERISTICS

Native to various countries around the Mediterranean Sea, including Greece, Italy, Turkey, and north Africa. Acanthus grow in large-leafed clumps and produce tall flower spikes adorned with tubular flowers in shades of white, pink or purple.

HEALING

Acanthus is mainly used as an ornamental plant, but she has a history of traditional usage:

antioxidant, analgesic, emollient: crushed leaves used directly on the skin for cuts, burns and sprains, to relieve nipple problems, swollen legs and headaches.

anti-inflammatory: Acanthus has been used to treat arthritis and rheumatism.

Achillea millefolium

(Yarrow)

Yarrow/ Nosebleed/ Soldier’s Woundwort/ Thousand SealYarrow is from Yerw, Dutch for repair, and Old English Gearwe from Gearwan, meaning to prepare, as in the preparation of a healing herb. Achillea is Latin for the God Achilles. Millefolium is Latin for thousand-leafed.

(Family: Asteraceae)

Macha (Ireland)

Anna Walker

I was young when my grandmother died, but I remember her death as if it were yesterday. She was not the loving warm grandmother from children’s storybooks. Raised in a Catholic orphanage in Limerick, with no father’s name on her birth certificate, she limped through her childhood. After escaping the nuns, she spent the rest of her life with one foot in Catholicism and the other on the land.

She brewed teas and tinctures of Yarrow and turned Lavender into salve to soothe and to heal, all while her rosary beads jangled in her pocket. And as the night encroached, she would pull a chair close to the flames to see what they foretold …

‘A mixture of herbs to make the fire dance,’ she said, tossing dried Sage, Mugwort and Rosemary onto the flames.

The fire smoked and squirmed, the flames danced brighter and higher, pulling me close, she whispered, ‘Breathe it in, breathe it all in.’

Coughing and spluttering, I did what I was told. The room began to spin, her laughter filled the air, a crackling, cackling call. ‘It was a long time ago,’ she said. ‘A time of no time at all.’

War raged.

The battlefield lay strewn with the wounded, the dying and the dead. Widows keened. Thunder rumbled, lightning flashed and overhead the sky darkened with thousands of clicking, clacking crows. Three forms took shape, their black wings becoming cloaks.

Fearsome shape shifters, the Morrigna, war weavers, sisters as one.

The first to transform from crow to human was Morrigan, the Phantom Queen. Phantom because no one quite knew why or how the battle had begun.

The second to alight was Babd. Not yet human, she puckered up her lips and loudly cawed into the ear of a weeping widow.

And the third, Macha, hovered above, her wings spread wide, waiting for her sisters to fully metamorphose.

Morrigan pulled a thread from her hood and tore it into three strands. And together, the sisters began to weave a cloak of peace over the land. Then Morrigan straddled the bracken river and let the blood of the dead flow from between her legs.

Babd stuck out her tongue and licked the juice from the eyeballs of the dead before stripping the bones clean of their flesh.

Macha pounded the earth, and where she danced, Yarrow, Heather and Lavender sprung forth.

Life returned.

When their work was done, they howled up at the dark sky. The clouds parted. Badb and Morrigan took flight.

Macha remained. She cocked her ear, heard a distant call and shook her long, dark hair free. From the ground, she pulled ten stalks of Yarrow, placed nine under her right heel and threw the tenth into the air as a tithing to the Goddess Danu.

Yarrow fair I pluck thee

Protection for this journey

Mother Danu watch over me

And sisters far and flying free.

Then she picked up her skirts and began to run, faster and faster over hill, dale and cliff, until she reached a high brow on the borders of Ulster. There, Macha caught sight of a holding. Smoke spluttered from its chimney.

She made her way down the hillside and banged upon the door. Cruinniuc, the widower, opened it wide and gazed into her sharp, dark eyes, took in her fair skin and shapely body, and he was enchanted.

Without uttering a word, she pushed him aside and entered the cottage. She sniffed the air, saw the chaos and loss leaking from every corner, and began to clean. His two sons cowered beneath the table, watching her every move.

And when her work was done, when everything was ordered and precise, she hung a bushel of Yarrow above the door before washing and feeding the boys and putting them to bed.

The night encroached, the fire flickered, and she crooked her finger and called to Cruinniuc. Leading the way, she shed her clothes climbed onto the bed, stroked her breasts, spread her thighs and welcomed him. She crooned and moaned all night long.

And so it was, and so it continued, day in, day out. The children’s tears were replaced with laughter and Cruinniuc’s heart swelled with love. The sheep and other livestock returned to the fold, the crops grew tall and strong, while Macha ran hither and thither. It wasn’t long before her body swelled with new life.

All was well …

… until the King’s annual feast.

King Conchobar was renowned for his prowess, both on and off the battlefield. His pride and joy were his horses, and he would challenge any man to beat them. He welcomed all his noble men, warriors, druids, servants and fools to the feast.

Macha begged Cruinniuc not to go. She held him tight, ‘If you must go, don’t boast about me. Don’t reveal who I am, if you do, I will not be able to stay here – that will break my heart.’

He puffed up his chest in defence. ‘Of course I wouldn’t do that to you!’ Then off he rode.

The crowd was full to overflowing with drinking, brawling men watching the races. The King proclaimed his horses to be the fastest in all the land and the crowd hollered. Seized by the moment, Cruinniuc leaned into the man next to him and whispered, ‘My wife can outrun any man … and any man’s horse.’

As soon as the words were out, he could have bitten off his tongue. The gossip moved from ear to ear until it reached those of the King, and he hauled Cruinniuc in front of him. ‘How dare you question the speed of my horses! I’ll have your head if you can’t prove this boast!’

And so, a messenger was dispatched to Cruinniuc’s house. The knock on the door sent a chill through Macha. She protested – what of the children, her unborn twins?

But the messenger insisted. ‘If you don’t, Conchobar will have your husband’s head.’

She glanced at the bushel of Yarrow above the door, retrieved it and placed it into a small pouch around her neck. Heavy with the weight of pregnancy, she dragged herself up onto the cart.

As she approached, the crowd swelled, jeering and laughing. ‘Look at this pregnant sow who thinks she can run like a horse!’

She kneeled before the King. ‘Please,’ she begged, ‘don’t do this. Just wait until I’ve given birth.’

But the more she begged, the louder the shouting and drunken ribaldry. ‘You’ll be sorry for this,’ she sighed. ‘You do not know who I am.’

Conchobar scoffed and to add insult to injury, he ordered his chariot to be stripped of all its ornamentation, then took the reins himself. The crowd roared with glee.

At the starting line the horses strained at the bit and then – boom! – they were off.

Conchobar whipped his horses into a frenzy. The men yelled with approval.

Macha wrapped her arms around her belly, picked up her skirts and began to run, quickly catching up with the horses.

Conchobar thrashed harder, his horses picked up speed. Macha could feel the heat from their nostrils on the back of her neck. Then, to add insult to injury, Conchobar took his whip and lashed her behind!

The rage seethed inside her. She felt the force of her sisters, of her mother, move through her and she began to flap her arms. As she did her feet left the ground. She strained her neck, her body, now weightless, moved ahead of the horses. She stuck out her chin, her chest, and with tears pouring down her face, she crossed the finish line way ahead of the King’s horses, before collapsing in a heap to the ground.

Her waters broke. A wail moved through her humiliated body. She arched as the labour pains took hold. Her cries were so loud, the crowds stilled. No one came to her aid. The men looked away in horror. Sprawled in the dirt, she writhed, finally giving birth to twins.

Still born.

She looked down upon them and wept, and when she could cry no more, she gazed out over the silent crowd and barely above a whisper, she said, ‘I curse you, Ulster men. I curse you for nine generations that on this day, for five days and for four nights, when you are most needed in battle, you will all find yourself on your knees in agony, weeping and wailing, as defenceless as a woman in childbirth.’

And with that, she lay down on her side, wrapped herself around her dead twins and died.

The sky darkened with thousands of clicking, clacking crows. And out of the blackness, two figures took form. Their long bird wings were transmuted into cloaks as dark as thunder.

The Morrigan alighted either side of their sister’s body. They bared their chests and keened. They spread their cloaks wide, gathered up Macha, her still-born twins and disappeared into the darkness, becoming three sisters once more.

The Ulster men left the field in silence.

For nine generations, Macha’s curse held true.

Where she and her twins died, three Yarrow plants grew tall and strong, and over the years propagated their healing across the lanes and fields of Ireland.

SYMBOLISM: COURAGE; LOVE; PSYCHIC POWERS

Macha is a seer who embraces change. Yarrow is consistent with her character. In the Chinese oracle, the I Ching, or Book of Changes, the diviner holds and then divides fifty Yarrow stalks to give a reading based on the patterns of nature.

The Irish triple Goddess, the Morrigan, weaves the threads, the raw material, of the natural world, but it is our actions that determine the final pattern. Looking to nature for guidance rather than a remote God is an ancient way of seeing connections between all phenomena.

The Morrigan in the story are closely associated with blood of the womb and the blood of the dead. In their crow form, they dance on the tips of spears in war. The warrior Achilles used Yarrow to staunch blood and sterilise the wounds of his soldiers at Troy, hence Yarrow’s Latin name Achillea. The poet Statius (AD 45–96) in the Achilleid, says that Achilles was the son of the sea nymph, Thetis, who dipped him in the River Styx to make him immortal. The detail of her holding his heel, the only vulnerable place a spear could pierce and cause his death, has grown over time (McDaniel, 2020). Recently, another detail has emerged – that the Styx was laced with a key ingredient – Yarrow tea.

When hung in the home Yarrow offers protection. Placed below the feet, she guards the traveller, and pressed against the brow, she is believed to encourage the gift of sight.

CHARACTERISTICS

Native to Eurasia, Yarrow is often found on grasslands, roadsides and in forests from the UK to China. She has feathery green leaves and white or pink flowerheads. When dried, Yarrow’s scent is medical, a mixture of balsam, honey and ash.

HEALING

Vulnerary: stops blood flow fast. Clean wounds before applying. Use on minor wounds and nosebleeds.

Anti-inflammatory: use for bruises and pain.

Depurative, sedative and febrifuge: use for fevers and colds.

Emmenagogue: use to start and stop menstruation.

Circulatory support: use to tone blood vessels, prevent blood clots and lower blood pressure.

YARROW TEA

Harvest in summer.

Tie stems and hang in bundles somewhere warm until dried.

Shred flower heads, discard stems, chop leaves and store in a sterilised jar.

For tea, use 1 tsp per cup and steep for fifteen minutes.

Use for colds, fevers, bruises and to regulate periods. The tea can also be used to wash wounds and as a final rinse for shiny hair.

WARNING: Do not use when pregnant as promotes uterine contraction. May stop sperm production. Can cause dermatitis and photosensitivity.

Agrimonia eupatoria

(Agrimony)

Agrimony/ Church Steeple/ Cockle Burr/ Liverwort/ SticklewortAgrimonia from the Greek argemone, meaning white speck in the eye because she treats eye complaints, and eupatoria from the Persian King, Mithridates Eupator.

(Family: Rosaceae)

Dian Cécht – The Wellof Healing (Ireland)

Kate Corkery

Long ago, in Ireland, there lived a race of Godlike people called the Tuatha De Danann (Children of the Goddess Danu). They were very loyal to their bountiful King Nuada, who reigned from his palace at Tara, and they were devastated when he was injured in battle.

As Nuada’s arm had been severed from his body, it meant he could no longer rule. An ancient law dictated that ‘Only a king without blemish, in perfect shape’ could sit on the throne. Sadly, Nuada was deposed and after much deliberation a new king was appointed.

Bres the Beautiful was sound in wind and limb and exceptionally handsome, but turned out to be a harsh ruler who exploited his subjects and spread misery. The people longed to have Nuada back, but feared they would be cursed if they went against the sacred law. They turned to Dian Cécht for help.

Dian Cécht (Swift Traveller) was a renowned physician, known as the God of Healing, and adept at magical cures. Although brilliant, he was quite arrogant and impetuous. He revelled in boasting about his accomplishments.

‘It was I who saved Ireland from a terrible plague!’ he said. ‘When the Morrigan, our infamous War Goddess, gave birth to a vile creature capable of wiping out the whole country, I swiftly removed three venomous snakes from its heart, burned them and banished their poisonous ashes to the river. This saved the land from pestilence but made the waters boil.’

To this day, that river is known as the ‘boiling river’ – the River Barrow.

Dian Cécht took credit for keeping the army fighting fit on a diet of Oatmeal porridge, Hazel buds, Dandelion, Chickweed and Wood Sorrel. This, he said, would also relieve colds, phlegm, throat trouble and worms and maintain the soldiers’ stamina in battle. And, if any warriors were wounded, Dian Cécht boasted that he could cure them overnight in his famous well of healing, Tiopra Slaine.

The well was filled with clean water, carefully selected herbs and potions, including Agrimony, Comfrey, Mallow, Nettle, Deadnettle, Plantain, Rosebay, Self-Heal and Yarrow. There, the imposing physician presided over his two faithful apprentices.

Miach, his obedient son, would tirelessly carry injured soldiers from the battlefield and immerse them in the well. And Airmed, his dutiful daughter, would apply salves, ointments and dressings. They followed their father’s instructions to the letter and joined him in ritual incantations as they brought the wounded back to life.

Nuada’s life had been saved in this way and now Dian Cécht came up with a novel way to restore his kingship. He instructed Credne, the smith, to create a specially designed arm of silver. When it was ready, Dian Cécht, ably assisted by his apprentices, attached the perfectly proportioned silver arm to Nuada’s body.

It looked magnificent. It could bend at the elbow and the wrist. Even the fingers could move. Although the arm was rather heavy, Nuada was delighted with its dexterity and was happy to be known from then on as ‘Nuada of the Silver Arm’.

The people rejoiced. But the judges shook their heads and said, ‘No!’ Although very impressive, the silver arm was merely a brilliant artificial limb. Nuada was still not in ‘perfect shape’.

Dian Cécht stormed off, exasperated at the judges’ rejection. His son and daughter were bitterly disappointed. Miach could not sleep at night, turning over in his mind every detail of the operation and all the healing knowledge gleaned from his father over the years. His desire to help was overwhelming and he felt impelled to find another solution.

At midnight, he crept out to the battlefield. He located and unearthed the embalmed arm of the king. He brought this back to Nuada and tentatively asked him to undergo a further procedure in private.

Nuada consented and the earnest apprentice embarked on a secret nine-day operation. First, he detached the arm of silver and carefully set Nuada’s severed arm back in its own socket, reciting incantations as he worked.

Joint to joint and sinew to sinew.

Sinew to sinew and joint to joint.

For the first three days, Nuada’s arm was bound along his side until it grew to rejoin the body at the armpit. For the second three days, the elbow was bent and the arm was bound across the chest until fresh skin grew back.

For the last three days, Miach continued chanting, patiently applying herbal potions and charred bulrushes to the limb until all movement was completely restored and the arm became as flexible as it had ever been.

The operation was a huge success. The De Danann were thrilled that Nuada had been made whole again and could once more be their king. They praised Miach to the high heavens.

Dian Cécht heard the cheering and was overcome with jealousy and rage that his mild-mannered son had eclipsed his hitherto unrivalled reputation. In a fit of blind fury, Dian Cécht lashed out at Miach’s head with his sword, grazing the skin.

Miach instantly wiped his forehead and healed himself.

Dian Cécht struck again, slashing through the skin to the bone.

Miach once more healed himself.

Although the third stroke plunged through skin, bone and membrane, still Miach managed to calmly heal himself.

Finally, the exasperated father raised his sword, sliced Miach’s head open and cut out his brain.

Miach fell dead.

Dian Cécht buried his son on a plain beyond the palace at Tara.

At dawn the next day, as the mist was rising, Airmed came to mourn her beloved brother. She could hardly believe what awaited her there, and soon her tears of sorrow turned to tears of joy as she beheld his freshly dug grave.

A miraculous growth of 365 herbs in the perfect outline of Miach’s body had sprung up through the soil overnight. Each herb had special powers relating to the part of the body from which it grew, indicating cures for every vessel, artery, muscle, organ, bone and sinew.

Appreciating her brother’s last precious gift, Airmed quickly spread her cloak on the grass, carefully gathered the herbs and started sorting them according to their medicinal properties.

Sadly, Dian Cécht came upon her before she could complete the task. He angrily snatched the cloak from the ground and shook it so that the herbs were all mixed up and scattered to the four winds.

To this day, no one knows all the healing properties of herbs. Wise women like Airmed have been mixing and matching ever since, trying to piece together the remedies for every illness. They know the answers lie in the earth and that with patience and perseverance all its healing secrets will once more be revealed.

SYMBOLISM: FAITHFULNESS; PROTECTION

Tiopra Slaine, the healing well, reflects the perennial desire to create an elixir to heal all wounds. The Anglo-Saxons made a Holy Salve from fifty-seven herbs, including Agrimony, which throughout history has been classified as a wound healer.

The name Agrimonia eupatoria comes from the first-century BCE Persian King, Mithridates Eupator, who invented the Mithridate – a remedy made of sixty-five herbs.

Mithridates took sub-lethal doses of poison and found the herbal antidote to each toxin. Agrimony, with her ability to support the liver and digestion, was a key ingredient.

When Pompey invaded Persia, Mithridates tried to kill himself but found he was immune to poison and had to get his bodyguard to run him through with a sword. In the Middle Ages, it was said that an almond-sized amount of Mithridate in wine would deter any plague.

Agrimony is a cure-all in a single plant, known as a ‘simple’ – a plant that doesn’t need to be combined with any other herbs to work her enchantment. In Chinese medicine, her name is Xian He Cao, meaning Immortal Crane Herb.

CHARACTERISTICS

Agrimony is native to Europe, Asia and North America, and can be found in meadows, woodland edges and open grassy areas. A perennial with long, thin stems, paired leaves, green above, silver below, and an Apricot smell, Agrimony produces clusters of small yellow flowers in summer and tiny burrs in autumn.

HEALING

Vulnerary, styptic and anti-inflammatory: used topically to stop bruising and bleeding, make clots form and prevent bacteria entering a wound.

Liver herb – digestive, astringent and bitter: Agrimony contains tannins that tone and protect the gut membrane. Her bitter quality stimulates digestive bile from the gall bladder and the liver. She is also used as a bitter flavour in beer and mead.

Antimicrobial: contains agrimophol, which helps expel parasites from the bladder and intestine and kills common bacteria.

Diuretic: flushes toxins through the system and stops bedwetting.

Relieves tension, restores balance: used to release suppressed emotion.

Eye support: used for eye infections, and the Greeks used her for cataracts. On a spiritual level, Agrimony helps people see things as they are.

AGRIMONY TINCTURE

Fill a clean jam jar with flowering tops of Agrimony.

Cover with ABV 40 per cent vodka.

Leave for six weeks, shaking daily.

Strain and bottle in dark glass.

For tension – take a few drops in water three times daily.

To tone the gut and treat diarrhoea, burns and urinary incontinence, take half a teaspoon in water.

AGRIMONY TEA

Take a handful of Agrimony heads and steep for twenty minutes.

Or gather flowering steeples in summer and dry on brown card out of the sun until crunchy.

Strip flowers and leaves and discard stem.

Store in sealed jars.

Use a heaped teaspoon per cup for tea.

Use any cold tea in the bath for aches and pains.

WARNING: Do not take internally if constipated.

Alnus glutinosa

(Alder)

Alder/ European Alder/ Common AlderAlnus comes from the Latin for Alder, reputedly taken from Alor amne, meaning ‘I am nourished by the stream’, and glutinosa is Latin for ‘sticky’, referring to the young twigs.

(Family: Betulaceae)

Mis (Ireland)

Alys Torrance

Out in the bay, Mis is adrift in her father’s flagship.

This is the day after the yearanaday it took to defeat the King of the World. Inland, the victorious heroes – those who have made it through alive – are drunkenly roaring out the refrains of the songs the minstrels have already composed about them. The sound carries to Mis.

Throughout the war she’s stood here, silent at the prow, her father’s figurehead, so he could roar, ‘Look at her, lads! Who’d surrender under those eyes?’

She’s witnessed it all, from strutting threat and performative duel, through set-piece, stalemate battle to yesterday’s chaotic, exhausted hacking and jointing of every man she has ever known and many more she never will.

Today, there is just the slap of wavelets.

Mis peers over the rail. The ship is riding higher in the water without men or weapons – you can see a red-brown crust drying on her timbers at the old waterline. A familiar mess of flag and bone and splintered shield bump-bumps the hull. Some of it has been there a long time. The ship is sound, she’ll not rot, but there’s no one to haul sail and steer for home.

Mis lowers herself over the rail, hangs for a second, drops into the sea, spits out bloody brine and swims then wades ashore, pushing away boots and letters home and armour and limbs that drift against her. She staggers heavy skirt, heavy hair, onto the beach beyond, which her father never got. She alone is alive, except the flies and way beyond words.

She finds the King, her father, on a black rock at the tideline. She bends down to her dad’s – what? – edge where his head should be and kisses it. That’s not it. Licks it. Not that either. She swallows her father’s blood. That’s it. She hunkers down at each of his wounds and drinks.

That done, Mis runs.

Sand slips beneath her feet, then marram grass, she stumbles. Her skirts hobble her, so she rips herself free as she runs.

There are sounds of celebration off to her right. She swerves away through fields. A wall blocks her, so she leaps it into bogland knee-deep. It sucks the life out of her legs, so she hauls herself into the air and flies up through insect clouds to where the mountainside drains off the wet, then beyond the last grass to the final lichen, up cliff and crag to peak. Here, beyond all life, Mis halts. Breathes in the wind. And screams.

The scream crashes off the crags, meets itself and spreads out and out and out. Scream on scream, on wild scream, for 300 years.

Everything held inside she lets out.

The hair on her legs meets the hair on her toes, meets the hair between her legs, spreads up to her belly, joins the bush of her armpits and wings back to her spine and down the backs of her arms and the backs of her fingers as her eyebrows spread to her darkening lip and chin. The hair on her head, already stiff with salt and blood, grows to the ground and rakes the rockface. Nails curve into talons. Wind ruffles feathers. She eats whatever crosses her path, fast, to nourish the noise.