The Nettle Man; a strange romance
May. 8th, 2008 10:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootI was meant to attend the Beltane Festival at Butser Iron Age farm, but it never happened, though it caused plenty of inconvenience all around (my particular apologies to the gallant theoclarke for his generosity and prompt kindness) Fortunately, you can take the witch out of the fire but you can't take the fire out of the witch. Chums of the broomstick persuasion promised that they would visit me next day at my new lurklair in Hither Green, bringing miniature wicker men made of bound hay and straw to burn in the beautiful grove at the bottom of the garden.
The idea was that we would write little notes describing negative emotions/situations we wanted to get rid of, pin said notes to the wicker men, and immolate them. It is this aspect of witchery that I so enjoy, childish, artistic, a little sinister. My childhood landscape owes as much to Saki as to Narnia. I didn't like dolls but would never dream of harming one nor even cutting its hair; I didn't like them, they didn't like me, I would go to my books and they would sit pristine and untouched in a corner. Making my own would be different, I decided. I had a morning to create myself a wicker man and had neither wicker nor clue. But I had an awful lot of nettles.
Nettles are wonderful things really. Great tea, great hair conditioner, and for my literary soul, just perfect for the carrier of my sorrows cos of course they sting.
I pulled up a few. I say a few...by the time I had finished, he stood easily two feet up on the ground, and his chest was deep and broad with thick muscular legs and powerful arms. Quite fanciable really. He looked too nice to deserve the fire, but I had to remember his function, so I poured beer over his lips, kissed him goodbye and left him to wait under a tree full of indeterminate pink flowers. The kiss should have stung but all I felt was a slight tingle; maybe the beer had taken the worst of it. When friends turned up, we scooped our wee scapegoat men together in a metal bin lid and started a fire.
The good news was that the notes of negativity burned up easily. The men themselves were unsporting in their reluctance to join in, the hay ones surrendering slowly, and my own? After wax and wick and sand and finally firelighters (we were wondering if he was going to need parafin, highly eco-friendly)I heard the strange whistling of moisture leaving stems... it sounded like far away screaming, and my heart smote me but I tried to keep a grip. We celebrated and then, cos I had to go to work, drowned the fire. The straw men were gone, and all that remained of him as far as I could tell under the cinders, was his head and left arm.
When I came to clean up properly I discovered my mistake. He was still entire, a little singed and he'd lost some nettles off his arms and legs, but the damage went no deeper.
I put him on a makeshift altar (i.e a pile of old crates under the pinkflower tree)and made him a new face; These were not exactly pearls that were his eyes...two dandelions with tiny black berries at their centres did that, a squirrel-discarded hazelnut shell served for a nose and white starflowers combined with daisies made his brilliant new smile. As he had insisted on being the green man rather than the burning one, I gave him a pink and white petal/wild geranium heart, and a phallus made of those bluebells inadvertantly trampled the night before. I blew a dandelion clock over him, fed him more beer and kissed him again.
After surviving fire and water, all I could do was leave him under the trees to fade away, blossoms already tumbling to rest on his arms and chest. He looked very pleased with himself, and the child in me is proud of him. The grown up however is just grateful that trees guard the back of the garden, cos if any of the neighbours spy him, they are going to think a most peculiar person lives in the house. They might be right.
theoclarke for his generosity and prompt kindness) Fortunately, you can take the witch out of the fire but you can't take the fire out of the witch. Chums of the broomstick persuasion promised that they would visit me next day at my new lurklair in Hither Green, bringing miniature wicker men made of bound hay and straw to burn in the beautiful grove at the bottom of the garden. The idea was that we would write little notes describing negative emotions/situations we wanted to get rid of, pin said notes to the wicker men, and immolate them. It is this aspect of witchery that I so enjoy, childish, artistic, a little sinister. My childhood landscape owes as much to Saki as to Narnia. I didn't like dolls but would never dream of harming one nor even cutting its hair; I didn't like them, they didn't like me, I would go to my books and they would sit pristine and untouched in a corner. Making my own would be different, I decided. I had a morning to create myself a wicker man and had neither wicker nor clue. But I had an awful lot of nettles.
Nettles are wonderful things really. Great tea, great hair conditioner, and for my literary soul, just perfect for the carrier of my sorrows cos of course they sting.
I pulled up a few. I say a few...by the time I had finished, he stood easily two feet up on the ground, and his chest was deep and broad with thick muscular legs and powerful arms. Quite fanciable really. He looked too nice to deserve the fire, but I had to remember his function, so I poured beer over his lips, kissed him goodbye and left him to wait under a tree full of indeterminate pink flowers. The kiss should have stung but all I felt was a slight tingle; maybe the beer had taken the worst of it. When friends turned up, we scooped our wee scapegoat men together in a metal bin lid and started a fire.
The good news was that the notes of negativity burned up easily. The men themselves were unsporting in their reluctance to join in, the hay ones surrendering slowly, and my own? After wax and wick and sand and finally firelighters (we were wondering if he was going to need parafin, highly eco-friendly)I heard the strange whistling of moisture leaving stems... it sounded like far away screaming, and my heart smote me but I tried to keep a grip. We celebrated and then, cos I had to go to work, drowned the fire. The straw men were gone, and all that remained of him as far as I could tell under the cinders, was his head and left arm.
When I came to clean up properly I discovered my mistake. He was still entire, a little singed and he'd lost some nettles off his arms and legs, but the damage went no deeper.
I put him on a makeshift altar (i.e a pile of old crates under the pinkflower tree)and made him a new face; These were not exactly pearls that were his eyes...two dandelions with tiny black berries at their centres did that, a squirrel-discarded hazelnut shell served for a nose and white starflowers combined with daisies made his brilliant new smile. As he had insisted on being the green man rather than the burning one, I gave him a pink and white petal/wild geranium heart, and a phallus made of those bluebells inadvertantly trampled the night before. I blew a dandelion clock over him, fed him more beer and kissed him again.
After surviving fire and water, all I could do was leave him under the trees to fade away, blossoms already tumbling to rest on his arms and chest. He looked very pleased with himself, and the child in me is proud of him. The grown up however is just grateful that trees guard the back of the garden, cos if any of the neighbours spy him, they are going to think a most peculiar person lives in the house. They might be right.
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Date: 2008-05-10 01:22 pm (UTC)And wierd to be a Morrigan woman. No Crows......
I'm back now!
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Date: 2008-05-18 10:13 am (UTC)No crows in NZ? Welcome back to land of many crows, Morrigan woman!
no subject
Date: 2008-05-18 07:30 pm (UTC)