The Nettle Man; a strange romance

[smokingboot]

I 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.

Comments

[happybat.livejournal.com]

Reading this made me feel happy.

[caffeine-fairy.livejournal.com]

Despite his resolute determination not to burn, I hope he got rid of all your sorrows.

What in the name of Jim Dale...

[caddyman.livejournal.com]

Beer takes the sting out of many awkward occasions.

When you mentyion phalluses, you should be careful about including the words "blew" and "clock" in the next sentence. On first reading it gives one entirely the wrong idea...

[romney.livejournal.com]

I'm not a follower of Paganism, but I'm curious as to the implied symbolism in trying to burn a Jack-in-the-green figure so soon after May-day.

[smokingboot.livejournal.com]

Me too. Lughnassad is the appropriate time - I think it was just that they do it at Butser farm and pagans are easily excited! Not that it mattered cos my own Jack was clearly determined to be traditional and green as the grass:-)

Re: What in the name of Jim Dale...

[smokingboot.livejournal.com]

You, sir, are beyond the pale.

Now I keep rereading the sentence and laughing too much to correct it...

[smokingboot.livejournal.com]

Thank you, I have to trust him, he's so strong and pretty!

[smokingboot.livejournal.com]

I am so glad!

Whenever I see him in my minds eye, he makes me glad too.

[caffeine-fairy.livejournal.com]

How is being back in the smoke? Are you home for good?

[smokingboot.livejournal.com]

Complex question. No, we still have the place in Manchester but now when I am in London working I stay at my brother's house in Hither Green. For the first time since long ago in a tiny blue garret at the top of Brixton hill, I feel perfectly comfortable.

Bro's not there cos he lives in Belgium. I love the house and want to own it. For the first time ever, I feel envy about something that someone else has - how silly is that? But of course, our house in Manchester has served us very well and has its own charm. Still, for me it is not home. I wonder if London holds that special place in my heart, or if home is somewhere else waiting for me to find it. Or maybe I'm just a bit spoilt!

[caffeine-fairy.livejournal.com]

It's funny, even though we don't technically live in London anymore, London is still Home.

His house sounds lovely, glad you feel comfortable there.

Re: What in the name of Jim Dale...

[blackcurrants.livejournal.com]

I am extraordinarily glad it wasn't just me who had to blink slightly at that sentence. Anyone would think I had a filthy mind.

Also, MS Boot? "My childhood landscape owes as much to Saki as to Narnia." YES.

Lovely, lovely post. I'm now going to have to re-read The Spider's Bride (it's marked for my plane flight on Tuesday night. I can never sleep on planes, so anything I read under those conditions are slightly lysergically tinged) and I can't wait.

Re: What in the name of Jim Dale...

[smokingboot.livejournal.com]

Dirty, dirty,dirty. You must all be punished.

Thank you for your kind words, your comments are always so generous they leave me warm and shy:-)

Headscapes are extraordinary places. Tiny things are powerful. The cthulhu mythos never frightened me as a child cos a terror too great to comprehend was too great to worry about. But a doll in the corner with one eye swivelled upon me when I knew its gaze had been at the ceiling the night before...oh yes, that would do it.

I saw Dadd's painting 'The Fairy Feller's Master Stroke' when I was small, long before I knew his story, but even then I knew something was very right and very wrong.

[semyaza.livejournal.com]

Your nettle man has made me happy, too. :)

[smokingboot.livejournal.com]

I confess, I am a little bit in love with him:-)

[ravenrigan.livejournal.com]

thank you for that. Ity was all wrong trying to celebrate Beltaine ant what would be Samhain in NZ, and I missed it, but it feels nice to share in yours.

[smokingboot.livejournal.com]

You are very welcome to share. The day would have been better with you.

Is there a different tradition for NZ, something more tuned into the land's moods? I knew two witches in Canberra, very formal Wiccans who resolutely celebrated Beltaine at the beginning of May and Samhain at the end of October, despite it 'being difficult'. I couldn't help thinking some point had been lost.

[ravenrigan.livejournal.com]

No, the ones I have encountered (though my family does not exactly move in pagan circles) do it with the seasons. It's still a bit wrong. I think it's hard to be a Celtic Pagan outside Celtic lands.

And wierd to be a Morrigan woman. No Crows......

I'm back now!

[croak108.livejournal.com]

When igh livved in WurmHolt (near Acton, not in the least rustic) on bonfire night igh burned a crude like:ness of the poape of Rome plus a collection of the tenets & practices of the church. The ceremonye is yclept Tu Hell wi the Poape. It w0uld be nice tu get it goeing again.

[smokingboot.livejournal.com]

Oh, if I am going to burn things now, they must be personal to me...Ratzinger et al are too distant for me to spend emotional energy on them, though I don't doubt you would have many ready to join you if you made it an open event!

[smokingboot.livejournal.com]

This is the problem with land based traditions of course; they must shift their skins from land to land/time to time or grow redundant.

No crows in NZ? Welcome back to land of many crows, Morrigan woman!

[ravenrigan.livejournal.com]

It's good to be home. And this IS home. I figured out today that I have spent nearly twice as long in the UK as I ever spent in NZ as I spent about 5 years overseas during my childhood and came here when I was 20. And I live here by choice, not some random accident of birth.