Botanica Fabula

Winter’s bony grasp

Amanda Edmiston

Winter is stealthily gaining control once more. In the garden where I'm sharing seed stories, one young, warm, soul is barefoot— and I remember that feeling of inner heat, a radiance that could not be stolen by seasonal variations of temperature nor dissolved by lack of clothing. I remember feeling I would never become one of those 'cold people', who felt icy fingers snatch at their bones, who could not brave the December air. No, I’d remain forever bare-limbed, scarf-free.

To be honest, despite frozen fingertips and chilled toes, I'm still the person who seems to have a secret deal with the devil of thermodynamics, the one most likely to shed a coat on a winter walk or to wander round the house in January in a vest top and skirt because someone put another log on the fire. But Hades has now reached in and grasped my spine, whispered of my mortality, taught my bones, my joints to understand the cold. It is around this turn of the year when he would have been trying to tempt Persephone with the juicy seeds from that Pomegranate, trying to ensure she’d spend at least half her time in the dark underworld, trying to commit our mortal world to a seasonal change which even Demeter and Zeus could not prevent. Winter is here. Darkness has arrived. Persephone is trapped with Hades. The Cailleach is reminding us of her power as we reach for the last treasures from the woods to protect us. Treasures to fight off the seasonal spread of colds, to guard our homes as we close doors, light fires, bake, make comforting stews and soups, have candlelit celebrations, coorie in with friends and families.

Sustainable, fast growing Birch logs line the edges of our stove. According to Elizabeth Blackwell (1737), the smoke rising as they burn will protect us and bestow health benefits. Pinecones, their resinous smell deterring respiratory infections, begin to congregate along the mantelpiece, placed there by the children after every walk. And just because... well, just because we're Scottish… the last of the Rowan berries, looped on red thread, prevent errant witches and ill-tidings from flying in through the windows. Ours is not the only culture to use berries as beads for protection and that’s what got me thinking…

The merest mention of this month’s herb, Wintergreen, immediately brings the taste of root beer to mind, conjuring the two months in my late teens spent in New Mexico studying First Nation Art and Culture at the University of Santa Fe. One of the teachers, from the Navajo nation, was showing us ‘ghost beads’ , made from dried Juniper berries, said to protect the wearer from malevolent spirits and nightmares. There’s a thread that connects that Juniper with Scotland's herbal traditions; it was once the preferred plant for protective saining.

As I research Wintergreen more, I begin to wonder if, alongside protecting from colds and ill health, it might also have been used as an amulet, a bead, an adornment with purpose. It's certainly aromatic and would make a lovely, fragrant bead… but I can find no record of such. But I suspect it will make a perfect accompaniment to the woodland talismans and herbal helpers that see us into Yule and the heart of winter, so we will add it. Alongside the twists of Birch bark, the Juniper, Rowan, and Pinecones, I’ll add Wintergreen to our garland and, carrying it, will step towards the shimmering lights of celebration, deep in the heart of the wild wood.

We'll need to traverse old, forgotten pathways. Step round the Ivy-clad trunks that shelter trembling birds from the cold North wind, pass the green Lichen-furred Oak, listen to the owl’s hoot and call, and we'll find ourselves in a clearing deep in the heart of the ancient forest. In the centre of the clearing is a cottage. A cottage in the heart of the wild wood. In the cottage lives a family, poor in gold but rich in love. The scent of Pine resin fills the air, as a large pot of stew simmers on a warm fire. It’s a sparse meal— just a few carefully stored vegetables for the stew, maybe the last of the flour as a crust for the fruit, eked out with the last of the Rowan berries or Wintergreen. The food might be poor but it’s a well-loved home and the family are happy.

We watch through the veil of trees and time. The night closes in, a rich velvet starlit night and the snow is falling. Not a sound... Only the feather-like drifting of snow…

Softly, we sense presence, footsteps walking through the snow. There’s a gentle tap at the Larch wood door. An old woman stands outside, the flakes fall around her as the cold wind blows. The family cannot believe this ancient figure has travelled in this dark, ominous night. They usher her in, apologizing for the meagre meal they share but welcoming her to their fire and their stories. It is just past longest night, the snow clouds have smothered the stars, the moon is enveloped in a diaphanous chiffon of ice, and the flakes are falling fast. Surely, she must stay with them.

Morning is icy, bitter, and chill, but the crystaltinted sun makes an effort, and the family rise with the winter light, ready to build up the fire once more. Expecting to share their meagre breakfast with their strange visitor, the children make their way downstairs only to find her gone. The father rushes to the door, but she isn’t in sight. Not even a footprint shows where she has been. But there, outside the door, the Pine tree at the heart of the forest now stands covered in stars, twinkling and magical like the night sky. On the hearth sits a hearty meal and a warm loaf of bread.

And from that day on, so the trees tell me, on longest night the family receive a meal and a tree covered in stars as a gift for helping a poor old woman with the last they had to share.

Let’s slip away now. The night is dark. Let’s return to our own hearths, protected by the last of the season’s berries, by things gathered from the woods. Let’s light a fire to stop Hades or the Cailleach grasping at our bones. Let’s coorie in, rest, and await the shift back into the light.

References

Blackwell, E. (1737) A Curious Herbal is available via open access at www.biodiversitylibrary.org/bibliography/571

Homer 'Hymn to Demeter', in Rayor, D. (2014) The Homeric Hymns: A Translation, University of California Press.

To find out more about the practice of saining, see Scott Richardson Read: www.cailleachsherbarium.com

Amanda is currently working with Edinburgh Seed Library, delivering workshops exploring our vital connection to seeds and how stories help us share and preserve knowledge, just as we share seeds and save them for the future. You can find out more at edinburghseednetwork.org