Photography by ALEXANDRIA CORNE

There once was a woman who lived in a tiny village at the forest’s edge. She kept to herself with only a few good books for company, as she felt a quiet ache that settled deep in her bones, reminding her that she would never be good enough. It lingered in the spaces between laughter, in the hush of early morning when the world was still, and in the moments when she stared at her own reflection, searching for something, anything, to make her feel worthy. It didn’t help that her peers thought of her as lacking, like an unfinished spell or a recipe missing a vital ingredient.

“Your hair is too unruly,” her friends would tell her as they got ready together for festivals. “You’ll never find a husband,” her aunts would say as they worked on the mending.

“Walk straighter, think quicker, do better, be stronger…”

So she went through life like a slow- moving fog in the forest. Uncertainty weaved its way into her thoughts, dampening the fire in her soul until all that remained were smoldering embers of self-doubt. Her longing for the recognition of others caused her to withdraw completely.

In the evenings, as the community settled down and prepared for bed, she ventured to the one place she could go and dream of being like everyone else. She’d always felt the pull of the forest— the way the trees stood guard over her and the mossy earth cradled her every step. She walked its winding paths, seeking solace beneath the tangled boughs.

Then one evening as she walked the familiar trail, she noticed the air held a different kind of magic. The wind carried an ancient lullaby that lured her deeper, past familiar groves of cedar and hemlock, past the ivy-entwined stones and rustling creek, until she reached a clearing she’d never seen before. At its heart stood an ornate mirror, its gold frame draped in delicate gossamer webs that shimmered under the moonlight. She hesitated; her pulse quickened. “It can’t be,” she murmured.

There was a legend that told of a mirror hidden deep in the woods, one that did not simply reflect but revealed. The elders spoke of seekers who found the mirror at just the right moment, when they were ready to witness their own truth. She could hardly believe the tales were true, but there it was, nestled in the moss at the base of a tree, as real as she was. She reached out, brushing away the lace-like threads, and peered into the glass. At first, she saw only her own face and the dark hair that framed her rounded features. But then the image wavered. The woman in the mirror straightened, her eyes glowing with quiet strength. The lines of self-doubt softened. The reflection radiated something she’d never dared to see in herself before: worthiness. Beauty, not from how the world measured it, but from the fierce spirit within. She leaned closer, studying every detail of the face before her. It was hers, yet it was more. It was the woman she’d been before the world told her who she should be, before doubt crept into her bones.

A flicker of memory surfaced—her childhood self running barefoot through the fields, laughing at the sky, unafraid of her own light. The woman in the mirror was that same child but now with the wisdom of years, the resilience of a heart that had been broken and mended, the quiet power of someone who’d walked through darkness and found her way back to the stars. Tears welled in her eyes, not from sorrow but from a deep, aching recognition. She’d spent so long searching for worthiness outside herself, hoping someone else would fill the empty spaces in her soul. But the mirror had no lies to tell, no illusions to spin.

It showed only the truth. Love, strength, and worthiness had been inside her all along. The trees around the clearing rustled and the air thickened with magic. She reached out a tentative hand, fingertips brushing against the cool glass. A warmth spread through her chest, as if the reflection had stepped forward and wrapped her in an embrace.

A wind stirred the branches overhead, and the mirror shimmered one last time before the glass dulled. She exhaled, a weight she hadn’t known she was carrying lifting from her heart. She turned from the clearing, the night air cool against her skin, and she walked home with a new understanding. She no longer needed anyone’s approval to complete her.

She was already whole. As she stepped away, the clearing darkened, and the mirror’s frame melted into shadow, vanishing as though it had never been. But the woman knew better. She knew it was still there, waiting. Somewhere deep in the forest, wrapped in gossamer and moonlight, the mirror remained, holding its quiet magic for the next soul ready to see their own light.

Embracing the Reflection

Throughout history, mirrors have been revered as both tools of divination and gateways to hidden truths. In fairy tales, they are portals to other realms; in mythology, instruments of transformation; and in magic, conduits for self-reflection and personal growth. The act of gazing into a mirror is more than just seeing our physical form; it’s an opportunity to look beyond, to explore the depths of our soul, and to uncover the truths we often hide from ourselves.

Yet much like the gossamer webs that veil a forgotten mirror in the woods, our perceptions can become clouded by fear, doubt, and illusion. Through the magic of mirrors, we learn to brush aside the veil that obscures the view of ourselves as we really are. The earliest mirrors date back to around 6000 BCE and were made of polished obsidian. These early mirrors were not just tools for vanity but were often linked to spiritual and supernatural beliefs. The ancient Greeks and Romans practiced catoptromancy, a form of divination using mirrors or reflective water to receive visions.

The Chinese believed mirrors had the power to repel evil spirits. Feng shui practices still use mirrors to reflect and redirect energy. The Victorians believed mirrors could hold remnants of past energies, so they were covered after a death to prevent the spirit from becoming trapped within the reflective surface. These historical perspectives remind us that mirrors have always been more than simple objects. They are tools of insight, capable of revealing the mysteries of our inner world. When used with intention, a mirror can be a powerful ally in self-discovery, allowing us to confront fears, recognize strengths, and embrace our personal journey with clarity.

By working with a mirror, we can gain insight into our path, deepen our self-love, and call upon the energy needed for transformation.

The Sacred Act of Seeing Yourself

We are taught early to fear our own reflection, to critique every perceived flaw, to see only what we believe to be imperfect. But what if we changed the story? What if, instead of looking for what’s wrong, we sought out our own strength? These exercises are designed to help us undo our long-held fears.

Morning Mirror Affirmations:

Begin each day by gazing into your mirror and speaking affirmations that empower you. Statements like “I am worthy,” “I embrace my power,” or “I honor my path” can reinforce self-love and confidence.

• Dream Reflection: Before bed, look into a mirror and ask for clarity in your dreams. Keep a journal nearby to record any messages or symbols upon waking.

• Past-Self Meditation: Hold a mirror and visualize yourself as a child. What would you say to your younger self? What love or reassurance does your younger self need? This practice can be deeply healing and enlightening.
So don’t be afraid, dear reader. The mirror waits.

Its surface, once clouded with doubt and illusion, clears as the gossamer veil is gently lifted, thread by fragile thread. And there, beyond the reflection of what the world expects, is your wild, untamed self, woven from shadow and light, rooted like the trees and shifting like the river.

A Magic Mirror of Your Own

Much like gently removing the gossamer webs from a hidden mirror, looking past our imperfections requires patience, courage, and the willingness to see ourselves fully. The good news is you don’t have to journey into an enchanted forest to find a magic mirror. In fact, any small mirror will do.

You will need:

• Any small handheld mirror (preferably one you feel drawn to)
• A white candle (for clarity and truth)
• A few drops of rosemary essential oil (for mental clarity)
• A journal and pen

Find a quiet space where you won’t be disturbed. Gently anoint your candle with the rosemary essential oil. Inhale the scent as you do so, allowing it to clear your mind and sharpen your focus. Light the candle and place it in front of you. Hold the small mirror in your hands, close your eyes, and take a deep breath. Feel its energy, its smooth surface, and the possibilities it holds.

When you feel ready, say something like: “Mirror of truth, light my way,
Through the night and through the day. Brush aside the gossamer veil,
Reveal the truth without fail.”

Open your eyes and gaze into the mirror. Look beyond your physical features and into the depths of your reflection. Be open to whatever emotions or messages arise. You may receive images, words, or an intuitive knowing. If doubt creeps in, remind yourself that this is a sacred practice of self-discovery. When you feel a sense of completion, place the mirror down, snuff out the candle, and take a moment to journal about your experience. Write down any thoughts, feelings, or insights that came to you.

Your reflection is more than what the eye can see. It is a doorway to the soul, waiting to be explored. Through intention and practice, the mirror becomes a sacred ally, guiding us toward self-discovery, self-love, and the infinite potential within.

See more of Alexandria Corne’s work on Instagram @alexandriacornephotography.

Craft your own mushroom amulet as a reminder that the magic of an old familiar never truly passes. It transforms, like a mushroom in the forest—always offering a little bit of enchantment for those willing to look closely enough.

Materials Needed:

• Foam clay (I use Modelite), 4 to 8 ounces
• A toothpick or other small sculpting tool
• Acrylic paint
• Clear craft sealer (I use Mod Podge spray concealer)
• Hot glue and a glue gun
• An eye pin
• A 24-inch length of cording of your choice
• A crystal of your choice (optional)

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To form the mushroom cap, start with a ball of foam clay.

Roll it between your palms until the ball is nice and round. Then flatten it slightly on bottom. You can press the edges of the cap gently with your fingers to create a subtle, curled edge that mimics the natural look.

To form the stem, roll a smaller portion of clay into a cylindrical shape. Don’t worry about making it perfectly smooth; uneven texture and imperfections will add character. Keep the stem proportional to the size of the cap.

Using a dab of hot glue, gently press the bottom of the cap onto the top of the stem and hold for several seconds to fuse the two together.

If you’re adding a crystal to the stem’s bottom, press it into the bottom of the stem to create a tailor-made space. Remove it when you let the mushroom dry.

Use a toothpick or sculpting tool to add natural texture to the cap and stem. You might want to make little indentations on the cap to resemble the tiny scales or grooves that mushrooms often have. You can also add small dots of white clay for classic “spots.”

Allow your mushroom to dry for up to 72 hours, depending on thickness. Use the directions on the clay package as a guide.

Paint your mushroom in any way you wish with acrylic paint. Once it’s dry, give it a coat of sealer for protection.

If making a corded amulet, push an eye pin through the top of the cap and add a small drop of glue to hold it in place.

When the glue is dry, string with cording of your choice. Glue in your crystal and allow to dry.

Note: You can always push stiff wire into the bottom of the stem after painting and then seal your mushroom again if you want to use it for a yard or garden project. A group of these shrooms will stand up perfectly and add a bit of magic to any garden party or event. They might even attract a familiar!

Image Caption: While real amanitas can be deadly for dogs—like twelve-year-old Chesapeake Bay Retriever, aspiring top model, and good boy Si here—rest assured that Si is surrounded only by hand-sculpted foam mushrooms found in fairyland … and author Monica Crosson’s backyard.

Photography by Alexandria Corne

 

It was spring, the season of green fire that enveloped the hillside and gentle breezes that carried the scent of wildflowers and fresh rain. It was in this vibrant season of renewal that the young witch first felt the pull of the mushroom amulet. She wore it on a leather cord around her neck, a gift from her grandmother, a powerful witch whose wisdom wove through every fiber of the girl’s life, much like the forest roots that wound unseen beneath her feet.

“This will guide you when the time is right,” her grandmother had whispered, pressing the talisman into her palm. At the time, the girl hadn’t understood her grandmother’s words, but on that day, the amulet felt warm against her chest, thrumming with a gentle, insistent energy.

The girl had been longing for a familiar. Every witch she knew had one: a creature imbued with magic, not just a companion but a kindred soul, a reflection of the witch herself. She imagined a sleek black cat with eyes like moonlight, a raven whose feathers glistened with hidden rainbows, or even a fox with fiery fur and a mischievous grin.

Her heart raced at the possibilities. Would her own familiar be an animal fierce and cunning? Wise and mysterious? The anticipation was almost too much to bear. The amulet tugged her forward, an unseen thread guiding her deeper into the mossy embrace of the forest.

She walked until the afternoon sun just touched the western hillside, the only sounds the crunch of twigs under her feet and the occasional trill of a songbird settling in for the evening. Then she saw a perfect ring of mushrooms glowing faintly in the fading light. She smiled. She knew she’d found the place of enchantment.

Her grandmother’s voice echoed again in her mind: “The mushroom amulet will find your heart’s companion, but a lesson will find you first.”

The girl knelt at the edge of the ring, her breath catching. She closed her eyes and pressed the amulet to her lips, whispering, “Show me.” The air shimmered, and for a moment, she felt weightless, as if the forest had exhaled and carried her with it.

When she opened her eyes, the ring of mushrooms had changed. They now glowed a bright pink, and sitting in their center was a dog.

Not a sleek, young creature like she’d imagined, but an old, scruffy mutt with graying fur and tired eyes. His ears were floppy, his paws worn, and he sat quietly, looking at her with a mix of curiosity and something else, something deeper.

The girl blinked, waiting for her true familiar to appear. But the dog remained, his gaze steady. Disappointment prickled in her chest. This was her familiar?

She’d expected something extraordinary, something magical. But this was just…a dog.

The amulet warmed against her skin, as if nudging her: Look closer.

The girl stepped into the ring and crouched before the dog. His eyes met hers, and in that moment, the forest around her seemed to fade. She saw his story through his eyes—years of loyalty, of companionship given and taken for granted, of being left behind when age slowed his steps. He had loved deeply, and that love had gone unnoticed.

Her heart softened. “You’re tired,” she whispered. She reached out a hand, and the dog leaned into her touch, his tail thumping weakly against the ground.

As their connection deepened, the girl felt threads of magic binding them together. It wasn’t the fiery spark she’d imagined but a steady, grounding warmth, like the embers of a hearth fire that never truly dies.

“You’re my familiar,” she said, not as a question but as a truth. The dog huffed softly, a sound that felt like agreement, and licked her hand with surprising gentleness.

The journey home began in silence, the dog trotting beside her, his pace careful but determined, his presence solid and comforting. When they paused by a stream to rest, he nudged her hand with his nose, his eyes full of quiet understanding. He didn’t ask for anything but gave her everything—his trust, his loyalty, his companionship.

By the time they reached her cottage, her disappointment had melted into something warm and tender. She saw him now for what he truly was, a soul who’d waited for her as long as she’d waited for him. He wasn’t sleek or majestic, but he was hers, and that made him extraordinary.

She named him Sage, for his wisdom and quiet strength.

Over the weeks and months that followed, Sage taught her the magic of patience, of quiet devotion, and of love that expects nothing in return. He was always there, steady as the earth beneath her feet, and his loyalty brought a new kind of magic into her life, one she hadn’t known she needed.

The girl learned that love wasn’t about grand gestures or perfect appearances. It was about acceptance, about seeing the beauty in what others overlooked. Sage, with his graying fur and gentle eyes, was the embodiment of that lesson.

Years later, the girl, who had by now transformed into a powerful witch, sat on the porch of her forest cottage, gazing at the patch of earth beneath the old oak where Sage now rested. The moss had grown thick over his grave, a soft, green testament to the passing seasons. In her hand, she held the mushroom amulet, its surface worn smooth from years of touch.

She thought often of her familiar, his gentle eyes and steady presence lingering like the scent of the forest after rain. He had taught her so much. He’d shown her the beauty of the overlooked, the strength in resilience, and the grace in accepting the impermanence of life.

The Magic of Second Chances

If you’ve ever thought about bringing a familiar into your life, I urge you to look beyond the playful puppies and excitable young dogs. Puppies tumble over each other in playful chaos, and younger dogs press their noses to the bars, brimming with energy and possibility. And there, in the quiet corners, are the seniors, waiting. Walking through a shelter, it’s easy to pass them by—but just take a moment to visit with them. Meet their gazes and listen to what their eyes are telling you.

There’s a certain wisdom in the eyes of an older dog, a depth that speaks to a lifetime of stories they cannot tell us but carry in every wag of their tail.

Our culture prizes youth, even when it comes to our furry companions.

But as someone who believes in the transformative magic of second chances, I see older shelter dogs as treasures, their graying muzzles and slower steps a testament to their enduring spirit. These dogs, cast aside through no fault of their own, still have so much to give.

Older dogs carry with them the kind of quiet magic that comes only from experience. They’ve lived, loved, and sometimes lost, but their hearts remain open to connection. Adopting an older dog is like opening a well-loved book; there’s already a richness to the story, but together, you get to write a beautiful new chapter.

In a society that celebrates busyness, older dogs teach us the value of stillness. They’re content to nap by your feet as you work or amble alongside you during a gentle walk. Their pace invites us to pause and savor the small, sacred moments.

Senior dogs know what it’s like to lose their place in the world. Whether they’ve been surrendered by families who could no longer care for them or have spent years in a shelter, their resilience is profound. And when you adopt them, their gratitude is palpable. It’s in the way they rest their head on your knee or wag their tail at the sound of your voice.

When you adopt an older dog, you’re not just giving them a home—you’re giving them dignity, respect, and a chance to feel cherished once more. And the magic? It’s mutual. Caring for a senior dog shifts your perspective, grounding you in what truly matters: love, connection, and the fleeting beauty of time.

Adopting an older dog isn’t just about giving them a home; it’s about creating  partnership steeped in love and gratitude. It’s about finding magic in unexpected places and realizing that sometimes, the greatest treasures are the ones we almost overlook.

Now that you have your new tree or shrub firmly planted in your garden, why not bless it with a new twist on an old-fashioned wassail ritual?

This ritual is a great way to bless your new addition to your garden, and it also blesses the birds who call your garden home.

Try your hand at making my dairy-free and egg-free version of old-fashioned wassail. Or how about picking up some locally brewed hard cider or beer?

You will need:

Evergreens (real or artificial)
Floral wire
Wassail, beer, or hard cider
Bells, pans, whistles, etc. for making noise Small bird feeder filled with seed
A pretty wassail bowl (optional)

Elect someone from your family or friend group to lead the procession.
(This ritual can also be performed alone, though it is more fun worked as a group.) Twist the greens with floral wire to form a crown. This will be worn by the elected leader, who represents a Green Man or Green Woman character.

Your leader will carry the wassail bowl, or whatever container holds the cider or beer bottles. All others will carry the noisemakers, which may include bells, whistles, pots and pans, and so on. Don’t forget to have someone carry the filled bird feeder. As you make your way to the tree, bang those pots and shake those bells—be as noisy as you please! Yell out for winter spirits to flee. Remember to make it fun—dance about and make merry!

Your elected king or queen will then lift the wassail bowl or open container and spill just a bit over the roots of your tree. As this is done, all say something like this:

Health to thee, my [fill in type of tree] tree Steadfast upon the ground.
Be it weather good or foul,
May every sprig flourish well
Upon your leafy crown.

Then have your elected leader take the bird feeder and hang it from a branch. As this is done, all say something like this:

Hail thee birds who grace this tree,
Your presence brings us cheer.
We hope this offering of seed and mirth Eases your stay here.

Now everyone can cheer and share in the libation.

Wassail

4 small apples
¼ cup brown sugar
1 quart apple cider
1 cup orange juice
1 cup cranberry or pineapple juice
½ cup brandy (optional)
6 allspice berries
2 cinnamon sticks
1 teaspoon grated nutmeg
Dash ground cinnamon and ginger before serving (optional) Preheat the oven to 350°F.

Use a melon baller to scoop the cores out of the small apples. Set the apples on a cookie sheet and fill each one with approximately a tablespoon of brown sugar. Bake for 40 minutes. Pour apple cider, juices, and optional brandy into a stockpot and warm over medium-low heat. Cut a square of cheesecloth or muslin and place the spices on top. Tie it closed with cotton twine and float it in the mixture until it warms. Do not let the brew boil.

When ready to serve, remove the spice bundle and float the baked apples. You may also add a dash of cinnamon and ginger to the bowl.

I wrote A Year in the Enchanted Garden: Cultivating the Witch’s Soul With Spells, Crafts & Garden Know-How, my new book from Llewellyn, to inspire you to discover the true enchantment of a garden (big or small), to get your hands dirty and learn to work with the rhythms of nature in your own specific region, and to get to know the spirits of your land.

I invite you to tap into energy that is unique to your own magic with gardening tips, stories, recipes, charms and spells, herbal folklore, and seasonal celebrations for every month.

This is your invitation to stroll through the garden gate and down a stony path. Sit beneath the willow; she whispers eloquent tales of a witch (like you, like me) weaving magic with a green-tipped wand. Never mind the dirt stains under the witch’s fingernails; she finds solace in the company of growing things. Here is an excerpt:

Here We Go A-Wassailing

In northwestern Washington, winters can be particularly dreary. We have known people who have moved to our beautiful valley during the summer and by September declared, “The rain isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.” We chuckle at their naïveté and say, “Just wait until November.” Where I am, in eastern Skagit County, the mountains that surround us trap the clouds, so we can sometimes go months without a break in the weather. By the time spring arrives, we open our doors bleary-eyed and suspicious of the big, bright round thing that dominates an unfamiliar blue sky.

One particularly cold, soggy January afternoon, after weeks of continual drizzle, my five-year-old daughter said to me, “Mama, can’t we just shoo it away so the sun will come back?”

I smiled and then said, “I wish I had a spell to make it disappear.”

She went back to playing with her dolls and had soon forgotten all about the gray dampness that kept her indoors, but it got me thinking about rituals meant to scare away the winter and encourage the arrival of spring. I knew all about the carnival celebrations that would be happening in February; their pre-Christian roots began with festivals to usher in the spring. But the ritual I was most interested in was the mid-January ceremony known as wassail.

Long, long, ago, British people set out in small groups, sometimes led by a wassail king and queen, into the bitter cold of a January evening. This would typically take place on the eve of Twelfth Night, January 5 or January 17, depending on which calendar was used. As they walked down the winding paths that led to their orchards, they banged drums and rang bells to frighten away winter spirits. Along with them they brought a special brew of cider or beer that had been prepared with herbs, sugar, spices, eggs, and cream. Typically, they surrounded the oldest fruit-bearing tree, chanted rhymes, and sang songs to wake up the spirit of the tree. In some traditions, the trunk of the tree was beaten with a stick to get the sap moving. As an offering, pieces of dried bread would be dunked into the wassail bowl, and the elected queen would place them in the hollow or supporting branches of the tree. Some of the wassail brew would then be poured about the roots or upon the tree’s trunk, and the revelers shared the rest.

It was that very evening that my daughter, Chloe, who was rightly elected queen, and my sons, Joshua, age twelve, and Elijah, age nine, followed me down a winding path, equipped with apple cider and some bells, to our small orchard. As we walked, we shook our bells and cried out, “Go away, winter! Ye have been banished!”

The kids ran circles around the gnarly old apple tree that produced the smallest and knobbiest apples you can imagine. “Wake up, wake up!” they screeched and jingled their bells. Chloe, taking her role of elected queen very seriously, ceremoniously dunked toasted bread into our wassail bowl and tucked it into the crook of one of the lower branches. “Here you go, nature spirits,” she said. “I hope this helps you wake up and make all this rain go away.”

We sang what verses we could remember from that old carol “Here We Come A-Wassailing,” then spilled a little of the wassail onto the roots of the old tree before sharing the rest among ourselves. “Here’s to a good try, old friend,” I said and raised the bowl. Of course, after taking a big swig from our wassail bowl, Joshua had to spray the contents from his mouth all over the tree’s trunk.

“Joshie!” Chloe screamed and started hitting him with her bells.

“I was just blessing the tree,” he said, blocking her blows with a now sloshing bowl of apple cider. This statement threw my nine-year-old into a fit of laughter, to which Chloe responded with a set of bells between his eyes.

“It’s time to go in,” I said as calmly as I could. I watched as my three little witchlings ran screaming and laughing back to the house, and then I turned toward the tree. “I know you get it,” I said and patted the twisted trunk. “Blessed be, dear spirit.”

Planting Your Bare-Root Tree

Bare-root trees and shrubs are typically available to buy at your local nursery between January and March. What’s great about buying bare-root plants is that it is an easy and affordable way to add fruit-bearing or flowering trees and shrubs to a new garden. Also, most bare-root trees sold are typically a dwarf or semi-dwarf variety, so spacing isn’t as big of an issue as it would be were you to purchase a standard-size tree.

When to plant your bare-root tree will vary from region to region, but ideally you want to plant trees when they are still dormant. In warmer regions, that means late fall to early winter. In colder regions, just after the ground has thawed.

When you are ready to plant your bare root tree or shrub …

• Take off the protective packaging and gently untangle root system.

• Soak in water for approximately three to six hours.

• Dig a hole that is at least double the size of the root spread. Break up the sides of the hole to accommodate growth.

• Mix equal parts garden soil and good compost and partly fill in the hole.

• Place the tree in the hole and fill soil in around the roots. Make sure the root collar (where the roots meet the base of the tree) is level with the ground. Pack the soil in well.

• Build up the soil a little around the tree to form a water basin and give your tree a good watering.

• Cover a three-foot-wide and two-inch-deep area around the base of your tree with mulch to hold in moisture.

• Water every seven to ten days until the tree is well established.

Featured Image: Three Women and Three Wolves (1900), by Eugène Grasset

They ride through the air with ease, stirring magic wherever they go

It was once said that you should look to the sky when the blood moon rises high above the tree line, for you may spy the shadows of witches on broomsticks driven to revolt against their wifely duties. In one such village where generations of women took to the sky, a grandmother ceremoniously bestowed a broom on her granddaughter at the time of her womanhood. Of course, the men of the village were not allowed to attend the blessing and were expected to busy themselves with mundane chores as the women gathered in sacred solidarity.

During one such ritual, a curious young girl who had watched her sisters, one after the other, receive their own brooms bedecked in yarrow, mugwort, and branches of the black cottonwood that graced the riverside, finally asked her mother, “Why do we gift brooms? It seems such an unextraordinary token.”

Her mother squeezed her hand and whispered, “Soon, very soon, you too shall know the secret of the broom.”

The girl pondered that bit of knowledge on chilly March mornings, as she followed the women of her village to the riverside to gather resinous cottonwood buds. She thought about it on sunny May afternoons as they gathered yarrow in the meadow and when they climbed the steep hillside for the pungent mugwort used in brews for dreaming. And while gathering the pot marigold from her garden in September’s slanted light, she contemplated the significance of the brooms lined up against the fence. More questions arose as she helped fill the cauldron with the herbs they had gathered over the year, along with oils and beeswax that created a thick ointment. But every time she was about to speak, her mother gently hushed her. Instead, she was encouraged to repeat the charm the women spoke over the bubbling cauldron.

Year after year, the girl followed the traditions of the women of her village without knowing why. But then one morning, when the flame of October’s bloom shone bright and the air was filled with the scent of woodsmoke and apple, she found the red stains of her burgeoning womanhood upon her bedsheets, and she smiled.

The women of the village insisted that her ritual should take place immediately, as it was about the time of the full blood moon. So before the girl had time to process what was happening, she stood in a cloak of red, surrounded by the women of her village, all holding their beloved brooms.

As her grandmother bent down and handed her a broom lovingly decorated with the herbs of their craft, she whispered to the girl, “It was the men who handed us the first brooms, stating that we knew of their use.” She smiled and winked. “And use them we do.”

When the night of the full blood moon arrived, the women showed the girl how to anoint her broom with the ointment they had made. And as the scent of the herbs and oils filled the air, the girl’s soul was at ease, for the secret of the broom had finally been revealed. You see, the broom was not just an implement of female repression but a symbol of strength, solidarity, and freedom for all that believed they could fly. And fly they did.

Witches’ Flying Ointment

The iconic image of a female witch straddling her broom has been a part
of history since the Inquisition. To power a witch’s transport, it was said a salve was made up of the fat of a child steeped in such herbs as poplar buds, belladonna, hemlock, wolfsbane, and soot. Sadly these claims (as well as others) were based on fear and the patriarchal attitudes of the day, resulting in what we know as the witch hunts that spanned 300 years and may have claimed the lives of up 50,000 people.

Today you’ll find many sources for modern witches’ flying ointments that can be used for meditation and connecting to the spirit world, complete with lists
of psychoactive and potentially lethal plants. Medicinal salves have been used for thousands of years, and psychoactive herbs also have a long history of ritual use. But there is no clear evidence of a witches’ flying ointment ever being used in such a way—and these classic herbs can be deadly.

The much more benign poplar tree buds have also long been used in medicine, with poplar salve (unguentum populeum), known for its anti-inflammatory and antimicrobial properties, being one of the oldest formulations. Recipes appear in many herbals and pharmacopoeias. Gart der Gesundheit (1485), for example, included henbane, poppy leaves, and mandrake among other herbs to mix with the poplar. Such salves were used much like we use aspirin today. Perhaps salves such as unguentum populeum are the basis for the folklore of witches’ flying ointment?

If you’d like to create your own witches’ flying ointment, a safer alternative can be made from these herbs, whose histories are just as rich as any of the baneful herbs referred to above. Infused oil from the buds of balsam poplar trees (known as cottonwoods) along with mugwort, yarrow, and calendula can be used for their medicinal properties and, in combination with your meditative practice of choice, can help induce a state of “soul flight.” (See detailed instructions at right.)

Cottonwood (Populus sect. Aigeiros)

Known for its its resinous buds, which have been extracted for centuries for use in medicine (sometimes called Balm of Gilead), it is antibacterial, antifungal, and mildly analgesic. It is used in spells to attract money, hope, healing, encouragement, and transformation, and as a base for ointments to induce soul flight.

Mugwort (Artemisia vulgaris)

Magical mugwort may be used to amplify psychic sight and induce astral travel. Known as the witch’s herb, it is also used in spells for protection, healing, and dreamwork. More recently it’s been used as a sedative and as a digestive aid, and in ointments to relieve dry, itchy skin.

Yarrow (Achillea millefolium)

This hard-to-tame herb may aid in astral travel and induce psychic visions. It is also used in spells for courage and love. Long used in medicine for its cooling properties, it may help to break a fever and stimulate sweating. Its antiseptic and anti-inflammatory properties, combined with its ability to slow bleeding, made yarrow useful on the battlefield for treating wounds.

Calendula (Calendula officinalis)

The petals of this bright and fiery herb, also known as pot marigold, can be used in a salve to trigger prophetic dreaming. It is also used in protection spells, for psychic powers, and for strength and courage. With high amounts of flavonoids, pot marigold is anti-inflammatory and anti-bacterial, and is popular in ointments to treat cuts, bruises, and burns.

(Safe) Witches’ Flying Ointment

Black cottonwood, or western balsam poplar (Populus trichocarpa), grows along the river near my home in the Pacific Northwest, and in February, when the buds swell and the scent of their sweet resin fills the air, I collect them from saplings along the winding riverbank. I loosely fill quart jars with the buds and then with olive oil and let the mixture steep in my pantry until spring is in full bloom. The oil can be used in soap and salve recipes, but my favorite magical use for it is making soul-flight or witches’ flying ointment. When dabbed on the pulse points and on the third eye, this salve can open the practitioner to soul flight. Use also for its calming effects before meditation, or before sleep to enhance your dreams.

You will need:
4 parts cottonwood buds
1 part dried mugwort
1 part dried yarrow or calendula

Place herbs and buds in a quart jar and cover with your choice of oil (olive, grapeseed, sweet almond, etc.). Let steep in a warm, dark place for several weeks. Shake daily.

When ready, use a double boiler to melt one ounce of beeswax. When melted, add one cup of your infused oil, and stir until blended. Remove from heat and add optional essential oil of your choice. Pour into two-ounce tins and allow to cool fully. (Makes four.)

Feature Image:
Stargazer by Annie Stegg
gallerygerard.com

There once was a witch who lived a quiet life near the edge of a forest. She was not quite in the realm of mortals, who were oblivious to her pretty cottage and the smoke rising from its chimney as they passed on their way to the village. Nor was she in the magical realm of the otherworld, where animals spoke and the fae dwelled among the trees whose leaves danced for the songs the west wind offered. She was somewhere in between, longing for the kinship of others.

Most mornings the witch could be found in her garden attending to the plants that kept her nourished and that filled her apothecary with the ingredients for medicine and spell work. In the afternoons, she made up songs as she ground her herbs to form magical charms—rose and lemon verbena for love, fennel and cowslip for healing. And as shadows fell over her quiet cottage, she sometimes cried herself to sleep.

But over time, she found that during those between times when the clock stood still for the briefest moment and magic tingled at her fingertips, she could indeed touch the worlds around her. At dawn, as silky strands of light broke through the darkness, she placed notes within small charm bags and tossed them through the misty veil into the mortal world. She could just make out the silhouettes of the villagers who would find her bags. Sometimes they opened them and found her affirmations of love, kindness, or gratitude written on flower petals. Some villagers responded by looking around, confused, because they saw nothing but the entrance to the forest. Others quickly tucked the charm bags into their pockets and continued on their way—and still other villagers only kicked the small bags off the path.

When the clock struck midnight, when one was neither in one day or the other, the songs of the fae floated softly through the thinning veil straight into her room. She would run to her window and join in with their melodies about the delights of love. She knew they heard her because they always stopped to listen as she sung a line or two on her own, before scattering into the folds of their magical landscape.

On one especially lovely twilight, when purple and orange hues seeped through the trees and fireflies lit up the corners of the garden, the witch felt a twinge of an especially potent magic fill the air.

“Hello,” a low voice called from behind the frond of a fern near the edge her pond. “Hello back.” The witch was giddy. It had been so long since someone had talked to her. She gently lifted the fern frond and squatting in the mud was a large, brown toad. “Wherever did you come from?” she asked.

“I come from beyond the misty veil of the forest. The faeries sent me to see what kind of witch you are.”

The witch laughed. “Not a very good one, I suppose. I seem caught up in this liminal space and can’t seem to find my way out.”

The toad croaked, and through the veil appeared many animals who call the twilight their home. Bats and owls, frogs and moths, surrounded the witch.

“Shall you fetch the tea?” a large spotted owl asked.

The witch smiled wide. She knew this was the beginning of a wonderful friendship.

As time passed, the witch always looked forward to twilight, when her garden came alive and bats began to flit and swoop, tree frogs chirped, and the large spotted owl haunting the shadows called out, “Hello, friend, it’s our twilight hour.” But it was the toad that she held in the highest regard. He was the one who sat with her whispering the secrets of transformation. And listen she would. Before long she had learned how to cross the veil. And in no time, as dawn’s lighted fingers reached above the eastern mountains, she would walk among the villagers of the mortal world, making friends and handing out her charms. And as the clock struck midnight, she would slip into the forest and dance and sing with the faerie folk under a dark, velvety sky.

So dear witch, as you walk your garden during the twilight hours, when it is neither day nor night, be on the lookout for those magical creatures who call this time their own—the lumbering toads and moths who flit near porch lights, the bats who dart and swoop under an azure sky, and the owl who watches from the shadows. And if you’re lucky, fireflies will light up your garden space with a magic all their own. Be quiet in their presence and listen to the wisdom they share. Because as any witch knows, the most potent magic can be found when we are neither here nor there.

ATTRACTING ANIMAL ALLIES TO YOUR GARDEN

BATS

This misunderstood creature of darkness has been given a bad rap and is more loathed than loved by many homeowners. But bats play an important role in the garden as they consume insects, including many pest species. As magical creatures, bats in your life symbolize change and transformation. They signify the promise of rebirth and power gained through transition.

To attract bats to your garden:

* Use Flower Power: Plant plenty of fragrant and evening blooming plants that entice nocturnal insects, which in turn attract the bats.

* Shelter: Buy a small bat house (online or at any garden center). Mount their new home on the side of your house at least fifteen feet high. Never mount a bat house on fence posts or trees as these can be easily accessed by predators.

* Water: Bats can lose up to 50 percent of their body weight in water per day, so having a water source nearby is very important to enticing bats to your garden. A bird bath or fountain will do.

TOADS AND FROGS

Seeing a toad in the dusky light of twilight reminds us that transition must happen in order for us to grow. A toad begins its life in the water, where their eggs are gelatinous clumps, but once hatched, an amazing metamorphosis begins that is all at once complex and beautiful.

As magical creatures, toads and frogs are symbols of metamorphosis and reminders of our own creative power.

Toads in the garden are beneficial: They eat thousands of pesky insects and provide you with the pleasure of hearing their soothing, throaty song as evening approaches. To encourage toads (and frogs) into your garden, supply them with:

* Water: Toads and frogs are amphibians, so they need water in which to lay their eggs and transition from tadpoles to toads.

* Shelter: To protect them from the elements and predators, provide leaf litter under shrubs and a small hollow piece of log or an upturned terra-cotta pot with an opening large enough for them to enter.

* Avoid Chemicals: Using chemical pesticides or fertilizers in your garden will kill beneficial frogs and toads. Use organic mulch and let the toads and frogs take care of the pests.

LUNA MOTHS

I have never encountered a luna moth—they are not indigenous to my region—but if you live in southern Canada or the eastern half of the U.S., you’re in luck, because the hardwood forests in these regions are the places these magical creatures of twilight call home. Luna moths cocoon for two to three weeks before emerging as adults. They have no mouth or digestive system, so they do not eat; instead they spend their seven-day lifespan seeking a mate and laying their eggs.

As magical creatures, moths are masters of the mysterious realm of shadow. They teach us to have courage in change and to always seek the light. In their larval stage, they eat from the leaves of many fruit or nut trees. To attract them to your garden, consider planting such trees as chestnut, black cherry, sweet gum, and hickory. And not to worry: The caterpillars pose no harm to the trees.

OWLS

One of my favorite sounds to hear as I stroll through my garden at twilight is the hoot of an owl from the forest that borders my property. Owls are not a common backyard bird and require more than a handful of seeds to entice them. These mysterious raptors are not active during daylight hours but hunt at night. They are excellent for rodent control, but that being said, they will also eat other birds or small mammals. Smaller owl breeds are excellent for insect control. As magical creatures, owls are harbingers of magical wisdom, omens, and visions.

To attract owls to your garden:

* Nesting Boxes: Owls prefer to nest in hollow trees, but nesting boxes, which can be purchased or made, and hung in trees at least 10 to 20 feet high, are a great substitute.

* Provide Perches: Make a naturalistic section of your yard or garden, including a few unpruned trees to provide perches.

* Water: Owls obtain water mostly from their prey, but if you live in a hot climate, provide a water source in a secluded part of your garden.

* Switch Off the Lights: Owls hunt more effectively in darkness. Keep exterior light limited.

* Kitty Curfew: Most important, if you have cats or small dogs, make sure to bring them in during the evening when owls are hunting.

FIREFLIES (LIGHTNING BUGS)

As magical as it is where I live, fireflies are not a part of my landscape. The species of beetle in the Lampyridae family that lights up is not typically seen west of Kansas. A few years ago, when my parents took a long road trip across the U.S. to the east and then down south along the coast, my mother sent me beautiful pictures of an evening landscape that seemed lit up by thousands of tiny faeries. Her message was “I thought of you.” I was smitten.

These magical creatures show us illumination when we are feeling lost and are a powerful vehicle in faerie magic and are associated with fire magic.

To attract fireflies to the garden:

* Water: Fireflies like to gather in moist areas such as marshes, near ponds or pools, or near standing water. By adding a fountain or other water feature, you can better entice them to your yard or garden.

* Naturalization: Encourage fireflies to your garden by choosing native trees and shrubs to add to your landscape, leaving leaf litter or conifer needles under trees to provide nest material. Add a downed log or stack of firewood for nesting and to attract soft-bodied invertebrates to provide a food source for fireflies’ larvae.

Feature Image: Study for Maidens Picking Flowers by the Stream (1911),
by John William Waterhouse
Image Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

There was something strange about the cottage at the end of Willow Lane. The breeze was always scented with rose, the rain fell in sideways sweeps, and the frogs who lived near the pond croaked throughout the dark winter months. The women who occupied the cottage spoke in hushed tones even among themselves. And the girl who called them her mothers had grown up thinking anyone who spoke above a whisper was screaming at her. But as strange as these women may have seemed to outsiders, people flocked to the tiny shop attached to the cottage. It promised strange salves, teas, and tinctures guaranteed to soothe dry skin, mend broken bones, or heal a broken heart.

It was the young girl who collected the ingredients that were crucial for the women’s recipes. Her mothers were far too busy blending herbs and stirring up their salves and tinctures. And it was a large white hare who was in love with the moon that advised the girl on what to gather.

The hare, it was said, was a witch in disguise who kept to the forest’s edge and nibbled on such delights as toe of frog and the Englishman’s foot, tangled among the flowers of death, whose purple blossoms gave away their location under the dark canopy of trees.

“What should I gather today, hare of the wood?” the girl would whisper to the long-eared shapeshifter.

Sometimes the hare would answer, “seed of the bird’s nest.” Other times it reminded her that the tail of the rat was ready for the taking.

Yes, it was these strange ingredients that brought in the townsfolk. How exotic they thought it to smear on salves containing the devil’s milk or macerated dead man’s bells. Or to drink healing teas that contained guts, paws, wings, or eyes. And the women who created them held back their smiles as the residents confided that they didn’t mind at all that their favorite balm contained part of an eagle or a cat. Just as long as they felt some sort of relief from their affliction.

The young girl would roll her eyes as the townsfolk left clutching bags as if they were holding something forbidden and therefore secret. The girl knew there really was nothing to tell. No devil’s milk or eyes or guts or even a whisker from a cat were in those balms and tea blends. The strange ingredients were merely plants that grew in the townsfolk’s own backyards.

The girl’s mothers would wink to the child as a reminder to never tell a soul. But as the shop closed its doors for the evening, the women whispered and chuckled to themselves over their own cleverness. And on those nights when the moon was full, the women and the girl would go to the forest’s edge to find the large white hare gazing at the moon and sometimes shape-shifting back into the witch who had once operated the shop many years before the women were born. It was she who reminded them to keep to the old names of the plants so that no one would know their secrets.

Plant Folk Names
A Little History

In spring, one should be suspicious of witches disguised as hares. At least that’s what I’ve been told. So, if you’re wandering near the garden’s edge as spring unfolds and spy a rabbit nibbling on a toe of frog or the Englishman’s foot that is tangled in flowers of death, you should probably … well, just wiggle your toes in the loamy soil and allow the lemony light to caress your cheek, as there is nothing to fear.

A hare in the garden is an auspicious sign. And if you’re lucky enough to see the long-eared creature shape-shift back into its witchy form, you might ask it about moon rites and messages from your dearly departed. As far as toe of frog, it’s an old folk name for buttercup (Ranunculus spp.) and Englishman’s foot is common plantain (Plantago major). Flower of death is another name for periwinkle (Vinca minor).

Our gardens are steeped in the memory and folklore of those ancient wise women and cunning men who came before us. They were the healers, midwives, and herbalists who knew the secrets of both cure and curse held within the plants that grew along the hedgerows, within the cover of the forests, and in the garden. The herbalist was both respected and feared; their humble door would be tapped when one needed seed of the bird’s nest (Queen Anne’s lace) for contraception or the berries from the waythorn (buckthorn) to purge oneself of foul humors.

Throughout history, and specifically before binomial classification was invented, commonly used plants and herbs had been given different names based on their attributes, growth habits, or even the specific problems they were used for. Our ancestors knew Digitalis purpurea by folk names such as foxglove, fairy gloves, fairy bells, fairy fingers, and goblin gloves, to reflect its connection with the fae. It has also been called dead man’s bells, giving an insight to its poisonous nature. Less commonly known are names like flop-dock, pop-dock, cowflop, flop-poppy, and rabbit’s flowers, a reference to the plant’s large, downy leaves. Depending on where you live, you may call Centaurea cyanus a bachelor’s button, or you may refer to it as a cornflower or blue cap. But did you know that Cichorium intybus is also sometimes referred to by the same folk names? You may also know it by its most common name of chicory—but you can see how it can become confusing.

It wasn’t until the mid-1700s that Carolus Linnaeus gave us the binomial or two-name system of classification that grouped plants according to similarities. The first name, or genus, is a capitalized noun denoting related groups of organisms. The second name, or species, is always lowercase and describes one kind of plant within a genus. Combined, the genus-species provides a unique botanical classification for each individual plant. You will notice that scientific botanical names for plants are also always in Latin, as it helps prevent confusion caused by multiple and often contradictory common names.

Though I always use a plant’s scientific name when researching or purchasing plants and I adore the old-fashioned folk names that inspire one to dream of an English cottage garden, my favorite names are the grislier folk names associated with witchcraft. There is no evidence to prove it, but if you read enough books on plant folklore, you’ll find it suggested that cunning folk were specifically careful to guard their herbal secrets and would come up with odd-sounding folk names for the plants they regularly used so their herbal secrets could not be copied. More practically, it’s hard to forget a plant called devil’s apple or five fingers, making the remembering and passing on of plant knowledge much easier.

Sometimes body parts served as code for the part of the plant used in a spell or herbal remedy. For example, “hair of ” could refer to dried roots or herbs or stringy stems. But “guts” too referred to both roots and stem. “Blood” could refer to sap, and the “eye” could refer to a seed.

Eye: inner part of a blossom or seed Guts: roots and stalk
Hair: dried or stringy herbs and roots Head: flower
Heart: bud or seed
Genitalia: seed
Tail: stem
Toe, leg, wing, paw: leaf
Tongue: petal

Animals too were used to reference the herbs that filled a witch’s larder. Examples include:

Bat: holly
Cat: catnip
Dog: grasses
Eagle: garlic or fenugreek Frog: cinquefoil
Lamb: lettuce Nightingale: hops
Rat: valerian
Woodpecker: peony Weasel: rue
Toad: toadflax or sage

As the witchcraft hysteria settled over Europe during the Middle Ages, the village wisewomen, midwives, and healers were looked upon as being in league with Satan, and many of the plants they used were thought to be of the devil. So many common herbs used in medicine and magick took on demonic names.

Examples include:
Devil’s apple: datura
Devil’s cherries: belladonna
Devil’s eye: henbane, periwinkle
Devil’s flower: bachelor’s buttons
Devil’s oatmeal: parsley Devil’s guts: bindweed
Devil’s milk: celandine
Devil’s nettle: yarrow

Folk names give us a surprisingly accurate insight into the magickal and medicinal nature of the herbs that grace our surroundings, and I hope my simplified look into the quaint and sometimes grisly history of plant names piques your interest enough for you to continue researching plant lore on your own.

Article from the Sumer Mermaid Issue #59
Photography by The Witching Hour Photography
Model Tatiana Pimentel

The woman glanced in the mirror and wondered who the tired person staring back at her was. When did those creases in her brow deepen? How did her eyes lose their shine? She smoothed back stray gray strands of hair that seemed to only spring back up in defiance.

Her husband came up behind her and ran his fingers through her hair. “Not the same girl I saw dancing in the moonlight so many years ago.” His voice was tainted with disappointment as his gaze met her reflection. “I remember how silky it was once upon a time. The color of chestnuts.”

She dared not say the cruel thoughts that rustled restlessly in her mind. She had learned it best to let such feelings go. So she pushed aside the anger that flashed red, forcing it to reside along with the other emotions that she believed no longer existed for her: hope for the chance to make her mark in the world; love from a husband who seemed embarrassed to be seen with her; or joy for a life that she considered monotonous at best. “Tell me again about the night we met,” she said instead.

“It was thirty years ago, on a night much like this,” he said as he led her to the front door of their cottage. He opened the door and pointed to the blue moon that rose high above the trees and spilled its milky glow across the landscape. “I saw you on the beach dancing in the moonlight, and I knew I had to have you.”

As hard as she tried, she couldn’t conjure the memory nor understand how she fell for such a cruel man. “And that is why we’re going tonight? To celebrate our meeting under a blue moon?” she asked.

“Something like that,” he said, throwing a bag over his shoulder as he led his wife out the door.

It was a rare thing for her to be allowed out of the cottage and rarer still to be allowed to go to the ocean. All she knew is that when she heard the thrashing of waves and felt the wind against her face, she felt alive. It burned—beginning at her toes and working its way to the top of her head. She opened her arms to the sky as the waves crashed at her feet and allowed the salty brine to caress her lips.

“Dance,” her husband said. “Let me see you dance like you did when I first saw you here so long ago.”

She turned and met his gaze. “Will you not dance with me?” she asked.

He reached his hand into the bag he had placed in the sand. “I will dance with you if you promise to wear the gift I have for you.”

He had never given her a gift before, so she was puzzled by this sudden generosity. “What is it?”

He held out a brown, densely furred skin and a rope. “It’s a coat to keep you warm.”

There are times in one’s life when the universe sends a warning that is so clear, one can do nothing but listen. For some, the universe speaks through prophetic dreams that may be so dark and unacceptable, the dreamer is haunted for the rest of their lives. For others, it is a gnawing in the pit of their stomach—not allowing one to eat or sleep until every one
of their loved ones is contacted and accounted for. For the woman, it was a tightening in her chest that rose to her throat, restricting her intake of breath. “Why a rope?” was all she could manage to say.

The cruel man chuckled. “Don’t you recognize it? It’s how I captured you so many years ago at this very spot.” He pointed to where the sand lay in drifts near dense gorse and tufts of grass. “I was watching as you peeled yourself from your skin and danced wildly under the moonlight. You were luscious and nubile, and I knew you had to be mine.” He held up the seal skin. “I thought that if you put this back on for a moment and then danced for a time under this same blue moon, that maybe you’d become young again. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He smirked. “Of course, you’ll have to wear the rope. I wouldn’t want to lose you to the sea.”

In bursts of blue and green and silver streaks, the woman’s memories flooded back. Memories of her life in the sea. She had been wild once; she had been a beautiful mystery spoken of in whispers by fisherman and maidens who longed for adventure; she was the noble queen of her people; she was a selkie who, under the spell of moonlight, had become careless with her sealskin. And the man who stood before her was her captor who, in hiding her skin from her, had extinguished her light until she was just a mere shadow of her former self.

Because the man was arrogant, he expected the selkie he had imprisoned for so many years to comply with his wishes, so he was shocked when she cried out. Her cry was that of a siren, piercing the sky and causing the ocean to swell. And with the rise of water came a multitude of others of her kind, who peeled themselves from their sealskins and encircled their queen. The selkies turned on the man, who dropped the sealskin and tried his best to escape. But they encroached on him with eyes that flashed of revenge. His own cries of fear fell upon deaf ears as they backed him into the folds of the sea.

The selkies presented their queen with her crown of precious shells, and in her awakening she relished the exhilarating rush of saltwater against her skin and fell in love with moonglow on her face, the coolness of the sand underfoot. Her transformation as they danced that night was not one of eternal youth but of a luminous spirit that brightened her eyes and caused her hair to shimmer under moonglow.

As she danced, she found hope once more: for the chance to make her mark in the world, for love from her people who embraced and accepted her just as she was, and for a life filled with the joyous promise of possibility.

Selkies in Folklore

Of all the sea fairies, the selkies—or seal fairies—of Scotland, Scandinavia, and Ireland are by far the gentlest of legendary creatures. In the myths, selkies were sea fairies who appeared as seals. They shed their sealskins on special nights when the moon was full to dance under its silvery glow. If someone was to take their seal coat, the selkie was bound to them. Many a selkie married and even had children. It is said that selkies were loving wives and mothers to their children, but once a selkie recovered her sealskin, she immediately returned to the sea. Some tales depict a selkie’s half human children finding the selkie’s lost or hidden skin and returning it without realizing the consequences.

There is debate about the origin of the selkie legends. Some say they started when Spaniards who had shipwrecked along the coast of the northern Atlantic came ashore with their dark hair reminding the inhabitants of seals. Another tale says that they saw the Finns or Sami people traveling in kayaks wearing sealskin coats. There have even been suggestions that selkies were fallen angels or condemned souls. But like many myths from all cultures, tales of the selkies were most likely created as a way of explaining the unexplainable.

Male selkies were known to be very good-looking and sought after by women who were disappointed in their lives. If a woman had a husband who’d become unbearable or had been out too long at sea, all she needed to do was shed seven tears into the sea to beckon a selkie man to her. He could be with her for only a short time, however, before returning to his watery home, unable to revisit her until seven years had passed.

Feature Image:
The Silent Voice (1898), by Gerald Moira

There once was a village so small that the tall conifers that surrounded it kept it hidden from the eyes of the occasional passersby searching for respite. And they were the better for it, most citizens agreed, for the village was cursed.

Most of the year the villagers relished life in their private little corner of the world. Spring brought a green fire that ignited their souls with a burst of new energy. This was the time the air was sweet and alive with the chittering of songbirds. Summer was sun-drenched and dreamy and the time when blackberries reigned, sending everyone to the hedge that separated the town from the rest of the world. Autumn offered mellow light that seduced the townsfolk into releasing summer’s hold and immersing themselves in the delights of the harvest.

But winter was different. Everyone knew as soon as they saw the crows gather on twisted trees that seemed to claw at the moon as it made its ascent above the town that the dark spirits who haunted the forest would also rise. And in their ascension, they would take with them anyone too weak to block out the moaning and howling, and the ragged whispers to join the Wild Hunt. Loved ones would cry and desperately try to hold onto those they held dear, but it was always too late, and so they watched helplessly as their family members vacantly strode out the door—doomed to take their place forever alongside the dark spirits who rode the winter winds.

The spirits, it was said, rose with the smoke from chimneys and from the fog that settled along the river. They charged from the hillsides where only scrub would grow and seeped from tree bark, stone, and soil. They were nowhere and everywhere, and the townsfolk didn’t know what to do. But the three sisters who had been sent away many generations before to live deep in the forest, far from the eyes of any villager, did know how to keep the ghosts of the Wild Hunt at bay. It was the simplest of tricks, but their bitterness for the sins of their father kept them from sharing their knowledge. Instead, they cackled and whispered in delight as they listened to the cries of the mothers and fathers whose children were taken aloft. Or to the sobs of the elderly and the young whose only family members were whisked away.

You see, the three sisters had been sent into the forest long ago after their mother had been taken one dark winter’s night by the Wild Hunt. Their father blamed them, as she was so busy comforting her girls, she forgot to take precautions herself. As punishment, their father sent the girls into the night, satisfied that they too would be swept away. But they weren’t—they took shelter in a small cave and lived from the scraps the animals left them and prayed for rescuers that never came. When spring had finally arrived, they learned to survive on what they could forage. They built a shelter and grew steadily in their knowledge of the plants around them. They experimented until they became proficient in what the forest had to offer, and by the time they were adults they knew which plants could heal, which could provide nutrition, and which could repel all that was evil in their world.

It was the mullein stalks—which they harvested and dipped in beeswax and made torches from to light their way on the darkest nights of the year—that kept the winter’s evil spirits at bay. When the Wild Hunt was aloft and midwinter approached, the sisters surrounded their cottage with the torches and remained content in their safety, amused at the suffering of  others whom they knew were no better than their father. But on one fateful winter’s eve, when the forest grew anxious with the howls of angry spirits, the three sisters saw what they assumed was a small spirit pass through their enchanted circle of light.

“Oh, dear,” said one to the others. “It seems our torches have lost their magic.” The sisters clucked their tongues and whispered incantations to chase the small spirit away, but to their surprise the figure knocked on their door.

“Please help me,” it said, with a voice so faint they wondered if they heard anything at all. Upon opening the door, the sisters found not a spirit but a small girl, not much younger than they were when they were sent into the wilderness. The child collapsed in a fit of tears.

“They took my father,” the girl stammered and sobbed. “My sisters are hiding under the bed, and I knew I was the only one who could save them.”

“Who sent you here, dear?” the oldest sister asked.
“Did the townsfolk talk you into it?” asked the middle sister. “Only because they want our help does anyone care,” said the youngest sister.

The small girl wiped her face with her sleeve and said, “I don’t think anyone even knows you’re here. I ran as far into the woods as I have ever gone, then I saw the circle of light around your home.”

The old women were perplexed. Had no one ever known about them? Had not one person seen their cottage and questioned their existence? The old women were filled with empathy for the child, an emotion they had not felt for many, many years. They knew now that they had carried their bitterness for far too long. They did not want their fate to befall another.

“Let us tell you our secret, child,” the oldest sister said. And they took the child by the hand and led her to their torches.

“Mullein keeps evil at bay,” the middle sister whispered and handed the girl a lit torch.

“Tell everyone of the tapers made by the hags that live in the woods,” the youngest sister said.

The girl made a promise that she would share their story, then took the torch back to her village and stood vigilant throughout the night. In the morning she was found asleep at the edge of town with only the smoldering stem of plant remaining. As she promised, she told the  townsfolk of the three old hags that lived deep in the forest. And as a reward for their kindness toward the girl and the secret that would save the town from the menacing spirits, the villagers invited the sisters to live in comfort among them. But the old women had become accustomed to their solitary existence and could never leave the cottage they had built so many years ago.

The villagers never saw the sisters again. But every midwinter when the crows perched and the wind began to stir, the townsfolk would find a neatly stacked pile of  Hags’ Tapers  near the town’s entrance ready to be lit—a circle of light and protection so no one would ever fear the Wild Hunt again.

Midwinter’s Ominous Past

During the dark days leading up to midwinter, northern people were uneasy because it was then that the sun stood still and one had to be weary of chaotic spirits that tromped through the woodlands and crept near the homes where families held tight around the central hearth. Tales in which spirits, imps, and witches abound were whispered around crackling fires and offerings left to wandering elves and sprites to appease their mischievous natures. One of the most frightening concerns was that of the Wild Hunt.

It was said that when the wind picked up, tossing the tops of trees and lashing around chimney tops, the Wild Hunt was aloft. Odin (or Wodin), the shapeshifting god of wisdom and magic,  with his long white beard whipping the back of his cloak and wide-brimmed hat covering his dark empty eye-socket, led a nocturnal horde of fallen spirits through the sky on his eight-legged horse named Sleipnir. One had to be ready if they heard the howl of dogs or if lightning flashed in the sky to not answer the huntsman’s call—or they too would be taken up to forever ride the winds.

To help keep mischievous spirits at bay during the darkest days of  the year, fires were lit, or bells rung. Branches of  holly  and conifers were hung as wards to protect the household from various imps, goblins, and ghostly apparitions. And because these plants kept their foliage all year long, they acted as a reminder that the darkness would soon pass, and the sun would reign once again.