Part Two; In the Heat of a Scarlet Sun I Caught Your Gaze
The skies had darkened considerably since my journey to the river's bend. Two days had passed, and the winds conjured by Charlot had blown wafts of smoke from the Western regions in our direction, letting only scarlet rays through its cover. Us Prairie folk are no strangers to wildfires and their aftermath. It has become seasonal occurrence for smoke to cover the skies once in a while, and, well, this wasn't the worst we'd seen through the years. So, life went on, and we did as we always do: stuck to our routines and tried to enjoy the season despite the fact that birds were no longer flying about, and that everyone wheezed a little towards the end of every sentence. Hushed wishes for, at the very least, a semblant of rain, were punctuating most interactions.
It was a Thursday, Jove's day, which also meant the farmer's market was on, and I fancied myself some local produce — even if it was still too early in the season for anything to be truly seasonal. The walk to the market is short, taking me through parks, alleyways, and busy intersections, but this is not the path I chose that day. Instead, I chose to pass by the cemetery I frequent and to take an odd turn towards a fallow field. A few blocks later, and a familiar scent caught my attention; sweat, sex, and a nauseating aroma of rotting meat met with a medley of contrasting florals, which rose past the notes of death and decay — the head-splitting perfume of fresh Henbane.
And there she stood — tall, strong, and unbending, leaves sticky and covered in dust, with livor corpse-flowers nodding in the light breeze. She was at home in her dry, desolate field, where an unkempt edifice had stood not two years prior. You can imagine my shock at seeing this old friend of mine growing a few blocks from my home, alone amidst debris and unturned soil, when she is not known to be found on this Land. Excited at the prospect of finally reconnecting with my favorite plant ally, and now having everything I needed to craft a batch of my favorite rain-bringing incense, I made a mental note of where she stood so that I may return with the proper equipment and offerings to gather enough material to last me the year. But, the wheels were turning. I had crossed paths with a serpent I'd never seen before, and a rain-bringing witch's wort had appeared at my feet within three days of each other, following a conjuration of the Devil himself. It struck me as I was perusing a display of alliums at the market. Contemplating my choice of offerings for the next day's Deipnon, an offering to Hekate to be performed when the Moon is dark, I realized — the following day was the only appropriate time this year to pull an Alraune from the earth.
Crafting an Alraune is no laughing matter, nor is it a pact to forge without second thought, but I am no stranger to the way Fate unfolds when the Devil comes a-knockin' on a witch's door. These creatures are arguably the most recognized of the witch's familiars after the Imp, and many were arrested under accusation of witchcraft for possessing one of these famed talismans. The Alraune is the witch's plant familiar by excellence, being both talisman and living, breathing spirit. Traditionally, such a creature is fashioned from the Mandrake root, but historically speaking, many such "Mandrakes" were in fact fashioned from the root of other Nightshades. Bryony, a member of the Cucumber family, was another popular choice for the crafting of Alraune, though these were typically carved or grown in molds, lacking the man-like appearance shared by the taproots of Nightshades. In modern times, the popular definition of Alraune has expanded to include any plant-familiar fashioned from the root of a plant closely allied to the witch's craft. The Alraune remains distinct from the ubiquitous root-fetish, however, by retaining the characteristic of the implied witch's pact with the spirit of the plant from which it is carved, allowing the Alraune to become not only talisman and familiar, but also teacher, mentor, and initiator into the practice of Witchcraft proper. The teachings and powers of the Alraune will remain aligned to the plant from which it is carved, however, and as such the witch may prefer one of the Wyrd Sisters over another. Some may also opt to craft an Alraune from a plant with whom they share a deep connection, regardless of its folkloric associations.
In my case, there was no debate to be had, and so I returned to Henbane the next day, carrying the proper tools for the job: my black-hilted knife, shards of Obsidian ready to draw blood, milk, honey, wine, and water as offering to the root. Although the process was simple, the occasion was somber, and severity hung about the air. Three circles traced about, blood and spittle to fix the round; libations to bathe the wort, and the quick work of hand and blade to reveal the root beneath. Finally, a swift tug of the arm to pull the plant from its field, prayers uttered in a low tone to begin the work. Thus, I returned to my home, four feet of Henbane in arm, and prepared for the night's ordeal.
This is the second entry in my record of working with Henbane as familiar; more is to come. See all published parts here.
Cheers,
Mahigan