The Herbarium (5): Toad Man and Adderstongue

Tags

fairytale, flowers, herbs, magic, plants, serial

Toad Man

Inspired by the toad rush (Juncus bufonius), an unbeautiful, squat little plant with a liking for damp places.

It was rumoured that he could sleep under water. That was nonsense, of course. But he did choose to lurk around the forest pools, and brought with him a light-framed coracle, made of osier-wood and deerskins, and carried it from pool to pool on his back. When he sat down to rest, the coracle crouched with him, he resembled a giant toad sitting by the water.

This is probably where the rumours started, but you should never underestimate the power of suggestion upon the collective mind of the public. Some were upset at the thought of him lurking under the water’s surface. When sensible people said ‘prove that he does’, the silence was deafening. But the suspicions remained. Was he merely a man with a portable boat, or was he truly part toad?

*

‘Come now – no-one can live in a coracle. Surely you would be better off in a little cottage, Toad Man?’

It was kindly meant, but he was irritated. ‘I am very happy as I am, my good woman. And don’t call me Toad Man. It isn’t my name, you know.’

The village woman was thrown into confusion for a moment by his surprisingly refined tone, and then remembered she was talking to a complete ragamuffin. ‘Oh. Well. I was thinking you might appreciate it. There is a little ruined cottage in the forest just waiting to be fixed. And don’t call me “my good woman”.’

‘Ah,’ said the toad-man. ‘I see we understand one another. I thank you for the thought, but my coracle is all the home I need, and conveniently portable, too.’

The bulging of his eyes was so strikingly toad-like that she took a step back. ‘But surely,’ she said, ‘someone like you –’ she almost said a gentleman like you but caught herself in time ‘ – someone like you must be accustomed to something more…’

‘Civilised?’

‘Yes. No.’ she was getting herself into deeper and deeper water. ‘It must be bitter cold in the winter.’

‘I sleep mostly in winter. I don’t feel it.’

She took this in. He sleeps in the winter, just like a toad. Under that coracle, somewhere near the water.

‘But you were gently bred, weren’t you? How came you to this?’

‘A first son inherits,’ said the toad-man, matter-of-factly. ‘A second son goes into the church. I am a seventh son. There was nothing left for me. I built my coracle and made my own life.’ He sidled towards her and breathed in her ear, ‘I am happy, except that I have no lady to share it. I don’t suppose you…?’

She threw up her hands in horror, as he had known she would. There was no queue forming to be the lady wife of a toad-man, even one in possession of his own coracle.

He gave a bubbling, watery chuckle as she rushed off.

 

Adderstongue

Inspired by the adderstongue fern (Ophioglossum vulgatum), a curious plant of meadows and hedgerows.

‘You should not have let him in, ma’am,’ whispered the maidservant. ‘There is something wrong with him.’

The older woman shrugged. ‘It’s a desperate night. I wouldn’t leave a dog out on the doorstep in this.’ She jerked her head towards the window – grimy on the inside, rain-streaked on the outside. It seemed that the cottage needed to be turned inside out and cleansed. ‘Anyway, he’s a vagrant, no more. What is it that’s wrong with him?’

The maid glanced at the man snoring by the fire, steam rising from his wet clothes in unfragrant clouds. ‘Shush. I don’t want to say,’ she murmured. ‘He might… cast a spell on us. I think he could, you know.’

‘A spell?’

‘Shush, I said. He’ll hear us. We must get rid of him. When he’s dry. Or when the rain eases. He defiles your hearth, ma’am.’

The old woman looked first at her servant, then at the scruffy sleeper. Defiles was a strong word. ‘Defiles?’ she asked. ‘How?’

‘Did you not hear the hissing in his speech, ma’am?’

‘He has an… impediment.’ The old woman frowned. ‘It’s a misfortune. Not a reason to throw someone out into the rain.’

The servant came closer. ‘Your eyesight isn’t what it was, ma’am. But mine is still keen.’

‘And?’

‘Did you not see?’

‘See what?’ The old woman was becoming impatient.

‘Look closely,’ said the maid. ‘When he snores his mouth falls open.’

The old woman crept closer, screwed up her eyes and peered at the man.

‘Oh! That is unnatural,’ she said, pulling back sharply.

The man’s open mouth had clearly revealed a pale green forked tongue.

 

Look out for part 6 of The Herbarium, in which we wonder just who all these odd persons are and where they might come from.

The Herbarium (4): Knitbone, Monkshood and Mercury

Tags

fairytale, herbs, illustration, magic, serial

Mr Knitbone

Inspired by the comfrey (Symphytum offinale), a herb with many uses and many appearances, with flowers of pink, magenta, blue, white or creamy yellow.

‘I’d rather have the broken bone, myself,’ said someone at the back of the little crowd of villagers. An infectious giggle began to spread, and it seemed for a moment that the attention of the people hung in the balance.

Please, muttered the man in the middle, to any deity who might be listening, please don’t let them disperse, and with nothing sold yet! He was a short man in a tall hat – the best he could do in a crowd, even a little crowd – and he called out in a high voice, a little desperate, ‘Cures guaranteed, folks! The dried herb or the infusion – choose which you like. They are equally efficacious.’

‘Efficacious!’ echoed a laughing voice at the back. ‘Efficacious, indeed!’

The small man ignored this as best he could and went on, ‘It’s the very thing to have in your medicine chest. Even the king keeps it, you know. Swears by it.’

‘And how would you be knowing what the king swears by?’ someone asked.

The laughter was getting raucously out of hand. The small man, in danger of losing their attention, spoke again. ‘The king broke a bone in his leg. Hunting accident. Most severe. It is well-known – everybody knows about it.’

There were some nods of agreement this time. The small man saw his opportunity, ‘Yes, and it was the comfrey-cure that knitted the bone. All good as new. The king insists upon on it.’ He was getting back into his stride now, ‘And you, too, can have that very same cure – the same as the king himself – for just one tiny coin. It could save the pain and embarrassment of a crooked leg, or a withered arm. Just think of it!’

‘But what about the smell, Mr Knitbone?’ someone asked. ‘Smells something rotten, it does.’

The small man was ready this time. ‘All good cures smell strong,’ he said with absolute certainty. ‘Nothing weak and watery about this one. Good strong stuff.’

‘He’s right!’ somebody shouted. ‘I’ll have two bottles!’

Mr Knitbone smiled, relieved and happy. ‘Who’s next?’ he called, pocketing the coins.

The Monk

Inspired by the monkshood (Aconitum napellus), a stately plant containing intense poisons.

He wasn’t old, the monk, as far as you could tell, but he had a strangely preserved look about him as if he’d just crawled out of a bog after a thousand-year residence. Some people turned away from his shrunken face in embarrassment. He had a redeeming feature, though – he could read and write, and he peddled this useful accomplishment from village to village, making sense of agreements that were no more than scratches on parchment to the average person, and interpreting, clarifying and advising. When it was all done he would show you where to make your mark, and take a small payment in cash or kind.

Actual books were a rare thing, of course, and not for the likes of the grubby-fingered public, but the monk brought with him scraps of parchment so he could earn a crust by giving little exhibitions of his writing skills. Sometimes he wrote directly on the ground with a stick, and people would treat the writing as precious and walk around it until the weather faded it out or washed it away. In truth, nobody knew what it said or indeed whether it was real writing. But they revered it anyway, and considered it lucky long after the monk himself had moved on.

This, then, is why everyone was so surprised that day when the monk wrote on the ground in his usual way – and someone stepped out of the hushed crowd and said, ‘No, no, no. You can’t possibly spell it like that!’

The monk looked intently at this person, concluded the comment was purely mischievous, and said, ‘Spelling is an art, not a science.’ And he continued to write, quite unconcerned. 

 

Mercurio

Inspired by the dog’s mercury (Mercurialis perennis), a poisonous, early-flowering plant of old woodland.

There had been some strange people in the neighbourhood lately. All the villagers had remarked upon it. But some of them were regular visitors and were welcomed.

This particular visitor fell into that category. He took his stance on a convenient tree stump, his dog beside him and giving every indication of hanging onto his every word, as he made his announcements. People did stop and listen to him – not because he had anything so intriguing to say – but because he was so interesting to look at. They called him Mercurio because his long silver-grey hair flowed thickly like quicksilver, and also because he was an adaptable person. Mercurio understands the way we do things here, people said approvingly. He always fits in.

This adaptable nature served him well. He had cures to peddle, of course, as most of the strangers did, but the villagers were good-natured with him and bought bottles of god-knows-what on his assurance that it would cure all manner of intimate and unmentionable ailments. He was affable, tactful and reassuring, and the villagers took him to their hearts. He would never want for a friend, or somewhere to stay or a hot meal, despite the poisonous contents of his bottles. He’s one of us, people would say.

 

Look out for part 5 of The Herbarium, in which you can make the acquaintance of the Toad Man and the sinister Adderstongue.

The Herbarium (3): Rustyback and Burdock

Tags

flowers, herbs, magic, plants, serial

Old Rustyback

Inspired by the rustyback fern (Asplenium ceterach), a plant of old walls.

Fast asleep he resembled a heap of rubbish. Or perhaps a sweeping of dead leaves. It was all down to the cloak; it had once been a sumptuous russet-coloured velvet, silk lined, and very valuable. Only a person of great wealth could have purchased it, possessed it, and worn it with panache. But the years had rendered its plush surface flat, polished it smooth, and the fabulous cloak had been passed from hand to hand, each less wealthy, less respectable, and more grubby, til at last it became the regular outfit of Old Rustyback, as they called him. He and the once-proud cloak seemed to be a single entity these days.

Vestiges of the silk lining, long since worn to ribbons, could have been found, if anyone had wished to look inside, which they didn’t. Who would want to get that close to a smelly old vagrant? Most people left him well alone as he tramped town and country in his rusty cloak, which still kept a degree of weather off.

But perhaps a little investigation might have paid dividends, had anybody been bold enough to try it. Neither the townsfolk, the woodlanders nor the old man himself knew that someone, long ago, had sewn a collection of coins into the generous hems of the cloak for safekeeping. And sometimes, just sometimes, Old Rustyback left a trail of gold behind him.

*

He is an unlucky person, Old Rustyback. He knows it. He has always been unlucky in his choices, starting with a poor choice of parents. Luck leapfrogs over him, takes a roundabout route to avoid him, laughs behind his back. This is more true than he knows. For once, just once, he had made a lucky choice, just by chance, when he picked up the old rusty cloak. He carries that fatal luck with him, sleeps under it, curses it sometimes, and knows not that it leaks away in the failing stitch-work. Gold coins. But someone else does, and follows at leisure.

Timothy Burdock

Inspired by the burdock (Arctium minus), a robust and tenacious hanger-on with many uses, including as a hair restorer.

When the very ragged man came into the Round House, Tam Ullage, innkeeper, eyed him with suspicion. Tam found, in his line of work, that it paid to be suspicious. Healthy, like. His suspicion levels cranked up when the creature laid a small gold coin before him. Tam checked it for authenticity. It was indeed gold, and he wanted it badly. But suspicion won the day.

‘Now how would the likes of you be coming by the likes of that?’ he asked. It was a rhetorical question, and he didn’t expect an honest answer. Of course not.

‘I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ said the creature, standing up straight and looking Tam directly in the eye. ‘I found it in the forest. Finders, keepers. Now do you want my money or not?’

Tam counted himself a good judge of character, and to his surprise his judgement told him this had been honestly said. He looked longingly at the coin. It would look very well with the others – his little stash of gold, growing slowly, that would one day take him out of this god-forsaken place and off to the city.

On the other hand, if this coin had actually been stolen, Tam didn’t want anyone knocking on his door and making awkward enquiries.

The ragged man waited, looking Tam cleanly in the eye throughout, watching the thoughts cloud and uncloud his face. ‘Not stolen. Found,’ he said again. ‘You could buy yourself a very fine horsehair wig with that, you know.’

Tam’s hand went involuntarily to the smooth dome of his head.

‘All I ask for that coin is a good meal and some ale,’ said the ragged man, with an air of being very reasonable. ‘No more – and it’s yours.’

Tam gave in. ‘Take a seat,’ he said.

While the ragged man ate, Tam tussled with a dilemma. He wanted the coin for his collection – but he so wanted a fine horsehair wig, too. Clearly he could not have both. Every time he thought of it his hand clamped onto his bald head.

The stranger watched, thoughtfully. When the meal was finished, he said, ‘Very fine, landlord, very fine.’ After a pause he added, ‘Perhaps y’don’t wish to spend so much on a wig?’

Tam stared.

‘Perhaps,’ said the stranger, ‘you’d rather have your own hair back.’

‘What d’you mean?’ said Tam, all ears.

‘I mean it is my stock in trade. Hair restorer. In a bottle.’

‘Ha,’ said Tam, ‘and I s’pose you want the gold coin back for it, do you?’ He hadn’t been born yesterday.

‘No indeed. I want some small change for it. No more. A few small coins.’ And he drew a bottle of mauvish liquid out of an inner pocket.

Tam looked at it. His own hair! In a bottle! A few small coins! And the gold coin safely in his stash. Both desires satisfied in one easy payment.

‘Wait,’ he said, and looked furtively in his pockets, all suspicion having fled out of the window. ‘Wait.’

The handful of coins Tam threw on the table in his haste was a little larger than he had intended.

‘That will do nicely,’ said the stranger, gathering them up. ‘Drink a spoonful a day, no more, no less; it will make your hair grow in a fortnight, I absolutely guarantee it.’ This last was said with another unmistakably honest look.

Tam took the bottle. ‘I thank’ee,’ he said, his other hand rushing again to his bald pate as if the medicine, by mere proximity, might have started to work already.

The ragged man got up. ‘I’ll take my leave now, landlord. One spoon a day.’ And he walked slowly out of the inn.

Tam was pleased with himself. Why, for the cost of a meal and some small change he had both the gold coin and the baldness cure. A superb bargain. He rushed off to find a spoon and begin the treatment immediately.

The ragged man, now melting into the trees in the direction of the Hartstongue Inn, was also pleased. He had indeed found the coin in the forest – but for a person such as himself, any attempt to spend a gold coin brought suspicion of thievery, as the innkeeper had just proved. And if the true owner came looking he didn’t wish to be found with it on his person. He was better off without it. In return he had got himself a good meal and a large pocketful of small coins that he could spend freely without questions being asked. And all by telling the exact truth. Every word he had said was precisely true. He had neglected to add, however, that when the innkeeper’s hair did grow – and it would, profusely, in a week or two – it would be from Tam’s nose and ears instead of his head which would stubbornly remain as bald as an egg. But the ragged man would have concluded his business in these parts and be long gone by then. He smiled to himself and walked on.

 

Look out for part 4 of The Herbarium, in which more strange people arrive: meet Mr Knitbone, The Monk and Mercurio.

The Herbarium (2): Buckler, Honesty and Borage

Tags

fairytale, flowers, herbs, illustration, magic, plants, serial

Dr Buckler

Inspired by the broad buckler fern (Dryopteris dilatata), a plant of shady habits.

It was a stretch of the imagination to call it an inn. Much of it was in an advanced state of dilapidation, if not outright ruin. The dust-laden winds that blew through the forest in summer had sandpapered the outer walls rubbing down the corners into curves. People in the village called it the Roundhouse for this reason. Every mountebank that passed through the forest, and there were a fair few, seeking takers for their cure-alls and turn-iron-into-gold schemes stopped off at the Roundhouse. Not because they liked it, but because the local folk were notably gullible.

It was a good place to set up your little table and offer your infallible bottled cure for the constipation, thought Dr Buckler as he tramped the dusty forest. People here forgot so quickly that the stuff didn’t work. It was only coloured water, after all. It did no harm – although some of the dyes were of doubtful chemical provenance. Dr Buckler dismissed such thoughts from his mind as he walked. Business was business, money was money and he needed to know where his next meal was coming from. Besides, the gullible seemed to enjoy being cheated, they really did. His quack cures were entertainment in a bottle. People would pour the blue liquid down their throats and announce that they felt better already. It was all a mystery of the mind, of course – but who was Dr Buckler to deny them their moment of frenzied happiness in the certainty of an imminent cure? Sometimes, indeed, they truly were cured, though he had no idea of how that might have happened. Ask no questions. So, on he strode, Barabas Buckler, purveyor of nostrums to the discerning citizen, heading for the Roundhouse, clinking as he walked.

*

 ‘There are many stars,’ observed Dr Buckler, knowledgeably. ‘Some people like to give them names, you know.’

Tam Ullage, landlord of the Round House, tried to look intelligent. ‘So I hear,’ he said. ‘Some have very ancient names, I believe. But what happens to the names when a star falls to earth?’

Dr Buckler looked puzzled for a moment, and then recovered. ‘Well, well. I hadn’t thought of it. I suppose a star’s name is lost when it falls. Or perhaps another star steps in to take its place, and takes the name too. Like a family passing on names through the generations? An interesting question, innkeeper – very philosophical.’

Tam was delighted at the idea of having had a philosophical thought. They were useful things; you could throw one into a crowd of drinkers and they’d need a lot of ale to argue it out. He looked hopefully at Dr Buckler, whose mug was empty, but the fellow (surely not a proper doctor) had fallen into a deep contemplation and didn’t seem about to order a refill.

Still, Tam thought, I must remember that one. Stars, names of, and what happens to the name when they are careless enough to fall out of the sky. He stored it away in his head for future use. There were always plenty of odd things to think about if you just put your mind to it – and nearly all of them good for the inn-keeping trade.

‘Well, well,’ said Dr Buckler, coming out of his reverie, ‘you have given me much to think about. More of your excellent ale, please, landlord, and then I must go. Important business to attend to, y’know.’

Tam served him jovially. If I’m to continue having these philosophical ideas, he thought, I’d best set up an extra brew. Then they can talk, and drink til all the stars fall out of the sky.

Mistress Honesty

Inspired by the honesty or money plant, (Lunaria annua), grown in cottage gardens for its beautiful purse-like seedpods. 

A thick beam of sunshine, full of dust and dancing insects, fell between the trees, and there she was, suddenly illuminated. She wore a soft violet robe that covered everything but her hands and face; her flesh was pale, her face full-moon shaped.

No-one had seen her arrive, though the villagers were now vigilant in watching for strangers.

‘Don’t worry,’ someone said. ‘I know of her. She is honest enough.’

She was certainly no ragamuffin, anyway; her robe was very clean and she was fastidious, taking a room to herself at the Round House.

‘There was plenty of money in her purse,’ observed Tam Ullage, and that, people agreed, was good reason enough to be fastidious. She had as much to lose as they did.

Some said she must have come from the city. Where else could anyone have come by a robe like that? People nodded, sagely; anything they didn’t know, good or bad, was said to ‘come from the city’. It wasn’t a judgement, exactly, but it made an excellent interim explanation.

The lady herself – and they soon thought of her as a lady – said very little and stayed quietly in her room. ‘Counting her money, I ’spect,’ said a wag, setting off a round of nervous giggles.

All the same her serene presence unnerved them and they looked forward to the time when she would move on. Though it has to be said they’d have been quite happy to see her leave her purse of money behind when she left.

 

Ursula Borage

Inspired by the borage (Borago officinalis) a pretty herb whose name derives from a word meaning ‘hairy’.

‘She has a better beard than her husband!’ Somebody said it, loud enough for her to hear.

‘Does she have a husband, then?’ another voice asked.

‘If she had, she outdoes him in beard!’

Cruel sniggering followed, all concealed behind hands, but not suppressed. She was intended to hear.

Behind the beard, she smiled. It had its uses. And she flicked her fingers at the group of villagers, as if to see off a troublesome fly. She couldn’t help the beard; it had appeared with womanhood, and, if truth be told, she didn’t mind it. The jibes had always been cruel, of course, but her hairiness had formed a protective barrier over time, and these days the sly insults, and the not so sly, simply bounced off. She was no more harmed by them than a bear by the impact of a raindrop on its pelt. Her fingers, darkly hairy to the knuckle, flicked them away again.

‘Just wait,’ she said into the lustrous beard, ‘just wait until winter comes, and you are wheezing and snotting your way through the frost.’ Her eyes, true blue, flickered at the thought. Deep down there was a little giggle at the expense of her tormentors. They would change their tune when the winter got its knotty hands on their lungs, and made gathering their firewood a torture.

Then they would anticipate her arrival in the forest – call on her for cures. And never mention the beard at all.

No, she didn’t mind the beard – it was the mark of her trade. They knew her by it, trusted her. Consult the bearded lady, they would say, she cures the pleurisy. There would be no jibes in the winter. She smiled again into the beard and trudged on, heading for the Hartstongue Inn.

 

Look out for part 3 of The Herbarium, in which further odd strangers appear: meet Old Rustyback and Timothy Burdock.

An interesting collaboration… with myself

Tags

Happiness, illustration, writing

There are times when you realise that something you perceived as a failure turned out to be a good thing. I failed, abjectly, to promote and sell my e-books, to my shame and to the frustration of my publisher. So I gave up on it. A year later, I see that this sad failure was one of the best things that could have happened to me.

Were I still fighting that losing battle to sell books – setting aside the general grief that would be causing – I would never have taken up art again. The sheer joy that illustrating my own writing has brought me is hard to express. It’s a visceral sense of homecoming and of being true to myself. From now on, I am writer-and-illustrator, as I probably always should have been. I can only hope, dear reader, that you find yourself as happy in your own skin as I am now. It really is never too late to find something you love doing and go for it.

First fruit of this interesting collaboration with myself is the magical tale The Herbarium. You can see the first part on the previous post on this blog, dated 31 January.