The Herbarium (9): Secrets Deep and Dark

Tags

fairytale, herbs, magic, serial

Lords and Ladies. Or not.

Inspired by the Lords and Ladies (Arum maculatum).

‘As to that Ursula with the beard,’ says my grandmother. ‘Well three husbands is what it’s about. All at once.

‘She found one of them on a sea voyage, they say – an inventor, he was. A gent of much brain but very little actual sense. She insisted they should marry, and he caved in. Didn’t keep him long, though – got a few useful inventorly secrets out of him and off she went.

‘The second one was a full-blown warlock, by reputation – said she charmed him into marriage, which is hard to believe, looking at her. Wormed a few practical spells out of him – not the silly stuff, you understand – and off she went again.

‘The third one was a doctor of sorts – understood anatomy. She travelled with him after the wedding (which wasn’t a real wedding, not with two other husbands, but he wasn’t to know that), and they indulged in a little light grave robbing. She learned the anatomical trade as they went along, and then said thank you kindly and disappeared.

‘How do you know all this, Grandmother?’ I ask.

‘I have my sources, child,’ she says, looking shifty. ‘The point is she is a shameless bigamist, which nobody can approve of. A woman can be put to death in some parts for that sort of thing – so it is a good secret to know if you need to keep her in line.’

*

‘What do you know of the Toad Man?’ asks my grandmother.

I’m very quick off the mark this time. ‘Why, he is the seventh son of an earl, fallen on hard times. He told the butcher’s widow when she went to enquire after his welfare.’

My grandmother smiles. ‘Yes. And she told everyone else, including you.’

‘So it’s not much of a secret,’ I say.

‘No it’s not.’ She stares out of the window with one of her faraway looks. ‘It also isn’t true.’

‘You mean he isn’t a nobleman? Or that the widow lied?’ I’m becoming confused now.

My grandmother sighs, not for the first time. ‘He is a nobleman, but not the seventh son of an earl – he is an earl himself, and in possession of a great fortune. But he doesn’t want it.’

‘An earldom and a fortune, and he doesn’t want it?’ This is inexplicable.

‘He likes his life just as it is. No responsibility, no hangers-on begging for money. No demands on his time. Just him and his coracle. It’s a secret that he’ll go to great lengths to keep.’

I begin to understand. I think. ‘It’ll be easy to keep him in line, then?’

She nods. I marvel at my grandmother’s capacity to find things out. ‘How do you know this?’ I ask. But I already know the answer. She has her sources.

 

False Colours

Inspired by the dog violet, (Viola riviniana). Plants whose names begin with ‘dog’ are usually those that ‘pretend’ to be something else – in this case a sweet violet, though it has no scent.

‘Mr Knitbone,’ says my grandmother, stirring the soup, ‘yes, he is one of the more difficult cases.’

She falls silent, thinking, which is frustrating for me. But I know better than to badger her for more details.

She tastes the soup, thoughtfully. ‘What do you notice about him?’ she asks.

Ah, I think, this one is going to be a test.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘to begin, he wears odd shoes; one red, one blue.’

‘We won’t hold that against him,’ she says, waving the ladle at me. ‘Dressing a little strangely tends to be part of the job for these healers. The colours are significant. The red is for blood, and the blue is for bruising. What else?’

I have reached the limits of my observations.

‘Does he perhaps turn into a bat at dusk,’ I say in desperation, ‘and fly off to a cave in the mountains?’

‘You’re not taking this very seriously, are you?’ says my grandmother, and whacks me on the ear with the ladle.

There is soup everywhere, in my hair, in my ear. She doesn’t usually waste it like that.

‘I’m sorry, Grandmother,’ I say, mopping myself up, ‘but I don’t know what else to say. Mr Knitbone is such a transparent character – you can see right through him. How can he have any secrets?’

She looks at me very keenly. ‘Well,’ she says at last, ‘that’s just it, isn’t it? Now you see him, now you don’t. Do you know what a chameleon is?’

*

 ‘Only Mistress Honesty remains,’ I say, ‘and surely she hasn’t any shady secrets!’ I say it with complete confidence.

‘You shouldn’t jump to conclusions based upon a name,’ says my grandmother, knowingly.

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. ‘But surely…’

‘Nothing sure about it, child. The first rule of fooling the public is to name a thing the exact opposite of what it is. You’d do well to remember that.’

‘But… she dresses so beautifully, she sells sound cures – you said so yourself – she has money…’

‘She is a first-class crafty thief,’ says my grandmother, not without relish.

‘A thief? But she has such a good reputation!’ I am finding this harder to believe than third eyes and people who blend perfectly into the background.

‘I said she was crafty. Good cures, as you say. The ingredients don’t come cheap. She sells them at cost price, or near. No-one dresses like that on the pittance they bring in. People trust her because of them, think she’s good because she doesn’t overcharge, but it’s all a front for her top-notch thieving activities. That’s where all her money comes from, you see.’

‘How do you know?’ I am still struggling with this.

‘I have my sources.’

I really do roll my eyes this time. She sees, but pretends not to.

‘By the way,’ she says, as she wafts out, ‘don’t carry a purse when Honesty’s around. She’s a very clever pickpocket. And don’t drink the wine at the Round House, will you? Tam Ullage drugs it. Makes people – gullible. He sells them things when they’re under the influence. That knowledge should be enough to keep him in line, too.’

I only wish I knew what would keep my grandmother in line.

 

Look out for the final part of The Herbarium, in which many questions are answered, and a few more are asked.

The Herbarium (8): Bittersweet and Deadly

Tags

fiction, flowers, herbs, magic, serial

Secrets Bitter and Sweet

Inspired by the bittersweet or woody nightshade (Solanum dulcamara).

My grandmother tells me the story. The Herbarium. A group of so-called healers – half of them charlatans from what she says – and I am to lead it! Perhaps she’s been too long out in the sun. I shake my head in perplexity. I am miffed that all this has been decided in my absence, without my permission.

‘No,’ I tell her, ‘I don’t have the wisdom. They won’t listen to me. Surely you must lead. Or Mother.’

‘Now, now, young May’ she says, with exaggerated patience, ‘Have faith. You will find the wisdom. Your mother can’t do it. She isn’t capable. Sometimes the magical skills skip a generation, you know. And I… well, I am too old to take it on.

Besides, there’s more. Every last one of them has a secret. That Rustyback doesn’t even know his own secret. Fool.’

I wait.

‘I know all the secrets and I will share them with you. If they step out of line you will have the means to control them.’

I sense she isn’t telling me the truth. ‘There’s something else,’ I say.

‘Clever girl,’ she says approvingly, tapping her nose. I wait. ‘No,’ she says. ‘All in good time.’ So she has a secret, too. And I cannot fathom it. I’ve never seen her look so shifty.

She magicked her husband into a toad and crushed him under her heel. That’s what they say of her. She is not a person to be trifled with. So I don’t.

 

Mercury, Buckler and Adderstongue

‘Let us begin with Mercurio,’ says my grandmother. ‘What do you know of him?’

‘Mr Mercurio sells…’ I hesitate and lower my eyes modestly. But I need to say it. ‘He sells cures for unfortunate diseases.’

‘So he does,’ she says, quite matter-of-fact, ‘and how do people catch them?’

I am shocked. This is not a proper subject for a young woman. ‘By breaking their marriage vows.’ I say it shyly. I can’t help myself.

‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘If people kept to their marriage vows there’d be a lot less business for Mr M.’

I can’t see where she’s leading. I am gawping, and she takes pity.

‘He supports this business with a second enterprise.’

I see the light. ‘You mean he sells love potions, too?’

She sighs. I am too slow on the uptake. ‘Yes he does. But he also goes in disguise and arranges discreet introductions and trysts between married persons who… wish to stray. Do you follow?’ She looks thoughtfully into the distance. ‘So, like many successful entrepreneurs, he both creates the problem and supplies the solution. Rather ingenious, when you consider it. But I doubt he would like that to be generally known.’

*

‘And Dr Buckler?’ I say, eager to show my knowledge. ‘Why, he sells coloured water and pretends it’s a cure. The true healers despise him.’

‘Very good,’ she says, staring into the distance. I wish she wouldn’t do that. It makes me uneasy. ‘Very good. But no secret.’

I am deflated again, grumpy. ‘Then what? I suppose he has a third eye in the middle of his forehead, does he?’

My grandmother turns her unsettling gaze on me, frowning. ‘How did you know that?’

‘What?’ I say, confused. ‘I don’t know that. It’s the first thing I thought of, that’s all. Anyone can see he has two eyes like anyone else.’

She is very serious now. ‘Only the favoured few can see it. Including me. He uses it to transfix people. And he most certainly wouldn’t want that fact generally known.’

She gives me a look so piercing I step away from her. ‘And what else do you see, I wonder, that you haven’t seen fit to mention?’ She doesn’t expect an answer, and I can’t give one.

*

‘Very well then’, she says. ‘Now what of Adderstongue?’

‘Adderstongue?’ I simply can’t call him “Mr Adderstongue”. ‘Everyone knows about him. Forked tongue. Pale green. No secret at all.’

‘No indeed,’ says my grandmother, watching me out of the corner of her eye.

‘I suppose he talks to snakes, does he, or turns the milk bad?’ I say. Either of these would be damning, never mind the forked tongue.

She catches my drift. ‘No, he does not,’ she says. ‘And the tongue is irrelevant.’

I think that is unlikely. ‘But it does worry people.’ How could it not?

‘Quite so,’ says my grandmother crisply. ‘But he has another secret and guards it well.’

It must be something quite terrible, then, I think.

A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. ‘He does good deeds. Leaves coins behind in the houses of the poor, hides them in the rags of beggars. He won’t be able to do that if it’s generally known. It’s his life’s work, and he needs it to be secret. That’s the hold you will have over him.’

This is such a surprise it takes me a while to find a sensible answer.

‘But surely, Grandmother, you wouldn’t want me to put a stop to his generosity?’

‘No, of course not. You won’t. But he doesn’t know that, does he? The threat should be enough. Trust me, he won’t risk defying you.’

 

Deadly Secrets: The Monk, Burdock and Rustyback

Inspired by the deadly nightshade, (Atropa belladonna). No introduction needed.

‘As for the Monk…’

‘He is not a monk, Grandmother. That is his secret.’

She doesn’t like being interrupted. ‘How can it be a secret, you idiot, when even you know it? No, as for him, he confers with the dead. Don’t look at me like that. He can and he does. I’m not entirely convinced he’s properly alive himself, to tell the truth. He learned his reading and writing from a deceased abbot who loved books and died in the scriptorium.’

I look sceptical. She shakes her head and goes on. ‘The abbot found the hereafter very dull and looked for a mortal to latch onto who would share his passion for the written word. I know this, before you ask, because I have seen the ghost visit our Monk. Very easy to conjure up, he is – very partial to an illuminated capital, can’t resist them. Very talkative, too. Obviously not from a silent order.

‘There’s not many scriveners who take instruction in spelling and page layout from someone who’s been dead a century or more – and I doubt our Monk would want people to know about it. Nasty accusations – dealing with the devil – the undead, that sort of thing. Wouldn’t do at all. Distinctly bad for business.

‘Just mention Brother Ezekiel to him if he gives you any bother, and he’ll see that you know what’s what.’

*

Burdock and Rustyback

‘The secrets here are intertwined, as you might say,’ says my grandmother. ‘And close your mouth before a moth flies in, girl.

I close my mouth. All the things she says make me gape.

She glares at me. ‘Tell me what you know, then.’

I know when I’m being set up only to be knocked down again. ‘I don’t know anything about those two, except Mr Burdock deals in baldness cures.’

‘No, no,’ she is already losing patience. ‘Let me put it simply for you. Mr Burdock follows Old Rustyback. He does it discreetly.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that rusty old cloak contains a hidden cache of gold coins; they fall out one by one as the stitching fails.’

‘And Mr Burdock picks them up?’

‘Exactly.’

‘He wouldn’t want Rustyback to know this. That’s his secret?’

‘Simple enough even for you, my girl. Burdock wears rags, pretends penury, when he has a secret stash of Rustyback’s gold.’

That is a pretty good secret to know. ‘But what of Mr Rustyback? He doesn’t know there is gold hidden in the cloak – is that what you’re saying?’

‘He does not.’ She waves her hand airily. I wish she wouldn’t. She might cast an accidental spell.

I think it through. ‘So Rustyback has a secret, but he doesn’t even know it himself. So what hold do we have over him?’

‘Oh, that. He is a demon condemned to human form.’ She says this as if it were an everyday occurrence. ‘An incompetent demon, but a demon nonetheless. Mr Burdock knows this, which is why he follows so stealthily to steal the gold. A demon can turn nasty, you know. In any case, I don’t suppose Rustyback would want his demonic nature made public, would he?’

She never ceases to amaze me.

 

Look out for part 9 of The Herbarium, in which we learn some more alarming home truths.

The Herbarium (7): Healers and Herbsters and Hangers-on

Tags

fairytale, flowers, herbs, magic, serial

Introducing the Herbarium

Inspired by the foxglove (Digitalis purpurea), a plant which provides a wonderful cure for complaints of the heart when properly used. Used improperly, it’s usually fatal.

When Leonura stepped into the circle the forest shivered expectantly. The ragbag gathering of people around her shifted from foot to foot, looked over their shoulders, muttered. She had found them at the Hartstongue Inn, and chivvied them outside and off into a clearing. Healers and herbsters and hangers-on, thought Leonura. They all think they have something to gain. And so they have. She took off her gloves and clapped her hands.

‘Listen to me and you will learn something to your advantage. Not all of you know each other, so first we will have introductions. I am Leonura, wise-woman and herbalist.’

‘And witch,’ someone muttered. She glared at him.

‘Not a witch. Occasional spell-caster, as are some of you. Strictly benign. But let’s keep all that between ourselves, shall we?’ she said firmly. ‘Now then, the rest of you. Let’s begin here.’ She rapped smartly on the Toad Man’s upturned coracle. ‘Anybody in?’

The coracle tilted up and its owner emerged blinking into the light. ‘I am Alan of Rosworth,’ he said, adding resignedly, ‘but most of you know me as Toad Man. I sometimes deal in venoms.’ And with that he retreated back under the coracle.

‘Very well,’ said Leonura. ‘Toad Man. Sometimes deals in venoms. Next.’

Dr Buckler stepped forward, smiling.

‘Barabas Buckler, Doctor,’ he said, bowing. ‘I deal in cures, sure cures.’ Leonura glared at him and his smile slipped away. ‘I do no harm,’ he added defensively.

‘Splendid,’ said Leonura. ‘Dr Buckler.’ She sniffed. ‘Does no harm. Next.’

The Bearded Lady took her turn. ‘Ursula Borage,’ she said. ‘Or Bearded Lady, if you must. I deal in cures for winter ailments. Real cures,’ she added, looking pointedly at Dr Buckler, ‘not just coloured waters.’

‘Welcome, colleague,’ said Leonura with obvious respect. ‘Ursula Borage. Winter ailments. Next.’

The fork-tongued man edged forward. People stood aside uneasily.

‘They call me Adderth-tongue,’ he lisped. ‘Antidote for thnakebite. Of courth.’ He chuckled unpleasantly.

Leonura nodded. ‘Adders-tongue. Anti-venom. Next.’

In a ringing voice The Monk said, ‘I am Stephen of Epping. They call me The Monk because I have the reading and writing. But I am not clergy. I deal in contracts, letters and written spells and curses.’

‘Stephen of Epping. Literary services,’ said Leonura. ‘Next.’

The tall, pale woman in violet robes picked her way into the circle. ‘Honesty,’ she said. ‘I do not deal in bottles of coloured water. I foretell the future. Private consultations,’ she added hastily, eying the scruffy group around her, ‘expensive. I offer moon-healings to those who can afford it.’

‘Thank you,’ said Leonura. ‘Honesty. Seer. Moon-healings. Next’

A small nervous man tottered forward. ‘Knitbone,’ he said. ‘Broken bones are my speciality. Improvements guaranteed.’ He stepped back hastily.

‘Mr Knitbone,’ said Leonura, a little weary now. ‘Breakages fixed. Next’

‘Mercurio,’ said the silver-haired man, waving cheerfully. ‘You all know me.’ He winked. ‘Intimate ailments cured.’

‘Mercurio,’ said Leonura, waving him back again. ‘Unmentionables. Next’

A very ragged man stepped into the circle. ‘Timothy Burdock,’ he said. ‘Baldness cures.’

‘You won’t be getting any business from me, then,’ said the Bearded Lady, and laughter broke out.

Leonura clapped her hands for silence. ‘Mr Burdock. Baldness. Very well. Is that everyone?’

‘All except him,’ Said Ursula Borage, nodding towards Old Rustyback, lurking between the trees.

‘Come forward, you,’ said Leonura.

‘They call me Rustyback, on account o’ my cloak,’ he said. ‘I deal in cures, now and then.’

‘What he means,’ said Dr Buckler, ‘is that he buys them cheap from us and sells them on dearer, the rogue.’

Rustyback stepped away, shaking his head urgently. ‘No, sir, not me sir. You are mistaken…’

Leonura intervened. ‘Rustyback. Occasional dealer in cures.’

He nodded gratefully and sidled away.

‘Very well,’ said Leonura. ‘I’ll tell you why you’re all here, shall I?’

 

Sign of the Herbarium

Inspired by the hedge woundwort (Stachys sylvatica), a plant, that though a little smelly is generally considered good for treating wounds, just like the Herbarium themselves!

 

‘I have a proposition for you all. I’ll promise not to poison you, if you’ll undertake not to poison me. That’s fair, isn’t it?’

An uneasy silence followed, until the toad man came out of his shell again and said, ‘So we all agree not to poison each other? Not even if seriously provoked?’

‘That is the idea,’ said Leonura, patiently. ‘Support each other. Like the town guilds.’

It was an invigorating and unusual thought; a healers’ guild. Everyone present was clearly wondering if it could be made to work. They were all in competition with each other, to a degree. And poisoning competitors was a not uncommon means of dealing with the problem.

‘So,’ said the toad man, ‘we only poison people who aren’t in the guild, if they make a nuisance of themselves?’

Honesty stepped forward. ‘But I don’t go around poisoning people. I don’t deal in poisons. I deal in cures.’

‘Cures and poisons is one and the same,’ said Dr Buckler. ‘Just depends on the quantity, don’t it?’

Everyone sniggered. It was indeed just a matter of quantity. But they agreed anyway same that non-poisoners would be welcome in the new guild, and that the poisoning of those outside it would be an optional activity.

They began to chatter amongst themselves, so Leonura clapped her hands for silence. ‘We will call this healers’ guild The Herbarium. We will sit down this night and decide on its rules and conditions of membership.’ There was unhappy muttering. ‘I will provide food for all of you.’ The muttering ceased.

The toad man had not retreated under his coracle. ‘I suppose you propose yourself as head of this guild, do you?’ he asked Leonura.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I propose my grand-daughter, May.’ That girl? The shocked silence lasted a long while.

*

There were rumours in the village. Odd stories. Tam Ullage at the inn didn’t know what to make of them. And Tam, as landlord of the Round House, felt it his natural duty to know what was going on. He prowled the bar, gathering scraps of information as people dropped in. All those healers and quacks and whatnot had deserted his pub and gone to the Hartstongue Inn. That rat-trap! It was unthinkable. Not only that – they had gathered together in the forest afterwards, somebody said, formed a circle, talked gravely. A little later, that story had evolved, and the circle had transformed itself into a round table. They had all gathered, taken their place at a round table in the forest. Honest. Not a word of a lie! At each telling the tale was further embroidered: now each healer had appeared in rich clothing, carrying a pennant with a coat of arms.

Tam doubted this entirely. That bunch of raggedy-bags? Where would they obtain such things? But the reports continued. They had broadswords, and golden helmets with feathers – even the women. Some arrived on white horses with red and gold caparisons.

‘Oh, come along now,’ said Tam. ‘You can’t expect me to believe that. We’ll be having swords in stones in a minute!’

 

Look out for part 8 of The Herbarium, in which the first secrets are revealed.

 

The Herbarium (6): Peddlers and Quacks and Ne’er-do-wells

Tags

fairytale, flowers, herbs, illustration, magic, serial

On the East Wind

Inspired by the wood anemone, or windflower, (Anemone nemorosa), a spring-flowering plant of old woodlands.

‘It began when the wind changed, you know,’ said Tam Ullage the innkeeper, knowledgeably. ‘Not that I have cause to complain. Keeps me busy. But that’s when they started to turn up.’

This piece of homespun philosophy was soon passed around as unassailable fact. All these odd wanderers had been blown in by the east wind, of course they had. A very stubborn east wind that refused to change. It was as good an explanation as any, and people latched on to it happily. Some of the newcomers were so insubstantial, no more than a cloak and a pair of thin arms, that it was easy to accept them as mere wind-blown vagrants, unable to resist its steady push or assert their right to head in another direction. The fact that some visitors were the size and substance of a bear and perfectly well able to trudge in any direction they chose, wind or no wind, was overlooked. In the face of an acceptable explanation for this incursion of strangers, that fact was set aside. All these folks have been borne by the wind, just like the strange birds you see after a gale sometimes. Blown off course.

The east wind was an easy entity to blame; it couldn’t answer back. And, of course, sooner or later, the wind would change and all these strangers would be blown away again, vanish as quickly as they had appeared, prompted and pushed by the more usual south-westerly. It was a matter of time, nothing more.

*

Everyone was a little wary of these strangers. It was natural enough. Might they bring disease with them? Might they be on the lookout for things to steal? These were fair questions. The one thing all these wandering folks had in common was that they had no home – or not in the forest anyway. A fixed abode, however humble, gave people a frame of reference; somewhere you were known and could be found, and could be made to answer for any wrongdoing, too.

This sudden tide of wanderers and passers-through in the forest set the locals exchanging questioning glances. Unknowns were fine when they came in ones and twos as they usually did. Peddlers and quacks and ne’er-do-wells often stepped out of the trees unannounced, and some of them were welcomed, especially the entertaining ones. But so many all at once? It wasn’t natural. And some of them alarmingly odd, too. Rumour was rife, and waves of unease followed in the wake of the off-comers as they tramped through the woods. They created temporary bivouacs in the church porch and in the shells of ruined cottages as they gathered, one after another.

Even the very birches of the woods showed delicacy of feeling and turned away from these wayfarers, whenever the wind allowed. The forest herself was ill at ease with them.

Of all the villagers, only Leonura the wise woman was unconcerned at the new arrivals. As a matter of fact she was well pleased.

*

Leonura raised an eyebrow when people asked about the strangers, and said she knew nothing of it. A bare-faced lie – but she needed to have a care. When you summoned the good and true, the not-so-good would follow, scenting an opportunity. And here they all were. Some were far too stupid to do anything for themselves – the pickers-up of crumbs; some were pretenders and play-actors, accustomed to fooling people in a small way; some had ideas for advancing themselves at the full expense of others; and some were downright evil.

Leonura knew all this, had begun to assess each one to see where they stood on this elastic spectrum, put them down as dangerous or not. Some, like that viper-tongued creature had worried her, though he had done nothing. It was as well to bear in mind that many of them were not what they seemed – why, she herself was… No. That thought was banished. After all, some of them might be able to divine what she was thinking.

They were assembling, one by one, in readiness for the meeting at the Hartstongue Inn. But Leonura would have the measure of all of them.

She magicked her husband into a toad and crushed him under her heel. That was what people said and every one of them knew it. It was as well, was it not, to have a little respect for someone with that sort of reputation?

 

Look out for part 7 of The Herbarium, in which the group convenes for the first time and everyone finds out why they have been summoned.

Art and Soul

Tags

bookbinding, Happiness, illustration, publishing

When I first thought about binding my own books the connection seemed immediately profound. Write them, illustrate them, design them, decorate them, choose the paper, choose the bindings, wax the thread to sew the pages, apply the glue. The ultimate do-it-yourself, all done with care and with love. The personal touch, every time. I suppose, too, if I’m honest, it’s also about control of my own work. Independence. No big business, just beauty, and, I hope, integrity.

Of course, like any craft, bookbinding has to be learned, practised, mastered. You have to get your head round it. So I have equipped myself with a book of instructions and a beginners’ set of tools, trawled YouTube for tutorials. I have laid out pages – and then scrapped the layouts and done them again. The illustrations had come out far too small, losing all the detail I had so carefully included. So back to the drawing board. I’ll do it as many times as necessary. Speed is not of the essence. In the meantime, I have tried my hand at sewing the pages together with kettle-stitch; crikey, I’m clumsy at it – but practise makes perfect. I’ll get there. I have investigated paper types and weights, and how they behave when printed and folded. My desktop printer has collapsed under the strain of experiments and try-outs.

And I have signed myself up for a bookbinding session with my friend Carol in charge, at our local Art and Soul day in a week or so. Art and soul is what it’s about, too, no doubt about that. Getting to grips with it all, and making it as beautiful as I want it to be, will not be easy, but whatever I do it’ll come from the heart. I have even wondered about setting up a local bookbinding group at some point, for a little mutual support.

But I’ve never doubted that this is the way forward for me. When my first bound copy of The Herbarium is complete it’ll be a treasure. It may be wobbly, in need of refinement, or even a complete rethink. I don’t mind. I’m prepared to work on it. I don’t expect immediate perfection. I promised myself something beautiful, and that’s what I mean to have. I’ll keep you posted.

 

Meanwhile you can read the next episode of The Herbarium here on Thursday…