Weed: The Poison Diaries Read online

  ‘I will not be stopping. I’m headed for Deere Street.’ I continue on my way but he keeps pace. The Belladonna fruits are already working their influence on my body and mind. A pleasant buzzing sensation sweeps though my system.

  ‘Well then you can go no further because you’ve found it. You’re walking on th’old road. It’s a wee bit overgrown hereabouts but it’ll get clear up north a bit. It runs straight frae Alnwick where I have come from, to Edinburgh where I was born. Though the nearest town you’ll see on the way up is Fala. My feet love to walk this road. It’s as old as th’forest itself.’

  He jabbers on but it is a benefit to know that I travel the right path and that there is a town called Fala to avoid on the way. However, at his mention of Alnwick my heart beats a little faster. My two days’ absence from the castle has been grave for me. However, in my haste to atone for my sins in the Poison Garden I have forgotten completely about the Duke. He is the best man I have yet met and the closest thing to a friend that I have among men.

  ‘What was your business at Alnwick, sir?’

  ‘Tis a glorious thing. The Duke’s sons. They’ve finally come. Between you and me the old Duke took a funny turn a ways back. He sacked all his staff and scallywags took up in th’castle grounds. We saw no smoke at the kitchen chimneys for a month or more. I feared the worst, to be honest with you, but today the gates have been thrown open once more and common folk make obeisance to his lordship.’

  ‘And the Duke’s welfare?’

  ‘I saw him myself this morning. Dressed in his best and eating porridge, beans and horseradish frae the gardens. Looking hale! Nay, even cheerful! He wants th’castle all full of life again and sends me out looking for wild mushrooms. It’s th’feast of St George tomorrow and he’s got th’young Lords with him. There’ll be a merry table. Bursting wi’good scran. There’ll be capon an’ cake. Pie an’ pickles. Herbs from the pot garden. Everything’s growing up fresh. I love this time of year.’ He looks me up and down in my tattered clothes. ‘I can see you do an’ all, dressed in just a thin sark an’ breeks.’

  ‘Yes. I like the spring as well.’ I sense no threat from this man but I have no wish to chatter with him. When men talk the voices of the land seem distant to me.

  ‘Oh aye. St George’s, an’ soon it’ll be Mayday, then Whissunday an’ the blooms come out.’

  This man has the air of one unused to switch his course, but I must be rid of him. I run my hand over a passing honeysuckle vine climbing high into an oak tree and ask it silently: ‘Flower for me.’

  ‘Like this?’ I say to the stranger as the trunk of old oak blooms with a thousand swelling yellow blossoms. Motes of glistening pollen float down upon us. They spin slowly, catching rays of sunlight shining through the branches above. The sweet smell laps against us, a wave of scent.

  The man stares at me in confused wonder for a moment, his eyes gaping wide as twin full moons. ‘What the devil in th’world is that, laddie? What am I seeing here?’ He starts backwards. ‘Sir, or whatever manner of creature you be, I dare say I’ll be taking my leave ay you now.’ He pauses, then inclines his head fractionally towards mine. ‘I would be appreciative if you would do me no bother and let me gang on my way. Please don’t follow me.’

  ‘I would say the same to you, sir,’ I speak to his back as he hurries away from me as fast as a man can walk.

  ‘That was fun,’ Honeysuckle says. ‘Come back soon, Weed! You’re always welcome in the woods.’

  I walk on with the sounds of the forest echoing in my ears. Still riding the pulse of the Belladonna narcotic in my system I think on Green; I let nature into my consciousness. It is a trick I have used many times in recent months to settle my mind and focus my senses. I draw Green steel from the earth to charge me, feeling its ancient harmony vibrate through me. When I open my eyes they are chambers of energy. I can see further and deeper. The shades and hues of comingling growth shoot and spark around me. My legs are powerful here and my feet delight in the rough earth beneath my boots. I enter a sun-bright clearing. At its heart a silver Birch tree sits majestically. As I pass its frank beauty, a breeze blows and the leaves flicker their pale undersides at me. It is a glittering dance that we share in silence, a casual generosity, given freely and without obligation.

  Time moves differently in the Green world; it elongates and swirls into aeons. The calculation of seconds, hours and days is a countdown to death fit for animals, not for plants. Past, present and future ebb and flow and I cannot reckon the span until the path I tread meets an incline. I glide up with it, gently leaving the dusky forest floor behind me. Soon I am cresting the hill and I break out into the afternoon sun. My road stretches ahead and though my eyes do not perceive it I can hear my destination calling to me. The distance between us seems to compress and concertina. I feel the pull of Soutra Aisle; it manifests a dense aspect and it draws me to it as the moon draws the ocean. There are lines of energy here and my journey’s end is a terminus.

  By late afternoon my feet have taken me to a high pass and a strong wind is blowing clouds against the sun. My thick black hair whips across my pale forehead wildly. As I walk I notice a looseness in the muscles around my injured shoulder. I shift the bag of salvaged poisons from one side to the other and remove my shirt. I gingerly touch the Yarrow-bound wound and, feeling no pain, I strip off the bandage. The trauma has completely healed and no mark remains on the smooth whiteness of my skin. Slinging the shirt over my shoulder, I smile and stride on. The sun and the herbs have healed me whole.

  Dusk falls and I think of highwaymen. It is not safe to be out after dark in these times and I wish to be in shelter. It is a blessing when I see the shadow of a building in the distance. As I approach the structure I mark that this is the first time I have seen anything man-made since this morning. Though I am pleased to reach my destination, as I step into the mundanity of stone and mortar I miss the cradle of nature. I throw my discarded shirt into the gloomy interior and place the grow sack and the Duke’s sword in a corner. I must plant the poisons early in the morning and let them drink in the sun’s rays if they are to live. For my part I see the night sky glittering with stars and I wish to bed down underneath them.

  There is only one building of Soutra Aisle left standing, though many broken foundations scattered around speak of a richer history. Perhaps it met with the same fate as Hulne Abbey once Fat Henry got the itch for a new queen. The medicine garden is quiet and at rest but even in the twilight of the evening it shines like a beacon to me. I go to it and dropping to my knees I feel the soft good earth between my fingers. I lie on my back in the garden bed and counting the bright stars I fall into a deep sleep. Today has been a good day.

  Chapter 6

  Soutra Aisle, The Feast of St George

  In the early morning light I observe the true expanse of what must have once been an impressive chain of structures. There are five or six jagged outlines that suggest imposing edifices consigned to ruin. The remains of two courtyards to the north are simpler and separated from the rest. They are both large, rectangular and joined on the short side; those crumbling walls once guarded the medicine gardens of Soutra Aisle where I slept the night. I write this in haste because today I must redeem myself. The earth hereabouts is strong and resonates with life. I hope it will accept my charges.

  The stone shell of the last building to stand at Soutra Aisle is old and poor. It smells of the earth and its roughly worked walls seem long abandoned by the hands of men. There is a bare entranceway that leads inside and above it, a cross and lintel with the name of Pringle carved upon it. This structure must have been an old chapel. As such the masons who came to pilfer good stone from the rest of the site spared it from their thieving. All to the good for me.

  I retrieve my grow sack from the chapel and pause for a moment to eat the last of the Belladonna seeds. They will help me in this morning’s work. I approach the medicine beds and note how well appointed the gardens remain. Few weeds have overgrown the ab
undance of healing herbs and plants that grow here still. There is a quantity among them of shrubs and bushes used by midwives to induce labour, or to bring off an unwanted child: Tansy, Black Cohosh, Cramp Bark, Motherwort, Goldenseal and Artemisia.

  There are many others too that quicken the blood, calm the mind or bring comfort to diverse ailments: Hyssop, Chamomile, Quinine, Tea, Feverfew, Arnica, Hawthorn, St John’s Wort, Narcissus, Rose. Curiously, I note many more exotic plants that have no business growing in this climate: Asafoetida, Cannabis, Ginseng, Peyote, Balm of Gilead, Coca, Khat. Beneath my feet I feel a throb of natural power to sustain them. I stand at a junction of ancientness. This place was once a formidable hospital for the ailments of men and especially women.

  I am glad to find a rusted hoe in the corner of the westernmost courtyard. This tool will suit my needs well and I spy several promising patches and nooks wherein to introduce the new residents. I wield the hoe and dig deeply into the soil and turn, exposing hidden depths to the sun’s touch. The muscles of my shoulder and back flex and relax into an easy rhythm. I allow my mind to wander contentedly, lost in the ancient animal delight of simple exertion.

  By mid-morning the day has warmed up and my rough linen shirt lies damp with sweat. It hangs heavily from my shoulders and hugs my chest and back when I pause from exertion. I begin my planting with deadly Strychnine, Henbane, Angel’s Trumpet, Winter Aconite, Ragwort Mandrake until I get to Poppy.

  ‘Here. Here. Who do you think you are? What are you doing?’

  ‘I am Weed, Narcissus. Do you know me?’

  ‘Oh you. We’ve heard of you I suppose. We felt you coming towards us yesterday on the deep vein when the sun was high.’

  ‘I’m here to root some weakened plants. This here is Poppy.’ I slot Poppy’s roots into the earth and cover them gently.

  ‘No fear. No fear! Weed. If you even think of letting that repulsive thing grow here next to me then I shan’t be responsible for my actions. Dig it up. Dig it up! Just the thought of its disgusting pods oozing all over the place. It makes me shudder.’

  ‘Narcissus! Don’t bother Weed with your gibbering.’ Rose’s voice is strong, clear and commanding. I am pleased to hear it.

  ‘I don’t care if Weed is the living embodiment of great Queen Mab herself, but I shan’t be in the presence of this muck. Look. I’m wilting. I’m browning! I doubt I’ll manage a flower this year.’ I pass my hand gently though the Narcissus bush and watch as half a dozen blooms of colour sprout from the stem. ‘Don’t think you can charm me so easily.’ It complains but I can sense its happiness at its own ripeness.

  ‘Hmm? Is it you, Narcissus?….… Why don’t you just……’

  ‘See. Sharing a bed with Poppy! Can’t even string a sentence together. It’s insupportable. Insupportable, I say.’

  ‘I like Poppy. Poppy! Do you hear me? I don’t think ill of you. I think you’re very impressive. All the great gardens have you. Since forever, all over the world. I’m just so lucky to be in this company. And you too, Narcissus. You’re so beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, Feverfew, shut up. I don’t need you to tell me I’m beautiful.’ Narcissus preens itself.

  ‘This bed was crowded before and now we have to share it with a dozen new malignant little plants. Look, Strychnine is all over you, Echinacea. You’ll not get half the sun you used to. That’s a poison taking your light. Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’

  ‘Don’t get me involved, you tedious bore.’ The Echinacea flower shrinks right back into its bud.

  ‘Narcissus. You’re a poison too.’ A lilting voice tries to mediate.

  ‘What do you know? Asafoetida. I don’t want to be the one to say it. But your smell is disgusting. It’s the shame of the whole garden.’

  ‘Little Narcissus. Great Princes of the East tasted my fruit since before the stars were in their current constellations. Not that that means anything to you, senseless stalk. You are a poison. You made that young walker fall into a very deep sleep just last spring. I don’t think his juices moved after that. You’re lucky you weren’t pulled out by your roots. Now why don’t you try and get along with Poppy?’

  ‘…… hmmmm. Yes.… I’m sure that red blood ate you right up.… You look just like an onion in the bulb.’ Poppy wakes up to defend itself. This isn’t going to end well.

  ‘How dare you, Opium. I mean really. How dare you. A common onion. I’ve never been so insulted in all my life.’

  An onion seedling joins the chorus. ‘Excuse yourself, Narcissus. Preening pansy! Onion’s good for soil, full of health, keeps the rot at bay and tastes damn fine.’

  ‘Vain, stinking turd-blossom thinks it’s better than everyone else.’ Strychnine raises its ugly head. ‘Weed? I would that you stamp me to death rather than listen to these gossiping fusspots all day. I doubt one of them has healed, harmed or done anything but laze around in bed since Samhain last. Good for nothings.’

  ‘You’re a fine one, Strychnine. Talking to me of vanity. You acting like an earthworm wouldn’t munch between your roots. You sprout from the ground up just like the rest of us.’

  Strychnine’s poisons run very deep and deadly. His nature is dangerous and his voice rasping. ‘You are lucky, little Narcissus, that I am bound by higher powers to do no harm among growing things or I’d strangle your roots with my hairy ganglions.’

  ‘You don’t have the bulbs! Get back to the ditch where you came from. You’ve been nourished on horse shit and people puke.’

  ‘Oh, Narcissus. I’m not going anywhere. In fact, I think I’m going to like it here. I can already feel this loam stimulate my roots. They’re getting stronger and growing even now. You are so uncommonly gorgeous I think my rootlets would like to get closer to you. I could be your scion and you could be my rootstock. How do you think a Strychnine-Narcissus cross would look?’

  ‘The very notion. How dare you. Weed! Do something. I think I can feel something moving in the soil. Weed!’

  ‘There is nothing that grows here, Narcissus, that has not grown here before. I have brought no real change on the land.’ I ignore the chatter and carry on with my work. I labour and plant Belladonna, Hellebore, White Baneberry, Hemlock. The sun is high in its house by now. My journey in the good forest yesterday has steeled my thighs and hardened my chest, though still it heaves with the effort of the morning. My wild black hair lies damply against my forehead.

  ‘Weed! Your rind is half drowned in dew.’

  ‘Hello, Rose. It is good to hear your voice on this glorious day. What do you mean my rind?’

  ‘Your bark. Your peel. The made-thing thing that covers your stem. It’s dripping wet. You’ll worsen if you don’t let your uprights breathe the clean air. Canker and mould will come in hot humid places when the sun is shining like today. Throw it away! You don’t need it anymore.’

  I approach the bush standing proudly at the margins of the medicine garden and brush my hand against a nascent bud. At my touch the bud grows towards the light of the sun, splits open and flowers in violet. ‘Thank you, Rose, but I’ll keep my modesty for now.’

  ‘Blushing, bashful brawn! You are among friends of the good earth, what care we for man’s shame? I stand proud in bud and bloom and so should you too. Unless you want to be like those strange walking creatures that lived here. They never sloughed their husks no matter the filth that gathers between their leaves. I mean the monks of Soutra Aisle.’

  Rose is prized of old, and has a wisdom of air breathing men that is uncommon among plants. ‘What do you know of them?’

  ‘I know they rarely died when nature would intend. They come to a malodorous end, rotting from the inside out with no shaft of sunlight to illuminate their mulchy mildewed sappy parts.’

  ‘Not everything can smell as sweetly as you, Rose.’ I gesture and three more buds rise and flower to join the first, an arrangement of colour among the green stems and leaves.

  ‘Of course I know that, Weed. I don’t expect miracles but come now, wh
y don’t you lay that quenched drabness out to dry on my branches? It’ll be dry as drought in mid-summer by the time Master Sun is in his perch and leaves no shadow. Besides we’ll burn in the heat without some shade. You, on the other petal, look pale as the bark of a birch tree. Some colour will liven you up. Do you good, I don’t doubt.’

  ‘It’s no good arguing with a Rose bush, so used to being favoured and spoiled by man and beast.’

  ‘Quite right. You’ve got ears to listen and I can keep it up till sundown.’

  It is a relief to peel the wet cloth from my shoulders and cast it over the nattering shrub. Rays of light play on my broad chest and I lose myself to the simple physical pleasure of connecting with the shining orb above. The hairs on my arms rise and I tremble as the moisture on my skin ebbs into the cool breeze. Every inch of my body feels amplified and alive as I stand squaring up to the sun and drinking in the ardour of its energy.

  A whispered voice gently grazes the back of my neck and tranquillity settles on my spirit. I hear a sonorous hum that reminds me of some long forgotten covenant. I see a hidden door opening ahead of me and every cell in my body remembers an ancient bond of strength, a sweet temptation. I know that through that door, if I push just a little, I will unite with something, with everything that grows around me.

  My choice is made almost before the suggestion forms. I push and open myself completely to the glare of the limitless sun. I let its light and heat photosynthesise within me and a powerful vigour inflames my body. I lose myself utterly to sensation; I had forgotten this freedom. A strange pulse of blood and sap charges within me and in an eternal instant I play, turning red nerves and green roots as they dance at my fingertips. I debauch on the sun’s generosity. I feel the trees, plants, each root and hair on every growing thing in the garden. And beyond the garden, I push further into the endless bounty of nature. I am a human lens for the sun’s raw energy, privileged, unique.