Herba Mythica (eBook)

Myths and Folk Tales of Sacred Healing Plants

Xanthe Gresham-Knight (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
400 Seiten
The History Press (Verlag)
978-1-80399-573-1 (ISBN)

Infos

Stories are spells. Healers have long recognised the need to travel to psychic realms, from heaven to Hesperides, to effect cures. Ancient medicinal manuscripts pair myth and magical incantation with instruction on how to dig up roots, make salves and concoct tinctures. Herba Mythica draws on this tradition and is a handbook for story-lovers and herbalists alike. Acclaimed storytellers from around the world choose plants that reflect their heritage or specialism, and notes on plant origins, symbolism and healing properties complement each tale. Mythology suggests that every bush, every flower is a deity who mirrors the healing action of the plant: Hecate is the hypnotic Poppy, Osiris the oracular Laurel and Tara the regenerative Lotus. And in folk tales, there are Willow fathers, Hawthorn mothers and brides who marry trees. Throughout, Sherry Robinson's characterful drawings capture the light and shade of each plant, reminding us of their power to kill or cure.

XANTHE GRESHAM-KNIGHT tours internationally and has been Storyteller in Residence for The Chelsea Physic Garden, Harvard University, Psychologies Magazine, Hastings Storytelling Festival, Stoke and Staffordshire Libraries and have received numerous commissions from The British Museum and The Smithsonian. She has performed at major UK Literature Festivals including Hay and Cheltenham and has created 8 performance art shows for adults on different Goddesses for venues including The Barbican, National and Soho Theatres.

Textauszug

Achillea millefolium

(Yarrow)

Yarrow/ Nosebleed/ Soldier’s Woundwort/ Thousand Seal
Yarrow is from Yerw, Dutch for repair, and Old English Gearwe from Gearwan, meaning to prepare, as in the preparation of a healing herb. Achillea is Latin for the God Achilles. Millefolium is Latin for thousand-leafed.

(Family: Asteraceae)

Macha (Ireland)

Anna Walker

I was young when my grandmother died, but I remember her death as if it were yesterday. She was not the loving warm grandmother from children’s storybooks. Raised in a Catholic orphanage in Limerick, with no father’s name on her birth certificate, she limped through her childhood. After escaping the nuns, she spent the rest of her life with one foot in Catholicism and the other on the land.

She brewed teas and tinctures of Yarrow and turned Lavender into salve to soothe and to heal, all while her rosary beads jangled in her pocket. And as the night encroached, she would pull a chair close to the flames to see what they foretold …

‘A mixture of herbs to make the fire dance,’ she said, tossing dried Sage, Mugwort and Rosemary onto the flames.

The fire smoked and squirmed, the flames danced brighter and higher, pulling me close, she whispered, ‘Breathe it in, breathe it all in.’

Coughing and spluttering, I did what I was told. The room began to spin, her laughter filled the air, a crackling, cackling call. ‘It was a long time ago,’ she said. ‘A time of no time at all.’

War raged.

The battlefield lay strewn with the wounded, the dying and the dead. Widows keened. Thunder rumbled, lightning flashed and overhead the sky darkened with thousands of clicking, clacking crows. Three forms took shape, their black wings becoming cloaks.

Fearsome shape shifters, the Morrigna, war weavers, sisters as one.

The first to transform from crow to human was Morrigan, the Phantom Queen. Phantom because no one quite knew why or how the battle had begun.

The second to alight was Babd. Not yet human, she puckered up her lips and loudly cawed into the ear of a weeping widow.

And the third, Macha, hovered above, her wings spread wide, waiting for her sisters to fully metamorphose.

Morrigan pulled a thread from her hood and tore it into three strands. And together, the sisters began to weave a cloak of peace over the land. Then Morrigan straddled the bracken river and let the blood of the dead flow from between her legs.

Babd stuck out her tongue and licked the juice from the eyeballs of the dead before stripping the bones clean of their flesh.

Macha pounded the earth, and where she danced, Yarrow, Heather and Lavender sprung forth.

Life returned.

When their work was done, they howled up at the dark sky. The clouds parted. Badb and Morrigan took flight.

Macha remained. She cocked her ear, heard a distant call and shook her long, dark hair free. From the ground, she pulled ten stalks of Yarrow, placed nine under her right heel and threw the tenth into the air as a tithing to the Goddess Danu.

Yarrow fair I pluck thee

Protection for this journey

Mother Danu watch over me

And sisters far and flying free.

Then she picked up her skirts and began to run, faster and faster over hill, dale and cliff, until she reached a high brow on the borders of Ulster. There, Macha caught sight of a holding. Smoke spluttered from its chimney.

She made her way down the hillside and banged upon the door. Cruinniuc, the widower, opened it wide and gazed into her sharp, dark eyes, took in her fair skin and shapely body, and he was enchanted.

Without uttering a word, she pushed him aside and entered the cottage. She sniffed the air, saw the chaos and loss leaking from every corner, and began to clean. His two sons cowered beneath the table, watching her every move.

And when her work was done, when everything was ordered and precise, she hung a bushel of Yarrow above the door before washing and feeding the boys and putting them to bed.

The night encroached, the fire flickered, and she crooked her finger and called to Cruinniuc. Leading the way, she shed her clothes climbed onto the bed, stroked her breasts, spread her thighs and welcomed him. She crooned and moaned all night long.

And so it was, and so it continued, day in, day out. The children’s tears were replaced with laughter and Cruinniuc’s heart swelled with love. The sheep and other livestock returned to the fold, the crops grew tall and strong, while Macha ran hither and thither. It wasn’t long before her body swelled with new life.

All was well …

… until the King’s annual feast.

King Conchobar was renowned for his prowess, both on and off the battlefield. His pride and joy were his horses, and he would challenge any man to beat them. He welcomed all his noble men, warriors, druids, servants and fools to the feast.

Macha begged Cruinniuc not to go. She held him tight, ‘If you must go, don’t boast about me. Don’t reveal who I am, if you do, I will not be able to stay here – that will break my heart.’

He puffed up his chest in defence. ‘Of course I wouldn’t do that to you!’ Then off he rode.

The crowd was full to overflowing with drinking, brawling men watching the races. The King proclaimed his horses to be the fastest in all the land and the crowd hollered. Seized by the moment, Cruinniuc leaned into the man next to him and whispered, ‘My wife can outrun any man … and any man’s horse.’

As soon as the words were out, he could have bitten off his tongue. The gossip moved from ear to ear until it reached those of the King, and he hauled Cruinniuc in front of him. ‘How dare you question the speed of my horses! I’ll have your head if you can’t prove this boast!’

And so, a messenger was dispatched to Cruinniuc’s house. The knock on the door sent a chill through Macha. She protested – what of the children, her unborn twins?

But the messenger insisted. ‘If you don’t, Conchobar will have your husband’s head.’

She glanced at the bushel of Yarrow above the door, retrieved it and placed it into a small pouch around her neck. Heavy with the weight of pregnancy, she dragged herself up onto the cart.

As she approached, the crowd swelled, jeering and laughing. ‘Look at this pregnant sow who thinks she can run like a horse!’

She kneeled before the King. ‘Please,’ she begged, ‘don’t do this. Just wait until I’ve given birth.’

But the more she begged, the louder the shouting and drunken ribaldry. ‘You’ll be sorry for this,’ she sighed. ‘You do not know who I am.’

Conchobar scoffed and to add insult to injury, he ordered his chariot to be stripped of all its ornamentation, then took the reins himself. The crowd roared with glee.

At the starting line the horses strained at the bit and then – boom! – they were off.

Conchobar whipped his horses into a frenzy. The men yelled with approval.

Macha wrapped her arms around her belly, picked up her skirts and began to run, quickly catching up with the horses.

Conchobar thrashed harder, his horses picked up speed. Macha could feel the heat from their nostrils on the back of her neck. Then, to add insult to injury, Conchobar took his whip and lashed her behind!

The rage seethed inside her. She felt the force of her sisters, of her mother, move through her and she began to flap her arms. As she did her feet left the ground. She strained her neck, her body, now weightless, moved ahead of the horses. She stuck out her chin, her chest, and with tears pouring down her face, she crossed the finish line way ahead of the King’s horses, before collapsing in a heap to the ground.

Her waters broke. A wail moved through her humiliated body. She arched as the labour pains took hold. Her cries were so loud, the crowds stilled. No one came to her aid. The men looked away in horror. Sprawled in the dirt, she writhed, finally giving birth to twins.

Still born.

She looked down upon them and wept, and when she could cry no more, she gazed out over the silent crowd and barely above a whisper, she said, ‘I curse you, Ulster men. I curse you for nine generations that on this day, for five days and for four nights, when you are most needed in battle, you will all find yourself on your knees in agony, weeping and wailing, as defenceless as a woman in childbirth.’

And with that, she lay down on her side, wrapped herself around her dead twins and died.

The sky darkened with thousands of clicking, clacking crows. And out of the blackness, two figures took form. Their long bird wings were transmuted into cloaks as dark as thunder.

The Morrigan alighted either side of their sister’s body. They bared their chests and keened. They spread their cloaks wide, gathered up Macha, her still-born twins and disappeared into the darkness, becoming three sisters once more.

The Ulster men left the field in silence.

For nine generations, Macha’s curse held true.

Where she and her twins died, three Yarrow plants grew tall and strong, and over the years propagated their healing across the lanes and fields of Ireland.

SYMBOLISM: COURAGE; LOVE; PSYCHIC POWERS

Macha is a seer who embraces change. Yarrow is consistent with her character. In the Chinese oracle, the...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 4.7.2024
• Illustrationen: Sherry Robinson
• Verlagsort: London
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Historische Romane
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Märchen / Sagen
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• Schlagworte: Dionysus • Fairy tales • Folklore • Folk Tales • Goddesses • Gods • Herbal Power • herbs • Legends • Medea • Myths • plants • Storyteller • Storytelling
• ISBN-10: 1-80399-573-4 / 1803995734
• ISBN-13: 978-1-80399-573-1 / 9781803995731