A Thorn of Sugar
Hoya carnosa and The Witch's origin story
Winter is fierce this year. Storms are relentless and brutal. Traffic on the mountain is sparse, I haven’t seen a client in a month. Not that I mind, it’s been a welcome respite. I’ve processed all the fall trimmings from the poison garden and have put several batches of toxic cookies in the freezer. This morning, I was spinning Draceana trifasciata fibers into thread when a sweet, heady smell like chocolate and cinnamon crept into my senses. The scent slithered through my body, flicking and licking inside until I couldn’t sit still anymore. I knew what it was, but sitting with the anticipation, trying to ignore it for the pure pleasure of delay was a sweet sensation all of its own.
The Hoya’s were blooming, quite out of season. Finally I stood and stretched and walked to their window. Domed balls of wax-like flowers hung from the plants, having grown and bloomed, I presume, over night. Sweet, fragrant sap dripped to the floorboards. I put down bowls to catch it, but I still haven’t tasted it. Not yet.
First, a story.
There was, once, a man of God in my life. Centuries ago, when I was but a whelp, as they said back then. He was our parish priest. At the time, still the Middle Ages, celibacy was encouraged by The Church, but not enforced and many priests kept a female servant, or hearth woman, who was also a sexual partner. My mother was employed by our parish priest, if you can call it employment. She kept his parish house clean, did his laundry and cooking, let him use her, he paid her a pittance for the abuse and allowed us both to live with him. My mother also did laundry for neighbors and I spun wool for the priest. He had a modest flock that he didn’t trust me to look after, so a young servant boy lived with us, too. He was a mean and miserly man, we were always hungry for his temperament frequently caused tithes to miraculously spoil on the way to church. Many were the clumsy parishioners who stumbled on the road and dropped sheathes of barley intended for the priest right into the mud, stomping on them a time or two for good measure, before picking them up, shaking them off, and continuing on.
Even now, so many centuries later, I can see his face, gaunt and always with spittle frothing at the corners of his mouth. I can see the icy eyes that stared out from a soul kept behind bars, a soul frightened of the monster that had imprisoned it. Not a demon, mind you, worse, a pious heart. A heart blackened by the holy fire of his god. His boiling, virtuous blood whispered to him as it rushed through his veins, “those I love, I rebuke and discipline” “they must repent or perish” “spare the rod, spoil the demon in her” “I did not come to bring peace on Earth, but a sword.” These things he said also unto me, frequently.