Welcome to my new section for paid subscribers, The Witch Lab. The Witch Lab features spells and potions for the dark wanderers through life. A new spell will post monthly on the third Wednesday and will feature the same plant as the regular Lab post at the first of the month, but instead of facts from encyclopedias, you’ll get scribblings from The Witch’s grimoire. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you how I came across this grimoire, the information would surely send you careening into madness. A further caveat is in order, I think. Although The Witch does seem to know her stuff, there’s no telling if she’s reliable. A potion to cure all ills could turn you into a newt. I wouldn’t try this stuff at home.
The introduction below was scribbled in the front of her book.
I am the witch who lives in the wood. I am nameless and faceless, an infinite expression of the void walking upon the earth. Untamable, I cannot be caught, trapped, or killed. A creature of the soil, the water, the wind. I am nothing and nowhere, shadow and darkness, and I belong to no man.
I am the witch, and this is my magic.
A spell for wound healing For burns, abrasions Punctures, lacerations Heartbreak, headache Melancholia… Brought on by over exposure To life. And for all other ailments, afflictions, Or sorrows. Light a candle for your pain. Make a poultice of joyweed, wasps, a drop of your own blood, and honey. As you grind the pestle into the mortar, imagine bones knitting together, flesh suturing, and a heart pumping blood. Imagine a smile. Speak your fears over your shoulder. Fears can’t hurt you Whisper worries to the spirits of the past. They carry them to the grave Grind and grind the joyweed red as blood. Grind and grind the poultice stringy and sticky. Grind and grind the never-ending pain- Will end. This is magic. This is witchcraft. This is the power no one wants you to have. Speak your fears over your shoulder. And tell the Dark Lord what you need. Lord beneath my feet Enthroned, entombed Gourmand of pain Flesh scoured, devoured Heal my wounds Worries, woe, depart Eat of my flesh My blood, my sorrow Pain, our bond Bonded are we Soul of my soul Death of my death Apply the poultice (to head, to heart, to wounded flesh) and rest, for the devil is the truest witchfellow.
Yikes, that's dark...I love it!😁
Thank you for your recommendation. :-)