viii: Botanica Fabula
Cloth of Nettle Amanda Edmiston Spring is beckoning, so on our country walks it’s now necessary to avoid a brush with the Noedl, the Naughty Man's Plaything, Scaddie, Hoky-poky, Devil's Leaf, Heg-beg, Stingers... that is, Nettles. If one does nick your ankles, just remember: instead of letting its sting bother you, grasp the Nettle. We can steel ourselves with Nettle's iron. Seek them out and gather a handful of new leaves to add to potage. Watch how they reclaim neglected sites— healing our waste, turning middens into minerals. They offer relief from allergies to pollen, and perhaps to feathers... It's time to enjoy the power of the fortifying Nettle, giving us the strength to complete the most arduous task... As the birds flew southwards for the winter, a Queen sat spinning in a castle tower. No Nettle fibres like the peasants wore blended with wool, but the finest silk from far away. Her seven young sons played in the gardens far below; she watched them happily, but still she wished for a daughter. Her musing made her miss with her needle and prick her finger— she gasped and watched as the blood fell, drop by drop, crimson onto the snow-white silk. A spell began to form, with no intention to mark it— and an incantation, time worn, story-formed, fell from her lips: “How I wish I had a daughter; I would give every drop of blood I have ever shed for a daughter.” A rustling like a whisper of feathers drew her attention away from the window and her work, and she turned to look to the back of the room. From out of the corner stepped a woman, long grey hair like feathers stretching down her back. “A daughter you will receive, but your sons pay the price. As twelve years pass, the bill will need reckoning,” the woman muttered, her voice crackling with lack of use. The Queen, fearing for her sons, tried to retract her wish. But the only reply the woman gave was that once the blood had spilt and the feather had fallen, it would take more than words to change the future. She faded back into the corner, leaving only a long grey feather behind. Nine months passed and a daughter was born to the Queen. Every day she watched for the greyhaired woman, but she never saw her again. Everyone loved the baby girl; her brothers played with her and sang her rhymes, and all seemed well in the world. As the princess reached her twelfth birthday, the royal family took measures to double the protection on their sons. The princes were ushered into the safest room in the palace, with just one window too high for any man to reach, a strong Oak door, and Rowan berries for protection draped over the lintel. As midnight struck, it seemed that the sons had escaped harm— but then the daughter was awoken by the eerie cry of swans and a cool draught as wings passed her window. Her parents unlocked the heavy Oak door and found the high window ajar and their sons gone, a solitary grey feather lying on the floor. 41
