Plants were powerful vessels. Even the grass in the ground was green with unspoken vitality, woven into their fibers by the delicate hands of mother nature. Admiring the plants in the room, I murmured their incantations on the tip of my tongue, teasing the potency of the spells that rested in their roots. The air in here was damp and moist, with a sharp collection of scents that almost made it hard to breathe.
The elegant stalks of the calla lily, the sturdy yellow centers of gerbera daises, and even withered petals of the neglected spray rose contained some vestibule of vivacity. A fascinating phenomenon, imploring their petals and leaves in the art of enchantments. Some called it witchcraft, the harvesting of such raw, natural resources, but that was a word wrapped in ignorance. The term ‘alchemy’ was greatly preferred. This was not the employment of poisonous belladonnas and speckled foxgloves to bring harm, but a respectful connection with nature that brought good fortune and healing to those who used it wisely.
How could the delicate, frayed petals of the dianthus be evil? Or the small orange fruit from the tundra’s cloudberries bring ill intents? As Myron often preached, the sweet nectar of the sunset-colored honeysuckle offered nothing more than a saccharine taste on the tongue, and a fluttery feeling in the heart.
The workroom itself was a mystic place, illuminated by a single window, light catching dust particles that stirred with the air. Mortar and pestle sat idly, their position near the window casting sizeable shadows across the room. And when the sun melted behind the horizon, a little desk lamp on the workbench could cast an imitation of its rays. Or a sunspell, if the golden calendula were willing to lend their power, though I was rarely here after dark.
The room, hardly larger than a shed, was lined with so many plants it could be a greenhouse, creating an aura that brought security and serenity. Maybe it was the scent of lemon balm, or the moist soil that made it smell of crisp earth and morning dew.
As an apprentice, the maintenance of such a place fell upon my shoulders. I didn’t yet own any plants of my own, which are traditionally bought as seedlings to mark the end of training. It wasn’t a bad place to manage though and was actually quite scenic, I sat now just inches away from the green and black spotted arum, of which I was named after.
My favorite was the red peony.
Myron had purchased it from a fellow coven, the price had been one of her cream-colored magnolias. The memory was as vibrant as the flower itself. With a delicate smile, Myron revealed a damp white cloth carefully holding a single black seed. She had the gift of unseen potential and treasured it more than anyone else thought to. She plucked it from the cloth, held it delicately in her hand, and pressed it once to her heart. With such care, she tucked it onto the dirt, sprinkled it with water, and whispered a nurturing spell under her breath.
When it first broke the surface of the soil it was white and pure. As it grew, and listened to Myron and her spells, it darkened in color. Soon, it was a deep brown and bloomed into a vibrant red, surprising even the perceptive Myron. The splendor of this flower, cultured and groomed by expert hands, had a radiating presence. It practically glowed, indulging in the sins of pride and lust. It demanded to be seen, how could anyone pick a different favorite? The remedies it held in its petals, activated with ancient words, were beyond amateur knowledge, the revival of such skill lying in dusty volumes or Myron’s mind. Of all the potted plants, the vibrant fire lilies, pale white mountain laurel, autumn colored barberries and tropical rose mallows, Myron’s peony was of immeasurable value. And here it stood, proudly, waiting in a room of green for the day its seeds would be harvested for formidable potions and secret incantations. Protected by oaky walls of the workroom and a coven of green witches.
There was a knock on the door, and Myron stepped inside. Her curly red locks were pinned in a messy bun, and a trifling marigold was tucked behind her ear. A thin summer dress swayed when she walked, white fabric wavering with each small movement; even the hem was embroidered with lavender patterns.
“You’re still here,” she remarked, as she began her ritual of inspecting her shrubbery. She looked under the leaves, checked petals, sometimes whispering a spell or two to revive a parched plant. The ancient words rolled elegantly off her tongue, having been practiced hundreds of times before. Myron even gave attention to the less interesting plants, ones bearing ripe tomatoes or small pumpkins. Despite having magical properties, they were seldom used in sacraments, and it was hard to see why she bothered.
“My peony’s doing well,” she said, cupping its vivacious petals, the scarlet color looking like blood in her hands, “did you want to find a seed of your own?”
She asked so casually, like that wasn’t the most monumental question asked of a green witch. My heart fluttered as if the taste of honeysuckle warmed my throat, and I saw Myron smile kindly at my expression. She laughed too, which was more of a fast exhale when I stood up, and nearly tripped over myself.
“My own plant?” the words sounded strange on my lips.
She nodded, taking her basket from the workbench and letting it hang in the crook of her elbow. It was filled with various leaves and petals, some grounded and some not. It had some seeds of her own in it too, the main currency among green witches.
“The market?” I asked, and Myron gestured towards the door.
“Maybe today they won’t be out of vanilla,” she muttered.
I could hear the market before I could see it. The sounds of the people, horse shoes on stone roads, the occasional string instrument. It was an overwhelming place, common people and covens alike weaving in and out, dipping under one another, wearing everything from expensive custom cut clothes to humble homemade dresses. The cobblestone streets made me wary of where I put my feet, and the chatter of the town was a dramatic change from the subtle sounds of the workroom. Some vendors I recognized from my previous trips with Myron, but others were stationed under unfamiliar crests and banners, often suggesting foreign goods or traveling merchants. The entire market place was a sight to behold. Booths and stalls with flamboyant awnings sold everything imaginable: jewelry, honey, enchanted stones, glassware… but most importantly: seedlings.
Mushrooms, garlic bulbs, dahlia roots… small flowering snowdrops and budding allium that filled me with excitement. Playful succulents decorated the stalls of other green witches, and I could see jars of seeds displayed with their bloomed counterparts. The lively bulbs and ones that resembled Myron’s peony seed were the most eye-catching, but Myron steered me away. She was very particular, and her experience outweighed my curiosity. “You don’t want those ones,” she said, not understanding that I very much wanted those ones.
She used her gift to navigate us towards a humble stall, made of dry and discolored wood. It had a red awning over the top, casting a blood-orange shadow over our transaction. The booth itself didn’t have any plants, but only small bowls of seeds in earth colored pottery. An older woman stood behind the counter, her green eyes resembling of sage, and wispy white hair like spun sugar.
“Myron… lovely to see you,” she grinned, eyes creasing as she did so. Myron returned the smile, setting her basket down on the stall.
“This is my apprentice, Arum,” she said, introducing me, “we’re looking for a seed.”
The old woman nodded in understanding, “what were you thinking dear? A flowering plant? Cactus? A seed or fruit bearing plant? Or maybe you’d like a fern or a sturdy tree…”
I looked to Myron, “how did you pick your peony?”
She shook her head, “we all have our gifts, but you need to pick for yourself.”
Among the bowls, there was one containing a seed I didn’t recognize. Odd, since our entire coven had an encyclopedia-like knowledge of anything that grew. “What’s this one?”
The old woman was about to answer me, but Myron put one finger to her own periwinkle lips, “don’t, she needs to choose herself.”
The seed itself resembled a bean. It had a single white dot at one end of it. I held it in my hand to see how it felt in my palm before looking at Myron, “this one.”
Myron just nodded, before asking the woman for the price. This seed, whatever it was, was worth ten of Myron’s pink camellia seeds, and one withered bud of her dried spray rose.
The woman gave me a small blue cloth to wrap it in, and I packaged it carefully, tying the top with a piece of twine. The slight weight in my pocket was an exciting presence.
Once back to the workroom, I picked an empty container from the shelf.
The pots themselves varied in size, shape, and color. Some were delicately hand painted with the calligraphy of an ancient script, while others were black and plastic, temporary homes to nurture the seedlings before a permanent one could be crafted for them. Vines from ambitious plants leapt from their vessels and trace their tendrils along the walls, their fingertips reaching and tucking into every crevasse they could find, purple wisteria dangling from the ceiling, wrapping the room in a whimsical fantasy.
The pot I chose had been created from clay when I was a child, for just this very purpose. Until now, it had sat on the shelf, waiting patiently for this moment. I filled it with dry soil, pinching some from other plants, willing their success on the seed I had just purchased. Moistening the soil with collected rainwater, I pressed the seed into the dirt and patted it flat. I looked to Myron every step of the way, but she wouldn’t give me any hints.
The first few nights I could hardly sleep because I was so enthusiastic. Longing festered within me, the longing to know what my seed was, along with the longing to receive Myron’s praise. Every morning I’d care for it, sprinkle it with fresh water, and whisper soft spells. After a week, the stubborn bud refused to push through the soul, and I almost watered my darling seed with saltwater tears.
“You remember what my gift is, right?”
I nodded, rubbing my nose with the end of my sleeve.
Myron moved carefully, meticulous motions combining a jar of sweet grass the lit end of a match. It started to smoke, and the soft aroma of the incense filled the workroom. “So why do you think I chose you as my apprentice?”
It took two weeks before it poked its head out of the soil, and one more before it began to mature. As a green witch, the pace felt like failure more than a triumph. What was visible was brown and muddy green. I tried to trace my fingers along it, but small spines pricked my hand. When it did grow flower buds, they were withered and refused to bloom. Every morning I caressed them in my hands, wanting to pry open the brown petals and reveal what was inside.
I still had no idea what my seedling turned into, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know anymore. The prickly stem and coffee stained buds made my cheeks flush when I thought of it. In the history of green witches, this had never happened to any of them. Even feeble gourds or garden fruits would have been preferable to a green witch who couldn’t grow a seed by herself, and I silently regretted the risk I took.
One night, resting in my bed, eyes wet, there was a knock on my door.
“Arum,” she whispered, fire-red hair tumbling down her shoulders. “Come with me.”
Reluctantly, I dragged myself out to the workroom, where Myron was waiting with a smile on her face. She had a glowing calendula in her hand, which she used to light the way. However, it was hardly the only light in the room.
“I was going to wait for you to figure it out yourself…” The flowers on my plant had blossomed. “Epiphyllum oxypetalum,” Myron said. “It’s also called a night blooming cereus, or my favorite, queen of the night.” They shimmered like stars.
I was unspeakably proud of my seed. The beautiful silver flowers, bloomed and magnificent, showing off pearlescent white petals. Its stamen stood strong and proudly from its heart, the anthers looking like small gems. It was a bright star in the dark shed, radiant rays glowing softly from its center.
“They bloom only once,” she continued, “during the night, and they wilt before morning.” Pride rose in my chest, but Myron kept talking, “this is the sixth night I’ve been out here, and they’ve bloomed every time.”
Her last comment went straight to my heart, as I touched the diamond glass petals with my hand, “what does that mean?”
“It means, Arum,” she said, “you’re one remarkable green witch.”
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