Mardi: Herbal-Wise

We've got company coming to chez Pauline this evening so my time is not entirely my own. But I do have a quick herbal not that speaks to the season, whether you're a Hallowe'en aficionado, curious about "voodoo" or just a fan of The Walking Dead.

Hold on to your conical hats because this one is a little unusual. According to Scott Cunningham, pistachios cure zombie-ism. No kidding. Here is the notation from Cunningham's Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs:

The nuts are... given to zombies to bring them out of their trances and to give them the rest of death. Curiously enough, the pistachios which have been artificially dyed red are said to be the best for this purpose.

If we are talking about Voudon "zombies", it may be that there is a component in the nut that acts as an antidote for the chemicals used by a sorcerer to "turn" a person into a zombie. I don't recall Wade Davis mentioning this in his definitive book on Haitian Voudon The Serpent and the Rainbow, but that doesn't discount the possibility.

If only Rick Grimes and company had a truck-load full of pistachios... But then we wouldn't have much of a show, would we?

Interested in zombies and in particular zombie related movies? Follow along with the Zombie-thon crew for some great suggestions for your own zombie-movie-marathon. Bonne chance ~

Header: The Picture of Dorian Gray painted for the 1944 movie by Ivan Albright via Old Paint

Lundi: Recipes

It surely is that time of year and, because I made them yesterday after carving pumpkins on Saturday, I'm rerunning my all time favorite recipe for roasted pumpkin seeds. Yum!

This one comes from Silver RavenWolf's book Halloween which (witch?) is full of recipes, crafts and workings to fit the season. As I've noted before, the real secret to these gems is a quick dunk in boiling water before the seeds are roasted. Cooked with intention, the seeds are a great way to feed you family, body and soul.

Seeds from one large or two small pumpkins
1/4 cup (or to taste) sea or kosher salt (for protection)
2 tbsps olive oil (for health)
2 tbsps dried, crushed rosemary leaves (for prosperity)

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees.

Rinse the pumpkin seeds and boil in water until they turn grayish and begin to sink to the bottom of the pot.

Meanwhile, line a baking sheet with foil. In a bowl, combine the salt, oil and rosemary.

When the seeds are ready, drain them in a colander and pat dry. Put them in the bowl with the other ingredients and mix well to coat the seeds. Pour them onto the baking sheet and spread evenly in a single layer.

Pop the baking sheet in the oven and bake until golden brown. I like mine dark and crunchy so I generally bake them about 30 minutes. It all depends on your oven and your taste. Bon appetite ~

Header: Casper comic book cover via the now - unfortunately - defunct Tumblr Uncle Strangely's Dark Mansion of Big Crap Scares; I love this cover as the witch in red reminds me a little of the awesome Sharon Needles

Dimanche: Swimming

On the beach; 1950s photo via Mid-Century

Samedi: Ghost Stories

I'm watching The Walking Dead marathon on AMC in anticipation of Sunday's season three opener. I'm a junky for this stuff. Anyway, it's late and big, fluffy snowflakes float down outside my window but a ghostly tale couldn't hurt. So here's a repost of a NOLA tale set in the infamous Parish Prison. What could be more appropriate?

For anyone who has studied, hunted or read about ghosts, it goes without saying that places like prisons are often more susceptible to haunting than other structures. The negative energy built up in prisons and penitentiaries cannot be denied and the wraiths that haunt these types of places are often as twisted and malevolent as they come. This is certainly the case in today's ghostly tale.

The story comes from Parish Prison which once stood at the corner of Saratoga and Tulane in New Orleans. This story made its way into the New Orleans Daily Picayune on my birthday, January 23rd, back in 1882. The brief article indicated that fourteen separate suicide attempts had occurred in the prison the prior year, all committed by inmates of cell number 17. Those who managed to survive told horrible stories of a pale woman - sometimes she was said to be a seductive redhead, other times a silent nun - who appeared in their locked cell and tortured them mercilessly all night long. She went about her grim work while wearing a pleasant expression and a tender smile.

When the prisoners' bodiees were examined, they revealed agonizing burns in the shapes of hands and fingers. The authorities, realizing something was up but unsure what to make of it, stopped using cell number 17. The haunting calmed, but only for a few weeks. Soon enough the redheaded haint was back, this time in cell number 7. Six women killed themselves over the course of a three month period.

Now the officers who worked at Parish Prison began to claim they had seen the ghost, but she appeared to them as a beautiful, regal woman. Employees dubbed her "The Redheaded Countess" and it was at this time, when the article was written, that the warden of the prison claimed to have met up with her on the back stairs. Captain Bachemin swore he passed the Countess; she smiled at him and touched his arm, searing his flesh right through the sleeve of his uniform.

While the story is certainly intriguing, it is impossible to verify over 100 years later. As the storyteller in Gumbo Ya~Ya ends the tale: the captain met the specter, or so he claims...

Header: Red-Haired Man from Swank Magazine c 1958; art by Charles Copeland via Mid-Century ~ it really has nothing to do with the story but it has a nice, creepy vibe, don't you think?

Vendredi: Chthonian Histories

When Agnes the miller's daughter was brought once again before Judge Wagnereck she had been in her drafty cell in Munich's Falcon Tower for more than a month. Her clothes had been taken from her and replaced by a shapeless and doubtless itchy wool robe. She was probably thin; the accounts imply that she had refused food. She was certainly not the defiant young woman she had been only a few short weeks before. And now she stood across the table from a man she would soon imagine as an arch-fiend. A man who was well fed, well rested and unfortunately full of news and questions.

Wagnereck first informed Agnes that he and all his fellows present knew her for a witch. The evidence said as much. She should not trouble herself with denials that would only endanger her immortal soul.

She said, we imagine in a clear voice: "Although you speak to me a great deal about my soul's salvation, I am not a witch."

The judge then pounced: did Agnes know that her father was dead, his neck broken by the Devil in his cell?

Agnes reeled a bit, stunned by the hard blow. But she righted herself: "I am sorry for it."

Seeing that one strike would not do, Wagnereck continued. "If you do not give up your recalcitrance, we are given no choice but to put you to the question."

"If it must be so," Agnes continued, "then so it must be in the name of the Lord. Jesus Christ was also tortured."

Probably in a fit of rage by now, Wagnereck ordered the girl's wrists tied behind her back. She was then hoisted up by those wrists to dangle in exquisite agony just inches above the forgiving floor. She whimpered as her tortures stared at her, none of them in any hurry to relieve her pain. Just when the misery must have seemed unbearable, Wagnereck unleashed his hardest pitch:

Did Agnes know that her mother, Anna, had confessed to being a witch? Did she know that Anna had also revealed that Agnes had been consecrated to the Devil? Did she know that the judges were aware she had been a witch sense she was twelve years old?

This broke the wall of strength that Agnes has manage to build for herself. This and, most probably, the blinding agony of torture. "If my mother says I am a witch, then I might just as well be one."

Agnes was let down and Wagnereck began the questioning. "Who taught you witchcraft?"

"I'd just as well say my mother. I'll just have to put up with being a witch - " by now sobbing uncontrollably " - Oh dear mother! Go on! Make us suffer both of us!"

"Where did you first meet the Devil?"

A loud sigh emanated from Agnes: "I have never seen a devil in my born days."

With that, she was hoisted up again and Agnes screamed out in abject misery: "I have repented and suffered for all my sins! I have seen the Devil at home!":

Wagnereck left the poor innocent dangling above the floor as he pummeled Agnes with a laundry list of questions: What form did the Devil take? What did he give her for her soul? What malefice did she make in the Devil's name?

Agnes answered as best she could, making up a jumbled, hodge-podge tale of flying ointment and witches Sabbaths. Eventually, the shallow breathing forced on the girl by her insanely painful position took its toll; Agnes began to lose consciousness.

At this point, the record says that Agnes "suddenly began to talk in a strange manner." She said "my only work is but in prayer," and "If I am not pleasing, I wish I should become so." Then she raised her head as best she could and addressed her tormentor: "Sir, I give you praise and thanks that you have taken care of me. Spare my mother as little as you spare me. My father and my mother are also witches.... Oh! My soul is all a-tremble... How brightly the sun is shining."

This brought on a brief fit of pity. Agnes was lowered to the floor and given a bit of water. She asked for holy water, "that I might become a child of redemption" but there is no record that her request was granted. Instead the respite was cut short. Agnes was pulled up once more and the questioning continued.

The torture went on, probably for hours. Agnes was subjected to more and more misery, let go and then jerked up again, when she could not fathom what it was that Wagnereck wanted her to say. She must confess to killing babies and eating their flesh, but she probably could not comprehend such an abomination. Of course the judge would not put words in her mouth. Why he would not is easy to imagine.

Finally Agnes succumbed to her misery. She feinted away and was unbound and taken back to her cell. But only for a while. She was returned to the torture chamber in the afternoon but this time no torture was necessary. Like her mother, Agnes said whatever her tormentors wanted to hear. Tales of cannibalism, murder, and sex with demons all spilled out of her mouth; she said things she had probably never imagined before. It didn't matter though. As long as it kept her from the agony in the corner of the room it didn't matter one little bit.

Eventually, as night fell, Agnes was allowed to return to her cell. Her limbs would swell unbearably and turn the most miserable colors of black and blue. She knew more awaited her as she lie in her dark, cold cell. But there wasn't anything at all that she could do. Agnes the miller's daughter, just one of so many who were made to tell lies that they themselves might learn to believe, tipped over into the dark pond of madness...

(The inevitable end of Agnes' story will appear here next Friday. Again, I am indebted to Michael Kunze for his tireless research and the book Highroad to the Stake: A Tale of Witchcraft.)

Header: Procession of the Guilty by Francisco Goya c 1812 via Wikimedia

Jeudi: Weather-Wise

The idea that changes in weather, and particularly storms, are a harbinger of death is not new. It seems to have been a Victorian preoccupation, however, that storms and the deaths of criminals were inextricably linked. Particularly in Britain, folklorists have been able to gather a number of examples of this perhaps not so odd belief. Here are just a few from A Dictionary of Superstitions published in 1989 and edited by Iona Opie and Moira Tatem:

When judges are in circuit, and when there are any criminals to be hanged, there are always winds and roaring tempests (verbal comment from a laborer c 1854)

The whole country side is excited by these storms, and the people connect them with the death of a Mr. ___, a notorious wrecker. On Sunday evening this day week, he was seen watching the sea, it is supposed for a wreck. He returned quite well... At Six O'Clock next morning the servants knocked - no answer. They went in, and there he lay quite dead. Ever since the storms have been continual. While I now write my Table trembles with the wind. (letter from H.S. Hawker of Cornwall, 12/26/1859 - note that a wrecker was someone who watched the coast for shipwrecks and then went to them, often with the spoken intent of finding survivors but with the real mission of finding booty to sell illegally.)

Remarking recently to an old man that, though it rained, it did not appear warmer, he replied: "We shan't have fine weather till after tomorrow... tomorrow is 'hanging day'." Three men were to be hanged the next day at Worcester. (from the N & Q of 1890)

This superstition, if one must put a label on it, continued in rural areas well into the 20th century as is witnessed by this entry from the Fenland Chronicle of 1967:

One of his beliefs were that it always blowed a gale on a day anybody were hanged fro a crime, to show God Almighty's displeasure at the taking of a human life by other human beings.

That last may settle the reason for the belief although, given man's inhumanity to man who was made in God's image according to organized religions, it seems a flimsy excuse by both man and God.

Header: The Tree of Crows by Caspar David Friedrich c 1822 via Old Paint

Mardi: Herbal-Wise

Today's is the 600th post here at HQ, an accomplishment I am personally quite proud of. So I thought, by way of celebration, I would write about the most popular herb in hoodoo and certainly a universally used magickal herb: five-finger grass.

Also known as cinquefoil, five-finger grass gets its name from its distinctive leaf pattern. The compound leaves form five segments, similar to fingers. Each is said to symbolize a seperate grace or blessing: love, money, power, luck and wisdom. This is true for all magickal disciplines that use the plant, which is not, by the way, a grass but a flowering herb.

Cinquefoil grows wild in moderate and cool climates and was often the focus of old wives' remedies in pre-and early-modern Europe. A small bag of the leaves was hung over the cottage door to protect the inhabitants. The same would be hung over the bed or from the bedstead to protect the sleeper and ward against nightmares. Young girls were told to pick a cinquefoil leaf with seven "fingers", should they have the good fortune to find one, and bring it home. This was then placed under the pillow, particularly on auspicious nights for divination such as Hallowe'en or Christmas Eve. The cinquefoil leaf was said to bring dreams of one's future husband. I can find nothing about whether or not the same mechanism worked for boys wishing to dream of a future wife.

Scott Cunningham recommends making a tea of cinquefoil leaves. This is then used to wash the forehead and hands on nine consecutive mornings in an effort to undo malicious magick and curses.

In hoodoo, a bag of five-finger grass leaves is hung above a home's mantel but hidden from view. Hang the bag behind a picture, statue, stack of books, etc. Used with intention and replaced each new year, this trick is said to make it impossible for anyone - even the bank - to drive you from your home. A tea of five-finger grass leaves is added to floor wash to protect a home, clear away any crossed conditions (such as after a fight, an illness, or an unlucky event like the loss of a job) and bring better fortune into the home. The same sort of tea can also be added to baths for uncrossing, lifting jinxes and improving mental health.

A famous money drawing mojo is made from a five-finger grass leaf, a stick of cinnamon, and three mojo (fava) beans. Carry these in a green flannel bag and dress it frequently with whiskey or Money-drawing Oil.

According to Silver RavenWolf, five-finger grass is a "catch-all for Pow-Wow."  The five blessings noted above make the plant useful as they encompass "all that the Pow-Wow desires to receive and to give."  That's a tall order for one little herb. As in other disciplines, Pow-Wows also employ five-finger grass for hex breaking.

Bonne chance and thank you so much, one and all, for continuing along this journey with me.

Header: The Three Graces by Edward Augustus Bell via American Gallery