Apricot Press

The young woman pulled the cape around her shoulders, the hood obscuring her face as she checked to make sure that she wasn’t being followed.

It struck her that the grove had an indigo hue to it that night. The flowers were shades of azure blue and resplendent gold that reflected the glow of the moon. They rustled in the wind as she glided pass, smiling at the faint tizzy and whisper of the sprites that lay curled up inside each sweet pea and foxglove, using their petals as makeshift quilts. Will-o’-the-wisps bobbed beside them, and she couldn’t stop a bemused chuckle from slipping out at these omens of bad luck being used as nightlights.

That was another thing the folklorists had got wrong.

As she approached the clearing, she reached out and tugged on a hidden rope. It set off the faint tinkling of a bell that cut through the silence, alerting the others of her presence.

“Good. You’re here.” The silken voice rose from deep within the woodland.

In the shadow, she could make out many silhouettes that arched and shifted. It was hard to see where they ended and the tumbling locks of ivy that framed the sycamores began.

Old habits die hard, and it was typical that she would be the last to arrive. No matter, she had still rushed to get there. This was apparent from the errant cypselae borne from the early spring dandelion clocks that had made their way into her long blonde tresses. As she hopped over stray tree roots, and eluded brambles heavy with ripened blackberries, her unruly mane caught the light and glimmered as if showered with stardust.

The group formed a crescent, and she scurried to take her place. The night air kissed her upturned face as she joined the others and one by one they relinquished their guises with outstretched arms.

Each shroud was unique and intricately designed, woven together with a mixture of satin, lavender, and leaves. Now lying in a discarded heap in front of each woman, they watched on in awe as each garment melded with the one beside it, interlocking and sprouting new vines that snaked upwards to create a protective canopy that sheltered them.

The grove was transformed.

They had created a sacred space that allowed them to shrug off the daily hustle and bustle in favour of something more authentic and primal. Eagerly, they made their way through the doorway that appeared before them, unfazed when sentient tendrils of jasmine and passionflower stitched the entrance back together and sealed them inside. 

The women freed their feet from the confines of their dainty heeled boots and danced on the velveteen grass. Baskets laden with candied apples and orange peel were produced, along with chartreuse pillows, and reams of books, papers, and quills. They let out yelps of glee and twirled in tune to the violins and harps that their sisters played with vigour. With every note, each blade of grass and wildflower shivered and swayed, Mother Nature’s hands rising from the soil to join in with the festivities. Long dormant, she was their protector who granted them access to these stolen moments. Their lavender shrouds were heirlooms that she had gifted them, and they would go on to be passed down from mother to daughter for generations onwards.

Inside the cosy nook, beams of moonlight flickered through the gaps, slivers of silver that mimicked the constellations outside. Curious, a passing man poked and prodded at the giant lavender hedge that had mysteriously appeared on the second sweep of his evening patrol. He had never seen anything like it before. He tried to peer in between the twine, squinting to make out diaphanous phantoms that floated along to invisible music. His view was patchy, with the movement of the eerie dancers like a kineograph, disjointed and otherworldly.

Mesmerised, he sought to join them and tore at the course foliage that stood in his way. But the hedgerow became thorny and cut him, leaving a long, jagged scratch that wound its way down his cheek with a bloody streak. Falling backwards, the clatter of his heavy armour on the ground caused a sudden hush to descend upon the group inside who had been unaware of his presence.

The women ceased whatever activity they had been in the process of and huddled together, annoyed at the disturbance to their revelry. The long arms of Mother Nature remained a strong fortress against the unexpected visitor. Her shackles were raised as she spat at the intruder with nettles laden with poisonous needles that made the determined man wince and shriek as he fought to push them aside. She cradled her kindred as they waited with bated breath to see if he would succeed. However, once they realised he was no threat, their anxiety subsided, and the party decided to punish the king’s lackey by playing a trick on him.

They sunk on to their stomachs and crawled towards the edge of the sanctum. A chorus of hisses erupted as each member added their voice to the din, imitating serpents. The man leapt back in fear and struggled to get to his feet. The surrounding grass seemed to move, and he imagined the body of some great python rising up to swallow him whole. He stumbled and ran off without a backwards glance, flying down the path that would eventually lead him back to the comforting grey stone of the castle gatehouse.

After the footman had left, the women recommenced their celebration. The earth beneath them swelled with power as the woodland worked to expel his destructive energy. The mycelium networks chattered with excited gossip as the fungi and trees exchanged pertinent information about the events of the evening.

As the moon waxed and waned and eventually gave way to sunshine, the magic too faded. They each walked to the edge of the canopy, where the grass was shiny and slick with morning dew, and grabbed the invisible hem that had become enmeshed in their sanctuary. In one swift movement they reclaimed their capes, and the den disappeared as if it had never existed.

Turning them inside out, the emerald underbelly of their shrouds now revealed the revellers in their daytime masks of milkmaids, aristocrats, gentlewomen, novelists, shopkeepers, and philosophers. They made their way back to their respective homes with those they returned to being the none the wiser of the merriment they had partaken in the night before.

Over the coming days, each one would be privy to a story that spread far and wide. The narrative was of a brave soldier who had defeated a serpentine monster that had made its nest inside a giant lavender hedge. This myth permeated society and people became wary, hesitating before they stooped to smell the flower’s soothing scent in case a venomous asp was concealed within.

But there were those that knew the truth, who threw their heads back and laughed heartily at such a tall tale and went back to weaving their lavender shrouds. They were as constant in their practice as an ouroboros that continues to eat its own tail. Determined to carry on the tradition for evermore.*

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*This short story was inspired by The Language of Flowers, edited by Sheila Pickles. Specifically, the entry for lavender, which meant distrust in Victorian times. In the book, it states that ‘[a]ccording to folklore, small poisonous snakes known as asps lie under lavender bushes. So people grew to distrust the plant, and the language of Lavender came to express exactly that sentiment.’ p.57.

Photo credit: Baraa Jalahej