The Faerytale Apothecary

In another of the non-linear tellings for 2026 (of what once was, and what is now, and what shall be) the inspiration came from someone I used to see in my local park when I lived in Bath, England. It has been given an extra nudge to come sit by you this full moon by the squirrels here at Crow Cottage. I fancy it is them, and not the mice, that are scurring about and knocking at the windows in the wee hours…

Calling Forth the Ash and the Bones is a Year and a Day long non-linear mythic experimentation with story. It is an emergent weaving of tales branching out from the death of a King and an Old Oak Tree that knows.

If you would like to sponsor a story, thank you, you can do so here

with love

Elizabeth Jane

Image by Anastasia Beloychuk from Pixabay

Continuing from the beginning-ending place of the Winter Solstice, the second part of our mythic weaving comes again from 2016, a piece invoked for a Bard of Bath soiree. Re-recorded in the newness of 2026 as I sat by the hearth fire while the frost twinkled in the full moon’s light, and the stars sang of magicks…

In October 2016, I was given the story you are about to hear, knowing it was a part of something much bigger. I have told this story in a darkened basement, in the midst of a Moroccan market place, to hedgedwellers and skyflyers, and now, dear Substackers, to you. It is an ending of sorts, but also a beginning. For the next year and a day, because of course, all the best of witchery is often held within the spell of one year and one day, we will excavate a little more of this bigger story. It may appear for us in the middle of the night, or when the noon day sun shines through a dusty window. The moon might have wandered out of our sight, or be at its brightest. For who can know the way of a thing that lives outside of human linear time. With this in mind, the fragments of tale that arrive will not be in the expected beginning-middle-end format but as and when that particular part wishes to make itself known. Beseeches and offerings will, of course be made, to the One who first gave me the story all those years ago and we can only hold our collective breaths that she will answer and grant us the priveledge of more. So, join me as we begin, with this Winter Solstice New Moon, the cycle that will call forth the ash and bone of the mythic…

I confess to an immence affection and sense of protection for Rosebud. I first met him, and his pals when I worked intentionally with story in a shamanic way during a training programme with the wonderful Jonathan Horwitz and Zara Walderback in Sweden several years ago (they have an online version of working with story in connection with nature available as a self-study here).

Rosebud came and curled up next to me again over the last couple of days, and I just knew I couldn’t try to keep him safe in the confines of a laptop memory store any longer.

Please treat him with tenderness, for I feel he is the very best of things - a gentle soul with great courage.

Her by The Faerytale Apothecary

Haunted by The Faerytale Apothecary

Halloween by The Faerytale Apothecary

Given it is a New Moon Eclipse, perhaps there ought to be a story of a Hidden Sun, but I have long realised, I don’t get to make the rules when it comes to what wants to move in and through and out of me.

The Hidden or Buried or Dead (this one I still haven’t figured out) Moon is a traditional folk tale unique to Lincolnshire - never ever let anyone tell you otherwise. It suddenly felt a little bit important to share with you the recording of it that I made at the Summer Solstice. It might have been last year, or the year before. Somehow my mind is reluctant to clarify. Regardless, it was captured as I sat in my most beloved place by Crow Cottage, having wandered through the Gap in the Old Stone Wall here in Rutland (don’t look for it on a map, you probably won’t find it), speaking the story with the peoples that live hereabouts.

I dedicate it to our grandmothers, wherever they now reside, to their fortitude and grit, for how they have shown up in the world, and all that had to be discarded so we might begin the possibility of our own lives deep, deep, deep in their bellies.

On a gorgeous evening in May, I sat by a well-tended fire with a group of people I didn’t really know as stories were told in the best of possible ways. It had been a long day and I was all ready to go snuggle up in my tent, rising from my seat to do so, when one name caught my ears. Coyote. My behind found itself plonked firmly back into the chair as my body leaned forward eager to be engulfed by the story that emerged from Joseph Heywood’s lips. The next day, on seeing Coyote tattooed on my inner right arm, Joseph insisted it was a story I had to carry with me from that day onwards. Just as he has carried it after being gifted it himself by an Indigenous Elder (my apologies for not knowing who this Elder was). It is a traveller kind of story I think, one that likes to meet new people. Peer into them, through them, with them. What you are about to listen to is not a verbatim speaking of the story Joseph told that night by the fire. It is how it moved through me one morning. Next time, I suspect, it will have something different to tell us all. I had tried to sit with this story for the last few months but it always felt to be there, yet at a distance. As if sat at the far corner of the room from me, though willing to share space, not willing to converse. I wasn’t sure how it wanted to use my voice, or if it was even possible that the two of us might be companions. As much as I delighted in its company, I wasn’t sure if it was happy with mine. But then it suddenly arrived. ‘Now’ the story said ‘now we are good to go.’ It proceeded to pour through me in the way you are about to hear. Taking me as much by surprise as it might take you, for I have the suspicion that this particular Coyote is not done with either of us yet. We shall just have to wait and see…

On a spontaneous whim one rainy Saturday morning, Tom began to read a storybook to me through whatsapp voice notes. A storybook that he had not quite got round to reading before. You know the type - you skim the illustrations, grab it on impulse, then on returning home it sits patiently in the ‘waiting pile’, sighing to itself at the wonder the book knows it contains within its interior. And oh my, what a storybook it was! I argued with it, questioned it, took offence to it and peered dubiously at it. I also marvelled at it, gasped with awe at it, surrendered with delight to it and ultimately fell into a spellbound swoon. How could I not want to share such a tale and such a teller with you! So, here for your listening pleasure is the story of Eemook as read by Tom…

Eemook’s story is from The Sea Lion written by master storyteller Ken Kesey and illustrated by Neal Waldman, published in 1991. It is described by the publishers as an original tale that takes its inspiration from the Indigenous Peoples of the Pacific Northwest. The Peoples include the Chinook, Salish, Coast Salish, Kwakwaka’wakw and the Tlingit. More information can be found at https://www.nativehistory.info/pacific-northwest-native-tribes-culture/

And as an extra bonus I wanted to share a stunning short film by Jules Guerin entitle A Shaman’s Tale - https://julesguerin.tv/a-shamans-tale

Tom lives in a small cottage in the Bay Area of California where he designs and maintains gnome friendly gardens that incorporate native plants, which are also friendly toward birds and bees. He is a part time astrologer who loves viewing the night sky from the desert. His recent interest in giving voice to story has emerged along with a rekindled interest in song. It has been helped along from having had the events of his life lovingly mirrored back to him as story, and the gentle encouragement of his uncensored voice.

Find out more about his interactions with the plant people at tegardendesign.com

With love

Elizabeth of the Faerytale Apothecary