This is her island squared in cypress lines; With cedar ranks about her alley walks Set frequent, and the faces of the boles Are crimson, deep as sunset stains of cloud. The floor between them, rank and overgrown, Is tangled with luxuriant heads of bloom, All in a mat together, mixed with sedge. There are bells of some wide wine-deep flowers, Great apple fruits and tawny orange globes; And bunchy cactus tipped in fire-bright buds. Grey aloe spikes and heavy curling vines, And speckled poison berries intertwined. Her groves lead down upon the light free waves; Her foam-heads dance and ripple into sound. The laughter of many birds is in her elms Jays, owls, sea-crows, larks, lapwings, nightingales, As jumbled as the flowers beneath their notes. The isle-grove ends abruptly on the sea, A stranded star-fish neighbors by the sward, Where the snail toils beneath his painted walls. Small seaward gust irresolute breathe near; And sweeter waftings, sent from the middle brine, Stir the deep grasses at her perfect feet, Where Circe, shining down the gaudy flowers, Leans centre-light of all this paradise. One ankle gleams against the margin turf, Just beyond where the wave-teeth cease to bite. And the sea-pinks grow less rosy at her feet.

But this enchantress, island-queen, herself Bears on her head a bright tire marvelous, And for a girdle one of many dyes Woven and traced with curious pattern-spells. Her face is not at first so beautiful, That one should say 'Fear her, she will slay men And draw them into deaths by her strange ways, And some soft snare hid under all of her.' We must consider well upon her face, And the silent beauty of it all Begins upon us, grows and greatens on, Like sweet increasing music, chord on chord, Till all our being falters overthrown; And she lures out our soul into her hands, As faint and helpless as a new-born babe, To have her will and way with all of it.

O, she, this Circe mage, is strange and great, And deadlier than those terrible bright forms, That beam out on us with their grace. Her love eats deeper to the core of men, Scathing and killing, fierce and unappeased; Until not only the divine in us, But all the human also (which indeed Are one, tho' this less perfect) fade and change, And fall corrupted into alien forms. Till we resemble those strange-headed things, Herded away behind her island throne, Chimaeras, tiger-apes, and wolfish swine.

A dark ocean breeze, electric with adrenaline, magic, and fear, clashing with the thick scent of poisoned berries and spiny aloe, against a backdrop of snowdrop, cedar, and cypress.

O ALLISON GROSS, that lives in yon towr, The ugliest witch i' the north country, Has trysted me ae day up till her bowr, An monny fair speech she made to me. She stroaked my head, an she kembed my hair, An she set me down saftly on her knee; Says, Gin ye will be my lemman so true, Sae monny braw things as I woud you gi. She showd me a mantle o red scarlet, Wi gouden flowrs an fringes fine; Says, Gin ye will be my lemman so true, This goodly gift it sal be thine. ‘Awa, awa, ye ugly witch, Haud far awa, an lat me be; I never will be your lemman sae true, An I wish I were out o your company.’ She neist brought a sark o the saftest silk, Well wrought wi pearles about the ban; Says, Gin you will be my ain true love, This goodly gift you sal comman. She showd me a cup of the good red gold, Well set wi jewls sae fair to see; Says, Gin you will be my lemman sae true, This goodly gift I will you gi. ‘Awa, awa, ye ugly witch, Had far awa, and lat me be; For I woudna ance kiss your ugly mouth For a’ the gifts that ye coud gi.’ She’s turnd her right and roun about, An thrice she blaw on a grass-green horn, An she sware by the meen and the stars abeen, That she’d gar me rue the day I was born. Then out has she taen a silver wand, An she’s turnd her three times roun an roun; She’s mutterd sich words till my strength it faild, An I fell down senceless upon the groun. She’s turnd me into an ugly worm, And gard me toddle about the tree; An ay, on ilka Saturdays night, My sister Maisry came to me, Wi silver bason an silver kemb, To kemb my heady upon her knee; But or I had kissd her ugly mouth, I’d rather a toddled about the tree. But as it fell out on last Hallow-even, When the Seely court was ridin by, The queen lighted down on a gowany bank, Nae far frae the tree where I wont to lye. She took me up in her milk-white han, An she’s stroakd me three times oer her knee; She chang’d me again to my ain proper shape, An I nae mair maun toddle about the tree.

Witch-herbs, crushed golden flowers, and a man-made-dragon’s surly musk lightened by the scent of the blossoms and unearthly incense that clings to the Faerie Queen’s hair. Dragon’s blood musk, ambergris, sunflower, chrysanthemum, muguet, and rue, with gingered lily, moonflower, bluebell, peony, nightwort, and white rose.

In sharp contrast to the stark sterility of Hunger Moon, we present a carnivorous chaotic charmer: the bakeneko. The Monster Cat is a shapeshifter, and is empowered to take the form of a beautiful woman (to entice lonely gentlemen) or a winsome young maiden (to the peril of childless couples). Though some bakeneko are benevolent, and only wish to find someone to care for them, or to show gratitude to a mortal that has done them a great service, others are furry balls of malevolent mayhem. Their mischief ranges from simply destructive—knocking over lamps and destroying property, tossing ghostly, freezing fireballs from their hands—to horrifying acts of carnage.

Warm amber musk, Satsuma tangerine, black tea leaf, cardamom, cherry blossom and cinnamon.

Traditionally, Beaver Moon is named thus for a very obvious reason: during this time of year, beavers are hard at work building their dams and preparing for the onset of winter. Because it was too hard to resist, BPAL's Beaver Moon is sillier, sleazier, and full of camp. This scent is of cheesecake and cupcakes, more in line with it's cheekier connotations, and really hasn't a damn thing to do with Luna at all! Check out Tedwin's Black Phoenix Trading Post for the corresponding tee, artwork courtesy of the BPAL Doodle Goddess.

Traditionally, Beaver Moon is named thus for a very obvious reason: during this time of year, beavers are hard at work building their dams and preparing for the onset of winter. However, we at BPAL rarely let an opportunity for sleazy campiness pass us by! For your pleasure and amusement, we present this year's incarnation of Beaver Moon: wild cherry with vanilla cream accord, and a hint of strawberry.

In August, the large masses of berries, which, when in flower, had attracted many wild bees, gradually assumed their bright velvety crimson hue, and by their weight again bent down and broke their tender limbs. -- Henry David Thoreau

A golden summer musk with warm fig, orange blossom honey, sweet blueberries, and bright velvety crimson raspberries.

Kokoro no oni ga mi wo semeru. The body is tortured only by the demon of the heart. Nepal poppy, lotus root, wild rose, and blue hibiscus with blackberry, tonka, sage, lavender, peony and vetiver.

The absence of light: motia attar, black orchid, mugwort, English pear, cucumber, blue lotus, jonquil, massoia, calamus and crystal musk.

A Little Lunacy: This scent was only available on 9/17/2005. In October, the crop harvest has past, and all hands turn to the Hunt: the third and final harvest before winter. Blood Moon shines over huntsmen as they ride over reaped grain in pursuit of their prey. In Christian mythology, Blood Moon may have a darker significance: "And I looked when He broke the sixth seal, and there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth made of hair, and the whole moon became like blood; and the stars of the sky fell to the earth, as a fig tree casts its unripe figs when shaken by a great wind." — Revelation 6:12-13 The feral scent of the heat of the chase, deep woods, undulating musks, brushed by forest herbs, crushed grains, and touched by blood-dimmed lunar oils.

A Little Lunacy: This oil is only available for purchase on 6/2/04. How often does the bright moon come? With wine, I ask the blue sky. The Heavily Palace, I wish to return there, riding the wind, But fear that in the high places of jade halls and eaves, I cannot fend off the cold. Rising to dance with my clear shadow, Scarcely believing that I among men, I turn around the red lacquered pavilions, Dip below the silken-curtained windows, Shine on the sleepless. Let there be no regrets, What else is always so full at the time of parting? Men have sorrow and joy and farewell and union. The moon has clouds and clear skies, Waxing and waning. Perfection is rare since days of old, So wish only that the years be long, To share beauty even across a thousand miles. — Su Shih The spirit of the full moon is capricious, intense and passionate, yet still distant, aloof and cold. Luna herself governs glamours, bewitchments and dream-work, innocent wonder, transient pleasure and delight, the Moment, impulse, mystery and veils. The Blue Moon is one of her rarest manifestations, and this scent is formulated to encapsulate her most complex and profound nature: Mugwort and bay, for psychic sensitivity… Juniper, for divination through dreams… Orchid and galbanum, for complexity, wisdom and noscere… … with a potent lunar-charged blend of poppy, calamus, orris, wood aloes, moonflower, cucumber, and pale creeping buttercup.

The spirit of the full moon is capricious, intense and passionate, yet still distant, aloof and cold. Luna herself governs glamours, bewitchments and dream-work, innocent wonder, transient pleasure and delight, the Moment, impulse, mystery and veils. The Blue Moon is one of her rarest manifestations, and this scent is formulated to encapsulate her most complex and profound nature:

Mugwort and bay, for psychic sensitivity… Juniper, for divination through dreams… Orchid and galbanum, for complexity, wisdom and noscere…

… with a potent lunar-charged blend of exquisite Asian woods, moonflower, Madagascan ylang ylang, Florentine iris, Greek cypress, davana, green tea absolute, palmarosa, cucumber, Clary sage, melilot trefoils, wood aloes, and pale creeping buttercup.

In the stark darkness of February, food is so scarce that some are forced to chew bones and make marrow soup for nourishment. It is a time when we honor our ancestors with fasting, solemn ritual, and reflection on the triumphs and accomplishments of those who have passed before us.

White sandalwood, dry cedar, and radiant, crisp lunar herbs.

A Little Lunacy: This oil is only available for purchase on 22 June 2005. This Full Moon marks the time of the year when the new antlers of buck deer emerge from their foreheads, coated in soft velvet. This is a time of masculine vigor, thunder, balmy nights, glorious sunlight and hot winds. Buck Moon is an animalistic, deep scent: an amplification of one's natural musk coupled with forest herbs, a hint of clear, warm evening air and a crystalline spark of lunar oil.

Budding Moon shines as Spring moves with its first breath, and this scent expresses that burst of life-affirming joy through an olfactory interpretation of Huang Quans flower-and-bird paintings. Plum blossom, peony, lotus root, Chinese musk and a hint of white ginger.

A Little Lunacy: This perfume will only be available for purchase on 24 February 2005.Though March marks the end of the desolation and chill of winter, it is not yet Spring, the time of rebirth, fertility and the Earth's fecundity. March's Full Moon is a Virgin's Moon, pure, youthful, unsullied and innocent. This is the Moon of the Child, and the scent is as soft and gentle as a baby's breath: milky blossoms and soft cream touch the last buds of winter, coupled with crystalline, bright traditional Lunar oils.

January 2008

The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good- natured, she thought: still it had VERY long claws and a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect.

Cheshire Puss,' she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider.Come, it's pleased so far,' thought Alice, and she went on. Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'

That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.

I don't much care where --' said Alice.

Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.

-- so long as I get SOMEWHERE,' Alice added as an explanation.

Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat,if you only walk long enough.'

Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question. What sort of people live about here?'

In THAT direction,' the Cat said, waving its right paw round,lives a Hatter: and in THAT direction,' waving the other paw, lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they're both mad.'

But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.

Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat:we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.'

How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.

You must be,' said the Cat,or you wouldn't have come here.'

A lunatic's blend of lunar herbs and blossoms, with lemongrass, guava, pink grapefruit, banyan fruit, hibiscus, and cherry blossom.

Your attention is diverted from the pleasures of the Midway and the curiosities within the colossal 13-in-1 by the pressure of a long fingered and lily-white hand on your elbow. You turn and see a woman staring at you. Her hair is raven black, and she possesses all the fragile beauty of a fine porcelain doll. Lazily, she hands you a gold-dusted, sun-yellow chrysanthemum. She tosses her head towards a small indigo and crimson striped tent that stands just off of the Midway and gestures for you to come closer. Her scent is bewitching, almost intoxicating: a sensual incense of crushed mums, red ginger, and pulsing musk. You are overcome with a surge of desire, and like a silent siren, she compels you to follow. As you approach the tent, you see that softly glowing lanterns illuminate a gilded wooden sign that reads, "Chrysanthemum Moon". The tent is unlike any other that you have seen in the Carnaval: it is tiny, small enough to hold one or two bodies in comfort, and as you pass through the entryway, you see nothing at all within the space save for a framed piece of ragged parchment that reads, "Then Helen, daughter of Zeus, turned to new thoughts. Presently she cast a drug into the wine whereof they drank, a drug to lull all pain and anger, and bring forgetfulness of every sorrow. Whoso should drink a draught thereof, when it is mingled in the bowl, on that day he would let no tear fall down his cheeks, not though his mother and his father died, not though men slew his brother or dear son with the sword before his face, and his own eyes beheld it." As your eyes pass over the black ink, the ground before you abruptly opens like a hideous yawning mouth, revealing a pitch black stairwell that leads directly underground. Turning back to find your guide, you realize that she has vanished. Still clutching the golden chrysanthemum, you descend into the earth on well-worn steps of grey clay. The only light comes from the bottom of the stairs: a guttering oil lamp that stands as a sentinel before a heavy wooden door. You push it open, and move into a vast, dimly lit room. The ceiling is low and intimate, the walls are terraced with wooden berths and riddled with shadowy alcoves, and the air is thick with leaden brown opium smoke that hangs thickly over a seductive mixture of red musk, body-warmed perfume, and hypnotic Eastern flowers. Ornate braziers of burning charcoal are filled with smoldering poppy tar that punctuates the gloom with bursts of strange, surreal flames. As your eyes adjust, you see that among the thick, plush cushions and elaborate brocade blankets strewn across the floor, bodies writhe. Some lie in hebetudinous repose, heads thrown back in quiet delirium, others sit transfixed like crouching beasts. Flashes of fire burst in tiny circles of bloody light as metal pipes are lit. Sluggish, slurring voices coalesce into a hypnotic susurration. Your mind becomes unfocused, your thoughts abstracted. The scents, the sounds, and the darkness envelop you, and you find yourself falling - falling endlessly into a dream within a thousand dreams.

A Little Lunacy: This scent is only available on 11/26/04. The Full Moon that shines over the frost-rimed heart of winter. Traditional lunar oils combined with glittering snow flowers, soft breezes and frozen ferns.

This is the final Full Moon of winter. The call of the crow signals the end of the frost, and their scent, of vervain, black violet, white musk, and Chinese cedar, is brushed by the last cold wind of winter on their wings, and the scent of evergreen boughs touched by the season’s final flowers and the first blossoms of spring: wintersweet, green-barked dogwood, primrose, snowdrop, and lenten rose hellebore bouquet.

In Imperial China, the Dragon was the symbol of the Emperor's power, and to this day, the concept and the image of the Dragon is considered sacrosanct. The Dragon is a symbol of power, the Lord of weather and water. The Dragon Moon celebrates the glory and vigor of Springtime: dragon's blood resin, tea leaf, bamboo reed, sandalwood and cherry blossom.

In some cultures, the Dragon is benevolent, bestowing blessings and granting wishes. In others, the Dragon is an icon of destruction and harbinger of catastrophe. In all its incarnations, both baneful and benign, the Dragon is a symbol of strength, authority, and the raw power of nature. Our Dragon Moon represents the forces of rebirth and the vigor that springtime brings: dragon's blood resin, galbanum, blue sage, lavender, peppermint, sweetgrass, frankincense, moonglow magnolia, bergamot, and green cedar.

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: Bless us then with wishèd sight, Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever; Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright.

The essence of the pure, unsullied virgin moon and of the huntress that stalks her prey by the moon's light: amaranth, musk rose, juniper, chaste tree, sweet bay, chamomile, rose mallow, Madonna lily, blue musk, wisteria, and iris.

A Little Lunacy: These blends will only be sold on 24 April 2005. May marks the apex of the year's fertility, expresses the reawakening of the sexuality of the Earth and her inhabitants, and May's full moon celebrates both the fecundity of the creatures and flora of this world and the vibrancy, rejuvenation and life-affirming energy of Spring. Flower Moon embodies the unrestrained bliss, energy and color of the season: a bouquet of vivid, sexy blooms… tulip, daffodil, violet, dewdrop, rhododendron, iris, daisy, and a mix of California wildflowers.

April, too, marks the apex of the year's fertility, expresses the reawakening of the sexuality of the Earth and her inhabitants, and May's full moon celebrates both the fecundity of the creatures and flora of this world and the vibrancy, rejuvenation and life-affirming energy of Spring. Flower Moon embodies the unrestrained bliss, energy and color of the season: a bouquet of vivid, sexy blooms, coated in thick, golden honey... wisteria, swamp jasmine, honeysuckle, daffodil, rhododendron, phlox, and a mix of California wildflowers.

A Little Lunacy: This scent is only available on 10/28/04. The chill, crystal-bright Full Moon that is harbinger to the death of the year, and a monument to the snowy, dead months to come. A blend of traditional lunar oils frozen with winter mints, shivering eucalyptus, clear lotus, a gust of wind, and a midnight aquatic note.

A Little Lunacy: This scent was only available for purchase on 21 July 2005. The bountiful, bright and vivacious prelude to the Harvest. A horde of wet, ripe fruits: green apple, apricot, blackberry, black cherry, black and red currants, cantaloupe, English pear, guava, lemon and lime, orange, mandarin orange, kiwi and mango, passion fruit, papaya, Georgia peach, raspberry, plum, tangerine, pomegranate and strawberry over a luminous blend of lunar oils.

Sleeping under the trees on Yoshino mountain The spring breeze wearing cherry blossom petals

In Japan, the advent of spring is heralded by a blanket of pink and white that spreads gently from the South to the North to cover the islands. Hana-mi translates to "flower watching", and it is a sport of leisure that has been enjoyed since the Heian Period.

A scent of peace, reflection, and renewal of the spirit: sakura, ume blossoms, and wisteria.

A Little Lunacy: This scent is only available on 8/29/04. The Harvest Moon, by definition, is the Full Moon that falls closest to the Autumnal Equinox, and thus, it shares some of that Sabbat's characteristics. This Full Moon was thus named because it rises within half an hour of the sun's setting, in the Northern Hemisphere, and at this time farmers are able to work longer into the night by the light of this Moon. As the year draws to a close, the Full Moon rises an average of fifty minutes later each night, with the exception of a few nights surrounding the Harvest Moon, which only rises 10-30 minutes later. This moon is also, to the human eye, the fullest and largest of the year's Moons, hanging gloriously huge, yellow and low in the night sky, and many Moon Illusions trick our eyes at this time. The Harvest ushers in many celebrations in magickal work, including the Equinox and the Festival of Janus, God of Doors. Janus is the Roman Lord of Gateways, beginnings and endings, and transitions. Thus, the Harvest Moon is a time for blessing new undertakings, the onset of new and progressive phases in one's life, and rites of passage into adulthood. This time of year also marks one of the Festivals of Dionysus, Lord of Ecstasy and the Vine. The autumnal blooms of clematis, chrysanthemum, narcissus, sunflower, sage and lily twined with Dionysus' sacred grapes and ivy, a bounty of apple, pumpkin, and ripe berries, and the amaranth and lingum aloes of Janus, all touched by a gentle breath of festival woodsmoke and sweet wine.

Harvest Moon is celebrated in almost every culture, and the bounty of the season is marked in a myriad of ways. Harvest Moon touches the Equinox, the festival of Janus, the culmination of Homowo, the "crying of the neck" in Cornwall, and the Women's Festival of the Moon. This is a day that celebrates abundance and beauty, fertility and progress, and the light of this full moon blesses new undertakings and reunites lost loves.

The Harvest Moon, by definition, is the Full Moon that falls closest to the Autumnal Equinox, and thus, it shares some of that Sabbat's characteristics. This Full Moon was thus named because it rises within half an hour of the sun's setting, in the Northern Hemisphere, and at this time farmers are able to work longer into the night by the light of this Moon. As the year draws to a close, the Full Moon rises an average of fifty minutes later each night, with the exception of a few nights surrounding the Harvest Moon, which only rises 10-30 minutes later. This moon is also, to the human eye, the fullest and largest of the year's Moons, hanging gloriously huge, yellow and low in the night sky, and many lunar illusions play tricks our eyes at this time.

The Harvest ushers in many celebrations, including the Equinox and the Festival of Janus, God of Doors. Janus is the Roman Lord of Gateways, beginnings and endings, and transitions. Thus, the Harvest Moon is a time for blessing new ventures, the onset of new and progressive phases in one's life, and rites of passage into adulthood. This time of year also marks one of the Festivals of Dionysus, Lord of Ecstasy and the Vine.

This Harvest lunacy combines the autumnal scents of balsam fir, cedar, juniper berry, clove, saffron, damson plum, sage, black cherry, and fennel with the crushed wine grapes of Dionysus and Janus' lingum aloes.

The moon was but a chin of gold A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face Upon the world below.

Her forehead is of amplest blond; Her cheek like beryl stone; Her eye unto the summer dew The likest I have known.

Her lips of amber never part; But what must be the smile Upon her friend she could bestow Were such her silver will!

And what a privilege to be But the remotest star! For certainly her way might pass Beside your twinkling door.

Her bonnet is the firmament, The universe her shoe, The stars the trinkets at her belt, Her dimities of blue.

Hay absolute, tall grasses, dry honey, mallow, cardamom, amber, and wheat.

… blues falling down like hail And the day keeps on remindin' me, there's a hellhound on my trail …

August 16th marks the day the Devil came to call on the King of the Delta Blues.

Bay rum, bourbon vanilla, galangal, hyssop, High John the Conqueror root, tobacco, life everlasting, and brimstone.

Before my bed There is bright-lit moonlight So that it seems Like frost on the ground: Lifting my head I watch the bright moon Lowering my head I dream that I'm home. When the moon is full, mankind is one. Bamboo pulp and oude with green and white tea.

A Little Lunacy: This blend will only be sold on 23 May 2005. Honey Moon contains five different honeys, ranging from pale and sweet to deep and heady, with hints of jasmine, white gardenia, Hawaiian white ginger and thyme..

When Hunger Moon hangs high in the sky, the fields are frozen, and game is piteously scarce. Sleet covers the ground, and biting winds chill to the bone. This is a quiet, cold perfume: desolate and despairing. It is a clear night sky that and bracing chill wind that bears the promise of snow, sharpened by the pain of hunger, and the sharp, rasping stab of thirst.

Ozone, white sandalwood, crystallized white amber, verbena, oakmoss, clary sage, and a hint of white citrus rind.

On the 14th day of the seventh month of the lunar calendar, the Gates of Hell burst open, and ghosts pour forth from the Nine Darknesses into the sunlit world. To placate the dead, Hell Money is burned, offerings are made, and paper boats and floating lanterns are set out to give comfort and direction to wayward spirits. Though many spirits simply seek out the comforts of their former homes and the company of their loved ones, rancorous spirits also roam the streets, seeking revenge on those who have wronged them, before and after their deaths. Offerings of ginger candy, sugar cane, smoky vanilla and rice wine mingle with a ghost's perfume of white sandalwood, ho wood, ti, white grapefruit, crystalline musk and aloe. This scent is tapered by the presence of seven herbs, woods and resins used in the purification of the spirit and the purging of earthly concerns from the soul.

A Little Lunacy: This scent is only available on 9/28/04. As the winter encroaches, the time comes to embark on the last Great Hunts of the year. The deer are fattened, the fields have been reaped, and the light of the full moon illuminates the wild creatures that have come out to glean. This scent is redolent of night skies, falling leaves, and the high-pitched tension and release associated with the Hunt. A blend of traditional lunar oils touched with dry leaves, autumn bonfires, warm mulled wine, feral, animalistic notes and the chill of approaching winter.

As the winter encroaches, the time comes to embark on the last Great Hunts of the year. The deer are fattened, the fields have been reaped, and the light of the full moon illuminates the wild creatures that have come out to glean. This scent is redolent of night skies, falling leaves, and the high-pitched tension and release associated with the Hunt.

Dry leaves, autumn bonfires, blood red wine, feral, animalistic notes and the chill of approaching winter.

Ivanushka took his little sister, Alenushka, by the hand, and whispered to her, "Since our dear mother and father have died, we have had no joy. Our wicked stepmother beats us every morning and every evening. Our stepsister is cruel, and she laughs as stepmother beats us with switches. Our meals are dry, moldy crusts of bread. May the Lord have mercy on us! Come, little sister, we will set forth together into the great, wide world, for surely there can be nothing worse for us than we have in this house."

They walked and walked through meadows and fields, past sagging, abandoned cottages, and through barren, stony plains. Rain began to fall upon their tiny brows. "Heaven weeps with our hearts", Little Alenushka sighed. At nightfall, they came to a large, dark forest. Though the forest was frightening, the children were so weary with fear, hunger, and fatigue that they crawled into a hollow tree and fell asleep together.

The children's wicked stepmother was a black-hearted woman, and a witch, to boot. When she discovered that the children had run away, she crept behind them, using her magic for stealth, and watched them as they walked, and watched them as they slept.

They awoke as the noon sun beat hot and bright upon the hollow tree. Ivanushka said, "Sister, I am terribly thirsty. I think I hear a brook; please, let us find it!"

Laughing to herself, the witch sped to all the brooks in the forest, ensorcelling them.

The children came across the first brook, and Brother Ivanushka rushed towards it. Alenushka, though, heard the voice of the water as it skipped over the slippery stones:

Whoever drinks of me will be a tiger.

Alenushka cried, "Oh Brother, please, please do not drink, or you will become a wild beast and will tear me to pieces!"

Ivanushka ignored his thirst, and did not drink. "Sister, I will wait," he said, and the children continued through the forest.

When they came across the next brook, Alenushka heard it whisper:

Whoever drinks of me will be a wolf.

"Dear Brother!" she cried. "Please do not drink from this brook, or you will transform into a wolf, and you will eat me!" Ivanushka did not drink, but he was truly suffering.

"Sister, I will wait."

When they came to the third brook, he could take the pain no longer, and he rushed forward, plunging his hands into the water even as his sister wailed, "Oh Brother! This brook speaks as well! You will become a roebuck, and you will run away from me!" But Ivanushka could not resist, and as soon as the first droplets of water touched his lips, he became a deer.

Alenushka wept, and collapsed to the ground. In his heart, the roe wept with her. The roe moved slowly and sorrowfully closer to his sister. Alenushka dried her tears and whispered, "Dear Brother, I will never, ever leave you. This, I promise."

She untied her golden garters and put them around the deer's neck. She plucked pliable rushes and wove them into a simple cord. She tied the cord to the garters, and led her brother deeper into the forest.

They walked on and on, for hours and hours, deeper and deeper into the forest. At last, they came to a small cottage. Alenushka peeked into one of the windows, and the cottage seemed be empty. She thought to herself, "We can stay here together; we will live here."

Every morning she gathered berries to eat, and brought grasses for her brother. Ivanushka's voice whispered to her heart, and she found that though he had changed to a deer, her brother still retained a boy's voice. They walked together through the forest, and played what games they could. At night, she said her prayers, and laid her head upon the roebuck's back as she drifted off to sleep.

One day, hunting horns sounded in the distance. The howl and bark of dogs and the raucous shouts of the huntsmen echoed through the forest, and the siblings knew that the King's Great Hunt had begun.

"Please, Sister! Let me be off to the Hunt!" the roebuck cried. She hesitated, worried for his safety. "Sister, I am wild, and this is now my nature. Please, I cannot bear it. Let me run with the hunt! I am fleet of foot, and I am young; I will outrun them!" He begged and pleaded, and her resolve crumbled. She agreed, but said, "Come back to me in the evening. I must shut the door to the cottage, as I fear the rough huntsmen. So when you return to me, you must knock and say, 'My Little Sister, let me in!' I will then know it is you. If you do not say this, I will not open the door."

The little deer kissed his sister's hand, and leapt merrily into the forest.

The King and his huntsmen saw the graceful roebuck with the golden collar and started after him, but he was swift and spry, and they could not catch their prey. When it was dark, the roebuck sped to the cottage. He knocked upon the door with his hoof and said, "My Little Sister, let me in!" Alenushka opened the door, and her brother leapt into the tiny house. They whispered and sang until they both grew tired, and slept the night through on the soft bed of grass.

The next day, the Hunt began anew. When the roebuck heard the trumpets and bugles in the distance, his blood stirred. "Sister, please let me out! It is time, and I must run!" She opened the door for him and said, "Remember: you must come back to me in the evening, knock, and say the password."

When the King and his men saw the roebuck again, they gave chase. The creature was so swift and nimble that the chase ran on the whole day. At twilight, one of the hunter's arrows found the roe's foot. The roe was forced to slow his run, and as he limped back to the cottage, one of the hunters tracked him. As the hunter hid behind the large and shadowy trees, he heard the roe knock on the cottage door and he heard the roe whisper, "My Little Sister, let me in." The hunter saw a flash of pale skin and gleaming russet hair as Alenushka opened the door for her injured brother.

The huntsman raced back to his King, and told him all that he had seen and heard. Intrigued, the King said, "Tomorrow, friends, we will hunt once more."

Alenushka was terrified when she saw that her brother was hurt. She cleaned his wound, and washed the blood from his fur. She laid herbs on his foot, and bound it with fresh cloth. The wound was so slight that, after a night of rest and with the aid of his sister's gentle ministrations, he did not feel the injury at all. When he heard the calls of the huntsmen and the howl of the dogs, his blood stirred again, and he said, "I must run, Little Sister! Let me out!"

"I shall not!" Alenushka cried. "You are injured, and they will catch you. They will catch and kill you, and I will be alone in the forest. I will not let you out."

"Sister, I am wild. This is now my nature. If you do not set me free, I will perish from grief."

Alenushka had no choice, so she opened the door with a heavy heart. "I am weak with fear for you, Brother."

"You have nothing to fear, Little Sister. I am fleet of foot, and I am young; I will outrun them!"

With that, he bounded joyfully into the forest.

Soon, the King spotted the roebuck with the golden collar. He said to his men, "Chase him all day long; he will tire. But take care, and none of you shall do him any harm. We will track the beast."

At twilight, the King said to his men, "The roe is still giving chase. Now you will show me the cottage in the woods." The King crept to the door, knocked, and whispered, "Dearest Little Sister, let me in." The door opened, and the King entered the tiny house. Before him stood a young maiden, the loveliest he had ever seen. Her ivory skin shone like moonlight, and her auburn hair hung in long, thick waves around a perfect, beautiful face made wise by sadness and despair. The maiden was frightened when she saw, not her beloved brother, but a tall and dark-haired man with a golden crown upon his head. But the King's face was handsome and his eyes were kind, and he said to her, softly, "You have won my heart, fairest of ladies. Will you go with me to my palace and be my wife? I will love you all of my days."

His voice struck her heart, and she said, "Yes, sir, I will. But the little roebuck must come with us. I cannot leave him."

The King took her tiny hand in his, and said, "The deer shall stay with you for as long as you live, and you both shall want nothing." At that moment, the roe came running into the cottage. He stopped, startled. His sister stroked his fur gently, and looped the cord of rushes through his collar. The three, together, left the tiny cottage in the woods.

The King set the maiden upon his horse, and carried her to his castle. A splendid, joyful wedding was held with great pageantry, and courtiers from across the land came to pay their respects to their liege. Alenushka was now Queen, and they lived together in happiness in peace. The roebuck was cared for and cherished, and ran happily through the castle gardens. The King and Queen basked in the joy of true love.

The wicked stepmother, whose cruelty had forced the siblings out into the world, believed that Alenushka had been torn to shreds by wild beasts in the forest, and that Ivanushka, as a roebuck, had been slain as a trophy by huntsmen. One day, while the crone was purchasing herbs in the marketplace, she heard that the King had married. She heard tales of the kindness and beauty of the new Queen, and her curiosity was piqued. She traveled to the castle, huddled under the rags of a beggar woman. The Queen was outside the castle giving alms to the poor. Her pale face was lit with joy, and her auburn hair was set aflame by the light of the sun and her golden, bejeweled crown. The wicked stepmother saw that this Queen was the child she had scorned. When she saw the happiness in Alenushka's eyes, her black heart clenched with poisonous envy. She fled back to her home, seething with hatred.

The crone had no peace, and thought of nothing else over the next few days except how to bring the Queen misfortune. Her own wretched daughter, one-eyed and ugly and bent as sin, groused, "A Queen, indeed! That ought to have been my luck. You should have killed those children yourself. You should have slashed them with a knife, or beaten them with a cudgel. Then I would now be Queen."

"Be quiet," hissed the old woman. She turned to her daughter and cooed, "When the time comes, we shall be ready."

After a time, the Queen gave birth to a beautiful boy. One day, the King went hunting, and the wicked stepmother seized upon the opportunity. The old crone used her magic to take the form of a chamber maid, and went into the room where the Queen lay. She said to the Queen, "Come, my dear, your bath is ready. It will do you good, and will renew your strength. Make haste, or the water shall go cold!"

The crone's daughter was also nearby, and the two of them carried the birth-weak Queen to the bath room. Gently, they lowered her into the bath, then they crept out, and shut the door. Using her magic, the crone set a huge, ferocious fire blazing within the bath room, and the Queen died from suffocation.

When this evil deed was done, the witch took her daughter and laid a glamour upon her wretched daughter's countenance so she would take the shape of the dead Queen. Her magic could not replace her daughter's missing eye, so she bade her daughter lie down in bed in a way that the King could not see it.

In the evening, the King went to the bedchamber to see his wife and infant son. But the crone called out, "My King! Keep the bedcurtains closed. The Queen should not see light yet, and she must have rest." The King left, and did not see that an imposter lay in his bed.

At midnight, while all in the castle slept, the nurse, who was sitting by the Prince's cradle, saw a ghostly form approach the baby. Shocked, she saw that this phantom was her Queen. The Ghost Queen took the child out of the cradle and held it. She crooned a soft lullaby to the child, and set him back down in his cradle. She tucked a blanket around the infant, and caressed his tiny face. In the corner of the nursery, the roe lay on a bed of velvet. The Ghost Queen stopped and stroked the roe's fur lovingly, then glided silently through the door.

The nurse did not believe her eyes, and thought the shadows within the castle and the lateness of the hour were creating strange fancies.

The next morning the nurse, shaken, asked the guards whether anyone had come into the palace during the night, but they answered, "No, we have seen no one."

The Ghost Queen visited the nursery many nights in silence. The nurse always saw her, but she did not dare to tell anyone about it, though she feared that she might be losing her mind.

Meanwhile, the King tried to visit his Queen every evening, and each time, the crone waved him away. "My King! Keep the bedcurtains closed. The Queen should not see light yet, and she must have rest." The King left, and still did not see that an imposter lay in his bed.

After many days, the Ghost Queen finally spoke to the nurse as she left the Prince's bedchamber —

"How fares my child, how fares my roe? Twice shall I come, then never more."

In terror, the nurse did not answer, but when the Queen had vanished, the nurse could bear it no longer. She ran to the King and told him all she had seen and heard. The King said, "What phantom is this that stalks my son's bed? Tomorrow night I will watch by the child."

In the evening he went into the nursery, and sat hidden in the shadows. At midnight, the Ghost Queen appeared and said -

"How fares my child, how fares my roe? Once more will I come, then never more."

The King did not dare to speak to the ghost, but on the next night he returned to the shadows of the Prince's bedchamber. At midnight, the Ghost Queen returned, and said —

"How fares my child, how fares my roe? This time I come, then never more."

The King leapt forward, and stared deep into the ghost's unearthly eyes. He saw the maiden that he had fallen in love with, and cried, "You can be none other than my beloved Queen!"

The ghost whispered, "Yes, my Lord, I am your wife."

The King rose to embrace her, and as the King's tears fell upon her ghostly form, the Queen was filled with life. Her body became solid, her cheeks flushed with love. Weeping, Alenushka told her husband the tale of her murder. The King and his guard stormed into the Queen's bedchamber and arrested the witch and her daughter. They were dragged before the judge, and were sentenced. The daughter was taken to the forest, where she was bound and left to be shredded by wild animals. The crone was cast into a fire with stones tied to her throat, and died a terrible death. At the moment of the crone's demise, the roebuck was transformed back into a young man, and thus the sister and brother lived the rest of their lives, happily ever after.

Soft, velvety fur and warm musk, brushed by forest woods and dusted by dry leaves.

Hide this one night thy crescent, kindly Moon; So shall Endymion faithful prove, and rest Loving and unawakened on the breast; So shall no foul enchanter importune Thy quiet course; for now the night is boon, And through the friendly night unseen I fare, Who dread the face of foemen unaware, And watch of hostile spies in the bright noon. Thou knowest, Moon, the bitter power of Love; 'Tis told how shepherd Pan found ways to move, For little price, thy heart; and of your grace, Sweet stars, be kind to this not alien fire, Because on earth ye did not scorn desire, Bethink ye, now ye hold your heavenly place. Utterly ethereal, an exquisite expression of love: moonflower, lotus root, white gardenia, beeswax, peach blossom, blue musk, stargazer lily, golden osmanthus, ti, sandalwood, hyacinth, ylang ylang, and a touch of vanilla bean.

Bad luck has come to stay Trouble never end My man has gone away With a girl I thought was my friend I'm worried down with care Lordy, can't you hear my prayer

Lady Luck, Lady Luck Won't you please smile down on me There's the time, friend of mine I need your sympathy I've got a horseshoe on my door I've knocked on wood till my hands are sore Since my man's done turned me loose I've got those Lady Luck blues, I mean I've got those Lady Luck blues

Lady Luck, Lady Luck Won't you please smile down on me There's the time, friend of mine I need your sympathy I've got his picture turned upside down I've sprinkled goofer dust all around Since my man is gone I'm all confused I've got those Lady Luck blues Find my good man I've got those Lady Luck blues

Lady Luck Blues, © 1923 William Weber & Clarence Williams. Recorded by Sidney Bechet, Bessie Smith, Mamie Smith, and the Clarence Williams Orchestra.

Lady Luck, please smile down on me. A melancholy scent, aching with longing, created to appease Fickle Fortune. Honeyed Bulgarian rose, vanilla flower, benzoin, tonka, black plum, peony, and iris.

The nights are at their longest, the sky is at its darkest. The air is still with reflective silence.

A bouquet of night-blooming flowers, petals dusted with frost. Cereus, moonflower accord, night phlox, honeysuckle, silver thyme, white mint, and blue musk.

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale; A land where all things always seem'd the same! And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them, And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make. They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore; And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, "We will return no more"; And all at once they sang, "Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam." Soporose and lenitive: opium-laced golden lotus with rich amber, pine resin, and rose otto.

Skoll the wolf who shall scare the Moon Till he flies to the Wood-of-Woe: Hati the wolf, Hridvitnir's kin, Who shall pursue the Sun.

January 2008.

Red musk, black currant, violet leaf, wild frankincense, lavender, black orchid, Darjeeling tea, vetiver, red moss, myrrh, Moroccan spices, blackened fruit gums, and tobacco.

Beth's Creation The encroaching darkness: black orchid, jonquil, white pear, white amber, gardenia, olibanum, champaca, sweet clove, tonka, oakmoss, and blue musk.

Lycaon was the first king of Arcadia, and though his country prospered under his rule, he possessed a streak of viciousness that earned him the great god Zeus’ ire. Zeus had heard tales of Lycaon’s impiety and cruelty, and in order to find out the truth about the King of Arcadia, he disguised himself as a beggar and sought hospitality in the king’s court. Lycaon and his fifty equally sadistic sons discovered the identity of their guest, and foolishly served Zeus a meal of soup that contained sheep and goat entrails, and the flesh of Lycaon’s fifty-first son, Nictimos. Zeus, consumed with rage and disgust, struck the king’s home with a lightning bolt, and transformed Lycaon and his sons into creatures more suited to their savage natures: werewolves.

A monstrous, brutal, and bloodthirsty blend: blackened myrrh, crushed olive leaf, black musk, spikenard, frankincense, cypress wood, opoponax, white ginger, and patchouli.

The moon was but a chin of gold A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face Upon the world below.

Her forehead is of amplest blond; Her cheek like beryl stone; Her eye unto the summer dew The likest I have known.

Her lips of amber never part; But what must be the smile Upon her friend she could bestow Were such her silver will!

And what a privilege to be But the remotest star! For certainly her way might pass Beside your twinkling door.

Her bonnet is the firmament, The universe her shoe, The stars the trinkets at her belt, Her dimities of blue.

Golden mead, fermented with gruit, nutmeg, clove, cinnamon, ginger root, sweet-briar, rosemary, and lemon.

A Little Lunacy: These blends will only be sold on 24 April 2005. May marks the apex of the year's fertility, expresses the reawakening of the sexuality of the Earth and her inhabitants, and May's full moon celebrates both the fecundity of the creatures and flora of this world and the vibrancy, rejuvenation and life-affirming energy of Spring. Milk Moon is its warmer, gentler cousin; it is a scent that emulates the closeness of child and mother. In it, cream and warm honey soften our traditional blend of lunar oils.

And they came unto the brook of Eshcol, and cut down from thence a branch with one cluster of grapes, and they bare it between two upon a staff; and they brought of the pomegranates, and of the figs. The place was called the brook Eshcol, because of the cluster of grapes which the children of Israel cut down from thence. And they returned from searching of the land after forty days. And they went and came to Moses, and to Aaron, and to all the congregation of the children of Israel, unto the wilderness of Paran, to Kadesh; and brought back word unto them, and unto all the congregation, and shewed them the fruit of the land. And they told him, and said, We came unto the land whither thou sentest us, and surely it floweth with milk and honey; and this is the fruit of it. A fertile scent, generous, life-affirming, and swelling with a sense of triumph, warmth, and abundance: sweet milk, golden honey, fig fruit, pomegranate, dates, and white grape.

The Bull of Minos, guardian of the Labyrinth in Knossos. A deep, swarthy black musk dusted by a dark, resinous blend of sacred bisabol myrrh, atramentous benzoin, tsori, balsam, and galbanum.

The Moon of Ice shines its pale white light on snow-blanketed hills and barren fields. Icicles dangle from skeletal branches, and the desperate howl of starving men and beasts echo through the darkness.

January 2008.

Frost-crusted winter flowers, white pine, eucalyptus, and traditional lunar oils.

The baby moon, a canoe, a silver papoose canoe, sails and sails in the Indian west. A ring of silver foxes, a mist of silver foxes, sit and sit around the Indian moon. One yellow star for a runner, and rows of blue stars for more runners, keep a line of watchers. O foxes, baby moon, runners, you are the panel of memory, fire-white writing to-night of the Red Man's dreams. Who squats, legs crossed and arms folded, matching its look against the moon-face, the star-faces, of the West? Who are the Mississippi Valley ghosts, of copper foreheads, riding wiry ponies in the night?-no bridles, love-arms on the pony necks, riding in the night a long old trail? Why do they always come back when the silver foxes sit around the early moon, a silver papoose, in the Indian west?

Snow-blanketed wild grasses, sage, swamp tea, cedar, giniminagawunj, copal, rosehip, juniper, clover, elderberry, sweet flag, butterfly weed, wood sorrel, and pine.

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls, to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
'The breath goes now,' and some say, 'No:'

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears;
Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refin'd,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begun.


Ethereal, somber, and woeful: Chinese musk, wisteria, white grapefruit, calla lily, violet leaf, orange, gaiac wood, balsam of Peru, and Florentine iris.

A scent of transformation.

He who desires to become an oborot, let him seek in the forest a hewn-down tree; let him stab it with a small copper knife, and walk round the tree, repeating the following incantation:

On the sea, on the ocean, on the island, on Bujan, On the empty pasture gleams the moon, on an ashstock lying In a green wood, in a gloomy vale. Towards the stock wandereth a shaggy wolf, Horned cattle seeking for his sharp white fangs; But the wolf enters not the forest, But the wolf dives not into the shadowy vale, Moon, moon, gold-horned moon, Check the flight of bullets, blunt the hunters' knives, Break the shepherds' cudgels, Cast wild fear upon all cattle, On men, all creeping things, That they may not catch the grey wolf, That they may not rend his warm skin! My word is binding, more binding than sleep, More binding than the promise of a hero!

Then he springs thrice over the tree and runs into the forest, transformed into a wolf.

Balkan fir sap, dark mosses, Greek Mountain tea flower, black pine, salty ocean spray, deep black earth, and a moon-touched magickal incense of sandarac, frankincense, and ravensara.

The cold earth slept below;

      Above the cold sky shone;
              And all around,
              With a chilling sound,

From caves of ice and fields of snow The breath of night like death did flow

              Beneath the sinking moon.

The wintry hedge was black;

      The green grass was not seen;
              The birds did rest
              On the bare thorn's breast,

Whose roots, beside the pathway track, Had bound their folds o'er many a crack

              Which the frost had made between.

Thine eyes glow'd in the glare

      Of the moon's dying light;
              As a fen-fire's beam
              On a sluggish stream

Gleams dimly-so the moon shone there, And it yellow'd the strings of thy tangled hair,

              That shook in the wind of night.

The moon made thy lips pale, belov'd;

      The wind made thy bosom chill;
              The night did shed
              On thy dear head

Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie Where the bitter breath of the naked sky

              Might visit thee at will.

A dark, still winter's night. The cold, white moon shines on frozen ground dusted with silent snow: evergreen, juniper, winterberry holly, bayberry, Viking black chokeberry, hemlock, and yew, ice-rimed, gilded by traditional lunar herbs and flowers.

The observer’s space within a partial eclipse.

Rich purple musk, moonflower, red sandalwood, black amber, oakmoss, copal, lavender, neroli, tobacco, and pomegranate.

The year is ended, and it only adds to my age; Spring has come, but I must take leave of my home. Alas, that the trees in this eastern garden, Without me, will still bear flowers. Peony, plum blossom, water reeds and soft Asian woods.

A Little Lunacy: This perfume will only be available for purchase on 25 March 2005. The name of this moon refers to the color of wild ground phlox, a primary component of this Lunacy Blend, which is one of the most widespread floral signposts of springtime in North America. This Lunar blend is soft with phlox, tulip, daffodil, dogwood and muscari, dusted with pink sugar, carnation and honey, and a touch of the first strawberries of the season.

A sweet and silly compliment to the first breath of Spring! Sugared carnation and phlox!

A Little Lunacy: This scent is only available on 7/2/04 and 7/31/04. ugust is a month of reflection. It is the month of rest before the harvest, and it holds for us a time between toils, a brief period of relaxation before we take up the burden of our work again. It is the Time of the Phoenix, a season of celebrating health, vitality, warmth and joy, but it is also the time at which the Corn God dies for the sake of the land, his blood soaking the earth to ensure a bountiful harvest in the fall. The Full Red Moon of August was named thus by some Native American tribes because as the moon rises, it dons a reddish veil, visible through the hot, sweltering summer evening haze. Our blend for this Moon mixes traditional lunar oils with the warmth of amber and heliotrope, the russet haze of dragon's blood resin and crushed orange peel, and a swirl of summertime herbs: chamomile, rue, elder flower and marigold.

August is a month of reflection. It is the month of rest before the harvest, and it holds for us a time between toils, a brief period of relaxation before we take up the burden of our work again. It is the Time of the Phoenix, a season of celebrating health, vitality, warmth and joy, but it is also the time at which the Corn God dies for the sake of the land, his blood soaking the earth to ensure a bountiful harvest in the fall.

The Full Red Moon of August was named thus by some Native American tribes because as the moon rises, it dons a reddish veil, visible through the hot, sweltering summer evening haze. Our blend for this Moon mixes traditional lunar oils with the warmth of amber, red musk, and heliotrope, the russet haze of dragon's blood resin, sunflower, and crushed orange peel, with a dusting of summertime herbs: chamomile, rue, elder flower and marigold.

Since friendships fade like the flow'rs of June, I will leave her in charge of the stable moon." Then he said to the moon: "O dear old moon, Who for years and years from thy throne above Hast nurtured and guarded young lovers and love, My heart has but come to its waiting June, And the promise time of the budding vine; Oh, guard thee well this love of mine." And he harked him then while all was still, And the pale moon answered and said, "I will."

And he sailed in his ship o'er many seas, And he wandered wide o'er strange far strands: in isles of the south and in Orient lands, Where pestilence lurks in the breath of the breeze. But his star was high, so he braved the main, And sailed him blithely home again; And with joy he bended his footsteps soon To learn of his love from the matron moon.

She sat as of yore, in her olden place, Serene as death, in her silver chair. A white rose gleamed in her whiter hair, And the tint of a blush was on her face. At sight of the youth she sadly bowed And hid her face 'neath a gracious cloud. She faltered faint on the night's dim marge, But "How," spoke the youth, "have you kept your charge?"

The moon was sad at a trust ill-kept; The blush went out in her blanching cheek, And her voice was timid and low and weak, As she made her plea and sighed and wept. "Oh, another prayed and another plead, And I couldn't resist," she answering said;" But love still grows in the hearts of men: Go forth, dear youth, and love again."

But he turned him away from her proffered grace. "Thou art false, O moon, as the hearts of men, I will not, will not love again." And he turned sheer 'round with a soul-sick face To the sea, and cried: "Sea, curse the moon, Who makes her vows and forgets so soon." And the awful sea with anger stirred, And his breast heaved hard as he lay and heard.

And ever the moon wept down in rain, And ever her sighs rose high in wind; But the earth and sea were deaf and blind, And she wept and sighed her griefs in vain. And ever at night, when the storm is fierce, The cries of a wraith through the thunders pierce; And the waves strain their awful hands on high To tear the false moon from the sky.

Thou art false, O moon, as the hearts of men. I will not, will not love again.

Bulgarian rose, tea rose, violet leaf, opium poppy, Bois de Jasmin, patchouli leaf, honey, blue lilac, balsam, woodruff, and lemon peel.

Just in time for Lent, cher! A native of Louisiana, this Cajun lycanthrope stalks the swamps, forests, and fields of Acadiana and New Orleans in search of prey. It is believed that if one breaks Lent by failing to give alms, fast, or pray for seven years in a row, she will be God-cursed, and will transform into this snarling beast at every sunset, a slave to her desperate, mindless hunger until dawn.

Spanish moss, swamp jessamine, bog water, cypress, hickory wood, lobelia, sweet flag, wisteria, and marsh milkweed.

Brian's Creation The keeper of secrets: opoponax, Tunisian black amber, night musk, antique patchouli, zdravetz, terebinth, myrrh, and Pimenta racemosa.

The keeper of secrets: opoponax, Tunisian black amber, night musk, antique patchouli, zdravetz, terebinth, myrrh, and Pimenta racemosa.

Look how the pale Queen of the silent night doth cause the ocean to attend upon her, and he, as long as she is in sight, with his full tide is ready here to honor;

But when the silver waggon of the Moon is mounted up so high he cannot follow, the sea calls home his crystal waves to morn, and with low ebb doth manifest his sorrow.

Silver-dusted lotus, white amber, rose otto, passion flower, white sandalwood, buttonweed, and white poppy.

SELKIE In Norway land there lived a maid, 'Hush bee loo lillie' this maid began; 'I know not where my baby's father is, Whether by land or sea he does travel in.'

It happened on a certain day When this fair lady fell fast asleep, That in cam' a good greay selchie And set him down at her bed feet,

Sayin' 'Awak, awak, my pretty maid, For oh, how sound as thou dost sleep! An' I'll tell thee where thy baby's father is - He's sittin' close at thy bed feet!'

'I pray, come tell to me thy name, Oh, tell me where does thy dwelling be?' 'My name it is good Hein Mailer An' I earn my livin' oot o' the sea.

I am a man upo' the land, I am a selchie in the sea, And when I'm far frae every strand My dwellin' is in Sule Skerrie.'

'Alas, alas, this woeful fate! - This weary fate that's been laid for me, That a man should come from the Wast o' Hoy To the Norway lands to have a bairn wi' me!'

'My dear, I'll wed thee with a ring, With a ring, my dear, I'll wed with thee.' 'Thoo may go wed thee weddens wi' whom thoo wilt, For I'm sure thoo'll never wed none wi' me!'

'Thoo wilt nurse my little wee son For seven long years upo' thy knee, An' at the end o' seven long years I'll come back and pay the norish fee.'

Now he had ta'en a purse of guld And he has put it upon her knee, Saying 'Gi'e to me my little young son, And take thee up thy nourrice fee.'

She says 'My dear, I'll wed thee wi' a ring, Wi' a ring, my dear, I'll wed wi' thee!' Thoo may go wed thee's weddens wi' whom thoo wilt, For I'm sure thoo'll never wed none wi' me!

But I'll put a gold chain around his neck An' a gey good gold chain it'll be, That if ever he comes to the Norway lands Thoo may have a gey good guess on he,

An' thoo will get a gunner good, An' a gey good gunner it will be, An' he'll gae oot on a May mornin' An' shoot the son an' the grey selchie.'

Oh, she has got a gunner good, An' a gey good gunner it was he, An' he went out on a May mornin' An' he shot the son and the grey selchie.

Alas, alas this woeful fate This weary fate that's been laid for me.' And once or twice she sobbed and sighed, An' her tender heart did brak' in three.

-- A traditional Scottish ballad. This is a variant of the one collected by Francis James Child.

The chill waters of the Orkney coast, tea-leaved willow, honey-touched Grass-of-Parnassus, sea aster, and Scottish Primrose.

Green, in the wizard arms Of the foam-bearded Atlantic, An isle of old enchantment, A melancholy isle, Enchanted and dreaming lies; And there, by Shannon's flowing, In the moonlight, spectre-thin, The spectre Erin sits.

An aged desolation, She sits by old Shannon's flowing, A mother of many children, Of children exiled and dead, In her home, with bent head, homeless, Clasping her knees she sits, Keening, keening!

And at her keen the fairy-grass Trembles on dun and barrow; Around the foot of her ancient crosses The grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings; In haunted glens the meadow-sweet Flings to the night wind Her mystic mournful perfume; The sad spearmint by holy wells Breathes melancholy balm. Sometimes she lifts her head, With blue eyes tearless, And gazes athwart the reek of night Upon things long past, Upon things to come.

And sometimes, when the moon Brings tempest upon the deep, The roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the west, The wolfhound at her feet Springs up with a mighty bay, And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side, Strung from the hearts of poets; And she flies on the wings of tempest With grey hair streaming: A meteor of evil omen, The spectre of hope forlorn, Keening, keening!

She keens, and the strings of her wild harp shiver On the gusts of night: O'er the four waters she keens-over Moyle she keens, O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow, And the Ocean of Columbus.

And the Fianna hear, and the ghosts of her cloudy hovering heroes; And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfail, Chanting her song of destiny, The rune of weaving Fates. And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night, Sad unto dawning, dirges, Solemn dirges, And snatches of bardic song; Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night, And they dream of the weird of kings, And tyrannies moulting, sick, In the dreadful wind of change.

Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no more, Banshee of the world-no more! The sorrows are the world's, though art no more alone; Thy wrongs, the world's.

Moonlight over grave grass, meadowsweet, marsh hellebore, rock sea-lavender, Irish Lady's-tresses, melancholy thistle, and wood bitter-vetch, with the scent of autumn fires in the distance, sprayed by wind howling over the Atlantic.

A nearly-narcotic blend of opiate-touched bark and blossom reflective of the bleakness and solitude of winter, the quietest point of the year : black opium poppy, bamboo pulp, ylang ylang, lavender, chamomile and white sandalwood.

The Smoke-Veiled Moon of July brought a poem of Baudelaire's to my mind:

Ce soir, la lune rêve avec plus de paresse;
Ainsi qu'une beauté, sur de nombreux coussins,
Qui d'une main distraite et légère caresse
Avant de s'endormir le contour de ses seins,

Sur le dos satiné des molles avalanches,
Mourante, elle se livre aux longues pâmoisons,
Et promène ses yeux sur les visions blanches
Qui montent dans l'azur comme des floraisons.

Quand parfois sur ce globe, en sa langueur oisive,
Elle laisse filer une larme furtive,
Un poète pieux, ennemi du sommeil,

Dans le creux de sa main prend cette larme pâle,
Aux reflets irisés comme un fragment d'opale,
Et la met dans son coeur loin des yeux du soleil.

Tonight the moon dreams with more indolence,
Like a lovely woman on a bed of cushions
Who fondles with a light and listless hand
The contour of her breasts before falling asleep;

On the satiny back of the billowing clouds,
Languishing, she lets herself fall into long swoons v And casts her eyes over the white phantoms
That rise in the azure like blossoming flowers.

When, in her lazy listlessness,
She sometimes sheds a furtive tear upon this globe,
A pious poet, enemy of sleep,

In the hollow of his hand catches this pale tear,
With the iridescent reflections of opal,
And hides it in his heart afar from the sun's eyes.

(English translation by William Aggeler, 1954)

Soft sandalwood, nicotiana, and velvety orris drifting over lustrous pale musks, stephanotis, elemi, and cyclamen.

In December, the skeletal, ice-rimmed fingers of winter take hold, and the nights are long, chill and dark. The first flurries of snow touch the land, and the earth itself becomes quiet. A scent of purity and silence, soft with falling snow, as dark as Midwinter: an icy flurry over the winter blooms of narcissus, pansy crocus, dahlia, tulip, chrysanthemum and white rose, with a hint of fir and birch.

A cure for sweaty bits and sticky wilting. Stinky is a summer refresher 'foom for people that don't dig run- of-the-mill "clean" scents: newly-washed skin with a dusting of rice milk, white honey, and baby powder.

A Little Lunacy: This oil is only available for purchase on 1/25/05. The Storm Moon marks the darkest portion of the year. A season of long, impenetrable nights and turbulent tempests. A raging, electric and wet scent: slashing rain notes, rolling thunder, and sharp, cold winds layered by a breath of softly wafting lunar incense, a hint of Luna's blooms, and the brittle herbs of winter.

A Little Lunacy: This blend will only be sold on 23 May 2005. Strawberry moon is a blending of strawberries and cream with light, dry lotus and soft ylang ylang and a touch of green tea and sage to bring it closer to Earth.

A month of bounty, when the fish are plentiful and the corn grows high. This is the scent of breezes passing over the Great Lakes, mingling gently with traditional lunar herbs.

Sandy shores and sweet fresh water, lichen, green algae, and whitestem pondweed, with benzoin, cyclamen, moonlit musk, cucumber, blue poppy, and agave.

No way to see him on this moonless night --- I lie awake longing, burning, breasts racing fire, heart in flames.

Sugar cane, blue musk, mahogany, black orchid, black currant, violet, blackberry leaf, teak, strawberry, and dusky rose.

Silent, 0 Moyle, be the roar of thy water; Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lovely daughter Tells to the night-star the tale of her woes. When shall the swan, her death-note singing, Sleep with wings in darkness furl'd? When will heaven, its sweet bells ringing, Call my spirit from this stormy world? Sadly, 0 Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping, Fate bids me languish long ages away; Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, Still doth the pure light its dawning delay. When will that day-star, mildly springing, Warm our isle with peace and love? Call my spirit to the fields above?

White gardenia, white iris, sandalwood, calla lily, French magnolia, muguet, jonquil, and orchid.

One day, a courtesan of unearthly beauty appeared at the Emperor’s court. Her skin was like silk and porcelain, and her eyes gleamed like polished onyx. Her body exuded an enchanting scent, and her robes were immaculate. She quickly endeared herself to the Emperor and his concubines; her unequaled grace was matched by a glittering wit and astonishing intellect, and though she appeared to be no older than twenty, there was no question that she could not answer. There seemed to be no limit to her knowledge and strange wisdom, and she was well-versed on every topic, from astronomy to Buddhist teachings. So profound was the Emperor’s fascination with this woman that he kept her by his side, day and night. One night, the Emperor and his court attended a performance of poetry and music at the serene Seiryoden. A strong gust of wind suddenly tore through the Leaping Tiger Garden into the performance hall, shaking the bamboo reeds and extinguishing the lanterns. The room was plunged into darkness, save for a warm, golden light that emanated from within the mysterious woman’s robes. She was aglow like the rising sun. Enthralled, the Emperor declared to his ministers that this woman must be an incarnation of the Buddha, and he named her Tamamo-no-Mae. Deeply in love and profoundly devoted, the Emperor exchanged weighty vows with his favored mistress, and showered her with gifts and affection.

Within months, the Emperor became ill. He was listless, his sword-hand faltered, his skin took on a grey cast, and his muscles began to sag. Horrified, his ministers went to all the priests and soothsayers in the land, begging them for answers. They had none. The ministers appealed to the people, begging them to raise their voices in prayer. The people loved the Emperor, and sent their prayers to the Gods. The Emperor’s condition did not change. Finally, the renowned astrologer, Abe no Yasuchika, divined the cause of the Emperor’s infirmity: Tamamo-no-Mae. She was not born of woman; her true form was that of a hundred-year-old, forty-two-foot-tall, two-tailed fox demon. Disguised as a beautiful courtesan, the demoness hoped to slowly kill the Emperor, and then take his place. Knowing that she was exposed, Tamamo-no-Mae fled the palace.

Horrified, the Emperor sent the greatest warriors in the land, Kazusa-no-Suke and Miura-no-Suke, to pursue and slay his former mistress. The creature was wily and elusive, and after many weeks of hunting, the warriors began to fear that they would be unable to bring the demon to justice, thus shaming themselves and their families. They vowed that they would commit suicide if they failed in their quest, and they prayed to the Gods for assistance. That night, a beautiful woman appeared to Miura-no-Suke in his dreams. Her lovely face was marred by weeping, and she begged the warrior to spare her life. He refused, and cut the woman down. Upon waking, he realized that the dream was an omen – they would find and kill the foxwoman this day – and the warriors resumed their hunt with renewed enthusiasm. The hunters spotted the fox on the Plains of Nasu, and Miura-no-Suke fired an arrow into her heart. She fell, and her body transformed into the Sessho-seki, the Killing Stone.

Tamamo-no-Mae’s scent is soft skin musk, brushed by white tea leaf, rice flower, black locust flower, white sandalwood kodo smoke, dry ginger, benzoin gum, and Amacha.

Tan Tan Tanuki no kintama wa, Kaze mo nai no ni, Bura bura!

The mischievous sake-swigging, debt-riddled shapeshifting raccoon dog. These creatures carry a fistfuls of counterfeit cash and wear leaves from Buddha’s sacred lotus atop their heads. Their kin-tama -- golden balls -- are so large that they can swing them over their shoulders like backpacks, and are so taut that they can play them like drums. They are masters at the art of transformation, and live to overindulge in wine and women.

A scent of hedonistic, uninhibited joy: bamboo reed, plum blossom, persimmon, magnolia, black pine, sweet osmanthus, flowering cherry, mandarin orange, wisteria, and yuzu.

The chosen Muse here ends her sacred lays; The nymphs unanimous decree the bays, And give the Heliconian Goddesses the praise. Then, far from vain that we shou'd thus prevail, But much provok'd to hear the vanquish'd rail, Calliope resumes: Too long we've born Your daring taunts, and your affronting scorn; Your challenge justly merited a curse, And this unmanner'd railing makes it worse. Since you refuse us calmly to enjoy Our patience, next our passions we'll employ; The dictates of a mind enrag'd pursue, And, what our just resentment bids us, do.

The railers laugh, our threats and wrath despise, And clap their hands, and make a scolding noise: But in the fact they're seiz'd; beneath their nails Feathers they feel, and on their faces scales; Their horny beaks at once each other scare, Their arms are plum'd, and on their backs they bear Py'd wings, and flutter in the fleeting air. Chatt'ring, the scandal of the woods they fly, And there continue still their clam'rous cry: The same their eloquence, as maids, or birds, Now only noise, and nothing then but words.

Gleaming eyes, screeching voices, glistening wings: black amber, black orchid, black currant, olive blossom, wood violet, lavender, blue musk, rose attar, and cedar.

This is the scent of a summer storm: thick black clouds pass over this full moon, the Goddess roars, and Her Beloved hurls his forked bolts of lightning in the distant sky. Ozone deepened by liquid amber, and a spray of hot nighttime rain mingled with the scent of lightning-struck wood, water-soaked summer blooms, and sun-scorched grass.

A fearsome creature from Greek lore. Typhon was born from the marriage of Earth and Hell, and is said to be so terrible in aspect that even the gods themselves flee from his venomous gaze. Our own blend of Earth and Hell: red patchouli, sandalwood, black musk and vetiver.

Look down, fair moon, and bathe this scene; Pour softly down night’s nimbus floods, on faces ghastly, swollen, purple; On the dead, on their backs, with their arms toss’d wide, Pour down your unstinted nimbus, sacred moon. The chill winds and dark skies of November mark a time of reflection and release, and though the sting of grief is oft-times most painful during this portion of the year, the icy air brings clarity and eases the burden of suffering. These are the blossoms of loss and liberation, soothed by the calm, comforting scent of sandalwood : lilac, calla lily, wisteria, white sandalwood, moonflower, night musk, phlox, and violet.

A Little Lunacy: This perfume is only available for purchase on 12/26/04. This is the dead of winter, the year's dark hibernation, the crystalline silence of the depths of the world's darkness. It bears echoes of the time before time, of primordial gloom. This Moon harbors memories of man's life before fire.

This pale and glittering moon hangs high over the deep snows and freezing winds of midwinter. January’s full moon has been named the Wolf Moon by many cultures, as the nights are filled with the howls of ravenous wolf packs, and the danger of falling prey to the animal’s desperate hunger is at its peak.

This scent is that of unending, unquenchable hunger and feral madness. This is the dead of winter: a frozen night, chill wind, and the sharp, warm perfume of blood, fur, fang, and claw.

Winter air, Terebinth pine, juniper berry, dusty orris, deep amber, white sandalwood, black musk, blue cedar, and tonka.

Do not smirk as a hearse goes by, For you may be the next to die. They wrap you up in a big white sheet And throw you down six feet deep. They put you in a big black box, And cover you up with dirt and rocks.

All goes well for a week or two, Then things start changing; all is new. The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, The worms play pinochle on your snout.

A big green worm with rolling eyes, Crawls in your stomach and out your eyes. Til your blood turns mossy green And oozes out like Devonshire cream.

Worm Moon marks the season of rains, when the worms scuttle forth, aerating the earth with their movements and enriching the soil by digesting waste in organic material, which creates organic fertilizer.

Since April is Black Phoenix's Month of Absurdity, we present a melding of Victorian Grotesquery and springtime fecundity: mold-crusted dirt, decomposing organic matter, coffin wood, drooping funeral flowers, congealed blood, gloomy lunar oils, cuckoo flower, and a gruesome burst of overripe red fruits.