An Arabic term that refers to both the chirping of nocturnal insects and the ambient sound made by the chattering of demons. This is the original title of the feared Necronomicon, the Book of Dead Names, penned by the Mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred. Nor is it to be thought that man is either the oldest or the last of earth's masters, or that the common bulk of life and substances walks alone. The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but between them, They walk serene and primal, undimensioned and to us unseen. Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the Old Ones broke through of old, and where They shall break through again. He knows where They have trod earth's fields, and where They still tread them, and why no one can behold Them as They tread. By Their smell can men sometimes know Them near, but of Their semblance can no man know, saving only in the features of those They have begotten on mankind; and of those are there many sorts, differing in likeness from man's truest eidolon to that shape without sight or substance which is Them. They walk unseen and foul in lonely places where the Words have been spoken and the Rites howled through at their Seasons. The wind gibbers with Their voices, and the earth mutters with Their consciousness. They bend the forest and crush the city, yet may not forest or city behold the hand that smites. Kadath in the cold waste hath known Them, and what man knows Kadath? The ice desert of the South and the sunken isles of Ocean hold stones where Their seal is engraven, but who hath seen the deep frozen city or the sealed tower long garlanded with seaweed and barnacles? Great Cthulhu is Their cousin, yet can he spy Them only dimly. Iä! Shub-Niggurath! As a foulness shall ye know Them. Their hand is at your throats, yet ye see Them not; and Their habitation is even one with your guarded threshold. Yog-Sothoth is the key to the gate, whereby the spheres meet. Man rules now where They ruled once; They shall soon rule where man rules now. After summer is winter, and after winter summer. They wait patient and potent, for here shall They reign again. A sinister, sinuous incense of summoning, a herald and paean to the Primordial Gods of Darkness, Chaos, Madness and Decay.

The Daemon Sultan, Seething Nuclear Chaos ...that last amorphous blight of nethermost confusion which blasphemes and bubbles at the centre of all infinity — the boundless daemon-sultan Azathoth, whose name no lips dare speak aloud, and who gnaws hungrily in inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond time amidst the muffled, maddening beating of vile drums and the thin, monotonous whine of accursed flutes; to which detestable pounding and piping dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic ultimate gods, the blind, voiceless, tenebrous, mindless Other Gods whose soul and messenger is the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep. Azathoth is the blind, idiot god who sits on a black throne at the center of Chaos. His scent is high-pitched and screeching, both impenetrably dark and searingly bright with the clarity of madness: tangerine, saffron, vetiver, black amber and cedarwood.

And it was then that Nyarlathotep came out of Egypt. Who he was, none could tell, but he was of the old native blood and looked like a Pharaoh. The fellahin knelt when they saw him, yet could not say why. He said he had risen up out of the blackness of twenty-seven centuries, and that he had heard messages from places not on this planet. Into the lands of civilisation came Nyarlathotep, swarthy, slender, and sinister, always buying strange instruments of glass and metal and combining them into instruments yet stranger. He spoke much of the sciences - of electricity and psychology - and gave exhibitions of power which sent his spectators away speechless, yet which swelled his fame to exceeding magnitude. Men advised one another to see Nyarlathotep, and shuddered. And where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished; for the small hours were rent with the screams of a nightmare. Brooding, yet electric: the scent of buried secrets, roiling nightmares, the essence of the Crawling Chaos, the Father of Knives and Locusts, the Hunter in the Dark. This is the blackest of ritual incenses charged with flashes of ozone.

It was a terrible, indescribable thing vaster than any subway train – a shapeless congerie of protoplasmic bubbles, faintly self-luminous, and with myriads of temporary eyes forming and un-forming as pustules of greenish light all over the tunnel-filling front that bore down upon us, crushing the frantic penguins and slithering over the glistening floor that it and its kind had swept so evilly free of all litter. An amorphous, radiant, incandescent scent. Ever changing, protoplasmic and primordial: white amber, green coconut meat, iris, palmarosa, Chinese peony, lime, water lily, snowdrop, muguet, lemongrass, osmanthus, wisteria, glassy musk, and hinoki.

Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young, the All-Mother and wife of the Not-to-Be-Named-One.

The lust incense of a corrupted Astarte. A blend of ritual herbs and dark resins, shot through with three gingers and aphrodisiacal spices.

We shall swim out to that brooding reef in the sea and dive down through black abysses to Cyclopean and many-columned Y'ha-nthlei, and in that lair of the Deep Ones we shall dwell amidst wonder and glory for ever. A great undersea metropolis located below Devil's Reef. A swirling, lightless, effervescent scent: the deepest marine notes with bergamot, eucalyptus and foamy ambergris.

Was this His coming! I had hoped to see A scene of wondrous glory, as was told Of some great God who in a rain of gold Broke open bars and fell on Danae: Or a dread vision as when Semele Sickening for love and unappeased desire Prayed to see God's clear body, and the fire Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly: With such glad dreams I sought this holy place, And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand Before this supreme mystery of Love: Some kneeling girl with passionless pale face, An angel with a lily in his hand, And over both the white wings of a Dove. A pale, delicate, truly angelic men's blend. A scent created to emulate Adonis' halo of beauty: fragile, distant, and radiant. Rosewood with Sicilian lemon peel, red Mysore sandalwood, pale musks, sweet mountain sage and a dusting of lily, night-blooming jasmine and orris.

The amber necklace of Freyja, Norse Goddess of Love, Sex, Attraction and Fruitfulness. Her magnificent necklace was bough from four Dwarves [Alfrik, Berling, Dvalin and Grer] at the price of four nights of her passion. When Brisingamen graces your throat, no man can resist your charms. A glittering mantle of rich golden notes: five ambers, soft myrtle and apple blossom, myrtle, and carnation.

A sinful, licentious scent: self-indulgent and luxurious. Mingled heady civet and red Egyptian musk, thickened with opium.

Good Gods, what a night that was, The bed was so soft, and how we clung, Burning together, lying this way and that, Our uncontrollable passions Flowing through our mouths. If I could only die that way, I'd say goodbye to the business of living.

Olive blossom, honey, smoky vanilla, cinnamon, jasmine, sandalwood, and champaca flower.

Selune, the Moon Goddess, fell in love with a beautiful shepherd named Endymion. She appealed to Zeus, asking him to cast Endymion into everlasting slumber so that she could be with him for all eternity. Her wish was granted, and every night the Goddess visited her love as he slept. A sweet, wistful blend of d'Anjou pear, Lily of the Valley, bois du rose and white musk.

Hic habitat felicitas! The penis was a potent and popular symbol of good fortune, strength, power, and fertility in ancient Rome. Images of phalluses adorned Roman homes and shops, bringing the positive energy that the symbol represents into the lives of the inhabitants.

Golden amber, golden musk, litsea cubeba, cedar, and saffron.

Based on a Romany incense blend reputed to induce sexual dreams: Somalian rose, Moroccan rose and Bulgar rose with a sultry dribble of cinnamon.

Evokes sheer, unadulterated carnal lust. An undeniably warm and sensual scent. Black narcissus, orange blossoms, and vanilla.

The Sleeping Beauty. A gentle, lovely scent, slightly soporific, but beautiful in its quiet repose. Plumeria and white pear, Damascus rose, tuberose, magnolia and evening dew.

When, as by glaciers ground, the spate Swells hissing from beneath, The water of your mouth, elate, Rises between your teeth — It seems some old Bohemian vintage Triumphant, fierce, and tart, A liquid heaven that showers a mintage Of stars across my heart. A sinister, darkly seductive scent inspired by poetry of Charles Baudelaire. Violet entwined with vanilla and gardenia.

Like a puffed and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads. Rosewood and chamomile with bergamot, violet, red sandalwood, primrose and Arabian musk.

I am a rose of Sharon, a lily of the valleys. As a lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters. As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, his fruit was sweet to my taste. He brought me to the banquet hall. His banner over me is love. Strengthen me with raisins, refresh me with apples; For I am faint with love. His left hand is under my head. His right hand embraces me. I adjure you, daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, or by the hinds of the field, that you not stir up, nor awaken love, until it so desires. The voice of my beloved! Behold, he comes, leaping on the mountains, skipping on the hills. My beloved is like a roe or a young hart. Behold, he stands behind our wall! He looks in at the windows. He glances through the lattice. My beloved spoke, and said to me, "Rise up, my love, my beautiful one, and come away. For, behold, the winter is past. The rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth. The time of the singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land. The fig tree ripens her green figs. The vines are in blossom. They give forth their fragrance. Arise, my love, my beautiful one, and come away." My dove in the clefts of the rock, In the hiding places of the mountainside, Let me see your face. Let me hear your voice; for your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely. Catch for us the foxes, the little foxes that spoil the vineyards; for our vineyards are in blossom. My beloved is mine, and I am his. He browses among the lilies. Until the day is cool, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be like a roe or a young hart on the mountains of Bether. Hibiscus syriacus, white sandalwood, lily of the valley, apple blossom, and green fig.

Bright, sweet and youthful, but swelling with a poisonous sexuality. Glittering heliotrope, honeysuckle, orange blossom and lemon verbena.

Created to represent the essence of Bram Stoker's tragic herione, Lucy Westenra. Seductive, wanton and deadly, but underscored with a soft, wistful innocense. The gentle scent of rose and a blend of Victorian spices

A light, invigorating floral and citrus blend. Tuberose, lotus and jasmine with a hint of lime.

Sensual ecstasy, the blinding red fire of the apex of sexual pleasure: Moroccan rose, Sumatran rose, mandarin, Egyptian myrrh, night-blooming jasmine, bergamot and neroli thrust into Arabian musk.

An utterly feral, thoroughly rousing perfume. Red patchouli sweetened by orange blossom.

And when a convenient day was come, that Herod on his birthday made a supper to his lords, high captains, and chief estates of Galilee; And when the daughter of the said Herodias came in, and danced, and pleased Herod and them that sat with him, the king said unto the damsel, Ask of me whatsoever thou wilt, and I will give it thee. And he sware unto her, Whatsoever thou shalt ask of me, I will give it thee, unto the half of my kingdom. And she went forth, and said unto her mother, What shall I ask? And she said, The head of John the Baptist. And she came in straightway with haste unto the king, and asked, saying, I will that thou give me by and by in a charger the head of John the Baptist. And the king was exceeding sorry; yet for his oath's sake, and for their sakes which sat with him, he would not reject her. And immediately the king sent an executioner, and commanded his head to be brought: and he went and beheaded him in the prison, and brought his head in a charger, and gave it to the damsel: and the damsel gave it to her mother. And when his disciples heard of it, they came and took up his corpse, and laid it in a tomb. A scent that is both coquettish and sinister. Exotic and lush, brimming with grace and viciousness: almond with star jasmine, oakmoss, red sandalwood and Egyptian musk.

Unrestrained revelry, unchained licentiousness! Violet deepened with vetiver.

Unleash the bawdy, unrestrained passion of the satyr! A ferociously masculine scent: sexual, vigorous, and truly wild.

Strange goddess, brown as evening to the sight, Whose scent is half of musk, half of havanah, Work of some obi, Faust of the Savanah, Ebony witch, and daughter of the night. By far preferred to troth, or opium, or sleep, Love vaunts the red elixir of your mouth. My caravan of longings seeks in drouth Your eyes, the wells at which my cares drink deep. Through those black eyes, by which your soul respires, Pitiless demon! pour less scorching fires. I am no Styx nine times with flame to wed. Nor can I turn myself to Proserpine To break your spell, Megera libertine! Within the dark inferno of your bed. A pounding heartbeat coalesced into scent: demonic passion and brutal sexuality manifested through myrrh, red patchouli, cognac, honey, and tuberose and geranium in a breathy, panting veil over the darkest body musk.

Bat-winged, flame-eyed, and possessed of an unearthly, perfect beauty: the Daughters of Lilith, the Succubi, invade the dreams of men and lie with them in rapturous, unholy sexual union. The scent of their skin is bittersweet, dusky and terminally seductive. Mimosa, orange blossom, neroli and bergamot with a drop of sweet clove.

A Latin word that means to sigh or draw a deep breath, that also suggests longing, desire, yearning, and a passionate wish. Ylang ylang with white plum, white orchid, jasmine, calla lily and lily of the valley.

The Demon, in my chamber high, This morning came to visit me, And, thinking he would find some fault, He whispered: "I would know of thee Among the many lovely things That make the magic of her face, Among the beauties, black and rose, That make her body's charm and grace, Which is most fair?" Thou didst reply To the Abhorred, O soul of mine: "No single beauty is the best When she is all one flower divine. When all things charm me I ignore Which one alone brings most delight; She shines before me like the dawn, And she consoles me like the night. The harmony is far too great, That governs all her body fair, For impotence to analyse And say which note is sweetest there. O mystic metamorphosis! My senses into one sense flow — Her voice makes perfume when she speaks, Her breath is music faint and low!" An expression of love, adoration, and desire, of beauty that transcends mortal desire and piques the interest of hell itself: attar of rose, calla lily, palmarosa, peach blossom, wisteria, rice flower, and black musk.

Feminine sexuality in it's rawest form. Palmarosa, red sandalwood, attar of rose, patchouli.

Agony and ecstasy: black leather and damp red rose.

Powerful, commanding, blazing with strength.

A scent pulsing with vitality, warmth and insurmountable strength: dragon's blood resin, red and black musks, a throb of fig and a sliver of black currant.

Bittersweet yet powerful: salty aquatic notes and bursting with dragon's blood.

Lilith's monstrous dragon steed: dragon's blood resin, patchouli, pomegranate, myrrh, mimosa, cassia, blood musk and smoke.

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them — She was the Universe. Bottled gloom; the essence of oblivion. Blackest opium and narcissus deepened by myrrh.

Though they go mad they shall be sane, Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; Though lovers be lost love shall not; And death shall have no dominion. Stephanotis, cyclamen, heliotrope, white rose and gardenia.

Softly as brown-eyed Angels rove I will return to thy alcove, And glide upon the night to thee, Treading the shadows silently. And I will give to thee, my own, Kisses as icy as the moon, And the caresses of a snake Cold gliding in the thorny brake. And when returns the livid morn Thou shalt find all my place forlorn And chilly, till the falling night. Others would rule by tenderness Over thy life and youthfulness, But I would conquer thee by fright! A thin, sinuous, creeping chill, the scent of glee-filled undeath: white iris, osmanthus, Calla lily, tomb-crawling ivy and a coffin spray of gladiolus, lisianthus and delphinium.

An ethereal bouquet of night-blooming flowers. Evening primrose, ruellia, flowering nicotiana, wild petunia, panani-o-kai, night phlox, night gladiolus, moonflower and the elusive scent of Nottingham Catchfly.

An olfactory serenede. A somber, contemplative scent — dreamy and subdued. Deepest violet touched with lilac and tuberose.

Dry white sandalwood wrapped in thin woods, soft grasses and the lightest white flowers layered over cajeput and the warm, deep scent of embalming herbs.

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. "Shall I have naught that is fair?" Saith he; "Having naught but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again," He gazed at the flowers with tearful eye, He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. "My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled: "Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child." "They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear." And the mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love: She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above. O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day; 'Twas an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away. A funereal bouquet laid on cemetery grass: longiflorum lilies, white rose, chrysanthemum, and carnation.

An enigmatic, otherworldly scent, brimming with power and mystery. Lavender and jasmine, with a touch of glowing honeysuckle.

Azrael is the Angel of Death, marked as the last being to die in the Apocalypse. Though a harbinger of doom, his duties are an act of mercy: he curtails human life before world-weariness and despair destroys our spirits. Warm myrrh swirled with a bittersweet blend of violet, Lily of the Valley, juniper, cypess and cajeput.

Dried roses, rose leaf, Spanish moss, oakmoss and deep brown earth.

Vanilla orchid, Monoi tiare, gardenia, and light incense.

A raven-haired Fairy Queen of Ireland. One of her eternal duties dictates that she must hold a midnight court every season and hear the pleas of married Irishwomen. The court serves only to determine whether or not husbands are adequately serving their wife's sexual needs. A judicious yet powerfully sensual blend, a mingling of justice and sexuality: sage, sweet pea, bold pale musk and warm tonka.

Nostalgia encapsulated. A soft, wistful blend of dry flowers, aged linens, and the faint breath of long-faded perfumes.

A victim of her own arrogance, conceit and hubris, Arachne, the greatest mortal weaver, had the temerity to claim herself superior to Athena. Arachne was truly gifted: not only was her art astoundingly beautiful, but the vision of her in the act of weaving was a joy to behold. When one observer commented that her skill was so great that she must have been trained by the goddess Athena herself, the proud woman scoffed: she was insulted, and proclaimed aloud that the goddess could do no better than she. Athena heard this, and, as she is not a vindictive or jealous goddess, gave Arachne the opportunity to redeem herself. Disguised as an elderly woman, she came to Arachne and warned her against hubris. She laughed at the old woman and declared that she would welcome a contest with Athena. The goddess accepted the challenge. Athena wove a stunning tapestry depicting her victory over Poseidon, thus gaining patronage over the city of Athens. Arachne, who couldn't leave well enough alone, wove a vulgar piece that depicted Zeus' dalliances with Leda, Europa and Danae. Appalled at the woman's audacity and blasphemy, Athena tore Arachne's tapestry to shreds, crushed her loom, and bonked the mortal on the head, forcing her to feel remorse for her actions. In guilt and grief, Arachne hung herself. Again, because the goddess is merciful, she took pity on the woman and, after sprinkling aconite upon her corpse, transformed her into the first spider. A gossamer scent, as light as a spider's footfall, touched with sighing mists: pallid flowers, dusty woods and soft herbs.

The essence of magickal enigmas and long-forgotten esoteric mysteries. Frankincense, rosemary, lavender, neroli, and lemon verbena.

I grieve and dare not show my discontent, I love and yet am forced to seem to hate, I do, yet dare not say I ever meant, I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.

   I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,
   Since from myself another self I turned. 

My care is like my shadow in the sun, Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it, Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done. His too familiar care doth make me rue it.

   No means I find to rid him from my breast,
   Till by the end of things it be supprest. 

Some gentler passion slide into my mind, For I am soft and made of melting snow; Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind. Let me or float or sink, be high or low.

   Or let me live with some more sweet content,
   Or die and so forget what love ere meant.

Inspired by the tragic, ill-fated love of Queen Elizabeth I and the Earl of Leicester. This is our modernization of a 17th-century perfume blend favored by British aristocracy: rosemary, orange flower, grape spirit, five rose variants, lemon peel, and mint.

A play of geological darkness and jagged brilliance. Soft and luminescent with flashes of black fire.

Lush, creamy vanilla and the honey of the sweetest kiss smeared with the vital throb of husky clove, swollen red cherries, but darkened with the vampiric sensuality of vetiver, soporific poppy and blood red wine, and a skin-light pulse of feral musk.

Lustrous, sanguine, soft and lavish: soft orris, blood musk, and coconut.

An effervescent blend of crystalline champagne notes and sweet strawberry.

A negatively charged scent. Ambergris, Spanish Moss, oakmoss and three electric mints.

In Irish folklore the Dana O'Shee are a fae, elven people that live in a realm of beauty, their nobility akin to our that own Age of Chivalry, eternally beautiful and eternally young. They surround themselves with the pleasures of the Arts, they live for the hunt, and to this day can be seen riding in procession through the Irish countryside at twilight, led by their King and Queen. However, the Dana O'Shee are not benevolent creatures, despite what their unearthly beauty may imply. They are vengeful and treacherous and possess a streak of mischievous malice, and many have whispered that their true home lies deep in the shadowed groves of the Realm of the Dead. Hearing even a single chord of their otherworldly music leaves one stunned and lost to the mortal realms for ever, finding themselves prey to the Dana O'Shee's hunt or enslaved in their Court as servants or playthings. Offerings of milk, honey and sweet grains were made to placate these creatures, and it is that the basis of the scent created in their name.

All the glory, warmth and majesty of the sun — darkened. A delicious blend of bitter almond, vanilla, frankincense and heliotrope, with a drop of cinnamon.

Your eyes that once were never weary of mine Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids, Because our love is waning.'

                        And then She:

'Although our love is waning, let us stand By the lone border of the lake once more, Together in that hour of gentleness When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep. How far away the stars seem, and how far Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!' Pensive they paced along the faded leaves, While slowly he whose hand held hers replied: 'Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.' The woods were round them, and the yellow leaves Fell like faint meteors in the gloom, and once A rabbit old and lame limped down the path; Autumn was over him: and now they stood On the lone border of the lake once more: Turning, he saw that she had thrust dead leaves Gathered in silence, dewy as her eyes, In bosom and hair.

                        'Ah, do not mourn,' he said,

'That we are tired, for other loves await us; Hate on and love through unrepining hours. Before us lies eternity; our souls Are love, and a continual farewell.' The scent of loss, love and the echo of time without end: sorrowful violet and chamomile with muguet, white geranium, calla lily and tea rose with a hint of autumn leaves.

Arrr! Avast ye, matey! This be the scent of pirate rum!

A brace of loaded pistols
He carried night and day;
He never robbed a poor man
Upon the king's highway;
But what he'd taken from the rich,
Like Turpin and Black Bess,
He always did divide it
With the widow in distress.
Stand and deliver!

Vetiver with gardenia, blood red rose, night-blooming jasmine, a dash of cinnamon and a faint hint of leather.

I died for beauty but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed? "For beauty," I replied. "And I for truth, the two are one; We brethren are," he said. And so, as kinsmen met a night, We talked between the rooms, Until the moss had reached our lips, And covered up our names. The Venusian splendor of ylang ylang and violet stirred by hyssop, frankincense, and grave loam.

Though thy slumber may be deep, Yet thy spirit shall not sleep; There are shades which will not vanish, There are thoughts thou canst not banish; By a power to thee unknown, Thou canst never be alone; Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, Thou art gather'd in a cloud; And for ever shalt thou dwell In the spirit of this spell. A profound and entrancing potion, deep, wispy, and unfathomably dark scent: vetiver, dark woods, crumbling and burnt black sandalwood and a drop of lemon rind.

The scent of warm, glowing jack o'lanterns on a warm autumn night: true Halloween pumpkin, spiced with nutmeg, glowing peach and murky clove.

It was about three feet and half high, with a head like a collie dog and a face like a horse. It had a long neck, wings about two feet long, and its back legs were like those of a crane, and it had horse's hooves. It walked on its back legs and held up two short front legs with paws on them. It didn't use the front legs at all while we were watching. My wife and I were scared, I tell you, but I managed to open the window and say, "Shoo", and it turned around barked at me, and flew away. The scent of the wild, hauntingly beautiful Pine Barrens of New Jersey! Pitch pine with blackberry leaf, cranberry, cedar wood and tomato leaf.

Sea spray with an undercurrent of leather, Bay Rum, and salty, dry woods.

My limbs are wasted with a flame, My feet are sore with traveling, For, calling on my Lady's name, My lips have now forgot to sing. O Linnet in the wild-rose brake Strain for my Love thy melody, O Lark sing louder for love's sake, My gentle Lady passeth by. She is too fair for any man To see or hold his heart's delight, Fairer than Queen or courtesan Or moonlit water in the night. Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves, (Green leaves upon her golden hair!) Green grasses through the yellow sheaves Of autumn corn are not more fair. Her little lips, more made to kiss Than to cry bitterly for pain, Are tremulous as brook-water is, Or roses after evening rain. Her neck is like white melilote Flushing for pleasure of the sun, The throbbing of the linnet's throat Is not so sweet to look upon. As a pomegranate, cut in twain, White-seeded, is her crimson mouth, Her cheeks are as the fading stain Where the peach reddens to the south. O twining hands! O delicate White body made for love and pain! O House of love! O desolate Pale flower beaten by the rain! Soft, lush myrtle and dry, sweet melilot with wild rose, pomegranate juice and peach blossom against a background of deep aquatic notes and a twirl of melancholy autumn breezes.

Shocking, horrific, fierce, savage, sensationalized, luminous and hazy: black currant, Bulgarian lavender and white musk with a dollop of thick resin and a voltaic charge of ozone notes.

An ancient blend, swollen with arcane power: galangal, high john essence, frankincense, cedar, and sandalwood.

A festive, dazzling blend, layered in mystery and intrigue. Patchouli, ambergris, carnation and orange blossom.

Earth sorceress and mother of Mordred, she is, in essence, the harbinger of King Arthur's doom and the downfall of Camelot. She is a sister, or sister-self, to Morgan Le Fay. A bouquet of five night-blooming flowers deepened by dusky violet, purple fruits and the barest breath of medieval incenses.

Deep, mysterious, and full of dark portents: oakmoss, juniper berry, myrrh and patchouli.

Desolation. The remnants of an empire, shivering with forgotten glories, a monument to megalomania, sundered power, and colossal loss. Dry desert air, dry and hot, passing over crumbling stone megaliths and plundered golden monuments, bearing a hint of the incense of lost Gods on its winds.

Also called Gallows Literature. A dime novel rife with melodrama, horror, madness and cruelty; a ten cent analogy of vice and virtue in conflict. Soft perfume evocative of noir heroines over rich red grave loam.

"A man who knows everything and who never dies." Said to have lived for centuries, the Comte de Saint-Germain is truly a man of legend and mystery. He was an aristocrat, master alchemist, adventurer, magician, artist, and seer with a lust for exquisite jewels, and was reputed to have attained knowledge of the Elixer of Life. His knowledge was so vast and all-encompassing that his claim to have lived hundreds of years - he allegedly knew Jesus and was present at the Council of Nicea - was widely accepted as true. He is a Hermetic Magician's hero for the ages, and his scent is an elegant, timeless, truly refined cologne, bold yet classic: gilded amber, hypnotic lavender, brash carnation and deep mosses.

A scent as sharp as glass shards, and as brittle as a broken heart. The formula came to me - quite literally - in a dream, and is named after, and created in memory of, the last poem that I ever wrote… almost ten years ago to the day. A blend of white champagne notes, grapefruit, lotus, slivered mint and crystalline aquatic blooms.

Sometimes I would venture from my sepulchre to the jazz of night Paris, where having gathered the colours, I would think them over in front of the fire. I could be seen walking through a funeral corridor of my house and descending down a black spiral of steep stairs; rushing underground to Montmartre, all impatience to see the fiery rubies of the Moulin Rouge cross. I wondered thereabouts, then bought a ticket to watch frenzied delirium of feathers, vulgar painted lips and eyelashes of black and blue. Naked feet, and thighs, and arms, and breasts were being flung on me from bloody-red foam of translucent clothes. The tuxedoed goatees and crooked noses in white vests and toppers would line the hall, with their hands posed on canes. Then I found myself in a pub, where the liqueurs were served on a coffin (not a table) by the nickering devil: "Drink it, you wretched!" Having drunk, I returned under the black sky split by the flaming vanes, which the radiant needles of my eyelashes cross-hatched. In front of my nose a stream of bowler hats and black veils was still pulsing, foamy with bluish green and warm orange of feathers worn by the night beauties: to me they were all one, as I had to narrow my eyes for insupportable radiance of electric lamps, whose hectic fires would be dancing beneath my nervous eyelids for many a night to come. White gardenia, ambergris bouquet, lavender fougere, orange blossom, melissa, tobacco flower, coriander, ebony wood, ylang ylang, absinthe and aged whiskey.

A crisp ozone-tinged breeze. The scent of the first gentle rain before the storm.

Electrifying, mechanized and chilly — the scent of crushed blooms strewn on cold metal. Lush violet and neroli spiked hard with eucalyptus and a sliver of mint.

The deepest, darkest point in a shadow, the area contained within the shadow of an eclipse. East African black patchouli, cedarwood, vetiver and a dribble of cinnamon.

Envelop yourself in the soft, sensual embrace of gentle sandalwood warmed by cocoa vanilla and a veil of deep myrrh.

A midnight scent, evoking images of flickering golden firelight reflecting off the sheen of glistening skin and the jerking shadows of bodies suffused with spiritual ecstasy. A deep, powerful, resonant blend of myrrh, patchouli, vetiver, lime, vanilla, pine, almond and clove.

To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear This paltry age's gaudy livery, To let each base hand filch my treasury, To mesh my soul within a woman's hair, And be mere Fortune's lackeyed groom,—I swear I love it not! these things are less to me Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea, Less than the thistle-down of summer air Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in, Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin. A sophisticated traditional gentleman's cologne, with just the slightest taint of patchouli's passion, tonka bean's decadence, the philanthropy of bergamot, moss' cynicism, the sharp wit of lavender, and the hopeless romantic longing of jasmine and thyme.

Purchase the Snake Pit and receive an imp of Anaconda on the house! The gargantuan Anaconda is only available in wee lil' imp form. It cannot be purchased separately.

As you pass the tiny stage, you come across a large canvas tent, illuminated within, the exterior dotted with odd splatters. In front of the tent stands a scorched wooden cart covered in a jumble of bottles, jars, vials and twisted steel implements, and an elaborate, gold-gilded sign reads: "Doc Constantine Cures What Ails Ye! Liniments, salves, potions and elixirs for every malady of the body and spirit!" A scream splits the air, jarring you. You see shadows move jaggedly within the tent, there is another scream, and all is suddenly still and silent. After a long heartbeat, the door flap opens. A man steps out wearing a crystal-eyed schnabel mask in the style of medieval plague doctors, carmine streaking his sleeves, vest, and the blonde hair that crowns him. He pulls off the mask, and you see a handsome figure, almost beatific. He rolls a cigarette, lights it, takes a deep pull, and winks at you slyly as he gestures at the multitude of concoctions he has for sale. A bent crone, her body as bowed and knotty as an ancient oak, shuffles up to the wagon with rosy-cheeked, tow-headed maiden following her at a small distance. As she approaches the doctor, the crone gestures at herself, running a gnarled hand down her body in a sweeping movement, and casting a sideways glance at her grandchild. Smiling an angel's smile, Doc Constantine hands the old woman a potion the color of cold, congealed blood. She drinks it quickly, gasping. Before your eyes her body shimmers and blurs, and a shower of dark sparks seems to engulf her. Where the crone stood, there is now a voluptuous, raven-haired vixen, vibrant, sensual, at the prime of her life and sexual vitality. Her shriek of joy is interrupted by another's scream of shock: the rigors of age have not vanished; they have moved aside, and the young woman has aged horribly, taking on the crone's burden.

Sheer musk, cedar smoke, fir needle, black amber and leather.

Golden amber, vanilla musk, myrrh, cedar, carnation, and red sandalwood.

To your side, you hear a man’s deep whisper, “Slowly I turned… inch by inch… step by step….” A scream interrupts him, and a roar of laughter pulses through the shadowed hall. Following the commotion, you move to the next stage. A bone-thin man moves across the stage, and sits upon an overstuffed, threadbare armchair. A battered violin is propped against the chair’s side. The audience starts to dissipate, and you realize that you must have just missed his performance. Relaxing, he reclines lazily, and as the light falls on his face, you come to realize that he is truly skeletal: a thin membrane of skin covers most of his body, but in many places, bone is completely exposed. He winks at you, and chuckles at your obvious discomfiture. The sweet smoke from his cigar touches your senses, and you hear the soft clink of the ice as he swirls the bourbon in his tumbler.

“Late for the show, are ya, friend? I’ll tell you a quick one, and then you’d best skedaddle. I have better things to do than sit here and be gawked at all night.” He takes a swig from his tumbler.

“A man goes to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist says, ‘I think you’re crazy.’ The man says, ‘I want a second opinion.’ The psychiatrist says, ‘Alright, you’re ugly, too.’”

His attention is diverted by a scantily clad woman in the audience beside you, and he leers at her. “Hello, nurse!” he growls, and leans towards her lecherously. “How’s about you come back to my dressing room, and I show you my stamp collection?”

Bourbon, tobacco, dry bone, bay rum aftershave, and sleazy cologne.

Snake Oil with cinnamon, cassia, and red ginger.

White amber, vanilla musk, white tea, ambergris, gardenia, and chrome.

The Dark Side of Water: clean and purifying, yet menacing — lotus and juniper with a hint of mint. A scent dragged up from the depths to the Stygian shore.

The ghostly White Women of the Scottish highlands. They seduce unwary travelers by night with their unearthly beauty and mesmerizing dancing. They engage their victims in a wild, hypnotic dance, and once they reach exhaustion, exsanguinate their partners with their vampiric kiss. Grapefruit, white tea, apple blossom and ginger.

Our signature oil. A dark, languid scent. Promotes hedonistic tendencies and extreme self-love. You won't stop kissing mirrors for a month.

Elizabeth Báthory, also called Erzsébet Báthory in Hungarian and Al_beta Bátoriová-Náda_dy in Slovak, was the Bloody Lady of Hungary. In order to preserve her youth and loveliness, the brutal and incomparably savage countess captured, tortured and slaughtered innumerable young women and bathed in their blood as part of her beauty regimen. Ah, vanity. Corrupted black plum, smoky opium and crumbling dead roses covered by a deceptive veil of Hungarian lilac, white gardenia and wild berry.

A fiery Martial blend that embodies primal rage, lust for conquest, and all-encompassing desire. Dragon's blood essence, heavy red musk, Indonesian patchouli and swarthy vetiver with a drop of cinnamon.

A scent swirling with dark rage, unbridled jealousy, and murderous intent. Violet, lavender, white musk and vetiver.

A soft, sensual, luxuriant blend with a wicked bite: hazelnut, buttercream, honey mead, rum and sweet almond.

Orgiastic mayhem in the extreme: sweet strawberry and orange blossom distorted by carnation, black poppy and hibiscus.

Granddaughter of Helios, Hecate's chosen: Medea was one of the greatest sorceresses of the ancient world. She is the embodiment of ruthless power, indomitable will and furious vengeance. Night-blooming cereus, black orchid, black currant and myrtle leaf enshrouded in the incense of Hecate's cypress and myrrh, and the dark rage of magickal labdanum and intoxicating poppy.

Dark children conceived from the union of Fallen Angels and the Daughters of Men. According to lore, the angel Shemhazai led a group of his angels to earth to instruct mankind in the ways of piety and righteousness. After a time, the angels became prey to earthly desires and began to lust after the daughters of man, and thus they fell. They instructed their mortal mates in the arts of conjuration, summoning, necromancy and other magickal arts. The fruits of their union are the Nephilim: possessed of superhuman strength, cunning, and infinite capacity, and hunger for, sin. Venerated as heroes by some, vilified by most, the Nephilim eventually annihilated one another in a cataclysmic civil war instigated by the angel Gabriel as punishment for their transgressions.

Holy frankincense and hyssop in union with earthy fig, defiled by black patchouli and vetiver, with a chaotic infusion of lavender, cardamom, tamarind, rosemary, oakmoss and cypress.

Also known as Krisky, Plaksy and Gorska Makua, she is a nightmare spirit, the Night Hag of the Woods, who haunts Polish, Russian, Bulgarian and Slovak children during the darkest hours. The only protection against her torments is a circle drawn around a child's cradle with a knife, or an axe or protective poppet hidden under the floorboards beneath where a child sleeps. Her scent is that of a lightless fir wood, nighttime air, wet forest mosses and upturned earth.

Wicked and vicious! A sharp, cruel blend of lavender and pennyroyal.

Black amber erupting with a dark volcanic surge of fiery dragon's blood and a burst of melati, rose geranium, mandarin and black currant.

The Fair Lady, Winter Witch, White Maiden of the Storm. Szepasszony is a Hungarian demoness that appears as a stunningly beautiful woman with long, silver-white hair and a blinding white dress. She revels in storms, particularly when hail rains down on her. Water dripping down eaves into a puddle is an invitation for her to cause mischief: she uses the puddle as a magickal tool for casting her wicked spells. It is considered foolhardy to step into a circle of short grass ringed by taller grasses, as those mark the circles where the Fair Lady dances. A chilly, tempestuous whirlwind of clear, airy notes, slashing rain, and a thin undercurrent of white flowers.

A classic Victorian men's cologne: a lavender fougere, with hints of lilac, lime, and citrus musk.

Supports psychic health and strengthens the astral body! Dissolves and expels telepathic blockage!

Every medium should have it! Use before every séance!

Poppy flowers, acai berry, and honey.

The enemy of God, also named Iblis, He Who Despaired of the Mercy of God. Al-Shairan is the leader of the Jinn, a tempter who whispers false suggestions to men enticing them into evil and perfidious acts, and is the sworn enemy of all of Adam's children. His scent is fiery, bright and thick with sweet sinfulness: clove, peach and orange with cinnamon, patchouli and dark incense notes.

Unceasing in Anger Olive leaf, raspberry leaf, vetiver and cedarwood.

He Who Counts the Hearts, Jackal Ruler of the Bows, He Who Is In the Place of Embalming. Jackal-headed guardian, protector and psychopomp of Egypt's dead, he guides souls to the underworld and holds steady the scales upon which the deceased's heart is weighed against Ma'at's Feather of Truth. He is the creator and master of funereal rites, He Who Opens the Mouth of the Dead, and is the sentinel that watches over the sanctity of tombs and the virtue and privacy of his charges. His scent is a blend of holy myrrh, storax, balsam, and embalming herbs.

But when, Calliope, thy loud harp rang— In Epic grandeur rose the lofty strain; The clash of arms, the trumpet's awful clang Mixed with the roar of conflict on the plain; The ardent warrior bade his coursers wheel, Trampling in dust the feeble and the brave, Destruction flashed upon his glittering steel, While round his brow encrimsoned laurels waved, And o'er him shrilly shrieked the demon of the grave. The Fair Voiced. The eldest of the Muses, she is Eloquence, and thus, governs heroic and epic poetry, and her eloquence has served to calm quarrels even amongst the surliest of Gods. She is crowned in gold, and holds a roll of parchment or stylus and tablet. Hers is the scent of creative inspiration, and it is a boon to writers, poets and arbitrators: lavender and bright mint with bergamot, verbena, thyme and a touch of sweet orange and warm almond.

Majestic Clio touched her silver wire, And through time's lengthened vista moved a train, In dignity sublime; — the patriot's fire Kindled its torch in heaven's resplendent ray, And 'mid contention rose to Heaven again. The Proclaimer is the Muse of Historic and Heroic Poetry. Clio holds a scroll or set of tablets in her hands, and is surrounded by a veritable wall of books. She is credited with introducing the Phonecian alphabet to the Greeks. As a consequence of her teasing, barbed sense of humor, she was cursed by Aphrodite: she fell in love with a mortal, Pierus, the King of Macedonia. Clio bore two sons, one by Bacchus and one by Pierus: Hymenaeus, the God of Marriage Ceremonies and Wedding Feasts, and the doomed Hyacinth. She is the patron of historians, epic poets, biographers and all those who wish for fame, reknown, and celebrity status. Her scent is the warm, dry parchment of scrolls, lavender for critical thought and analysis, the solidity of heavy woods, ornery patchouli and glib benzoin, and superstar-splashed orange and amber.

The Spirit of the Divine Messenger, the Lord of the Crossroads, He Who Owns All Doors and Roads in this World. He is the intermediary between the Orishas and mankind, and stands at the intersection of humanity and the Divine. He opens all paths of communication, both mundane and Heavenly. His ofrenda contains coconut, tobacco and sweet, sugared rum.

Goddess of Strife and Discord, constant companion and sometime consort to Ares. She is a fickle, chaotic Goddess of Bedlam whose greatest passion is the sowing of dissention and turmoil. A suitably disjointed scent, bursting with gleeful mayhem: wet fruits and sharp mimosa with Martial spices and a deceptive flash of floral.

Mirth. Gardenia, tea rose, vanilla and jasmine.

Euterpe glanced her fingers o'er her lute, And lightly waked it to a cheerful strain, Then laid it by, and took the mellow flute, Whose softly flowing warble filled the plain: It was a lay that roused the drooping soul, And bade the tear of sorrow cease to flow; From shady woods the Nymphs enchanted stole, While laughing Cupids bent the silver bow, Fluttering like fays that flit in Luna's softened glow. The Giver of Pleasure, Euterpe is the Muse of Music and Lyric Poetry. She is Delight, and her name means "Rejoicing Well". She is credited with inventing the aulos, and is most often depicted playing that double-flute. Her scent is the joy of performing, the euphoria in song, and the passion inspired by all music: carnation and white poppy, honeysuckle, lemon, iris and white musk.

Mania, Roman Goddess of the Dead, Matron of Madness, Governess of the Ancestral Spirits, Bestower of Divine Frenzy. Her scent swirls with a high-pitched tumult of laurel, stargazer lily, splintered woods, peony, mandarin and white musk, and is spiked with pale pepper.

The gloomy Hades enriches himself with our sighs and our tears. The Unseen. Eldest brother of Zeus, Husband of Persephone, Lord of the Underworld and Commander of the Demons of the Underworld, God of Wealth, whose epithets are Clymenus [Notorious], Eubuleus [Wise in Counsel], and Polydegmon [He who receives many / The Hospitable]. Though he is a dark, morbid and morose deity, fierce and relentless, and is stern, pitiless, and sometimes cruel, he is by no means an evil God. His justice is true, even-handed and absolute, and he is possessed of unbreakable loyalty, single-minded devotion to duty, and immense courage. A dark, palpably sacred chthonic blend: black narcissus and cypress, stephanotis, opoponax, labdanum, onycha and ambergris.

Magnificent three-faced Goddess of Magic, the Dark Moon and the Crossroads. She is the Mother of Witches, and the midnight baying of hounds is her paean. Her compassion is evidenced in her role as Psychopomp for Persephone, and her wrath manifests as Medea's revenge. Deep, buttery almond layered over myrrh and dark musk.

The God of Sexual Desire, Longing and Yearning; an attendant of Eros and Aphrodite. A passion-rousing blend of juniper, sandalwood, rosewood, red musk, orchid, bergamot and lilac.

Daughter of Pan and Echo and dear friend to Demeter. When Demeter was mourning the abduction of her daughter, Iambe was the only creature in heaven and earth that was able to lend cheer and laughter to the grieving mother. Her scent is one of comfort, beauty and joy: Sudanese amber, patchouli, rose, gardenia, gladiola and white tea.

The Tibetan goddess of love and wealth. Her scent is a harmonious, sweet, enchanting blend of three lotus blooms and three roses.

Hail unto thee who art Khephra in Thy hiding, even unto Thee who art Khephra in Thy silence, who travellest over the heavens in Thy bark at the Midnight Hour of the Sun. Tahuti standeth in His splendour at the prow, and Ra-Hoor abideth at the helm. Hail unto Thee from the Abodes of Evening.

Hail unto Thee who art Ra in Thy rising, even unto Thee who art Ra in Thy strength, who travellest over the Heavens in Thy bark at the Uprising of the Sun. Tahuti standeth in His splendour at the prow, and Ra-Hoor abideth at the helm. Hail unto Thee from the Abodes of Night!

Hail unto Thee who art Tum in Thy setting, even unto Thee who art Tum in Thy joy, who travellest over the Heavens in Thy bark at the Down-going of the Sun. Tahuti standeth in His splendour at the prow, and Ra-Hoor abideth at the helm. Hail unto Thee from the Abodes of Day!

Mother of Demons, Vengeful Fury, Darkest Seductress, Queen of the Djinn, Goddess of the Gate. Red wine, myrrh, black musk, and attar of rose.

The Finnish Goddess of Agony, Torment and the joy found in inflicting pain on others. The Mistress of Torture, she has transformed in the modern era into the patron Goddess of Dominatrixes. The slap of slick, hot leather punctuates the warm, sensual embrace of black amber, red musk and dark, lascivious myrrh.

But oh Melpomene! thy lyre of wo— To what a mournful pitch its keys were strung, And when thou badest its tones of sorrow flow, Each weeping Muse, enamoured, o'er thee hung: How sweet—how heavenly sweet, when faintly rose The song of grief, and at its dying close The soul seemed melting in the trembling breast; The eye in dews of pity flowed away, And every heart, by sorrow's load opprest, To infant softness sunk, as breathed thy mournful lay. The Songstress. Melpomene is Tragedy, and the sound of Her voice is filled with beauty, power and strength. She is crowned in cypress branches, holds the mask of tragedy, wears the cothurnus and wields a knife or club. Her scent is rife with pathos, and inspires us with the ability to express our grief, loss, and the pain in our souls in a cathartic, creative fashion: dark cypress with mint, geranium, Bulgar lavender, orange blossom and passion flower.

The Archer, Lord of the Bow and Arrow. To know Ochosi is to know the movement of the arrow into prey and the whistle of the arrow in flight. He is the transference of energy over a distance, and His is the speed of light, sound and thought, though he is not merely though, he is the stroke of instant understanding or realization. Ochosi is the Hunter-Wizard, skilled in the use of magickal potions and poisons, silent, dangerous and possessed of a cool, calm, sharp intelligence. He is the calculated extension of the mind, the Tracker, the Ranger, and he governs the changing of the seasons, stealth, guerilla warfare, and He alone acts as a buffer and shield between reason and insanity. He is the protector of children, the weak, the helpless, and the aged. His ofrenda is the soft shea he shares with Obatala, forest herbs, and sprucewood arrow shafts.

Ogun is the Master of Iron, Lord of the Knife, the Toolmaker, the Supreme Hunter, the God of War. He is primal instinct, energy and motion, strife and resolution, effort and perspiration, locomotion, force, contraction and expansion. He is the lord of all mines and mineral wealth, and his energy is expressed in the transformation of sandstone into marble and carbon into diamonds. His control over transformation transcends this into the metaphorical: Ogun helps to shape the spirit, and hone it into something finer, and He compels us to look deep inside ourselves, searching for our true potential. He is physical might, ruler of the heart, giver of courage and sustainer of war, and is the bond that men fashion with one another during battle. He is gunpowder. Ogun is responsible for teaching mankind to fashion tools and weapons from iron, and his primary implements are the anvil, hammer, machete, rake, hoe, shovel, pick and pry. His favored animal is the dog, who shares his loyalty and unflagging strength. Ogun's ofrenda is heavy and dark cigar tobacco, gin and juniper, melon, chili pepper and a touch of honey.

Lady of the Wind, Goddess of the Nine Skirts, the Lady of War, the Bearded Amazon, the Thundermaiden. Beautiful, tempestuous, elegant and graceful, She is the fury of the hurricane, the breath in our lungs, the air that cools us, the breeze that chills us, the winds that blow seeds that fertilize the land, the winds that pass disease throughout villages and townships, the moan of the wind within the cemetery, and the fury of the tempest that tears the landscape asunder. Oya is the sweeping wind of change and upheaval, She is revolution and progress, and She forces the destruction of old ideals while sweeping away our useless baggage; the broom is a symbol of Her force for change. As the Mistress that commands hurricanes, cyclones, and tornados, she tears down that which is old and decaying, compelling Her children to begin building anew. In Her hands She holds a mask, as Her presence is most often felt and not seen, and none have seen Oya's true face. She is the moment at which the seasons change, the transition from life to death, and as the Lady of the Cemetery, it is to Her that we commit our final breath. Her closest friend is Iku, the Orisha of Death, and it is their responsibility to see to it that the natural order remains undisturbed. Once a man's final breath is expelled, Oya takes it to Iku, who brings the spirit to the cemetery gates and then to its next passage. One of her symbols is the bed, as nightly we imitate death in sleep. Because of her close relationship with Death, the Goddess is very close to the Egungun, the spirits of our ancestors. Oya is the Goddess of the Marketplace in which fortunes and goods spin in a never-ending whirlwind of exchange, change, and flux. She is the wind that precedes the thunderstorm, and it is in this that She is seen as Shango's companion and partner in battle, and without Oya, there is little that Shango can accomplish. She fans the fires of Shango's blazes, and is the forked lightning that touches the treetops. Proud and willful, Oya is also a Goddess of War. Her wrath is so terrible and so devastating that none may behold her rage and survive. Oya has nine children and nine colors, and her symbols are weathervanes, windmills, kites, balloons, propeller planes, wind instruments, pinwheels, two naked swords, and buffalo horns. Oya's ofrenda is a Nigerian potion of love and war, sweetened by darkest plum. Oya winiwini!

An attendant of the Goddess Venus. She presides over nocturnal pleasure, nighttime festivities, and all the joy and delight that can be found in the darkness. In later ages, it became the name of the all-night festival that closed the Eleusinian Mysteries. Night-blooming jasmine, moonflower, cardamom, sandalwood, black currant, ylang ylang, frankincense and lily.

Whimsical, temperamental, radiant and ravishingly beautiful Goddess of Volcanoes, Fire, Lightning and Dance. She is the Mother of Eruptions and the personification of destructive power. Volcanic eruptions are said to be a side-effect of her jealous rages and her epic quarrels with her siblings are legendary. This perfume embodies her gentler, benign aspect as the capricious Goddess of Dance: muguet and Hawaiian white ginger enveloped by warm, damp tropical blooms.

Beautiful, radiant daighter of Demeter... her lovliness was so exquisite that even Hell itself could not resist her. Pomegranate and rose.

The rage of Pindar filled the sounding air, As Polyhymnia tried her skill divine; The shaggy lion roused him from his lair, And bade his blood-stained eyes in fury shine; The famished eagle poised his waving wings, Whetting his thirsty beak—while murder rose, With hand that grasps a dirk, with eye that glows. She of Many Hymns governs Sacred Poetry and the Gift of Eloquence, and brought the gift of Geometry to the world. The most introspective one of the Sisters, she is contemplative, withdrawn and brooding. The Solemn One is veiled, garbed in long, somber robes, and is shown either resting her arm upon a pillar, or with her finger to her mouth in a gesture of silence. Polyhymnia grants fame and glory to writers, brings inspiration and immortality through one's written work. Orris root, white sage, rowan bark and red sandalwood, with myrrh, rosemary, lemon balm and honeysuckle.

Warrior, Trickster and Goddess of Magic and Poets, she is one of the Tuatha De Danaan and the Queen of the Faeries. A very complex scent, both shadowy and fierce: black orchid, sandalwood, night-blooming jasmine, osmanthus, Somalian rose, and Chinese musk.

The Avenger of Murder Oleander with black patchouli, ylang ylang, and neroli.

Urania, o'er her star-bespangled lyre, With touch of majesty diffused her soul; A thousand tones, that in the breast inspire, Exalted feelings, o er the wires 'gan roll — She sang of night that clothed the infant world, In strains as solemn as its dark profound — How at the call of Jove the mist unfurled, And o'er the swelling vault — the glowing sky, The new-born stars hung out their lamps on high, And rolled their mighty orbs to music's sweetest sound. The Heavenly One is the Muse of Astrology and Astronomy, and guides all those who look to the stars for knowledge. She wears a flowing cloak embroidered with her beloved stars, holds a staff and a globe, and her eyes are skyward. Her scent is that of endless, star-clad space: glittering, cool, vast. Moonflower, Moroccan jasmine, benzoin, white musk, iris, moss and a flash of ozone.

The Morning Star Osmanthus, Damascus rose, violet, delphinium, white mint, palmarosa and white sandalwood.

The Evening Star Three white musks with poppy and patchouli.

Blood: expressing passion, will, and a sensual aesthetic.

Dragon's blood resin, helichrysum, burgundy wine grape, red musk, opoponax, red poppy, myrrh, carnation, tonka, almond, mimosa, jonquil, and neroli.

Tea leaf with three mosses, green grass, a medley of herbal notes, and a drop of ginger and fig.

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open and show riches Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked, I cried to dream again. The scent of the salty seas, bittersweet wine, palm and tropical ferns.

Innocent, soft and pure: sweet pea, carnation and water lily.

White geranium, calla lily, cedarwood and black orchid. A gentle floral bouquet masks a sinister and black-hearted core.

I'll follow thee and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well.

Rose amber, calla lily, night-blooming jasmine, water lily, and white rose.

Malevolent, dark and shadowy: sinuous black musk, wet leather and vetiver.

A strong, willful blend with a soft, utterly lovely soul: white musk with a trickle of bright, sharp apricot and orange blossom.

A regal scent, but poignant. White cedarwood, blue sage and bay leaf.

Arabian musk with two roses and a bevy of Middle Eastern and Indian spices.

A deceptively sweet orchid vanille with a faint trace of stephanotis.

Amber, heliotrope, golden sandalwood, peach blossom and vanilla bean.

Did you ever have a bad luck woman on your trail? Did you ever have a bad luck woman on your trail? Always keeps you broke, always keeps you in jail.

I used to be happy, (as good Lord), all the time, I used to be happy, (as good Lord), all the time, but soon as I got this woman, (lost) all I can call mine.

My bad luck woman is a jinx and a worry too, My bad luck woman is a jinx and a worry too, I can't get rid of her no matter what I do.

I tried to make her quit me by callin' another woman's name, I tried to make her quit me by callin' another woman's name, She said, That is all right, he loves me just the same.

She keeps a ra't's foot in her hand at night when she goes to sleep, She keeps a ra't's foot in her hand at night when she goes to sleep, to keep (me with) her, so I won't make no midnight creep.

My bad luck woman keeps me feelin' blues, My bad luck woman keeps me feelin' blues, I can't get rid of her, she sticks to me like glue.

Bad Luck Woman Blues, © 1926 Aletha Dickerson. Recorded by Papa Charlie Jackson.

Keep that bad luck woman away with a blend of Spanish moss, black pepper, mullein, sweet sage, vandal root, cypress, cigar tobacco, and a puff of goofer dust cloaked by a swarthy cologne of vetiver, lime, dark musk, caramel accord, and lilac.

One of the holiest days in the Pagan calendar, Beltane [May Day, Cetsamhain, Floralia and Roodmas... also, Beltaine, Bealtaine, Bealtuinn, Beletene, La Bheltine] is the Day of Baal's Fire, and marks the midpoint of Sol's path between the Vernal Equinox and Summer Solstice. In Druidic tradition, need-fires were set atop hills in a symbolic gesture of bringing the Sun's light down to Earth. Celebrants danced around the fires in harmony with the Sun's seeming movement through the sky, and passed eadar dà theine Bhealltuinn, between the Fires of Beltane, to purify themselves. In Scotland, all hearth fires were extinguished, and the flames from the need-fires were used to rekindle their flames, bringing blessings and good fortune into the household. It doesn't matter where your faith lies, Beltane is sacred to us simply because we're human. It is a celebration of new growth, rebirth, of the fertility of our land, our spirits and our bodies, and is a reminder of the joy in simply being alive. Celebrate life! Wind some flowers into your hair, dab a little oil behind each ear, toss the first petals of springtime onto your yard, and bless your garden the old fashioned way!

Mugwort, French rose, Lily of the Valley, broom, frankincense, myrrh, benzoin, foxglove, woodruff, rowan wood, ivy, sandalwood, spring mint, thyme, iris, copal, and night blooming jasmine.

\Each bottle of Chaos Theory is truly unique, a fragrant fractal, and exercise in the joy of chance and uncertainty! Each is a one-of-a-kind, utterly random combination of scents, the composition of which is based on whim, mood and gut instinct.

Bat's Day exclusive, August 2007

The Night of the Witches. In the Teutonic calendar, April 30, not October 31, was the night that the witches congregated to celebrate their Work through ecstatic dance, wild music and revelry. The witches fêted with spirits, fairies, and a bevy of otherworldy creatures atop Brockenberg peak in the Harz region of Germany, where they lit an enormous bonfire and cavorted naked until midnight... at which point they donned their robes, boarded their brooms, flying rams and sacred goats, scooped up their cat familiars, and sped off into the night. In later days, it was believed that on this night the witches conjured the devil, who would then select one of them for his bride. This perfume is the scent of the witches' revel: German fir and forest herbs, incense and bonfire smoke, infernal flora, glowing amber, and the wet, glimmering scent of skin warmed by dance.

The Ides marked an auspicious time in the Roman calendar. Depending on the month in question, the Ides fell on the thirteenth or fifteenth, and usually marked the Full Moon. As we all know, it was not an auspicious day for Julius Caesar, nor was it fortuitous for H.P. Lovecraft, who also met his maker on this infamous day. Tu quoque, Brute, fili mi! A mixture of springtime greenery and classical Roman cologne: rosemary, bergamot, lemon rind and vervain with costus, benzoin, gray amber, cardamom, white narcissus and iris.

Why waste time chanting her name in the mirror 13 times? Bedevil your next slumber party the easy way! Chunky, glistening red fruits with sweet cream accord, black clotted cherry, and powdered sugar!

Nighttime heebies can be yours again!

Menacing, maniacal, and slick with the one-liners … this guy does it all with a wink and a smile! Savage apricot, depraved dry woods, and psychopathic patchouli covered by a disarmingly sweet mishmosh of caramel, brown sugar, hazelnut, and butterscotch. Be warned: this oil will instigate possession in most puppets, including some marionettes and the occasional finger puppet.

The Vernal Equinox. Also called Alban Eilir and the Festival of Trees. At this time, we welcome the reawakening of the Earth after winter’s long sleep. Sap flows, flowers bud, the world itself is exuberant, and the vitality of the universe’s life-force is palpable.

This is a day of rebirth, but it is also a day of balance. Equal parts masculine and feminine, light and dark, mercy and severity, surrender and contemplation.

Our springtime celebratory perfume is crafted with orris root, bergamot, frankincense, daffodil, orange pulp, attar of rose, jonquil, strawberry leaf, benzoin, violet leaf, copal, honey cakes, sweet cream, and the blossoms of springtime.

Not at all fishy; rather, quite Springy! Innocence spiked with a little bit of foolishness: Lenten rose, crested iris, Virginia bluebell, primrose, moss phlox, blue crocus, daffodil, and dewy tulip with a touch of sugar blossom and honey.

The Glorious Grand Dame of the Pumpkin Patch! Regal Egyptian Amber, red ginger, orange peel, mandarin, cardamom, fig leaf and warm pumpkin.

Eternal desire, unquenchable passion: red musk, cocoa absolute, Nepalese amber, red sandalwood, aged patchouli, nicotiana, and blood wine.

Regret born from ceaseless longing: wisteria, white grapefruit, neroli, green tea, jasmine, white ginger, honeysuckle, iris, and tonka.

13 is significant, whether you consider it lucky, unlucky or just plain odd. Many believe it to be unfortunate…

… because there were 13 present at the Last Supper. … Loki crashed a party of 12 at Valhalla, which ended in Baldur’s death. … Oinomaos killed 13 of Hippodamia’s suitors before Pelops finally, in his own shady way, defeated the jealous king. … In ancient Rome, Hecate’s witches gathered in groups of 12, the Goddess herself being the 13th in the coven.

Concern over the number thirteen echoes back beyond the Christian era. Line 13 was omitted form the Code of Hammurabi.

The shivers over Friday the 13th also have some interesting origins:

… Christ was allegedly crucified on Friday the 13th. … On Friday, October 13, 1307, King Philip IV of France ordered the arrests of Jaques de Molay, Grand Master of the Knights Templar, and sixty of his senior knights. … In British custom, hangings were held on Fridays, and there were 13 steps on the gallows leading to the noose.

To combat the superstition, Robert Ingersoll and the Thirteen Club held thirteen-men dinners during the 19th Century. Successful? Hardly. The number still invokes trepidation to this day. A recent whimsical little serial killer study showed that the following murderers all have names that total thirteen letters:

Theodore Bundy Jeffrey Dahmer Albert De Salvo John Wayne Gacy

And, with a little stretch of the imagination, you can also fit ‘Jack the Ripper’ and ‘Charles Manson’ into that equation.

More current-era paranoia: modern schoolchildren stop their memorization of the multiplication tables at 12. There were 13 Plutonium slugs in the atomic bomb that was dropped on Nagasaki. Apollo 13 wasn’t exactly the most successful space mission. All of these are things that modern triskaidekaphobes point to when justifying their fears.

For some, 13 is an extremely fortuitous and auspicious number…

… In Jewish tradition, God has 13 Attributes of Mercy. Also, there were 13 tribes of Israel, 13 principles of Jewish faith, and 13 is considered the age of maturity. … The ancient Egyptians believed that there were 12 stages of spiritual achievement in this lifetime, and a 13th beyond death. … The word for thirteen, in Chinese, sounds much like the word which means “must be alive”.

Thirteen, whether you love it or loathe it, is a pretty cool number all around.

… In some theories of relativity, there are 13 dimensions. … It is a prime number, lucky number, star number, Wilson Prime, and Fibonacci number. … There are 13 Archimedean solids.

AND… … There were 13 original colonies when the United States were founded.

Says a lot about the US, doesn’t it?

A base of cocoa absolute and white chocolate with thirteen baneful and beneficial bits: cardamom, fig meat, grains of paradise, rice flower, chamomile, sandalwood, catnip, clove, and a bundle of five blessed blossoms and herbs.

Considering the state of the economy and other worldwide woes, I think we all need a little extra dose of good luck. A sweet, comforting base of dark chocolate and brown sugar with thirteen herbs of good fortune, including nutmeg, Tonka, allspice, star anise, Jamaican and African gingers, devil's shoestring, lucky hand root, and thyme.

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. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Brian's Creation 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.

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.

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.

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.

Blackened, rotted oak wood blanketed in moss and choked by a cloak of grasping ivy.

Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath! When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief And the year smiles as it draws near its death. Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay In the gay woods and in the golden air, Like to a good old age released from care, Journeying, in long serenity, away. In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks And dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.

Dry, cold autumn wind. A rustle of red leaves, a touch of smoke and sap in the air.

Pumpkin with benzoin, bourbon vanilla, lemon peel, neroli, blood orange, and red ginger.

When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes, And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes, Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak, Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek , — Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die, And will be born again, — but ah, to see Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky! Oh, Autumn! Autumn! — What is the Spring to me?

Dark amber, dead leaves, khus, saffron, bitter clove, chrysanthemum, camellia, galangal, and a drop of oud.

I feel thy blood against my blood; my pain Pains thee, and lips bruise lips, and vein stings vein. Let fruit be crushed on fruit, let flower on flower Breast kindle breast, and either burn one hour. Why wilt thou follow lesser loves? are thine Too weak to bear these hands and lips of mine?

The scent of the throes of violent passion: entangled limbs, teeth on flesh, furiously grasping hands, the taste of blood and sweat.

Golden amber, white honey, red currant, daemonorops, kush, and Arabian musk.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

All the night sleep came not upon my eyelids, Shed not dew, nor shook nor unclosed a feather, Yet with lips shut close and with eyes of iron Stood and beheld me.

Then to me so lying awake a vision Came without sleep over the seas and touched me, Softly touched mine eyelids and lips; and I too, Full of the vision,

Saw the white implacable Aphrodite, Saw the hair unbound and the feet unsandalled Shine as fire of sunset on western waters; Saw the reluctant

Feet, the straining plumes of the doves that drew her, Looking always, looking with necks reverted, Back to Lesbos, back to the hills whereunder Shone Mitylene;

Heard the flying feet of the Loves behind her Make a sudden thunder upon the waters, As the thunder flung from the strong unclosing Wings of a great wind.

So the goddess fled from her place, with awful Sound of feet and thunder of wings around her; While behind a clamour of singing women Severed the twilight.

Ah the singing, ah the delight, the passion! All the Loves wept, listening; sick with anguish, Stood the crowned nine Muses about Apollo; Fear was upon them,

While the tenth sang wonderful things they knew not. Ah the tenth, the Lesbian! the nine were silent, None endured the sound of her song for weeping; Laurel by laurel,

Faded all their crowns; but about her forehead, Round her woven tresses and ashen temples White as dead snow, paler than grass in summer, Ravaged with kisses,

Shone a light of fire as a crown for ever. Yea, almost the implacable Aphrodite Paused, and almost wept; such a song was that song. Yea, by her name too

Called her, saying, "Turn to me, O my Sappho;" Yet she turned her face from the Loves, she saw not Tears for laughter darken immortal eyelids, Heard not about her

Fearful fitful wings of the doves departing, Saw not how the bosom of Aphrodite Shook with weeping, saw not her shaken raiment, Saw not her hands wrung;

Saw the Lesbians kissing across their smitten Lutes with lips more sweet than the sound of lute-strings, Mouth to mouth and hand upon hand, her chosen, Fairer than all men;

Only saw the beautiful lips and fingers, Full of songs and kisses and little whispers, Full of music; only beheld among them Soar, as a bird soars

Newly fledged, her visible song, a marvel, Made of perfect sound and exceeding passion, Sweetly shapen, terrible, full of thunders, Clothed with the wind's wings.

Then rejoiced she, laughing with love, and scattered Roses, awful roses of holy blossom; Then the Loves thronged sadly with hidden faces Round Aphrodite,

Then the Muses, stricken at heart, were silent; Yea, the gods waxed pale; such a song was that song. All reluctant, all with a fresh repulsion, Fled from before her.

All withdrew long since, and the land was barren, Full of fruitless women and music only. Now perchance, when winds are assuaged at sunset, Lulled at the dewfall,

By the grey sea-side, unassuaged, unheard of, Unbeloved, unseen in the ebb of twilight, Ghosts of outcast women return lamenting, Purged not in Lethe,

Clothed about with flame and with tears, and singing Songs that move the heart of the shaken heaven, Songs that break the heart of the earth with pity, Hearing, to hear them.

Tonka, oakmoss, tolu balsam, grey amber, myrrh, and muguet.

Many legends surround St. Valentine, and history has yet to show, conclusively, which ones are true and which are fiction. One tale claims that Valentine was a 3rd century Christian priest. When Emperor Claudius II declared that his soldiers were never to marry - the emperor believed that single men made better soldiers than those with wives and children - Valentine continued to perform wedding ceremonies in secret. When the emperor learned of Valentine's disobedience, he imprisoned the priest. The emperor chose to interrogate the priest himself, and despite his fury at his orders being flagrantly disobeyed, he was impressed with the priest's intelligence, wisdom, and passion. He attempted to convert the priest to the Roman faith, and was furious when he failed.

While incarcerated, Valentine fell in love with his jailor's blind daughter. Through God's grace and the power of Valentine's pure and true love for this woman, he was able to cure her blindness with a touch. Before he was beaten and beheaded, he sent her a letter expressing his feelings for her, signed 'From Your Valentine'.

Ecclesiastical incense, Roman flora, and the fruits of martyrdom: cypress, olive blossom, frankincense, myrrh, and blood accord.

Nothing there is beyond hope, nothing that can be sworn impossible, nothing wonderful, since Zeus, father of the Olympians, made night from mid-day, hiding the light of the shining Sun, and sore fear came upon men.

On July 22, we will be experiencing a total solar eclipse. This is the Labores Solis: the sun's rays expressed through frankincense, amber, heliotrope, saffron, and chamomile, crossed with Luna's Artemisias, manifesting in darkness.

In the moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and manner. I thought at the time that I must be dreaming when I saw them, they threw no shadow on the floor. They came close to me, and looked at me for some time, and then whispered together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline noses, like the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes, that seemed to be almost red when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The other was fair, as fair as can be, with great masses of golden hair and eyes like pale sapphires. I seemed somehow to know her face, and to know it in connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not recollect at the moment how or where. All three had brilliant white teeth that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips. It is not good to note this down, lest some day it should meet Mina's eyes and cause her pain, but it is the truth. They whispered together, and then they all three laughed, such a silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though the sound never could have come through the softness of human lips. It was like the intolerable, tingling sweetness of waterglasses when played on by a cunning hand. Unquenchable desire, seething lust, malevolent sexuality, and voracious hunger lurking beneath a shimmering veil of unearthly beauty: gleaming skin musk, honey and white amber, plum blossom, osmanthus, sandalwood, calla lily, and a light, sensual blend of Eastern spices. I lay quiet, looking out from under my eyelashes in an agony of delightful anticipation. The fair girl advanced and bent over me till I could feel the movement of her breath upon me. Sweet it was in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent the same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a bitter underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood. I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under the lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed to fasten on my throat. Then she paused, and I could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and I could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the skin of my throat began to tingle as one's flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer, nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the super sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in languorous ecstasy and waited, waited with beating heart.

The view was magnificent, and from where I stood there was every opportunity of seeing it. The castle is on the very edge of a terrific precipice. A stone falling from the window would fall a thousand feet without touching anything! As far as the eye can reach is a sea of green tree tops, with occasionally a deep rift where there is a chasm. Here and there are silver threads where the rivers wind in deep gorges through the forests. But I am not in heart to describe beauty, for when I had seen the view I explored further. Doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked and bolted. In no place save from the windows in the castle walls is there an available exit. The castle is a veritable prison, and I am a prisoner! A distant whisper of pine, wet moss and dry leaves passing through vast halls and winding dungeons whose scent bears the memory of blood, faded splendor, imperial elegance and stunning violence.

Well, my dear, number One came just before lunch. I told you of him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic asylum man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. He was very cool outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently been schooling himself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered them, but he almost managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men don't generally do when they are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept playing with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream. He spoke to me, Mina, very straightforwardly. He told me how dear I was to him, though he had known me so little, and what his life would be with me to help and cheer him. He was going to tell me how unhappy he would be if I did not care for him, but when he saw me cry he said he was a brute and would not add to my present trouble. Then he broke off and asked if I could love him in time, and when I shook my head his hands trembled, and then with some hesitation he asked me if I cared already for any one else. He put it very nicely, saying that he did not want to wring my confidence from me, but only to know, because if a woman's heart was free a man might have hope. And then, Mina, I felt a sort of duty to tell him that there was some one. I only told him that much, and then he stood up, and he looked very strong and very grave as he took both my hands in his and said he hoped I would be happy, and that If I ever wanted a friend I must count him one of my best. Penetrating and gifted, vulnerable, with just a hint of opium-blurred delirium: poppy smoke, champaca flower, tonka, sandalwood, ginger, white pepper.

Just before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and said in a hysterical way: "Must you go? Oh! Young Herr, must you go?" She was in such an excited state that she seemed to have lost her grip of what German she knew, and mixed it all up with some other language which I did not know at all. I was just able to follow her by asking many questions. When I told her that I must go at once, and that I was engaged on important business, she asked again: "Do you know what day it is?" I answered that it was the fourth of May. She shook her head as she said again: "Oh, yes! I know that! I know that, but do you know what day it is?" On my saying that I did not understand, she went on: "It is the eve of St. George's Day. Do you not know that tonight, when the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have full sway? Do you know where you are going, and what you are going to?" She was in such evident distress that I tried to comfort her, but without effect. Finally, she went down on her knees and implored me not to go; at least to wait a day or two before starting. It was all very ridiculous but I did not feel comfortable. However, there was business to be done, and I could allow nothing to interfere with it. I tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as I could, that I thanked her, but my duty was imperative, and that I must go. She then rose and dried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her neck offered it to me. I did not know what to do, for, as an English Churchman, I have been taught to regard such things as in some measure idolatrous, and yet it seemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady meaning so well and in such a state of mind. She saw, I suppose, the doubt in my face, for she put the rosary round my neck and said, "For your mother's sake," and went out of the room. A respectable gentleman's scent: lavender, iris, white tea, verbena and white sandalwood.

When Lucy, I call the thing that was before us Lucy because it bore her shape, saw us she drew back with an angry snarl, such as a cat gives when taken unawares, then her eyes ranged over us. Lucy's eyes in form and color, but Lucy's eyes unclean and full of hell fire, instead of the pure, gentle orbs we knew. At that moment the remnant of my love passed into hate and loathing. Had she then to be killed, I could have done it with savage delight. As she looked, her eyes blazed with unholy light, and the face became wreathed with a voluptuous smile. Oh, God, how it made me shudder to see it! With a careless motion, she flung to the ground, callous as a devil, the child that up to now she had clutched strenuously to her breast, growling over it as a dog growls over a bone. The child gave a sharp cry, and lay there moaning. There was a cold-bloodedness in the act which wrung a groan from Arthur. When she advanced to him with outstretched arms and a wanton smile he fell back and hid his face in his hands. She still advanced, however, and with a languorous, voluptuous grace, said, "Come to me, Arthur. Leave these others and come to me. My arms are hungry for you. Come, and we can rest together. Come, my husband, come!" A wanton beauty, corrupt, hypnotic, seductive, and feral: magnolia, iris, Moroccan rose, frankincense, crushed jasmine blossom, blood orange, tobacco flower and white musk.

R. M, Renfield, age 59. Sanguine temperament, great physical strength, morbidly excitable, periods of gloom, ending in some fixed idea which I cannot make out. I presume that the sanguine temperament itself and the disturbing influence end in a mentally-accomplished finish, a possibly dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish. In selfish men caution is as secure an armour for their foes as for themselves. What I think of on this point is, when self is the fixed point the centripetal force is balanced with the centrifugal. When duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed point, the latter force is paramount, and only accident or a series of accidents can balance it. Unhinged: moss, cumin, patchouli, Balsam of Peru, and neroli.

With his left hand he held both Mrs. Harker's hands, keeping them away with her arms at full tension. His right hand gripped her by the back of the neck, forcing her face down on his bosom. Her white nightdress was smeared with blood, and a thin stream trickled down the man's bare chest which was shown by his torn-open dress. The attitude of the two had a terrible resemblance to a child forcing a kitten's nose into a saucer of milk to compel it to drink. Tea rose, white sandalwood and a flurry of pale, virginal blossoms, smeared with a smoky, blood-soiled blend of myrrh, hyacinth, Daemonorops resin, dark musk and blackcurrant. Van Helsing, Art, and I moved forward to Mrs. Harker, who by this time had drawn her breath and with it had given a scream so wild, so ear-piercing, so despairing that it seems to me now that it will ring in my ears till my dying day. For a few seconds she lay in her helpless attitude and disarray. Her face was ghastly, with a pallor which was accentuated by the blood which smeared her lips and cheeks and chin. From her throat trickled a thin stream of blood. Her eyes were mad with terror. Then she put before her face her poor crushed hands, which bore on their whiteness the red mark of the Count's terrible grip, and from behind them came a low desolate wail which made the terrible scream seem only the quick expression of an endless grief.

And Jacob went out from Beersheba, and went toward Haran. And he lighted upon a certain place, and tarried there all night, because the sun was set; and he took of the stones of that place, and put them for his pillows, and lay down in that place to sleep. And he dreamed, and behold a ladder set up on the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven: and behold the angels of God ascending and descending on it. And, behold, the Lord stood above it, and said, I am the Lord God of Abraham thy father, and the God of Isaac: the land whereon thou liest, to thee will I give it, and to thy seed; And thy seed shall be as the dust of the earth, and thou shalt spread abroad to the west, and to the east, and to the north, and to the south: and in thee and in thy seed shall all the families of the earth be blessed. And, behold, I am with thee, and will keep thee in all places whither thou goest, and will bring thee again into this land; for I will not leave thee, until I have done that which I have spoken to thee of. And Jacob awaked out of his sleep, and he said, Surely the Lord is in this place; and I knew it not. And he was afraid, and said, How dreadful is this place! this is none other but the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven. The meeting of Heaven and Earth: golden amber, galbanum, benzoin, ambrette, rockrose, costus and tonka.

Von drauß' vom Walde komm ich her; Ich muß euch sagen, es weihnachtet sehr! Allüberall auf den Tannenspitzen Sah ich goldene Lichtlein sitzen; Und droben aus dem Himmelstor Sah mit großen Augen das Christkind hervor, Und wie ich so strolcht durch den finsteren Tann, Da rief's mich mit heller Stimme an. „Knecht Rupprecht”, rief es, „alter Gesell, Hebe die Beine und spute dich schnell!

Die Kerzen fangen zu brennen an, Das Himmelstor ist aufgetan, Alt' und Junge sollen nun Von der Jagd des Lebens einmal ruhn; Und morgen flieg ich hinab zur Erden, Denn es soll wieder Weihnachten werden!”

Ich sprach: „O lieber Herre Christ, Meine Reise fast zu Ende ist; Ich soll nur noch in diese Stadt, Wo's eitel gute Kinder hat.” „Hast denn das Säcklein auch bei Dir?” Ich sprach: „Das Säcklein, das ist hier; Denn Äpfel, Nuss und Mandelkern Fressen fromme Kinder gern.” „Hast denn die Rute auch bei Dir?” Ich sprach: „Die Rute, die ist hier; Doch für die Kinder nur, die schlechten, Die trifft sie auf den Teil, den rechten.”

Christkindlein sprach: „So ist es recht; So geh mit Gott, mein treuer Knecht!” Von drauß' vom Walde komm ich her; Ich muß euch sagen, es weihnachtet sehr! Nun sprecht, wie ich's hierinnen find! Sind's gute Kind, sind's böse Kind?

I came here from the forest I tell you, it is a very holy night! All over the tips of the firs I saw bright flashes of golden light; And from above, the gates of heaven I saw with open eyes the Christ-child and as I wander through the dark forest I hear a light voice calling me. "Knecht —" it called, "Old man Lift your legs and hurry! Fast!

The candles alight the gates of heaven open wide old and young shall rest from the hunt of life and tomorrow I shall fly to earth as it shall be Christmas again!"

I said: "O dear master, Christ My trip is almost at an end; It is only this one town / where the children are good". "Do you have your sack with you?" I said: "The sack, it is here; apples, nuts and almonds solemn children do enjoy". "Do you also have your cane?" I said: "The cane, it is here. But only for the bad children, to hit their right rear".

The Christ-child spoke: "That is good; So go with god my faithful servant!" I came here from the forest I tell you, it is a very holy night! Speak now how I find it here Are the children good or bad?

The snow-covered foliage of the Black Forest and the fruit and woods of apple and almond trees.

When the holidays roll around, not everyone has mistletoe, caroling and cookies on their minds. This scent is a paean to celebrating hard: nights covered in glitter and dusted with cocaine, flutes of Cristal clutched in shaky hands, leather and lace, the Spiders From Mars in the background, and twisting, sweaty limbs entangled in dark corners. Hairspray and cigarette smoke is the incense in this temple to decadence, strobe and mirrors replace the devotional candles, and Bolan sings the hymns. This scent is for everyone that has every drifted off into Quaalude-induced reverie to the beat of a tribal 4-on-the-floor: the sound of Mott the Hoople, Sweet, Slade or the Dolls. This scent reflects the futurism, self-indulgence and excess of the Glitter 70's: champagne, hyacinth, tuberose, ylang ylang and flashing white musk with jonquil, tobacco flower, white sandalwood and a pale poppy.

I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter's dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land's sharp features seemed to be The Century's corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fevourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware. The hope of springtime penetrating winter darkness. Snow, darkness, and icy air illuminated by the thrush's song: warm amber, soft orris, and melancholy violet.

The Holly King and Oak King each hold sway for half of the year, and engage in an epic, eternal battle at Litha and Yule. In truth, they are each a half of the whole � known by many names: Pashupati, Caerwiden, Herne, Pan, Puck, Cernunnos, the Green Man, the Horned God � and as the Holly and Oak Kings represent the light and dark halves of the year, thus do they also represent the light and dark halves of the deity, and thereby, of ourselves. During the darkness of the year, though it seems cold, barren, and bleak, the earth holds the warmth of life deep within itself, and in the depth of its shadows is the eternal promise of renewal and rebirth. It is Yule, and the Holly King has slain the Oak: blood red holly berry, mistletoe, wild thyme, verbena, cinquefoil, hemp, winter rose, evergreen, frankincense, juniper, and myrrh.

Sweet brandy, dark rum, heavy cream, sugar, and a dash of nutmeg.

Warm, cozy gingerbread spiced with nutmeg, clove and cinnamon.

Sacred to both Demeter and Dionysus, this is a celebration of the of the pruning of the vines, the first fermentation of the year's wine, and of the consecration of the next year's planting. The service was lead by the heterai and the Eleusinian Arkhontes, and began with the preparation of a banquet that honors Demeter's bounty and the fertility aspect of Dionysus with pudenda- and phallus-shaped cakes. After the preliminary feast, the magistrates departed, and the heterai held a second rite that consisted of copious wine consumption, ritual symbolic fornication, and formal offerings of incense, grain, and cakes to sacred statues of the deities and to clay images of genitalia. Finally, the magistrates and priests were permitted to rejoin the ritual. A Priest and Priestess bore torches that symbolize Demeter and her daughter Persephone presided over the final ceremony, which culminated in the ultimate celebration of fertility: an orgy that lasted til dawn.

Wine grapes, myrrh, frankincense and olive leaf, and the warm scent of offertory cakes.

Anything BUT jolly! Draped with chains and bells, wielding both whip and rod, this rag-clad, horned, red-skinned, soot-covered leering creature is both the companion and the antithesis of rosy-cheeked and ebullient Kris Kringle. He is called by many names, and, in a myriad of cultures, he is seen with different robes and faces, but he is nevertheless always a sinister and fearsome instrument of Santa's wrath: he wields a switch on all irredeemably naughty children before tossing them into his large black sack and whisking them away.

Be good, or Krampus will toss you in a river! Sinister red musk, black leather, dusty rags, and wooden switches.

Every holiday season should be full of lewd suggestions and filthy double entendres, right? This is a new take on Lick It and Lick It Again -- a peppermint candy cane with a flash of vanilla and an extra jolt of sugar.

(As always, we have to state: don't lick perfume. Don't eat it, drink it, cook with it, or use it in any strange and unforeseen way. Black Phoenix is not responsible for that sort of irresponsible funnybusiness.)

The plant of peace in Norse tradition. If enemies met in the forest and came upon a sprig, they laid down their arms and observed a truce until the next sunrise.

Heavy incense notes waft lazily through a mix of carnation, jasmine, bergamot, and neroli over a lush bed of dark mosses, iris blossom, deep patchouli and indolent vetiver.

Get to your places!' shouted the Queen in a voice of thunder, and people began running about in all directions, tumbling up against each other; however, they got settled down in a minute or two, and the game began. Alice thought she had never seen such a curious croquet-ground in her life; it was all ridges and furrows; the balls were live hedgehogs, the mallets live flamingoes, and the soldiers had to double themselves up and to stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches.

The chief difficulty Alice found at first was in managing her flamingo: she succeeded in getting its body tucked away, comfortably enough, under her arm, with its legs hanging down, but generally, just as she had got its neck nicely straightened out, and was going to give the hedgehog a blow with its head, it would twist itself round and look up in her face, with such a puzzled expression that she could not help bursting out laughing: and when she had got its head down, and was going to begin again, it was very provoking to find that the hedgehog had unrolled itself, and was in the act of crawling away: besides all this, there was generally a ridge or furrow in the way wherever she wanted to send the hedgehog to, and, as the doubled-up soldiers were always getting up and walking off to other parts of the ground, Alice soon came to the conclusion that it was a very difficult game indeed.

We have some trouble managing our flamingos, too. Pink lime, pink grapefruit, white nectarine, wild rose, sage, woody patchouli, bergamot, and ornery hedgehog musk.

However, this bottle was not marked poison,' so Alice ventured to taste it, and finding it very nice, (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast,) she very soon finished it off. BPAL's Drink Me is not for drinking. Please use common sense, and remember: perfume oils are for external use only.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" Bandersnatch musk, redolent of spicy carnations, wild plums and chrysanthemum.

A sea of salty tears drowning out Alice's light floral perfume.

Deep mahogany and rich, velvety woods lacquered with sweet, black-red cherries and currant.

A feisty bouquet of golden, warm, gently honeyed lilies.

What ails you, dear wife?'

Oh,' she answered,if I don't get some rampion to eat out of the garden behind the house, I know I shall die.'

The man, who loved her dearly, thought to himself, Come! rather than let your wife die you shall fetch her some rampion, no matter the cost.' So at dusk he climbed over the wall into the witch's garden, and, hastily gathering a handful of rampion leaves, he returned with them to his wife. She made them into a salad, which tasted so good that her longing for the forbidden food was greater than ever. If she were to know any peace of mind, there was nothing for it but that her husband should climb over the garden wall again, and fetch her some more. So at dusk over he got, but when he reached the other side he drew back in terror, for there, standing before him, was the old witch.<br /><br />Morning glory vines twisting around a patch of rampion, carrot, and parsley, with monkshood, hemlock, elfwort, sage, wormwood, and mandrake.

It was not surprising that she had recognized him, for his dark grey eyes stared out from his photo on the foil-embossed cover. Foodless Dieting: Slim Yourself Beautiful, the book was called; The Diet Book of the Century.

Sleek black tea, tobacco leaf, frankincense, lilac, and white musk.

She wore a knit tweed suit and discreet pearl earrings. Something about her might have said nanny, but it said it in an undertone of the sort employed by British butlers in a certain type of American film. It also coughed discreetly and muttered that she could well be the sort of nanny who advertises unspecified but strangely explicit services in certain magazines.

Middle Eastern flowers, amber, honey, blood red-berries, whip leather, and polished paddle wood.

The book was commonly known as the Buggre Alle This Bible. The lengthy compositor's error, if such it may be called, occurs in the book of Ezekiel, chapter 48, verse five:

1. And bye the border of Dan, fromme the east side to the west side, a portion for Afher.
2. And bye the border of Afhter, fromme the east side even untoe the west side, a portion for Naphtali.
3. And bye the border of Naphtali, from the east side untoe the west side, a portion for Manaffeh.
4. Buggre all this for a Larke. I amme sick to mye Hart of typefettinge. Master Biltonn if no Gentelmann, and Master Scagges noe more than a tighte fisted Southwarke Knobbefticke. I telle you, onne a daye laike thif Ennywone half an oz. of Sense should bee oute in the Sunneshain, ane nott Stucke here alle the liuelong daie inn thif mowldey olde By-Our-Lady Workefhoppe. @"AE@;!
5. And bye the border of Ephraim, from the east fide even untoe the west fide, a portion for Reuben.

[The Buggre Alle This Bible was also noteworthy for having twenty seven verses in the third chapter of Genesis, instead of the more usual twenty four.

They followed verse 24, which in the King James version reads:

"So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life," and read:

25 And the Lord spake unto the Angel that guarded the eastern gate, saying Where is the flaming sword which was given unto thee? 26 And the Angel said, I had it here only a moment ago, I must have put it down some where, forget my own head next. 27 And the Lord did not ask him again.

It appears that these verses were inserted during the proof stage. In those days it was common practice for printers to hang proof sheets to the wooden beams outside their shops, for the edification of the populace and some free proofreading, and since the whole print run was subsequently burned anyway, no one bothered to take up this matter with the nice Mr. A. Ziraphale, who ran the bookshop two doors along and was always so helpful with the translations, and whose handwriting was instantly recognizable.]

Crumbling paper and ancient cracked leather with a touch of tobacco leaf and incense.

"Coin tricks is it?" asked Sweeney, his chin raising, his scruffy beard bristling. "Why, if it's coin tricks we're doing, watch this."

He took an empty glass from the table. Then he reached out and took a large coin, golden and shining, from the air. He dropped it into the glass. He took another gold coin from the air and tossed it into the glass, where it clinked against the first. He took a coin from the candle flame of a candle on the wall, another from his beard, a third from Shadow's empty left hand, and dropped them, one by one, into the glass. Then he curled his fingrs over the glass, and blew hard, and several more golden coins dropped into the glass from his hand. He tipped the glass of sticky coins into his jacket pocket, and then tapped the pocket to show, unmistakably, that it was empty.

"There," he said. "That's a coin trick for you."

Barrel-aged whiskey and oak.

She said nothing. Her eyes were black as coal, black as her hair; her lips were redder than blood. She looked up at me and smiled. Her teeth seemed sharp, even then, in the lamplight.

"What are you doing away from your room?"

"I'm hungry," she said, like any child.

It was winter, when fresh food is a dream of warmth and sunlight; but I had strings of whole apples, cored and dried, hanging from the beams of my chamber, and I pulled an apple down for her.

"Here."

Autumn is the time of drying, of preserving, a time of picking apples, of rendering the goose fat. Winter is the time of hunger, of snow, and of death; and it is the time of the midwinter feast, when we rub the goose-fat into the skin of a whole pig, stuffed with that autumn's apples, then we roast it or spit it, and we prepare to feast upon the crackling.

She took the dried apple from me and began to chew it with her sharp yellow teeth.

"Is it good?"

She nodded. I had always been scared of the little princess, but at that moment I warmed to her and, with my fingers, gently, I stroked her cheek. She looked at me and smiled — she smiled but rarely — then she sank her teeth into the base of my thumb, the Mound of Venus, and she drew blood.

I began to shriek, from pain and from surprise; but she looked at me and I fell silent.

Richly crowned.

Antiqued amber, frankincense, pomegranate, myrrh, rose absolute, and bois de rose.

Golden.

Vanilla amber and orange blossom.

Beeswax candles reflect flickering light onto a brass-coated boiler engraved with the words "Solve Et Coagula". The gargantuan boiler sends torrents of steam into rigid pipes that exert force onto innumerable pistons and turbine blades. The motion is harnessed to propel energy into gargantuan cogs and gears that move liquid metals, herbs, and resins into a series of alembics.

Balm of Gilead, benzoin, frankincense, balsam of peru, beeswax, saffron, galbanum, calamus, hyssop, mastic, lemon balm, and white sage.

Glowing liquid passes through the fogged retorts of ancient alembics, sparks fly from behind a massive workbench, and a cloud of thick incense smoke hangs low, all casting strange and surreal flashes of light and shadow on tall bolted-steel walls. The chug and hum of gargantuan machines echo through the chamber.

Burnished gold and oiled bronze notes with Abramelin incense and sage.

Pinpoints of red light beaming from its eyes scan the room, and in a flutter of leather wings, it scuttles across the wooden floorboards.

Polished metallic notes, glossy leather, frankincense, star anise, and thin lubricating oils.

Though the doctor continued to assure her that the treatment was therapeutic, her anxiety increased. Ignoring her feeble protestations, the doctor produced a pair of glass wands, and set to work.

As the machine hummed to life, her misgivings were dissolved in a haze of unexpected pleasure. Warmth, contrasted sharply with a million white-hot pinpricks and a strangely cooling blast of electricity, surged through her thighs. The metal electrodes secured beneath her corset flared as the electrical current swelled through her nerve endings.

White mint, purple musk, violet, lilac, ylang ylang, lavender moss, and sandalwood.

The grey and ghostly flower that fills the fields of Hades.

A poisonous fruit-bearing member of the buttercup family. The scent, like the plant, is dark green, herbal, and plump with bulging black fruit.

Exquisitely melancholy. The background scent to an ancient exequies. Heavy, dark and floral: a blend of roses, with a touch of amber and musk.

Sharp, heady and viciously carnivorous.

A yellow-bright and smoky brown-black scent, horned, pronged and strange.

Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before, milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

Also called Djinn's Eggs and the Weed of Ill Omen. Distinctive bifurcations shape this magickal plant into the form of human men and women. It is believed that mandrake grows where the semen of a hanged man has fallen onto the earth, and that when it is plucked from the earth, the plant itself shrieks in agony: Alack, alack, is it not like that I, So early waking, what with loathsome smells, And shrieks like mandrakes' torn out of the earth That living mortals, hearing them, run mad. A plant of true arcane power, mandrake has been used in a multitude of ways by witches, magicians and thaumaturgists for eons to many, many vastly different ends. Whole pieces are carried for protection, or are used in poppet magick. Ground herb can be utilized in spells for money, lust or defense. The lore of the mandrake does not limit it to magickal use. The root was chewed as a simple anasthesia, and it has been widely employed as a sleep drug: CLEOPATRA: Ha, ha! Give me to drink mandragora. CHARMIAN: Why, madam? CLEOPATRA: That I might sleep out this great gap of time My Antony is away.

Crushed herbs and sweet amber resin with a streak of patchouli, neroli and golden musk.

Orchid tubers have been used extensively by witches in their love philtres, both to promote amorous attention and the attainment of true love, and, conversely, to wither misplaced passions and sever romantic bonds. This perfume is a dusky orchid, subdued and ethereal.

A carnivorous enchantress: diverse, lovely and graceful, emitting a sticky, glowing golden, sweet and terminally inviting scent. Its dew is believed to grant eternal beauty and longevity, and restore vitality and vigor to the magician.

Amorphallus, indeed. A breathtakingly exotic, wild, and grossly erotic spicy gold, purple-black, and burgundy lily.

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore: Not loathe to furnish weapons for the Bands Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. Of vast circumference and gloom profound This solitary Tree! - a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed. But worthier still of note Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale, Joined in one solemn and capacious grove; Huge trunks! - and each particular trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibres serpentine Up-coiling, and inveteratley convolved, - Nor uninformed with Fantasy, and looks That threaten the profane; - a pillared shade, Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged Perennially - beneath whose sable roof Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked With unrejoicing berries - ghostly Shapes May meet at noontide: Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight, Death the Skeleton And Time the Shadow; there to celebrate, As in a natural temple scattered o'er With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, United worship; or in mute repose To lie, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. Piercingly sweet berries over evergreen boughs, deepened by the tree's sacred wood.

And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer. Nobility and haughtiness befitting the Antichrist: sage, carnation and cedar with lavender, vanilla, white musk and leather.

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. The End of All Things: empty white musk and mint seeped with solemn lavender, doleful patchouli and vetiver, scythe-sharp yuzu and lime, with geranium bourbon, white sandalwood and calla lily.

Green herbs slithering through mint, lime and lavender.

Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heav'n. This is our song to Lucifer, Lucis Ferre, Heosphoros, the Morning Star, the Brilliant One and the Son of the Morning. He is equated with Samhazai, the Heaven-Seizer, and Azazel, one of the 200 Fallen Angels of Enoch. The essence of overweening pride and unearthly angelic beauty. A regal scent, glowing darkly, elegant and patrician, but unfathomably desolate. Cherubic white sandalwood and golden musk with a dark halo of amber, a breath of imperial florals, unbending woods, and the shadow cast by vetiver and violet.

An infusion of incalculable power and irresistible temptation. Truly an exercise in megalomania and self-gratification: frankincense and cinnamon, darkened by violet.

And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword. Mandarin, tonka, saffron, black tea, cocoa, tobacco leaf, sanguine red musk and five classical herbs of conflict.

A paean to true holiness, spiritual purity, and sacred enlightenment. Based on an incense blend sacred to the Virgin Mary: perfect rose absolute and Palestinian Lily of the Valley with olibanum, labdanum, frankincense and myrrh.

An opiate torpor, soporific, trancelike, and sublimely languid. A poet's morphine dream, a listless journey into a gentle dream and the precipice of intoxicated madness. Paperwhite and black narcissus, three lilies, black poppy and tuberose and a hint of hypnotic opium den haze.

A stirring yet gentle perfume. The scent of love and devotion mingled with an undercurrent of heart-rending sorrow. A bouquet of white roses, labdanum, and wild orchid.

The pinnacle of power, poisoned by sin and indulgence - this is our homage to Classical Roman debauch. Rosemary, bay, pine and a touch of lemon.

Smell sanctified! A blend of pure, pious frankincense and graceful myrrh.

And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand. Thin, dark, and shadowed. A scent that offers no sustenance, comfort or satiety: lemon peel, white sage, frankincense, lavender fougere, sandalwood, vetiver and labdanum.

Upon the Sea of Glass, glowing with the perfection of spiritual union and the radiance of true wisdom, rests the throne of God. A scent of inimitable purity, crystalline grace, and limitless light.

Thouroughly corrupted: amber, sandalwood, black patchouli and cinnamon.

Thick, dark, sluggish and heavy with indolence: vetiver over black myrrh.

Also called the Lamed Vev, two letters in the Hebrew alphabet that translate to the number thirty-six. In this violent, ugly, strife-riddled world of ours there are thirty-six men, the Hidden Just Men or Hidden Saints, who bear on their shoulders the burden of all our pain, sorrows and sins. The Tzadikim Nistarim move in obscurity, and are usually found among the poor, the downtrodden and the meekest among us, and are chosen for this task because of their righteousness, stalwart sense of genuine justice, and the true goodness of their souls. When one of these men dies, God chooses another to take his place. It is for their sake and for love of them that God does not destroy His imperfect creation. As long as the Lamed Vav serves humanity, the world will continue to plod on, but once one of them dies and God cannot find another worthy to take his place, the world will be destroyed. In Qabala, the thirty-six men of the Tzadikim Nistarim together combine to symbolize the seventy-two bridges, corresponding to the seventy-two names of God, that connect the concealed and revealed worlds of our universe. The scent is one of unadulterated spiritual purity: frankincense, olive, spikenard, hyssop and galangal.

Voluptuous and indulgent! A deep chocolate scent, with black cherry and orange blossom.

A scent aflame with rage, swirling in the red haze of hatred: dragon's blood spiked with black pepper, clove, and cinnamon.

Dream Formula II: Our Nightmarebane. Named after the Baku, benevolent Japanese spirits that eat nightmares. In Japanese tradition, nightmares are gifts from malevolent spirits; when you wake up from one, you may call, "Baku, please eat my dreams!", and if you are virtuous and merciful in spirit, the Baku will devour the evil, transforming it into a blessing of good fortune.

Dream Formula IV. The Babylonian Goddess of Dreams, who bestows the power of Oneiromancy onto her priests. This blend opens up psychic sensitivity during sleep and aids in the understanding and correct interpretation of portents and symbols.

Created to invoke the ancient Greek deities of dreams. On the shores of the ocean, somewhere in the West, they dwell behind their gates of horn and ivory. Soporific, dark, and unfathomable: a somnambular blend of deep lavender, white sandalwood, jasmine, bergamot and mugwort.

As if the name didn't spell it out for you. This blend relieves all sexual inhibitions by simultaneously relaxing and arousing.

A very tricky kitty, indeed. Used most often as a key to bringing back the joy one needs to have in life in order for living to feel worthwhile. Brings back a sense of delight in simple pleasures, and creates a surge of childlike curiosity and a youthful sense of fun. This blend can also be used to reverse troublesome lesser crossings, create a playful air of catlike sexuality, and, because cats will be cats, it can also be used to throw minor, irritating or bothersome hexes, causing small amounts of chaos and disruption to your foes.

Used to open up options in your life, overcome obstacles, and create opportunities. This blend increases your potential for success, inspires creativity and quick thinking, and helps you to be more flexible, adaptable and open to change.

The Hummingbird of Love, the Rose Sucker. A potent, benevolent, merciful love blend.

A phenomenally powerful attractant. Sexual and commanding in the extreme.

A gentle, healing love blend, often used to help mend a broken heart. Brings peace of mind, soothes the sting of loss, and aids in finding closure.

Brings a rush of good luck, lifts the spirit, and helps alleviate depression.

The weather is always mild, the wine flows freely, sex is readily available, and all people enjoy eternal youth. The Land of Plenty, also called Luilekkerland – the Lazy, Luscious Land: milk and honey, sweet cakes and wine.

The forks of the road: an in-between place, sacred and tangibly magickal in innumerable cultures and faiths. This scent is dark with mystery, taut with power. A chill twilit garden of blooms over dry earth and mosses, heavily laden with incense and offertory herbs.

The smoke of Sacred Incense of Apollo twined through laurel branches, bay, and honey wine.

At the center of the Garden of Eden stands the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Though modern interpretations of the Bible claim that it was an apple that the Serpent of the Tree offered to Eve, it is widely believed that the true Fruit of True Knowledge was, in fact, a fig. This oil contains the innocence of the Garden, coupled with the Truth and Erudition found in the fruit of the Tree of Evil: fig leaf, fig fruit, honeyed almond milk, toasted coconut and sandalwood.

The pearl of the Italian Renaissance. Elegant iris, bright berries, gilded amber and velvety spices.

One of the Biblical Cities on the Plain, destroyed by God with fire and brimstone because of its people's pride, prosperous ease, deceit, hedonism and indolence, and their callous, uncharitable hearts. A gritty, sordid and languid scent: ripe fig, date and currant with black herbs.

Diese Tage, die leer dir scheinen und wertlos für das All, haben Wurzeln zwischen den Steinen und trinken dort überall. . . . But nothing's lost. Or else: all is translation And every bit of us is lost in it (Or found—I wander through the ruin of S Now and then, wondering at the peacefulness) And in that loss a self-effacing tree, Color of context, imperceptibly Rustling with its angel, turns the waste To shade and fiber, milk and memory. The scent of a Cosmopolitan cocktail.

The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, one of the Great Wonders of the World, were believed to be created by Nebuchadnezzar, possibly to honor the Assyrian princess Semiramis, or, more likely, to cheer up Nebuchadnezzar's unhappy, homesick wife, Amyitis. If the latter is to be believed, it is speculated that Amyitis found the dry, arid landscape of Mesopotamia, in contrast to the lush greenery of her homeland, to be staggeringly depressing and bleak. To bolster her spirits, the king recreated a fascimile of her mountanous, green home with this fantastic terraced wonder filled with sparkling waterfalls, strange beasts, and exotic fruits, trees and flowers. It consists of vaulted terraces raised one above another, and resting upon cube-shaped pillars. These are hollow and filled with earth to allow trees of the largest size to be planted. The pillars, vaults, and terraces are constructed of baked brick and asphalt. The Garden is quadrangular, and each side is four plethra long. It consists of arched vaults which are located on checkered cube-like foundations.. The ascent of the uppermost terrace-roofs is made by a stairway... The Hanging Garden has plants cultivated above ground level, and the roots of the trees are embedded in an upper terrace rather than in the earth. The whole mass is supported on stone columns... Streams of water emerging from elevated sources flow down sloping channels... These waters irrigate the whole garden saturating the roots of plants and keeping the whole area moist. Hence the grass is permanently green and the leaves of trees grow firmly attached to supple branches... This is a work of art of royal luxury and its most striking feature is that the labor of cultivation is suspended above the heads of the spectators. This perfume is an interpretation of the Hanging Gardens by night, based on further accounts of its fruit and flora: date palm, ebony, fir, pomegranate, plum, two pears, quince, fig, and grapevine with plumeria, three gardenias and dry rose.

The scent of sacred incense swirling up the steep slopes to Swayambhunath Stupa. Saffron, blessed sandalwood, Himalayan cedar and the miraculous lotus of the Buddha with chiuri bark and Nepalese spices.

A celebration of the Bone Church of Prague. Frankincense, rosewood, lily, and geranium rose.

Venerable Victorian Tea Rose… twisted, blackened and emboldened with wickedness.

Swarthy and vibrant! An elegant, full-bodied scent that ignites all the darkest passions. Bold red wine, mimosa, and a trickle of clove.

Reminiscent of hothouse blooms on a humid night, ripe, but touched with decay. Sweet honeysuckle and jasmine with a hint of lemon and spice.

The House of Mists, a land of icy fog, shadowy darkness and soul-chilling cold. Dark, damp blossoms winding through an impenetrable, murky gloom.

Sensual, decadent, and enigmatic. Lavender, softly underscored by lotus and spice.

The legendary birthplace of the Green Fairy. Swiss ferns, lilac, blackcurrant, Gallic rose and lavender with a dollop of sugar and absinthe.

The Sodom of the New World! — touted as the richest and wickedest city in all creation! Port Royal was the center of 17th century Caribbean commerce, a notorious safe harbor for pirates, and the site of our third flagship store, which was, sadly, destroyed in the earthquake of 1692. Spiced rum and ship's wood mixed with the body-warmed trace of a prostitute's perfume and a hint of salty sea air on the dry-down.

Dark, decadent and incomparably exotic: the rich scent of buttered rum flavored with almond, bay, clove and sassafras.

Crocus with snowdrop and three lilies.

Piquant citrus tempered by jasmine, soft Mediterranean herbs, lavender and orange blossom.

The pinnacle of wealth, luxury, self-indulgent pleasure, voluptuousness and sensuality. Bright violet with sweet clove, Mediterranean spice notes and tonka bean.

The greatest of all Aztec cities, and capital of their empire. Amber, hyssop, coriander, epazote, Mexican sage, prickly pear and Mexican tulip poppy.

Twin islands near Newfoundland, now lost, that were believed to be gateways to Hell. The scent is of wet, dark greenery, carnivorous flowers, volcanic gas, and the hot black musk of the demons and wild beasts that populated the islands.

A celebration of one of the first commercially produced perfumes of America's Old West. A rugged, warm blend of vanilla, balsam and sassafras layered over Virginia cedar.

A city of mystery, wonder and majesty, said to have been built by order of Gilgamesh. Thick bitter almond and heady night-blooming jasmine with saffron, cinnamon leaf, red patchouli, river lilies, bergamot, fig leaf and the sacred incense of Inanna.

A complex, voluptuous scent that captures the robust beauty and of the Italian Renaissance: lemon, red currant, wisteria, red rose petals, heady jasmine, Florentine orris root, waterlily, red sandalwood, violet plum, and violet leaf.

Brimming with native fruits and flowers, but also imbued with the power of native earth magicks: apricot and pomegranate with deep plum, wild roses, two Middle Eastern pale musks, white orchid, iris and sweet roots.

Rebel Queen of the Iceni, she led an uprising of the tribes against the Roman Empire. After Claudius' conquest of the area, the Iceni voluntarily allied themselves to Rome, though Rome was not a gentle parent state. The Romans conquered much of Brittania, desecrated the sacred groves at Mona, and slaughtered the druids. When Boadicea's husband, Prasutagus, died, his will was ignored and his massive financial debt to Rome was called in forcefully. Iceni was annexed as though it was a conquered territory, property and estates were seized, both tribal nobility and the common folk were enslaved. When Boadicea objected to the treatment of her lands and her people, she was flogged, and her children were grievously injured.

Boadicea took her vengeance.

Under the leadership of Boadicea, the Iceni and Trinovantes united with their neighbors and the surviving druids of Mona to instigate a rebellion. They cut a swath of furious destruction. Her warriors slaughtered Legionary forces, and destroyed Camulodunum, Londinium, and Verulamium -- so scorching the earth beneath Londinium that the scar is still visible beneath modern London.

Amber, fig, vanilla flower, oak, patchouli, vetiver, dragon's blood resin, leather, and neroli.

Zenobia was Queen of the Palmyrene Empire. She assumed leadership of her nomadic tribe after her father's death, eventually marrying King Septimius Odaenathus. Zenobia seemed a contradiction: chaste, dark-eyed, and lovely, but able to drink, fight, and make war like a man. She fought, on horseback, alongside her husband in many battles, and ruled the Empire with a fair and just hand after her husband's passing. To her people, she was the Lady of Victory, conquering several Roman provinces, including Egypt, and expelling the prefect, Tenagino Probus, who was beheaded after he led an attempt to seize back control of the territory for Rome. Her conquests enabled her to control many vital trade routes, further earning her the ire of the Romans. Unfortunately, she eventually overextended her reach. She was betrayed, and then captured by Emperor Aurelian, displayed in chains in a triumphal procession through Rome, her Empire dissolved. Rather than capitulate to misfortune, she made a new life for herself, and became a Roman matron, philosopher, and socialite.

Orris, clove, costus storax, patchouli, hyssop, frankincense, balsam, and saffron.

June 22 - July 22. Cardinal Water: the essence of feeling.

Wild lettuce, wild pear, chamomile, germanica orris, sweet pea, and mallow.

December 22 - January 19. Cardinal earth: the essence of control.

Solomon’s Seal, pine, amaranth, ambrette, cypress, wild tobacco, and hemp.

May 21 - June 21. Mutable Air: the essence of thought.

Lavender, benzoin, orchid, and frankincense.

July 23 - August 22. Fixed Fire: the essence of pride.

Egyptian amber, walnut bark, chamomile, frankincense, and saffron.

September 23 - October 22. Cardinal air: the essence of balance.

Rose, black cherry, carnation, fig, honey, plum, and black currant.

Mutable water: the essence of faith.

Hemp, opium poppy, sarsaparilla, grains of paradise, passion flower, wisteria, Irish moss, and gentian.

November 22 - December 21. Mutable Fire: the essence of striving.

Sage, clove, dandelion, balm of gilead, fig, and chamomile.

October 23 - November 21. Fixed Water: the essence of passion.

Dark musk, wormwood, basil, dragon's blood resin, galangal, and opoponax.

April 20 - May 20. Fixed Earth: the essence of possession.

Rose, daisy, apple blossom, violet, poppy, columbine, thyme, and mint.

August 23 - September 22. Mutable earth: the essence of analysis.

Fennel, valerian, maidenhair fern, carrot seed, honeysuckle, and myrtle.