Translated
Show original
Show translation
![Midnights]()
Midnights
Top Review
17
Out of the woods
"She's addicted to nicotine patches
She's addicted to nicotine patches
She's afraid of the light in the dark
6:58, are you sure where my spark is?
Here, here, here..."
("Spark", Tori Amos)
When exactly had it become dark?
She was still just sitting on the old wooden chair in her kitchen, the seat on braided paper cord, and had made herself a chamomile tea. Halfway satisfied, she contemplated her day's work. All kinds of roots, crushed flowers, dried tobacco leaves, vessels filled with everything that the flora gives, hydrosols, mortars, hand blenders ... At any moment she had an overview of which raw materials were intended for what, she didn't need any memory aids. Most of the time she worked on everything at the same time: here an essential oil, there a flower balm, there a tea mixture... Today, however, she did not want to rest after her work was done. She thought of the irises at the edge of the forest not far away. The time was good to dig up the roots. This would eventually make an iris absolute or iris butter, perhaps an essential oil. Stock for the one or other lost soul that would find its way to her as if by chance.
She had left the small stone house before sunset. She would be back in an hour at the latest. It would be chilly once the autumn sun disappeared behind the mountain range, but a wool cardigan should do, she thought. Normally, she would have been able to walk the trail blindfolded. Was it the approaching void moon? Was it her thoughts that just wouldn't stop riding a roller coaster today? She didn't know. She had the impression of having walked through a tunnel, and when she came out the other end and opened her eyes, it had gone dark around her. She pulled the cardigan a little tighter against her body, struggling for composure and orientation. She picked at the nicotine patch on her upper right arm, doubting whether quitting smoking was really a good decision. What she would have given for the smell of burnt tobacco leaves. Her little toe twitched, as it always did when restlessness tried to make its way through her body. She knew the sequence: restlessness would become fear. And fear was a lousy advisor, in life as in darkness. She forced herself to close her eyes and pause for a moment, to stop inside. It took a while, but slowly she felt the tension in her shoulders release. She tilted her head to the left and to the right, on the right side it cracked softly into the silent darkness. With each heartbeat she grew calmer, her senses sharper. If she hadn't felt ridiculous doing it, she would have liked to draw the inner self-image of a she-wolf. She discarded the thought, as well as how she had discarded her weakness for cigarettes some time ago. She held her nose to the wind. The smell of a recently extinguished fireplace could literally be tasted on her tongue. That's the direction, the old fire pit, she took in the scent. She'd been annoyed off and on in recent years by the city hipsters who invaded her territory on weekends. With printed enamel mugs, they sat around the fire in their Patagonia fleece jackets, grilling sausages made from meat substitutes and playing wilderness. Today, she was grateful they were there, building fires. She followed the scent of extinguished flames for a while, smirking softly as she thought again of the image of the she-wolf. In her determination, weaving through bushes and sliding down slopes with nimble movements, she lost all sense of time. How long had she been walking? It wasn't until she caught the scent of vanilla beans she had cut open on the kitchen table that afternoon and a soft breeze of burnt oud wood that she knew: she was home. She went into the house, not taking off her cardigan; she needed to build a fire. First, however, she put a handful of iris roots on the kitchen table.
Pallidus
