Non compos mentis, indeed! A contrary, conflicted scent, bubbling with merry madness. Contains apple, rose, and lemon.
Vasilissa ran to the yard, and behind her she heard the old witch shouting to the locks and the gate. The locks opened, the gate swung wide, and she ran out on to the lawn. The Baba Yaga seized from the wall one of the skulls with burning eyes and flung it after her. “There,” she howled, “is the fire for thy stepmother’s daughters. Take it. That is what they sent thee here for, and may they have joy of it!”
Flaming coals, hellfire, and blackened bone.
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.
This haunting, exotic scent is named in honor of the shapeshifting demons from Hindu mythology. Sandalwood with rose and patchouli.
She went a little further and again she heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs and there came another man on horseback galloping past her. He was dressed all in red, and the horse under him was blood-red and its harness was red, and just as he passed her the sun rose.
Red leather, red moss, and balsam.
Devilish temptation, as sweet as sin: blood orange, neroli, and raspberry.
Unceasing In Anger
Olive leaf, raspberry leaf, vetiver and cedarwood.
Near the Cimmerii a cavern lies deep in the hollow of a mountainside, the home and sanctuary of lazy Hypnos, where Phoebus’ beams can never reach at morn or noon or eve, but cloudy vapours rise in doubtful twilight . . . there silence dwells: only the lazy stream of Lethe ‘neath the rock with whisper low o’er pebbly shallows trickling lulls to sleep. Before the cavern’s mouth lush poppies grow and countless herbs, from whose bland essences a drowsy infusion dewy Nyx distils and sprinkles sleep across the darkening world.
The River of Unmindfulness: bittersweet black water swollen with forgotten tears.
A poisonous fruit-bearing member of the buttercup family. The scent, like the plant, is dark green, herbal, and plump with bulging black fruit.
There was once a very rich merchant, who had six children, three boys and three girls. As he was himself a man of great sense, he spared no expense for their education. The three daughters were all handsome, but particularly the youngest; indeed, she was so very beautiful, that in her childhood every one called her the Little Beauty; and being equally lovely when she was grown up, nobody called her by any other name, which made her sisters very jealous of her. This youngest daughter was not only more handsome than her sisters, but also was better tempered. The two eldest were vain of their wealth and position. They gave themselves a thousand airs, and refused to visit other merchants' daughters; nor would they condescend to be seen except with persons of quality. They went every day to balls, plays, and public walks, and always made game of their youngest sister for spending her time in reading or other useful employments. As it was well known that these young ladies would have large fortunes, many great merchants wished to get them for wives; but the two eldest always answered, that, for their parts, they had no thoughts of marrying any one below a duke or an earl at least. Beauty had quite as many offers as her sisters, but she always answered, with the greatest civility, that though she was much obliged to her lovers, she would rather live some years longer with her father, as she thought herself too young to marry.
It happened that, by some unlucky accident, the merchant suddenly lost all his fortune, and had nothing left but a small cottage in the country. Upon this he said to his daughters, while the tears ran down his cheeks, “My children, we must now go and dwell in the cottage, and try to get a living by labour, for we have no other means of support.” The two eldest replied that they did not know how to work, and would not leave town; for they had lovers enough who would be glad to marry them, though they had no longer any fortune. But in this they were mistaken; for when the lovers heard what had happened, they said, “The girls were so proud and ill-tempered, that all we wanted was their fortune: we are not sorry at all to see their pride brought down: let them show off their airs to their cows and sheep.” But everybody pitied poor Beauty, because she was so sweet-tempered and kind to all, and several gentlemen offered to marry her, though she had not a penny; but Beauty still refused, and said she could not think of leaving her poor father in this trouble. At first Beauty could not help sometimes crying in secret for the hardships she was now obliged to suffer; but in a very short time she said to herself, “All the crying in the world will do me no good, so I will try to be happy without a fortune.”
Red sandalwood, vanilla, rosewood, osmanthus, and white peach.
As the years passed Prunella grew up into a very beautiful girl. Now her beauty and goodness, instead of softening the witch’s heart, aroused her hatred and jealousy.
One day she called Prunella to her, and said: ‘Take this basket, go to the well, and bring it back to me filled with water. If you don’t I will kill you.’
The girl took the basket, went and let it down into the well again and again. But her work was lost labour. Each time, as she drew up the basket, the water streamed out of it. At last, in despair, she gave it up, and leaning against the well she began to cry bitterly, when suddenly she heard a voice at her side saying ‘Prunella, why are you crying?’
Turning round she beheld a handsome youth, who looked kindly at her, as if he were sorry for her trouble.
‘Who are you,’ she asked, ‘and how do you know my name?’
‘I am the son of the witch,’ he replied, ‘and my name is Bensiabel. I know that she is determined that you shall die, but I promise you that she shall not carry out her wicked plan. Will you give me a kiss, if I fill your basket?’
‘No,’ said Prunella, ‘I will not give you a kiss, because you are the son of a witch.’
‘Very well,’ replied the youth sadly. ‘Give me your basket and I will fill it for you.’ And he dipped it into the well, and the water stayed in it. Then the girl returned to the house, carrying the basket filled with water. When the witch saw it, she became white with rage, and exclaimed ‘Bensiabel must have helped you.’ And Prunella looked down, and said nothing.
Plum juice, lilac, leather, and a smattering of herbs.
Also called Melampode. In witchcraft legend, this is one of the components of the notorious flying ointment, and is used in rituals that summon the Devil. In Greek mythology, Melampus of Pylos used hellebore to save the daughters of the king of Argos from a Dionysian Maenad-like madness. In Christian myth, hellebore was born from the tears a little girl shed onto the snow because she had no gift to give to the Christ child. In low magick, it has been used by farmers to protect their livestock from the evil eye. Court magicians have used it in martial invisibility spells, enabling spies and assassins to infiltrate enemy camps. Hellebore resembles the wild rose, but does not belong to their family. The scent is a pale green herbal, darkly rooty, with a faint rose and peony-like overtone.
Borage and hellebore fill two scenes,
Sovereign plants to purge the veins
Of melancholy, and cheer the heart
Of those black fumes which make it smart.
Lustrous, sanguine, soft and lavish: soft orris, blood musk, and coconut.
A scent swirling with dark rage, unbridled jealousy, and murderous intent. Violet, lavender, white musk and vetiver.
Named for the ambitious, vengeful poisoner Catherine deMedici, who used perfumes to perform her dark deeds. A sinful blend of orange blossom, rosemary and rose… allegedly the exact perfume she utilized in her work.
A negatively charged scent. Ambergris, Spanish Moss, oakmoss and three electric mints.
The fiery, volatile scent of cinnamon, thickened by myrrh, honeysuckle, and copal.
The essence of faith, love and devotion: lilac, lemon, green tea, wisteria, osmanthus, white cedar, and Chinese musk.
An allegorical expression of the ineffable, indisputable triumph of death, generally expressed in medieval artwork as a violin or flute-wielding skeleton leading a procession of dancers to their graves. Black cypress with oakmoss, frankincense, oude, and a sliver of toasted hazelnut.
The smoke of Sacred Incense of Apollo twined through laurel branches, bay, and honey wine.
One of the deadliest mushrooms to ever pop through Gaia’s soil. Papery white notes evoke the grace of this fungi, grounded by thin, crisp soil.
A yellow-bright and smoky brown-black scent, horned, pronged and strange.
Be as thou wast wont to be;
See as thou wast wont to see:
Dian’s bud o’er Cupid’s flower
Hath such force and blessed power.
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.
A piercing, radiant perfume: dragon’s blood resin, lily of the valley, lilac and galbanum.
Bittersweet yet powerful: salty aquatic notes and bursting with dragon’s blood.
The Aztec God of the Winds. He is one of the faces of the Feathered Serpent, and in this aspect he gave life to the sun and the moon, revives the dead, and breathes love into the hearts all of men.
Hibiscus, matcha, white musk, and lime.
This was the divine and haughty Ekhidna, and half of her is a Nymphe with a fair face and eyes glancing, but the other half is a monstrous ophis, terrible, enormous and squirming and voracious, there in earth’s secret places. For there she has her cave on the underside of a hollow rock, far from the immortal gods, and far from all mortals.
There the gods ordained her a fabulous home to live in which she keeps underground among the Arimoi, grisly Ekhidna, a Nymphe who never dies, and all her days she is ageless.
Mother of Monsters, the Eel of Tartarus, Queen of the Dark Forest, Serpent Womb. Consort to Typhon, the Rotting Lamprey was born from the residual scum left behind after from the Great Deluge.
All the corruptions of the earth: mandrake, dark myrrh, seaweed, swampy moss, black pepper, pimento, opoponax, tobacco absolute, and tarry clove.
Heap not on this mound
Roses that she loved so well:
Why bewilder her with roses,
That she cannot see or smell?
She is happy where she lies
With the dust upon her eyes.
Roses and funeral lilies perceived, faintly, through an indistinct, ghostly mist.
And eros again the loosener of limbs makes me tremble
A sweet-bitter unmanageable creature.
Myrrh, lilac, and honey wine with crimson tea leaf and sweet resins.
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.
Gardenia, tea rose, vanilla and jasmine.
The spirit of temptation, the essence of lost innocence.
Apple blossom, rose, ylang ylang and golden honey.
A catalytic, potent love oil used to spark (or rekindle) the flame of desire between lovers.
As light and innocent as your first time should have been. The fresh scent of lotus hidden behind lightly scented flowers, amber, and citrus.
A warm, soft, sexual blend. Sweet and alluring. Used to entice new lovers and add an aura of temptation and carnal sin to your environment.
He went onwards, and then came Death striding up to him with withered legs, and said, “Take me as godfather.” The man asked, “Who art thou?” “I am Death, and I make all equal.” Then said the man, “Thou art the right one, thou takest the rich as well as the poor, without distinction; thou shalt be godfather.” Death answered, “I will make thy child rich and famous, for he who has me for a friend can lack nothing.” The man said, “Next Sunday is the christening; be there at the right time.” Death appeared as he had promised, and stood godfather quite in the usual way.
Olibanum, elemi, Bulgarian rose, yew, and oppoponax.
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.
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.
Spotty, hairy, purple, sweet!
Date palm, dried tobacco, snakeroot, and leather.
Child of Aphrodite and Ares, Hedylogos is the God of Sweet Talk and Flattery. His gilded words are perfumed with honeyed rose and the quicksilver scent of mastic and olibanum.
This infamous herb has a long, complex history: it has been used in spells of death and destruction, was a principal component in traditional witches’ flying ointments, and was the poison used to put the philosopher Socrates to death. We have created a dark, profound herbal blend to personify and honor this wicked little plant.
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.
And by that light around the dome appear’d
A mournful garden of autumnal hue,
Its lately pleasing flowers all drooping stood
Amidst high weeds that rank in plenty grew.
The Primrose there, the violet darkly blue,
Daisies and fair Narcissus ceas’d to rise,
Gay spotted pinks their charming bloom withdrew.
And Polyanthus quench’d its thousand dyes.
No pleasant fruit or blossoms gaily smil’d,
Nought but unhappy plants or trees were seen,
The yew, the myrtle, and the church-yard elm,
The cypress, with its melancholy green.
There cedars dark, the osier, and the pine,
Shorn tamarisks, and weeping willows grew,
The poplar tall, the lotos, and the lime,
And Pyracantha did her leaves renew.
The poppy there, companion to repose,
Display’d her blossoms that began to fall,
And here the purple amaranthus rose
With mint strong-scented, for the funeral.
And here and there with laurel shrubs between
A tombstone lay, inscrib’d with stains of woe,
And stanzas sad, throughout the dismal green,
Lamented for the dead that slept below.
A sorrowful graveyard bouquet of somber blooms, funereal boughs, dismal green and laden with grief.
The Dark Side of Air: a high pitched, tangy, clear scent — light China rain deepened by murky vetivert.
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.
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 Dragon’s Isle: smoke and fire, earth and wind. The rage of the elements blasting over a primordial paradise.
Bust out the dzang dzi! This scent honors the zombies of Chinese lore.
Mandarin orange, white musk, mango, and white sandalwood.
The Tibetan goddess of love and wealth. Her scent is a harmonious, sweet, enchanting blend of three lotus blooms and three roses.
We sang till almost night, and drank my good store of wine; and then they parted and I to my chamber, where I did read through L’Ecole des Filles; a lewd book, but what doth me no wrong to read for imagination’s sake, and after I had done it, I burned it, that it might not be among my books to my shame.
Published around 1655, this is considered to be the origin of modern pornography in France. It is a discourse between two young ladies, the elder instructing the younger in the ways of passion.
This is a libertine’s celebration of decadence, debauchery, and sexual freedom: orange blossom, ambergris, orris root, white rose, lemon balm, jonquil, carrot seed, and benzoin.
Enfin, nous avons, pour noyer
Le vertige clans le délire,
Nous, prêtre orgueilleux de la Lyre,
Dont la gloire est de déployer
L’ivresse des choses funèbres,
Bu sans soif et mangé sans faim!…
– Vite soufflons la lampe, afin
De nous cacher dans les ténèbres!
– – –
Finally, drowning vertigo
In stark delirium, shamefully,
We, levites of the Lyre, lo! we
Whose glory was devised to show
Sorrow’s brave rapture and grief’s spark,
Have feasted without appetite!
– Quickly, let us snuff out the light
And hide in the indulgent dark!
The rapture of sorrowful things: frankincense, black plum, melancholy lilac, rose otto, and myrrh.
The essence of the most debauched hunger encapsulated into a perfume. Desire beyond love, anguish beyond sanity. Nutmeg, sassafras, black poppy and myrrh.
A pain-tinged, pleasure-soaked blend of leather, oakmoss, orange blossom, amber, and rose with a breath of virginal French florals and a hint of austere monastic penitential incense.
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.
Mother of Demons, Vengeful Fury, Darkest Seductress, Queen of the Djinn, Goddess of the Gate. Red wine, myrrh, black musk, and attar of rose.
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.
A tragic heroine from German lore. In despair over a faithless lover, she threw herself into the Rhine. In death, she has become a siren that haunts that river to this day, luring sailors to their doom. Neroli, sandalwood, ylang ylang.
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.
The velvet flower. A lush, thick, luxuriant bloom, bold and red.
Love’s torments sought a place of rest,
Where all might drear and lonely be;
They found ere long my desert breast,
And nestled in its vacancy.
White sandalwood, neroli, and vetiver.
The Plane of Joy, eternal reward for a lifetime of valor and glory. A place of eternal youth and beauty, strength and honor, music and revelry.
The warmth of amber, the puissance of white ginger and the clarity of verbena, with fresh green grass, lush sage and cleansing droplets of summer rain.
A profound, complex scent that encapsulates the joy one finds in another’s pain.
Ylang ylang, clove, Indonesian red patchouli, and dark myrrh.
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.
CHARIMAN: Why, madam?
CLEOPATRA: That I might sleep out this great gap of time
My Antony is away.
The personification of insanity, Mother of Manes, Goddess of Night Spirits, Mistress of Undeath, She Who Gives Life to the Dead. With Mantus, she rules the Etruscan underworld, and her scent is roiling chaos and churning madness, but because she is the mother of the Lares, benevolent household spirits, her perfume also bears an underlying gentleness, and, like madness, a strange sweetness. Screeching white musk collides with a howl of red musk, with sharp white grapefruit and pale strawberry leaf.
A tropical, humid, lush scent, with a faint echo of Pacific breezes, jungle blossoms, and deep wet woods. Sampaguita blossoms, banana leaf, palm, and narra.
The Unwilling, The Jealous One
Orris, black amber, bergamot, plum and grapefruit.
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.
“The Beautiful One Is Come”. Egyptian iris and olibanum with red and white sandalwood, soft myrrh and a breath of North African herbs.
“A Universal Panacea”
Revitalizes the spirit and balances the humors.
Prolongs life indefinitely.
Black tea leaf, invigorating wasabi extract, sweetened by honey. Much despair and suffering can be prevented by the discreet use of Doc Constantine’s remedies.
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.
The Lord of All Waters, Master of Wealth, Keeper of the Secrets in the Depths of the Ocean, Lord of the Lightless Deep, God of the Unknown. This secretive and enigmatic Orisha is symbolized by the Seven Seas, and the vast riches and unplumbed mysteries of the ocean are His. Though His reach extends over three-quarters of earth’s surface, He concedes the right to rule to Obatala out of respect for the age, wisdom and discretion of the venerable King of the White Cloth. Olokun is the depth of the ocean at which the sun’s light fails to penetrate. He is perpetual darkness, incomprehensible pressure, and his abode is the birthplace of mythical monsters. The ocean floor is also a Land of the Dead: in its darkness, all will fall to rest, and in this darkness is the Home of the Spirits, souls that, in the cold and dark, rest awaiting reincarnation. Olokun represents all things that remain unknown to man, and all questions may be answered in the halls of His Kingdom. In this, he holds sway over the power of divination. Though decaying matter settles in His home, the Kingdom itself does not decay or erode. He is represented by the mudfish and his favor is shown through red coral and shark spines.
His ofrenda is the scent of the lightless deep: the glorious, unknowable gloom of the ocean floor.
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.
Opium teaches only one thing, which is that aside from physical suffering, there is nothing real. A bitter, soft, fragile flower.
The Goddess of the Hand Mirror, Maiden of Love. Osun is the Goddess of beauty, love, enchantment, elegance, and pleasure. Her charm and incomparable lovliness is such that it can be felt, sensed, and not merely seen. Osun holds the secrets of our deepest and most complex feelings. She is intuition, pure and idealized love, the tingling sensation of pleasurable anticipation, the sensual movement of seduction and sexuality, and quick breath before climax. Osun is the pleasure of the senses, refinement, and the patroness of artistic endeavors that bring delight to the world. She compels us to express our deepest, truest feelings, and is the mother of our tears of happiness, tears of bitter grief, and the swelling of our hearts with love, hate, lust and fierce joy. She is the harlot and the virgin, who bestows unbridled carnal pleasure and also shows the path to purity of the spirit and virtuous intentions. She represents tenacity, the will to live and the drive to acquire, and the desire for achievement and fine possessions. She is the sublimely sweet and the revolting sour that we taste in life. She is charm used to every conceivable end, and is credited with bringing currency and the concept of money into the world, and is therefore the Patroness of Prostitutes and Courtesans. She is a great Witch, and has a multitude of brews, charms, and potions and always has a trick up her billowing, beautiful yellow sleeves. She is the youngest of the Orishas, and is a symbol of the most recent of nature’s evolutions: civilization. She teaches us to take care of ourselves, to pamper ourselves, and to find and express the beauty in ourselves, in others, and in our world. She is the sweet water of the stream, sustaining life. She is the Goddess of fine art, debate, sanitation, grooming, oratory arts, and temples and theatres. She is the act of landing the settlement that becomes a nation. She shows us that time must be made for leisure, amusement and contemplation, for a life of unending toil is an affront to her gifts, and diminishes the quality of life itself, and cripples our ability to conceive new, innovative ideas and create compelling works of art. All work and no play is not an option. It is Osun that provides us with the security, safety, comfort and prosperity that we require in order to make time for leisurely pursuits. Osun is the mirror that mankind holds up to itself, and she is the principle upon which all art is born. Osun’s symbols are hand mirrors, brass fans, brass needles, brass bells, sunflowers, and her creatures are the cricket and the peacock.
Her ofrenda is thick with honey and herbs of love, passion and desire.
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!
Wicked and vicious! A sharp, cruel blend of lavender and pennyroyal.
Like two birds of golden plumage, inseparable companions, the individual self and the immortal Self are perched on the branches of the selfsame tree. The former tastes of the sweet and bitter fruits of the tree; the latter, tasting of neither, calmly observes.
Orange blossom, East Indian sandalwood, and champaca.
The Goddess of Persuasion, Seduction and Sexual Wiles. A member of Aphrodite’s retinue, she is also Aphrodite’s daughter and sister to Tyche and Eunomia. Lusty myrtle and jasmine with red sandalwood, stargazer lily, and clove over an opulent, rich bed of warm musk and bourbon vanilla.
All look and likeness caught from earth,
All accident of kin and birth,
Had pass’d away. There was no trace
Of aught on that illuminated face,
Upraised beneath the rifted stone
But of one spirit all her own;–
She, she herself, and only she,
Shone through her body visibly.
Myrrh, dark musk, attar of rose and ylang ylang.
Twin to Deimos and child of War, Phobos is the embodiment of terror and mortal fear.
Chilling white musk, lemon verbena, white grapefruit and lemongrass.
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.
The legendary birthplace of the Green Fairy.
Swiss ferns, lilac, blackcurrant, Gallic rose and lavender with a dollop of sugar and absinthe.
‘I wish I hadn’t cried so much!’ said Alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out. ‘I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by being drowned in my own tears! That will be a queer thing, to be sure! However, everything is queer to-day.’
A sea of salty tears drowning out Alice’s light floral perfume.
An unwholesome scent. A craving, an itch. This scent smoulders with a lust that singes the edge of your nerves and leaves your soul chilled: red amber and scorched musk with voluptuous carnation, charred vetiver, sensuous tonka, and orris.
A woman of exquisite, unearthly beauty, profound intelligence, wit, and exceeding wealth, the Queen of Sheba – called Bilquis by the Muslims and Makeda by the ancient Abyssinians – traveled by caravan to Solomon's realm seeking proof of the king's reputed wisdom. Bearing gifts of exotic spices, a veritable mountain of gold, hearty camels and precious stones, she presented herself to the king and, bearing her heart to him, asked him a series of challenging questions, and was ultimately convinced of the truth of his wisdom, knowledge and judiciousness. In the end, the great king and queen conquered each other's hearts and fell breathlessly in love: the perfect marriage of equals.
Her scent is a bounty of golden honeyed almonds and a whisper of African and Middle Eastern spices.
Rapunzel was the most beautiful child under the sun. When she was twelve years old the Witch shut her up in a tower, in the middle of a great wood, and the tower had neither stairs nor doors, only high up at the very top a small window. When the old Witch wanted to get in she stood underneath and called out:
Let down your golden hair,’
for Rapunzel had wonderful long hair, and it was as fine as spun gold. Whenever she heard the Witch’s voice she unloosed her plaits, and let her hair fall down out of the window about twenty yards below, and the old Witch climbed up by it.
Angel’s trumpet, bois de rose, orris, and wild lettuce.
A sinfully playful lust blend. Inspires sexual spontaneity, a little bit of kinkiness, and new and inventive ways to get dirty.
Truck stop sleaze. Weedy dandelion and hops with a whiff of tobacco and hemp and a swirl of booziness.
Refined, austere and graceful. A recipe gleaned from Classical Rome: cypress, juniper, chamomile and rose.
I have not been able to find a single new name; but as I came over a high mountain by a wood, where the fox and the hare bid each other good-night, I saw a little house, and before the house was burning a little fire, and round the fire danced a very funny little man, who hopped upon one leg, and cried out: –
‘To-day I brew, to-morrow I bake,
Next day the queen's child I shall take;
How glad I am that nobody knows;
My name is Rumpelstilzchen!”
Firewood and ash with an oddly otherworldly blend of patchouli, cardamom, nutmeg, black pepper, tonka, vetiver, and myrrh.
And upon her forehead was a name written, Mystery, Babylon the Great, the Mother of Harlots and Abominations of the Earth. An ancient formula that inspires unrepentant decadence, lechery and debauch
Piquant citrus tempered by jasmine, soft Mediterranean herbs, lavender and orange blossom.
Santa Muerte, Saint Death, is not a harbinger of doom and symbol of entropy. She is the Queen of Mercy, a source of motherly comfort, and a symbol to all sweethearts that love lasts even beyond death. She is a vision of beauty in her own right: glittering rings adorn every bony finger, she is draped in a cloak of the finest satin, and her grinning skull, beneath her cowl, is crowned by a bejeweled tiara. A deep, resonant scent, both comforting and soft: lovers’ roses, solemn chrysanthemum, dark vetiver and dazzling cactus flowers.
Unrestrained revelry, unchained licentiousness! Violet deepened with vetiver.
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.
In 1897, a new form of entertainment was presented to the people of Montmartre, Paris: the Théâtre du Grand Guignol. During the course of an evening at the theatre, one would watch several small plays, ranging from crime dramas to sexual farces, a violent, throat-ripping, eye-gouging, acid-tossing good time, which always included shock topics such as infanticide, necrophilia, insanity, murder, paranoia, vengeance and death by common household object. Our Grand Guignol perfume is a shot of sweet apricot brandy; just enough to settle your nerves after a ghoulish, gory brush with the macabre.
An ancient blend, swollen with arcane power: galangal, high john essence, frankincense, cedar, and sandalwood.
Deep, mysterious, and full of dark portents: oakmoss, juniper berry, myrrh and patchouli.
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
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.
This delicate, spectral perfume gives rise to an eerie distortion of of the senses. It bestows an ephemeral, ghostly, and truly haunting quality to your presence. Green tea, lemon verbena, jasmine and neroli.
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.
Simply cool, the essence of Lounge: the scent of a crisp pomegranate martini.
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 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.
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.
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,
A regal, commanding scent, but poignant. White cedarwood, blue sage and bay leaf.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
Lilac musk, tonka, wood violet, and urbane lime rind, with a Venus-kissed tangle of myrtle, blackberry leaf, and benzoin.
Imperial violet softened by wisteria and chrysanthemum, but edged with the regal iciness of delphinium.
Now the hungry lion roars,
And the wolf behowls the moon;
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary task fordone.
Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud,
Puts the wretch that lies in woe
In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night
That the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the church-way paths to glide:
And we fairies, that do run
By the triple Hecate's team,
From the presence of the sun,
Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic: not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallow'd house:
I am sent with broom before,
To sweep the dust behind the door.
Dark musk, moss-covered wood, ragwort, heather, and sage.
`Crawling at your feet,' said the Gnat (Alice drew her feet back in some alarm), `you may observe a Bread-and-Butterfly. Its wings are thin slices of Bread-and-butter, its body is a crust, and its head is a lump of sugar.'
`And what does IT live on?'
`Weak tea with cream in it.'
Bread, lightly buttered, with weak tea, cream, and a lump of white sugar.
`O Tiger-lily,’ said Alice, addressing herself to one that was waving gracefully about in the wind, `I wish you could talk!’
`We can talk,’ said the Tiger-lily: `when there’s anybody worth talking to.”
Alice was so astonished that she could not speak for a minute: it quite seemed to take her breath away. At length, as the Tiger-lily only went on waving about, she spoke again, in a timid voice — almost in a whisper. `And can all the flowers talk?’
`As well as you can,’ said the Tiger-lily. `And a great deal louder.’
Tiger-lily, ginger root, neroli, purple fruits, and frankincense.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Come whiffing through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
An earthy yet buoyant scent: pine, eucalyptus and orange.
` — then you don't like all insects?' the Gnat went on, as quietly as if nothing had happened.
`I like them when they can talk,' Alice said. `None of them ever talk, where I come from.'
`What sort of insects do you rejoice in, where YOU come from?' the Gnat inquired.
`I don't REJOICE in insects at all,' Alice explained, `because I'm rather afraid of them — at least the large kinds. But I can tell you the names of some of them.”
`Of course they answer to their names?' the Gnat remarked carelessly.
`I never knew them do it.'
`What's the use of their having names the Gnat said, `if they won't answer to them?'
`No use to THEM,' said Alice; `but it's useful to the people who name them, I suppose. If not, why do things have names at all?'
`I can't say,' the Gnat replied. `Further on, in the wood down there, they've got no names — however, go on with your list of insects: you're wasting time.'
`Well, there's the Horse-fly,' Alice began, counting off the names on her fingers.
`All right,' said the Gnat: `half way up that bush, you'll see a Rocking-horse-fly, if you look. It's made entirely of wood, and gets about by swinging itself from branch to branch.'
`What does it live on?' Alice asked, with great curiosity.
`Sap and sawdust,' said the Gnat. `Go on with the list.'
Alice looked up at the Rocking-horse-fly with great interest, and made up her mind that it must have been just repainted, it looked so bright and sticky; and then she went on.
Shellacked wood, sap, sawdust, and privet.
`Look on the branch above your head,’ said the Gnat, `and there you’ll find a Snap-Dragon-fly. Its body is made of plum-pudding, its wings of holly-leaves, and its head is a raisin burning in brandy.’
`And what does it live on?’
`Frumenty and mince pie,’ the Gnat replied; `and it makes its nest in a Christmas box.’
Plum pudding, holly, and brandy-soaked raisin with frumenty, mince pie, and a hint of suet.
In another time, long ago lived an old man and his wife. Both of them had twelve sons and three daughters. The youngest being named Egle. On a warm summer evening all three girls decided to go swimming. After splashing about with each other and bathing they climbed onto the riverbank to dress and groom their hair. But the youngest, Egle, only stared for a serpent had slithered into the sleeve of her blouse. What was she to do? The eldest girl grabbed Egle’s blouse. She threw the blouse down and jumped on it, anything to get rid of the serpent. But the serpent turned to the youngest, Egle, and spoke to her in a man’s voice:
Egle, promise to become my bride and I will gladly come out.
Egle began to cry how could she marry a serpent? Through her tears she answered:
Please give me back my blouse and return from whence you came, in peace.
But the serpent would not listen:
Promise to become my bride and I will gladly come out.
There was nothing else she could do; she promised the serpent to become his bride.
Ocean water, hyacinth petals, star jasmine, and fir.
There was once upon a time a woman who had an only daughter. When the child was about seven years old she used to pass every day, on her way to school, an orchard where there was a wild plum tree, with delicious ripe plums hanging from the branches. Each morning the child would pick one, and put it into her pocket to eat at school. For this reason she was called Prunella. Now, the orchard belonged to a witch. One day the witch noticed the child gathering a plum, as she passed along the road. Prunella did it quite innocently, not knowing that she was doing wrong in taking the fruit that hung close to the roadside. But the witch was furious, and next day hid herself behind the hedge, and when Prunella came past, and put out her hand to pluck the fruit, she jumped out and seized her by the arm.
'Ah! you little thief!' she exclaimed. 'I have caught you at last. Now you will have to pay for your misdeeds.'
Ripe purple plums, wildflowers, and cream.
But at evening she came all at once to the green lawn where the wretched little hut stood on its hens’ legs. The wall around the hut was made of human bones and on its top were skulls. There was a gate in the wall, whose hinges were the bones of human feet and whose locks were jaw-bones set with sharp teeth. The sight filled Vasilissa with horror and she stopped as still as a post buried in the ground.
Creaky wood and sun-dried thatching, clacking bones, leering skulls, burnt herbs, and enormous magical chicken feet.
There was once a miller who was very poor, but he had a beautiful daughter. Now, it happened that he came to speak to the king, and, to give himself importance, he said to him, “I have a daughter who can spin straw into gold.”
The king said to the miller, “That is a talent that pleases me well; if she be as skilful as you say, bring her to-morrow to the palace, and I will put her to the proof.”
When the maiden was brought to him, he led her to a room full of straw, gave her a wheel and spindle, and said, “Now set to work, and if by the morrow this straw be not spun into gold, you shall die.” He locked the door, and left the maiden alone.
Spun gold, tear-soaked straw, and rose-infused amber.
“Well, I suppose I must tell you now,” he replied; “two of my daughters must prepare themselves to be married, for the marriages certainly will take place. The old goblin from Norway, who lives in the ancient Dovre mountains, and who possesses many castles built of rock and freestone, besides a gold mine, which is better than all, so it is thought, is coming with his two sons, who are both seeking a wife. The old goblin is a true-hearted, honest, old Norwegian graybeard; cheerful and straightforward. I knew him formerly, when we used to drink together to our good fellowship: he came here once to fetch his wife, she is dead now. She was the daughter of the king of the chalk-hills at Moen. They say he took his wife from chalk; I shall be delighted to see him again. It is said that the boys are ill-bred, forward lads, but perhaps that is not quite correct, and they will become better as they grow older. Let me see that you know how to teach them good manners.”
A crown of hardened ice and polished fir-cones.
`Ah, ah! you thought to find your lady love, but the pretty bird has flown and its song is dumb; the cat caught it, and will scratch out your eyes too. Rapunzel is lost to you for ever–you will never see her more.’
The Prince was beside himself with grief, and in his despair he jumped right down from the tower, and, though he escaped with his life, the thorns among which he fell pierced his eyes out. Then he wandered, blind and miserable, through the wood, eating nothing but roots and berries, and weeping and lamenting the loss of his lovely bride.
Thorn-spiked vines, blood, and tears.
Lush, velvet-red blooms born from the blood shed in the eternal battle between Set and Horus the Avenger.
The Tree of Poisons. Every aspect of this tree is toxic, from the narcotic, lethal fumes that it emits, to its oozing, poisonous sap.
A deceptively tranquil scent: heady fruits, dry bark, and deep green leaves, enveloped by a dark and sinister murk.
After these things, surveying the entrances of the north, above the mountains, I perceived seven mountains replete with pure nard, odoriferous trees, cinnamon and papyrus.
From there I passed on above the summits of those mountains to some distance eastwards, and went over the Erythraean sea. And when I was advanced far beyond it, I passed along above the angel Zateel, and arrived at the garden of righteousness.
In this garden I beheld, among other trees, some which were numerous and large, and which flourished there.
Their fragrance was agreeable and powerful, and their appearance both varied and elegant. The tree of knowledge also was there, of which if any one eats, he becomes endowed with great wisdom.
It was like a species of the tamarind tree, bearing fruit which
resembled grapes extremely fine; and its fragrance extended to a considerable distance.
I exclaimed, How beautiful is this tree, and how delightful is its appearance!
Then holy Raphael, an angel who was with me, answered and said, This is the tree of knowledge, of which your ancient father and your aged mother ate, who were before you; and who, obtaining knowledge, their eyes being opened, and knowing themselves to be naked, were expelled from the garden.
Whiffs of cinnamon bark, almond, and spikenard surround a perfect fruit, whose scent is akin to a tamarind, with the grace of a fine grape, as warm and rich as a fresh fig, glistening red like pomegranate seeds, and as crisp as an apple.
The pearl of the Italian Renaissance. Elegant iris, bright berries, gilded amber and velvety spices.
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.
According to legend, the birthplace of King Arthur. The scent of a castle's great hall in the midst of joyous feasting. Spicy mulled wine flowing through the musky heat, warm leather and bright clash of armor, the damp branches of Cornish hawthorn, blackthorn, juniper, English elm and bayberry, and the magical tingle of dragon's blood resin.