Halloweenie is here at BPAL and BPTP!

[kebechet]

Its pretty much T minus zero til Baby Barrial pops, and as such, your faithful narrator is a little brain fried! Add a little SoCal August humidity to the mix, and you've got yourself a preggo zombie. So, rather than babble nonsensically (as I am starting to do), let's get straight to the update schtuff! -

 

Harvest Moon is live at BPAL and BPTP!

 

 

HARVEST MOON 2008

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

This gorgeous tee design was doodled by the incomperable Jennifer Williamson! Corn-yellow ink on chocolate brown tee.

 

 

Also in our LE section this month…

 

HELLHOUND ON MY TRAIL

… blues falling down like hail

And the day keeps on remindin' me, there's a hellhound on my trail …

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

Aaaaaand… its that time of year again! Halloween at Black Phoenix! -

 

++ HALLOWEENIE 2008

A BLADE OF GRASS

Said a blade of grass to an autumn leaf, "You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams."

 

Said the leaf indignant, "Low-born and low-dwelling! Songless, peevish thing! You live not in the upper air and you cannot tell the sound of singing."

 

Then the autumn leaf lay down upon the earth and slept. And when spring came she waked again -- and she was a blade of grass.

 

And when it was autumn and her winter sleep was upon her, and above her through all the air the leaves were falling, she muttered to herself, "O these autumn leaves! They make such a noise! They scatter all my winter dreams."

 

Autumn leaves scattered among blades of grass.

 

 

AUTUMN COOLNESS

Heat lingers

As days are still long;

Early mornings are cool

While autumn is still young.

Dew on the lotus

Scatters pure perfume;

Wind on the bamboos

Gives off a gentle tinkling.

I am idle and lonely,

Lying down all day,

Sick and decayed;

No one asks for me;

Thin dusk before my gates,

Cassia blossoms inch deep.

 

The scent of wisteria, Cymbidium, lotus blossom, and cassia buds drifting on a breeze through gently swaying bamboo reeds.

 

 

JOHN BARLEYCORN

There was three men come out o' the west their fortunes for to try,

And these three men made a solemn vow, John Barleycorn must die,

They plowed, they sowed, they harrowed him in, throwed clods upon his head,

And these three men made a solemn vow, John Barleycorn was dead.

 

Barley, beer, blood, and whiskey.

 

 

CHANT D'AUTOMNE

I

Bientôt nous plongerons dans les froides ténèbres;

Adieu, vive clarté de nos étés trop courts!

J'entends déjà tomber avec des chocs funèbres

Le bois retentissant sur le pavé des cours.

 

Tout l'hiver va rentrer dans mon être: colère,

Haine, frissons, horreur, labeur dur et forcé,

Et, comme le soleil dans son enfer polaire,

Mon coeur ne sera plus qu'un bloc rouge et glacé.

 

J'écoute en frémissant chaque bûche qui tombe

L'échafaud qu'on bâtit n'a pas d'écho plus sourd.

Mon esprit est pareil à la tour qui succombe

Sous les coups du bélier infatigable et lourd.

 

II me semble, bercé par ce choc monotone,

Qu'on cloue en grande hâte un cercueil quelque part.

Pour qui? — C'était hier l'été; voici l'automne!

Ce bruit mystérieux sonne comme un départ.

 

II

J'aime de vos longs yeux la lumière verdâtre,

Douce beauté, mais tout aujourd'hui m'est amer,

Et rien, ni votre amour, ni le boudoir, ni l'âtre,

Ne me vaut le soleil rayonnant sur la mer.

 

Et pourtant aimez-moi, tendre coeur! soyez mère,

Même pour un ingrat, même pour un méchant;

Amante ou soeur, soyez la douceur éphémère

D'un glorieux automne ou d'un soleil couchant.

 

Courte tâche! La tombe attend; elle est avide!

Ah! laissez-moi, mon front posé sur vos genoux,

Goûter, en regrettant l'été blanc et torride,

De l'arrière-saison le rayon jaune et doux!

 

- - -

 

I

Soon we will sink in the frigid darkness

Good-bye, brightness of our too short summers!

I already hear the fall in distress

Of the wood falling in the paved courtyard.

 

Winter will invade my being: anger,

Hatred, chills, horror, hard and forced labor,

And, like the sun in its iced inferno,

My heart is but a red and frozen floe.

 

I hear with shudders each weak limb that falls.

The scaffold will have no louder echo.

My spirit is like a tower that yields

Under the tireless and heavy ram blow.

 

It seems, lulled by this monotonous sound,

Somewhere a coffin is hastily nailed,

For whom? Summer yesterday, autumn now!

This mysterious noise sounds like a farewell.

 

II

I love the greenish light of your long eyes,

Sweet beauty, but all is bitter today.

Nothing, not love, the boudoir or the hearth

Is dearer than the sunshine on the sea.

 

Still love me, tender heart! Be a mother

Even to the ingrate, to the wicked,

Lover, sister, ephemeral sweetness

Of fall's glory or of the setting sun.

 

Short-lived task! The tomb awaits, merciless.

Ah! Let me, my head resting on your knees,

Savor, regretting the white hot summer,

The autumn's last rays yellow and tender.

 

The scent of the year's fall and the setting sun, ominous and foreboding: dried leaves, charred wood, blood musk, amber, khus, and Nicotiana tabacum.

 

 

DAY OF THE SKULLS

In Bolivia, many people hold to the tradition of keeping the skulls of their ancestors with them in their homes, caring for their remains. It is believed that each person has seven souls, and one of those souls stays with the skull after death, enabling a spirit to grant protection and prophetic dreams to their descendants, and to bless their families with good health and prosperity.

 

The Bolivian Fiesta de las Ñatitas, or Dia de los Ñatitas, is a day of honor for these ancestors. Their skulls are dressed with fragrant blossoms, and offerings of cocoa leaves, alcohol, and cigarettes are made.

 

White sandalwood, beeswax, and frankincense crowned by hydrangea, rose, and kantuta blossoms, dressed with tobacco, cocoa leaves and flowers from the sacred Cactus of the Four Winds.

 

 

GRAVEYARD DIRT 2008

A tribute to a somewhat nefarious and truly notorious ingredient in New Orleans spellcrafting. It is employed in hoodoo rootwork for various reasons, primarily in spells of protection, "tricking" your enemies, binding, and even love magick. The graves are chosen based on the type of working, and are determined by the type of spirit that lies there and the manner of their demise. Payment is always required in the form of offerings to the deceased. This is the scent of pure graveyard dust, spattered with grave loam and dusted lightly with tombstone moss.

 

 

HUESOS DE SANTO

On All Saints Day, Spanish families visit their loved ones in the cemeteries, keeping vigil throughout the evening, saying prayers for the dead. Family burial plots are cleaned and tended, and graves are adorned with gladiolas, chrysanthemums, and roses. Bone-shaped pastries called Saint's Bones, or the Bones of the Holy, are baked and shared in honor of the souls in Purgatory, and to remind us of those who no longer share our repast, but with whom we one day hope to be reunited with again.

 

Orange-glazed cake, dotted with anise seed, and filled with custard, set beside a bouquet of celebratory funeral flowers.

 

 

MEDITATION IN AUTUMN

Withered vines, gnarled trees, twilight crows,

river flowing beneath the little bridge,

past someone's home.

The wind blows from the west

where the sun sets, it blows

across the ancient road,

across the bony horse

across the despairing man

who stands at heaven's edge.

 

A desolate scent, dusty, bleak, and withered: old wood, burnt brown sandalwood, and twisted vines.

 

 

MICTECACIHUATL

Known as the Mistress of Bones and the Lady of the Dead, she is the Queen of Mictlan, the Aztec Underworld, who still presides over today's Day of the Dead rituals. Sometimes known now as La Huesuda, she brings peace and joy to the spirits of the deceased, and blesses the living who do honor to those who have passed before them.

 

Copal, precious woods, South American spices, agave nectar, cigar tobacco, and roses.

 

 

SAMHAIN 2008

Truly the scent of autumn itself -- damp woods, fir needle, and black patchouli with the gentlest touches of warm pumpkin, clove, nutmeg, allspice, sweet red apple and mullein.

 

 

STICKY PILLOWCASE

Terminal sugar rush. A little goblin's candy bag, upended.

 

Smushed candy corn, rock candy dust, marshmallow gunk, strawberry goo, spun blue sugar, globs of salt water taffy, and lint.

 

 

SUGAR SKULL 2008

Vibrant with the joy and sweetness of life in death! A blend of five sugars, lightly dusted with candied fruits.

 

 

TO AUTUMN

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

 

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breat whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

 

Mist and mellow fruitfulness: mist-swirled, moss-covered bark and dry red leaves, apple pulp and knotty galangal, with poppy juice and nutmeat.

 

 

++ PUMPKIN PATCH

The 'Patch is back, with five new pumpkin blends to choose from. Pick individual pumpkins from the field, or snatch up the whole bushel!

 

PUMPKIN I

Pumpkin with mango, persimmon, coconut, and myrrh.

 

PUMPKIN II

Pumpkin with black musk, leather accord, tonka, teak, orange wood, and opoponax.

 

PUMPKIN III

Pumpkin with pink grapefruit, lemon verbena, yuzu, lime, parsley, and mint.

 

PUMPKIN IV

Pumpkin with white sage, cherry tobacco, honey, smoky vanilla, cedar, and pine.

 

PUMPKIN V

Pumpkin with cranberry, strawberry, red musk, red rose, rosehip, frankincense, fig, jasmine, and carnation.

 

 

PUMPKIN PLUNDER

If you purchase Pumpkin Plunder, you will receive an imp of Needle in a Haystack: a scent created to compliment and complete the collection.

 

Needle in a Haystack

Hay absolute, sun-baked pumpkin rind, twisting vines, and the tiniest sparkle of gleaming metal.

 

 

Label artwork for the Halloweenies and Pumpkin Patch by our beloved Jennifer Williamson!

 

 

But wait! - there's more!

 

This autumn, we are paying a visit to the quiet eastern shore of the Hudson River with a Limited Edition subseries inspired by the Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving:

 

 

++ SLEEPY HOLLOW

BROM BONES

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff, but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he had received the nickname of BROM BONES, by which he was universally known. He was famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar.

 

He was foremost at all races and cock-fights; and, with the ascendancy which bodily strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone admitting of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will in his composition; and, with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail; and when the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!" The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good will; and when any madcap prank, or rustic brawl, occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it.

 

The butchest, manliest of musks covered in well-worn leather.

 

 

THE CHURCHYARD

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. This was one of the favorite haunts of the headless horseman; and the place where he was most frequently encountered.

 

Overgrown dark green bullrush, midnight roses, dwarf St. John's Wort, frankincense, blackberry leaf, and moss-covered, half-buried tree bark.

 

 

ICHABOD CRANE

The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock, perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.

 

. . .

 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house; so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's history of New England Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed.

 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by his residence in this spellbound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bordering the little brook that whimpered by his school-house, and there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of the evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination: the moan of the whip-poor-will from the hill-side; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes;-and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe, at hearing his nasal melody, "in linked sweetness long drawn out," floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road.

 

Dusty black wool, tea with cream, black pepper, muguet, and beeswax candle drippings.

 

 

FEARFUL PLEASURE

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut; and would frighten them woefully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars; and with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy!

 

Dried orange peels floating in simmering cider, roasted apples, smoldering firewood, chimney smoke, sassafras beer, warm hawthorn wood, and oakmoss.

 

 

THE GOBLIN RIDER

In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller.

 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents-"Who are you?" He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness.

 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind-the other did the same. His heart began to sink within him; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion, that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck, on perceiving that he was headless!-but his horror was still more increased, on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of the saddle; his terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder; hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip-but the spectre started full jump with him. Away then they dashed, through thick and thin; stones flying, and sparks flashing at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lanky body away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight.

 

The scent of fear, and terrifying pursuit: wind-whipped, chilly night air, oppressive black pine, globs of dark opopponax, and bleak cedar, and distant, unreachable church incense.

 

 

GUNPOWDER

That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that had outlived almost every thing but his viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral; but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal; for, old and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the country.

 

Carrot peelings, hay, chaff, molasses, maple oats, red apples, stable wood, and musk.

 

 

THE HESSIAN OF THE HOLLOW

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the revolutionary war; and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the body of the trooper, having been buried in the church-yard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head; and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the church-yard before daybreak.

 

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known, at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

 

Grave moss and bone-white sandalwood, with vetiver, gunpowder, artillery shrapnel, and blood.

 

 

THE SCHOOL-HOUSE

His school-house was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the window shutters; so that, though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out; an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houton, from the mystery of an eel-pot. The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a bee-hive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command; or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge.

 

Dandelion, white clover, balsam fir logs, and birchwood switches.

 

 

THE SHATTERED PUMPKIN

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast-dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no school-master. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin.

 

Soil-covered crushed pumpkin, water-weeds, saddle-leather, and pine pitch.

 

 

KATRINA VAN TASSEL

… and though he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was-a woman.

 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting and rosy cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam, the tempting stomacher of the olden time; and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.

 

White rose and honeyed cream.

 

 

WILEY'S SWAMP

A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grapevines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.

 

Water-logged and rotting wood, fallen chestnuts, oak leaf, bog laurel, and Virginia creeper.

 

 

THE WITCHING TIME OF NIGHT

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was dismal as himself. Far below him, the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watch dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off from some farmhouse away among the hills-but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bull-frog, from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed.

 

Moonflower, night-blooming cereus, white hellebore, English ivy, monkshood, angel's trumpet, oleander, and eastern hemlock.

 

 

Artwork for the Sleepy Hollow series created by the newest member of the Black Phoenix family, Jennifer Rodgers!

 

 

Harvest Moon, Hellhound on My Trail, and the Black Moons are $17.50 each, and CT:4 is $15 per bottle. Harvest Moon, the Black Moons, Hellhound, and Chaos bottles will be available until August 18, 2008.

 

The Sleepy Hollow, Pumpkin Patch, and Halloweenies are $17.50 each, and Pumpkin Plunder is available for $85. Sleepy Hollow, the Pumpkin Patch, and the Halloweenies will be available until November 15, 2008

 

 

Meanwhile, at Black Phoenix Trading Post…

 

A new tee has been added to the General Catalogue's commemorative collection... Dia de los Muertos!

 

 

Bone-white, pumpkin orange, and arterial-spray red shimmer ink on black tee. The inks on this tee are a contrast of flat and shimmer. The finer lines on the tee are done in flat ink.

 

Please note: the artwork is deliberately distressed for an 'aged' feel.

 

Artwork for both Harvest Moon and Dia de los Muertos by the phenomenal Jennifer Williamson!

 

 

 

Also new at the 'Post - FOOT SCRUBS!

 

These invigorating, softening foot scrubs were created with the finest environmentally-responsible and body-friendly ingredients. They are vegan, and are contain no harsh chemicals or unwholesome fillers. Our scrubs are paraben and formaldehyde free, and do not contain sodium lauryl or sodium laureth sulfate, and our labels are printed on an Earth-friendly corn biopolymer.

 

Our foot scrubs exfoliate gently, and soften your skin beautifully. They leave your feet polished without feeling abused.

 

As always, no animals were harmed during the creation of this product, and all products were tested on friends and family.

 

These foot scrubs were created by Michelle Groff of Nail Polish, Etc, so you know your feet are in good hands! Scents by Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab!

 

 

DE RØDE SKO

Do your feet feel like they've been cursed? Don't chop them off! Soothe your tired, aching toes with our warming, stimulating scrub!

 

Red ginger, sweet orange, black pepper, clove, and cardamom.

 

 

OLWEN

You, too, can have flowers blossoming under your feet!

 

Peppermint, vanilla, sandalwood, honey, and carnation.

 

 

TALARIA

A dollop of our invigorating, refreshing foot scrub will leave you dancing on air like you're wearing winged sandals!

 

Peppermint, lemon, and neroli.

 

 

 

For a limited time, Black Phoenix Trading Post is offering a series of spooky seasonal Atmosphere and Linen sprays…

 

ALL HALLOW'S EVE

'Tis now the very witching time of night,

When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out

Contagion to this world.

 

Balsam fir needle, dry leaves, cedar, clove, and black patchouli.

 

 

BONFIRE NIGHT

Guy Fawkes, Guy;

Stick him up on high!

Hang him on a lamp post

And there let him die!

Guy, Guy, Guy!

Poke Him in the eye!

Put him on the fire,

And there let him die!

Burn his body from his head:

Then you'll say

Guy Fawkes is dead!

Hip, Hip, Hooray!

 

Beer, woodsmoke, tar, and treacle.

 

 

GOOEY PILLOWCASE

Lumps of pumpkin fudge, marshmallow glop, cookie crumbs, caramel smears, and bits of sticky fuzz.

 

 

SAMHAIN

Truly the scent of autumn itself -- damp woods, fir needle, and black patchouli with the gentlest touches of warm pumpkin, clove, nutmeg, allspice, sweet red apple and mullein.

 

 

SUGAR SKULL

Vibrant with the joy and sweetness of life in death! A blend of five sugars, lightly dusted with candied fruits.

 

 

And one spray that is part of the Black Phoenix Sleepy Hollow series:

 

MAJOR ANDRE'S TREE

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled, and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air.

 

It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate André, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally known by the name of Major André's tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights and doleful lamentations told concerning it.

 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle: he thought his whistle was answered-it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst of the tree-he paused and ceased whistling; but on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan-his teeth chattered and his knees smote against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.

 

The gnarled boughs of a gargantuan, moss-caked, ancient tulip-tree, dangling dead leaves and dripping with browning vines.

 

 

 

These sprays are $25 per 4oz bottle, and will be live until 15 November 2008. No goblin squirts are available for the seasonal sprays.

 

 

And that, my friends, is it for now!