As a witch, I am of course an expert in herbs and plants, and it amused me greatly the other day when a certain man – desirous of my affection – reached spontaneously for a flower as we wandered the Camí de Ronda; I accepted it graciously, without mentioning that he had in fact picked me one of the most beautiful deadly poisons in the Mediterranean world: Oleander.
Known in Latin as Nerium oleander, it was catalogued in antiquity by Pliny the Elder, who warned that even honey made near it could be dangerous, and its reputation only deepened over time. Roman soldiers were said to have died after roasting meat on oleander skewers, and in later centuries it cropped up repeatedly in cases of quiet, botanical murder, its leaves and sap containing cardiac glycosides capable of stopping a heart with unnerving elegance.
Witches, naturally, knew this long before botanists did: dried, infused, or smoked, oleander was never a clumsy poison but a patient one, working first on the stomach, then the rhythm of the heart, and finally on fate itself.
I do hope this admirer continues with his slavish devotion, It would be unfortunate to have to return the flower to him today in a different form.
(ملاحظة إلى نفسي: يا يسوع المسيح، لقد قلتِ إنك لن تحاولي إخافة الناس في هذه المدوّنة — تذكّري أن تتوقفي عن كونكِ مخيفة إلى هذا الحد، أيتها الغريبة.)
