Magic of Nutmeg Visions

It was freezing cold, although the blizzard had ceased. My fingers had already gone numb, and I was sure my arms were turning blue. I was walking but I could barely feel my feet. 

It hurt to be so alone. But they were all gone now, dead two years past. Parents, sisters, oathmates, teachers, students. All dead to the sword, the arrow, and the spell. All victims of the unending centuries-long feud. How I had survived I did not know. It was sheer happenstance that had led me to make my way down the hill into that secluded grove to collect—I could no longer remember what. And I had been wandering aimlessly.

But there, ahead, was a light, a lantern in front of a door that said "Scent of Magic." A shop, here? It did not matter to me, all my brain understood was shelter, a need to be inside. Maybe there was a fire going.

I knocked, then opened and stepped inside.  With the door shut, blocking out the wind, I already felt warm. I looked around and saw stacks of honeycombs, dripping with thick, shiny golden liquid. Their aroma, sweet and sugary, brought tears to my eyes. I had not tasted honey on the tip of my tongue in so long. On the other side were great jars of cinnamon sticks, and nearby, sacks of their ground powder. I could feel my fingers curling, wanting to sink my hands into their warmth. Next to them were jars of thick brown molasses.

I wanted—I was not sure what. I wanted to know there was still a glow of warm companionship, that someone somewhere had not forgotten the sweetness of hands held in hands, of arms linked, of hearts pressed close. I wanted to know that someone somewhere still sat around a hearthfire, sharing stories, laughter, cherished memories. I sank to the floor and began to weep. No use in wanting.

"Can I help you, dear?"

She had snow-white hair caught high in a clasp. Her eyes were ancient, but her face was unlined, and her small pink mouth bowed into a kindly smile.

I rubbed at my eyes and wished I had a cloth that was not frozen. Suddenly a handkerchief appeared before me. "Wipe your face, dear, and come inside. Here, in the back. You look completely iced over."

I stood slowly, not wanting to leave this room with its sweet offerings. But she motioned to me, leading me into a back room. If she could offer me a cup of something, it would be worth sitting in quiet for a bit.

As I entered the room, a new scent hit my nostrils. But there was nothing in the room except a table and two chairs. The table held two empty cups, and a large clear glass sphere resting on a stand. The walls held no pictures, no shelves or cupboards, no curtains, nor was there any rug on the floor. It was strange, I could smell the aroma so strongly, but no jar stood in the corner.

"Sit down, my dear. Here, at the table." I took one chair, but instead of taking the other, she remained standing, simply lifting the sphere from its cradle. She began to turn it. As she did so, that scent seemed to grow stronger. Sharp, sweet, drifting through the room on an oddly hot breeze, smelling of sand, sea, earth and sun.  I felt myself suddenly wishing for a cider of red applefruit, sprinkled with brown powder…what was that aroma….

Suddenly, they stood before me. Countless men and women. Some looked like poor field laborers with bare feet and callused hands, others like wealthy merchants, coins shifting from hand to hand. Several looked like they were busy baking, their arms covered in flour.

And they were all standing in a deep circle of brown nuts.

These nuts, nutmeg I remembered they were called, bore the sharpest most sweetly pungent aroma, familiar and yet strange to me. Familiar, because I had always smelled it from the ovens and storage sheds of my village. We loved this spice. Travelers brought sacks of these nuts to us, coming through our village on their way from the great coastal cities. We would barter for a few sacks, enough to last us all a season or two. Nutmeg  calmed a delicate digestion, brought visions to the seekers, spiced up a caffe, flavored a custard, and made an ordinary lamb stew fragrantly exotic.

But the scent was also strange.  It seemed I had never smelled it in its raw state. I had always sampled the meats, the pies, the drinks, after they were prepared. I was a traveler of the unseen roads, considered exempt from labor of any kind. I did no cooking, no harvesting, my meals brought to me.  The spices had all combined. I could sometimes tell one from another, but I often only considered the meal before me, never its component parts.

Sort of like the way I had always journeyed down the unseen roads. I had only ever considered the journey's end, never the twists and turns of the road. 

"Nutmeg is just a spice, dear, nothing more."

Her voice was as a whisper in my head. The old lady knew it was more, of this I felt certain. But she could not know what it meant for me. She was showing me a door, I had to step through it on my own.

I held out my hands to the spirit people before me, though I knew not what impelled me to do so. They thrust handfuls of nuts into my hands. I crushed the nuts into powder between my palms, until my hands were covered back and front in pungent brown spice. Without hesitation, I inhaled the sharp sweetness deeply. This was all a vision, so no harm could come to me.

A pie made of large orange gourds—a stew of melanzane and tomato---a rich egg custard….

I inhaled again.

Sweet heat, a warm liquid cascading down my throat---a tangy bit of meat and turnips, flavored by the nuts to an exotic perfection---a pinch or two of the powder, thrown on the hearth in gratitude to the spirits.

I inhaled again.

My mother's soft voice, singing as she kneaded bread---the laughter of my sisters as they brought in fresh milk---the gossiping stories of the old ones over the village fires---loud voices haggling in a marketplace---chanting songs of the harvesters in the island fields.

I inhaled yet again, caught in the throes of the vision journey.

Sunlight glistening off swords---blood drying from the dead lying on a great battlefield---a stone wall, battered by catapults---countless soldiers dying over and over on every side. Two men, replicated over and over through the eons. Each claiming the rightness of his cause, neither willing to give in to the other.  Two men, setting into motion a feud that would continue on through hundreds of deaths. Did they even know why their descendants fought, any more?

I inhaled one last time.

Lovers sharing wine around a small campfire, cuddled close in a candlelit hut---fathers playing games with their sons, mothers teaching their daughters how to weave---swords taking off limbs, the screams of children, women mourning for their babies, toddlers left wailing over the stiff bodies of their fathers---the stillness, left in the land when all the songs and laughter are silenced---the empty houses, when there are no longer sons and daughters to marry and bring new babies alive.

Had anyone ever stopped to smell the nutmeg? Had they not taken a moment, to let its spicy warmth melt the cold hate in their souls? Had they never partaken of its rich essence? Had they never taken notice of its vibrant warmth, its gift of deep earth and intense spirit?

But I had now. I knew the story of the spice. I knew how, in its presence, hearts would grow together, truths would be seen, and dreams would be shared.

The vision had ended. The spirit people had disappeared. The sphere rested once again in its cradle. I looked around the room and saw shelves on the walls.  On the eastern side, the shelves held small jars of nuts and powders.  One jar sat open on the table, and I smelled the pungent aroma of nutmeg. My mouth watered at the thought of a rich sweet potato pie, scented with the spice. And I badly wanted a drink. I was no longer cold, but I was now so hungry.

The old woman was pouring a steaming liquid into both cups.  Caffe, sprinkled with nutmeg. Then she brought out a plate containing a pie. My eyes widened, and she laughed softly.

"And you thought only you brought the magic with you?"

I finally laughed heartily, as I felt my heart, the last part of me still frozen, melt into joy. As we ate in quiet companionship, I knew I would take some of the nuts, and bring them out into the land. I needed to find the feuding warriors, and find a way to make the fragrance live for them as well.

We can all see visions, you know. Sometimes it just takes a bit of spice.