James’s Note: In this episode, we get a peak into some of the Witcher Man’s magic, and learn what Druidic arts are all about.
This land is my home, and it’s where I practice my druidic arts. Of all the magics I’ve studied, and I’ve studied most of them, druidry makes me the happiest. In its most basic form, druid magic lets you commune with living beings and communicate with them on their level.
It’s not like my orange trees can spy on humans for me, because without eyes, trees are ill equipped to pay much attention to humans. Well, most trees, anyway. On the other hand, they can tell me all about the acidity of the soil and let me know when the kiwi vines growing up them are taking too much of their sunlight. I can also give them some helpful nudges.
By the stream, for instance, I have a Japanese pagoda tree whose trunk has grown a very convenient bench and whose shade is so thick it’s almost a good as A/C. My food forest is one of my masterpieces, completely full of edible and useful plants, all growing in harmony and creating a flowing web of life. The only time it really needs me is to harvest all the wonderful things it makes and occasionally negotiate with some of the local wildlife so they don’t eat ALL my strawberries.
The garden I sat in was a different story. It’s where I plant all my annuals, all those plants that have grown up with human help to need us in their systems. If my food forest is my iron bull that just keeps growing and doesn’t need anybody, this garden is my little glass butterfly. That’s why it was so nice to sit with my fingers dug deep into the soil, feeling the life in the garden going about it’s business. Sometimes it’s nice to be needed.
As the morning sun washed over me and the garden, it filled the plants with the energy to grow strong and plentiful. At the same time, it filled me with peace. Unfortunately, the sound of a souped up engine pulling into my driveway shattered the oneness with the universe I was cultivating. I closed my eyes hoping vainly that if I ignored the situation that it might go away.
As predicted, this tactic failed and Damien came walking around the side of my house. He trudged across the yard and came into the garden. Luckily for him, he didn’t trample any of my plants. He looked down at me quizzically.
“Are you trying to sleep?”, he asked, looking puzzled.
“Nope”, I responded, “just trying to wish you away. Is it working?”
For just a second, he looked concerned. “You can’t actually do that, can you?”, he asked, a tiny note of worry in his voice.
Maybe it was the look in his eyes that suggested that just for a second he thought I might wish him into the cornfield, but that struck me as the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life. The result was me falling over on the ground in a paroxysm of laughter, almost knocking the bottle of molasses over.
I finally managed to pick myself up, tears streaming down my face, and my heart much lighter than it had been.
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I spend much of my life wishing people away into cornfields.
So far, it’s never worked.
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