Ambre Noir Brecourt 2011

Magic and witchcraft, the dark knowledge of the primal powers. Summoning them and igniting passion was the witches' skill - those lonely women who are still surrounded by an aura of fascination. The witch and her dark, tough dripping tinctures, mixed to bewitch the senses, to draw the lover into obsession, to force return love. In the dark forests, surrounded by thickets and ancient trees, once hid those women who were said to have had power over the living and the dead with the help of the devil. On secret paths came to them those whose souls twisted in flames. Unrequited love and desire usually drove women to turn to a knowledgeable person in order to push fate in the right direction. How tempting the prospect of throwing someone into desire before whom there is no escape! For this the seekers sacrificed jewellery, gold, valuable possessions and not least their fear of God.
The room is dark, smoky and full of mystical objects. Dry herbs, grasses, flowers, lumps of feather and blood, resins and stones surround the fireplace - heart and soul of the witch house. The supplicant is torn between fear and trust, between the urge to escape and the prospect of success. The longed for is only one spell away - and yet the witch is like from another world. She puts the kettle on the embers and her nimble fingers crumble in all the strange stuff that is needed to rob the man of his senses. Smoke rises and it hisses. The witch mumbles and calls the elements. The poor lovelorn can't avert her eyes from the embers. The name of the lover floats a hundred times over the kettle, dances with the smoke, whispers, invokes the rough voice of the witch, the voice of a woman who rarely speaks. The odours are strange and never smelled, and yet they touch deep inside. The witch swings back and forth, her lips forming the secret words, her eyes blazing like the embers under the kettle. There it bubbles, labdanum and amber melt, myrrh twigs, flowers and splinters of wood sink into it. The shape of the seeker is only a shadow in the smoky space. Her mind is bewitched, confused, detached from fear and reality. She's not the way she is anymore and she's getting more and more the way she wants to be to him. The witch scratches the tough cooked lump out of the kettle.
It is dark brown, velvety soft and it smells as it looks - of forbidden desire, of dark magic and of the devil of its power. The witch wraps it in green leaves.
- When the moon gets full and the night lights up, go to the creek at midnight. There wash three malls and rub a small piece on your breasts, thighs and stomach. Let your hair dry in the moonlight and go back to the village. Stir a small clot into sweet wine. Wake him up and let him drink. Be with him.
The woman nods her red eyes and pulls out a gold coin from under her warm breasts. The witch reaches for it and urges her to leave:
- Take that path under that old oak tree up ahead. Put your scarf deep over your face. And be careful! Nobody should know where you've been!
The woman walks quickly between the bushes and only a few moments later her steps are no longer audible.
The witch rubs her irritated eyes and goes inside to prepare for the next supplicant. Even if the pyre threatens, desire is always stronger than fear