Ambre Noir Brecourt 2011 Eau de Parfum

Magic and witchcraft, the dark knowledge of primal powers. To summon them and ignite passion was the skill of witches - those solitary women who are still surrounded by an aura of fascination today. The witch and her dark, viscous tinctures, mixed to enchant the senses, to draw the beloved into obsession, to force reciprocation. In the gloomy 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 writhed in flames. Unrequited love and desire often drove women to seek out a wise one to give fate a nudge in the right direction. How tempting the prospect of plunging someone into desire from which there is no escape! For this, seekers sacrificed jewelry, gold, valuable possessions, and not least their fear of God.
The room is dark, smoky, and filled with mystical objects. Dried herbs, grasses, flowers, clumps of feathers and blood, resins and stones surround the hearth - the heart and soul of the witch's house. The petitioner is torn between fear and trust, between the urge to flee and the prospect of success. The longed-for is just a spell away - and yet the witch seems to be from another world. She places the cauldron on the embers, and her nimble fingers crumble all the wondrous stuff into it that is needed to rob the man of his senses. Smoke rises and hisses. The witch murmurs and calls upon the elements. The poor lovesick woman cannot take her eyes off the embers. The name of the beloved hovers a hundred times over the cauldron, dancing with the smoke, whispered, called, conjured by the rough voice of the witch, the voice of a woman who rarely speaks. The scents are foreign and never smelled before, and yet they touch the deepest parts within. The witch sways back and forth, her lips forming the secret words, her eyes glowing like the embers beneath the cauldron. It bubbles there, labdanum and amber melt, and myrrh, in which branches, flowers, and wood splinters sink. The figure of the seeker is now just a shadow in the smoky room. Her mind is enchanted, confused, detached from fear and reality. She is no longer who she is and is becoming more and more like who she wants to be for him. The witch scrapes the viscous lump from the cauldron.
It is dark brown, velvety-soft, and it smells as it looks - of forbidden desire, of dark magic, and of the devil's power. The witch wraps it in green leaves.
- When the moon is full and the night brightens, go to the brook at midnight. There wash yourself three times and rub a small piece on your breasts, on your thighs, and on your belly. Let your hair dry in the moonlight and return to the village. Stir a small lump into sweet wine. Wake him up and let him drink. Be with him.
The woman nods with reddened eyes and pulls out a golden coin from her warm bosom. The witch reaches for it and urges her to leave:
- Take the path under the old oak over there. Pull your shawl low over your face. And be careful! No one must know where you have been!
The woman quickly walks between the bushes, and only a few moments later her steps can no longer be heard.
The witch rubs her irritated eyes and goes inside to prepare for the next petitioner. Even when the bonfire threatens, desire is always stronger than fear.