[La Divina]: 115.Coriander.On the Other Side of the Wall.

On the Other Side of the Wall, The Coriander Lust

In that house lived a man and his wife, and they were quite without children. The wife was sickly, and her husband feared that her longing for a child was unhealthy. He loved her so, but whenever she wished to discuss the subject of a child, he began to shout at her.
“You will die if you bear a child! You will not be able to carry it!”
She was beautiful, with gold hair that fell in soft curves around her face. Her eyes her pale green, and she was as timid and frail as men think of woman. But on the subject of children she stood, her weak legs trembling under her, and pleaded with her husband so that they became sick of each other.
In the spring the wife walked out to the wall that separated her husband’s land from the small clustering of huts around and the path that led into the small town. She amused herself by thinking of the child she would never have and peering over the walls at the huts and wondering about the people who lived in them. As the soil came to life, her eye was drawn to the young garden of a young mother on the other side of that wall. tiny green shoots of varying sizes populated the brown earth, but the plant that grew in the middle of the herb patch aroused her appetite. She imagined that she could smell it, imagined she could eat some, and at length the lust for it was so great she had to turn away from the wall. She began to imagine that she could become strong enough to bear a child if she could have some.
“That woman is an enchantress,” her husband said. “I will have nothing to do with her, and you will forget about the garden.”
“But if I had some of that coriander, I think I would be strong enough to carry a child.”
“You are too weak. No medicine exists to help you, woman.”
“Offer her some silver for a bit of that plant, for if I cannot have any, I think I will die of longing for it.”
The husband protested and sent her to bed in tears, both of them bitter over the new element in their old argument. The wife could not forget, and in the days that followed she strayed by the wall longer and longer until it seemed as though she would die of longing.
“I will go bring you some of that coriander, but then you must forget, and forget about a child, because your body in this state will never be safe for a child,” the husband said one night. And he stole over the wall, carrying with him some silver that he intended to leave in place of the few springs he meant to take. By this time the garden was alive, more and more herbs recognizable, and the coriander was largest. Surely the enchantress would not miss some of it, especially in exchange for silver?
He plucked a good handful and dropped the small bag of money in the soft, sweet smelling earth and stole back over the wall without a word.

I heard them fighting before, and I pitied the woman her desire for a child. Would that I were her! To have a husband and a home. But I have Rose, and she has only an emptiness in her arms. I saw her over the wall, and I wondered once or twice if it was Rose she coveted, but in the morning I found my soil trampled on, my herbs sad, my coriander raped. The silver I have given in the collection plate during morning mass, but even that makes me sick with rage. I have no real reputation with my neighbors, but do I deserve to have my garden pillaged? Is my soil a whore to be paid in silver for a simple pleasure taken in the night?

The wife stored the treasure away and carefully divided it over her meals until it was all gone. She imagined it working to strengthen her, and once again found herself longing for it over the wall. And with the longing she began to waste away until her husband became frightened that she would waste away. Not even lying in bed with her consoled her, and he was forced to climb over the wall once more, dropping a larger amount of silver for it.
Once again she ate it with every meal and seemed to grow even stronger than last time, as though recovering from the withdrawal of some drug. She imagined she felt a child growing in her womb, and imagined that more of the coriander would feed it.
“I have taken that herb from the garden twice already, woman. Our neighbor will not be happy if I continue to take advantage of it.”
“But we give her money for it,” the wife protested. “My blood moon is waning. We will have a child, and I will have some of that herb to nourish my body for it.”
The husband, realizing that it was inevitable, crept over the wall a final time by the light of a full moon.

The second time made me bitter. How can they think that they can take again without speaking a word to me? The silver is guilt money. I cannot let them do this again, not without looking them in the eye, forcing them to meet mine.

“How is your wife?”
The husband started at the question, looking around to the apple tree and the Enchantress standing there, her dark hair hanging over her shoulders.
“I believe she is with child,” he answered, standing.
“So you have come to steal from me again so that she might feed for two?”
“I brought silver to exchange, good woman. Please have pity on my wife.”
“My pity for her is gone now that I see she would send her husband with a bag of guilt money in trade for my coriander.”
“Please. I meant no disrespect.”
The Enchantress seemed to consider him for a moment.
“If it is not money that you desire in exchange, I will give you whatever else it is that you want.”
“Your unborn child,” the Enchantress murmured.
“You will have it.”

I do not know what possessed me to utter such a request. Certainly I was not serious. How could I wrench his child from the arms of his frail wife? It would be worse than their theft of my herbs. But the situation was so like the fairy stories I read to Rose by candle light. A little dwarf demanding the first born child in exchange for some miracle that would elevate the girl to a wealthier position. Witches snatching babies away and bestowing eternal beauty.
I meant to take it back, but in that instant the husband met my eyes and I understood. His wife was with child, and its first screams would mean her death. He could not be expected to take care of the child himself. It would need a mother.

“Take all of the coriander you want,” she said at last, gathering her cloak around her and disappearing into the house.