Winter Wonderland

         It’s been cold enough that last week’s snow is still covering the ground, and that means that it’s time to freshen up the snowscape with a little fantasy!  Today I’ve got three pieces that add just a touch of something surreal or magical to the wintry scene.  The first is a new one of my own.  Did you know that yetis have backwards-facing feet, so that their footprints appear to be going in the opposite direction from where the yeti actually went?  This is a myth that has been told about a number of fantasy creatures, especially ape-men types.  I wanted to capture the mischievous glee this yeti feels as he leads any would-be trackers astray.

        Next up is a wonderfully surreal piece by Frank Moore.  Moore is known for erotic performance art, but this uncharacteristic piece is definitely more my jam!  It takes the cliché “a blanket of snow” and makes it fresh and crisp, turning the white-sheeted bed into a plain inhabited by tiny bison.  The pillows become mountains, and fresh flakes are falling, playing still further with the scale.

        One more snowy scene with marvelous beasts, this one by Wharton Esherick is technically historical rather than magical, since it depicts megafauna of the Ice Age.  Still, its quirky, humorous tone makes it seem like more than a mere textbook illustration.  It’s one of Esherick’s earliest prints, and is much simpler and rougher than his later style.  I think it’s got a lot of charm.

        As I look at the snow out my window, the scene is utterly lacking in mammoths, bison, and yetis.  Perhaps that’s for the best, but I’m still glad I can enjoy them in block prints.

[Pictures: Yeti Tracks, rubber block print by AEGNydam, 2024 (Image from NydamPrints.com);

Prairie, color woodcut by Frank Moore, 1999 (Image from Cleveland Museum of Art);

Change, Change, Change, woodcut by Wharton Esherick, 1922 (Image from Wharton Esherick Museum).]

Unique Named Dragons

        Did you know that according to a 13th century monk, you had to watch out and repel the dragons that liked to be abroad in the eve of Midsummer?  We should be safe by now, so let's look at some dragons today.

         Modern fantasy generally considers dragons to be a species (or lots of related species), but during the early days of dragon folklore, it was more common that each dragon was its own individual monstrous thing.  I introduced a number of these one-of-a-kind dragons in my prior post O is for One-and-Only, where you can find Yamata no Orochi, Azi Sruvara, Tarasque, and a number of unique non-dragonoid monsters.  (Sometimes it’s pretty hard to tell whether something should be classed as a dragon or not.  What about the Velue and the Oillepheist, for example?)  Today I present you with a few more unique, named dragons to add to the list.

        France has been remarkably prone to unique monsters over the centuries.  Luckily it was also remarkably prone to saints.

        In Metz, France it was the Graoully, a dragon who took up residence along with a huge swarm of snakes in the Roman amphitheater.  (This was in the 3rd century when the Roman Empire was still a thing.)  They poisoned the whole area.  The Graoully was driven away by St Clement, or possibly drowned by him in the River Seille.

        In Rouen, France the Gargouille was a bat-winged, long-necked dragon who lived in a cave by the Seine and could breathe fire or spout water, and who flattened crops with the flapping of his wings.  Despite his size and ferocity, he was easily tamed by St Romanus and the sign of the cross.  Despite his new tameness, he was then burned, except for his unburnable head.  This was hung on the cathedral, where it inspired some medieval architect to invent the gargoyle.

        In Vaucluse, France it was the Coulobre.  Her name comes from Latin coluber, meaning simply “snake,” and today the colubridae are a family of snakes that are mostly harmless and non-venomous (except the boomslang).  But this one was different: huge, with spiny wings, and so ugly that even other dragons despised her.  She lived in a deep spring, where she gave birth to poisonous salamanders.  It was St Veranus who hunted her down and forced her to fly away into the wilderness in the Alps.  (I should note that the Coulobre might not actually be unique.  Another attacked Petrarch when he was staying in the area, and another was defeated in Dordogne by St Front.  It’s unclear whether these are all the same species, or different unique individuals with the same name.)

        In Poitiers, France the dragon to beware was the Grand’Goule, with a gaping mouth and a tail with a scorpion sting.  It lived in the tunnels that ran under the Gallo-Roman walls near the Sainte-Croix Abbey, and it devoured the occasional nun.  St Radégonde killed it with a weaponized prayer that shot the beast like a crossbow bolt.

        Moving lastly to Italy, the Tarantasio was a pestilential dragon that lived in Lake Gerundo, and particularly enjoyed eating children.  It had large horns and webbed feet, and was killed by someone, although there is a great deal of disagreement over who did the deed.  It is said to be the origin of the coat of arms of the Visconti family, even though that’s simply a large anthropophagus snake called the “biscione.”  Another image said to depict the Tarantasio is a carving on the facade of the Duomo in Milan, even though it’s hornless and looks like a cross between a dinosaur and a puppy.

        These stories all have a pretty similar plot, which also appears with any number of unnamed run-of-the-mill dragons all across Europe.  Another common element of the story is that after the offending monster is destroyed, some relic or effigy of the beast gets paraded around town on an annual basis, and/or displayed in the local church/castle/town hall.  Although this plot may not seem terribly interesting to us today, it’s important to consider how vital it is always to remember that oppression can be resisted, cruelty can be defeated, and virtue can triumph.

[Pictures: Procession of the Graoully, engraving(?) from Dembour et Gangel, 1840/1852 (Image from limédia galeries);

La Gargouille de Rouen, engraving by Guillaume Cabasson, 1885 (Image from New York Public Library);

St-Romain with the Gargouille, stained glass at the church of Saint-Romain in Wy-dit-Joli-Village, neo-Gothic (Image from Wikimedia Commons);

Saint-Véran and the Coulobre, sculpture - can’t find any info about artist or date (Image from The Wyrm’s Lair);

La Grand’Goule, wooden sculpture by Jean Gargot, 1677 (Image from Alienor.org);

Biscione, coat of arms of the House of Visconti on the Archbishop’s Palace, Milan, mid-14th c. (Image from Wikimedia Commons);

Tarantasio?, sculpture on facade of  Duomo di Milano, by Carlo Pellicani, early 19th c. (Image from Yes Milano).]

Magical Musical Monsters

         This little collection of musical creatures begins with a bird, which might not seem particularly magical.  There are certainly plenty of birds with exceptional songs throughout folklore, and some of them are even magical, but this bird doesn’t just sing birdsong like all those others.  No, it sports a human head and arms with which it plays an instrument.  Frankly, it seems like kind of a waste to force a bird to resort to human means to produce its music, but this creature makes music so heavenly that one can never tire of hearing it, so I guess it’s not complaining.  It’s called karyōbinga in Japanese (from kalavinca in Sanskrit), and it lives in the Buddhist paradise Gokuraku jōdo.  (I should apologize for implying by the title of this post that it’s a monster.  I just couldn’t resist the alliteration.)  This wood block print by Hokusai is masterful, with wonderful details on the wings and on the flowing robes that morph into tail plumes.

        We turn now to a creature that is just as musical but certainly very far from exemplifying celestial beauty.  There are several strange monsters in this wood block print from a book of emblems.  The emblem illustrated “The four passions of man,” although I confess I can’t quite figure out what four passions those might be, and which monster represents which.  So forget all that and just concentrate on the funny little guy in the lower right.  I think he’s actually adorable, a sort of animate bagpipe playing his own nose.  Particularly when you compare him with the other monsters, I think I’d definitely prefer whatever passion he’s representing!  Maybe it’s the passion for music.

        Finally I had to add one more fabulous creature with a musical nose, even though I can’t find any wood block prints of these.  The final two illustrations depict the siranis, a creature that can be found in The Wonders of Creation, by 13th century Iranian cosmographer Zakariya al-Qazwini.  According to him, the siranis has twelve holes along its snout, and when it breathes it makes beautiful music.  This music is so beautiful that animals gather around, and the siranis can then catch and eat whatever it wants.  On a fun etymological note, the name siranis actually derives from Greek seiren, the sea nymph who lures sailors with her song.  Obviously something went rather astray along the journey as this magical creature travelled from Greece to Iran!  These depictions of it are quite charming, and while the second one is by a more masterful hand that gives it a lithe grace, you really can’t beat the adorably goofy poodle hairdo on the first!

        Music is such a powerful force that it’s no surprise that mythical creatures from the sublime to the ridiculous produce it as part of their magic.  Obviously the best one to hear would be the first, but I can’t help feeling very curious indeed to hear the others.

[Pictures: Karyōbinga, color wood block print by Hokusai, ca. 1820-33 (Image from The Met);

Emblema. LXVI, wood block print from Emblematum Tyrocinia by Matthäus Holtzwart, 1581 (Image from Münchener DigitalisierungsZentrum);

Siranis, illumination from The Wonders of Creation by Qazvini, early 15th century (Image from Smithsonian Freer Gallery);

Siranis, illumination from The Wonders of Creation by Qazwini,1280 (Image from Bavarian State Library).]

Is There a Caladrius in the House?

         My husband and I are both down with covid, so this seems like the right time for a post on the caladrius.  We don’t know all the details of what a caladrius looks like, but we do know it’s a bird with pure white feathers.  Sometimes it seems to look like a dove, but at other times it’s got longer legs and beak like a small heron or egret, and sometimes it’s practically a duck.  But the important thing about it is its magical power.  When someone is ill, the caladrius perches on their sickbed and inspects them.  If the patient is doomed, the caladrius turns its head away and all hope is lost.  However, if the patient can be saved, then the caladrius gazes in their eyes and draws their sickness into itself.  It then flies up to the sun, where the germs (or whatever) are burned away, leaving both the patient and the caladrius pure and healthy once again.

        The caladrius was discovered by the ancient Romans but was enthusiastically embraced by the bestiary-writers of the medieval era.  Of course, most of them never had the chance to see an actual caladrius because they’re very rare and the only people who could actually keep one around were kings.  Still, there are lots of great illustrations of the caladrius at work.  The first ones are the classic iconography: a man is shown lying in bed with the bird sitting at his feet.  Often the man is wearing a crown, and you know you’re a king when you wear your crown even when you’re lying sick in bed.  Heavy is the head, indeed.  (Even though the crown is very common, I’ve got only one in today’s selections because I was going for variety.)  As for the caladrius, sometimes it’s depicted looking at

the patient, and sometimes it’s turned away.  Some scholars have speculated that whether or not the caladrius is optimistic in its prognosis is correlated to how dire and dismal things actually were in the area at that time in history.  (I think this would be a fabulous topic for a thesis I don’t intend to write, but if you do, please let me know your results!)  I love how miserably ill the king looks in the first image - and I’m not just being cruel and heartless to laugh at his expression, because I know he’ll recover fully.

         However, sometimes the artist includes both options in the picture, no doubt sort of like the little diagram in the instruction sheet of the covid test that shows the difference between positive and negative results.  I like how in image three the patients have the facial expression appropriate to their diagnosis.

        My next little collection shows things  a little differently.  In the first one (image five) it looks like a doctor - or perhaps the Keeper of the Caladrius - has brought in the bird to examine the patient.  In image six the patient looks a bit corpse-like, but his wife(?) is smiling at him, weak with relief, as the caladrius flies up toward the sun, bearing the man’s illness away with it.

        As for image seven, I included it because I love the way the caladrius and the patient are staring at each other.  The bird seems to be smiling slightly, but the man looks like he doesn’t appreciate the scrutiny.  He ought to be grateful, as the alternative is shown right there in the same panel, with a different colored background in a sort of “Sliding Doors” scenario.

        And image eight is here because I was trying to find more wood block print illustrations of the caladrius.  Most of the ones I found just show a completely generic-looking bird, not doing anything distinctive.  That style of illustration occurs in many of the hand-illuminated bestiaries, as well, in which surprisingly often the caladrius isn’t even white, which is its one distinctive physical feature.  So I’ve ignored all of those pictures, because they’re no fun.  This wood block print, on the other hand, is much more detailed and skillful than the others in the book and I suspect the printer happened to have it around from another project.  This patient is clutching a crucifix, and since the bird has turned its back, that’s really the only option left to him.

        As for our plague house, I don’t think we need a caladrius.  Obviously it would be lovely to have the sickness instantly drawn out of us and carried away to the sun, but I feel pretty confident that we’ll pull through eventually in any case.

[Pictures: Caladrius, illumination from Bestiary, 1226-1250 (Image from Bodleain Libraries);

Caladrius, illumination from Bestiary, 1236-1250 (Image from British Library);

Caladrius, illumination from Bestiary, 1200-1225 (Image from Bibliothèque nationale de France);

De Charadrio, wood block print from Tou Hagiou Patros (Physiologos) by Saint Epiphanius, 1587 (Image from Biodiversity Heritage Library);

Caladrius, illumination from Bestiary, 1275-1300 (Image from Bibliothèque nationale de France);

Caladrius, illumination from Bestiary, 1225-1250 (Image from Bibliothèque nationale de France);

Caladrius, illumination from the Peterborough Psalter and Bestiary, 14th c. (Image from Cambridge University);

Caladrius, wood block print from The noble lyfe & natures of man by Laurence Andrew, 1521 (Image from Internet Archive).]

Saint George Strikes Again

         I previously did a post about Saint George slaying the Dragon, which you should go ahead and see here: St George’s Day.  In it I have a wide variety of wood block prints of the scene, ranging from around 1504 to 1941.  But in the more than ten years since that post, I’ve collected a bunch more prints on the theme, so here’s another collection.

        Knights killing dragons has long been a very popular theme for artists, with Saint George being the most popular one of all.  The iconography tends to be fairly standardized: George is most often riding a horse and plunging his lance down the throat of the dragon on the ground below.  Often the damsel in distress is shown in the background.  Sometimes you can see George’s shield or pennant with his cross on it, although of course in most wood block prints it’s black-and-white instead of red.

        Today’s first three examples are all very standard, but they have some interesting details.  Number one, by Albrecht Dürer, has the princess peering out from behind a boulder, plus some bones scattered around the ground to demonstrate just how dangerous the dragon is.  I love its feet and long tail corkscrewing away into the distance.  The dragons are often quite small, as in today’s second piece, but Dürer’s dragon is as large as the horse, which is quite respectable.  As for the second piece, it shows the princess safely away on a clifftop, praying for the knight’s victory, but the most interesting thing about this one is the background.  Wood block prints of this era seldom have dark backgrounds, but this one does a great job using the characteristics of relief printing for a nicely speckled dark ground and a patterned background that is reminiscent of the the patterns in hand-painted illuminations.  These first two are both from the early sixteenth century, so you can see by the comparison why Dürer was considered such a master!

        As for the third piece, it’s quite small and rough, with flaws in the image where the wood block presumably was cracked and damaged.  The dragon, however, is kind of adorable, with wide, happy eyes and a big grin.

        The next examples are also quite crude.  Here are a series of three woodcuts from an eighteenth century chapbook, and they show three stages in Saint George’s battle: he rides up and greets the princess as the dragon rushes in from the left.  The center is the standard iconography as George delivers the fatal thrust, and then the third image shows George having cut off the dragon’s head to bring back as a trophy.  There’s a continuity error where his horse has changed color, and I think it would have looked better if it were black all along for a punch of contrast.

        Next to those is a modern ikon in an interesting skritchy carving style.  I like the saint’s halo and the glow of little lines making a sort of halo around the entire horse.  The dragon is another funny one, but it’s got its tail around the horse’s leg so if it can survive just a few minutes longer it might bring George down!

        The last two pieces today are the most dramatic of all.  I particularly love the dragon in piece #6.  He looks like he’s actually giving George a serious fight, having broken off the lance and spewing smoke.  He’s got an interesting forked tail, as well.  As for the knight, he doesn’t seem to be wearing armor or using a saddle, although he’s got quite the extravagantly plumed helmet.  And the final piece puts a modern twist on the whole thing by mounting Saint George on a motorcycle.  To balance that touch, the rest of the composition is very traditional, although carved in a rough expressionistic style.  I love this twist on the traditional version.

        As I said in my previous post on this topic, I’d rather see happy healthy dragons than glory in the violence of slaughter, but if I set aside my love of dragons and remember them as the representations of evil that they used to be, I’ll leave you once again with the quotation from G.K. Chesterton: Fairy Tales are more than true; not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.

[Pictures: Saint George, woodcut by Albrecht Dürer, 1504-5 (Image from The British Museum);

Saint George on horseback, wood block print by anonymous Italian artist, 1519 (Image from The Met);

Saint George of England, frontispiece of The most illustrious History of the Seven Champions of Christendome by Richard Johnson, 1661 (Image from Yale University Library);

Three woodcuts from “The Life and Death of St. George,” 18th c., from Chapbooks of the Eighteenth Century by John Ashton, 1882 (Images from Internet Archive);

Ikon, wood block print by Michael Aggelaki (Image from eikastikon);

Saint George and the Dragon, wood block print by Guiseppe Scolari, 1550-1600 (Image from Art Institute Chicago);

Victory. Saint George on motorcycle, woodcut by Igor Koutsenko, 21st c? (Image from Saatchi Art).]

Magical Botany X

         Welcome to the April A to Z Blog Challenge!  My theme this year is the Botany of the Realms of Imagination, in which I share a selection of the magical plants of folklore, fairy tale, and fantasy.  As for this whole A to Z Challenge thing, you can find out all about it here.

         X is often a bit of a grab bag for A to Z posts, and I’ll start with the most famous plant of Planet X in the Marvel Universe.  Groot is another tree person, but although he is presumably part of a whole species (Flora colossus), for the most part he’s one of a kind.  He can make his arms grow into enormously long vines, or shoot out suckers all over his body.  He can

regrow limbs, and even after being thoroughly destroyed he can be regrown if a small twig of his wood is carefully repotted.  He’s fiercely loyal to his found family, and famously the only words he ever says are “I am Groot” — but those three words can mean anything and everything necessary, to those who understand him.

        Xi Wangmu’s Peaches, or Peaches of Immortality, are served by Xi Wangmu, the Queen Mother of the West, at her magnificent banquets for the Immortals.  These feasts are held only once every six thousand years, because A) the peaches grow so slowly and B) there’s no need to rush things when you’re already immortal anyway.  The peaches grow in an orchard on Mount Kunlun, and Xi Wangmu loves them so much that she often wears them on her headdress.

        For more plants that begin with X we need to return to the Aztec herbals.  In Nahuatl xiuh means “herb” so there are actually tons of Aztec plants that begin with X, but I’ve chosen xiuh-ecapatli because it’s another of the ingredients in the potion that cures “those harassed by a tornado,” which seems to me like it must be magic.  Then there’s also yollo-xoxhitl, which

may mean “heart flower.”  I’m counting that one as magic because it’s good “against stupidity of mind.”  This is something for which the whole world could definitely use a magic cure!

         The other way to take X, however, is as the mark of the unknown, so I’m using that as my excuse to feature a magical plant that doesn’t have a name at all.  This unnamed flower is recorded by the Brothers Grimm in the fairy tale “Jorinde and Joringel.”  It has deep red petals and a pearl at the center.  It was first seen in a dream, and when it’s finally found in real life, after long searching, it is a powerful antidote and protection against dark magic.  Magic spells don’t

affect anyone holding this flower, and enchanted items have only to be touched with the petals to be restored to their true form.

        The moral of X (and Groot) is that you can find meaning in anything if you look hard enough.  And also, don’t give up on a “dead” plant too soon.  Sometimes plants really can surprise you, and indeed every year in colder regions around the world, trees appear to die in the winter and come back to life in the spring.

        Gardening tip of the day: if you should by chance acquire a peach of immortality, don’t bother trying to plant it.  According to Xi Wangmu, ordinary soil isn’t suitable, and besides, the tree blooms only once every three thousand years.

        So, immortality: good idea or bad?

[Pictures: Groot (of Planet X), film stills from “Guardians of the Galaxy” 1 and 2 by Marvel Cinematic Universe, 2014, 2018 (Images from Fandom);

Xi Wangmu’s Peaches of Immortality, hanging scroll by Kumashiro Yūhi, mid 18th century (Image from Wikimedia Commons);

Xiuh-ecapatli, illustration from Libellus de Medicinalibus Indorum Herbis by Martin de la Cruz and Juan Badiano, 1552 (Image from Academia);

Yollo-xoxhitl, illustration from Florentine Codex by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún, c. 1575 (Image from Digital Florentine Codex);

Flower X (actually kornblomen), hand-colored wood block print from translation of Ortus sanitatus by Johannes von Cuba, ca. 1601 (Image from MDZ);

Flower X, detail of cover illustration by Lotte Arndt from Jorinde und Joringel, 1978 (Image from AbeBooks);

Flower X, detail of illustration by Adrienne Adams from Jorinde and Joringel, 1968 (Image from Carol’s Notebook).]

Magical Botany T

         Welcome to the April A to Z Blog Challenge!  My theme this year is the Botany of the Realms of Imagination, in which I share a selection of the magical plants of folklore, fairy tale, and fantasy.  You can find out about the A to Z Challenge here.

        T seems to be a letter particularly richly grown with magical literary flora.  I’ll start with one of my all-time favorites, the Truffula Tree.  Truffula Trees have tall, slender trunks topped by bright-colored tufts.  The touch of their tufts is much softer than silk, and they have the sweet smell of fresh butterfly milk.  They’re also the favored habitat of Brown Bar-ba-loots, who eat the fruit of the Truffula Trees.  However, because truffula silk is so excellent for knitting thneeds, the trees were severely over-harvested in the 20th century, and are now nearly extinct.  Only careful conservation will be able to restore them and the beautiful habitat they provide - an appropriate reminder for Earth Day.

        Another classic is the triffid, a tall species of carnivorous plant that can walk about on three stubby “legs.”  Although they seem to have originated and spread faster in equatorial regions, triffids soon became invasive throughout the world.  They can be quite dangerous because they have a venomous stinger in the head, but the stinger can be docked, rendering them harmless for the next two years while the stinger regrows, when they can be pruned again.  When intact, the stinger is used to kill large prey instantly, which the triffid can then feed upon as it decomposes, plus they can also catch insects and small prey in the manner of a pitcher plant.  Despite these dangerous characteristics, triffids can be economically very useful as a source of high-quality oil.  Outside of oil farms, they are now mostly eradicated.

        Tesla trees are native to the planet Hyperion, where they are the defining species of the Flame Forest.  Named for the Tesla coil, these tall-trunked trees have a sort of bulb at the top in which they can store massive amounts of electricity that their branches draw in from static charge in the clouds.  When the trees discharge this electricity in powerful jolts like lightning strikes, it causes wildfires, which drive the cycle of regeneration and growth in the forest.

        While we’re covering the classics, I have to mention the Tumtum tree, even though we don’t know much about it.  In fact, all we know is that it grows in the tulgey wood, and is a good place to stand in uffish thought if you’re hoping to encounter a Jabberwock.  Most artists don’t pay a lot of attention to the Tumtum tree, but here are details of the tree from three of the books that I featured back in my prior post A Jumble of Jabberwocks, plus one extra.

        Finally, a much less well-known plant, another of the parallel plants (first introduced at P) described by Lionni: the tiril.  Of all parallel flora, tirils are the most widely distributed around the globe, and among the oldest.  They live in dense groups, and

although all parallel plants are black, tirils sport the widest array of black.  (And by the way, parallel plants are generally matterless, indifferent to the passage of time, and impossible to photograph.)  One tiril species has a habit of lodging itself ineradicably in the memory and occasionally forcibly reappearing in the mind.  Another is a powerful aphrodisiac, and yet another species produces a loud, high-pitched whistle, but always stops as soon as anyone tries to get near enough to investigate.

        Even now, the floral bounty of T is not quite exhausted, as you can always go back and revisit the triglav flower introduced at my post R is for Regeneration.

        Gardening tip of the day for commercial triffid farmers: you can’t dock their stingers without lowering the quality of their oil, so be sure to wear protective gear and enforce strict safety protocols.  Triffids know to aim for the exposed face and hands.

        While the moral of triffids may be that many plants have immense commercial value, the moral of Truffula Trees is not to let exploitation of this commercial value get out of hand.  The moral of Tumtum trees is that trees can be an excellent place to stand awhile, but the moral of Tesla trees is that sometimes it is not a good idea to stand under a tree: particularly during a thunderstorm.  In short, you can surely find some plant to justify any moral at all that you’d like to draw!

        What words of wisdom do you think people most need to hear?  And what plant can be used to illustrate that moral?

[Pictures: Truffula Trees, illustration by Dr. Seuss from The Lorax, 1971;

Triffid, illustration by John Wyndham from The Day of the Triffids, 1951 (Image from Wikimedia Commons);

Tesla Trees, detail of cover illustration by Garry Ruddell from Hyperion by Dan Simmons, 1990 edition (Image from Fandom);

Tumtum Tree, detail of illustration by Joel Stewart from Jabberwocky, 2003;

Tumtum Tree, detail of illustration by Kevin Hawkes from Imagine That! Poems of Never-Was selected by Prelutsky, 1998;

Tumtum Tree, detail of illustration by Eric Copeland from Poetry for Young People: Lewis Carroll, ed. E. Mendelson, 2000;

Tumtum Tree, detail of illustration by Stéphane Jorisch from Jabberwocky, 2004;

Tirils, illustrations from Parallel Botany by Leo Lionni, 1977 (Images from Ariel S. Winter on Flickr).]

Magical Botany K

         Welcome to the April A to Z Blog Challenge!  My theme this year is the Botany of the Realms of Imagination, in which I share a selection of the magical plants of folklore, fairy tale, and fantasy.  You can find all my fellow A to Z bloggers on the Master List of participating blogs here.   

        Today’s plants are a dangerous bunch, starting with the dreaded kite-eating tree.  First introduced to the world by Charles Schulz and Charlie Brown in 1965, the kite-eating tree went on to devour not only innumerable innocent kites, but also Schroeder’s piano.  It is unknown how many kite-eating trees actually exist in the world, but they probably lurk wherever there’s an open park and a few hopeful kids.

        Krynoids, however, eat a lot more than just kites.  Their motivation is to eat all animal life on every planet they reach.  Featured in a 6-part serial of Doctor Who in 1976, we learn that Krynoid seeds are an alien life form dispersed through the universe (perhaps by being shot into space by volcanoes).  Once they germinate, the young plants sting nearby animals, thereby replacing their blood with fungus and turning them into plant monsters.  Their ultimate goal is to make plants the masters of all life.  Luckily, so far they’ve been defeated each time they’ve tried to take over Earth.  (Is this sounding a little familiar?  Flashback to Audrey II at the post for A.)

        The Kalpavriksha tree is of divine origin in the mythology of Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism.  It (or one of them) grows at the center of paradise on Mt. Meru, and it fulfills wishes for all good things, including food and drink, shelter and clothes, radiant light, and musical instruments.  According to one account it was moved to the divine garden after people abused its power by wishing for evil things.  It has gold roots, silver trunk, lapis lazuli branches, coral leaves, flowers of pearl, and diamond fruit.

        Perhaps one of the most famous of all plants in the Judeo-Christian-influenced world, the tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil is also one of the most puzzling.  Planted at the center of the Garden of Eden, yet forbidden to Adam and Eve who were allowed to partake of everything else, scholars have long debated exactly what the phrase “knowledge of good and evil” 

actually means in this context.  Knowledge of everything?  Loss of sexual innocence?  Power of judgement over others?  Recognition and subsequent temptation of evil?  The one thing we definitely know about this tree is that it was no mere apple.  Its fruit must have looked pretty tasty, though.  And after Adam and Eve did eat the forbidden fruit, did they gain the knowledge of everything?  Not noticeably.  But they did become mortal.

        The moral of the tree of Knowledge is, of course, not to disobey divine injunctions.  (Many people have argued that the moral is that snakes and women are intrinsically evil, but the snakes and I reject this view.  So perhaps the real moral is never to trust a moral given to you by someone who has something to gain by demoralizing you.)

        The gardening tip of the day comes from Krynoids: never try to sprout alien seeds, which are bound to make ecological trouble whether they’re Krynoids or just kudzu.  (But at the same time, you can really kind of sympathize with the plants’ point of view…)

        Although the fruit in Eden is always called an apple in English, many scholars think it’s some kind of citrus (along with many other theories).  What fruit do you think would be the best approximation of the forbidden fruit?

[Pictures: Kite-eating Tree, excerpts from Peanuts comic strips by Charles Schultz, March 4, 1968 and January 24, 1969 (Images from ArtInsights);

Krynoid, still from Doctor Who, 1976 (Image from Fandom);

Kalpavrishka, carving from Prambanan temple in Java, Indonesia, 9th century (Image by Anandajoti from Wikimedia Commons);

Tree of Knowledge, detail from “Paradise Bliss” tapestry by the workshop of Jan de Kempeneer, c. 1550 (Image from Wawel Royal Castle).]