Manolis drags the body outside and pushes it over the rocks. An unworldly wail consumes the hot night. Pyrrha appears. She reaches moonstruck fingers towards Manolis who, with an anguished cry, begins to dissolve, to lie at last like celestial dust in the silver light.
At dawn, a fragile flower that might be related to the lovely windflower or anemone of early spring, blows where the blood of Anteaus had dried on the rugged rock.
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Hera, consort of Zeus, had her work cut out keeping up with the god’s infidelities. When she suspected he was after Echo, a nymph who loved to talk, she stole her speech, so Echo could only repeat the last few words said to her. That was the birth of the echo.
But Echo fell for the beautiful Narcissus, son of Cephisus the Boeotian river god and the forest nymph Liriope. She followed him everywhere, repeating his words. He rejected her, so she hid in the dark and wasted away, until only her voice remained.
Meanwhile, Narcissus fell for his own reflection in one of the springs of Helicon and starved too as he could not drag himself away. When he died the nymphs came to bury him, but found only a flower bending over the water. Today the Pheasant’s Eye Narcissus still grows in Greece and from April to June is found standing alone with head bent, as though aware of its mythical origin.
It is said that Gaia created narcissus poeticus to please Hades and tempt Persephone into the Underworld. Narcissus tazetta, is known too as Polyanthus or Bunch-flowered and as the Rose of Sharon, since it grows thickly on the plains of Sharon and is gathered and brought into the house. It may well be the “rose of Isaiah” 35: 1.. “and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose.”
In Crete this flower may be found on coastal hillsides in the heart of winter. It has six star-like petals and a soothing scent. You can grow it in a sunny or slightly shady place in any rich, moist soil.
Plant the bulbs about 15 centimetres deep and leave them in place, although the clumps may need splitting every three or four years. They do not need watering but the soil should be lightly dug over while they rest after the leaves have died. You can propagate by taking bulblets from the parent plant while it is resting and planting them in a nursery bed, although it will be at least three years before they flower.
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LILY - FROM BRANDYWINE TO BULLSEYE
LILIES. THEY UNFOLD WITH ELEGANCE AND COMPEL WITH A BEAUTY DESTINED TO FAST DISAPPEAR, BUT MEANWHILE, WHAT A REVELATION FOR COMPARATIVELY LITTLE LABOUR
Some gardeners grimace and say, “Lilies? They’re for funerals.” But associations with death cannot detract from the lily’s air of the exotic tempered with grace.
No wonder they were linked to the Great Goddess who presided over just about everything in the ancient world. There is a touching tale that the first lily grew after Eve shed a tear when she was banished from Paradise.
And in the way that one association leads to another, the white lily later symbolised the Virgin Mary and became the Madonna Lily. Mary was merely another form of the Great Goddess, conveniently converted to Christianity.
Even the memory of ancient kings being killed when their term was up grew dim, as matriarchies yielded power to men. Women became second class citizens and were expected to behave. The lily’s white petals symbolised Mary’s purity, the golden anthers, her soul. More mundanely, many lilies on one stem meant that wheat would fetch a good price.
Practically too, when times are lean, lily bulbs can be eaten. And when sickness strikes, the plant may heal. For stings, burns and cuts, rub on a handful of crushed petals. If you suffer chilblains, abscesses or other skin problems, use a poultice made from the bulb cooked with milk and flour.
Lilies featured strikingly in Minoan art and probably had religious significance. On Crete, fine paintings of lilies were found. They have been identified as the Madonna Lily (lilium candidum) and appear with the lily-like Sea Daffodil (pancratium maritimum) which still grows wild on Cretan beaches.
The madonna lily is defined with dignified grace on a rich red ground in a fresco, from Middle Minoan times, in the House of the Lilies at Amnissos, near Heraklion in Crete.
Hellmut Baumann in his book Greek Wild Flowers, tells us that botanists believed the white lily was not native to Greece. Then, in 1916, thousands were found in the north of the country, reproducing from seeds. The cultivated white lily is sterile, so this discovery proved they grew wild in Greece.
Baumann also offers an intriguing interpretation of the “papyrus” in the fresco from the House of the Ladies in the Akrotiri excavation on Santorini. He suggests this is not papyrus, but the flattened out stamen-bearing corona of the lily-like sea daffodil. The resemblance is remarkable, although in the painting there are seven anthers, instead of six as in reality.
On a late Minoan clay sarcophagus from Paleokastro, Crete, there are two stylised, yet flowing sea daffodils and they reappear - delicately crafted with animals and fish - on a bronze Mycenaean sword of the 16th century BC. Here there are six anthers, as in nature.
From the Middle Minoan period a ritual black soapstone vase was found; the shape of lily petals in relief. Such vessels were often found in sanctuaries to the dead and contained seeds as an offering; a symbol of renewal. The close petals might be protecting the essential energy within.
And in the old palace at Phaistos, Crete, a clay rhyton shaped like a white lily, was found. The polychrome decoration contrasts light and dark; the splayed top capturing the flower’s frailty.
Back to the garden - and Oriental hybrids are my first choice. I choose them for their perfumed luxury. They usually flower later than other lilies and are based on lilium x pyromania, derived from the lovely lilium auratum and lilium speciosum, from Japan.
They are mainly pink and red on white and may be flat, bowl-shaped or recurved. They are particularly susceptible to viruses, so should not be grown with other lilies.
For pale speckled beauty choose from the Imperial Silver group, with shining white flowers up to 25 centimetres across. Some flowers may be slightly flecked with crimson. Imperial Crimson has more red than white, Imperial Pink comes in shades of this tone with usually a darker line down each petal. Finally Imperial Gold has ivory white or silvery flowers with a golden yellow band on petals and crimson spots.
There are numerous other Oriental Hybrids. One of the most remarkable is Black Beauty (L. speciosum rubrum x L. henryi), which is virtually indestructible. This is dark crimson and looks almost black in some light, paling towards the petal edges. Stems may carry more than 150 flowers for up to ten weeks.
Journey’s End (‘Phillipa’ x L. specoisum ‘Gilrey’) is another outstanding variety. Coming from New Zealand, this also flowers for several weeks. A rich crimson-pink pales to white at the petal edges and it is speckled with maroon-crimson.
Casa Blanca, which is bowl-shaped is a classic choice - with again, some blooms measuring 25 centimetres across. The flowers are white with a hint of green.
My second choice is the trumpet-shaped lilies. Lilium longiflorum - the Easter Lily is a lovely example and lilium regale is known to all lily growers - it was discovered by Ernest Wilson in a lonely valley in China in 1903. It flourished in freezing winter snow, extremely hot summers and violent wind storms. Yet Wilson found thousands of this species, flowering in June. Two years later bulbs were blooming in cultivation and they were to prove the most popular of the Trumpet lilies.
Among others, Blackdown Pink, bred by Derek Gardham is rich fuschia pink with a heavy perfume, Limelight has large slender blooms of a lemon yellow with a hint of lime green and the scented Royal Gold has dark maroon buds and wide-petalled golden flowers. Lilium formosanum comes from Taiwan, formerly Formosa. It is miniature, ideal for pots and odd corners. The flowers are white.
Lastly, there are the popular Asiatic Hybrids. These are the most numerous and widely grown lilies. They come with upright, outward-facing and pendant flowers. Some are speckled, othe
rs plain with vivid colours. Experiments have led to many combinations, from ‘brushmark’ lilies with unusual petal markings to two and three-toned and colour-edged flowers.
Among outward-facing Asiatics, there are Brandywine (‘Brenda Watts’ x yellow (hollandicum), a dark orange flower with red spots, Bullseye (L. dauricum x L. leichtlinii maximowiczii), that has lemon yellow flowers with brushmarks of plum red, and Fire King ((L. x hollandicum x l. x maculatum) x (crovidii x L. davidii willmottiae)), which is deep vermillion with purple spots.
Among upward-facing flowers are Grand Cru with big golden flowers and dark mahogany-maroon marks at the base of the petals, Sterling Star (‘Lemon Queen’ x ‘Mega’ x ‘Edith Cecilia’ x ‘Croesus’), with white spotted blooms, and Mercedes of unknown parents with brilliant red pointed flowers.
There are also downward-facing Asiatics and you may choose Amber Gold, a Fiesta hybrid whose amber tone is sprinkled with maroon spots, Tiger Babies (‘Pink Tiger’ x mixed pink and white Asiatics), whose very strong stems may have up to 48 pinky apricot or peach flowers and Hallmark (L. cernuum x L. lancifolium) whose white flowers curve in the shape known as “Turk’s Cap.”
There are too Martagon Hybrids with this turban effect; lilium martagon itself is usually one of the parents. Unfortunately they are hard to get as they take longer to mature than commercial bulbs. And there is a group of hybrids that comes from combining the red Turk’s Cap lily from Greece, lilium chalcedonic and the madonna lily (L. candidum). The immediate result of this cross was lilium x testaceum, a rather floppy but much sought-after pale yellow variety.
Lilies like a gritty, fast-draining compost with much humus, but they will grow in heavier soil which will probably have more nutrients and be less likely to dry out.
If you are planting in the garden, choose an open place, out of the wind, or a spot in half shade. Try to get hold of bulbs in autumn - those sold in spring are often dried-up, having been dug up the previous autumn. Pick off any dry scales.
In the garden dig deep, work the soil well and mix in some general fertiliser. If the soil is heavy, add some washed coarse sand and well rotted garden compost. The soil will need to be lime-free if you are planting Oriental Hybrids.
Dig 10 to 15 centimetres down and leave 15 centimetres between bulbs. Keep your lilies slug-free and water well, preferably avoiding the leaves. They do well when fed with tomato fertiliser.
If planting in pots be sure they are well drained. You can put washed granite chips at the bottom and use a loamy compost with plenty of coarse sand and more granite chips. These enable you to water often without the pot becoming waterlogged.
You can have a succession of flowers by either planting the same type at different times or varieties that bloom in early, mid and late summer. For instance, you may start in Spring with early flowering Asiatics, followed by the trumpet varieties, then Oriental hybrids and later flowering trumpets from freshly raised bulbs.
When propagating, you may divide the bulbs in the autumn and replant immediately. Also look for bulblets on the stems below ground. Take these off in autumn when the stem has withered. Some lilies have bulbils above the ground. These can be removed in late summer and sown in half shade 2.5 centimetres apart and covered with 2.5 centimetres of soil.
You may propagate too by taking scales from the bottom of the bulb at any time and with sterile peat and grit, pop them into a clean plastic bag. Leave them somewhere warm and after about three weeks, bulbs will start growing from the base of the scale. After another two to three weeks you can put these with sterilised compost into pots.
You may even breed your own lilies and perhaps create a new variety. Lilies are straightforward because their reproductive parts are obvious and easy to manipulate.
Choose two lilies - preferably close relatives - you would like to interbreed. On one, look for the pollen on the anthers - these lie on long stems in the centre of the flower. You can pick the anthers off with your fingers - perhaps holding them with a pair of tweezers - the pollen is very messy. Then take them to the stigma (the thick stalk in the centre of the anthers) of the other plant you have chosen and plaster the pollen over its sticky surface. Now label the flower.
Watch the ripening seed pod, so you can catch the seed when it is ready, or cover it with a fine plastic net or muslin fastened by a rubber band. The seedpod will swell and become upright. If it has remained infertile it will shrivel.
Spray developing pods with fungicide in the autumn to prevent infection. There are many varieties whose seeds will bloom after one or two years. And, who knows, you may soon be naming - and marketing - a new lily that will transform gardens for years to come.
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Gabrielle lies by the shimmering pool, her body spread in sacrifice to the sun. She hovers on a hot plane akin to the contemplation of a mystic. Yet that night she is borne through the scintillating blue of the Mediterranean, to a land of ice and fire.
Volcanoes flare like demented demons, pushing rivers of light through pastures of pristine snow. Ice soars and precariously leans; unearthly carvings by a mad hand; abstractions suggesting to the imagination, faces of an irrevocably frozen species and unstable states of mind. Endlessly the snow falls; an element of silence and sinister intent, for it covers crevasses with drops of many metres and offers the enticement of peace laced with death.
Gabrielle is not cold. But she is fearful, then fascinated, stepping through the snow towards the fire. As though protected by some benevolent spirit of the white waste, she does not fall. And she does not freeze, but begins to glide, as though her bones have grown as hollow as a bird’s.
She is exhilarated and remembers now how images of snow had passed briefly through her mind as she lay by the pool; the cool complement of constant sun. Now she feels the heat of the fire and hears a roar underground.
She nears the fire and wonders why she does not burn. She steps within it where, against all logic, a snowstorm swirls. The flakes fly as though resolved to penetrate the walls of flame, then whirl into the tremulous form of a woman. Her hair is white, she wears a robe of flame touched with the faint green of an improbable spring. An unidentifiable flower blooms at her breast.
Gabrielle stares, speechless. Then finding a small cold voice asks, “Who are you?”
The woman is momentarily caught by the force of the snowstorm and lifted so she hovers above Gabrielle’s head.
“Himonas, spirit of the soul’s long winter.” Gabrielle looks at her quizzically.
“Why am I here?”
The woman does not answer. Her face suggests she cannot. Mortals rarely cross her path. The snow stops. Flames dance closer, framing the woman’s body that seems composed of a translucent element unrelated to flesh.
Perhaps I’ve died, thinks Gabrielle. The woman turns and treads softly towards the fuming vortex of the volcano. Gabrielle follows. Is this hell?
Gabrielle gazes into the crater. Flowers; from chrysanthemums, roses, and the huge heads of peonies to a blaze of pink azaleas, blossom in the field of fire. They are whole, untouched by the leaping flames.
“They are mine. They cannot be harmed,” says Himonas “But there are flowers that seeded themselves on the rim of the crater and they are another matter. Beware!”
Gabrielle descends through the fire. She smells the flowers; diverse yet complementary perfumes borne on the hot air as though in a summer meadow; peace versus fury; cool competing with unbridled heat, like the choice between acceptance and confrontation. And she considers the snow; the symbol of negation, a death wish in the midst of life.
She reaches to pluck a rose. It moves evasively to one side. She tries to detach a blood red begonia. It shrinks out of reach. She leans to smell a jonquil. It remains motionless and she is wooed by the fine fragrance. She wades through a mass of golden poppies. They caress her cold calves. Faintly she feels the nearby flames on her face and hears the swish of Himonas’s robe in her wake.
Perhaps
the Garden of Eden was like this; paradise within encroaching fire and threatened by the cold threat of calamity, distorting the potential of a simple human soul. The flowers could be a glimpse of what might have been, had not man invented original sin. His church-engendered guilt had wiped out the flowers and let in the flames; consuming the spontaneity of his once innocent soul. Now Himonas reigns as a symbol of that soul’s endless winter, retaining the last of the flowers, within the undying fire of unfounded frustration.
Gabrielle reaches a field of deep green. It shines in the fire light as though bemused by summer sun. The grass whispers and stirs; a reassuring respite. She walks through its coolness touched with dew and bends to run the smooth blades through her hands.
She feels her confusion evaporate as though soft fingers stroke her head, eliminating doubt and the racing thoughts she has not had since she read conflicting philosophies as a young woman.
She sinks into the grass. Himonas stands before her; her face impassive yet darkening in the leaping light. “Do not rest too long. Danger came when man believed he was safest,” she warns.
Gabrielle stands up and looks around. The fires dart at the field’s edge. The grass now restlessly reflects their heat. And at her feet Gabrielle thinks she sees the movement of some slim reptile that vanishes, the long grass closing behind it in collusion.
She leaves the field and enters a copse of silver birches. Their upper branches are heavy with snow. For the first time Gabrielle shivers. The fire has receded. She peers through their coldly elegant trunks but can see only snow and at the rim of the field a stand of tall white lilies. Are these the fateful flowers that seeded themselves?
She has the urge to confirm a love of guiltless living; no fall from grace, no threat of hell fire for imagined sins but everlasting life in a field of flowers.