Wendigo Magick

Through a simple Etsy search for ‘perfume testers,’ I invited Wendigo Magick into my life, without realising that a 1ml vial of perfume oil would profoundly alter my relationship with fragrances. But first, a little background. Please, make yourself comfortable – this might take a while.

Following a childhood of blasting myself with Impulse Body Spray (not recommended) and rubbing my armpits with a crystal rock (highly recommended), I went on to wear the same two scents – shea and vanilla – for around a decade. There was white musk and patchouli at some point, but my memory of those is hazy. What fragrance I wore was never really a priority – unlike my daily word count or analysing the size of my face – which surprises me, given my heightened sensitivity to smell and the fact that I could host a TED Talk on the subject of ‘scents that have bettered my life.’  

As a child, a scent could improve or mellow the mood of neurodivergent little Katie. The aroma of a well-read library book, or the smoke from a just blown candle, birthday candles especially, could make me soar. I adored, and still adore, pure beeswax, with its subtle honeyed sweetness. It’s one of the most soothing smells I can think of.

I often think of the cool, stone-walled larder in the centuries-old farmhouse where my friend used to live. The earthy, mineral-like scent of the stone, mingling with seasonal fruits and root vegetables, was distinct and grounding. The larder was one of my favourite places in the house for this reason, and I’d find excuses to get in there whenever I could.

The longing to bottle the heady, sun-warmed scent of the strawberry patch my friend and I would gorge ourselves from is something that’s never gone away. Neither have I been able to forget the remarkable hit I’d get sniffing the syrupy cordial her dad would make from strawberries we hadn’t managed to snaffle.

The scent of honeysuckle was and still is cherished; as is the scent of chimney smoke, gorse blossom, wild garlic, freshly cut wood, autumnal allotment fires, summer-night heather, a jack-o’-lantern being slowly smoked by a tealight, mulled apple, freezing winter nights, baby skin, fir and pine. I could go on for days.

My Nanna’s house, steeped in cigarette smoke, smelt sacred. When I’d visit, life for a few days was idyllic. I was cushioned from the challenges of being the complicated eldest child. There was always a tantrum when I had to leave, and I always took the smell of cigarette smoke home with me. But at home, the smell wasn’t sacred – it was perplexingly nauseating. If I smell cigarette smoke nowadays I can’t help but balk.

There are many smells I struggle with: car air fresheners, artificially scented candles, cleaning fluids, vape smoke and cannabis, to name a few.

My sensitivity to smell has been passed to my daughter, Saga. I’ll never forget taking her into Holland & Barrett, a health and wellbeing shop in the UK, when she was a toddler, and her bursting into tears and covering her nose seconds after crossing the threshold.

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On the rare occasion I’ve tried to smell of something other than shea or vanilla, it was usually encouraged by what someone else was wearing. But fragrances that draped friends in alluring veils of otherness didn’t work for me. I was late to learn that perfumes smell different depending on the person wearing them.

Snow Fairy from Lush, for instance, a body spray which smelled tantalisingly candy-like on my sister-in-law, was horrifically artificial on me to the point I gagged. I gave away the industrial-sized bottle after using it a couple of times. But of course it wasn’t to be my scent. My world isn’t that of shimmering pink skies and soft candy floss-fragranced clouds.

The only time I’ve come close to buying myself actual perfume was in Iceland, where I found Fischersund (a perfumery part-owned by Jónsi of Sigur Rós). But I’d always be too careful with the bit of money I had and sloped off with wrists smelling like moss and pipe tobacco. By the way, the Fischersund website is an experience all of its own – please do go if only to listen to the poems paired with perfumes.  

Then one day, a few weeks ago, I randomly typed ‘perfume testers’ into the search bar on Etsy and Wendigo Magick slipped into view. Fate kicked my ass, and I put a tester in my basket without even looking at the description. Then I chose another (a not-so-easy process, I warn), Fresh Rhubarb simply because rhubarb makes me happy, and I’ve been in short supply of happiness this year (decade, life).

Description of Wendigo Magic from Wolf Berry Rituals

My discovery left me exhilarated. Here was a scent I could afford to try, created in homage to a northern spirit I’ve been entwined with for years. But there was also a twinge of anxiety – what if I hated it? I had Fresh Rhubarb to fall back on, but still. I needn’t have fretted however, the infatuation was immediate

Here’s a poem about what Wendigo Magick initially said to me.

autumn forest darkening into winter

pines crowded close

so close anyone else would lose their way

but not you

longer here than anything else

that moves

a knower of secrets

before they’re made

your cindery odour draws them

those with soles on fire

The fragrance deepened the longer it was on my skin, and I, naive to the ‘note system’ of perfume, had it explained to me by my mother. The top notes are the perfume’s initial scent when it’s first applied. The middle notes, referred to as the ‘heart’ of the fragrance, come to the fore after the top notes fade, and the base notes are the lingering aroma.  

When I opened Fresh Rhubarb, I was under double figures again, sniffing a paper bag of rhubarb and custard boiled sweets or eating raw rhubarb dipped in white sugar. It’s summer. It’s abundance. It’s joy.

I was going to a folk horror event the day after Wendigo Magick arrived in the post, and I wistfully imagined people nudging me and asking, ‘Hey, what’s that perfume?’ and I’d gleefully whisper, ‘ Wendigo Magick!’ And then we’d immediately become friends and talk about Algernon Blackwood and how the film Raveneous is so underrated. Alas, I wasn’t asked about my perfume. Perhaps this magick isn’t meant to be spoken about aloud.

Little Katie found solace in the smell of beeswax, a farmhouse larder, strawberry cordial. Grown-up, unanchored and afraid, I stumble through my days unsure of anything. But I find some solace in a small glass vial of perfume oil. The ritual of dabbing Wendigo Magick on my wrists and collarbones is a quietly encouraging act; the shifting scent is a spell of endurance, saying, ‘Keep moving, there are forests waiting to be known by you.’

You can find Wendigo Magic and Fresh Rhubarb at Wolf Berry Rituals.