Editor’s Note: This story appeared as part of an April Fools issue.

‘Tis the wonderful time of Spring once again. Flowers bloom, the days lengthen and the maids doth begin the annual shedding of their winter layers. Much is on the minds of those that prepare for the Spring Festival to honor the Earth goddess, Eostra: What herbs and stones shall I fill my celebration eggs with? What wishes would I most like fulfilled in this new cycle of the Earth? Which maid would I most like to fertilize, or which man is best suited to sow his seed within me?

These are no light matters, in spite of the lengthening lightness of our days. Let us ponder a moment what this all means to each of us. The speeding approach of May brings to mind the pleasant revelries of the May-pole, which young lads and lasses dance circles around because they are not yet olde enough to participate in the grassy and sweet making of love in the meadows and the knolls.

Our pleasant seaside hamlet, Islavistingham, is perfect for these sorts of dalliances, being warm with the gooey lustiness that Spring brings with it and warm with the shining light of our sun. In the most pleasant areas, one can watch all but the final acts of these elaborate mating rituals. The pitchers of mead flow lazily but in good volume in the afternoons and the sounds of merry-making fill the air.

Particularly around Sam’s Eaterie, young men and women gather to find one or five others with whom to share in these sweet Springtime revelries.

“What new beginnings,” young men sweetly whisper, or drunkenly shout to the fairest of the maidens, “might our union bring, fair maiden?” But the smartest lads find a small group, giggling and lusty, to take with them to the eucalyptus groves. The women of the goddess of fertility will have their rites anyway, naked and dancing in the wilds, and if one lucky young rakish gent would chance to be there, then all the better for the lot of them.

To wit, I know not of any young fellow who is not seeking a field in which to sow his seed. To him who has difficulty in finding a fit – or a willing – field, ye need not worry. There are many things that can be done.

The first, and purest path to the sweetness between a maid’s legs is a noble pilgrimage into the mountains, to commune with the goddess herself whilst she is being courted by the gods. Sit in fast and in prayer and in meditation for a night of a full moon, and their blessing upon you will shine as the silvery light of the moon itself, drawing maids irresistibly to your loins with demands for your blessed seeds.

A maid might also do this, if either she is unable to find so sweet a seed-planter as she desires, or if she feels her fields might be barren and rocky. The goddess will surely smile upon any who beg her favour.

A less chivalrous male may also find a locksmith to make him a key to the chastity belts of those maids jealous of their fields and unwilling to part with their purity. Maids, beware these dastardly knaves who have the glint in their eye of foul confidence, for that key shall be not only your underwear’s undoing, but your own.

These unchivalrous fiends almost always, as a rule, are laced with the most potent of poisons. These syphilitic swordsmen have not a single gentle quality to them; there is no mistaking them for gentlemen.

And men who wish to remain relatively pure, take heed of this warning: Do not trust a woman who walks as though she were riding a horse. These bow-legged wenches are equally as certain to corrupt a man. Their pools are tainted with things that no man should ever approach.

But in these times of gooey lustiness and warmth, one should above all trust the heart. The goddess moves in ways we mere mortals shall never comprehend, and we ought not to question her commands.

Of course, women are not the only fertile fields in this marvelous time of rebirth. ‘Tis also time to tend to the crops, and to sow the seeds of our next harvest. The merry-making must be tempered by our toil, if we wish to prosper for another year in the majestic fiefdom.

To this apprentice apothecary, there is little more important than one’s herbs, and if one wishes them to bear their sweet-smelling and useful fruits, one must keep good care of them, ensuring enough sun and water to promote proliferation.

Be continually grateful for all the proliferation of life and of our crops and our herbs, and thank the goddess regularly, always offering up what is due to her. Whether it be your own seed, or the fruits of your fields or the meat and the milk of your cattle, remember to give up her share.

Corinth of Anthony is Ye Olde Nexus’ apprentice apothecary, and is ever-grateful for his herbs.