Faery Mysteries

Evocation, by Alexander Rothaug

In that Victorian classic, The Water Babies, by Charles Kingsley (1863), the author mocks contemporary scientific attempts to analyse the world. The character Professor Ptthmllnsprts wants to prove that:

“that nymphs, satyrs, fauns, inui, dwarfs, trolls, elves, gnomes, fairies, brownies, nixes, wilis, kobolds, leprechaunes, cluricaunes, banshees, will-o’-the-wisps, follets, lutins, magots, goblins, afrits, marids, jinns, ghouls, peris, deevs, angels, archangels, imps, bogies, or worse, were nothing at all, and pure bosh and wind. And he had to get up very early in the morning to prove that, and to eat his breakfast overnight; but he did it, at least to his own satisfaction.”

Water Babies, chapter 4

This list may seem strangely familiar to some readers, and there’s a good reason for that, It closely resembles those written by Reginald Scot in the 1594 and by Michael Denham in the nineteenth century. Whether the contents are “pure bosh and wind” is another matter again. I’ve surveyed these matters in previous posts and I recently returned to the theme in a chapter in a new book, Faery Mysteries. In this, I’ve deliberately focussed on some of the aspects of faery lore which are the most challenging or uncharacteristic for us- if we approach the subject with the conventional stereotyped image of a faery in mind. Some of the creatures listed by Denham seem barely ‘faery-like’ at all. Likewise, their means of getting about, their pastimes and some of their functions (such as influencing our dreams and nightmares– including our most secret sexual fantasies) challenge our preconceptions as to what faeries are and what they do. This may seem especially so in the final chapter of the book, in which I trace some of the close parallels between faeries and witches’ familiars. I’ll return to this particular subject in a separate post, but suffice to say now it’s another indication of how complex the relationship is between faery-kind and witches.

Ludovic Alleaume, Incantation

We all share a tendency to attach ourselves to narrative that are familiar and comforting. With faeries, this has become the image of the Good Folk as small, winged, friendly, harmless and in harmony with nature. This probably says more about our own concerns than those of our Good Neighbours. In putting together the new book, I deliberately looked for the elements of their characters and habits which are most at the boundary of what we consider ‘fae.’ To some degree, it’s a call for more flexibility in our categorisations. Comparably, my 2020 book Beyond Faery deals with those classes of faery beast that present us with similar problems: where do we draw the line between ‘Faery’ and some other species of supernatural being? Arguably, the title if the second book is a misnomer, as I’d still include the mermaids, the kelpies, water bulls and the black dogs within a more broad and generous definition of fae. What’s indisputable, though, is that faerylore always has something to surprise us; the faeries are a complex and unpredictable people- just like us.

A practical example of faery complexity and multiplicity is the question of how they get around. The modern cliche is of the winged faery, something that’s largely a conceit of artists and is unknown to British folk tradition. Native faery lore has the faeries flying, it’s true, but this is by means of enchanting plant stems to ride on or merely by dint of a magic spell that’s pronounced, often including the intended destination (“Horse and hattock” etc). That’s all well and good, but then the Good Folk confound us by walking around, or riding, or using carriages and wagons, or by sailing in boats. They’ll sometimes even borrow a horse and cart from a human neighbour. Then again, they can travel inside whirlwinds or (it appears) move about by spinning their own bodies like tops. What determines the choice of motion- ‘type’ of faery, situation, weather conditions, personal preference- we just don’t know.

Such puzzling variety exists as well in the faery relationship to our own sleeping or dreaming states. According to accounts, a half-waking, half-drowsing consciousness is common for contact with the faeries; we are, perhaps, at a liminal point between levels of awareness or ‘dimensions’ and (it appears) more receptive to them. The faeries’ interventions subsequently can be multifarious. They may bring us dreams of what we desire (materially or romantically); they may communicate with us, bringing us messages or directing us towards hidden riches; most notoriously, they may physically intervene against the sleeper. Individuals asleep have been physically punished by the faeries for perceived offences against them, they have been the subjects of attempted abductions and (of course) they have been the victims of sexual assaults. Once again, the mechanisms and precise reasons for the faeries using one medium of contact rather than another is unclear. People are as often approached (and seduced) openly and face to face, so why some have these experiences whilst asleep is another mystery.

As promised, I will return soon to the subject of witches’ imps, but in the meantime, and for much more detail, see my Faery Mysteries (Green Magic Publishing, 2022).

Sea-Nymphs, Sirens, Sphinxes- Sex and Symbolism — johnkruseblog

John Waterhouse, A Mermaid

Here I’m sharing a post from my arts and culture blog, which relates to my new book on nymphs, this time focussed on the watery sort, as well as mermaids, sirens, rusalki, undines, nixies and other such water sprites. The latest book complements my earlier Nymphology- A Brief History of Nymphs. Enjoy the read using the link. I also have a dedicated site for all matters related to nymphs: see Nymphology blog.

Franz von Stuck, Sphinx, 1890

I’ve just published a new book, Sea-Nymphs, Sirens, Sphinxes- Sex and Symbolism, which is intended as a companion to my Nymphology from 2019. Having recently read several highly relevant books- especially Bram Dijkstra’s excellent Idols of Perversity– Fantasies of Feminine Perversity in Fin de Siècle Society- I was inspired to […]

Sea-Nymphs, Sirens, Sphinxes- Sex and Symbolism — johnkruseblog

Away with the Faeries on Doon Hill, Aberfoyle

So, as promised, a report from Aberfoyle. For me, it was the highlight of a trip which included plenty of historic and prehistoric sites: stone circles and castles, mainly. Reverting to a previous posting, we also visited Doune Castle (not far from Aberfoyle) which stood in as Castle Leoch in the Outlander series (as well as starring in Monty Python and the Holy Grail). Additionally, we visited the royal Scottish palace at Falkland, and discovered that the market place of the village was used as another scene in Outlander.

Anyway, returning to Aberfoyle, the site of the Reverend Robert Kirk’s grave is actually on the other side of the River Forth in the tiny settlement of Kirkton. The church building is ruined- shockingly, the roof was taken off by the local laird in the early nineteenth century after he’d built a new church over the river in Aberfoyle. Kirk’s grave is to be found on the far side from the road, overlooking nearby Doon Hill. As you can see, it’s pretty weathered (inevitable, given that its 350 years old) as well as being covered in coins. You can just about make out Kirk’s name and Aberfoyle towards the top; the inscription celebrates his translation of the psalms into Gaelic and there’s a shield including a thistle (for Scotland, obviously), a crook (as he was a pastor) and a dagger (perhaps indicative of his Rosicrucian links- perhaps a subtle symbolic defence against the faeries). Here’s a downloaded photo I found which shows the grave clear of coins.

Kirk’s grave tidied up

Leaving the churchyard, we made the short walk to the foot of Doon Hill. I’d read in advance about there being ‘faery doors’ on the route up and approached with some trepidation, but- as you can see- they are done rather tastefully, carved out of the stumps of dead pine trees. Several trees on the way up are ‘clootie- trees’ with strips of cloth and other tokens attached to them. Previously, I’d only seen this at the holy well on Madron, a little way north of Penzance in west Cornwall. There is, of course, no spring here, just the abiding presence of the faeries who ‘took’ Kirk in 1692.

I’d also feared we’d be walking in a dense and regimented Forestry Commission plantation, through depressingly dark and serried ranks of fir trees, but in fact the hill was covered with native (northern) British woodland- as you might just be able to make out. The tallest trees were Scots Pines, with a lower layer of birch and rowan/ mountain ash; the presence of the latter might make us reconsider the idea that it’s entirely antithetical to faery-kind(!) The ground cover was bracken and, best of all, bilberry bushes, which were covered in ripe fruit- perfect on a hot and humid day.

A single pine stands in a clearing at the top, again decorated with clooties and messages asking for help with personal and family problems. As a memento, I collected a pine cone- which, as you can see, were scattered all around- and made my own request. Whilst Aberfoyle itself was busy, with coach parties pouring into the Scottish Wool Centre and eating at the Faerie Tree pub, the hill itself was quiet. A handful of other visitors made their way up as we ascended and descended, but well spaced enough that you could enjoy the silence of the grove for yourself and take time to listen to the wind in the trees and the occasional buzzard flying over.

It was definitely worth the pilgrimage to have seen the place where The Secret Commonwealth was composed. Aberfoyle is relatively remote today; three centuries ago it would have felt very far indeed from the growing scepticism of big cities. Nature and silence still dominate in much of the Highlands.

Lastly, the accommodation where we stayed had a small library of books for guests, amongst which was an anthology of Scottish verse. I was very taken with Enchanted, by Maria Steuart. It’s a fine poem and very apt for Robert Kirk. I’ve been unable to discover much about Steuart- she seems to have been Canadian and was active as a novelist and poet in the early decades of the last century, publishing A Garland of Lyrics in 1907 and At the World’s Edge in 1911. Enchanted was included in the former collection.

ENCHANTED

A new world on my vision broke
When once I saw the Fairy-folk.
Since unto them I gave my heart
I find my joy in things apart.

My Mother chides me that I will
Not wed with any neighbour. Still
Could I, who so the Fairies love,
Content with mortal man e’er prove ?

My Father sighs out day by day,
My harp I will no longer play.
He knows not I my music find
In Fairy-voices on the wind.

My sisters with their lovers talk :
They mock me that alone I walk.
They know not when alone I see
The Fairies come to talk with me.

Me to my spinning-wheel they set :
I spin awhile then I forget
And let my wool in tangles fall,
Thinking I hear the Fairies call.

They let me to the herding go ;
I like it well because I know
I may, in these long summer days,
Learn something of my Fairies’ ways.

So is it that I have lost touch

With all the world : for over-much

The Fairies have been with me. I

With them would live, with them would die !

A Pilgrimage to The North

Much postponed by COVID, the time has finally come to travel to mid-Scotland for an overdue holiday. There are many stone circles, hill forts and castles to visit, but (for me, anyway) the highlight will be visiting Aberfoyle to see the grave of the Rev. Robert Kirk (author of the Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies) and to climb Doon Hill, where it is said the fairies abducted him.

All being well- further reports to follow…

The Britishness of British Faeries

In a number of previous posts, I’ve tackled the idea of faeries as spirits of place, genii loci, trying to define their intimate links to the British landscape. I can see how their characters and habits might be related to the environments they inhabit, but it feels more complex than that for me.

During these postings I’ve made reference to one of my favourite artists, Paul Nash, whose work over many years tackled this issue of the meaning and spirit of the English landscape. He often identified particular ‘places’ that had special significance for him- such as Wittenham Clumps, which he painted repeatedly at the start and end of his career. He was keenly sensitive, too, to the character of places like Avebury, Maiden Castle and the Uffington White Horse- ancient sites that still carry their mystique and potency.

I’m currently reading Nash’s autobiography, Outline, and this inevitably set me thinking again about the faeries as the ancient souls of the land. Nash could discover a ‘place‘ with detectable atmosphere even in the most busy and unlikely of locations, such as Kensington Gardens in central London. He describes playing there as a very young boy, “at a time before Barrie took over” (in other words, before Peter Pan became inseparably associated with the gardens). Nash then observes: “The place was not infested by fairies; you found them in just one special place, if you wanted them.” (Outline, chapter 1) Of course, others had detected a faery presence here before Nash- such as poet Thomas Tickell.

So, it seems that the meaningful place that young Paul sensed (somewhere between the Round Pond, the tea gardens and the Serpentine) was a spot that derived its uniqueness partly from the arrangement of the trees and the sense of secrecy, but also from a supernatural aura (if you were alive to it). It’s a sensitivity to atmosphere- except that I think the observer actively contributes to that by the knowledge that they bring.

The faeries seem never to have been too far from Nash’s vision of the countryside- at least, early in his life. In 1913 he drew a picture of strip lynchets on the Berkshire Downs, which he called Their Hill. As it happened, the owner of the land saw the picture at an exhibition and asked Nash the reason for the title. He replied “I felt it was the sort of hill which could not belong to anyone in particular, but to an ancient people or to the fairies, even.”

Their Hill (pencil, coloured crayon and watercolour), Paul Nash .

Doubtless, being open to these sensations is important; you may need to have a certain mindset in the first place. Over and above that, though, I think the ‘spirit of place’ I’ve been trying to define, to put into words, amounts to this: the Britishness of British faeries in large measure derives from a sense of depth of time and connection. Whatever the nature of the initial experience(s) that linked a faery or elf or brownie to a particular site, what instils a tangible if elusive meaning are the accrued associations that have accumulated over subsequent centuries. These create a weight of significance, a resonance across generations, that has meaning and magic in itself (the story) as well as bestowing the sensation of connecting with previous believers. Over centuries, believers have responded to and shaped the landscape in light of its supernatural links and connotations- “This happened here to your predecessor.”

What feels meaningful to me, therefore, is the awareness of the deep roots of the faery tradition, coupled with the consciousness that it is an inheritance- a shared perception passed down over ages of the interaction between place, incident and emotion.

I suspect I’m still struggling to express adequately the combined power of landscape, meaning and myth, as it strikes me as a feeling, not a theory, that’s generated by certain locations. To understand my response, it helps for me to set faerylore alongside other national accounts, such as the ‘Matter of Britain’ (the Arthurian stories) and the legends of the Mabinogion. What these evoke is a sense of profound mystery- and romance; there’s an elusive contact with something very ancient, the meaning of which I can’t yet wholly grasp. That- vague as it sounds- is what ultimately underlies all the writing on this blog.

For further discussion, see my 2022 book The Spirits of the Land- Faeries and the Soul of Britain (Amazon/KDP):

Of Pixie Poo- and other unmentionable topics

illustration by Duncan Carse

Very little is known about the faery digestive system, but given that they eat and drink, we can only expect that this will have the natural consequences.  The process doesn’t get mentioned very much , though.

We can probably assume that their direction is pretty much like our own- and, given the sparse evidence that we have, this may not be unreasonable.  The faeries can, by and large, eat our food without any ill-effects, although we may wish to remember here a lost trowie boy on Shetland who was taken in by a human family and given milk- which made him vomit and declare they were trying to poison him.  Whatever the exact details, this reaction to a disagreeable or indigestible food doesn’t sound too dissimilar to our own. Even so, it’s usual to regard cream and other milk products as amongst the favourite human foods that faeries like to eat.

What about the waste products of digestion, though? It’s a more delicate subject, but an important one that ought to leave ‘traces’ behind. That said, just as we’ve never come across any authenticated faery corpses or skeletons, neither has anyone identified faery faeces.  Nevertheless, we do have a couple of clues on the matter. 

Firstly, it is very common to be advised in the south-west of Britain that you shouldn’t gather brambles after Halloween, because the pixies have ‘been over’ them: this is a very delicate phrase, but what it means is that they have either urinated or defecated on the fruit.  This seems to tell us two things about the pixies- one is that their bodies function more or less like our own, and the other is that they have a pretty vindictive sense of mischief (although we probably knew that already).

Secondly, a changeling child seen by George Waldron on the Isle of Man during the early eighteenth century was reported to have lived with a family for nine years, “in all which time it ate nothing except a few herbs, nor was ever seen to void any other excrement than water.” This is a more challenging account. If we were to subscribe to the idea that changelings were a human explanation for certain infant diseases and disabilities, we might readily accommodate Waldron’s observations. If we analyse the report as a purely faery matter, there could be several explanations. Perhaps human food truly didn’t suit the child; perhaps (as some have proposed) the changeling was already and ill and elderly faery person who was being foisted on humans to care for. A final explanation might be that this is what faery digestion is actually like.

It’s only when you start to look at subjects like this- basic but necessary- that you start to appreciate how little we might really understand about the faery lifecycle.

Faeries and fire-

Stackaberg on Fetlar

The faeries use fire in many respects just like humankind. However, over and above the necessary caution and care that’s required, there’s an extra level of significance in their relationship to the process.

We’ll start with the uses of fire which might be predicted: as is well know, faeries come into human homes to warn themselves by the hearth and to cook food. In their own homes, they use fires for cooking, baking, in blacksmiths’ forges and in preparing their herbal potions (suspected witch Alesoun Peirsoun actually saw the faes making salves in pans over hearths) . In all these respects they are exactly like us.

The faeries also face the inherent risks involved in controlled burning- that the fire can get out of control with disastrous consequences. A widely known Scottish story tells of some nuisance faeries who had invaded a home at Dunvuilg, demanding work to do. To get rid of them, the farmer cried out that their sithean was ablaze- and they all rushed off to save their possessions. Equally, the fae can be injured themselves by flames. In the Shropshire version of the widespread ‘we’re flitting’ story, the household takes matters to a logical conclusion in their efforts to get rid of tenacious boggarts.  Unable to give the boggarts the slip by moving home, the humans trick them into sitting in front of a blazing fire in the hearth and then topple them into the flames, where they’re held in place with forks and brooms until they’re consumed.

A related account comes from Fetlar in the Shetland Islands. One evening, a young man was riding home after running an errand. His horse was a red coloured mare and he led her grey foal alongside on a rope. His road home took him past Stackaberg, an ancient cairn that had long been said to be a home to trows. As he passed by, he heard a voice call out to him, though he saw no one:

“Dee that rides da red and rins da grey, tell Tona Tivla that Fona Fivla has faa’n i’ da fire an brunt her!”

Scared by this, the man hurried home as fast as he could. He met his wife outside and told her what he’d heard. No sooner had he repeated the strange message than there came a shriek and a clatter from the byre, and a little trow woman came rushing out the door crying (plainly she’s been stealing milk from the cows):

“Less and doull! Dat’s my bairn dat’s faa’n i’da fire at Stackaberg! [Loss and woe! That’s my baby that’s fallen in the fire.]”

With that she disappeared out of the farmyard and was seen again.

Perhaps our shared wariness over fire explains one medieval faery manifestation. In Part III of his Otia Imperialia the thirteenth century writer Gervase of Tilbury described the ‘grant,’ a foal-like creature which warned villagers of fire. 

“There is in England a certain kind of demon whom in their language they call Grant, like a yearling foal, erect on its hind legs, with sparkling eyes. This kind of demon often appears in the streets in the heat of the day, or about sunset. If there is any danger impending on the following day or night, it runs about the streets provoking the dogs to bark, and, by feigning flight, draws the dogs after it, in the vain hope of catching it. This illusion warns the inhabitants to beware of fire, and the friendly demon, while he terrifies those who see him, puts by his coming the ignorant on their guard.”

The grant seems to bear some resemblance to the horse-like spirits of eastern and north-eastern England that are still known now- the tatterfoals and the brags– although its social function in alerting people to danger is fairly unique- although a few coastal beings, such as the dooiney-oie and the Towl Buggane on the Isle of Man, warn against imminent bad weather (for full details of these see my Manx Fairies; my Beyond Faery also examines these types of creature).

Up Helly Aa fire

So, the faeries have every reason to be wary of flames, exactly as do we, but it seems to go further than that. Fire is often employed as a means of protecting against or driving off our Good Neighbours. On May Day fires were lit to scare away the faeries in Scotland and on the Isle of Man, where it was expressly the gorse that was burned.  On Man it was believed to be unlucky to give fire away to a neighbour on May Day- perhaps because the protection it gave against faeries was being dissipated.  On Shetland, on the last night of the Yule season, Up-Helly-A, large fires would be lit to drive the trows back underground again for another year, thereby bringing to an end a period when they were able to roam freely in the human world. Fire is also regularly used to drive off changelings– both its choking smoke and the actual burning heat of the flames. Suspected infants would be held over fires or threatened with heated implements in order to expose them.

The relationship with fire is even more mysterious and magical. Perhaps they can wield it as a form of glamour: certainly, it was known in the Scottish Highlands that goods that are destroyed by fire go to the faeries (just as they are entitled to cattle that die and food and drink that it dropped or spilled).

Lastly, faeries seen in houses in Stowmarket in Suffolk in the mid-nineteenth century would flee the occupants’ arrival, but their recent presence was betrayed by the fact that, if you climbed the stairs, sparks of fire as bright as stars appeared around your feet.  This may have been a sign of their lingering glamour, but perhaps not always: if the Shetland trows’ fire went out they’d simply steal some from a human hearth, a theft that would be disclosed by the trail of sparks seen crossing the room.

“They were lovers of fire, and had their underground dwellings well lighted… when the household fires went out, they would renew them from the nearest human dwelling. All Shetlanders have seen a crackling rush of fiery particles making towards the door”

Marwick, The Folklore of Orkney & Shetland, 1975

As ever in our investigations, we find a complex situation: the faery interaction with fire can be both positive and negative, beneficial and malign. What’s sure, though, is it’s always worth examining even the most basic facets of faery life, because there’s sure to be surprises.