Stalker Sprites

Lhiannan-Shee by serratedview on DeviantArt

During a recent talk I gave on my latest book, Faery Mysteries, at the Atlantis bookshop in London, one attendee enquired if faeries were ever known to follow individuals around. On the spot, I could think of just one example of this happening, but subsequently a range of other stalking faes occurred to me and it seemed worthwhile sharing these.

My first example concerns a witch’s ‘imp’ or familiar which, as I’ve mentioned previously, appears to be form of faery. A rag and bone man at Horseheath in Cambridgeshire was asked by a local witch where he was going. He told her to mind her own business and went on his way. After travelling about about half a mile, however, he realised that he was being followed by one of her imp-mice, which was running along behind him in the hedgerow. He gave chase, but the faster he ran, the imp would gain speed and stay ahead of him until they got back to the witch’s home.

The same area of Eastern England is especially well known for its ‘black dogs’- apparitions of faery beasts. It is very common for these creatures to appear at night and to pursue lonely travellers- typically following them along a limited stretch of roadway before vanishing. At Geldeston, in Norfolk, a black dog was known to prowl which was sometimes as large as a horse, with fiery eyes and foaming jaws. It would follow travellers along the highway leading towards Bungay, growling fiercely if you tried to turn back and occasionally dragging a victim along by their clothes. The ‘shuck’ of Methwold on the eastern edge of the Fens is another good example of the behaviour I’m describing here.  It would never emerge fully from the shadows of the road side, so that a lonely late-night traveller would only ever be aware of a shape whose red luminous eyes glowed in the dark.  The shuck would walk softly when the pedestrian walked, and would stop if she or he stopped.  This unpleasant sense of being tracked slowly overwhelmed the victim until they were trembling and almost paralysed.  Then they would make a precipitous flight- with the shuck loping steadily along behind. 

A hound as a big as a cow, with yellow eyes and lolling tongue, is reported to haunt Godley Green in Cheshire.  It pads along beside walkers, howling and emitting a sound of chains, but it is quite insubstantial.  If you try to touch or strike it, your blow will pass right through it, unimpeded. 

In Wales, the spectral hound is called the gwyllgi, also known as the ‘dog of darkness’ or the ‘hound of twilight’ and it typically haunts lonely highways, appearing to those walking alone late at night. Either the mastiff will appear in a road, blocking the way, baring its teeth and barking fearsomely, or it may walk beside a traveller for a distance. The gwyllgi can paralyse travellers with the gaze of its blazing eyes; quite often these dogs will then turn into large bodies of fire.

Generally, the only apparent purpose of these creatures is to terrify pedestrians, but some have a prophetic or warning function. In the 1970s a woman living at Buxton in Norfolk was walking past the church when the clock struck four. A large black dog appeared beside her, which she tried to pat, but it almost immediately vanished again. A few days later, she learned that her brother had died at exactly that moment. It should be added too that the beasts aren’t always awful companions. During the Second World War a young airman met the large black dog that was often seen at Swanton Morley in Norfolk, and reported a great sense of friendliness as it ran beside him as he cycled along, quite at odds with most witnesses’ reports.

Finally, we turn to more conventionally humanoid faeries, the faery lovers called lhiannan shee on the Isle of Man and leannan sith in Scotland. These females can become attached to an individual and almost impossible to shake off. Here are a few examples.

A man lived in Surby, on the Isle of Man, with his wife, who one evening was away from home. He went out to meet her at the time he expected her to be returning across the fields. Instead, he met a faery woman whom he thought it was his wife, and spoke to her. This contact created a link which meant that she followed him for long time afterwards. In another Manx case, a man called Mickleby met a faery woman at a dance. When the dancing was over, she followed Mickleby home and haunted him ever after. He went abroad, hoping to leave her behind, but she followed him wherever he went- over sea and land. It was widely supposed he must have kissed her, and it was that contact that gave her the power to haunt him, and to go across the ocean with him.

We should note the fact here that crossing water in these cases doesn’t seem to be a problem for the faery lover. A man from Barra called Lachlann had a fairy lover who used to visit him nightly, to the point that he was becoming exhausted by her and was beginning to fear her affection.  He decided to flee to Canada to escape her, but she quickly found out, and could be heard lamenting by women milking the cattle at evening on the meadows.  Nonetheless, when Lachlann reached Nova Scotia, he found the fairy had followed him there (Evans Wentz, Fairy Faith, 112).

Although we generally reserve the word ‘haunt’ for ghosts and suchlike spirits, it will be clear that for some faeries and faery beings the verb is entirely appropriate- along with the sensations of fear and alarm that go with that.

Some More Cornish Faery Wells

Venton Bebibell

On a recent trip to Cornwall, I took the chance to visit two faery wells in the far west of the county.

The first well is called Venton Bebibell, a name that is a much degraded version of the original Cornish, Fenten Byghan Bobel– the well of the little people (I have often used the phrase pobel vean in postings on Cornish faeries; this is a slightly more modern version of the same term). This well is on the Penwith moors near to famous Men an Tol holed stone. Men an Tol, however, is very easy to find, a straight walk down a very wide, clear track. It took us three attempts to locate the little people’s well (perhaps a case of being pixie-led), so- in case any readers are inspired to follow me- I’ll try to give a better description.

If you follow the track past the turn to Men an Tol, you’ll pass the inscribed stone Men Scryfa on your left a little while later. The track then descends to a green grassy space where several bridle ways meet. If you proceed straight ahead, up a rather narrower path, you’ll get to the Nine Maidens stone circle (well worth a visit). However, at the grassy space there’s a very clear grassy path running north-south , coming down from the distinctive Carn Galver. This crosses the route you’ve been following at a nice new metal gate. Go through the gate and follow the wide path across the sward. You’ll see three quite large hawthorn bushes, each standing alone and each separated by several tens of metres (or yards). When you’re level with the third, turn left off the wide path and follow a much narrower trail through the bracken to the thorn. When you’re there, you’ll see ahead of you, at the foot of the slope, an old wooden gate through a Cornish hedge. Go down and through this gate. The path here seems to vanish entirely (my mistake the first time I searched). It doesn’t- turn right and follow a much fainter way through the bracken towards a small, rather stunted and (possibly) dead hawthorn. The well is very well concealed just to the right of this bush, down in a dip beside the hedge wall.

When we visited the spring was almost dry, given the long dry summer we’d had, but the site is distinctively marked with stone laid around the basin. Someone had left a purple quartz crystal as an offering, just to confirm that we were in the right place. The old tradition was that children would visit on Easter day to ‘baptise’ or dip their dolls in the water. It’s recently been revived and you can watch a video on YouTube. The person leading this pilgrimage is Cornish author Cheryl Straffon, who’s written a very handy guide to Cornish wells (Fentynyow Kernow).

Fairy Well

The second well is the ‘Fairy Well’ at Carbis Bay, on the north-east coast of Penwith just a mile or two east of St Ives. This is much easier to find. Turn off the main A3074 St Ives to Lelant road in Carbis Bay at Porthrepta Road. This descends pretty steeply towards the beach; turn right into Headland Road and head to the end. Here, a footpath goes straight ahead along the cliff top; ignore this. Instead, there is a steep path and steps on the left, heading down between some houses. Follow this, which will bring you out by the railway line. You cross the line on foot (no bridge- take care!) and, through the gate on the other side, turn immediately right. Some steep steps lead down to a muddy path that clings to the sharply inclining slope of the cliffs. Follow this for about a quarter of a mile until a rather less well marked path turns off to the left. Some steps show you you’re going the right way, as you head down precipitously through hazel trees (these seemed meaningful to me, given their link in Irish myth to the gift of wisdom and prophecy, received at a spring). At the end of the path, right on the cliff edge, there is a square, rock cut basin, full of water. There’s no mistaking you’ve arrived. It’s a wishing well, as demonstrated by the small offerings scattered around. In addition, the view is impressive, over a huge and little visited beach.

Whilst in Cornwall, we also revisited two other ‘holy’ wells. The first, at Madron, just outside Penzance, is notable for the clooties, the strips of cloth that are tied to trees around the spring to represent wishes or requests made. This compares to the practice seen on Doon Hill at Aberfoyle.

at Madron

The second well was at Carn Euny. This is a very impressive site. It’s a low hill, topped by a huge natural carn of outcropping boulders. There’s an Iron Age village, the remains of a medieval chapel and its silted up well- and the older and far more atmospheric ‘holy well.’ This was full of flowing water and was surrounded (significantly in my mind) by elders and hawthorn trees. It’s always memorable to visit.

See too the records of my earlier trips to the ‘fairy well’ at Sennen and to Sancreed well.

at Carn Euny

For more on faeries, wells and water, see my Faery (Llewellyn, 2020) and Faeries and the Natural World (Green Magic, 2022).

Faery-inflicted diseases

Henri Pierre Picou, Fairy & Cupid

I cite here a text called The Fairies Song, an anonymous verse that comes from Arthur Clifford’s Tixall Poetry collection of 1813 and which dates to the reign of Charles I. It was reprinted in 1851 in the Book of English Song. The verse is fascinating for its generally malign view of faerie kind. Conceded, they dance lightly- as we might expect the dainty little modern faery to do, but thereafter matters go awry. They stir up bad weather, raise floods and revel in the tempest, exulting in the fact that “what frights others is our joy.” They visit human kind disguised, having shapeshifted into various forms, and cheerfully cause illness and pain amongst us.

“We dance on hills above the wind,
And leave our footsteps there behind.
Which shall to after ages last,
When all our dancing days are past.

Sometimes we dance upon the shore,
To whistling winds and seas that roar,
Then we make the wind to blow.
And set the seas a-dancing too.

The thunder’s noise is our delight,
Jind lightnings make us day by night ;
And in the air we dance on high.
To the loud music of the sky.

About the moon we make a ring,
And falling stars we wanton fling,
Like squibs and rockets, for a toy.
While what frights others is our joy

But when we ‘d hunt away our cares.
We boldly mount the galloping spheres
And riding so from east to west.
We chase each nimble zodiac beast.

Thus, giddy grown, we make our beds.
With thick black clouds to rest our heads,
And flood the earth with our dark showers.
That did but sprinkle these our bowers.

Thus, having done with orbs and sky,
Those mighty spaces vast and high,
Then down we come and take the shapes,
Sometimes of cats, sometimes of apes.

Next turn’d to mites in cheese, forsooth,
We get into some hollow tooth ;
Wherein, as in a Christmas hall,
We frisk and dance, the devil and all.

Then we change our wily features,
Into yet far smaller creatures.
And dance in joints of gouty toes.
To painful tunes of groans and woes.”

What intrigues me here is the faeries’ responsibility for disease. Readers may very well be familiar with the fact that the faes will often wound or kill livestock with their arrows, the so-called elf-bolts, which are used in order to steal the beasts from mortal farmers so that the faeries can consume them or their dairy products. You might also recall my description of how paralysis can be used as a form of sanction against humans who have displeased their good neighbours. This verse nonetheless seems to indicate that our more day to day ailments and aches and pains are down to supernatural intervention as well- be it as a cruel prank or, possibly, because that’s just part of what the faeries do.

There’s some basis for this supposition. I suspect the anonymous Stuart poet was elaborating from an idea that was very standard at the time. ‘Feyry’ (and the like) was a term for certain forms of ill-health that inexplicably might befall people. In Scotland consumption (tuberculosis) was thought to be inflicted by the faeries as a cover for abducting the victim’s spirit. The sudden illness then explained as being ‘faery struck’ bequeathed us the ‘stroke’ known to medicine today. Hives and skin blisters were caused by a blast of faery breath, and skin discolourations and unexplained bruising were ‘fairy nips’ and enlargement of the spleen was called ‘elf cake.’

If the faeries are indeed responsible for all these maladies- major and minor- it makes a great deal more sense why an anonymous parson of Warlingham in Surrey made a collection of “certain medicines… taught to him by the fayries” in the early seventeenth century, about contemporary with our song. Toothache was cured (on the faes’ advice) by mixing wheatmeal with spurge to produce a dough which was then put into the cavity in the painful tooth. Spurge (euphorbia) produces a latex-like sap that is highly irritant, so it would undoubtedly have some effect on your tooth- possibly unpleasant- and certainly the polar opposite of the modern tooth fairy.

‘Thunder Only Happens When It’s Raining’- Faeries & the Weather

Cailleach bheur by Eran Fowler

On several previous occasions I’ve mentioned how the pixies can control the weather as a means of playing tricks upon travellers: they will make fogs and mists descend so as to get hapless individuals lost, even in small areas very well known to them, such as familiar spots which are very close indeed to their own homes. The pixies also use fogs for concealment- as in one story where they were spotted conducting a battle in such conditions- and bad weather can be associated with their displeasure- as in the case of a man discovered trying to steal their buried treasure on Trencrom Hill near St Ives.

In Wales, the tylwyth teg are known too to prefer misty, drizzly weather as suitable conditions to conduct their business of stealing people’s livestock or as cover for luring away their children. Something very similar is found amongst the trows at the other end of Britain. Once, on the mainland of Orkney, a youngster very unwisely went out during a snowstorm. After a while, the child returned, completely dry- despite the blizzard- but an imbecile. People were convinced that this change was the work of the fairies: this conclusion seems understandable given the fact that the weather hadn’t soaked or frozen the child, but it looked very much as if his/her soul had been seized by the trow folk, leaving a living stock behind.

In fact, when we survey the evidence, the use and manipulation of weather by faery beings is far wider spread that just the South West of England and Wales or the very northern tip of the British Isles. Supernaturally influenced weather events are reported across the British Isles.

‘Many Weathers Apart’

Like the Welsh tylwyth teg, the little folk of the Isle of Man are generally to be seen enveloped in cloud or mountain fog; what’s more, they bring storms and waves along the coast. As well as controlling the weather when they wish to, they are acutely attuned to its changes; hence, it’s said by islanders that, if you see the faeries’ boats out at sea it’s a sign of one of two things: either that a good catch may be found in that location- or it’s a warning to human fishermen put in, because it presages a storm. The appearance inland of the bean-nighe like faery known as the little red washer woman is always a sign of bad weather approaching. At Peel Castle some resident “big fairies” used to be seen on the ramparts. If they were there shouting with men’s voices when the town’s fishing boats were putting out to sea, this would be taken as a sign of imminent bad weather and the boats would sail straight back to the quay.

Another Manx being, the dooiney-oie or ‘night caller,’ performs the same function to the various faeries of the island. If his dismal howls of ‘Hoa! Hoa!’ are heard during a winter’s night along the coast, it’s a sure sign that storms are approaching across the Irish Sea. Because of his warnings, the Manx people have regularly avoided considerable loss: fishermen have been able to get in their nets, lines and pots and farmers have learned that it’s time to drive their flocks to shelter.

The black and scary ‘Big Buggane’ who lived in caves on South Barrule and Snaefell mountains was generally seen at night when there was a storm approaching, acting as a warning to islanders. The buggane that lived in Towl Buggane (the Buggane’s Hole) at Gob-ny-Scuit would shout a warning before stormy weather, enabling local farmers to get in their harvests in time. He was just as likely, though, to give these warnings when no storms were due, just to tease the locals. Islanders have learned to accept that for all the help they can receive, there’s always a chance of being the hapless victims of a faery prank.

Fir gorm

Supernatural predictions of bad weather can be found all over Britain. Fishermen would pull for shore if they heard the so-called ‘Seven Whistlers’ pass over, knowing that a storm would be approaching. These spirit beings are related to the Wild Hunt or to the Gabriel Ratchets, the eerie heavenly hounds, and the sound they make has been compared to birds- or to children wailing.

At Sennen Cove, in the far west of Cornwall, the ‘hooper’ is known for the whooping noise it makes. In otherwise fine weather a dense fog bank will sometimes be seen to settle on the reef of rocks that lies just outside the harbour, cutting the quay off from the open sea, and at night a dull light may be seen inside the cloud, accompanied by the hooper’s cries. The reason for the hooper’s arrival is, it seems, to act as a warning against storms coming in from the Atlantic. If you ignore the augury and head out to sea regardless, you are very likely never to be seen again.

In the east of England, the black dog apparition known as ‘Old Shuck’ runs along a well-established route every evening at twilight. Its terrifying appearance predicts storms. On the island of Guernsey, a white hare was only seen in stormy weather. The Welsh cyhyraeth– the groaning spirit- makes a “doleful, dreadful noise in the night,” disturbing people’s sleep with a sound that resembles the groans of the dying. Her cry precedes various misfortunes, such as bad weather on the coast.

Lastly, the ‘Long Coastguardsman’ of Mundesley in Norfolk appears at midnight on cloudy nights and will walk along a stretch of the coast, singing and laughing in the wind whenever a storm is raging. Unlike the previous spirits, though, the Coastguardsman seems to mark and to revel in bad weather, rather forewarning of it. Nevertheless, we can see that his close association with wind and tempest is highly typical of faery-kind.

Mermaids are keenly aware of climatic conditions- as we might expect from such sea dwellers. For example, there was one who was often to be seen sitting on a rock at Careg Ina near New Quay in West Wales. One day she got tangled in some fishing nets and was hauled in by a boat’s crew. She begged for release and, when this was granted, she warned them of an impending storm and told them to seek immediate shelter. They did so, and survived, but many other boats out that day were caught and sunk. A very similar tale comes from Pen Cemmes in Pembrokeshire, except that in this version the fisherman captor is promised ‘three shouts’ in his time of greatest need as his reward for releasing the mermaid. What this meant was revealed some time later, rather than immediately. One calm, hot day the mermaid appeared to the man out at sea and told him to make for harbour forthwith. He did so- and survived- but eighteen other men drowned in a sudden storm which unexpectedly blew up.

Sometimes, this kind of help is given freely and without prior obligation. For example, some Manx fishermen were once in their boats off Spanish Head when the sky started to darken. A mermaid rose above the waves and instructed them to “shiaull er thalloo” (‘sail to land’). Those who did were saved; those who didn’t take her advice lost their tackle or, even, their lives. It’s also said that if a Manx merman heard to whistle, a storm is brewing and it’s time for any fishermen at sea to haul in their nets and to make for the shore. In this case, the whistling doesn’t appear to be meant as any sort of gratuitous warning, it’s just a merfolk response to the change in the weather they’ve detected (perhaps even being a sign to their own kind) but humans can benefit from paying attention.

In fact, amongst fishing communities around Britain the mere appearance of the sea folk is taken as a portent of storms and death; as a result, when some fishermen from Brevig on Barra saw a mermaid two miles offshore they immediately turned around and headed back to harbour- as it transpired, not a moment too soon, as a terrible storm arose which nearly sank them anyway.

‘You Take The Weather With You’

As well as sensing and warning of bad conditions, these various sea-folk can be the direct cause of troubled waters. The fir gorm, the blue men who live in the stretch of sea called the Minch, between Skye and the mainland, are what make the seas there restless. The channel is only calm if they are either asleep or floating at their ease on the water’s surface; if they are seen sporting in the water off Rudha Hunish Head, a violent storm is sure to be due.

The cailleach muileartach, the dark blue hag of the sea, calls up storms along the Scottish coast. In the Firth of Cromarty, the weather is under the control of Gentle Annie or Annis, another hag with a blue-black face. She is renowned for her treachery, as days may start fine and calm, encouraging fishing boats to put out to sea, but then violent gales might sweep in from the north-east. Inland, the mountain hag called the cailleach bheur sends terrible tempests, called ‘cailleach weather’ or ‘wolf-storms.’

Tristram Bird & the mermaid

The merfolk can, like the Cornish pixies, stir up evil weather if they want to punish a specific person who’s earned their dislike. There’s a very rare account of some Scottish mermaids taking a human baby and leaving a changeling. Unlike the typically thin and poorly faery changelings, this substitute was a healthy and very beautiful child who grew up into a lovely young woman. In due course, this beauty, called Selina, attracted the attention of a cynical soldier who first seduced and then abandoned her. Heartbroken by her mistreatment, Selina pined way and died. Her mermaid family exacted a terrible vengeance upon the soldier and those who had encouraged him in his dalliance: the seducer was in turn seduced by a mermaid and a huge storm engulfed and destroyed his friends’ homes.

A Padstow man called Tristram Bird one day came across a mermaid when he was out with his gun hunting seals. She was seated on a rock, combing her hair and looking as alluring as mermaids can; he instantly desired her and asked her to marry him. She rejected his proposal with mockery. Bird’s pride was injured and he threatened to shoot her, to which she replied that he’d be sorry if he did. He fired at her anyway- and soon regretted his action. She cursed the town’s harbour and, sure enough, within a very short while a storm blew up- and a sandbar blocked all access from the quayside to the sea- disastrous for a fishing village. Similar, albeit involuntary, is the fact that the shooting of a selkie at sea will precipitate dire consequences: a storm will arise as soon as the selkie’s blood mixes with the sea water.

We often think of faery-kind as being intimately connected with the environment and the evidence of their sensitivity to and control over the weather certainly confirm this relationship.