On Grants & Portunes- two medieval faery puzzles

A Portune, by Jessica Hilton (2017)

In his early thirteenth century collection, Otia Imperalia, the English scholar Gervase of Tilbury drew attention to various creatures of English folklore.  These include a familiar description of mermaids alongside two rather more mysterious beings known as the Grant and the Portunes.  Here I wish to discuss these and how they may relate to the faery beings with whom we may be more familiar. 

I shall start with the Grant, although Gervase discusses this second.  His passage is short and can be quoted in full:

“On the Grant and Fires:  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, in the vain hope of catching it. This vision warns the inhabitants to beware of fire, and the friendly demon, while he terrifies those who see him, by his coming puts the ignorant on their guard.”

Tertia Decisio, 62

I shall also cite from Gervase’s original Latin text, which begins as follows: “De Grant et incendiis: Est in Anglia quoddam daemonum genus quod suo idiomate Gyant nominant, adinstar pulli equini anniculi, tibiis erectum, oculis scintillantibus.”  The reason for quoting this is to draw attention to the creature’s name: it is given as both ‘Grant’ and ‘Gyant.’  Some authors, such as Thomas Keightley in his Fairy Mythology of 1828, proposed a link with the monster Grendel of the Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf.  I don’t think this is necessary: Gervase says that these names are in English (Middle English to us) and, in fact, I reckon they’re nothing more than ‘graunt,’ borrowed from Norman French grand and meaning ‘big’ and the older English gigant meaning a ‘giant.’ In other words, the name itself is rather disappointing- it just means ‘Big.’  The two versions of its title, both capable of the same interpretation, to my mind tend to confirm my guess at its meaning.

Gervase’s comparison of the Grant to a foal must be significant and brings to mind the shag-foal and tatterfoal of the east of England, but these faery beasts mainly seem to scare people, rather than trying to alert them to imminent danger, such as a fire.  The walking on hind feet is a trait of the padfoot of Horbury (a kind of supernatural black dog) and another dark hound known at the village of Hallen, near Bristol, which would turn into a donkey and then rear up on its back feet.  The ‘shug monkey’ of West Wratting in Cambridgeshire, which I’ve described before, is a black, shaggy animal reported to be a cross between a big, rough-coated dog and a monkey, which sometimes would walk on its hind-legs. Those ‘sparkling’ eyes are very similar to the fiery red saucer eyes of numerous black dog apparitions; the propensity to set off the local dogs and to have them chase it in a pack as a premonition of danger or death is also not uncommon. The barguest at Oxwells near Leeds does this; various black hounds, including the trash, skriker, Gabriel Ratchets and the Welsh cwn wybir are all omens of death.

An alternative explanation for the grant has been advanced by doctoral student Joseph Pentangelo in an article The Grant, the Hare, and the Survival of a Medieval Folk Belief which can be read on Academia. He points out the longstanding role of hares in southern English folklore as fire omens, coupled with their occasional habit of walking on their hind feet, and proposes that Gervase’s grant is just “an exaggerated hare.”  Of the possible link with the barguest (first proposed in John Cowell’s Law Dictionary in 1708) Pentangelo says “apart from some rather general similarities- glowing eyes and an ominous nature- the two creatures seem to have nothing in common. Glowing eyes were a fairly widespread feature of medieval monsters, and do not necessarily indicate a genetic relationship.”

Hares are relatively rare in British faerylore, especially when compared to supernatural dogs, horses and donkeys and pigs, so that the suggestion that the Grant was one, whilst possible, is perhaps not as likely as it being some other mammal.  Secondly, if my interpretation of the name is correct (and if the name is authentic) it would tend to imply that its size is a key aspect of its character.  Once again, unnaturally large hounds (and/ or bogies that can swell in size) might point towards a form of phantom horse or dog, which are well known across Britain.

Turning to the Portunes, the text reads as follows:

“Of the Neptunes, or Portunes:  They have in England certain demons, though I know not whether I should call them demons or figures of a secret and unknown generation, which the French call Neptunes, the English Portunes.  It is their nature to embrace the simple life of comfortable farmers and when, after completing their domestic work, they are sitting up at night, with the doors all shut, they warm themselves at the fire, and take little frogs out of their bosom, roast them on the coals, and eat them. They have the countenance of old men, with wrinkled cheeks, and they are of a very small stature, not being quite half an inch high. They wear little patched coats, and if anything is to be carried into the house, or any laborious work to be done, they lend a hand, and finish it sooner than any man could. It is their nature to have the power to serve, but not to injure. They have, however, one little annoying habit. When, at night, the English are riding anywhere alone, the Portune sometimes invisibly joins the horseman; and, when he has accompanied him a good while, he at last takes the reins, and leads the horse into a neighbouring slough; and when he is fixed and floundering in it, the Portune goes off with a loud laugh, and by sport of this sort he mocks the simplicity of mankind.”

Tertia Decisio, 61

The measurement of the portunes given in the text is almost certainly an error that’s crept in. A height of half an inch would mean that they were dwarfed by the frogs they were eating (and carrying). Half a foot (six inches)- or even half a yard (one foot six) makes more sense, relatively; Jennifer Hilton’s depiction at the head of the page is probably more proportionate- and her other pages of Faery Art are also recommended.

As for the meaning of ‘Portune,’ this time, of course, Gervase does try to give us an interpretation (of sorts) of the beings’ name.  His Latin reads: “De neptunis, sive portunis: Ecce enim Anglia daemones quosdam habet, daemones, inquam, nescio dixerim, an secretas et ignotae generationis effigies, quos Galli Neptunos; Angli Portunos nominant.” Scholars have suggested that the French ‘neptune’ is Gervase’s version of the spirit known as the nuton/ lutin, a subterranean-dwelling creature akin to the British hobgoblin.  If this is correct, there’s very clearly no connection with the Roman sea god Neptune nor with the sea and Gervase seems to have garbled the name pretty seriously in converting it into Latin.  That gives us some problems with portune, therefore; he claims it’s an English name, but I’d argue that it pretty clearly isn’t a native name in the form he gives.  My guess is that this is a Latinised and rather garbled version of the Middle English portour, meaning someone who carries because, as he says, “if anything is to be carried into the house, or any laborious work to be done, they lend a hand.”

The portune’s briskness and helpfulness makes him a relative of the brownie, hob or domestic pixie; his pranks tormenting and misleading travellers connect him with pixies and hobs. Both these beings’ names, portune and grant, have disappeared from our folklore records. Does this mean that they themselves have vanished? I would argue not- partly because their characteristics survive in faery beings that are still known to us and partly because the names Gervase gives are so utilitarian. The grant and the portune survive, I suspect, but we just use more familiar or personal terms for them.

‘Monkies, Owles or Apes?’ On brownies, shugs and wags

The more traditional form of shuck

Elizabethan poet Thomas Churchyard wrote the following lines concerning bogies and pucks in his Handful of Gladsome Verses published in 1592 :

“Nay, better talk of bogges,

That walkes in dead men’s shapes:

Or tell of pretty little pogges,

As Monkies, Owles or Apes.”

What I’d like to discuss here is the small class of faery beings who do, indeed, look just like monkeys and apes.

The East Anglian dark hairy beast- known as the shuck or shug because of its shaggy potential to shock- is usually seen as a black hound. However, fascinatingly, this supernatural being may also be seen in some places in the form of an ape or monkey. These sightings are of interest because, in this anthropoid form, the shugs seem most closely related to humans (and to faeries) and, secondly, because by their very exoticness, the sightings seem more authentic.  Whilst it is easy to conceive of a villager of the sixteenth or seventeenth century imagining a monstrous version of an everyday animal, the creation of something resembling a mammal which many might never have heard of, let alone seen, is more surprising.  Nevertheless, these creatures were encountered across a wide area and a long period of time.  At West Wratting in Cambridgeshire as recently as the early 1950s a police constable saw the local ‘shug monkey,’ a black, shaggy animal that haunted the road leading to the next village of Balsham, and which was reported by one local to be a “cross between a big, rough-coated dog and a monkey, with big shining eyes.  Sometimes it would shuffle along on its hind-legs and at other times it would whizz past on all fours.  You can guess we children gave the place a wide berth after dark!”

At Melton, in Suffolk, ‘Old Shock’ haunted local roads and footpaths, throwing down walkers.  It has generally been described as taking the more typical forms of a large dog or calf with ‘tea-saucer eyes,’ but it was also to be seen hanging on the bars of a toll-gate, making it resemble an ape.  Nonetheless, it had a donkey’s head and (in contradiction of the source of its name) a smooth velvet hide.  This particular beast once bit the hand of a man that tried to catch it.  As is often the case with black dogs, it was believed that its appearance foretold a death in the vicinity. 

These ape-like faery beasts are by no means limited to the eastern counties of England.  In Surrey, in the south, the village of Buckland boasts a ‘shag’ which is a monster like a huge ape, sometimes spotted sitting on a large rock in a lane and sometimes invisible (NB- of course, if you can’t see it, how do you know it is the shug and what it looks like? I can’t answer this one!).  The Buckland shag would scare those driving carts or riding along the highway at night, just where it crossed a stream called the Shagbrook.  At Ranton, in Staffordshire, in the north Midlands, there was a ‘man-monkey’ who used to appear where the highway crossed a canal.  This creature was black with white eyes and would emerge from beneath the road bridge, leaping onto passing horses and terrifying them (and the humans with them).  Locals would add that a man had apparently drowned in the canal there at some point in the nineteenth century, making the implicit connection between faeries and ghosts that is often heard.

These shucks, shugs and shags seem to be rather anomalous oddities, hard to connect to the prevalent black dog apparitions (other than in their notable hairiness) as well as being apparently isolated from other known forms of faery beings. This leaves them hard to fit into any sort of taxonomy or ‘family tree’ of faeries, but they’re not entirely out on a limb (sorry!)

An 1866 depiction of the Wag by G Burlison

In the Border counties of Scotland there lived a sprite called the Wag-at-t’-Wa’ that sounds much like a monkey shug.  It would be found in the kitchens of farms, overseeing the work of the domestic servants but not actually undertaking any chores.  Whenever the pot hook (or crook) over the fire was free, the wag would swing there; he looked like an old man dressed in grey, except that he had long crooked legs and a long tail.  In this respect he clearly resembles a monkey hanging from a branch.  The wag approved of children, happiness in a household and lots of home-brewed ale.  He would disappear if there was a death in a family and a cross marked on the pot crook would seemingly lay him.  Furthermore, from the same broad region of the North-East of England, we have reports that one of the forms taken by the Northumbrian barguest when he accompanied midwives on their duties was that of a monkey.

The examples of the Wag and the barguest from Northumberland and the Borders perhaps suggest where the shug might better fit into a ‘taxonomy’ of faeries. The Wag swinging on the crook and the Melton Shock swinging on the gate sound nearly identical. The Wag has very clear links with brownies- as, for that matter, does the midwife’s barguest, for it was quite common for both brownies and broonies to fetch midwives when they were needed- all part of their attachment to a particular family and its well-being. Brownies are, of course, so-called precisely because they are small, hairy beings. The East Anglian shugs seem, somehow to have lost that familiar, domestic connection, but their physical appearance plainly argues for a connection. I wonder if the shugs and shocks got associated with the black dogs mainly because of their hairy scariness, overlooking other more appropriate connections, such as with the local brownies/ dobbies, who are just as well attested.

Trow Medicine- sickness & cures

The trows, the faery beings of Orkney and Shetland, are particularly noted in the folklore of those islands for their healing knowledge and the way in which their cures by be used advantageously by humans as well.

There are a a number of stories from Shetland that demonstrate the healing abilities of the trows.  One of several similar accounts describes an incident when the ‘grey folk’ were seen treating a jaundiced trow infant by pouring water over it; by pronouncing a blessing, a woman stole the kapp (the small wooden bowl) that was being used for this cure and she was able then to treat jaundice in humans by using it.  In another story of a trow cup with healing powers (this time made of bone), a special ritual was required for its use- the user had to fast, remain speechless and fill the vessel with water from an east-flowing well at sunset, pouring the water over their head and heart and blessing themselves at the same time. Just as interesting as the curative power of these vessels is the information that the trows can suffer from illnesses identical to those afflicting humans. 

That humans and trows are affected by the same diseases (and presumably can infect each other) is also proved by the fact that trow medicine is just as effective when it’s used on sick mortals. In another story, some ointment is stolen from the trows which proves efficacious for healing any human injury.  A further account from Shetland describes how a sick man lying in bed was visited by two trows with a ‘pig’ (a stone bottle).  They debated whether he would be cured by a drink from their bottle, but decide that time was too short and that they needed to leave before his wife returns home.  The invalid had the presence of mind to bless himself- and the bottle- which (like the wooden kapp earlier) thereby fell into his possession.  It contained a never-ending supply of liquid that cured him after just a couple of doses and also cured any others needing it.  It hardly needs to be pointed out as well that these two last accounts take for granted the fact that the trows have the knowledge and skills to be able to diagnose their illnesses and the devise effective treatments (as is true for faery kind as a whole). 

Any item that had once been the property of the trows is considered to be lucky. Hence, an item that looked like melted glass that fell in a milk pail when a woman was milking her cow outside was believed to be a trow ‘gun.’ Whatever it was, it could both make cattle sick as well as heal them. A cog or kit (another pail) left behind once at Gangsta when the trows were disturbed whilst they were stealing milk from a byre turned out to boost milk yields; a similar vessel helped to cure cattle that had been struck by trowie arrows. This last example is especially notable and may be compared to the experience of a man called Henry Farquhar (or Harker in one version). He was asleep in his house one night when he was awoken by a trow woman entering with her baby. He found he was unable to move and lay watching as she anointed the child from a pig (jar) she had with her, which she first warmed at the fire. When the farm cock suddenly crowed, the trows departed in a hurry, but the pig was left behind and was used thereafter to treat those who had been “hurtit fae da grund” (‘hurt from underground’- that is, by the trows). 

From this last case we see that trow items can be deployed against them to cure those people and cattle who have been injured by the very same trows. Interestingly, as well, the ointment in the pig never ran out so long as Henry helped people for free. However, one time when he was away from home, his daughter charged a caller for help- and the jar was empty ever after. Even faery benefits that have fallen accidentally into human hands seem to be affected by the rule that they should never be abused. If they are- just like a supply of faery money- once the unspoken rules of the gift are breached, it is lost.

Trow Woman by Johan Egerkrans

Do Faeries Feel the Cold?

An urisk, by John Patience on Deviant Art

The persistent debate about whether or not the fae are fully physical solid beings, or are more ethereal or spiritual, often overlooks the accrued opinions of witnesses who have encountered them over the centuries. We can get caught up in ideas from Theosophy, such as ‘thought forms,’ and neglect what our ancestors have told us.

I set off on this chain of thought when reading Seton Gordon’s Highways and Byways of the West Highlands (1935), in which he remarked that Loch Hourn, a sea loch on the Sound of Sleat, is haunted by the each uisge and tarbh uisge (water horses and bulls): “the clan of the uruisgean [urisks] or spectres must roam” there, he says, but it’s too forbidding for the daoine sith or hill faeries. Too rugged and cold for the Good Folk, but fine for those faery beasts that have a good pelt of fur? It sounds reasonable enough, but what other support does the idea find in the folklore?

Faeries have been reported to shelter under holly and mistletoe leaves in the winter and, certainly, in the west of Scotland (which Gordon was describing) the practice has been for mistletoe to be hung over doors during frosts specifically so as to provide faeries with shelter from the cold. In South Wales it was also believed that stormy weather and winter cold drove them into human homes for shelter, where they expected not just a warm hearth but food and clean water left out.

Likewise, on the Isle of Man, it was accepted that on dark and stormy nights the little folk would need to be able to shelter somewhere, so people would bank up their fires and go to bed early to make way for them. This habit was called the ‘fairies’ welcome’ or shee dy vea. In the Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries (see pages 122 & 132) Evans Wentz recorded a witness saying that his grandfather’s family would sometimes be visited by a little white dog on cold winter’s nights. This was a faery dog, and it was a sign that the faeries themselves were on their way. The family would then stop whatever they were doing and make the house ready (fire stoked and fresh water set out) before hurrying off to bed.

As I ‘ve described before, the general habit of the faes is to enter human homes at night to avail themselves of our comforts and facilities- fires, hot water, spinning wheels, ovens- but the particular requirement for- and, indeed, expectation of- these conveniences during winter indicates that they can suffer from bad weather as much as us. A well-known Scottish tale of a man who gives his shirt to wrap a new-born faery baby (and is, of course, rewarded for his kindness) underlines that they are just as vulnerable as we are to cold and damp.

Nonetheless, in another Highland tale, one family was attended by the spirit called the caointeach (keener) who, rather like a banshee (bean sith or faery woman), would wail and moan before any death. One very wet, cold and windy night she was heard outside a house in which a family member lay ill. One of the company present put a plaid outside and called to the caointeach to put on the tartan and move herself to the side of the house sheltered from the gale. She was never heard to mourn again for that family. The mourner’s helpful act was taken as an insult, just as when brownies object to being presented with clothes to replace their rags or cover their nakedness. How, exactly, are we to interpret this? Perhaps, as with the brownie, the service to the family is a matter of pride and duty and, as such, is perceived as being above such petty considerations as comfort and reward. Perhaps, in the case of the caointeach, the cold and wet is felt to be all part of the process of grief and suffering- and we shouldn’t forget that brownies and hobs, just like other faery beings, do have full expectation of enjoying the heat of the fire as recompense for their labours at the end of the day and (just like on the Isle of Man) the humans were expected to get out of the way at a decent hour to permit this.

Curiously- and in contradiction to what Seton Gordon wrote- it’s been recorded that during the summer, the urisk/ urisg lives alone in caves in wild places but, in winter, just like the more domestic faeries, they shelter in barns and outbuildings and, in return for being allowed to lie before the fire and to receive a bowl of cream, they will undertake farm chores such as herding and threshing. This rather undermines my suggestion that we may distinguish these beings’ dwellings and habits on the basis of their innate hardiness: the urisg is known for its very long hair and, in fact, one member of the family is called the peallaidh– the ‘shaggy one.’ Perhaps, in addition to having a pelt, a further factor in determining whether they seek shelter or not is their degree of tolerance for, or animosity towards, human-kind.

What this short survey of just one faery characteristic indicates is that they are, in many respects, exactly like us mortals. They experience hunger and thirst, they suffer sickness and injury, they age and die. Possibly, what differentiates us may be less a matter of physiology as a command of magic.