As I have described in previous posts– as well as in my book on the Faery Lifecycle- the faeries are renowned for their healing abilities. This is the case because they have been known to teach a few fortunate mortals their skills, which primarily involve an expertise in the curative powers of common herbs– although some ritual elements in the healing process may also be required. With a typically human-centred focus, there is a widespread tendency for us to simply accept the fact that we have been the lucky recipients of this medical knowledge, as if the faeries acquired it for no other reason than to benefit humans. This egocentric attitude undervalues the years of study and experiment that must have been required for this expertise to be developed. What’s more, by taking these skills for granted, baselessly assuming they were learned for us, we overlook the clear implication: that faeries fall ill and need to be cured.
The conventional image of faery-kind is very static: we assume that their culture does not develop and we consider that they themselves are unchanging. A long time ago I wrote a post which pointed to the plain evidence that faeries can be killed; they are not immortal and invulnerable. The folklore record clearly indicates instead that, whilst being very long lived, they will- ultimately- pass away. In the late seventeenth century the Reverend Robert Kirk expressed this with his usual style in the Secret Commonwealth: “They are not subject to sore Sicknesses, but dwindle and decay at a certain Period, all about ane Age.” This was repeated by him several times in various ways: “They live much longer than wee; yet die at last, or [at] least vanish from that State” or (exactly like humans) they “have Children, Nurses, Mariages, Deaths, and Burialls…” A century previously, Reginald Scot had already confirmed the same thing- the faeries were “subject to a beginning and an end, and to a degree of continuance.”
Implicitly, I’ve pointed this out already: in my posting earlier this year on trow cures, I described a trow child with jaundice. The cure used by the trows for their own patient was effective for humans, too. What emerges from this is the simple fact that we are partners in experience: faeries and humans are born, live and die; we are susceptible to the same injuries, illnesses and accidents. This joint susceptibility to suffering and mortality means, in fact, that medical help can flow both ways between us.
Consider, for instance, the case of an old woman from Somerset who was recognised within her community for her healing skills and medicinal knowledge. News of this must have spread, for on one occasion she was called away to attend a pixie’s wife when her own peoples’ remedies had been exhausted and it seemed that nothing more could be done for her. The woman looked after the pixie morning and evening for a long period until she was completely recovered, after which she was very well paid for her dedication to duty. Humans can cure faeries, just as much as the reverse is the case. So, at St Mary’s Well, Inchberry (near Elgin), a healer called Dame Aliset once used water from the well to cure a sickly faery child. She asked for no payment, but the grateful faeries blessed the water source, giving it the power to restore lost youth.
Apparently, it’s not just our medicinal skills which may be important, but also our willingness to help another in need. At Dunnan Fort on the Rhins of Galloway, a man was approached by a faery woman and her sick child, asking him to fetch her some water from a nearby spring. Refusing to assist- out of fear- he ran away, but was cursed and died within a a few days.
Compare this incident to that of a young man on the Shetland island of Fetlar. Returning home one evening on a red coloured mare and leading her grey foal on a rope, he passed Stackaberg, a rocky outcrop with an ancient cairn on top which was reputed to be a home of the trows. As he passed by, a voice called out: “Dee at rides da red and rins da grey, tell Tona Tivla at Fona Fivla has faa’n ida fire an brunt her!” (Thee that rides the red [pony] and leads the grey, tell TT that FF has fallen in the fire and burnt herself.”
Rather alarmed, the man hurried home. His wife met him outside their house, remarking that he was as white as a sheet. He explained what had happened and- as soon as he repeated the message he’d heard-there came a shriek and a clatter from the byre, and a little trow woman ran out exclaiming “Less and doull! Dat’s my bairn dat’s faa’n ida fire at Stackaberg!” (Loss and sorrow, that’s my child that’s fallen in the fire…). She rushed away, leaving the stunned husband and wife to go into the byre, fearing that the trow had been harming their cow. The beast, though, was quite content- but lying beside her there was an unusual, small copper pan of milk. From then on, whenever the farmer or his wife went to the byre to milk their cow, they found it had already been done, and the little copper pan was sitting there filled and waiting for them. What’s more, although the pan was not large, it always seemed to have enough milk for whatever they needed, and they never ran out. The couple were thereafter always favoured with luck and prosperity in everything they did- their reward for passing on the urgent message about the injured child (even if it was done unwittingly).
The faeries are widely termed our ‘Good Neighbours’ and, as we may see, neighbourly acts performed by both sides can result in mutual health and happiness.
British Fairies 
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