I’ve talked before about so-called ‘nursery sprites,’ those faeries whose primary purpose seems to be (or, at least, to have become) keeping children in order and away from harm. Parents have co-opted their fearsome natures to try to ensure that infants stay clear of rivers, ponds, pits and empty or derelict buildings.
Here, though, I’d like to discuss what might be seen as a subset of these beings. They are the faeries involved with sleep; unlike those bogies who keep children in their beds out of terror at what might lurk in the shadows or in the cupboard, these are more gentle, soothing beings. One of this family is Billy Winker, known in Lancashire and the North-West of England. He seems to be closely related to Wee Willie Winkie from over the border in Scotland. This character was first publicised widely by the Glasgow poet William Miller (1810-72). A skilled cabinet-maker, he started writing verse whilst still a youth. This was published in local newspapers and journals and prepared the way for him to publish ‘Willie Winkie’ and several other children’s’ poems between 1839 and 1843.
“Wee Willie Winkie Rins through the toun, Up stairs and doun stairs In his nicht-gown, Tirling at the window, Crying at the lock, “Are the weans in their bed, For it’s now ten o’clock?”
If Willie finds a “waukrife [wakeful] laddie/ That winna fa’ asleep,” and who is keeping everyone else awake, Willie helps to comfort the exhausted parents and to help their efforts to soothe the child. The last name obviously denotes the spirit’s job (as we shall see); the ‘Willy/ Billy’ element may just be there for a harmonious effect, but there might possibly be a little more significance to it.
Illustration by Millicent Sowerby- a faery artist who, interestingly, has added wings to Willie
Billy Blind (who’s also known variously as Billy Blin, Billy Blynde or Belly Blin) is an English and Lowland Scottish household spirit, who’s related to the brownies or hobgoblins. He appears only in ballads, where he frequently gives wise advice to characters. Billy appears in several of the ballads collected together as the so-called ‘Child Ballads’:
Gil Brenton– in which Billy Blind advises the hero that the latter’s bride (who is a virgin) is not the woman laying beside him. This false bride is, in fact, already pregnant;
Willie’s Lady– Willie’s wife has been in labour but cannot deliver her baby because Willie’s mother, a witch, is using charms to prevent her. Billy Blind advises Willie to make a wax figure of a baby and invite his mother to the christening. In her rage, the mother demands to know how all her spells have been undone, listing them one by one and thereby enabling Willie to counteract them;
Young Bekie– in which Billy advises Burd Isobel that Young Bekie is about to marry another bride and then helps her to travel magically so she can reach him in time; and,
The Knight and the Shepherd’s Daughter– during which Billy reveals the true births of the marrying couple: they are far more noble than they knew.
Billy clearly has some sort of second sight, by which spells and deception are revealed to him. The name ‘Blind’ or ‘Blin,’ in both Scots and English, has the familiar sense of blind, sightless, but there are other, associated meanings such as ‘blink/ wink’- closing eyes for sleep (as in “forty winks”)- and ‘hidden’ or ‘secret.’ As for Billy, this can simply be a pet-form of William or, much more significantly, it can imply a person who’s a friend or companion.
I wonder, therefore, if the faery Billies are, by their names alone, to be understood as helpful and friendly individuals. Secondly, not only is sleep good for the sleeper and restful for everyone else in their household (as with those restless children)- it can be a portal to visions. As I discussed in my book Faery Mysteries,dreams can be a medium by which faeries communicate with mortals, providing them with information and counsel. It has to be said, as well, the dreams are a vehicle by which people are abducted and seduced too, so matters are not wholly benign, but sleep may, nonetheless, be a route to wealth and success. The faeries seem to be able magically to control sleep- their slumbers as well as ours- and to go further still by employing dreams as a way of contacting us across the dimensions.
Puck, from Midsummer Night’s Dream, illustrated by Arthur Rackham
In her 1913 book, Rustic Speech and Folklore, Mrs Elizabeth Wright listed amongst the frightening supernatural figures of Britain the Pokey-Hokey of East Anglia. This obscure being is enumerated alongside the mumpoker, tankerabogus, knocky-boh ,Tom Dockin and a host of other ‘bugbears’ whom I’ve talked about before. He sits, alphabetically, right next to the Punky of West Yorkshire. Mrs Wright regards them all as “nursery sprites,” meant to scare infants into obedience: “Pictures such as this, when presented to the vivid imagination of children, doubtless gain rather than lose in lurid colouring and terrifying shape, and one shudders to think of the effect they must produce on impressionable minds…” she observes (page 198).
In her Dictionary of Fairies, Katharine Briggs mentioned the Pokey-Hokey too, and quotes a “colloquial phrase” (presumably from the eastern counties) which may relate to the same goblin, as she terms him: “There’s been some hokey-pokey about this.”
Now, the phrase “hokey-pokey” is generally thought to derive from a parody of the Latin words used in the Eucharist (“Hoc est corpus”- ‘this is the body’ [of Christ]), but this rests merely on a conjecture of John Tillotson (1630-94), who was the Anglican Archbishop of Canterbury between 1691 and 1694 (see his Sermon (1742) vol. II, xxvi, 237). The phrase was apparently used by jugglers and conjurers in the early seventeenth century: “Hocus Pocus… so was called because, that at the playing of every Trick, he used to say, Hocus pocus, tontus talontus, vade celeriter jubeo, a dark composure of words, to blinde the eyes of the beholders, to make his Trick pass the more currently without discovery” (T. Ady, Candle in Dark, 1655, 29). From 1624 at the latest, the words had been transferred to the speaker and so became a nickname for jugglers and confidence tricksters at fairs and such like. It therefore denoted both the person, his or her patter- “Hocas, pocas, here you shall have me, and there you shall have me” (Thomas Randolph, Jealous Lovers, 1632, Act 1, scene 10, line 15)- and the trick itself- “The Art of Leger De Main or Jugling, otherwise called Hocus Pocus” (R. Holme, Academy of Armory ,1688, iii. 447/1). Reverting to the inhabitants of Faerie, we might propose that ‘hocus-pocus’ is a spell or charm as well as the goblin who pronounces it – or, even, against whom you use it.
This all seems pretty clear, then, except that the element “poke” appears elsewhere, as in the Isle of Wight’s Mumpoker or East Anglia’s Tom Poker. The latter name is explained by the OED as being derived from two elements: the ‘tom’ of tomcat and a ‘poker’, as in a stick or rod for poking fires, prodding and such like. I doubt this etymology very strongly. As I’ve previously discussed, the name Tom, when used in this context, is much more likely to denote a goblin or the devil himself (‘Old Tom’), whilst the poker is most probably related to our best known hobgoblin, Puck or Pook, as well, for that matter, as the aforementioned West Yorkshire Punky. This seems especially likely when you learn that the earliest English meanings of ‘punk’ are prostitute (1590s), which seems far less appropriate.
If these guesses are correct, Katharine Brigg’s suggestion seems much more feasible, and we are talking about a goblin relative of Puck. Admittedly, this leaves the ‘hokey’ bit of Pokey-Hokey‘s name unresolved. It might just be for rhyming effect, especially since our modern uses of similar words- as in the dance hokey-cokey and overacting/ melodrama (hokum and hokey)- only appear very much more recently, from the early twentieth century onwards, and seem to have no earlier roots. On this point, recall too the hinkypunk will o’ the wisp from Somerset, and the Hikey-sprites, related beings that are also from the East Anglia. ‘Hink’ can mean faltering or hesitation (as in the flickering flame of the will o’ the wisp); ‘hikey,’ though, doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the verb ‘to hike’ but may be a corruption of ‘hink.’ Then again, the names that may be as much for ‘musical’ effect as anything, to help make them memorable for the children that grown-ups wanted to warn and scare…
Faery drinking vessels feature prominently in British folklore. Acquired accidentally- or deliberately- from the faeries, they may be the vector of healing powers, as I have described in a post on trow cures. These vessels are typically of little value in themselves, being made of wood, bone, or ceramic, and they are taken because of their properties. Some though, are made of precious metals and are stolen for their cash worth; some are valuable both in monetary and practical terms. It’s these that I’m interested in here.
A butler boy called Luran, who served at Mingary Castle, on the Sound of Mull, entered a local faery mound and saw the faeries drinking from a “shining” magical cup which would fill with whatever liquid the holder asked for it to contain. The boy joined the celebration and, when the cup was passed to him, he asked for it to be filled with water, which he then used to douse the candles. In the sudden darkness, the boy made his escape with the cup in his hand; he was pursued, but an unknown voice told him to make for the shore. He then ran along below the highwater mark until he got to the castle, which he was able to enter using a secret stairway that led down to the beach. Luran reached safety with this magical cup by making use of a magical advantage, the fact that the sith folk, for reasons that are not entirely clear, cannot pass below the line of the hightide. Perhaps this aversion or impediment is related to the fact that water flows over the shore it twice daily (just as they cannot cross flowing fresh water); perhaps it is a result of the nature of briny water, for faeries notoriously can’t abide salt. Yet it doesn’t make full sense, because- as I’ve described- faery cattle just as often graze beneath the waves as on land.
We’ll have to leave this puzzle unresolved, but there’s plenty more to say about faery cups. Humans’ avaricious nature means that we have a long history of trying to steal these items from our faery neighbours. The oldest of these is William of Newburgh’s twelfth century account of a theft from Willy Howe in East Yorkshire. A man saw the faery hill open and light streaming out; he joined the feasting inside, was invited in and offered a drink of wine in a goblet. Cannily, the man didn’t risk consuming faery produce; instead he poured out the liquid and made off with the cup on his fast horse. This item “of unknown material, of unusual colour and of extraordinary form,” eventually was presented to King Henry I (1100-1135). The same king also features in a related story, this time told by Gervase of Tilbury. Near Gloucester, there was a mound where any huntsman could request a drink and a faery would appear bearing a cup. One hunter, instead of quenching his thirst, stole the cup and presented it to the Earl of Gloucester. Matters didn’t turn out as he’d probably anticipated, for he was executed as a thief and (again) the cup ended up with the king.
A third, undated, English story, from Edenhall near Penrith, recounts a theft by a butler from a faery gathering in the grounds of the hall. This vessel, the ‘Luck of Edenhall,’ came with a faery curse, though: if it was ever broken, the good fortune of Edenhall would end. Being made of glass, it has been very carefully treasured ever since. As it happens, the centuries of cherishing the cup came to nought in that the hall was demolished in 1934 because maintaining it had become too costly, and in 1958 the Luck passed to the Victoria and Albert Museum, were it can still be seen today (head of page).
These last examples are all English, but the majority, like the Mingary case from Argyllshire, are Highland Scottish. In The Peat Fire Flame, Alexander Macgregor tells of a man called Ewen on Raasay who stumbled upon a celebration in a faery knoll and, just as in East Yorkshire, managed to steal, rather than drink from, the marvellous cup offered to him. This time he escaped by dint of being a very good runner- faster even than the faeries’ dogs, which were set upon him (another version names the thief as Hugh MacLeod).
John Gregorson Campbell, who recorded the Mingary story, also recorded another from the same area and concerning another Luran- this time Luran Black who was farmer from Corryvulin on the coast of Ardnamurchan, at the northern end of the Sound of Mull. Luran found that his cows were dying, one by one, and suspected that the local sith folk of the knoll called the Culver were stealing them under the guise of death. He watched one night and, sure enough, a party of faeries came out of the hill and took one of his cows. Luran allayed their suspicions by helping to butcher it and, in gratitude, was invited in for a drink. As before, he seized a vessel and made a run for it and, as we’ve heard, was advised by a mysterious voice to run between high and low water. Luran escaped and appeared to have paid himself back for his stolen cattle. However, sometime later, he was travelling to Inverary Castle in a boat with the cup. During the passage over the water, both he and the vessel vanished completely. As for the helpful voice, it’s generally assumed by folklorists that this must have been another human who had been kidnapped or captured by the faeries (perhaps by drinking their wine).
The Reverend R. C. MacLeod tells an almost identical tale of a farmer called Lurran from Luskintire on Harris. He escapes pursuit because he has several advantages: he’s a quick runner, he crosses over a stream, and because he seeks shelter in his mother’s cottage. She is a witch and cast spells over the house which made it impossible for the fairies to enter. For some time Lurran never left the house unless his mother had put a spell on him, but one day he forgot, and went out with no magical protection. The fairies quickly found and killed him, and so avenged themselves for the theft of their cup. I have recorded before an extremely similar story from Dun Osdale on Skye, in which a faery cup is stolen and the mother protects her son with charms against faery vengeance- but she fails to guard him against human thieves, so that he’s murdered by a man stealing the goblet.
Another man called Luran, this time from South Uist, seems to have had a lucky escape. He entered a fairy knoll, sticking his knife in the threshold of the door so that it could not close forever behind him, and then stole a golden cup. As he fled the fairies called out “If porridge was Luran’s food, he would catch the deer.” Imprudently, perhaps, he took this as advice that it would make him even swifter and started to eat porridge as recommended. In fact, he put on weight and, when he rashly decided to make a return visit to the knoll, he was unable to outpace the fairies and was caught. Surprisingly, his captors settled for recovering their stolen cup and then let him go.
The Dunvegan cup and faery flag
Luran is a common name in Highland stories of faery and mermaid encounters, just as faery cups are regularly stolen. The ‘Fairy Cup of Dunvegan,’ is an oak chalice mounted with silver owned by the Macleods of Dunvegan Castle on Skye. It came originally from Harris, stolen by a man from a faery knoll using a combination of trickery (he repeatedly called out a faery form of greeting that stopped them in their tracks and bought him time to widen the gap between them) coupled with the faery aversion to certain substances: when the man got home, he threw the chamber pot over his pursuers. Quite reasonably, the faeries hate urine and left him alone after that.
Lastly, we have two very similar accounts from the Isle of Man. A man once stole a silver cup from a ferrishyn feast at Cronk Mooar. The faery owners were, predictably, outraged and pursued him. He escaped by wading along the river there; the fairies called on him to walk on the stones, but he stayed in the water, and got away. A variant of this story involves the man being pursued as far as a cow shed; there he was able to sprinkle the cows’ urine (mooin ollee) at the doorway and around the walls as a defence against the fairies until dawn. When daylight came, they retreated to their hills and he was able to make his way home unmolested.
In conclusion, it’s hardly a surprise to learn that stealing faery cups is a dangerous (and sometimes fatal) enterprise. The thief needs physical prowess (either his own or a horse’s), as well as luck, daring and, very often, a knowledge of the various charms that can be deployed against faeries. More strangely, though, these stories of valuable faery cups are not really about the cups. The gold and silver vessels provide a reason for the adventures, but the real interest is in the way that a mortal can outwit and escape faery pursuers. The message for listeners is (to some degree), don’t steal from the faeries, but it’s more a lesson in what substances or strategies will defeat them. As for the cups, if they’re not retrieved by the faeries, they’re forgotten by the storytellers or, in spite of the effort invested in acquiring them, they’re given away surprisingly easily.
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.
Dunnan Fort
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.”
Stackaberg- the highest point on Fetlar
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.
The remarkable geological formation know as Brimham Rocks, near Ripon in the Yorkshire Dales, is the site of a curious faery incident:
“Edwin and Julia were madly in love with each other but Julia’s father was implacably opposed to their relationship. Finally, when Edwin asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage., her father forbade the pair to see each other ever again. Facing this cruel separation, and unable to contemplate the prospect of life without each other, they decided to leap off Brimham Rocks and so be united forever. The couple jumped hand in hand to their certain deaths from the precipice now called Lovers’ Leap but, by some miracle, instead of plummeting to the ground, they floated gently down. Some said that the fairy who lived among the rocks had witnessed their misery and, knowing they could be happy if only they were allowed to marry, had spared them. Discovering what she’d planned, Julia’s father had to reconcile himself with her love and at last consented to their wedding. The pair lived happily ever after (of course).”
This faery intervention in human love is, in many respects, quite at odds with the common conduct of British faeries. Just within the same county of Yorkshire, they will regularly be found demonstrating their more typical behaviours: often this is indifference to humankind- faeries seen dancing on (or in) hills and inside faery rings at night (for instance at Fairy Cross Plain, Fryupdale, Danby); sometimes, though, there is active hostility. This may be triggered by the actions of a person, such as the man who stole a golden goblet from a faery dance at Willy Howe, East Yorkshire, and was pursued by an angry horde until he was able to leap over a stream. On other occasions, the faery being is (it seems) preternaturally antagonistic towards people, as with the boggart known as Jeanie o’ Biggersdale, who haunted Mulgrave Woods north of Whitby, and who would pursue and kill any travellers who dared to risk passing through her domain.
The Hob Holes, Runswick, by Stephen McCulloch, geograph,.org,uk
From time to time, faery folk will act benignly towards us mortals, but they generally have to be asked to do this: the hobthrush of Runswick Bay, North Yorkshire, could cure whooping cough (if requested correctly to do so by parents). The same hob could also lure the unwary into his ‘Boggle Hole’ on the shore so that they drowned when the tide came back in. The least one might expect from such creatures was a nasty fright (as at the Hob’s Hole near Sandsend) or the experience of being led in circles until you were utterly lost (as at Elbolton Hill, near Threshfield North Yorks).
So, to return to Edwin and Julia at Lover’s Leap, why would the faery haunting the rocks (the ‘spirit of the place’ perhaps) wish to intervene in a human romance? This kind of behaviour seems more like what we’d expect of a faery godmother in a fairy tale or Disney film than the conduct we can more reasonably find amongst the distinctly tough and non-sentimental British faery clans. There are, of course, faery lovers (though not so much in Yorkshire) but their intervention with human partners is quite different from what we’re discussing here. In a much earlier post, however, I noted some evidence that faeries do (at least from time to time) intervene to punish unfaithful lovers and- by implication- promote true love. Why might this happen?
My guess is that interventions like these take place because there’s something in it for the faery folk. Stable partnerships and households in the human world are, arguably, in the faeries’ favour. Given their propensity for entering human homes to benefit from warmth, food and hot water, my suspicion is that encouraging happy families is, really, an expression of faery self interest. Edwin and Julia lived happily ever after in their human home- and the faeries could then raid their larder at night, enjoy the products of their dairy and, generally, make free with their goods, on the basis that “what’s thine is mine and what’s mine is mine.” This may be excessively unromantic and unsentimental, but it makes the most sense within the wider context of faery conduct and morals.
Here, I want to focus on some specifically Welsh spirits, a number of which I have described in the past in my book Beyond Faery. Now, I particularly want to follow up my previous discussions of ‘spirits of the land’ and to bring out how they seem to be connected to the land and people of Wales.
I’ll begin with the ellyll y llifeiriant (the torrent sprite)- a being who’s seen standing up to his waist amidst streams cascading from the mountains, his hair on end and surrounded by mist. He gives a savage laugh as he glides with the torrent and alarmingly, will periodically swell to huge size before shrinking back to human stature. The ellyll is generally considered to be malevolent towards humans in that he directs the course of mountain streams when they’re in flood. Some witnesses, though, have described the spectre as female: she’s said to collect large rocks as ballast for when she flies above storms. When she returns to the mountain cave where she lives, she drops these boulders and they form the bed of the torrents. As we’ll see, female gender is most typical of many Welsh spirits of the mountains and wild places.
Mist is- as some readers may know- rather a common climatic feature of the Welsh mountains. It’s reported that the most familiar faeries, the tylwyth teg, use it for cover when they’re plotting to kidnap livestock or children. It was also reported to Celtic folklore expert John Rhys that misty rain tends to provide the best conditions for seeing the tylwyth teg- perhaps because they feel safe from prying eyes. Mist is, it seems, the natural habitat of a much larger supernatural family. For example, in Carmarthenshire there is the ‘spirit of the mist’ a being who’s specifically tied to to damp weather and who’s seen as a white-haired old man, sitting on the mountain tops just where the clouds touch them. That liminal zone between cloud and clear is said to be a place where the tylwyth teg may be spied- dashing in and out of the fog banks.
A being who’s possibly related the ‘spirit of the mist’ is the person described by Wirt Sikes in British Goblins as the ‘Old Woman of the Mountain.’ He classes her as one of the gwyllion– female fairies of frightful characteristics, who haunt lonely roads in the Welsh mountains, and lead night-wanderers astray. The word gwyll denotes ‘gloom’ or ‘darkness’ and, by extension, “mountain fairies of gloomy and harmful habits.” The Old Woman appears as a poor elderly female, frequently carrying a milk-pail, and sometimes crying ‘Wow up!’ an old Welsh cry of distress. Those who see her and try to follow her to respond to her cry, whether at night or on a misty day, are sure to lose their way, even though they may know the area very well. It’s notable that sometimes the Old Woman is heard very close by- and then immediately far off, as if she’s instantly on the opposite mountain.
We now shift our attention from the wilds to the vicinity of humans. The gwrach y rhybin is spirit who’s regarded as a portent of disaster and death. The Welsh name itself isn’t fully translatable, although the first element means ‘witch.’ She is hideous to see, with a long nose curving down to her chin and just two or three long, sharp black teeth, long, unkempt red hair, burning eyes sunk in a very pale face, long, thin arms, and- lastly- talon-like and leathery wings. Distressing as her appearance may be, it’s the gwrach’s cry that is worst- she wails, moans and shrieks at night foretelling calamity for those who hear her. War, pestilence and famine are said always to come in her wake.
The gwrach y rhybin will often come to human homes and settlements at night, flapping outside windows and calling out the name of a person destined to die. She’s often seen in the mist on mountains, as well as at crossroads, or by a lake or watercourse, where she splashes her hands (rather like the Highland bean nighe). Any person who sees her in these circumstances is fated. The gwrach y rhybin is normally a woman, calling for a husband or child, but she can sometimes appear in male form mourning the imminent death of a wife. If the sound she makes is inarticulate, it will signify that the hearer is the one fated to die.
Closely related to the gwrach are the cyhiraeth and the tolaeth. These too are omens of death. The tolaeth is either heard as a funeral procession (horses, mourners’ laments, hymn singing) or is seen as a cortege moving without pall bearers, sometimes preceded by a light. Sometimes the tolaeth will knock at a house door, mourn by the hearth or will sound like people bearing a heavy burden moving around the home. Sometimes it will produce the sound of sawing and hammering at night in a carpenter’s workshop (imitative of a coffin being made). Interestingly, you can only either see or hear the tolaeth, not both, which means that if you see it and shut your eyes to block out the apparition, you’ll still hear it instead.
The cyhiraeth most typically gives a doleful cry as she proceeds from the fated person’s home towards the graveyard. However, it has another manifestation: on very wild and stormy nights it will be heard on the coast. At first it’s detected in the distance, but it will approach along the line of the waves before fading away and then producing a loud shriek very near to the listener. After this shock, it will pass away into the distance as moans. Heard on the sea-shore, the cyhiraeth is the sure sign of a shipwreck and that bodies will soon be washed in by the waves. The cyhiraeth’s swiftly moving voice reminds us of the Old Woman of the Mountain- but for that matter of the ghostly hounds known as the cwn wybir (sky dogs) or cwn annwn (‘hell’ dogs).
These beings may seem rather disparate and dissimilar, but I’d argue that they all have certain features in common: an association with mist and poor visibility- or very bad weather, their cries and their unnaturally speedy movements. What I think really unites them more fundamentally, though, is simply their integration into their environment. With the ellyll and the gwyllion, this seems to be purely physical; they are an element in the Welsh mountains and their climate. For the gwrach, tolaeth and cyhiraeth, the spirits’ contact with the human population is so close that they are able to foretell death and other disasters. They have, therefore, grown out of the Welsh landscape or have become entwined with the affairs of the human population beside whom they live- sensitive and responsive to their changes.
The idea came to me to write these Faery Fauna posts when travelling back to London on the train. Just as we were passing the Uffington White Horse, we saw deer grazing in a field near to the line. The conjunction of ancient monument and faery cattle set my mind to work…
The horse is a form that can be assumed by several beings, including glaistigs, kelpies, the Manx nyker, buggane and glashtyn, the Shetland nuggle/ nyugl, the Somerset hob called the blue burche, various bogies, boggles, brags and boggarts, including the Hedley Kow, and, lastly, the skriker, trash and other black faery dogs. In addition, the Highland water horse, or each uisge, can appear in human form– although it does this far more rarely than the kelpie.
I distinguish these horses, which are shape-shifted faeries, from the water sprites in solely horse form that are found across Scotland, such as on the River Spey at Moray or at Powguild on Loch Gelly in Fife. Phantom horses that are the ghosts of dead travellers are also encountered, for example at Lochbuie on Mull and at Farnell, near Brechin in Angus. Similar English equine ghosts are known, at Fitz in Shropshire and at Marbury Hall in Cheshire. Phantom headless horses are also present in England, at both Blickling Hall and West Caister in Norfolk.
Just like faery beings, witches were said to be able to transform themselves into horses- as in a story from the Kennet Valley in Berkshire, in which a woman was exposed as a witch because, whilst shape-shifted, she was taken to the see the farrier and then, returned to her human form, she was found in agony with a horse shoe nailed to her hand. The victims of witches might also be turned into horses so that they could be ridden; this was alleged at a witch trial in Cambridge in 1659 and readers might recall that the faeries were alleged to do the same to people if they were unable to steal their horses for riding at night..
As with deer and boars, the horse has a role in wider British mythology. So, for example, in the first branch of the Mabinogion– the story of Peredur- Rhiannon is strongly associated with horses, as is her son Pryderi. This link so strong that the queen and her son are often depicted as mare and foal and it has been proposed that the queen Rhiannon is an embodiment of the ancient British horse goddess Epona. For that matter, the Uffington horse may represent Epona- and similar stylised horses are found on pre-Roman coinage too.
The various faeries transformed into horses that I’ve mentioned are generally malign entities. At best, they’ll terrify witnesses, at worst , they have murderous intent. The best example is the kelpie, which carries off unwary individuals into deep water before consuming their drowned corpses, but others are dangerous carnivores as well.
The Mari Lywd at Llangynwyd
It’s curious that a domesticated beast, so familiar to people, should be given this fatal aspect- especially as there haven’t been wild horses in Europe for millennia. May be the power and potential of the creatures is what inspired this, but it would seem to run deeper. Across Britain, the vestiges remain of ceremonies involving a supernatural horse. In Wales this is called the Mari Lywd, once widespread throughout the country, now limited to the south in Glamorgan and Carmarthenshire. In England, traditions of the ‘hodening’ or ‘hooden’ horse existed from Kent as far north as south Yorkshire and Cheshire. Whether the very un-equine ‘hobby horses‘ of Cornwall and Devon are related is uncertain.
The customs are still performed in a few places. Around Christmas and New Year (from November to late January, in fact) a person disguised with a sheet and carrying a decorated horse’s skull parades, with supporters, through a settlement, going house to house with songs and verses, enjoying food and drink and bringing good luck to the homes visited. In some places, such as Chepstow, this ceremony blends with the ‘wassailing’ of orchards. The purpose is twofold- the horse initially tries to scare those it visits, but it is really there to bring fertility for the coming year. The Mari Lwyd and her kin can terrorise people but, just like the goddess Epona, they also ensure good crops (and plenty of lambs, calves and foals) in the year ahead.
Conclusions
What strikes me is how all the supernatural animals I’ve described are integrated into the British environment. The ability of faery beings to change their form seems to emphasise how they are, one might say, an emanation of the land, an integral part of the natural world of Britain. They are part of the landscape (caves inhabited and marks left), their appearances can be seasonal and they influence the weather. In this respect, they are unquestionably spirits of the land.
Chepstow Wassail and Mari Lwyd festival, January 2018 Picture by Nick Treharne (see People’s Collection Wales)
Deer and the faeries are inseparably connected. The animals provide the Good Folk with a valuable source of sustenance, but the association is even deeper than that; there is a magical control over them that merges into identity.
In the Scottish Highlands, the huge hag known as the cailleach bheur or cailleach-uisge, the water woman, inhabits wild places and acts as a guardian to wild animals, most particularly deer. Normally, it is considered bad luck for a hunter to see the cailleach, for a glimpse of her would mean that he would certainly catch nothing that day. Nonetheless, just occasionally, the hag might allow her deer to be hunted by favoured individuals- or she might curse a particular animal to be killed if it had offended- for example by kicking during milking. In Sir Walter Scot’s poem Alice Brand, it is the elfin king who protects the deer of the greenwood; they are “Beloved of our Elfin Queen.” Such is the affinity between the fae and deer that a fairy hunter encountered by two walkers at Corrieyairaick in Inverness-shire was seen to be able to walk through a herd without disturbing them at all.
Folklorist Joseph Campbell reported in Superstitions of the Highlands & Islands of Scotland that, according to popular Highland belief, no deer is ever found dead with age, neither are its annually shed antlers ever found, because the faeries hide both the bodies and the horns, just as they use enchantments to hide their herds. The faery folk have a particular dislike for those who kill their hinds, and, if they discover those hunters in lonely places, they will torment them with elf-bolts. When a dead deer is carried home at the end of a day’s hunting, the faeries will frequently lay all their weight on the bearer’s back, until he struggles under the huge burden. An iron knife, however, being stuck in the deer’s body, will repel the faery interference and make the carcase light again. Campbell also recorded that the old faery woman (or gruagach) called the Carlin of the Red Stream, is able to restore to life any of her herd that have been hunted, provided that she can obtain a small portion of its flesh to taste.
As noted already, the cailleach keeps flocks of deer (as well as cattle and pigs) and she herds and milks the hinds on the mountains. Whilst in the summer the hag grazes her deer on the remote heights, on winter nights she can sometimes be seen driving her herd down onto the beaches of the Ross of Mull, where they can feed on the seaweed whilst other vegetation is sparse. By way of contrast, the Carlin Wife of the Spotted Hill (Cailleach Beinne Bhric Horo) has a herd which, it is said, she will not allow to descend to the beach; instead, they “love the water-cresses by the fountain high in the hills better than the black weeds of the shore.” This same cailleach is said to have sung a unique song whilst milking her hinds and, in turn, to have rewarded a bold young hunter who sang verses in praise of her: she granted him supernatural skills in pursuing deer. In Somerset in the south of England there are references to the closely related ‘Woman of Mist’ who lived on Bicknoller Hill in the western Quantock Hills. She too herded deer on the hillsides.
In some districts, such as Lochaber and Mull, deer are said to be the only form of ‘cattle’ herded by faery women (bean sith). A faery lullaby recorded by Alexander Carmichael in Carmina Gadelica is called Bainne nam fiadh (Deer’s Milk); it suggests that milk from hinds may substitute for faery mothers’ weakness in breastfeeding:
“On milk of deer I was raised,
On milk of deer I was nurtured,
On milk of deer beneath the ridge of storms,
On crest of hill and mountain.”
Carmina Gadelica, vol.2, 232
Quite a dear deer- yours online for just £70…
The faeries’ link with deer is more than just a matter of food and oversight. Faery women (and some witches) can transform into hinds- and Osian’s mother is said to have been a deer. Likewise, the cailleach bheur can turn into a range of animals including the deer, as well as cats and ravens. The cailleach’s shape-shifting ability is seen as well in the baobhan sith (‘hag faery’), a particularly fierce and dreadful supernatural female of the Highlands, who may appear in addition as a crow or raven or as a lovely girl in a long green dress. The gown conceals the fact that she has deer hooves instead of feet, a clear indication of her non-human nature. The baobhan sith is known for seducing and then consuming unwary men- slitting their throats, ripping out their hearts and drinking their blood. Glaistigs are also known to herd deer, to allow favoured hunters to take single beasts and to transform into female human form in which their identity may be betrayed by their deer hooves. It is very curious indeed that the deer, an animal normally characterised as timid and gentle, should be an alternative form of notoriously ferocious faery females.
The assumption of deer form is found elsewhere in British mythology. In the fourth branch of the Mabinogion, the story of Math son of Mathonwy, the brothers Gilfaethwy and his astronomer/ magician brother Gwydion are punished by their uncle Math for their joint rape of the virgin Goewin. This assault has precipitated war, so Math turns them into a breeding pair of deer for a year, then pigs, and lastly wolves. Three young are born over the three-year duration of the spell; Math uses magic to change these offspring into boys and names them: they are, respectively, Hyddwn (Stag Man), Hychddwn Hir (the Long Pig), and Bleiddwn (Wolf Man). In a related story, Amaethon, another brother of Gwydion, steals a white roebuck and a whelp from Arawn, king of the otherworld, a crime which again leads to a major conflict.
Various other marvellous deer appear in the Mabinogion. In the story of Peredur, son of Efrawc, the hero has to hunt a one-horned stag that is both very powerful and fast; a pure white stag is hunted by King Arthur in the tale of Geraint son of Erbin. Far more impressive than either of these, though, is the very long-lived Stag of Redynvre in Culhwch and Olwen, whose wise advice Arthur solicits.
Gloria Wallington, Pictish Hunting Scene III, 1995
Deer have other supernatural aspects. It has been reported that in Breadalbane, in the central Highlands, the belief once was that ghosts could appear as various beasts, including dogs, cattle and- of course- deer. In England, for example at Levens Hall in Westmorland, white deer were supposed to have been tied to the fortune of the house, the killing of one guaranteeing misfortune for the residents.
As a final confirmation of the deep-rooted supernatural and mythological status of deer in the British Isles, we may note the annual horn-dance that takes place at Abbot’s Bromley in Staffordshire. The antlers used in this day-long ceremony (or maybe ritual) are actually from reindeer and date back to around the Norman Conquest- two remarkable and quite inexplicable facts. In describing the dance, the recently released book Weird Walk notes that across Europe there was a tradition of dressing up as deer or cattle, something that early medieval churchmen recognised as pagan magic and sought to outlaw. It looks as though it somehow survived at Abbot’s Bromley, even today connecting us with those hags and stags…
Twrch Trwyth– sculpture by Tony Woodward at Ammanford
The connection between faeries and certain animals in Britain is a complex and (as ever) sometimes rather confusing one. The fae can keep their own domestic and domesticated creatures- they have horses for riding, cows for milk and meat and dogs for hunting and guarding their homes, all of which feature in folk tales. Secondly, though, some faery beings can take on animal form or, more notably, may only appear as those creatures. I’ve written several times in previous posts about what I’ve termed these ‘faery beasts,’ the likes of the black dogs, water horses and water bulls. In this and succeeding posts, I want to explore the slightly different vision of faery being: my focus will be upon those faeries who have two natures- animal as well as anthropoid- and the manner in which they are integrated into the wider enchanted environment of the isles of Britain. I will focus on a number of major animals, consider how their forms are often assumed by faery beings and examine how these creatures have long featured in the deeper mythology of Britain.
Herds
The boar, or wild pig, appears very often in British folklore and there are regular associations with faeries: hence, the Highland hag called the cailleach bheur keeps flocks of pigs as well as deer and cattle. Her storm-bringing assistants ride on both swine and wolves. A cailleach in Ross and Cromarty called Mala Liath is the protectress of herds of swine and, together with the wild boar of Glen Glass, is said to prey upon humans.
According to a Scots poem found in the Bannatyne manuscript, ‘The Gyre Carling,’ the faery female called the Gyre Carlin in Fife is said to be accompanied by her sow, which she will ride, in addition to which she can take on pig form if she wishes. The gyre seems to be a southern variant of the cailleach bheur and, like so many of those northern hags, is thought to have lived on human flesh.
The swine as supernatural companion is also found English ballad of the ‘Jovial Hunter.’ This tells of Sir Ryalas of Upper Wick in Worcestershire who went to the aid of a lady trapped in a tree after her husband and retinue had all, apparently, been killed by a wild boar. The knight bravely fought the beast for four hours and eventually managed to kill it, but the ‘lady’ was not grateful to her saviour: she proved to be a wild woman of the woods who attacked him, complaining “you have killed my spotted pig!”
Shapeshifting
Regularly, too, faeries can take on the form of boars and pigs: the Manx glastin or glashtyn has one form as a horse but is also seen as a pig; Highland fuathan can also assume multiple shapes- including a pig and a dog; likewise, barguests- which often manifest as huge chained dogs, but also as donkeys, calves and pigs- and the Manx bugganes, which might appear as pigs, cows, dogs or cats. The Scottish folklorist John Gregorson Campbell discovered a tradition in the Ross of Mull that a faery being might take the form of a small bird, called the torc sona (or ‘happy boar’) which could bring luck to farmers, such as a never-ending supply of seed.
Shapeshifting into pig form by a supernatural may also be encountered on the Isle of Man. In 1910, the Reverend Canon Kewley, of Arbory parish on the island, recounted the experience of a staunch Methodist he knew. This man had once seen the road full of little black pigs which all vanished as soon as he demanded of them, “In the name of God, what are ye?” He was quite sure that he had seen a group of the ‘little folk.’ There also the faery pig of the Isle of Man, a creature called arkan sonney in Manx- ‘the lucky piggy.’ This is a white pig with red ears and eyes (a very typical colouring for supernatural beasts) which is capable of changing its size- but not its shape. They are reputed to be very attractive and lucky creatures (akin to the Manx torc sona just mentioned).
Monstrous supernatural boars that wreak destruction are a common feature of British myth. The most famous of these, probably, is the Twrch Trwyth (Trwyth the Boar) in the Welsh story of Culhwch and Olwen in the collection of early medieval stories called the Mabinogion. Such was its reputation that the medieval Welsh poet Lewis Glyn Cothi (1420-90) made a comparison between a human warrior and the boar: “He would destroy towns with wrath, wounds and violence; he would tear down towers like Twrch Trwyth.”
The Twrch Trwyth has a comb, scissors and razor, hidden amongst the poisonous bristles between its ears, items which Culhwch needs so that he can cut the hair of the giant, Ysbaddaden, in the hope that he will then give consent for his daughter to marry the hero. Trwyth is hunted across the whole of South Wales and into Cornwall by King Arthur and a large party of skilled pursuers. A second boar, Ysgithrwyn Pen Beidd (Chief Boar), has then to be hunted to obtain a tusk with which to shave the giant.
Arthur hunts the Twrch– sculpture at Cwmamman
Several other magical boars and swine appear in the Mabinogion. In the tale of Manawyddan son of Llyr, Pryderi and Manawyddan pursue a marvellous white boar into a castle never previously seen standing at that spot. When, successively, Pryderi and then his mother Rhiannon enter the castle, they are frozen on the spot by spells cast by the magician Llwyd ap Cil Coed. The boar seen was either Llwyd in disguise- or was an apparition conjured by him. Certainly, in the ancient Welsh stories we encounter examples of shapeshifting into pig-form: Twrch Trwyth is, according to King Arthur, a sinful king transformed into a swine by god in punishment; the poet Taliesin sang of his origins, describing how he was able to shape-shift, taking on multiple forms, including that of a stag (see a later posting) and of a swine: “I have fled as a bristly boar, seen in a ravine.”
Generally, swine are portrayed positively, as highly valuable and desirable- so much so that in the story of Math, son of Mathonwy, the wizard Gwydion uses magical deception to steal swine from Pryderi. However, at the start of the story of Culhwch and Olwen the boy’s mother is able to overcome a difficult labour by going to a place where swine were being herded; fear of the pigs hastened her son’s delivery. It’s not wholly clear whether there is a magical aspect to this.
Scottish tradition also has a tale of a monstrous and ferocious boar that lived in a cave on Ben Laighal in Sutherland. It was killed by Diarmuid, but like Twrch Trwyth, it had poisonous bristles, one of which pierced his bare foot and killed him; the same tale is told of Diarmuid and the Mala Liath and Glen Glass boar mentioned earlier. The killing of monstrous boars that have ravaged neighbourhoods is also found in folktales from throughout England, for instance from Boarstall, Chetwode, Bishop Auckland and Brancepeth.
The wild boar has a reputation as a fierce and dangerous creature, but the stories recounted here go well beyond this. Not only can these swine become unnaturally huge, they may be found as the companions of malign faery females, wreaking devastation together with them. Then again, there can be a fortunate and benign aspect to some of these beings. At the very least, as we shall see in posts on other animals to follow, the faeries are regarded as being integrated into the British landscape and ecology not only through grazing swine but by becoming them.
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.
British Fairies 