Pistis Sophia

This is a stylistic experiment, where a short story is mirrored by a blank-verse poetic version. The title Pistis Sophia references the 3rd-century Gnostic text, usually translated as ‘Faith in Wisdom’.

Pistis Sophia

I was seven when I first went there. Freed from the apron-strings and able to wander at will, I followed the darkling tree-lined brook upstream, crossing it on stepping stones and parlaying the water in to something greater than it at first seemed. I navigated the barely traceable tracks of wild animals through the long grasses, and passed over long-disused weirs, their crumbling stonework fascinating me as if remnants of an ancient civilisation. I had no idea how brooks and streams and rivers worked, but something innate within me told of a source, of a beginning, which I might find, and where magic might reside. For in those days magic filled my childish mind, before the world squeezed it out of me.

Dazzled by the glint of sunlight on the water in a clearing, I would see the amorphous shapes of the faeries, dancing and playing on the bank, both aware and unaware of my gaze. I never questioned their reality, imbued as I was with their presence in the books I read and had read to me. Their slithering movement mirrored the ebbs and flows of the brook, and I have no idea how much time would pass as I crouched and watched them in a trance. Looking back, that dazed state of childish reverie probably allowed me to see what was really there; things usually hidden from more sophisticated and unaltered eyes. They had a beautiful menace about them, but I was never afraid, only delighted at their existence. Then when the sun became clouded the faeries turned obscure, and faded into the languorous, dipping branches of the willow trees. When this happened the daydream would fracture, and I would continue my quest northwards along the brook.

These days of summer wanderings merged as one in my memory. But never did I reach the source, and I began to wonder if it existed at all, or whether the brook was some eternal emanation, unfindable and unknowable. Then one day at summer’s end with a grey-scale sky, I saw no faeries in their usual haunts and so made it further than I had ever done along the ever-dwindling stream. And where the land rose in to a shallow slope, I saw a damp grove of alders, the wind making their low canopies rustle in to a secretive musical tune, inviting me and enticing me. Inside the grove was a muddy pool, but at its head was a stone-lined shaft where crystalline water plumed and gushed, and ran away to form the brook behind me. I skirted the worst of the mud and made it on to the capstone, where, placed with evident intent, I found a silver crucifix inlaid with gemstones that changed from blue to green as I rolled it in my palm. In my memory this hypnosis of colours induced me to sleep and dream there on that day; at least that is what I have always told the few I deemed to tell of the lady who then came to me, luminous but also unseen, as if from the source itself. But in my heart I know that dream was not all a dream. It was instead a gnosis. A gnosis spoken to me in aqua cadence, both external and internal.

‘Child of Light — Light I have given to you from the Pleroma. Remember me when you suffer. Remember the Divine spark within you. Though surrounded by clay and chaos, the Light will always be in your vessel. Eternal as the Aeons, never fading. I will always be with you, as Sophia and the Magdalene. Remember. Maranatha.’

I have no memory of the aftermath of my theophany, how I left the source and returned home or how my days panned out afterwards. But the moment was an epiphany, and from then I became an adult trapped in a child’s body and mind. I became out of place and withdrew within the confines of my own psyche. I did, of course, attempt to find the spring, the source, again, but never could. The faeries too were gone, and within a year we left that place.

In later years, in later life, I wandered in the world amidst the clay and chaos; never finding my place and always outcast. Suffering seemed to be a natural condition, as though I had given it permission to be the ruler of my spirit. But always I remembered. I remembered the Light that had been given to me; the spark within me as contrast to the density of the world. And most of all I remembered Sophia — the Magdalene was always in my heart.

And now, now I have returned, old and grey and worn out by the heartaches, grief and traumas of life. Sixty years away from here but nothing seems to have changed. I make my way, slowly and painfully, along the brook. The willows are still here. They cannot be the same ones, but for my purpose they may as well be. And the faeries are now nothing but the nebulous movements of reeds swaying along the bank, rationalised as tricks of the eye, and put away to childish days. The old illness slows my progress, tormenting me to rest more and more. And as the sun sinks I begin to cry, and I begin to pray, to what I do not know. But it is a prayer to the Light amidst the dusk, the Light I have always kept aglow, the Light inextinguishable. I sit and pause again, knowing I will not reach the source; it is beyond me whilst I’m wrapped in clay, whilst seeing with these darksome eyes. And this time I sit and fall, a brutal pulse of searing pain brings me prone to the ground and darkness is my place and state. But the darkness isn’t really darkness. It is something else. It evaporates. Annihilation turns out to be Light. The Light comes from the source, and She speaks to me as in a chord beyond the universe.

‘You have gnosis my child. The light of the sun is not the Light of Truth. The Light was within you all the time. It was given to you by me; now you return it, and you are free. Maranatha.’


Pistis Sophia

I was seven when I first went there.
Freed from the apron-strings and able to wander at will,
I followed the darkling tree-lined brook upstream,
Crossing it on stepping stones
And parlaying the water in to something greater than it at first seemed.
I navigated the barely traceable tracks of wild animals
Through the long grasses, and passed over long-disused weirs,
Their crumbling stonework fascinating me
As if remnants of an ancient civilisation.
I had no idea how brooks and streams and rivers worked,
But something innate within me told of a source, of a beginning,
Which I might find, and where magic might reside.
For in those days magic filled my childish mind,
Before the world squeezed it out of me.

Dazzled by the glint of sunlight on the water in a clearing,
I would see the amorphous shapes of the faeries,
Dancing and playing on the bank, both aware and unaware of my gaze.
I never questioned their reality,
Imbued as I was with their presence in the books I read and had read to me.
Their slithering movement mirrored the ebbs and flows of the brook,
And I have no idea how much time would pass
As I crouched and watched them in a trance.
Looking back, that dazed state of childish reverie
Probably allowed me to see what was really there;
Things usually hidden from more sophisticated and unaltered eyes.
They had a beautiful menace about them,
But I was never afraid, only delighted at their existence.
Then when the sun became clouded the faeries turned obscure,
And faded into the languorous, dipping branches of the willow trees.
When this happened the daydream would fracture,
And I would continue my quest northwards along the brook.

These days of summer wanderings merged as one in my memory.
But never did I reach the source, and I began to wonder if it existed at all,
Or whether the brook was some eternal emanation,
Unfindable and unknowable.
Then one day at summer’s end with a grey-scale sky,
I saw no faeries in their usual haunts
And so made it further than I had ever done
Along the ever-dwindling stream.
And where the land rose in to a shallow slope,
I saw a damp grove of alders,
The wind making their low canopies rustle in to a secretive musical tune,
Inviting me and enticing me.
Inside the grove was a muddy pool,
But at its head was a stone-lined shaft
Where crystalline water plumed and gushed,
And ran away to form the brook behind me.
I skirted the worst of the mud and made it on to the capstone,
Where, placed with evident intent,
I found a silver crucifix inlaid with gemstones
That changed from blue to green as I rolled it in my palm.
In my memory this hypnosis of colours induced me to sleep
And dream there on that day;
At least that is what I have always told the few
I deemed to tell of the lady who then came to me,
Luminous but also unseen, as if from the source itself.
But in my heart I know that dream was not all a dream.
It was instead a gnosis.
A gnosis spoken to me in aqua cadence,
Both external and internal.

‘Child of Light — Light I have given to you from the Pleroma.
Remember me when you suffer.
Remember the Divine spark within you.
Though surrounded by clay and chaos,
The Light will always be in your vessel.
Eternal as the Aeons, never fading.
I will always be with you,
As Sophia and the Magdalene. Remember.
Maranatha.’

I have no memory of the aftermath of my theophany,
How I left the source and returned home
Or how my days panned out afterwards.
But the moment was an epiphany,
And from then I became an adult trapped in a child’s body and mind.
I became out of place and withdrew
Within the confines of my own psyche.
I did, of course, attempt to find the spring,
The source, again, but never could.
The faeries too were gone, and within a year we left that place.

In later years, in later life, I wandered in the world
Amidst the clay and chaos; never finding my place and always outcast.
Suffering seemed to be a natural condition,
As though I had given it permission to be the ruler of my spirit.
But always I remembered.
I remembered the Light that had been given to me;
The spark within me as contrast to the density of the world.
And most of all I remembered Sophia —
The Magdalene was always in my heart.

And now, now I have returned,
Old and grey and worn out by the heartaches, grief and traumas of life.
Sixty years away from here but nothing seems to have changed.
I make my way, slowly and painfully, along the brook.
The willows are still here.
They cannot be the same ones, but for my purpose they may as well be.
And the faeries are now nothing but the nebulous movements
Of reeds swaying along the bank, rationalised as tricks of the eye,
And put away to childish days.
The old illness slows my progress, tormenting me to rest more and more.
And as the sun sinks I begin to cry,
And I begin to pray, to what I do not know.
But it is a prayer to the Light amidst the dusk,
The Light I have always kept aglow,
The Light inextinguishable.
I sit and pause again, knowing I will not reach the source;
It is beyond me whilst I’m wrapped in clay,
Whilst seeing with these darksome eyes.
And this time I sit and fall, a brutal pulse of searing pain
Brings me prone to the ground and darkness is my place and state.
But the darkness isn’t really darkness. It is something else.
It evaporates. Annihilation turns out to be Light.
The Light comes from the source,
And She speaks to me as in a chord beyond the universe.

‘You have gnosis my child.
The light of the sun is not the Light of Truth.
The Light was within you all the time.
It was given to you by me;
Now you return it, and you are free.
Maranatha.’

***

The cover image is original artwork by Victoria Darcy.

***

Dead but Dreaming the novel is available now…

The Faerie Phenomenon in Folkloric and Modern Experience

This article was published originally on Graham Hancock’s website. It has been slightly modified for this post, although the section on DMT has been left as it initially appeared. A more recent discussion (including the latest clinical research into the DMT phenomenon) can be found in my article ‘Faerie-type Entities and and the DMT Experience: An Ontological Survey’.

Faeries have been an important part of the folkloric repertoire for hundreds (perhaps even thousands) of years, and while they are portrayed in the popular imagination through faerie tales, and have become disneyfied through the 20th century, their main presence is in the myriad of folklore from every part of the globe. They usually (though not always) take a humanoid form, and interact with human societies as amorphous supernatural entities, appearing in our world to both co-operate with people and as general arbiters of discord, while also living in their own Otherworld, sometimes accessible to humans either through accident or design. While the phenomenon is ancient, the belief in these metaphysical beings continues, and there are thousands of encounter reports from all over the world every year, as demonstrated in the recent surveys by The Fairy Investigation Society, which includes c.1000 testimonies.i

But folklorists are often ambivalent about the faeries; they are likely to keep their distance from them, so to speak. While happy to record and discuss the beliefs of people who tell stories and anecdotes about them, most folklorists speak the language (at least in official publications) of the reductionist, materialist worldview, and they’ll often be reticent about assessing the potential actual reality of supernatural beings. In the materialist’s world, faeries simply cannot exist. They must be reduced into a categorised cultural belief system, and any discussion of them will usually be couched in the accepted language of scientific rationalism. This creates a problem for any folklorist (or anybody else) who wants to look behind the stories and investigate the possibility that the faeries can be incorporated into our consensus reality as a genuine phenomenon.

But the reductionist scientific orthodoxy has been challenged recently by a range of philosophical hypotheses such as Panpsychism and Idealism, backed up by quantum theory and experiment, which reinstates consciousness (not matter) as the primary mover and creator of reality.ii When this is done, entities such as faeries are allowed back into the universe as a potentially authentic phenomenon.

The Origins of the Faeries in Altered States of Consciousness

Our earliest known artistic portrayals of the world, and how human consciousness interacted with it, come in the form of cave paintings from all parts of the globe, starting c.40,000 BCE.iii Many of these cave paintings include humanoids and therianthropes; otherworldly entities that have been recorded alongside geometric imagery, stylised animals and landscapes. The paintings are in effect our earliest known folklore. But what state of mind were our Palaeolithic ancestors in when they were painting these strange entities in often difficult to access caves and shelters?

Parietal art in cave systems at Tassili n’Ajjer, Algeria, c. 7,000 BCE (PD0)

The anthropologist David Lewis-Williams has made the convincing argument that these cave and rock-shelter paintings were produced by shamanic cultures to represent reality as perceived in an altered state of consciousness.iv Thirty years ago this idea was anathema to anthropologists, but since the work of Lewis-Williams, and many others, the theory has tipped over to become more orthodox. There are hundreds of motifs in the cave paintings that correlate with the visionary states of people in an altered state of consciousness, brought about most especially by the ingestion of a psychotropic substance. The basic premise is that the shamans of these Palaeolithic cultures transported themselves into altered states of consciousness and then painted the results of their experiences on the walls of caves and rock shelters — experiences that frequently included therianthropic beings and supernatural humanoids that correlate in many ways with later faerie types.

In his 2005 book Supernatural: Meetings with the Ancient Teachers of Mankind, Graham Hancock vividly utilises Lewis-Williams’ work to discuss the continuity through time of entities experienced in altered states of consciousness, coming to the conclusion that the faeries of our historic period are perhaps one and the same as those portrayed in prehistoric caves.v And writers such as Carlo Ginzburg and Emma Wilby have argued that there is a direct link between prehistoric shamanic storytelling and the folklore embodied in classical, medieval and later periods, that often incorporate entities such as nymphs and faeries; supernatural beings that interact with humanity when the conditions are right.vi Those conditions may well be reliant on the human participants undergoing an altered state of consciousness as a result of the ingestion of psychotropic compounds. There is certainly a preponderance of mushroom imagery associated to historic depictions of faeries, most especially the highly psychedelic red and white Amanita muscaria (fly agaric) mushroom, and the psilocybin mushroom, both prevalent in Europe and Asia. If these historic folkloric manifestations of interactions with supernatural entities can be linked to the cave art of prehistory and preliterate societies, then we have a continuation of relationship with an alternative reality, accessed through altered states of consciousness, over a very long period of time.

17th-century English woodcut for a chapbook, with dancing faeries, burial mound (hollow hill with door), fly agaric mushroom and the face of a ‘spirit’ in the tree (PD0)

Many of the European faerie motifs repeated in stories and anecdotes through the centuries to the present day were already in place during the medieval period. When folklorists began to collect these stories in earnest from the 19th century onwards, they found a belief in faeries amongst rural populations that was probably very close to the medieval belief and understanding of what faeries were and how they interacted with humanity. Many stories include situations where the protagonist(s) interacts with the faeries in what seems an altered state of consciousness; consistently inhabited by strange humanoids and therianthropes (the faeries), and there are lots of recurring story motifs that are highly suggestive of an autonomous reality being described. But this is not consensus reality, this is the folklore recording stories from people operating outside consensus reality. The folklore about faeries has been overlain with much allegorical storytelling, but at their root the realities they describe are of people in altered states of consciousness (facilitated by a range of agents), perhaps not too far from the realities experienced by the Palaeolithic cave painters and shamanic practitioners.

Clairvoyance and the Memory of Nature

When the folklorist WY Evans-Wentz travelled around the Celtic world at the beginning of the 20th century, collecting stories and anecdotal experiences about the faeries, it was clear that many of his interviewees rated clairvoyance as the best way of altering the conscious state to a position where it could interact with the faeries.vii Seership or second-sight was the method of entering, or at least viewing, an alternative reality inhabited by a relatively consistent cast of characters, usually recognised as the faeries. He met one such Irish clairvoyant (un-named in the text, but evidently George William Russell, often known by the pseudonym Æ) in Rosses Point, County Sligo. This seer talked about various types of faeries that inhabited the landscape of Sligo, ‘making them sound like a cross between nature spirits and mystical visions.’ But Evans-Wentz was just as interested in the mechanics of interacting with the faeries as he was with the stories themselves. How did the seer interface with them?

‘I have always made a distinction between pictures seen in the memory of nature and visions of actual beings now existing in the inner world. We can make the same distinction in our world: I may close my eyes and see you as a vivid picture in memory, or I may look at you with my physical eyes and see your actual image. In seeing these beings of which I speak, the physical eyes may be open or closed: mystical beings in their own world and nature are never seen with the physical eyes.’viii

The rural people interviewed by Evans-Wentz consistently affirmed that clairvoyant alteration of consciousness was the best sure-fire way to see the faeries. By the time Evans-Wentz visited these communities, there was a sense that the number of people gifted with second-sight was dwindling; cutting down on communication with the faeries. But at the same time as these rural communities were feeling the increasing pressures of modernism there was a reaction by organisations such as The Theosophical Society (first founded in 1875), which attempted to incorporate supernatural entities into an understanding of reality.ix And their prime metaphysical technology was clairvoyance. The Austrian Theosophist Rudolf Steiner attempted to explain the mechanics of clairvoyance, when a person must transform their usually passive thought forms into something more dynamic. In normal consciousness, thoughts:

‘… allow themselves to be connected and separated, to be formed and then dismissed. This life of thought must develop in the elemental world a step further. There a person is not in a position to deal with thoughts that are passive. If someone really succeeds in entering the world with his clairvoyant soul, it seems as though his thoughts were not things over which he has any command; they are living beings… You thrust your consciousness into a place, it seems, where you do not find thoughts that are like those in the physical world, but where they are living beings.’x


Rudolf Steiner in 1905 (PD0)

Steiner described the specific elemental animating forces at work in the natural world, when perceived clairvoyantly, in what he calls a Supersensible World. For Steiner the elementals in Supersensible World existed as a range of beings, from devas, which are responsible for entire autonomous landscapes, through to the smaller nature spirits charged with the growth of vegetation. Steiner (basing his epistemology on that originally developed by the 16th-century alchemist Paracelsus)xi divides these entities into four main types corresponding to earth (Gnomic), water (Undines), air (Sylphs) and heat/light (Salamanders). This is the faerie realm, existing as a non-material autonomous reality that crosses over with ours, and which can be accessed via a clairvoyant altered state of consciousness. Steiner thought everyone has this innate ability, but they had to be taught how to use it; it had somehow become almost forgotten amongst humanity.

This idea finds common ground with the recent work of biochemist Rupert Sheldrake, who proposes that morphogenetic fields are the formative causation allowing life on earth.xii Sheldrake’s description of this organising principle behind the natural world is issued in the language of biochemistry, but in effect, what he postulates is the same as Steiner’s vision of nature spirits in action. There are invisible forces that are as essential in ordering life on earth as accepted non-material forces such as gravity. Sheldrake calls these morphogenetic fields ‘the memory of nature’ (echoing Evans-Wentz’s Irish seer). In effect, Steiner saw nature spirits as anthropogenic representations of these morphogenetic fields, imposed upon them through the thought forms of the observer, who perceives them clairvoyantly.

The Faeries and DMT

But what allows this access to otherworldly realms and the entities that seem to exist there? What causes clairvoyance, or second-sight? Many of Evans-Wentz’s respondents and Theosophists such as Steiner seem to suggest it is a natural attribute — a gift of consciousness. However, there may well also be a chemical component: N, N-dimethyltryptamine – DMT. This molecule is one of the main active ingredients utilised by Amazonian shamans: the Psychotria viridis and Diplopterys cabrerana plants, containing DMT, are used in conjunction with the Banisteriopsis caapi vine to produce the brew usually known as Ayahuasca, which invokes radically transformed states of consciousness, and often entity encounters.xiii But DMT is also produced endogenously in everyone’s brain, potentially in either the lungs or the pineal gland.xiv It seems that under certain circumstances, it can be released in higher quantities, causing an altered state of consciousness. This would require the DMT to be released in conjunction with Monoamine Oxidase Inhibitors (MAOI), which inhibit naturally occurring enzymes in the human body. This may allow a surge of DMT production to have full effect and create radically transformed states of consciousness.

While there remains a lack of definitive evidence that endogenously produced DMT might be responsible for altering states of consciousness and potentially allowing experiences with non-human intelligence, there is no doubt that when DMT is insufflated or injected the results often invoke entry into non-physical realities inhabited by a range of entities, many of which adhere to a faerie taxonomy. The late Terence McKenna was an enthusiastic user of the synthesised form of DMT to access different realities, and coined the term ‘self-transforming machine elves’ for the creatures he regularly found there. As if to confirm Terence’s assertions, a research study conducted between 1990 and 1995 in the General Clinical Research Center of the University of New Mexico Hospital, by Dr Rick Strassman found that volunteers on the study injected with varying amounts of DMT underwent profound alterations of consciousness.xv This involved immediate cessation of normal consciousness and transportation to a different realm of reality with divergent metaphysical properties, and inhabited by a range of creatures described as elves, faeries, lizards, reptiles, insects, aliens, clowns and various therianthropic entities. One woman even describes a pulsating entity that she called ‘Tinkerbell-like’. The experiences, especially at higher doses, represented to the participants a parallel reality that was ‘super real’; not an hallucination, not a dream, but a substantial built reality with full sensory interaction and often telepathy with the resident entities.

The experience reports from the study are irrational, absurd, frightening, illogical and surreal. There is no question of any of the volunteers physically leaving the hospital bed during their experiences, but for all of them (without exception) the DMT-world was every bit as real as the one their minds left behind. After the injections participants frequently talked about ‘blasting through’ or ‘breaking through a barrier’ after which they found themselves in a realm with its own laws of physical space and movement, and its own inhabitants.

There are over a hundred recorded experiences from the study, where the participants all engage in a non-physical reality directly with their consciousness, seemingly separated from their physical selfs. There have been several more surveys (although no further clinical research) delineating the faerie-type entities experienced through DMT, most recently by Johns Hopkins School of Medicine, Baltimore, where 2561 testimonies were assessed.xvi Many of the experience reports do correlate closely to the folkloric faerie phenomenology. But what the research demonstrates is that under the right conditions, human consciousness can operate within a distinct and separate universe inhabited by a range of apparently autonomous entities. These entities may be one and the same as those recorded in prehistoric cave art and historic folklore, by people who were describing the beings encountered during various types of altered states of consciousness, brought on either actively or passively. The faeries may change superficially through time, adapting to the expectations of the culture they are part of, but if it is human consciousness they are interacting with, this is no surprise. Underneath the cultural masks, the faeries begin to reveal their true selfs.

Certain medical conditions also seem responsible for periodically transporting people into a non-material environment inhabited by entities. This is certainly the case with Temporal Lobe Epilepsy. This condition may be the root of the unusually well-documented 17th-century Cornish story of Anne Jefferies’ abduction by diminutive faeries when she suffered a ‘convulsion fit’ and was transported (at least in her mind) to a numinous world inhabited by the faeries.xvii The author Eve LaPlante has used historic and contemporary examples to demonstrate that Temporal Lobe Epilepsy can provide access to an altered state of consciousness where the human mind participates in a reality several steps removed from the consensus material world.xviii This often includes full immersion in alternative landscapes and contact with non-human intelligence.

Illustration from Robert Hunt’s Popular Romances of the West of England (1865) (PD0)

Perception via the brain certainly gives us a very limited view of what is actually going on around us. Altering the usual transmission of consciousness through the brain (actively or passively) seems to allow non-material awareness more of a free rein. As in a dream, an altered consciousness is able to construct metaphysical realities. It is able to communicate with the entities it finds there, and bring back a report. The relative consistency of the inhabitants of this alternative reality may suggest that they live there all the time, non-physical, and only able to interact with our physical world when conditions are right for an individual’s consciousness. This is the crux: does consciousness create physical reality, or is consciousness an epiphenomenon of the brain? If the former, then the realities experienced in altered states of consciousness can be accepted as potentially real, with their own autonomous existence. If the latter, then while entities such as the faeries may be subjectively real, they do not exist objectively within the electromagnetic spectrum.

Faeries and Aliens

The ontological reality of faeries has in recent decades also become linked to other ‘paranormal’ activity types, primary of which is the intrusion into our consensus reality of entities usually known as aliens. The first person to suggest a definitive link between the the reports of folkloric faerie experiences and alien encounters was the astronomer and computer scientist Jacques Vallée. In his 1969 book Passport to Magonia he put forward the theory that the faeries were one and the same as the alien beings who had been purportedly abducting people around the world for a couple of decades by that date.xix His hypothesis is that there is a commonality to the experiences reported in alien abduction scenarios, and the reports of interactions with faeries in folklore. He suggests the aliens and the faeries are essentially the same phenomenon, tuned through the cultural receptors of the time and then interpreted accordingly. He makes special reference to the regular motifs in folklore of the abduction, by various means, of humans by faeries. There’s a lot of data here – it’s the commonest motif in faerie folklore. For a variety of reasons humans are taken to an alternative faerie reality, either as midwives or nurses for faerie children, as servants to the faeries, for sex, as punishment or reward, or just because the faeries feel like it. These motifs, of course, coincide with many aspects of the consistently strange phenomenon of alien abduction, reports of which have grown at an exponential rate since the early 1950s. Vallée uses a range of evidence to tie-up faerie abductions from folklore and alien abductions from modern reports, and goes as far to state:

‘… the modern, global belief in flying saucers and their occupants is identical to an earlier belief in the fairy-faith. The entities described as the pilots of the craft are indistinguishable from the elves, sylphs and lutins of the Middle Ages. Through the observations of unidentified flying objects, we are concerned with an agency our ancestors knew well and regarded with terror: we are prying into the affairs of The Secret Commonwealth.’xx

The Secret Commonwealth was the term coined for the faeries by the Reverend Robert Kirk in a manuscript of 1691, which includes a detailed description of their appearance, habits and exploits, gleaned from both his own experiences and those Scottish Highlanders purporting to have second-sight, or clairvoyance.xxi As Vallée points out, Kirk’s descriptions of the faeries and their modus operandi bear more than a passing resemblance to the alien visitors of the 20th and 21st centuries.

A Faerie Passage by John Anster Fitzgerald, 1864 (PD0)

Among their attributes was an ability to float through the air with insubstantial and fluid bodies, that they could make appear and disappear at will. This allowed them to ‘swim’ through the air and carry off mortals, usually to large circular abodes, that Kirk presumed were underground, and which were lit by a dim, unknown illumination. They even had ‘ætheriall vehicles’ to carry them around the sky. Kirk also asserted that the faeries had a nature intermediate between humans and angels. Their habit of abducting humans was usually for the purpose of wet-nursing faerie children or as midwives; a theme that fits in with the deluge of recent alien abduction reports (subsequent to Vallée’s investigations in 1969) that would suggest one of the main reasons for abduction is to obtain both parents and wet-nurses for hybrid human-alien offspring. Vallée quotes the 19th-century folklorist Edwin Hartland’s suggestion that such a programme of hybridisation was a primary reason for faerie abductions:

‘The motive assigned to fairies in northern stories is that of preserving and improving their race, on the one had by carrying off human children to be brought up among the elves and to become united with them, and on the other hand by obtaining the milk and fostering care of human mothers for their own offspring.’xxii

In 2005, Graham Hancock followed Vallée’s lead and took the comparison of faerie and alien abduction much further in his book Supernatural (after dealing with the elements of prehistoric shamanic cave-painting depictions of entities, discussed above). He compiled a range of faerie abduction reports from various time periods and geographical locations and set them against modern-day alien abduction events. He pays special attention to the faerie abduction of young women, such as Mrs Sheridan, an Irish woman, who seems to have spent much of the last decade of the 19th century being whisked off by the fairies for wet-nursing duties:

‘Where they brought me I don’t know, or how I got there, but I’d be in a very big house, and it was round, the walls far away that you’d hardly see them, and a great many faeries all about… but they wouldn’t speak to me nor I to them.’xxiii

These ‘long-faced’ faeries had a definite purpose for kidnapping her and weren’t too concerned with her tearful appeals to release her – she had a job to do, and that was feeding their faerie babies. The correlation between these types of folkloric encounters and the alien abductions of women is striking. Hancock surveys the work of the late Harvard psychiatrist John Mack and the cultural historian David Jacobs, who have made extensive studies of people who claim to have been abducted by aliens, often using hypnotic techniques to extract memories from amnesic events.xxiv It’s a minefield subject (mostly due to the vagaries of extracting memories from hypnosis), but John Mack in particular is a convincing advocate of the notion that whatever the experiences represent, they are genuinely real to the participant. A typical scenario might involve the abductee being floated or beamed aboard a UFO, and then taken to a part of the ship where there seem to be drawers or tanks of hybrid alien-human babies, which they are sometimes expected to nurse. There is a consistency to these experiences that provides a dataset of testimony that Mack insists must be taken seriously as a phenomenon. For the abductees, the experience is often highly traumatic (Mack states that the best psychiatric diagnosis for many abductees is post-traumatic stress disorder), and no wonder, when they are confronted with alien hybrids often described as more like foetuses than babies. One abductee described to Mack their appearance, which is fairly typical:

‘Their bodies were short for their heads. Their heads seemed oversized. They had very blue eyes. They had very thin, wispy hair… I would say they were probably three and a half feet tall, but they all looked the same age. ‘You’re our mother and we need you,’ they said.’xxv

The evidence presented by Jacques Vallée and Graham Hancock makes a convincing argument for the tight relation between faerie behaviour in folklore and alien abductions in the 20th/21st century. The experiences are culturally coded to time and place, but the correlations and similarities are intriguing, and suggest the possibility of a common source for the phenomena. But what is that source and where is the metaphysical intersect?

‘Walking on the Edge of Your Mind’ © Ylenia Viola, used with permission.

Ontological Faeries

This brings us back to the ontology of faerie experiences; what are these entities that have been a part of humanity for thousands of years, and where do they come from? They may be adapting to cultural codes, even evolving into new forms, but at what level of reality do they exist? An answer may be to utilise David Luke’s three-part interpretation for non-physical entity contact.xxvi He used it to assess a study into the otherworldly beings (many of which had faerie-attributes) encountered by people who had altered their states of consciousness with DMT, but it is also a valid tool to evaluate what may be happening to anyone who reports a numinous experience that includes interaction with non-human intelligent entities such as the faeries:

1.They are hallucinations. The entities are subjective hallucinations. Such a position is favoured by those taking a purely (materialist-reductionist) neuropsychological approach to the phenomena.

2. They are psychological/ transpersonal manifestations. The communicating entities appear alien but are actually unfamiliar aspects of ourselves, be they our reptilian brain or our cells, molecules or sub-atomic particles.

3. The entities exist in otherworlds and can interact with our physical reality. A numinous experience provides access to a true alternate dimension inhabited by independently existing intelligent entities in a stand-alone reality, which exists co-laterally with ours, and may interact with our world when certain conditions are met. The identity of the entities remains speculative.

Of course, all three interpretations may be true at different times and under various circumstances. From a materialist-reductionist standpoint, all faerie experiences could be reduced to hallucinatory events. There is no physical residue as an after-effect of the interactions, and the reports are all limited to visual and audio experiences. While the specific adjuncts allowing for the hallucinations to take place cannot be properly analysed, seeing them all as aberrations of visual and audial fields remains one legitimate interpretation.

This explanatory model is reliant on the theory that consciousness is an epiphenomenon of the brain. The implication is that the brain, for whatever reason, is simply misconstruing sensory input from a physical world where things like faeries simply do not exist. This is the hard and fast materialist-reductionist standpoint, which is deeply embedded in Western culture. But, as discussed above, it is a standpoint that is now challenged at a fundamental level not only by religious and mystical traditions, but also by the recently reinvented philosophy of Kantian Idealism and by a growing number of quantum physicists, who (using a wide range of methodologies) suggest that the brain is a reducer of consciousness, not a creator of it.xxvii This model sees consciousness (not matter) as primary; it is everywhere and it is everything, and individual human (and animal) brains are merely conveying it within the remit of what then becomes physical reality. For the most part, this physical reality has a closely defined rule-set, but under certain conditions the usual laws break down and supra-normal events can occur. These supernatural occurrences are thus as legitimate as any natural occurrence.

This helps us to perhaps understand preternatural faerie experiences as something non-material being allowed to ‘pop in’ to physical reality from either a greater, transcendent form of consciousness, or from an alternative reality to which humans do not usually have access. This would fit with either of David Luke’s second and third interpretations for supernatural entity contact. Simply put, a numinous zone has been entered and the participant is able to make contact with what usually resides external to their ordinary consciousness.

Experiences in numinous zones could be extended to a variety of preternatural encounters, from ghost apparitions through to Near Death Experiences and UFO abduction scenarios, but it would seem that the faeries, as an ontological taxonomic, remain a consistent, even persistent, form of entity that interact with our consensus reality. While reports of the faeries from history have often been turned into allegorical folkloric stories (frequently with a moral lesson inserted into the plot line), modern encounters usually take the form of simple anecdotal testimony. But the phenomenological types of faeries retain an adherence to their folkloric roots. They can receive an updated appearance, and cultural coding, but they remain recognisable as faeries. Graham Hancock has summed up what may be happening if we allow the faeries some type of metaphysical reality:

‘If we are prepared to set aside the automatic scepticism and reductionism of our age, and if we spell out the problem in plain language, then we find that we are contemplating the existence — and powerful intervention in our lives — of highly intelligent discarnate entities belonging to an order of creation fundamentally different than our own… it really is almost as though the beings we are dealing with have been changing and developing alongside us for thousands of years, and that they therefore cannot simply be mass delusions, but must have a definite, independent reality outside the human brain.’xxviii

Whatever their true nature, it seems that for the faeries to make contact with humanity they require our consciousness to become loosened from the usual restraints, and to enter an altered state — a numinous zone. If the model of reality affirmed by Idealism is correct, then this zone may be allowing us to access a greater Over-Mind, where exist entities that represent either a stand-alone autonomous class of their own, or perhaps aspects of the human collective unconsciousness (as explicated by Carl Jung), which is usually filtered out through the reducing valve of the brain.xxix Either way, it appears that the faeries are here to stay, functioning in some nebulous region where any interpretation of them is reliant on us finding a way to incorporate consciousness into physical reality. This is something that has eluded both philosophers and scientists for millennia, and so perhaps it is no surprise that faerie entities – whether nature spirits, inter-dimensional beings, aliens, or products of our collective imagination – for the moment, remain an intangible, but enduring, part of our cultural zeitgeist.

References

i Young, S. (2017). ‘The Fairy Investigation Society Census 2014-17 and 2017-23′. https://www.fairyist.com/survey/read-the-fairy-census-1-and-2/

ii See especially the work of the computer scientist and philosopher Bernardo Kastrup. His work with quantum physicists is summarised in: Kastrup, B, Stapp, HP and Kafatos, MC. (2018). ‘Coming to Grips with the Implications of Quantum Mechanics’, Scientific American.  https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/observations/coming-to-grips-with-the-implications-of-quantum-mechanics/

iii Clottes, J. et al. (2016). What Is Palaeolithic Art?: Cave Paintings and the Dawn of Human Creativity. University of Chicago Press.

iv Lewis-Williams, D and Dowson, T. (1988). ’The Signs of All Times: Entoptic Phenomena in Upper Palaeolithic Art’, Current Anthropology 29, 201-45.  http://psimg.jstor.org/fsi/img/pdf/t0/10.5555/al.ch.document.sip200035_final.pdf; Lewis-Williams, D. (2002). The Mind in the Cave. Thames & Hudson, London

v Hancock, G. (2005). Supernatural: Meetings with the Ancient Teachers of Mankind. Century, London

vi Ginzburg, C. (2004). Ecstasies: Deciphering the Witches’ Sabbath. University of Chicago Press; Wilby, E. (2005). Cunning Folk and Familiar Spirits: Shamanistic Visionary Traditions in Early Modern British Witchcraft and Magic. Sussex Academic Press.

vii Evans-Wentz, W.Y. (2004, first published 1911). The Fairy-Faith in Celtic Countries. New Page Books, Franklin Lakes, NJ. A version is available online at: https://sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/ffcc/; See also, Rushton, N. (2016). ‘Evan-Wentz’s Celtic Faeries’.   https://dead-but-dreaming.com/2016/11/27/evans-wentzs-celtic-faeries/

viii Evans-Wentz. Op. cit., p. 87

ix Lavole, J.D. (2012). The Theosophical Society: The History of a Spiritualist Movement. Brown Walker Press, Irvine, CA.

x Steiner, R. (1995) Nature Spirits, Rudolf Steiner Press, Forest Row, pp. 177-78. The quote is from Steiner’s 1913 lecture ‘Perception of the Elemental World.’

xi Rushton, N. (2019). ‘Paracelsus, Nature Spirits and Faeries’.  https://dead-but-dreaming.com/2019/11/17/paracelsus-nature-spirits-and-faeries/

xii Sheldrake, R. (2012, 4th ed.). The Presence of the Past: Morphic Resonance and the Memory of Nature, Park Street Press, Rochester, VT.

xiii Shanon, B. (2002). The Antipodes of the Mind: Charting the Phenomenology of the Ayahuasca Experience, Oxford University Press.

xiv Ask Erowid (2013) https://www.erowid.org/ask/ask.php?ID=3146

xv Strassman, R. (2001). DMT: The Spirit Molecule. Park Street Press, Rochester, VT.

xvi Davis, AK, et al. (2020). ‘Survey of Entity Encounter Experiences Occasioned by Inhaled N,N-dimethyltryptamine: Phenomenology, Interpretation, and Enduring Effects’.  https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/pdf/10.1177/0269881120916143 . See also: Rushton, N. (2020). ‘Faerie Entities and DMT’.  https://dead-but-dreaming.com/2020/07/05/faerie-entities-and-dmt/

xvii Rushton, N. (2017). ‘The Faerie Abduction of Anne Jefferies’.  https://dead-but-dreaming.com/2017/09/23/the-faerie-abduction-of-anne-jefferies/

xviii LaPlante, E. (1993). Seized: Temporal Lobe Epilepsy as a Medical, Historical, and Artistic Phenomenon, Harper Collins, London.

xix Vallée, J. (1993), first published 1969). Passport to Magonia: On UFOs, Folklore, and Parallel Worlds, Contemporary Books, Chicago.

xx Vallée, Op cit., p. 57.

xxi Rushton, N. (2016). ‘The Secret Commonwealth’.  https://dead-but-dreaming.com/2016/07/31/the-secret-commonwealth/

xxii Vallée, Op cit., p. 105.

xxiii Hancock, Op cit., p. 375.

xxiv Mack, J. (2000). Passport to the Cosmos: Human Transformation and Alien Encounters, Harper Collins, London.

xxv Mack, Op cit., p. 117.

xxvi Luke, D. (2011). ‘Discarnate Entities and Dimethyltryptamine (DMT): Psychopharmacology, Phenomenology and Ontology’, Journal of the Society for Psychical Research, 75, 26-42. https://dmttimes.com/david-luke-papers-and-articles/2020/1/2/discarnate-entities-and-dimethyltryptamine-dmt-psychopharmacology-phenomenology-and-ontology

xxvii See especially: Kastrup, B. (2019). The Idea of the World: A Multi-Disciplinary Argument for the Mental Nature of Reality, iff Books, Winchester.

xxviii Hancock, Op cit., pp. 398-99 & 412.

xxix Jung, C.G. (1991). The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, Routledge, London.

Bibliography

Briggs, K. (1978) An Encyclopedia of Fairies. Pantheon, London

Clottes, J. et al. (2016). What Is Palaeolithic Art?: Cave Paintings and the Dawn of Human Creativity. University of Chicago Press.

Cutchin, J. (2018). Thieves in the Night: A Brief History of Supernatural Child Abductions. Anomalist Books, Charlottesville, VA

 Davis, A.K, et al. (2020). ‘Survey of Entity Encounter Experiences Occasioned by Inhaled N,N-dimethyltryptamine: Phenomenology, Interpretation, and E nduring Effects’.  https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/pdf/10.1177/0269881120916143

Esbjörn-Hargens, S. (2020). ‘Our Wild Kosmos: An Exo Studies Exploration of the Ontological Status of Non-Human Intelligences’.  https://whatsupwithufos.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/Exo_Studies.pdf

Evans-Wentz, W.Y. (2004, first published 1911). The Fairy-Faith in Celtic Countries. New Page Books, Franklin Lakes, NJ. A version is available online at: https://sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/ffcc/

 Ginzburg, C. (2004). Ecstasies: Deciphering the Witches’ Sabbath. University of Chicago Press

 Hancock, G. (2005). Supernatural: Meetings with the Ancient Teachers of Mankind. Century, London

 Harpur, P. (2003). Daimonic Reality: A Field Guide to the Otherworld. Pine Winds Press, Enumclaw, WA

Hunt, R. (2013; first published 1865). Popular Romances of the West of England. Hardpress Publishing, Fairford

 Kastrup, B. (2019). The Idea of the World: A Multi-Disciplinary Argument for the Mental Nature of Reality, iff Books, Winchester

 Kastrup, B, Stapp, HP and Kafatos, MC. (2018). ‘Coming to Grips with the Implications of Quantum Mechanics’, Scientific American. https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/observations/coming-to-grips-with-the-implications-of-quantum-mechanics/

 Jung, C.G. (1991). The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, Routledge, London.

 LaPlante, E. (1993). Seized: Temporal Lobe Epilepsy as a Medical, Historical, and Artistic Phenomenon, Harper Collins, London

 Lavole, J.D. (2012). The Theosophical Society: The History of a Spiritualist Movement. Brown Walker Press, Irvine, CA

 Lewis-Williams, D. (2002). The Mind in the Cave. Thames & Hudson, London

 Lewis-Williams, D and Dowson, T. (1988). ’The Signs of All Times: Entoptic Phenomena in Upper Palaeolithic Art’, Current Anthropology 29, 201-45.  http://psimg.jstor.org/fsi/img/pdf/t0/10.5555/al.ch.document.sip200035_final.pdf

 Luke, D. (2011). ‘Discarnate Entities and Dimethyltryptamine (DMT): Psychopharmacology, Phenomenology and Ontology’, Journal of the  Society for Psychical Research, 75, 26-42. https://dmttimes.com/david-luke-papers-and-articles/2020/1/2/discarnate-entities-and-dimethyltryptamine-dmt-psychopharmacology-phenomenology-and-ontology

 Luke, D. (2017). Otherworlds: Psychedelics and Exceptional Human Experience. Muswell Hill Press, London

 Luke, D. and Spowers, R. (eds). (2018). DMT Dialogues: Encounters with the Spirit Molecule. Park Street Press, Rochester, VT

 Mack, J. (2000). Passport to the Cosmos: Human Transformation and Alien Encounters, Harper Collins, London

 Peake, A. (2019). The Hidden Universe: An Investigation into Non-Human Intelligences. Watkins, London

 Rushton, N. (2016). ‘Evan-Wentz’s Celtic Faeries’.  https://dead-but-dreaming.com/2016/11/27/evans-wentzs-celtic-faeries/

 Rushton, N. (2016). ‘The Secret Commonwealth’.  https://dead-but-dreaming.com/2016/07/31/the-secret-commonwealth/

 Rushton, N. (2017). ‘The Faerie Abduction of Anne Jefferies’.  https://dead-but-dreaming.com/2017/09/23/the-faerie-abduction-of-anne-jefferies/

 Rushton, N. (2019). ‘Paracelsus, Nature Spirits and Faeries’.  https://dead-but-dreaming.com/2019/11/17/paracelsus-nature-spirits-and-faeries/

 Rushton, N. (2020). ‘Faerie Entities and DMT’.  https://dead-but-dreaming.com/2020/07/05/faerie-entities-and-dmt/

 Shanon, B. (2002). The Antipodes of the Mind: Charting the Phenomenology of the Ayahuasca Experience, Oxford University Press

 Sheldrake, R. (2012, 4th ed.). The Presence of the Past: Morphic Resonance and the Memory of Nature, Park Street Press, Rochester, VT

 Steiner, R. (1995) Nature Spirits, Rudolf Steiner Press, Forest Row

 Strassman, R. (2001). DMT: The Spirit Molecule. Park Street Press, Rochester, VT

 Vallée, J. (1993), first published 1969). Passport to Magonia: On UFOs, Folklore, and Parallel Worlds, Contemporary Books, Chicago

 Wilby, E. (2005). Cunning Folk and Familiar Spirits: Shamanistic Visionary Traditions in Early Modern British Witchcraft and Magic. Sussex Academic Press.

 Young, S. (2017 and 2023). ‘The Fairy Investigation Society Census 2014-17 and 2017-23’. https://www.fairyist.com/survey/read-the-fairy-census-1-and-2/

***

The cover image is ‘The Faerie Banquet’ by John Anster Fitzgerald, 1859 (PD0).

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Dead but Dreaming the novel is available now…

***

And There Will Your Heart Be Also

‘For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.’ Luke 12:34

The bluebells were over, now drowned in green grass seas,
And the stream that through the woodland wound
Spoke to me of where it came, but knew not its final ease,
Nor knew it when or where would be my resting ground.
In aerated whispers it lulled me to its source,
A spring far away and residing in arboreal gloam,
I listened to its voice, and barefoot followed its course,
And distanced myself from what was known as home.

No ancient structure marked the spring as a holy place,
No coloured bands of linen hung from the trees above;
Of human hand there was neither vestige nor trace,
Subsumed in nature’s undisclosed purity it was thereof.
But some form of being resided there unseen,
Void of substance, its presence the words of water;
Old, as of the land, was this veiled Undine,
Who beckoned me to enter, with ne’er fear nor falter.

Damp was the hollow, runnels of speech echoed there,
Telling me things I did not know, and of things forgotten,
Of tales remembered and told, hanging dank in the air,
Of places dreamt but never known, always unbegotten.
And then a change came o’er the spirit of the scene;
In aqueous tones my Undine bade me close my eyes,
And see with mind alone, as if this place were but a dream,
To trade my sight for insight, and reside beneath other skies.

Darkness turned to light and with a colour never seen,
And a touch ne’er felt, my feet seemed to fall upon new ground,
Where a meadow showed itself when it should not have been,
So that I mused upon what unknown Elysium I had found.
Dulcet sounds that no human ear had heard filled the air,
Scents that defied an order, charged the filtered breeze,
And a taste reached my lips, rich, unworldly and rare;
I took myself, I know not how, down into the faerie trees.

And there I saw, but not with my eyes, a golden sylph,
Amidst the trees, which grew as if rooted in the air,
Above an undergrowth of silken thicket of no tilth,
And in her silent voice she enjoined me to prepare.
Then she showed me an Eden, before me spread;
It was a new Heaven and a new Earth. And then she said:
‘Stay here, stay here in Paradise, where you are free,
Stay, you’re here to stay, stay here with me.’

But to see her clear I opened my eyes, and she passed away,
The new world was replaced by old and in the stream I laid,
Gasping for breath, and somehow I knew this was a future day,
Time had quickened whilst I was away, and I became a shade.
I slipped below the water, but as I did, I saw a light,
The same as in that Otherworld, luminous and bright;
Conception and rebirth were mine within a womb,
Just as the first bluebells were beginning to bloom.

***

The cover image is original artwork by Victoria Darcy.

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Dead but Dreaming the novel is available now.

The Faerie Mural

I’m sorry that you died and that I did not,
You have your yesterdays, but only I have tomorrows.
And you will never know what I found,
In the house where love drew us down.
Old stone walls and frigid flagstone floors,
The rugs you laid, they’re all still here,
As is a part of you, the part of you that lives
In the haze of memory; the ghost of you in me.
So, shall I tell you what I found,
Beneath the deadening grey plaster walls?
We never coloured them, only endured them,
But there was always a secret there,
A secret you will never know of where you are,
So let me whisper it to you now across the breach.
The rupture can only be bridged in dreams;
Dreams where you still abide it seems.

You always loved the blossom on the cherry tree,
Herald of Spring, courier of new life.
But this year it blossomed without your touch;
Do you remember your hands upon the bark,
Summoning what lived within, with your cornflower eyes?
Its flowering now seems dulled, morose,
As if it grieves its human confidant, and what you sensed within
Has withdrawn, shuns the light, and resides alone.
But one singular April dawn, I sat beneath it,
Unstaunched tears hazing my view; despondent, lost.
When — as the mourning sun touched its boughs —
What lives in its confines spoke to me,
A voice that sounded like yours; lineaments of you,
But tempered and formed by something new.
This is what it told me, void of emotion,
Beyond and transcendent, the words unbroken.

‘Go dream tonight, go dream of her,
Dream hard and fast to the echoless shore,
Where, all knowing in the seventh heaven,
She will hear your tears and see your words.
And when you return from that formless realm,
That place where you are clothed in your real self,
Come once more to us at dawn of day,
And take the clue that comes your way.’
I went that night and dreamt as instructed,
A serene reverie where you and I were one,
And held each other under a cherry tree
That was and was not the one of reality,
Formed almost into a dulcimer melody,
Where sound, sight and touch were of a piece.
Next day I rose with the sun and went
To find the promised clue that was to be sent.

I touched the bark, but now there was no voice,
Just a listless lull; a mitigated silence of choice.
Cast down I sank to the roots, which overground resided,
Whereupon my hand grazed a nestled stone,
Cold to touch, but flat and chalky, I took it in my palm,
And found it was a piece of plaster, deadened grey.
At once I knew that fragment was from our wall,
And first thought in my mind was that you had heard the call,
That you had escaped the dream and put it there,
A sign for me to act upon, deposited with care.
Heart flickering, head swimming, I took myself into the house
To scan the walls, to find and choose the hollow
Amidst the pallid extent, that matched my fragment,
A puzzle piece awaiting your empyrean attachment.
And there it was, before unseen, a fracture in the hall;
Sure what I was to do, I found a cross-blade and rent the wall.

Dead grey gave way to living blue; an azure luminance,
On a hidden plaster, till now obscured from view.
And then amidst the cobalt mural some figures did appear;
A ring of dancing faeries, vibrant, animated, and clear,
As they circled round, swaying and swirling with abandon,
As if their liberation into light, made them live before my eyes.
I continued my work apace, and as the plaster crumbled away,
Light from without met light from within, where blue held sway,
And thus, inch by inch, She showed herself and was revealed;
The Faerie Queen, surveying all, with oceanic eyes.
With hair like wind captured in the branches of trees,
And on her peerless head a diadem of golden leaves,
She smiled elusive, and seemed to look inside my mind;
Penetrating all that love and death had wrought.
And she was you, and you were her, amidst a golden numinous glow;
Then voices from the deep abyss revealed a marvel and a secret. Be it so.

***

Victoria Darcy worked with me to produce the wonderful cover image for the poem.

***

Dead but Dreaming the novel is available now…

‘Fairy Encounters of the Third Kind’ by Dr Simon Young

This is a recent post by Dr Simon Young on his excellent Simon’s British Mythology Substack. He is currently compiling the posts on this site in to a book project, which will be something to look out for. ‘Fairy Encounters of the Third Kind’, is a concise assessment of the connection between faeries and aliens, which attempts to introduce a three-point system of faerie encounters based on that traditionally used in UFOlogy. Thanks to Simon for allowing the piece to be republished on deadbutdreaming.

*

I have spent a good deal of time in the last decade, trying to understand mutating human-fairy relations in our historical sources. It is, after all, extraordinary how fairies have changed in human eyes. In Anglo-Saxon England they were lithe daemones of human dimensions who were likely to kill you: in modern times, they are SWFs (small winged fairies) that hover over rosebushes like butterflies.

How can we best measure that change? It would be comical to try and be empirical with the supernatural: ‘Chase myths like moths, and fight them with a pin.’ But, if you promise not to laugh, reader, I have a confession. For a number of years I have tinkered with a fairy scale, that ranges from 1-3.1 This is a shameless borrowing from UFOlogy. J. Allen Hynek laid out his famous three point system in The UFO Experience: A Scientific Inquiry in 1972.2 Those interested in UFO-lore will remember:

First kind (CE1): close visual sighting of a ‘craft’.
Second kind (CE2): physical effects or traces. For instance, the car’s engine cuts out when the ‘craft’ passes over; there are burn marks on the ground where the ‘craft’ landed.
Third kind (CE3): an actual entity is present. The ‘craft’ drops into my garden and then the little folk start to stream out and I see them/talk to them etc.

Hynek’s system broke down because in the mid late 1970s the energy in UFO experiences shifted to CE3. From then on any classification really needed to look at different forms of interaction with ‘entities’. And this brings us to fairies…

Close Encounters in Fairy Lore

For fairies we require a division based on the level of interaction:

FCE1: There is a sensorial encounter. People see, hear or (in one memorable case from Yorkshire) smell fairies, but there is no interaction.
FCE2: There is light interaction between fairies and humans with no long-lasting effects: fairies, for example, plait your horse’s mane; or perhaps they pixy-lead you in the marshes.
FCE3: There is strong interaction, with serious consequences. This might include marrying a fairy (and/or having kids); using a fairy as a familiar to get magic powers; or fairies killing or changing human neighbours who annoyed or intrigued them.

In the nineteenth century there was a strong regional basis to these three. Let’s limit ourselves to what was then the United Kingdom. In areas with weak fairy traditions, for example, south-eastern England, only FCE1 experiences were reported; and there were not many of them. In areas with intermediate fairy traditions, like, say, Devon in the 1800s, FCE1 and FCE2 featured. Then, in areas with strong fairy traditions all three levels appeared. In County Cork or County Galway or, perhaps best of all, County Tipperary in Ireland nineteenth-century men and women were stolen by the fairies, killed by the fairies, and family members were changed by the fairies.

Today’s Close Encounters of the Fairy Kind

And today? The intensity of encounters has generally gone off the boil. Fairy Census 1 and Fairy Census 2, collections of modern fairy experiences, are overwhelmingly centred on FCE 1 and FCE 2 experiences. But there are some people who claim to have or to have had FCE3-style relationships with fairies, including sexual relationships.3 These speak, I think, more to the psychological proclivities or gifts of these people rather than local traditions. There are, as is the case with UFO-lore, no local traditions to speak of in contemporary fairylore: and only weak national traditions.

Here we return to daemones vs SWFs. Perhaps we need to acknowledge that these modern experiences are not meaningfully ‘fairies’. At least they are not fairies in the way that these were understood in British or Irish rural communities two hundred years ago. Are modern fairy sightings significant events for those who see them? Yes, they often change lives. Are they worth studying? Yes, they are absolutely fascinating. Do they have anything to do with the social, virile and often scary fairies of, say, nineteenth-century Tipperary? Not much. In fact, and this bit you have to say really quietly, aliens are, by that definition, far closer to traditional fairies than the butterfly SWFs glimpsed in the gloaming.

Notes

  1. Chicago: Henry Regnery Company.
  2. I wrote about this in my column in Fortean Times in 2016. I then went further in a chapter on Canadian fairies: Simon Young, ‘Atlantic Canada: Fairy Bread and Fairy Squalls’, Magical Folk: British and Irish Fairies at Home and Overseas, Simon Young and Dr. Ceri Houlbrook (London: Gibson Square, 2017), 210-222 at 220-222. No one cared…
  3. E.g. §594, §677, §771, §783 in the Fairy Census.

Simon runs a monthly supernatural-themed podcast, Boggart and Banshee, with Chris Woodyard: the first episode of 2026 has just gone out and may be of interest.

***

Dead but Dreaming the novel is available now…

    Lineaments

    She was like me in lineaments — her eyes
    Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone
    Even of her voice, they said were like to mine;
    But soften’d all, and temper’d into beauty;
    She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings,
    The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind
    To comprehend the universe: nor these
    Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine,
    Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not;
    And tenderness — but that I had for her;
    Humility — and that I never had.
    Her faults were mine — her virtues were her own —
    I loved her, and destroy’d her!

    Lord Byron, Manfred, Act II, Scene II.

    ***

    It is the hardest thing to watch your child die. The doctor had instructed me to ensure that in her final days she was able to look out upon God’s bounty (the doctor, despite the usual leanings of his profession, was first and foremost a Baptist), and so I had set up a bed in the upstairs study with the large sash window, where Medora could look out across fields and hills to the distant canopy of the orchard. The orchard. I wish I had never known of its existence; or that it had always remained as nothing but a distant, detached arboreal view. I would always sit with my back to the window when abiding with Medora. I could not bear the sight of it — its loathsome September opulence infecting the air, and coaxing disaster from my memory. 

    In the final days Medora began coughing up more blood. I did not want to wash the handkerchiefs — they were to be saved so that I would have a part of her when she was gone. Instead, I ripped up some of my linen shirts for the purpose. Each tear felt like the cleaving of a life-force; existence coming apart at the seams. But for her I always smiled and hid my tears. And mostly she slept, sedated by the doctor’s potions, which allowed me to leave her for periods and cry my tears and rue what I had done; the destruction I had brought upon her, and upon another.

    One gloom-filled dusk, close to the end, I returned from the well, brought a pitcher to her bedside, and found her more lucid than she had been for days. She even had the equanimity to hide one of the bloodied linen cloths beneath the pillows. I sat with her and listened to her babble for a while, stroking her hair and attempting to be present. After a lull she settled down, eased herself back in to the pillow and brought her blue-eyed gaze to mine.

    ‘Tell me about mama,’ she said, her voice suddenly older, manoeuvring the air between us.

    ‘Mama?’

    ‘You never talk of her. Why was she called Astarte?’

    ‘This might not be the time my sweet,’ I said, trying to suppress the shake in my voice.

    ‘Please papa… pleeease.’

    I kissed her forehead and pulled the blanket up to her chin. Soon her eyelids flickered close and her breathing began to sink in to the rhythm of sleep. 

    ‘Please papa,’ she murmured, as her head lolled.

    I got up gently, lit a candle, placed it in the holder and put it on the table next to the bed. The room transformed from dusk grey to softened arylide yellow. I sat back on the bed and assured myself she was asleep. Why should she not know? The words would live only in her dream world, but I needed to tell myself what had happened, what I had done, and what had been wrought. I had occulted it, but now it needed to be revealed. Be it so.

    *

    I found the orchard one midsummer day as the Earth turned and became a darker green. And yet I always remember the arboreal presence as cornflower blue — a cyan haze in the sweetened air transformed the grove in to a sacred space, its colour marking it out as separate from its surroundings. It was strange that I had not discovered the orchard before. I thought I knew the land hereabouts; its folds and combes were the setting of my youth, and it should have been visible from the much-travelled track to my house. From there, it could be discerned, but only as a distant tenebrous blur, partly obscured by treeless hills. Perhaps an enchantment kept me from its confines until the fatal days came, or maybe it was never really there, at least not as it should have been.

    I always felt the presence of something in the orchard; some mind, or minds, inhabiting the trees and watching me. It attracted and repelled me in equal measures, but I never saw anything apart from fleeting movements amidst the gnarled branches and shadows slithering up and down the twisted trunks. The summer heat usually made me feel the pull of sleep as I sat beneath the cover of the largest tree in the orchard, but I never succumbed to it completely, and would manage to haul myself from slumber for fear of being left vulnerable. Vulnerable to what I knew not, but the undisclosed existence in that space became more tangible and minacious when drowsiness brought on its unreal vistas and sounds, so I always managed to remain awake and aware within its bounds.

    And then, one day, she found me there. The lineaments of our blood drew her to me I suppose. I watched her glide through the grass, hitching up her long chiffon dress and being sure to touch each tree she passed. She never wore a bonnet, and this day her hair had been let down, so that it shimmered gold in the dappled sunlight. I made a token effort to conceal myself in the longer grass under my tree, but I wanted her to find me, and she did. She sat down beside me as if in a huff, just as she had always done, and began to talk away as if both of us being in that strange and formerly unknown refuge was the most natural thing in the world. But it was not natural — there had been a passing of something, and we were changed by the place. It had cast its spell.

    As the days passed we became closer. We began to talk about things we had never talked about before. Like me, she had the quest of hidden knowledge, and in that place we speculated on universal unknowns and ghosts of ages past. My lone thoughts became spoken words for the first time; her ruminations found a willing host, where none had previously been. I spoke of lights in the sky and angels, she told of the fair folk hidden in mysterious otherworlds. Our secret chatter made its mark there — the orchard heard us and soaked up our confidences in to its occult memory. And closer still we became. But she recognised the limits more than I. Her love was different than mine. Her tenderness was refined by our blood, mine was explicit. 

    One day she did not come, and I became irritable and despondent at her absence under the tree. My thoughts seemed purposeless and they drifted, without her to unlock their code. It was the hottest day of summer and I began to succumb to a sultry daze. The undisclosed presence of the orchard bristled over me, but I could not stave it off with wakefulness, and within minutes I slept, allowing my subdued mind to be opened up to the company of another. 

    *

    I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The tree became animate, not of its own accord but from that which lived within it. Skulking from out of the bark, whilst retaining its gnarly aspect, came a creature who lured me in to a slithering embrace, filling my mind with his memories and scenting the air with the moss of years. His was an existence dictated by the seasons and his responsibility for fertility, and midsummer was his enchanted time. This allowed him to offer me what I wanted more than anything. I wanted her, despite the proscription. He held on to me in his lascivious way and took me somewhere with stars in the sky and bathed in the smell of fermentation. I was made promises, but the result of those promises would have a price to pay. He instilled in me a sense of dread but the transaction was made. I accepted it thinking the pact might mean a quietus for me, but for her I was willing to take the Apple-Tree Man’s nebulous offer. Then a change came over the spirit of my dream, and voices from the deep abyss revealed a marvel and a secret — be it so.

    *

    The secret end of the dream was only dimly remembered, but the contract with my strange being was instilled within me and I was fated to use it to parlay what was implicate into something real. Despite the lingering disquiet about my reverie I knew it was in some way a true vision, and the dread of the vanished shadow became dispelled in the face of me gaining her… gaining her completely.

    The next day she came again. I held her and she shied away. But then she saw the single apple hanging at head height from the tree. Absinthe green it was — unnatural in both its midsummer ripeness and its colour, but alluring beyond measure. We glanced at each other, I plucked it from the tree, and we both ate it in turns. Then a summer storm glistened over the orchard and we fell together, and remained together in our recondite love.

    *

    ‘She died when you came in to the world my sweet,’ I whispered. But Medora was gone — her mind resided elsewhere. However, for a few glimmering moments her essence accompanied my trembling body to the window, where we stared out towards the orchard in the last remnants of twilight. The bare landscape stretched away. The orchard was gone, and so were they. I had loved them and destroyed them.

    ***

    The cover image is ‘Wandering Stars’ by Victoria Darcy.

    *

    Dead but Dreaming the novel is available now…

    ***

    Arboreal

    My new short story about a tree, the nature spirits who inhabit it and death.

    Arboreal

    Before I died I spent most of my days with the oak tree. It was in a park by a river, which I could walk to most days when my illness allowed. Obviously, the seasons modulated the experience. In winter I huddled at the trunk until freezing rain drove me away, in spring I still huddled but warmed myself at the sight of crocuses and bluebells emerging beneath the boughs and leafing branches, in summer I luxuriated in the dappled heat while pretending to read a book, and in autumn… in autumn my mind always turned towards death amidst the mouldering leaves.

    After a couple of years I’d got to know the tree. It was old and seemed to tell me things I couldn’t know. It whispered them through its bark, infiltrating me as I sat with my back to the trunk. I began to talk to it and to see the shapes of its being in the gnarled trunk — faces and bodies; humanoid in quality, but arboreal in nature. Pareidolia I supposed, but they changed with the shifting light and sometimes when I stood up too quickly they would morph before my eyes until the head-rush subsided. It was a kind tree, of that I was sure. It stood removed from its compatriots and its apparent loneliness touched me. I was lonely, and ill, whereas its solitary disposition seemed to give it strength and vitality. I would always sense it attempting to pass this on to me, and when I left after spending time with it I would be stronger and less afraid of what was coming. I began to love the oak tree, as I had never loved anyone or anything before. I told it so, and it returned the love in a deep patterned resonance that I have only truly understood since my passing.

    One warm late-August day, I put on a summer dress and took my walk to the park. Some boys on bikes stopped to mock me — my heavy limp and awkward gait were always exaggerated when I wore a dress — and I reached the park agitated and shaking. My tree comforted me but I was disorientated and teary. I asked the tree to help me, to take me away from all brutality and wretchedness, to show me something meaningful and beautiful. It answered with a lulling as the heat of the day melded me to the trunk and sleep came quickly and decisively, and a dream turned the past into the present. 

    I am facing the oak, hands aloft as if in a prayer to a god. And the oak is alive with a thousand beings pulsating through its trunk, running up and down it like a stream of vitality. They speak to me somehow, though the words are more like a breath in the wind:

    ‘We are here. You are in a dream that is not all a dream.’

    I move to the trunk and hug it. They swarm over me and and change my ideas; they go through and through me, like wine through water, and alter the colour of my mind.

    ‘Who are you?’

    ‘We are this tree. We are its life. We care for it and it cares for us. We have watched you and waited. Now you are with us. You are important to us. We have come to love you. We feed from your own love. Others do not love us as you do. We will suffer when you leave us. But this is as it should be. We must suffer to free our pain.’

    ‘How? Why?’

    But there is no answer. I feel myself meld into the trunk and hold my arms out to mimic the branches of the tree, as lifeforms immeasurably different to me probe my memories and bring them to the fore. The pain, regret, joy, grief, dullness, hope, betrayal, realisation… all manifested in a singular moment. I am overwhelmed and fall to the ground. One of the beings comes to me and sidles up. His mossy hand touches my face and wipes away the tears. And voices from the deep abyss reveal a marvel and a secret. Be it so.

    I awoke and the present became the past. I walked home and ruminated for days on the dream. My tree was alive, in ways I had never imagined, and had spoken to me via its intermediaries through my dream consciousness. The arboreals had tried to talk to me but I was not able to understand the cosmic import of the message. However, I did know it was a message of death. A transcendence was imminent. I accepted this, even though at the time it scared me to the core. 

    The last time I visited the park was a grey November day, with drizzling rain marking the onset of another dismal winter. Since my dream I had often attempted to fall asleep at the tree to reproduce the numinous experience, but was always unable to do so. The arboreals were close to me though, making contact in subtle, subdued ways. They used bird song, wind, the rustle of the oak leaves and even the distant voices of humans to speak to me, and in the ever-changing contours of the gnarled bark I could see what they might be, as if they wanted to show themselves again but were unable. On that final November day I touched my face to the wet trunk and breathed in the benign mustiness. It was the tree’s smell and theirs. I began to cry. I watched the tears drop to the ground and dissolve into the ground with the rain, feeding the oak’s roots and leaving a part of me with the very essence of its being underground, where all its secrets were kept. I knew this was an ending. I took off my necklace with a small Apophyllite crystal that my mother had given me as a child and buried it in the soil at the base of the oak. Then I kissed the tree, turned and walked away, never once looking back. I still sobbed, and in an echo of stillness I heard the sobs returned to me from the tree as if in apology and in consolation.

    *

    The park-keeper had become aware of the girl a few years previous, watching from his lodge-house at the entrance to the park. She always sat with the old oak tree, in a secluded part of the park, but out of respect he had never disturbed her or talked to her once, not even to say hello. Before she came the tree was ailing, and he suspected it was near the end of its life. But after she came it rallied — the canopy freshened and its tired limbs seemed invigorated. He’d always held the oak in reverence and was delighted to witness its new spurt of life. He was a practical man, but he became sure that she had brought some magic to bear. 

    But she came no more since the previous November. He watched for her but she was gone. And from that time the tree, once again, began to fail. Its autumn leaves were riddled with fungi, the bark became cankerous and bled sap. Some boughs weakened and fell during the winter storms. When spring came it was evidently dead. Its gaunt boughs and leafless branches contrasted with the teeming greenery that had transformed the rest of the park. By summer it had been deemed a safety risk, and in November it was felled on the very day the park-keeper had last seen the girl the year before. He kept some of the wood and carved it into faerie-like characters, which he installed outside the lodge-house, to the delight of children visiting the park.

    On Christmas Eve the park-keeper walked down to the oak stump at dusk as he always had since it was felled. Glistening in the reflected light from the lodge-house lantern he found a crystal necklace on the stump. Something moved in the air beside him — a whispered breeze, a voice without words. It was a presence that was there but not there… dead but dreaming. Be it so.

    ***

    The cover image is ‘The Mighty Oak Tree’ by noshiahmad.

    ***

    Dead but Dreaming the novel is available now…

    The Otherworldly Bride Motif in British and Norse Folklore

    British and Norse folklore often features otherworldly females, such as Selkies, mermaids, and swan-maidens, who become brides of mortal men. These shape-shifting beings usually dwell in water, embodying a connection between the natural and supernatural. Their stories typically involve a man charming or tricking the female away from her aquatic home, leading to marriage and children. Yet, a broken taboo or mistreatment forces her to return to the sea, symbolizing deeper themes of desire, loss, and the complexities of human relationships.

    A version of this article appeared originally on the Ancient Origins website.

    A common motif in British and Norse folklore is that of an otherworldly female, who is somehow captured or charmed by a mortal man to be his bride. The females are often therianthropes, that is shape-shifters, who seem to be part human and part animal, but their main attribute is always as an entity from a metaphysical otherworld, interacting with consensus reality in order to bridge the gap between the natural and the supernatural. These therianthropic females take many forms, such as Selkies (humanoids masquerading as seals), mermaids, and swan-maidens, and can also appear as magical women without any animal attributes, such as the lake faeries, but they are always found in bodies of water, a configuration that proves important in any attempt to interpret these folkloric motifs. The standard scheme of the stories is that the female is lured from her watery existence by a male, either through a ruse or by charm. They are married and will usually have children together. But at some point a taboo is broken or the female is mistreated, and she deserts her husband to return to the water, which always seems to represent the portal between the physical world and a non-material reality. As always with folklore, any deeply embedded motif such as this is designed to impart some timeless wisdom; allegorical, philosophical and psychological. The stories were always meant to be a good fireside yarn, but more importantly they were plugging into fundamental aspects of the human condition, as well as recording belief-systems that were disappearing into the past. The origins of these stories are usually medieval (although possibly even older), and sometimes appear in chronicles. But most were transmitted through an oral tradition and were not recorded in detail by folklorists until the 18th and 19th centuries.

    Selkies

    The folklore of Selkies comes mostly from northern Scotland, especially the islands of Shetland and Orkney, as well as the Faroe Islands, although the theme is also found in Ireland, Scandinavia and Germany. The name is derived from Selch, the Scots for grey seal, a species that is commonly found around the coastlines of these northern European countries. The Selkie therianthrope can be male or female, but the majority of the folklore involves a female creature, such as the typical example from the Faroe Islands: The legend of Kópakonan (‘seal woman’).This tale tells of a fisherman (in some versions a farmer) from Mikladalur on the Faroese island of Kalsoy who, after taking the advice of an island elder, sets up a watch on the shoreline on the thirteenth day of the month to catch sight of the Selkies, who it was said could only beach on this day. Sure enough, he witnesses a group of the creatures come ashore and shed their seal-skins to reveal their female human forms. He steals one of the skins, and puts fright to the females, who all return to the sea in Selkie form. All except the one denuded of her skin. She’s distraught but agrees to follow the fisherman back to his home, where she proceeds to become his wife, and they have children together. But she pines for the sea, and one day manages to find the key to the room where her husband has kept her Selkie skin. She skins up, shape shifts and returns to the sea. As with most Selkie folklore, the story has a grim denouement, when the fisherman (despite being warned not to in a dream) kills the Selkie husband of his estranged wife as well as their two sons. Kópakonan takes revenge by cursing the people of Kalsoy: “some shall be drowned, some shall fall from cliffs and slopes, and this shall continue, until so many men have been lost that they will be able to link arms around the whole island of Kalsoy.” A statue of Kópakonan was erected in Mikladalur in 2014 (cover image), demonstrating the continuing importance of the folktale to the Faroese people.

    The entities known as mermaids (or merrows from Hiberno-English) seem to be closely related to the Selkie, and there are collections of stories from Scotland and Ireland including similar motifs contained in the Selkie tales, where the female mermaid is captured and made a wife, only to return to the sea when she is given the opportunity. However, mermaids more often than not retain their half-human half-fish form, and only a minority of the stories have them marrying mortals – they are more frequently portrayed in folktales as portents of disaster at sea, sometimes even provoking it. While there are a wide variety of mermaid folktale types from all parts of the world, their representation as  harbingers of catastrophe at sea is more in line with the Sirens from Greek mythology than with folkloric otherworldly brides.

    Swan Maidens

    Closely related to the folktales of Selkies are the widely distributed stories about swan maidens. In his 1891 book, The Science of Fairy Tales, the folklorist Edwin Sidney Hartland devoted two chapters to discussing the global tales involving this motif. He recounts a typical tale of this type (updated from its medieval genesis to include shotguns) from Raineach, Scotland, where a young farmer travels away from his claustrophobic upbringing to seek his wealth. He soon reaches an inn and:

    ‘He rose early next morning, and went to a lake in the neighbourhood to have a shot. When he was approaching the lake, he saw three white swans swimming on its calm surface. He crept towards them, and with some trouble got within proper range. But when he lifted his gun to his shoulder  and was going to take aim, they became the three most beautiful maidens he had ever seen.’

    After several more adventures stalking the swan maidens, he manages to steal the off-cast feathers of the youngest, and refuses to return them until she marries him. She agrees, and through her otherworldly magic, conjures up a castle for them to live in, constructed on an island within the lake. They live happily, and have children, but in time he grows homesick and is allowed to return home under the proviso that he does not mention his metaphysical existence or his swan maiden wife. But he breaks the taboo, brags about his otherworldly wife, and when he returns to find his magical castle home, there is nothing but the lake, without island, castle or swan maidens.

    Lake Faeries

    The folktales about lake faeries can again be found all over the globe, but there is a concentration of these types of stories in Wales, where there are over a dozen tales including many of the same motifs. Unlike the Selkies and swan maidens, the faeries are not therianthropic shape-shifters, but they are certainly otherworldly beings who are able to exist below the waters of the lakes as well as on land in the material reality of mortals. These folktales are replete with symbolism, which underlies the themes of a male human courting and marrying the (exclusively) female faerie and then losing her through the breaking of a taboo. The most detailed of these folktales is The Lady of Llyn y Fan Fach (Llyn is Welsh for lake), which though only recorded in the 19th century contains named personages that appear to date the origin of the story to the 12th century.

    In this tale a young farmer called Gwyn regularly frequents Llyn y Fan Fach, where he pastures his cattle. One day he sees a golden-haired woman, combing her locks and using the lake as a mirror. Immediately smitten, he offers her the bread he had brought with him, but it’s too hard for her taste and she disappears below the lake. The same happens again the next day, but this time the bread is too soft, and she once again submerges. The third day comes, and this time the bread is just right, and love is in the air. Gwyn knows what he wants: “Fair Lady of the Lake, I have no silver, no gold, no riches, just love. Please marry me and be my wife!” After some more passionate entreaties she warms up and decides to accept, but with conditions: 

    “Silver and gold cannot buy me. Your love is beyond price so I will marry you and live upon Earth with you until you give to me three causeless blows. The striking of the third blow will be the breaking of our marriage contract. I will leave earth and we shall be parted for ever. Do you accept?”

    Of course, he does. But first he has to deal with the faerie’s father who is ‘of wild appearance’ and magically appears with an identical twin to the lady Gwyn has fallen in love with. He tests Gwyn to choose the right faerie, which he does (discovering her name is Nelferch) and so off they go to be married with a considerable dowry of cattle, horses and other animals provided by the father, who, nevertheless reminds him once again of the ‘three blows’ condition. 

    Their marriage prospered and they had three sons, but inevitably the three blows were dealt over time, all as accidents: a playful flick on the shoulder with a glove, a tap on the arm and then a third touch when Nelferch displays joy at the funeral of a neighbour’s infant. She explains that she still sees with the eyes of the Otherworld and that her joy was that the child had transcended the pain and suffering of mortality. But with the third blow struck Nelferch returns to the lake, with her dowry, and disappears below the surface. Distraught, Gwyn follows her, drowning himself in his grief. Despite the tragedy, the three sons were able to apply their half-faerie nature to positive ends and became great healers known as ‘The Physicians of Myddfai’.

    Interpreting the Stories of Otherworldly Brides

    These folktales contain a myriad of meanings, some hidden deeper than others. They are open to multiple interpretations, of which a few are:

    The females are Pagan deities. They represent diminished ancient goddesses or spirits – Celtic deities dwelling in sacred bodies of water, and requiring some type of sacrifice as propitiation, which has become transformed over time as the interaction with mortals in the folktales. This would require the geneses of the stories to be prehistoric, passed on over millennia through an oral tradition.

    A Warning about Desiring Otherworldly things. In all the stories the protagonist desires something that should be beyond the reach of mortals. However cunning or charming he is, his mortality eventually fails him and he is either outfoxed or he breaks a taboo leading to disappointment at best, and tragedy at worst. This may even find confluence with the Jungian psychoanalytical idea of water as a symbol of the subconscious. What arises out of it represents our deep-set desires, but the subconscious is an ‘Otherworld’ and what emerges from it cannot stay in waking reality, and at some point must return ‘beneath the water’.

    The Therianthropes Represent Transcendence. The otherworldly entities exist in two forms – human females and spiritual beings, the latter represented by an animal or a faerie connected to water. Although the human versions can spend some time on Earth, living a conventional life, this is always fleeting and eventually their material presence will disappear as they transcend to an Otherworld. They are in effect metaphysical human souls that must at some point be released. This might be extended to seeing the therianthropes/faeries as a shamanic residue, where the animals or supernatural beings symbolise transcendent spirit guides connecting this world and a supernal universe. While this would involve a millennia-deep folk memory, there is much evidence from studies of the medieval and Early-Modern witch cults that a form of prehistoric shamanism continued under the radar in Christian Europe, with spirit animals, zoomorphism and faerie familiars as key components of the belief system. 

    Love and Marriage is a Faustian Pact. More prosaically (and cynically), the folktales may be suggesting that love and marriage are agreements between two people, and that the terms need to be upheld, otherwise disaster will ensue – it is a Faustian pact. The underlying tension in the stories do seem to imply the fragile nature of love; always undone by carelessness or the breaking of agreed-upon codes.

    But as is so often the case with traditional folktales we will never be able to unravel completely the deeply entrenched meanings, which have evolved through people telling them over hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years. Stories using the otherworldly bride motifs evidently contain some specific and distinct significance as they attempt to convey fundamental ideas about the human condition as well as passing on an ancestral memory of previous cultures. However, the reason they have been so persistent and successful in doing this, is because at root they are extremely entertaining folktales that are able to grip the imagination, using the most potent of all human emotions as a trope: Love.

    References

    Briggs, K. 1976. An Encyclopaedia of Fairies. Pantheon Books, New York

    Bruford, A. 1974. ‘The Grey Selkie’, Scottish Studies 18 (63–81)

    Collinson, B. 2012. Jungian Therapy and the Meaning of Dreams: Water. Available at: https://www.briancollinson.ca/index.php/2012/11/jungian-therapy-the-meaning-of-dreams-5-water.html 

    Evans, Z.T. 2017. Folklore of the Welsh Lakes: Reflecting on Faerie Brides, Drowned Towns and the Otherworld. Available at: https://folklorethursday.com/folktales/folklore-welsh-lakes-reflecting-faerie-brides-drowned-towns-otherworld/ 

    Evans, Z.T. 2017. Folklore of the Welsh Lakes: The Legend and the Legacy of the Lady of Llyn Y Fan Fach. Available at: https://folklorethursday.com/regional-folklore/folklore-welsh-lakes-legend-legacy-lady-llyn-y-fan-fach/#sthash.eaGh0p88.dpbs 

    Gilchrist, A.G. 1921. ‘Extra Note on Song No. 48, verse 7’, Journal of the Folk-Song Society. 6 (263–266)

    Hartland, E.S. 1891. The Science of Fairy Tales. Scribner and Welford, New York. Available at: http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/sft/index.htm 

    Leavy, B.F. 1994. In Search of the Swan Maiden: A Narrative on Folklore and Gender. New York University Press. Available at: https://archive.org/details/oapen-20.500.12657-89312/page/n3/mode/1up

    Rushton, N. 2025. Mermaid Imagery in British and Irish medieval Churches. Available at: https://deadbutdreaming.wordpress.com/2025/01/17/mermaid-imagery-in-british-and-irish-medieval-churches/

    Rushton, N. 2017. Faerie Familiars and Zoomorphic Witches. Available at: https://deadbutdreaming.wordpress.com/2017/04/08/faerie-familiars-zoomorphic-witches/ 

    Wilby, E. 2005. Cunning Folk and Familiar Spirits: Shamanistic Visionary Traditions in Early Modern British Witchcraft and Magic. Sussex Academic Press

    Williamson, D. 1992. Tales of the Seal People: Scottish Folk Tales. Interlink Books, New York

    Winters, R. 2016. Legends of the Selkies: Hidden Gems of Sea Mythology. Available at: https://www.ancient-origins.net/myths-legends/legends-selkies-hidden-germs-sea-mythology-006409 

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    The cover image is a statue of the selkie Kópakonan in Mikladalur, Faroe.

    ***

    Dead but Dreaming the novel is available now…

    Exploring Time Distortion in Faerie Folklore

    Edwin Sidney Hartland’s exploration of time in faerie folklore highlights three primary types of time distortion. These tales illustrate a timeless realm where characters often face abduction, leading to significant time lapses upon their return. The narratives reveal deeper beliefs about consciousness, the afterlife, and mythological themes embedded within folklore.

    A version of this article was first published on the Ancient Origins website.

    In his 1891 publication The Science of Fairy Tales, the folklorist Edwin Sidney Hartland devoted three chapters to ponder over ‘The Supernatural Lapse of Time in Fairyland.’ He makes it clear that this motif is deeply embedded in worldwide folklore and mythology from a wide variety of chronological periods. He suggests that the consistency of the story elements involving the strange relative movement of time in faerie folklore, must stem from a common mythological theme, although he usually stops short of discussing this theme in favour of telling the actual stories. Within these supernatural lapse of time tales there are essentially three ways that time can behave in contradistinction to normal reality: 1. Time stops in the outside world, while in faerieland many years can pass with the human participant living a life of enjoyment or suffering with the faeries. The protagonist usually breaks a taboo of some sort and finds themselves back in the real world, where no time has passed. These stories are in the small minority. More often the time dilation moves the other way. 2. This can be quite a drastic shift, so that a character spending minutes, days or weeks in faerieland comes back to consensus reality to find decades or even centuries have passed, or, 3. that a few minutes caroling with the faeries turns out to be any length of time up to a year and a day, once they return to the world they came from.

    The Three Types of Time Distortion in Faerie Folklore

    1. Hartland points out that the folkloric faeries of Wales, usually known as the Tylwyth Teg, were particularly prone to abducting humans, usually through the ruse of tempting them into a dancing circle where they become enmeshed in a time-distorted reality. One typical 19th-century tale has a lonely shepherd doing just that on a hillside in South Wales, after which he finds himself in a glittering palace with pleasure gardens, inhabited by the faeries. He lives there for years, even taking the chance to get involved in some romantic attachments with the beguiling black-eyed female faeries. But despite being warned off the fountain, which is filled with gold and silver fish, in the middle of the main garden, he can’t resist overturning the prohibition, and one day, inevitably, he plunges his hands into the water for a drink. Immediately he finds himself back on the cold Welsh hillside with his sheep, during which no time at all seems to have passed.

    As mentioned, this sort of time relativity in folklore is the exception to the rule; it usually works the other way round as in 2 and 3 below. Such a story type might represent an adventure experienced while in an altered state of consciousness, turned into a folktale that attempts to convey this unusual state of consciousness through conventional ideas about faerieland. The altered state might represent a waking hallucinogenic state or a dream, both of which can allow seemingly long passages of subjective time to take place in seconds or minutes in the real world. But this is not the usual way time works in faerie folklore…

    2. Hartland records an 18th-century version of the ancient Irish story of Oisín as typical of the second type of time-lapse folktales, recorded throughout Europe and Asia. Oisín is a poet of the Fianna, and falls asleep under an ash tree. He awakes to find Niamh, Queen of Tír na nÓg, the land of perpetual youth, summoning him to join her in her realm as her husband. Beguiled, he follows her, and finds himself living in a paradise of perpetual summer, where all good things abound, and where time and death hold no sway. But soon he breaks a taboo of standing on a broad flat stone, from where he is able to view the Ireland he left behind. It has changed for the worse, and he begs Niamh to give him leave to return. She reluctantly agrees, but asks that he return after only one day with the mortals. She supplies him with a black horse, which he is not to dismount, and ‘gifted him with wisdom and knowledge far surpassing that of men.’ Once back in Ireland he realises that decades have passed and that he is no longer recognised or known. Inevitably, he dismounts his horse and immediately his youth is gone and he becomes an enfeebled old man with nothing but his immortal wisdom. There is no returning to the faerieland of the Tír na nÓg. In other variations of the story, the hero turns to dust as soon as his feet touch the ground of consensus reality.

    These type of folktales seem to suggest that faerieland is the world of the dead, immune from the passage of time, and that return to the world of the living is not possible as the mortal body has aged and decayed in line with the physical laws of this world. The embedded taboo in the story perhaps represents the idea that a disembodied consciousness cannot break codes in the realm of the Dead, and that if the taboo is broken, the lesson needs to be learnt that there can be no return to corporeality. In the Japanese tale of Urashima Taro, the hero, when returning home, is even given a casket by his faerie bride, in which his years are locked. When he opens it, his time is up.

    These stories articulate a belief in an otherworld that is never heaven, but is apparently ruled over by a race of immortals who can exert control over the consciousness of an individual, who may believe themselves to still be in human form, but are actually already dead and existing in non-material form. It appears to be the place where the faeries come from; a place untouched by the passage of time and physical death. It could even represent the collective consciousness of humanity made into an understandable form in the stories, immortal in nature and containing all wisdom and knowledge, as suggested in the Oisín tale.

    This might be explained by seeing folklore of this type as representing a surviving pagan belief system of the afterlife. This afterlife did not follow the strictures of Christianity or other world religions, and provided an alternative view of what happens to consciousness after death. It is a view that was (in the West) superseded by Christian theology, but that may be surfacing in these folktales as remnants of the previous system of belief (a belief system that remained partially intact but operated underground for fear of religious persecution). The presence of faeries in this otherworld, and their ability to materialise in standard reality, suggests that they were an essential element in pagan ideas about consciousness and that they had a role to play when it came to death. In this theory the characters in the story play the part of messengers, telling us about the true nature of a timeless reality that is distinct and separate from consensus reality, and showing us that human consciousness disassociates from the physical body to exist in a parallel reality such as Tir na n’Og. 

    The third type of time lapse usually has a less dramatic effect on the protagonist, as they return from an apparently short time in faerieland to a world advanced by either months, or more often by the magical time-span of a year and a day.

    3. Hartland records a number of these types of tales from Britain. One was collected in the Scottish Highlands by the folklorist JF Campbell in the 1860s, and includes many of the typical elements. The story involves two men returning home from the town of Lairg, where one of them has just registered the birth of his child in the session books. They sit down to rest at the foot of the hill of Durcha, when music and merriment is heard from within a cavern in the hill. The new father can’t resist investigating and disappears into the hill. On returning home alone, his friend is accused of murder. But a ‘wise man’ suggests he should be able to clear his name by returning to the cavern a year and a day later. He does so, and when he sees a shadow in the cave entrance he grabs it, momentarily revealing his friend dancing in a circle with the music-making faeries. He pulls him out of the circle and the faeries are gone. ‘Could you not have let me finish my reel’ the former captive says, thinking he had only just started dancing with the faeries. He won’t believe that a year and a day have passed until he returns home to find his wife with their year-old child in her arms.

    Faerie Folklore as an Encoded Belief System

    Stories of this type rarely say much about the faeries doing the abducting, only that they seemed capable of drawing the participant out of their own world and into an alternative reality with a different space-time continuum. The year and a day motif is important and is a common time-frame appearing in medieval romances as the amount of time protagonists were given to succeed in quests. In The Golden Bough, Sir James George Frazer highlights the ancient global concept of the Divine King, who was to be ritually murdered after a period of time in charge, which was often a year and a day. The time period was also used in common law to substantiate the legal situation of unwed couples, and it was (in theory) the amount of time a person living under feudal serfdom needed to be absent from his lord’s manor to gain his freedom. Interestingly, a year and a day is also used in Wiccan and other neo-pagan traditions for the time of learning required before being initiated into the first degree. This may all suggest that the folklore of this type have the year and a day motif embedded within them as a message, conveying the idea that it is a magical time-frame. It was a symbolic time-marker for life quests, ruling over others, decisions being made, learning a tradition, securing a marriage, or gaining freedom as one year tips over into another. It was evidently deeply ingrained in both esoteric tradition and everyday life from an early date, rooted in the cycles of the natural world.

    As is the case with Hartland’s tale from the Highlands, these stories usually include a ‘wise man’ who knows that a year and a day is the time needed to free the abductee from the clasps of the faeries. This sounds like the cunning man recorded in Early Modern witch trials, among other sources, a type of magical practitioner steeped in esoteric  knowledge, who operated within the constraints of Christianity, but who was evidently practising a type of pagan magic. In her 2005 book Cunning Folk and Familiar Spirits, Emma Wilby convincingly puts these people (men and women) within an ancient shamanic visionary tradition, which had as its main remit an understanding of otherworldly spirits, including the faeries. Once again, we can see the folklore embedding these motifs into the stories, below the radar of religious censorship, so as to tell people the truth gleaned from gnostic shamanic beliefs that were evidently alive and well in pre-industrial societies. The repackaged 19th-century folktales were recording these traditions in coded language, perhaps not understood properly by their listeners, but hiding knowledge of metaphysical realities in plain sight, in the form of a good story.

    The metaphysical realities these stories attempt to convey have formed a specific mythology that attempts to tell us about otherworlds beyond our own. These otherworlds may differ depending on the story but they are all, essentially, talking about transcendence beyond the physical world. And with transcendence the space-time continuum works in a different way, without the constraints of a world of matter, or with a linear time-flow. Among the inhabitants of this transcendent otherworld are the faeries, who seem to be able to make occasional appearances in our world, but whose own world is one of consciousness, whether a dream, an altered state, the collective human consciousness, or death. The message seems to be that consciousness has no real need of a dimension of time, and that once freed from the physical world, consciousness is able to transfer to an alternative non-physical universe; a universe that has sometimes been called faerieland. It is an ancient mythological concept pointing at a deeper reality, surviving in encoded form in faerie folklore.

    References

    Bentov, Itzhak, Stalking the Wild Pendulum: On the Mechanics of Consciousness (1977)

    Briggs, Katherine, An Encyclopedia of Fairies (1978)

    Frazer, James George, The Golden Bough: A Study of Magic and Religion (1922 ed.) https://sacred-texts.com/pag/frazer/

    Hancock, Graham, Supernatural: Meetings with the Ancient Teachers of Mankind (2005)

    Hartland, Edwin Sidney, The Science of Fairy Tales: An Inquiry into Fairy Mythology (1891) http://www.gutenberg.org/files/24614/24614-h/24614-h.htm 

    Rushton, Neil, ‘Going Round in Circles: The Faerie Dance’ (2016) https://deadbutdreaming.wordpress.com/2016/05/28/going-round-in-circles-the-faerie-dance/ 

    Sugg, Richard, Fairies: A Dangerous History (2018)

    Wilby, Emma, Cunning Folk and Familiar Spirits: Shamanistic Visionary Traditions in Early Modern British Witchcraft and Magic (2005)

    Woodyard, Chris, ‘Dancing with the Fairies: 1820s-1840s’  (2018) https://mrsdaffodildigresses.wordpress.com/2018/07/27/dancing-with-the-fairies/ 

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    The cover image is ‘Dreams and Time’ by John Anster Fitzgerald (1819-1906).

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    Dead but Dreaming the novel is available now…

    Mermaid Imagery in British and Irish Medieval Churches

    A version of this article appeared originally in the online magazine Ancient Origins.

    There are numerous stone sculptures and wood carvings in European medieval churches that depict what may appear to be non-Christian imagery. Most discussed are those of the Green Man and the Sheela na gig, which have found various interpretations, from pagan symbols existing surreptitiously within Christian sacred spaces, to simple decorative adornments, created by masons and carpenters with the implicit approval of the Church. Unlike many of the more straightforward carved images of animals and therianthropes in churches, the Green Man and Sheela na gig portrayals are not drawn from passages in biblical texts, strengthening the hypothesis that they are derived from naturalistic pagan belief systems and folkloric ideas, which continued to operate at some level below the radar of Christian orthodoxy throughout the Middle Ages. It appears as if there were a certain ecclesiastical allowance to tolerate these coded populist images, even if they were evoking (especially in the case of the sexually explicit Sheela na gigs) a potentially heretical cosmology. But there is another popular non-Biblical image regularly found in churches of all status, especially prevalent in Britain and Ireland: mermaids. They can be found in stone reliefs, bench-ends, misericords, roof bosses, and occasionally in wallpaintings in almost a hundred medieval churches, usually prominent, sometimes hidden but most often following a similar design, which remained largely unchanged between the 11th and 15th centuries. Why would an ancient, folkloric, but non-Biblical, character such as the mermaid find its way into so many medieval churches? And can such mermaid imagery and symbology be correlated with the more overt pagan symbols of the Green Man and Sheela na gig?

    Mermaids in Mythology and Folklore

    Mermaids have been a part of the global mythological ontology for thousands of years. They make their first literary appearance in Assyria in c.1000 BCE, when the goddess Atargatis turns herself into a mermaid as a self-imposed punishment after accidentally killing her human lover. But this rendering of a mermaid creature may be based on the even earlier tradition of the Babylonian God Ea, who was portrayed as a fish with a human head. This idea of a half human, half fish creature continued to pervade mythological story cycles from this time, finding their way into Greek and Roman cosmologies and then into north-west European traditions. They were often the harbingers, and sometimes the cause, of disasters at sea, but there is also a tradition of mermaids being lured onto land to become the wives of men who have tricked them into such a relation, stories that usually end badly for the enticing male.

    By the time the concept of the mermaid reached Britain and Ireland at the end of the first millennium, it had made the subtle transition from mythology to folklore; the mermaids were no longer deities to be revered but were supernatural aspects of the material world, to be feared and propitiated in equal measure. Most British and Irish folklore about mermaids (usually termed merrows) included motifs that included both warnings to seafarers and cautionary tales about desiring metaphysical beings. In the Faroe Isles the mermaid morphed into a creature known as the kelpie, half seal, half human, who could be captured by any amorous male when she beached and shed her seal skin. The most famous story is of Kópakonan (‘seal woman’) who was lured onto land to marry a fisherman, only for him to abuse her and her kelpie family, resulting in disaster for the inhabitants of Faroe. This theme of mermaids (and their analogues) as creatures of retribution became a mainstay of folklore – they were desirable and supernally beautiful, but they were also dangerous, and contact with them led (almost invariably) to calamity. 

    Examples of Mermaids in Medieval Churches

    Images of mermaids abound in British and Irish medieval churches. There are a range of stylistic types, from the Romanesque stone relief at the chapel of Durham Castle (dated to 1078 and thought to be the earliest depiction of a mermaid in an ecclesiastical context) through to the late medieval carved bench ends in churches such as at All Saints church, Upper Sheringham (Norfolk), St Mary’s church, Ivinghoe (Buckinghamshire) and Holy Trinity church, Great Hockham (Norfolk).

    Mermaid on a column capital at the chapel of Durham Castle, c. 1078 (Howarth Litchfield)
    15th-century mermaid bench-end at Holy Trinity church, Great Hockham, Norfolk (John Vigar)

    There are also a small number of mermaids shown in wallpaintings, such as at St Botolph’s church, Slapton (Northamptonshire). But despite the stylistic changes through the course of the Middle Ages the mermaids are always portrayed as distinctive characters, with fish tails (usually double-tails), naked upper human bodies, and with long flowing hair.

    Late medieval mermaid shown in a wallpainting at St Botolph’s church, Slapton, Northamptonshire (John Vigar)

    There are a few depictions of mermen (the male equivalent of mermaids), as at St Buryan church in Cornwall, but the vast majority are of the female form. Those carved on the underside of misericords in church choirs, such as at St Mary’s church in Edlesborough (Buckinghamshire), would have been largely unseen by the majority of people frequenting the church, but most of the sculptures, carvings and wallpaintings are in prominent positions, in full view of the congregations, such as at St. Brendan’s Cathedral at Clonfert, Co. Galway, Ireland, where the image of a foot-high mermaid is located at eye level on a soffit facing the nave from a pier of the chancel, and would have appeared directly to the left of a priest as he addressed the congregation.

    15th-century stone relief mermaid, knotwork and angels at St. Brendan’s Cathedral, Clonfert, Co. Galway, Ireland (Neil Rushton)

    The stone sculpted mermaid at All Saints church in Thornham, Norfolk, is also a prominent feature in the nave and must have been located there by design, in order to convey a message to the (mostly illiterate) congregation. Indeed, most stone reliefs of mermaids are found in the communal areas of medieval churches, intrinsic parts of the experience of attending church for generations of medieval people. Even more common were bench-end mermaids, wooden carvings that would have been both visible and touchable to everyone attending the church. These are exclusively late medieval in date, making it clear that the mermaid had continued as a defined symbol through to the Reformation.

    One of the best known representations of a mermaid from a medieval church is at St Senara’s church, Zennor in Cornwall. Carved into the side of a bench-chair in the 15th century, it depicts a typical mermaid figure, naked to her fish tail, and holding aloft a mirror and comb. The image seems to relate to a piece of local folklore, where a mermaid, in the form of a woman, came to church each Sunday and charmed the parishioners with her beautiful singing before returning to the sea. A local man called Mathey Trewella was enticed to return with her to the sea one day, and neither was seen again. Although not recorded in literary form until 1873 by the folklorist William Bottrell, this folktale had evidently been doing the rounds as an oral tradition long before. Although it is possible that it was the bench-end carving that gave rise to the story, it is equally likely that the medieval image of the mermaid was commemorating a folktale in circulation in the 15th century. This is unusual; mermaid images in churches do not normally come packaged with an associated folktale. They were more likely timeless symbols, which despite their pagan connotations, were allowed to be displayed in churches by the ecclesiastical authorities as a didactic tool; visual symbols to persuade the faithful towards virtue.

    15th-century bench-chair mermaid at St Senara’s church, Zennor, Cornwall (John Vigar)

    The Symbology of Mermaids in Medieval Churches

    One interpretation of the symbolic meaning of church mermaids is that they were warnings against the sin of lust, possibly in the same way as the Sheela na gig sculptures. The mermaids were portrayed as young women with flowing hair, whose folkloric attributes were often those of temptation – they were designed with negative connotations. Patricia Radford describes how this was offset at St Brendan’s Cathedral, Clonfert:

    ‘Directly above the mermaid at Clonfert, and at many other locations including Clontuskert, is a beautifully carved, symmetrical knot. Knot-work in Irish and Celtic art has protective associations, so it seems the purpose of this motif is to protect the viewer from the mermaid’s dangerous pull since merely gazing upon the creature might incite lust. At Clonfert, on the pier opposite the mermaid, at the priest’s right, are three carved angels. It is typical of Irish churches that images associated with good are placed so that they can be seen to balance the potential evil of images of warning, such as mermaids. It is the nature of medieval art that an image may have multiple layers of meaning.’

    This insightful observation may have been true at some Irish churches, but most British church mermaids exist in isolation, without any potentially protective symbols or angels. However, the majority of these British mermaids are portrayed with symbols that would have been understood as displaying attributes of the sins of pride and vanity – as per the Zennor carving, the mermaids often held combs and mirrors. Not only were the mermaids sexual temptresses, they were made explicit in their vanity. This may have allowed for a dual meaning in their symbology, where the mermaids known tendency to draw men to their destruction was coupled with a warning to women to guard against excessive vanity. The depiction of the mermaids with long flowing hair also fed into this; medieval women of good virtue were expected to wear their hair ‘tamed’ and concealed beneath a covering – loose hair was for pre-pubescent girls and virtueless women. It might be wondered whether such portrayals of alluring femininity in churches may have had the opposite effect of that intended, but it seems as if the ecclesiastical authorities were able to use effectively the symbology of the mermaid, known for destruction and misfortune, to inculcate Christian virtues. It is unlikely that mermaid iconography would have been so regularly displayed in such prominent positions in churches if this were not the case.

    In this respect mermaid imagery in medieval churches differs from that of the Green Man and the Sheela na gig images, despite all having pagan connotations. They served different purposes. Green Men and Sheela na gigs were, and remain, amorphous in their symbolic meaning. They represent liminal aspects of medieval belief systems, that were likely interpreted by medieval congregations (as well as modern commentators) as unexplained aspects of a subversive cosmology, allowed into ecclesiastical precincts through custom and convention, almost as a propitiation to underlying non-Christian phenomenology. Their liminal nature meant they rarely found significant locations in churches, but were rather subsumed in vaults and side-chapels, tolerated but not generally exposed to general view. In contrast, mermaid sculptures and carvings were usually in full prospect, allowed into the nave and communal areas, often within touching distance of the congregation. It is likely that people were well aware of the folkloric properties of the mermaids, and the Church was able to appropriate this knowledge to expound core Christian values in a dynamically visual way. But at the same time, the mermaids were skilfully rendered works of art, which may not always have served a symbolic purpose. The medieval churchgoers who would have viewed such accomplished carpentry and stonework throughout their lives may, like their modern counterparts, have simply enjoyed the mermaid imagery as something that enhanced the church space, while invoking a supernatural being and the stories that accumulated around it.

    References

    Alexander, S. 2012. Mermaids: The Myths, Legends and Lore. Adams Media, Avon, US

    Andrews, T. 1998. Dictionary of Nature Myths: Legends of the Earth, Sea, and Sky. Oxford University Press

    Bottrell, W. 1873. ‘The Mermaid of Zennor’, in Traditions and Hearthside Stories of West Cornwall. Available at: https://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/swc2/swc274.htm 

    Briggs, K. 1976. An Encyclopaedia of Fairies. Pantheon Books, New York 

    Kemble, M.J. 1992. ‘Mermaids in Folk Literature’, in Ichioka, C.S. (ed.), Stories from around the World: An Annotated Bibliography of Folk Literature. Honolulu: University of Hawaii at Manoa, 67–82 

    Platt, C. 1995, The Parish Churches of Medieval England. Chancellor Press, London

    Radford, P. 2003. Lusty Ladies: Mermaids in the Medieval Irish Church. Available at: http://homepage.eircom.net/~archaeology/three/mermaid.htm 

    Rushton, N. 2019. Selkies, Sirens, Swan Maidens and Otherworldly Brides. Available at: https://www.ancient-origins.net/history/selkies-sirens-swan-0011483 

    Weir, A., 2017. Satan in the Groin: Exhibitionist Figures on Mediæval Churches. Available at: http://www.beyond-the-pale.org.uk/ 

    Wingren, W. 2017. Why Are There Carvings of Women Flashing Their Genitals on Churches Across Europe? Available at: https://www.ancient-origins.net/artifacts-other-artifacts/why-are-there-carvings-women-flashing-their-genitals-churches-across-021737 

    Winters, R. 2015. Unraveling the Nature and Identity of the Green Man. Available at: https://www.ancient-origins.net/myths-legends/unraveling-nature-and-identity-green-man-002620 

    Winters, R. 2015. Unraveling the Nature and Identity of the Green Man, part 2. Available at: https://www.ancient-origins.net/myths-legends/unraveling-nature-green-man-part-2-how-pre-christian-icon-020186 

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    Thanks to my friend and church historian John Vigar for all the images, apart from the Durham Castle Chapel mermaid, which comes from a conservation assessment of the chapel by Howarth Litchfield. The cover image (by John Vigar) is a 15th-century mermaid bench-end at All Saints church, Upper Sheringham, Norfolk.

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    Dead but Dreaming the novel is available now

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