The Glaistig of Scotland

The Glaistig is a water faerie who is part alluring woman and part goat. She hides her cloven hooves under long flowing gowns and uses her good looks to entice men to dance with her, and when they are completely under her spell, she feeds on their blood. But on a gentler note she is kind to children and old people. On the island of Iona local women used to leave offerings of milk on the Glaistig Stone every evening as she lived nearby in a cave. In return for this kindness the Glaistig would guard their livestock during the night.

At Lochaber in Scotland a smith once caught a Glaistig and refused to release her until she gave him a herd of cattle; the cattle duly appeared. But the smith was still not satisfied; he demanded a house that neither enemy or faerie could harm.
The Glaistig summoned all the goblins from the surrounding countryside and they set to work building the house. It was completed in one night; the last piece was put in place just as the cock crowed. The goblins disappeared but not the Glaistig as she was still a captive of the smith.
She offered her hand to complete the bargain but the smith , obviously not trusting the faerie, burnt it with a red hot poker. The poor creature ran screaming into the hills where she bled to death. 
The surrounding ground and plants have ever since been stained red with her blood.

Faeries and Folklore of the British Isles

True Thomas the Rhymer

True Thomas The Rhymer: 
Many people have been seduced into leaving the mortal world and travelling to Faerieland; some never to be seen again, for once there it is very difficult to escape. One such was Thomas, the young Laird of Erceldoune who, one May Day, saw a beautiful woman riding towards him across the grass. He was so smitten by the woman that he promised then and there to love and stay with her for ever if she would only give him a kiss: although in some versions it’s more than a kiss he received! Once the kiss had been given Thomas watched in horror as the woman’s appearance changed before his eyes, her hair turned gray and her face became lined and haggard, her clothes became tattered and there before him stood an old crone where two minutes before there had been the beautiful woman with whom he had fallen in love.
Thomas knew that he could not go back on his promise and as she made to leave the hill where they had met, he gave one backward glance to the mortal world. Then followed the old crone to a cave in the side of Eildon Hill and from there into the otherworld. They travelled for many days in pitch black surrounded by strange sounds until at last they came to an enormous cavern and in the middle stood a Faerie Castle surrounded by a beautiful garden.
Thomas turned to the old crone to exclaim at the wonder of the place and there in place of the old crone stood the beautiful woman as she had been before.
Thomas gazing on her face then knew that it was the Faerie Queen herself that he had made his promise to.
To Thomas, it seemed as though he had only been there for a few days and when the Faerie Queen told him that in fact he had been there for seven years he could not believe it. She warned him that if he stayed another night then he would be bound for ever in Faerieland and for the sake of their love he would be given a chance to return to his mortal home. With a blink of her eye Thomas found himself once again standing on Huntlie Bank. The Faerie Queen gave Thomas a parting gift: the ability to be a master harpist and also that he would answer every question with truth. For seven years his wisdom and prophecies were sought by many. But he never forgot the beautiful Queen that had stolen his heart; and one day he received a summons from her; Thomas walked out of his home and was never seen again in the mortal world.

True Thomas lay on the grassy bank,
And he beheld a lady gay.
A lady that was brisk and bold,
To come riding o’er the ferny brae.

Her skirt was of the grass green silk,
Her mantle of the velvet fine,
 And on every lock of her horse’s mane,
Hung fifty silver bell and nine.

True Thomas he took off his hat,
And bowed low down to his knee,
All hail thou virgin, Queen of Heaven,
For your like on Earth I ne’er did see.

Oh no, oh no, True Thomas she said,
That name does not belong to me,
I am but the Queen of Fair Elfland
That has come for to visit here with thee.

And you must go with me now, Thomas,
True Thomas you must go with me,
And you must serve me seven years,
Through good or ill as may chance to be.

She turned about her milk white steed
And took True Thomas up behind,
And  aye when’er the bridle rang,
The steed flew faster than the wind,

For forty days and forty nights,
 They wade through red blood to the knee,
And he saw neither sun nor moon,
But heard the roaring of the sea.

Oh they rode on and further on,
Until they came to a garden tree,
Light down, light down, you lady fair,
And I’ll pull off that fruit for thee.

Oh no, oh no, True Thomas she says,
That fruit may not be touched by thee,
For all the plagues that are in hell
Are upon the fruit of this country.

But I have bread here in my lap,
Likewise a bottle of red wine,
And before that we go further on,
We shall rest, and you may dine.

When he had eaten and drunk his fill,
She said Lay your head down on my knee.
And before we climb yon high high hill,
I will show you wonders three.

Oh do you see that broad broad road
That lies by the lily leven?
Oh that is the road of wickedness,
Though some call it the road to Heaven.

And do you see that narrow narrow road
All beset with thorns and briars?
Oh that is the way of righteousness,
Though after it few enquire.

And do you see that bonny bonny road
Which winds about the ferny brae?
Oh that is the road to Fair Elfland,
And together there you and I will go.

But Thomas you must hold your tongue
Whatever you may hear or see...
For if one word you chance to speak,
You will never get back to your own
 country.

And he has gotten a coat of woven cloth,
Likewise the shoes of velvet green,
And till seven years were past and gone,
True Thomas ne’er on earth was seen.

Faeries and Folklore of the British Isles 

The Faeries Tea Party

"Granny was good at telling stories, Chloe would cuddle up 

next to her on the big old squashy sofa and listen to

 wonderful bedtime tales about the faeries, goblins and 

monsters that lived in the big wood at the end of the garden.

Granny had just finished a really good story about a giant who

 ate six faeries for breakfast every day when Chloe asked her 

'Do you really believe in faeries granny?' "

 

'The Faeries Tea Party'

Ideal bedtime story for your little fairy!

Available from www.magic-myth-legend.co.uk or 

Amazon as a book or kindle

The Ugliest Witch in the North Country

Alison Gross, 'the ugliest witch i' the north country,' lured a young man into her cottage and with many fair speeches tried to persuade him to become her lover. He withstood all her bribes and honeyed words even though she offered him a scarlet embroidered cloak, then a cap embroidered all over with pearls, then a cup of red gold. But he would not bend and would not given her even one small kiss. Becoming angry the witch blew three blast on a grass green horn and taking a silver wand in her hand, turned round three times, muttering words that chilled his blood until he fell down senseless at her feet and slowly turned into a dragon. She gloated over the fallen youth and spitefully chanted,

'And gard me toddle about the tree.'

Every Saturday his sister Maisry came with a silver basin and silver comb and took the dragon's head upon her knee to tend it. There seemed no way to break the enchantment until at last on Hallowe'en the fairy court rode by. The Queen spied the dragon coiled around the apple tree and dismounting from her horse, took it's head and stroked it three times over her knee, and the dragon was restored to it's proper human form.

Excerpt from The Lavender Witch

The Lavender Witch is a chilling ghost story based on the strange but true events surrounding the death of Hannah Beamish, accused of being a witch by a wealthy farmer in the small remote village where she lived in the early 1800's.
One hundred and seventy years later these strange events, only now remembered by a few, come to light when Kitty and Gordon move back to the Devon village where they were born. They buy an old orchard from a neighbouring farm and build a small house, all is fine until they move in.
Over the course of their first week in the house chilling apparitions appear and events spiral out of control bringing the past and present together until the shocking truth emerges as to what really happened to Hannah.

They walked slowly along the drive to the lane; time had passed since they had driven up to Orchard Cottage and it was now dark, the night sky was filled with winking stars and high up on Castle Hill a fox barked.

‘Right, down to Sybil’s Gordon,’ Queenie said firmly.

‘No,’ he replied sharply. ‘That’s it! We’re out of here; we’re not getting involved in any more of this.’

‘Now let’s calm down a minute, I want to know what’s going on and what my grandfather has to do with this.’ The old man had stopped and stood in front of them determined to get an answer.

‘This is a story that shouldn’t be told in a dark lane William,’ said Sybil taking hold of his arm and pulling him towards the village.

‘Well let’s go into the farmhouse then,’ he said impatiently. ‘It’s closer.’

‘No,’ Kitty put in weakly. ‘Not in there, sorry,’ she apologised to the old man. ‘But you see it’s his house.’

‘Kitty is right we shouldn’t set foot in there.’ Queenie warned. ‘Sybil’s cottage will do. Come along.’

 She led the way along the darkened lane until they came close to the entrance of the farmyard. She slowed to a halt, from across the paved yard came the sound of approaching footsteps, footsteps that Kitty immediately recognised.

‘Who’s that?’ bristled William. ‘Hi,’ he shouted striding forward, pushing past Queenie who put out a restraining hand, but he brushed impatiently it aside. ‘Who’s there? You’re trespassing.’

 His voice echoed around the buildings but the footsteps did not slow, they drew closer and closer to the group huddled in the lane.

‘It’s him,’ whispered Kitty trying to pull away from Gordon’s tightening grip. ‘It’s him Queenie,’ she hissed again.

Queenie nodded in recognition. ‘Yes Kitty it is,’ she said quietly. She raised her voice ‘Well Robert? What are you going to do now eh?’

William glanced at her quickly before returning his gaze to the entrance of the yard.

A dark shape slid into the shadows of the wall, and as they watched it gathered itself together pulling in the darkness of the night and becoming more solid.

 A figure walked slowly out from the shelter of the wall and stood in the middle of the lane and raised his head. Dark sunken eyes stared across the intervening space between him and his grandson.

‘Oh my God!’ whispered William in horror. ‘It is him.’

The old man staggered back and would have fallen if Gordon hadn’t grabbed his arm to steady him.

‘William, are you alright?’ Sybil whispered to him urgently gripping his other arm to support him.

‘What in God’s name is this? He’s dead!’ William’s voice echoed around the lane making the apparitions face wince.

Queenie took a few paces forward and peered at the shade of Robert Beamish.

‘So that’s it! William is the key,’ she said triumphantly. She turned back quickly to the others. ‘Back to the house, all of you.’

‘Are you mad woman? We’re not going back in there,’ Gordon shouted at her.                                      

 He stared at the figure in the lane and watched in horror as it approached slowly towards them.

Queenie pulled Kitty back towards the house. ‘You have no choice now, he’s not going to stop. He’ll come after Kitty where ever she is.’

‘You don’t know that,’ he shot at her.

 ‘Look at him!’ Queenie shouted at him. ‘He is on the road! This road doesn’t belong to the Beamish family, it never has done. He’s not on his own soil!’

They backed slowly away down the lane to the entrance of the drive, William last of all. He stood frozen to the spot staring at his grandfather’s form approaching along the road.

Sybil pulled at his arm. ‘Come on William,’ she shouted at him.

‘I thought I had forgotten him,’ he whispered. ‘But one look at his face and it has all come back.’

Clouds drifted across the night sky casting even darker shadows onto the road but the shadow of Robert Beamish was darker still as he paced slowly forward; the regular thump of the stick hitting the tarmac echoing off the buildings.

The Lavender Witch is available on Amazon, Kindle and Paperback, also on www.magic-myth-legend.co.uk

Somerset Folklore

Somerset Folklore

     Somerset, a county rich in folklore, previously called the Summer Lands due to its verdant green pastures, and which has its fair share of strange creatures. From the Oak Men who haunt the woods and the Giant Worm of Shervage Wood, to the more familiar witches, hobgoblins, faeries and pixies. Although pixies are more often associated with Cornwall, it was always understood by residents of this county that everywhere west of the River Parret was pixie land. According to local folklore, Buckland St Mary is the last place where a small race of red clad faeries  were seen; they were defeated in battle by the pixies and fled, some to Devon and Dorset and a few making their way to Ireland.

    When faeries are mentioned most people think of Disney’s Tinkerbell, a sweet winged creature. But if you had said ‘faerie,’ even a hundred years ago, the reaction would have been very different; country people had a healthy fear and respect for these creatures, believing them to be responsible for many instances of bad luck or illness in their everyday life. The little people had to treated with respect and appeased with offerings of cream and bread to avoid their anger. Many farmers would leave offerings outside their barns in the hope that the pixies would finish the threshing or help with the harvest. This practice was carried on inside the house as well; hearths would be swept and cleared every night so that the faeries could dance in the fireplace and bowls of fresh water left out for them to bathe in. Woe betide the housewife or servant that forgot, for mischief would follow.

Interaction was to be avoided for fear of angering them, one well known encounter ended badly for the mortal as a 17th century account reports.

Riding across the Blackdown Hills  a man stumbled across a faerie market when travelling back to his home at Combe St Nicholas. On the side of the hill was gathered a large number of small brightly garbed people, and he could see peddlers with trays of ribbons and trinkets wandering  amongst the tents and crowds. As he drew nearer the figures began to fade but as he passed through the invisible throng he felt himself being pushed and pinched. Quickly leaving the fairground he could see the figures reappearing behind him, and began to experience pain where he had been touched by the invisible hands. By the time he had reached home a strange paralysis had afflicted him down one side, and this,coupled with the pain, continued for the rest of his life.

This particular market has been seen several times over the years but none venture too close as the faeries do not welcome guests to this event.

  

Although some intrepid souls thought nothing of the danger in the quest for buried treasure for beneath  the many hills of Somerset was believed to be  hoards of  faerie gold. Cadbury Hill, thought to be Arthur’s Camelot, was once home to faeries before they were driven away by the sound of the newly erected church bells nearby. Here they stored grain which they had gathered from the surrounding plain. They left so quickly that they didn’t have time to remove the gold from the hidden passageways beneath the mound.

A well known rhyme tells of the immense wealth hidden beneath the hill:

‘If Cadbury and Dolbury dolven were

All England would have a golden share.

Cadbury’s treasure is impossible to retrieve however as the harder it is dug for, the farther it sinks into the earth of the hill.

Other such sites include Rugborough Camp, Broomfield, and Castle Neroche. Here the treasure seekers fled in fear and empty handed after hearing strange noises and ghostly voices, but not soon enough for within a month each of the men were dead.

     Parents especially would be concerned about faeries, fearing that their un-baptized babies would be snatched and a changeling left in their place.

One Somerset old wives tale is that you should never dress your child in green until after the

christening, as green is the faeries favourite colour and it would enable them to steal the infant.

So for protection, an open pair of scissors would be hung over the cot, as faeries cannot bear iron, or an iron pin would be stuck into the baby’s clothes. Holy water would also be sprinkled over the child and the cot.

No discussion of the folklore of Somerset can omit Glastonbury, the sacred isle of Avalon, and

supposedly the last resting place of King Arthur.  Here on the Tor is said to be the entrance to

Faerieland, known as Annwyn, guarded by the Faerie King himself, Gwyn Ap Nudd. His crystal realm is the meeting place of the dead, and it is from here on Samhain (31st October), that he leads the Wild Hunt out across the Somerset countryside.

Now you might think that this is all gone and forgotten but some traditions still prevail; the

wassailing of the apple trees during the winter months is still as prevalent today as ever. Offerings of toast dipped in cider are left in the branches of the oldest tree in the orchard to honour ‘The Apple Tree Man’ who is the guardian of orchards. Cider is drunk from the wassailing bowl and if any remains, it is poured over the roots of the tree.

‘Old Apple Tree we wassail thee, and happily thou wilt bear,

For the Lord knows where we shall be,

Till apples another year.’

To ensure future crops the last few apples must be left for the ‘The Apple Tree Man’ and the pixies.

Another traditional festivity that is seeing a come back in the Somerset villages of Chiselborough, Long Sutton, Lopen, Castle Neroche, and Hinton St George is the Punkey night which is held on the last Thursday in October. Punky night is closely linked with Samhain and has similarities with Halloween but the punkey lanterns are carved using mangel wurzels or turnips. The children of the village carry the lanterns around the houses, led by the Punkey King and Queen, singing the traditional punkey song while begging for pennies.

‘It’s Punkey night tonight,

It’s Punkey night tonight,

Give us a candle, give us a light,

It’s Punkey night tonight.

Give me candle

Give me a light

If you don’t

 you’ll get a fright!

If you haven’t a candle

A penny’s alright’

'Faeries and Folklore of the British Isles'

Vodyanoy, a water spirit

A strange creature from Slavic mythology is the Vodyanoy, a water spirit that appears

 as a naked old man.
He has a frog like face, long greenish beard and hair, his body which is covered in black fish scales, is usually covered in the muck and slime from the bottom of the river. The vodyanoy has webbed paws, a fish’s tail and red eyes. He patrols up and down his stretch of the river on a half submerged log and is often referred to as ‘grandfather’ or ‘forefather’ by the locals.
If annoyed, he is capable of breaking dams, destroying mills
and will drag people and animals down into the depths of the river where they serve him for the rest of their lives.
To appease him, people who live alongside the river will throw offerings into the water; fishermen will also ask for his help by placing a pinch of tobacco in the water and saying:

‘Here’s your tobacco Lord Vodnik
Now give me a fish’
Known as Vodnik in other eastern European countries, his appearance is reported to be different. He appears to be human except for having gills and webbed finger and his hair and skin is green. These vodyanoy usually appear dressed, albeit as a tramp, complete with hat, usually a boater with long speckled ribbons. His face is covered with a long tangled beard.
These water spirits will sit for hours by the side of the river, puffing out clouds of tobacco smoke from a long curly pipe, or if more than one is present they will play cards. Although they can stay out of the water for long periods they never dry out and any garment they wear will be constantly dripping; a sure sign of a Vodyanoy  if you should ever meet one.
They store the souls of the drowned in porcelein jars which are greatly prized by these creatures, as the more cups they own the higher standing they have amongst other vodyanoy.
If the jar should be broken or the lid opened the soul inside will float to the surface of the water and be liberated.

Folklore of Mermaids: Elizabeth Andrews