I have maintained for a long time that, where once we might have sought out the Fae in unusual formations of rocks, plants, or trees and even in the water pools and swirls on a riverbank, now we feel the traces of the urban Fae in the artwork scrawled in underpasses and dark alleys. They lurk just on the edge of our vision and inspire those of us who are sensitive and, for time immemorial, the artists and revolutionaries among us who have been known for their visionary abilities.
~ Urban Faery Magick – Tara Sanchez
Often places of power will jump out at you, the rocks can, and do actually howl in their otherness.
Of course the rationalists1 of the world will tell you that rocks humming are just a fluke of geology, the right type of rock, and the right meteorological conditions on a certain day culminating in the rocks vibrating at a frequency that is audible to the human ear. This is all undoubtedly true, but it cannot take away the fact that some places will inspire awe, others will not. The differentiator for me is whether I think “Oh that’s cool” or if it inspires a story, a tale to be told, if you are a rationalist you might say it inspires a flight of fancy.
This is a flight of fancy that came to me whilst walking in the Lake District, as I made my way up Buttermere Fell along Scarth Gap Pass heading towards Haystacks. There is a large rock outcropping which moaned loudly enough that it was audible for some considerable time and the closer I got the more inspired I became.
The Hall of the Fairy King
Sometimes persistent sound can be as exhausting as physical labour. It can wear you down, leaving you distracted and trembling. It can make you turn away from even the most longed for goals. Even ones that you’ve set mind, body and soul to achieve. So hill walking in foul weather can be as much a mental task as anything else, the wind can howl almost deafening you, making you want to turn back long before the rain soaks you and chills you to the bone. Despite this the couple climbed steadily, it was cold, it was wet and the steep path was slippery underfoot, but they were enthralled by the idea of reaching the summit. The woman stopped for a moment, her face screwed up in concentration, head cocked slightly to one side as if listening to something more than the wind ripping at the hood of her jacket.
“Do you hear that? It was a struggle to lift her voice above the noise now.
The man turned round, face wrinkling as another gust of wind blasted more rain directly at him. “Is it an aeroplane?”
“I don’t think so! It sounds like the rocks over there vibrating”.
“Don’t be daft, rocks don’t vibrate.”
“Well I think they do, I’ve been hearing it for a while. I thought at first it might be an aeroplane too, or helicopter coming over the hill but it’s never appeared and nobody flies helicopters in this weather surely.”
They stood still together for a moment curious, listening for a little while longer before the man spoke again.
“I suppose the next thing you’re going tell me is that it’s fairies”.
Gleefully the woman turned and smiled.
“Of course! it’s always fairies, and this is the hall of the fairy King only those that can hear the hum can find the secret entrance. You have to have fae blood to hear the noise. You must be part fairy too.”
She grinned wickedly. The wind whipped around her, the rain drove a bit harder, sodden tendrils of hair stuck to her face. Wiping them away with a dripping hand she made a deep flourishing bow towards the rocks.
“How goes it FAIR ones? Thank you for your favour and passage through this realm.”
With a deep breath she nodded once, as if agreeing with some inaudible speaker before she turned and carried on walking up the hill. Intent once again upon her climb. Her companion snorted, shaking his head before following along.
Somewhere deep inside the mountain there was a clunk, followed by a distant rumble, as if a large doorway had opened. There was no machinery to see, no gears or levers moving, so whilst the noise was in essence mechanical there was also something otherworldly, eery about the sound. This was no ordinary, man-made doorway, it was an opening between one place and another. Hearing the rumble the fairy king settled back into his throne and smiled a grim determined smile.
“Finally, even after millennia we still haven’t totally been forgotten. The old blood lines still surprise us by manifesting every few generations. Maybe, just maybe this time there is hope.”
After a moment he leant forward again to stare intently into the silver pool in front of him. “Ahhh yes, there she is”, he flicked his wrist and the wind on the hillside died down.
Has the otherness of a place ever inspired you?
I use the term rationalist over the term realist because in my opinion what is real is subjective. People who would seek to explain the wonders of the world away, rationalise the situation so it is a much better term. ↩︎
An infestation of uninvited fae can be a nuisance and whilst I absolutely do not think you should go round wantonly banishing the good folk there are times when posting up a magickal “Trespassers will be prosecuted” sign is really handy. The problem is, once you start working with them, they do like to invite their friends. A great and very cheap way of popping up that sign is with Cascarilla, a.k.a ground eggshells. Although I have been using it for some years and was taught it as hoodoo/folk magic skill, I’ve not seen it in mainstream western practises until quite recently, which surprises me because there is a considerable amount of lore surrounding it – especially with the Fae, so let’s have a look.
In German, French, Polish, Irish, Welsh and English folklore stories can be found where a wily human gets rid of a faery problem using eggshells. Brewing with eggshells to confuse a changeling enough to trick it into revealing its true nature is very common as is cooking in eggshells, the poet W.B Yeats recants the woeful tale of Mrs Sullivan who upon suspecting that her child was in fact a Faerie goes through the motion of cooking a meal for all the reapers in the field in just a single egg shell.
The Welsh folklorist John Rhys, tells two distinct tales of mothers who believing that their children have been whisked away by the Benith y Mamau (the mothers blessings) attempt to bake using only eggshells again to trick the changeling into revealing themselves and the prolific folklorist Evan Wentz retells a number of Breton tales where water is boiled in shells roasting before the fire thus causing a faery to cry out, ‘I have seen the acorn before the oak; I have seen the egg before the chicken: I have never seen the equal to this.’*
There are literally dozens of tales with variations on this same egg theme, and the words the faery speaks are so similar that when I discovered it I felt it necessary to do some digging to try and find the source. I’ve found all sort of suggestions to the origins of the eggshell theory, some think that the original source is the 16th century writer Reginald Scot who explained that this connection to the Fae is because both Faeries and Witches can, “saile in an egge shell, a cockle or muscle shell, through and under the tempestuous seas.”
Wirt Sykes* another welsh folklorist claimed that he could trace the origins of the egg shell story back to 7th Century Gaul, however the general use of eggshells in magic can be traced even further still. In the 1st century C.E. the Roman historian Pliny waxed lyrical about the medicinal and magical properties of eggs stating that people would immediately break or pierce the shells of eggs with a spoon after eating them to ward off evil spells. Eggshells were also part of “demon traps” found in middle eastern countries to disarm unwanted spirits, and sometimes, whole eggs were placed at the threshold to appease the threshold guardians specifically Hekate, who unsurprisingly is linked very closely with the Fae.
This practise is old, old, old and whichever way you look at it eggshells are faery kryptonite.
So why wouldn’t we use this resource in our regular ritual practises? It’s very simple, wash your shells out and peel out the membrane whilst they are still ‘moist’ and then either bake them and grind them to create brown cascarillia or just let them dry and grind them to make white. I’ve yet to find a definite answer as to why you would use one type over another but as so many of the traditional tales involve cooking with, roasting or heating eggshells as part of the banishing ritual I tend to make the brown kind. The uses are endless bathe in it to cleanse yourself of any unwanted influences from the spirit realm (including rude Fae), place it along your doors and window sills to keep the grobblies out of your home and even place it around your boundaries on your property to aid in your magical shielding. It doesn’t hurt to carry a little sachet of it in your witchy napsack when your out hunting fae either.
Finally I am always up for a good chant when I do this kind of work, and Wirt Sykes very cleverly worked out that the Welsh and the Breton of the words that the Fae speak when they are outed makes a very pleasing rhyme.
‘I have seen the acorn before I saw the oak: I have seen the egg before I saw the white hen: I have never seen the like of this.’
‘Gweliz mez ken gwelet derven,
Gweliz vi ken gwelet iar wenn,
Erioez ne wiliz evelhenn’
Let’s face it the Welsh is way cooler and sounds nice and arcane, really adds to the ambience.
*Evans-Wentz, W. Y. (Walter Yeeling), 1878-1965. The Fairy-Faith in Celtic Countries (pp. 127-128). HardPress Publishing. Kindle Edition.
* Wirt Sikes. British Goblins: Welsh Folk-Lore, Fairy Mythology, Legends and Traditions (p. 54). Organization. Kindle Edition.
I cannot remember the first time I became enchanted with the idea of the “other” being real. I often tell the story of the fairies at the play park when I talk about my connection with the Fae but when I take time to examine it (as I have done very recently), there is a sense that my relationship began as a combination of factors rather than one pivotal moment. I grew up in a home filled with fantasy and science fiction in a time when fantasy and fiction weren’t really mainstream reading material. The Sci Fi section in both WH Smiths and the local library rarely extended beyond one or two shelves on a bookcase, but my dad and I could spend hours together choosing our books, it was our special time, sacred. I blame my dear old dad for my love of books and my reading tastes because of it; in my teens when my friends were completely hooked on Sweet Valley High, I was memorising the “Litany Against Fear”.*
I suspect I read hundreds of books growing up, although I never counted. There was one summer break where a friend’s mother handed me several carrier bags with about 40 books contained inside, mostly historical romances. I took to my bed to read, only rising to eat, relieve myself, and occasionally shower. I was a teenager and a filthy mutt, please don’t judge. There I stayed for the entire 6 weeks, the unread stack on one side of the bed slowly shrinking and read side growing. My parents despaired, but at least I wasn’t out getting into trouble somewhere, so they mostly suffered my withdrawal from the world.
Despite my voracious appetite some books stuck rather than fading into the morass, one book from my childhood stood out for me over and above all others, so clearly that even decades later as I was writing Urban Faery Magick it became a bit of an obsession. I purchased a copy and it sat on my desk throughout the entire process. It was often the book I reached for if I wanted to relax, to tune out and escape the world. Guess what? its a fairy story and a really jolly good one too. It’s the story of two Cornish children and their family and what happens when they find and take a Changeling into their home. Its filled with little snippets of lore wrapped up in a children’s tale, its funny, its heart warming and its so sad that it’s haunting. I am convinced that had I not read that book as an impressionable young child I would not be interested in the subjects I study and write about today. A work of fiction is responsible for and has informed my practise, gasp horror! Never again will I roll my eyes at the “Mists of Avalon” brigade.
BTW – If you’re interested the book is called “A Year and a Day” by William Mayne, it’s a little dated, but an enchanting read so if you happen upon a copy somewhere grab it, it won’t take you more than a hour, two tops.
Why am I writing about this today? Well today I was accused of being evil because I have read (and recommended that someone else read) the Malleus Maleficarum. In fairness it is a document written by a religious zealot who was so vile that he was in essence single handedly responsible for the majority of deaths during what we now call the “Burning Times”. This was a time in history when somewhere between 60 and 90 thousand women, and more than a few men across Europe and the Americas were accused of witchcraft and/or heresy and then put to death. In some countries this was by burning, but it was just as common to be strangled or hung or both! Some excitable folks have suggested that it was 100’s of thousands or even millions but the academic evidence does not support this, the numbers however are horrific enough without the exaggeration so I don’t want to detract from what happened. That is not the purpose of this post.
Despite its awful history, the Malleus Maleficarum and subsequent documents such as James I’s Daemonologie give us a unique insight into the world during that period and like it or not, in books like these we can see little snippets of magical practises used even today.Sorry folks, I know it’s uncomfortable, but forget Crowley, there’s demons and witch hunters in your Wicca! and you know what, that’s absolutely OK, because if we stop examining our history, if we stop taking what works from it and refining it, then we are bound to make the same mistakes in our future – we become stagnant.
If we declare a book or a set of teachings wholly fictional or worse still wholly evil then that is the path we are destined to tread, one of wilful ignorance doomed to repeat history time and time again. Instead if we read, and learn about history from all angles in an objective manner we can see how to move forward. From there we can innovate, improve and help others do the same. No book is evil, regardless of how distasteful it is. A book does not have a morality in and of itself, after all they just contain words, the morality comes from those who read it and how they act upon the words inside. Books aren’t evil, people are, and sticking your fingers in your ears and pretending that they never existed it foolish at best, and at worst downright disrespectful to those who suffered as a result. You want to be a “witch”, then learn what it meant to be accused of being a witch, learn what you were supposed to be able to do (you might be surprised) and honour the poor souls who passed by ensuring you are informed enough to never let it happen again!
* “I must not fear, fear is the mind-killer, fear is the little death that brings total obliteration, I will face my fear, I will permit it to pass over me and through me, and when it has gone past, I will turn my inner eye to see its path, where the fear has gone there will be nothing, only I shall remain” – The Litany Against Fear, Frank Herbert Dune. That is some deep shizzle right there, but Imight talk about that on another day.
I laid in bed this morning sometime after dawn, the birds were singing, the dog was quietly snoring and for the second year in a row I realised that I hadn’t crawled out of bed at some ungodly hour to greet the sun. Not that it’s really that sunny here at the moment, the weather quite predictably for mid June is warm, muggy, plenty of thunderstorms and overnight rain, but often quite overcast.
I’ve been contemplating my apparent ritual apathy for a while, last year I wrote at length as to how you can use Solstice to connect to the Fae and it struck me this morning that I had shared a very personal solitary rite, not a group affair, and I realised how it was indicative of my current personal mindset. It’s really easy to blame Covid and three lockdowns, but the reality is though that the wheel has fallen off my year, I think I’ve been missing a wheel on my wagon for sometime now and surprisingly I feel ok with that. I don’t think it’s heresy to not celebrate the wheel of the year (all or part) and I do think you can still call yourself Pagan (if that is what floats your boat) if you don’t adhere to an agrarian based ritual construct.
Ritual is really important, it is what gives us meaning and comfort and the ability to cope when life throws us a curve-ball. Patterns and certainties sustain us, as humans we look for them all the time to explain how we think, how we feel, what we believe. Group ritual based upon those patterns, something that I normally deeply crave, is a way for community to draw together to celebrate life’s cycles, births, deaths and marriages, successes and failures. It bonds us in shared experience, shared tears, shared laughter. In short, ritual IS magic. That is the biggest mystery of all and unless you experience it, you will never know it.
So how do I reconcile this? I work within two traditions that have a heavy ritual focus that hangs quite literally upon the wheel of the year, Druidry and Initiatory Wicca.
Until now I haven’t. I’ve skipped sleep or dragged myself out of my bed to drive to a cold dark field to “do ritual” more often than not for other people. I’ve opened my home time and time again, cooking and cleaning, preparing space for people to celebrate, and clearing up after, because “community right?”. I’ve waxed lyrical for years saying this is what it means to be “priesthood” and I still believe that to be true, don’t call yourself a priest or priestess unless you are willing to serve. If you want to do it like the ancestors then you need to accept that the Shaman was as hobbled as the Blacksmith, tied to a community they had no choice but to serve.
So how am I ok with not celebrating the wheel if I believe this? Because at the end of the day the Wheel is just a pattern, one that most people can get behind, they can see the changing season, they can experience the biting cold of the longest night, the may blossom scented joy of that first warm night outdoors with a bonfire, the sensation of the wild hunt chasing at their heels as the nights draw in and the leaves scurry around their ankles. They make sense, until they don’t. Because the wheel of the year isn’t the only pattern and if you or your community find a pattern that works better for you then you would be foolish not to use it. Don’t tie yourself to a man made construct just because.
My own practise for now seems to be moving closer and closer to a pattern that loosely follows the lesser Sabbats and for some time the irony of Solar and very masculine worship somehow taking the forefront in Pagan practise hasn’t escaped me. Everything in its balance though and there is the ‘gotcha’ I’ve still lit a candle, I’ve still chosen a solar incense for my altar this morning. I have still acknowledged the pattern and both given and drawn energy from it. Maybe because I’m not quite ready to go full on heretic and divorce myself completely from what is now quite a powerful egregore. Or am I? Maybe now is the time? Do I have a better pattern? Do you?
For many of us our first encounter with the kingdom of fairy is as a child. Girls in particular seem to get targeted with a whole range of books, toys, and clothing featuring fairies. My daughter drove me mad collecting the Rainbow Magic series when she first started reading, with such heroines as Poppy the Piano Fairy, Scarlett the Garnet Fairy and Olivia the Orchid Fairy. This isn’t a new idea either over 80 years ago illustrators such as Cicley Mary Barker and Arthur Rackham were creating delightful images of tiny fae that were associated with the seasons, trees, sacred sites, fruits and flowers. And the images they created found themselves into collections of fairy tales, play manuscripts, children’s television programs, films and books. In a bizarre way the western world has been indoctrinating their children to have an animistic world-view for over a century and not even realising it. Which secretly I find rather excellent.
The concept of a fairy or spirit being associated with a particular plant has a bit of a spotted history. The new age movement is much taken with the idea of “Plant Deva” divine spirits also known as ’shining ones’. These are connected or possibly the actual essence of each living thing. My researches seem to suggest that this name was probably first broached by the Theosophist Geoffrey Hodson but whilst the use of the old sanskrit word Deva maybe a little dubious, the idea is sound. Most of the Shamanic Cultures (North and South) have a long history of working with spirits of particular plants, rocks, and stones etc. But are they Fae? My considered opinion is yes they are, for once you work with them their sentience shines through loud and clear.
I am not a herbalist, or even a very competent amateur and cannot imagine a time where I would ever be, it’s not really my thing. But on a nature walk I’m pretty good at identifying different trees, plants and flowers and there are times when a particular plant will jump out at me. I remember the first time I consciously examined and took notice of the Blackthorn, it was like a presence inside it spoke to me. Before it was a tree that I just about recognised in late Autumn when the sloes were ready to be harvested. Because there is nothing like a good homemade Sloe Gin at Yule so picking the fruit had a purpose. I am all about purpose. However, afterwards even in winter I could even recognise the bare wood. I’d walk down paths I’d walked a hundred times before and be shocked to realise that the hedgerow was primarily Blackthorn, at times I would dream of those trees and a humanoid spirit with violet eyes and no sclera would peer at me through the branches. When I had need of a sturdy walking stick it was a Blackthorn cane I automatically picked out of a bundle at a village fair. In later years Blackthorn would come to me in my dreams, one memorable time to warn me of the destruction of the ancient hedge near where I was living. Blackthorn wasn’t and isn’t just an essence, it is a sentient tangible entity. Akin to a Dryad.
And Blackthorn isn’t the only one. Scarlet Pimpernel works with me often in the summer months. I remember being enchanted when I saw these tiny delicate orangey flowers with a deep crimson centre. So petite it’s easy to miss them, it foretells of good times and bad. Once known as “Old Man’s Weather vane” its little flowers close in foul weather, Ive come to realise that this little plant spirit most often reveals itself to me when there is a promise of good things to come. Turning up unexpectedly in unlikely locations on a memorable day, I always take note of what Pimpernel has to say.
It’s really easy to connect with these Plant Fae. If you can plant them then do, watch them and learn from them, talk to them, meditate with them, cook with them and bathe with them even, assuming that’s appropriate. The more you assimilate the physical plant the easier it is to connect to the Fae who are attached to them. And I specifically use the word attached because it is definitely a case of individual spirits of a particular species that belong to that specific plant. But once you’ve made connection with one, it’s a lot easier to make connection with others. Like learning French from a native speaker and then going to visit France. Makes communicating so much more simple.
It’s not totally necessary to understand its medicinal purpose or the folklore associated with it the plant, but I do find that it helps to understand the nature of what this “Shining One” is trying to say or it will suddenly make that initial connection easy. Currently my latest stalker plant is Black Nightshade. I came across a patch whilst playing a scavenger hunt in central London some weeks back and its been stalking me ever since, appearing in places I’ve walked and worked for years and I know I have never noticed this plant before. Its season is nearly over, but still I am finding it in flower in all sorts of places so I always stop and acknowledge it. Gently touch a flower or leaf and ponder why it is that I am only now noticing its presence. I can’t wait to find out what this little creature has to teach me about the Otherworld and myself.
Despite my voracious appetite some books stuck rather than fading into the morass, one book from my childhood stood out for me over and above all others, so clearly that even decades later as I was writing 
Why am I writing about this today? 
Despite its awful history, the Malleus Maleficarum and subsequent documents such as James I’s Daemonologie give us a unique insight into the world during that period and like it or not, in books like these we can see little snippets of magical practises used even today.
And Blackthorn isn’t the only one. Scarlet Pimpernel works with me often in the summer months. I remember being enchanted when I saw these tiny delicate orangey flowers with a deep crimson centre. So petite it’s easy to miss them, it foretells of good times and bad. Once known as “Old Man’s Weather vane” its little flowers close in foul weather, Ive come to realise that this little plant spirit most often reveals itself to me when there is a promise of good things to come. Turning up unexpectedly in unlikely locations on a memorable day, I always take note of what Pimpernel has to say.
It’s not totally necessary to understand its medicinal purpose or the folklore associated with it the plant, but I do find that it helps to understand the nature of what this “Shining One” is trying to say or it will suddenly make that initial connection easy. Currently my latest stalker plant is Black Nightshade. I came across a patch whilst playing a scavenger hunt in central London some weeks back and its been stalking me ever since, appearing in places I’ve walked and worked for years and I know I have never noticed this plant before. Its season is nearly over, but still I am finding it in flower in all sorts of places so I always stop and acknowledge it. Gently touch a flower or leaf and ponder why it is that I am only now noticing its presence. I can’t wait to find out what this little creature has to teach me about the Otherworld and myself.