#fairy magic
Based on some actual experiences
- When a stranger comes to your apartment door on May day morning asking to borrow some butter or milk, don’t lend any…all your luck will go with it. Never give any stranger a light for their cigarette on May day either - giving out fire is giving away your luck as well.
- When you are walking at night and you hear music, no matter how beautiful, or voices inviting you to join them don’t acknowledge that you can hear them and turn back towards home.
- When you are out walking at night and you hear the sound of horses or hounds or riders find shelter indoors or in your car quickly. The Wild Hunt (we call them Ghost Riders in America) is mercurial and if it’s the Slua Sí passing by they will do you harm if they can.
- Never run from the Fair Folk, if you see Fairy hounds or anything uncanny that frightens you. Running is what prey does and you do not want to be prey. Don’t acknowledge seeing them, if possible, but leave as quickly as you can.
- If you are being pixy-led, if you have lost your way in familiar territory, turn your socks or coat outside in or laugh and joke about how much fun you are having. this will free you from the enchantment.
- Never speak ill of the Good Neighbours aloud, nor express disbelief in them. They take insults badly and if they happen to be nearby and hear you they may respond. You will not enjoy their reaction.
Whimsical forest nymph✨
On the 11th of August it was my bday❤️ I celebrated it with my closest friends and even got the most amazing present(s) from one of my best friends
Model: me
Photo: Sani visual arts
The wizard asked her to help him build a table.
For all her seventeen years she had lived between nine crumbling columns at the pinnacle of a low hill. Spreading around her like a living moat was a ring of apple trees.
She crouches now over the earth beside the column she calls “Between All Things,” mixing a potion for the Queen of Faerie’s daughter, who is plagued by nightmares. There is no sun here; it is always morning or evening and only the color of the sky suggests which. Now the wide sky is purple tinged, and she knows that soon it will be dusk-time and her herbs will have to wait.
Through the false gate between the “Never-going” column and the one named “Forever-falling,” the wizard appears. He wears the leather armor of men, an iron sword hanging at his hip. “Morgen,” he says, and the apple trees whisper her name back to him.
Without glancing the wizard’s way, she tips over the clay pot mixed with crushed lavender and valerian and skullcap. Like tea leaves, they whirl against the cracked stone floor as though swept by eddies of water, then fall into a pattern. She stares for a moment and then as she stands said, “Yes,” and sweeps her bare feet through the divination. “Whatever you have come for, the answer is yes.”
They face each other across the grove of stone; one lithe and young, her fingers stained blue and her braids as tangled as lake weeds, the other like a piece of driftwood too heavy to be swayed by the current.
“Your loyalty does you honor, child,” the wizard says, holding out a hand.
Thinking of her divination, she goes to him. Better for the wizard to think she makes her decision for love.
***
The first words from the boy-king’s mouth when she enters his hall spit with anger. “I will not, Cai, I will not stay here.” His hand slams onto the long table, rattling cups down the line.
“Sir,” a warrior pushes back his seat, a great bulk of a man with thick braids the color of tallow. “Here is the best place to keep the wolves from our door.” The gathered warriors bang their thick clay cups in agreement, drowning out the boy’s protests. By their bracelets and sword hilts and rings, Morgen knows them for lords.
The king says, voice strained with calm, “The fields here are over-eaten, and if we continue to force ourselves upon this valley, they will welcome the Saxons, Bedwyr.”
The wizard strides over the straw-strewn floor and bows. “Arthur.”
“Myrddin! Tell them we cannot stay here. They will not listen to me, because my words are meaningless to such warmongers and idiots.” The boy throws up his arms.
From the doorway, caught between the warmth of the hall and the early Spring chill at her back, Morgen hides a smile behind her fingers. She has heard stories in the wind and chatter from the pixies about this new king. That on the battlefield he is unrecognizable in his wrath, but his mercy gathers men and loyalty at an uncommon rate. Mostly, though, she has heard that the land loves him, too.
“We have wintered here,” the wizard says, “and should move on so that the fields may be replanted.”
Clamor rises from the gathered lords, and as they argue, Morgen watches the king. He is younger than she expected, and he observes the cacophony with his mouth turned down in a furious pout. A twisted iron and copper ring sits heavily about his neck. Tilting his head, he stares up at the low roof beams, at a pair of morning doves huddled in the shadows beside the smoke hole. Just as Morgen thinks, perhaps, the stories have exaggerated his command, he stomps up onto his chair and from there onto the table itself, planting his boots so hard chunks of dirt fall off the heels and skitter across the wood.
Silence cuts through the hall. The boy-king says quietly, so they have to listen, “I am leaving, and taking my court with me. I will not ruin this valley. We will find a better place to camp until the summer warring.”
Without waiting for an answer, he hops off the table, landing with his knees bent and balanced. Flicking his hand at the wizard, he strides toward Morgen. She steps aside, but the wizard says, “Arthur.”
The king stops, and notices her. “Who is this?”
“Morgen, Arthur. She’s come to help with the table.”
“The faerie?” Arthur walks the final space between them and peers at her, hair to toes. “You don’t have shoes.”
“You don’t have a beard,” she says.
His scowl opens up and he laughs. “Welcome to my court, Morgen the Faerie.”
***
Traveling with Arthur is slower than traveling with the wind, but soon they arrive at the fort where the table will be forged.
A great wooden hall rises from behind an ancient ring of earth, and Morgen can smell the sea. It was a fort belonging to a lost tribe, Myrddin tells her, used by the Romans to corral cattle, and re-built by Arthur’s father’s father. From the cliffs they can see in all directions, but the ground is fertile and the place will do well for their magics. Earth and sea and sky, coming together.
She closes her eyes and digs her toes into the grass. It is as the wizard says. Here she can built a hearth for the deepest magic.
***
They begin with a slab of stone cut from the cliff side and worn smooth by a thousand crashing salt waves. All the lords and Arthur himself hold the ropes that drag it over rolling logs up and up and up from the beach. “This will be a symbol of our rule, of the wholeness and greatness of our island,” he declares over a feast, with torches licking the shadows away and fat popping in a dozen bonfires.
***
Morgen is given a gown of smooth red wool and a girdle of linked mother-of-pearl, but even as she walks the halls of the king, she refuses shoes. In the great hall, where the round slab is raised up by squat oaken pillars, she crawls over and beneath it, etching tiny words around and around and around again, while the wizard cuts the thick spiral where the iron will be laid.
She kneels beneath the slab in the morning when the young sun spills in through the doors at just an angle to light the underside so she can work. A shadow flashes over her runes and she glances at the boots pacing slowly around the table: scuffed leather and chunks of mud trailing in their wake.
A whisper of skin on stone tells her Arthur runs his fingers along the edge of the table as he walks around it. She holds herself still, uncertain if he came here to be alone, until the king releases a sigh full of sorrow.
“Why does my table make you sad?” she says.
“Morgen?” Arthur crouches, resting his forearms on his knees with his head tilted so he can peer under. “What are you doing down there?”
“Working.”
Before she can crawl out, the king crawls in. He fits perfectly beneath it when sitting with his legs crossed, and when he lifts his face his nose is a breath away from the smooth stone. “It smells like old things.”
“It is old.”
“Not like us.”
“We feel old,” she says, imagining her finger tracing the arc of his nose the way he’s traced her table. “Is that what makes you sad? All the weight of kinghood?”
He meets her eyes, and in this shadowed privacy, whispers, “I am sad I must resort to this.”
She knows he means her table.
“I want to inspire and unite on my own merits.”
“Why am I creating it, then?”
Another long sigh blows his breath against her cheek. “Because when the Romans retreated they left a void here, and everyone has raced to take it apart and destroy any good they had done. We had roads and trading and communication, and now the roads crumble, we have pirates instead of merchants and without their force, no one listens. This island needs an emperor again.”
“You have done so much in just a little time. Why are you impatient?”
“I had stories on my side, wild tales of a boy and his faerie sword, I had cavalry when no one else did. But stories are good for conquering, not for finding peace, and at every battle my enemies learn from me. I need something to hold my rule together, here, at home. To bind the others to me.”
“There are better ways. Ways you know well.”
“How can I risk them, with what is at stake?”
“How can you not, with what is at stake?”
He remains quiet, and she moves closer. The king kisses her.
***
In the forge, where sparks and ruby coals tumbled over the ground, she picks her careful way, hair braided back, sleeves and skirts tied up, to hammer magic into the metal. The smoke reeks of stringent herbs and none but she can breathe.
It is a marvelous, terrifying production when the metal is ready. They build the largest forge fire ever seen, on logs of yew and mistletoe bundles, to heat the spiral in one piece and it is carried hot and glowing by nine men to the table and set in at once for the magic to quicken properly. Yelling and curses crack through cool dawn as they scramble from forge to the hole knocked into the wall so the door is large enough.
The spiral scrapes harshly over the stone, and Morgen and the wizard together shove it into place with oak wands. It locks down, sending up a ring that reverberates in the ears of all.
Morgen raises her eyes, wiping sweaty hair from her face, and finds the boy-king watching her. He smiles, sorrow melting away.
***
The wizard leads her into the empty hall in the hours before dawn, when everyone sleeps. She is weary, but the spiral table invigorates her, calling to her skin so that she immediately presses her palms down. Where stone should be cool, this is as warm as a man.
“It is beautifully done,” the wizard says, standing behind her. “As I would expect from the Faerie Queen’s ironsmith.”
Bending at the waist, she leans her entire body against it, ear to the iron, and closes her eyes. The song it sings is of roots and rivers and currents of wind, living ropes tying the men who touch it together. It is earth and fire, air and water, and she has drawn them together.
The iron screams, and she jerks away.
The wizard’s dagger grinds into stone, sparks blinking and gone.
She stands back, staring at him, only able to wonder at his purpose.
“You’d made that so easy.” He slides the edge of the blade against his finger, drawing blood.
“Why?” She is so unbelieving, she finds it impossible to be afraid.
The wizard points the dagger at her. “It is the final magic. Your sacrifice, to the table.”
“But it is complete. It needs no such thing.”
“I have seen him watching you. You with your bare feet and ocean eyes, you have become the spirit of the island to him, Morgen. He would sacrifice himself to you, Apple-keeper, healer, wind-whisperer.”
She draws back her shoulders, but the wizard gives her no chance to speak. He lunges, and Morgen falls back with a yell, kicking out her feet. They crash down, and she swings her arm at his face. The iron ring around her wrist hits his cheek, and in his moment of surprise, she claws at his hand, takes the dagger and runs.
***
The king sleeps in a heavy tent, out among his warriors. Morgen tears back the flap and darts inside. A banked fire casts no light, but the moon is bright enough to glow through the cloth. Arthur sleeps as he walks; sprawling and loud.
Her breath bursts in an uneven rhythm as she flings about in her mind for something to tell him. Some truth that he will understand, before the wizard comes.
That she is bound to him, not by magic, but by love.
That he is bound to the earth, not by magic, but by spilled blood.
That the wizard is bound only to himself, and the trees themselves will one day devour him.
She kneels at his head, leans to kiss him, and pauses, lips hovering over his.
“The witch is trying to murder the king!”
The wizards yell is just outside, and as the tent is again torn open, Arthur opens his eyes to see her crouched over him with dagger in hand.
“No,” she whispers.
His eyes look past her to the wizard’s towering figure, blocking the firelight outside.
Love at his bedside, and power at the door.
The boy-king grips her wrist, tightening until she cries out and released the dagger. “You will never trust love,” she says, wrenching free of him. She means it mournfully, but the words twist and churn into a curse before they reach his ears.
Standing back, she claps her hands together, and the sound is echoed by thunder and the crashing of waves. Wind gusts in to the tent, yanking it up from the ground in great flapping chaos. The king ducks and covers his head as stakes are flung in the air. The wizard cries out and all the waking warriors cower.
When the maelstrom lays itself down again, the girl, too, has gone.
_____________
originally posted January 11th, 2010
image by wokka, flickr Creative Commons
First sip: ambrosia.
Second sip: hints of black cherry and he leaned close to whisper into my ear, “How does it taste?”
“Like -” I didn’t want to say cherries or chocolate or any of those things that would make me sound like a wannabe connoisseur. “Like -”
Third sip: “Like a waterfall, or like whirling in circles til your head spins and you can’t find your feet.”
He stroked my cheek with one long, pale finger. “And?”
Fourth sip: “And cherries.” I turned my face and found his lips waiting. His mouth was cool velvet. I sat back, blinking down at my hands. They curled around the stem of the glass and I could see my rings through the amber wine, distorted into arrows of silver. “You make this?”
“My family does.”
I saw flecks in his irises the same color as the wine and I wondered if he drew it from his veins. But I laughed at the notion, drowning the giggle in a quick drink.
Fifth sip: flying. My heart fluttered, buoyant in a sea of honey-wine. My thighs could not feel the soft leather of the sofa beneath me, and I pressed my knees together.
I’d met him at a party in Heatherfield. His smile erased the memory of the shape of his jaw or the cut of his hair. The lights sparkled and the music was just loud enough that I heard what I chose to. I thought I was inviting him to dinner and following him home because Iwantedhim.
He raised his own glass and held his eyes on me while he drank. Half the cup in one swallow.
Sixth sip: I wanted to dance. I stood, swaying as vertigo swept up from my stomach. He caught me, pulled me to his chest. He smelled like the wine. Sweet, clean, promising.
Hands together, we turned in a miniature waltz, confined by the ocher walls and polished furniture of his slick apartment. I shut my eyes and wind brushed my face, tugged at my curls. He put a hand flat on my hip and stepped closer. He pressed the glass to my lips.
Seventh sip: We spun and I heard music; whistle and pipe and tinny drums. The hum of bumblebees surrounded us, and feathers tickled my bare arms. I opened my eyes and saw only his face, white and shadowed like a half-moon, with that Cheshire smile and honey-wine flecks in his eyes. Behind him a blur of dark forest, of black, narrow trunks and summer-time maple leaves. All around us the flitting giggles of sparrows and toads and fireflies.
My shoes sank into wet earth but in his arms I flew, around and around and my head fell back and my hair trailed, catching in twigs and tiny goblin fingers. They jerked and tugged and I cried out, but he swallowed my fear with a kiss, the way I’d hidden my joy in the wine. Hot lilac and wisps of rose-scent slunk up my nose and clung to my throat like a sticky aftertaste.
Around and around, his fingers cold and hot, his breath sweet. I released him and flung out my hands and they were caught in the whirl of the dancing. Fire licked at my fingers and the music was louder than the ocean in my ear. He held me and spun me. I heard his laugh lace through the melody and my heart was the metronome – they kept time with me. Their drums, their pipes, their tiny footsteps and
My hand slammed into cold glass. I stumbled. The tinkle of glass accompanied me down and my knees hit hard wood.
Silence.
I blinked. Beneath my hands was the worn floor of the apartment. Shards of glass glittered between my fingers as dim street light melted in through open windows. I pushed to sit back on my heels. Paint peeled off the walls and a ceiling fan dangled from electrical wires. The sofa was slashed and the decrepit coffee table was the only other piece of furniture in the room. I was alone.
I lifted the broken stem of my wineglass. It was solid and refracted red and blue and pale green light back at me. I bent and skimmed a finger through the gritty liquid staining the hardwood floor. Lifting it to my nose, I smelled mud and dank leaves.
_____________
originally posted June 25, 2008
- Fairies often try to extinguish Midsummer bonfires via whirlwind, but can be stopped if fire is thrown at them.
- Leaping through the Midsummer bonfire protects one from fairies.
- Driving cattle through the embers of the bonfire with protect them from them from the attention of evil spirits.
- In order to escape the chase of fairies, cross a stream of running water.
- Carry rue in your pocket to ward off evil fairies.
- If you are being pixie-led or troubled by fairies, turn your clothes inside out to confuse them and then make a run for it.
- If your companion is being dragged into a fairy circle, throw in one of your gloves and they will disperse giving your companion time to escape.
- Scatter flax on you floor to keep fairies out of your bedroom.
- When confronted by fairies show them any form of iron and they should vanish as they are terrified of iron. Lore says to keep a knife or nail in your pocket or under your pillow at night.
- Hanging a Hag Stone above your door frame will keep evil fairies at bay.
- Rowan wood tied into a cross with red thread will protect the hearth when hung up somewhere high.
- A besom placed beside the fireplace will stop fairies from coming down chimneys.
- Burying a Witch Bottle in front of your doorstep will also provide protection from pesky fairies.
- Oatmeal sprinkled on clothes or carried in pockets will keep bad fairies at bay.
- St. John’s wart prevents fairies from carrying you off while you sleep.
- Mulberry trees in the gardens will keep away evil fairies. Dancing counterclockwise around a Mulberry tree at Midsummer will also aid in this
