Celtic and Faerie Lore
Two doll-sized faerie men took shelter from the freezing wind beneath a bush. As the wind whipped at the bush’s branches above them, one faerie man murmured to his friend, “Particular weather we are having.”
His companion nodded. “It would be no surprise to me if we had a blizzard in July or August.”
Both men shook their heads before vanishing to a warmer place.
I feel the fabric of magic in autumn. Under the autumn twilight of the sun, it is easier for me to slip unaware into the faerie lands.
I was standing on top of a steep slope, looking down at my small stone circle that rests upon the embankment above a swiftly flowing stream. I noticed my small circle of stones shining golden beneath the twilight of the autumn sun. As I watched, each stone’s skin was shimmering, then breathing and stretching into a slow, lumbering, clockwise dance.
Suddenly, a blue jay screamed. A crow chuckled. I blinked, and the stones grew still. But the magic remained with me like strands of a broken spiderweb brushing across my skin.
Albert and Grace are Brees, a type of fair folk who stand about 4 to 6 inches in height. Albert has bright blue eyes with curly, light brown hair tucked beneath a green pointed hat, which is decorated with a wide blue hat band from which a yellow feather peaks out. He wears a bright yellow shirt and brown pants and has gone barefoot today in order to feel the moist, green grass beneath his feet.
Grace, Albert’s wife, has hazel eyes and long, shining blonde hair with a windswept look to it. Grace calls it her wild, back to nature look. She is wearing a long, green dress with yellow Celtic-looking intertwining vine-like trim on the neck of her dress and also on the sleeves and hem. Grace, like Albert, is barefoot today in order to feel the green earth beneath her feet.
Albert remarks, “There are some indoor faerie folk, but they are more shy.”
Grace adds, “Even the ones in your own house.”
Albert rubs his chin. “Outdoors, a faerie has more options about staying and meeting you or running away. The poor faerie may feel more confident speaking with you if they are not feeling trapped in a room. A first time ‘getting to know you’ type of introduction between a human and a faerie is always best held outdoors.”
Grace agrees, standing on her tippy toes and taking a couple of little dancing skips. “And it is good for the human to bring us a gift,” she adds with a beautiful smile.
“What type of gift?” I inquire.
“Whiskey,” Albert suggests in a firm voice, grinning broadly.
“No, you silly goose!” Grace declares, playfully slapping Albert’s arm. “Bring us a bowl of cream or a piece of buttered bread or even a handful of birdseed. We do not need these things ourselves, but we do like to share them with our animal friends. And be sure to tell us you have brought the gift in honor of us.” Graces pauses, tucking a lock of hair behind her pointed ear. “And be quiet and listen. We just may say thank you and start a conversation.”
“Or we may not say a single word to you the first time or even the second or third time,” Albert declares, before disappearing with a friendly wave goodbye.
“Oh, you,” Grace laughs at her husband’s antics. “Keep trying,” she adds. “And your persistence may begin a friendship with a faerie.” Grace blows me a kiss and, with a delicate curtsy, disappears.
Tom and his wife, Deirdre, a doll-sized brownie couple, stand beside the stream watching the other faerie folk play in its freezing waters. Shivering in the cold wind, I ask them, “Do you know what’s coming?”
Deirdre replies, “Do you ask this question because your new leaders do not believe in the suffering on Mother Earth?” My frustration causes me to choke up.
“Worse weather,” responds Tom. “More suffering for everyone. Not just for humans, but for all of us.” He pauses, “You know, we faerie folk pray for humanity to finally ‘get it’ – that you are not separate from Creation. When will humans realize that you need Mother Earth as much as she needs you? We are all connected to one another, and we need each other. Even we faerie folk are connected to you humans and you to us.
“You must understand, every part of Creation is important from the smallest creature to the largest mountain. It is all worth protecting, worth saving. Everything put here on Mother Earth by the Mother – Father Creator has the right to exist. Who is man to decide otherwise?
“You ask what is coming? We believe Hope is coming. We faerie folk believe, against all odds, that human hearts will suddenly wake up to Mother Earth’s suffering. Then you will know we are all part of one another. We are all brothers and sisters of Creation, basking in the love of God.”
Tom falls silent. Then with a shrug, he adds, “I am a bit overheated.” Gesturing to the freezing cold waters of the stream, he offers, “Want to go swimming with us? We can all use a cooling off.”
I shake my head no and thank them for the talk. Deirdre gives me a playful wave as I rush back to the warmth of my house, escaping the bite of the freezing wind.
While we watched birds eating at the bird feeder, Malcolm, a small faerie man, told me, “We must learn to walk upon our Mother Earth in the stillness of our spirit.”
He paused, reflectively watching the birds. “We must walk gently upon her as birds leaving their tracks in the snow. The tracks are there for a brief time until they melt away, leaving no sign of their passage. Learn to still your spirit so that even the birds trust to eat seed out of your hands. Then you will walk gently upon Mother Earth, doing her no harm and living in peace with Creation all around you. That is how our Mum and Da Creator meant for us to live.”
Then Malcolm became a bird and flew away.
“In the beginning, when Creation was young, humans, faeries, animals, trees and rocks, we all spoke the same language,” said the fair-haired faerie woman named Anna, her mist gray eyes gazing back into the past. “There were a lot less misunderstandings back then.”
She paused, gathering her thoughts. Looking directly at me, she continued, “It was when we drifted apart, when we became for the first time ‘us and them people,’ when we shattered from one folk into many different tribes – that is when the misunderstandings began. They were at first small misunderstandings, which suddenly grew into terrible wars. It has been the same ever since, except the wars have become more terrible, with more innocent lives lost than ever before.”
She paused, wiping tears from her eyes. “If only we could learn how to speak to one another again, perhaps to understand one another again. Then maybe we could become one people again – humans, faeries, animals, trees and stones. Then war would exist no more.”
She smiled, and with a wave, disappeared into the hedge.
Even before the sun rises from his rumpled early morning bed, the faerie folk have already begun their day. Small faerie women and men gather around and within the small stone circle below our house. Drinking from their steaming cups of morning brew, they socialize and speak of their plans for the day with their neighbors.
In the trees above, the birds face the dawn and greet the slowly rising sun with song. This magic of the morning timidly taps at the bedroom windows of the houses nearby. Inside their beds, humans grasp fitfully at the tattered remnants of their dreams, dreading the sun’s approach and the rude awakening squawk of their alarm clocks.
Our wooden deck adjoins the back of our home, rising high among the trees like the deck of a ship anchored upon an ocean of green leaves. The faerie folk like to sit atop the honey-colored deck rails and watch the birds flutter and swing on the bird feeder. I also try to sit upon the deck as still as my faerie kin, so as not to disturb the small birds with my presence. It is always the brave small birds, rather than their larger feathered cousins, who tolerate my presence the best.
In the near distance, I hear the rolling, rumbling sound of thunder’s drum, warning of an approaching storm. The birds have flown to the protection of the trees, while the faerie folk still seated on the deck rails lift their faces to the darkening gray sky, happily anticipating the storm’s arrival. “Our dear Mother Earth needs a drink,” shouts one of the faerie men to me, over the sound of the rushing incoming wind.
Should I be brave like my faerie kin and stay on the deck to ride out the storm, or flee inside? Suddenly inside I go, as the first blinding flash of lightning crackles over my head, and the rain falls in sheets upon the pages of my notebook.
Safely inside, I watch through the window as the small faerie folk stand on the deck rails, arms raised upwards, small hands held open. With faces lifted upward to the face of the storm, they sing their storm songs, welcoming the wind and rain, and thanking the storm for giving parched Mother Earth a drink of life sustaining water.
My wife nurtures a faerie garden in front of our home. Her loving care must make this garden a wonderful place to live for the faeries. On a clear, bright day, I sit beneath an archway formed by a cascading, stained-glass green canopy of maple leaves. A stony pathway wanders beneath this archway, leading to our cottage hidden behind a tall faerie thorn tree. This archway, with its cascading waterfall of green leaves, hides a faerie vortex, a faerie pathway that runs along the stony path to our home.
Most people have better sense than to sit in the middle of a faerie pathway, but I don’t. Sitting beneath the tree, I look over to my right at a two-foot tall cream-colored statue of St. Francis. Ignoring my presence, St. Francis keeps his gaze upon the heavens above. Across the pathway of stone, a much smaller aqua-toned version of him gazes serenely back at his big brother.
I place my feet ever so gently upon the green moss that grows here. The soft, fragile moss has inched its way up to the very edges of the pathway stones. Across the pathway grow small faerie mounds of green juniper. Within the mounds, I can see miniature round doors and windows. A tiny Bree fellow, perhaps 4 inches tall, seats himself comfortably upon the soft material arm of my folding chair. Crossing his left leg over his right and resting his chin upon his hand, he leans forward to greet me. Smoke wafts peacefully up from his pipe as we sit together in silence.
The sun plays a game of shadows and light upon the juniper mounds and the towers of gently swaying, tall and slender purple and pink flowers that rise up beside them. Through a magic window framed by branches and green leaves, the Bree and I can see the forest-covered mountain rising up before my wife’s and my small cottage. A tremendous sense of peace fills me as I sit before the tall mountain, and, just for a moment, I become Bree-sized, and our small cottage lies hidden among the juniper mounds.
I have been told by Ted, a Brownie, that there is a faerie garden at the same location where, in our world, there is only patchy grass. Ted assures me that our weekly mowing does not affect it, since it is two realms removed from our own.
“Wouldn’t it be a pleasant thing, though,” he suggests, “to let your patch of grass grow all wild and wooly, a sort of nature garden, if you will, for the insects and birds?” Ted sighs, “But I know such things may not be possible in your realm. Every lawn must be manicured and orderly. Oh well, perhaps when the last lawnmower sputters and dies, then there may be hope for a more untamed garden.”
With that, Ted tips his hat, and, with a broad smile, disappears into his own garden.
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