Muses, Daemons, the Genii…and Robin Hood

I am definitely happiest when I’m writing about writing. Writing stories is something I have been doing since I was about 10 or 11. When I discovered how much I liked writing, that was it for me, a lifelong passion. My sister is the illustrator, I the writer. We both were destined to have creativity run in our veins.

I don’t talk about it too much, rather I just get on with it.

For a few years now I’ve been writing a novel – The story idea came to me one day in 2010, sent by the Muse, Daemon, or the Genius- however you want to name it – jumped into my head fully planned out. I was in awe for a few hours after the epiphany. I love it when the Muse sends stuff like that. It’s profound and inexplicable. Now I know how Joan Lindsay felt when the Muse sent her Picnic at Hanging Rock that night.

Robin Hood. We have all heard of him. He is the quintessential English Green Man, hero of the greenwood, saver of the oppressed. He’s in my novel.

But he’s the tritagonist. Of sorts.

An average village girl is the protagonist. A girl, far away in Lincolnshire, is inspired by him to fight for her village, her girlfriends tagging along behind her in masks, hoods, with swords, bows and arrows… Her name is Eloise.

Robin Hood is now a big part of my life. I was inspired by the pagan Robin of Sherwood television show from the 1980s. Since then I’ve read about him, bought books on him, watched many Robin Hood films, old and new for research, ideas, and inspiration. Although I enjoy watching it sometimes, Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves is NOT on my list of great films. Instead, my favourite RH film is one that was released in 1991 – the same year as Prince of Thieves – but stars Patrick Bergin and Uma Thurman. Better, less American, less tacky, with a pagan festival thrown in for good measure, and Uma Thurman’s Marian taking her destiny into her own hands, dressing as a boy and leaving her fiancé (Bloody Normans!) to go and live with the handsome Robin in Sherwood. Her strong character inspired my Eloise and her Maidens.

I found several Robin Hood films on youtube and have been watching those. The Men of Sherwood Forest had a great 50s style.

I bought a book about Robin Hood by Stephen Knight when I was in London in October 2010, a few weeks after the Muse threw the story at me. And in 2013, I purchased The Robin Hood Companion – an encyclopaedia written by a friend of mine, Ronan Coghlan. It has the Gest in it, an early Robin Hood tale along with every other thing Robin Hood is connected to, in story, television and English landscape. 

Art by Newell C. Wyeth

Robin, as I said is the archetypal hero. His presence in the greenwood, where outlaws must run to, emboldens those of today a Luddite rebellion against those attempting to destroy the layman and the land. Damh the Bard sings of him, indicating that everyone is a son and daughter of Robin Hood because we stand up for not only the layman, but the English landscape, which presently appears to be diminishing under an autocratic government (Bloody Tories!). In Robin of Sherwood, he protects the forest. He is the first ecologist. His selflessness shows us how we can be, outlaws or not. Whatever happens from here on, Robin Hood has become a larger part of my life because of this.

And of my other stories? I’ve been writing many short ones of late. And busy with articles too. I kind of need to start small. If only my stories didn’t have a life of their own – in the sense that they are like people in my head – well, the characters are there - all the ideas, all the stories, are crowding together in there, asking me which one will go first. I tell them the newest one – which is Eloise. The older one I planned to work on first takes a depressed step backwards – unfortunately I am not sure if I can ever go back to it – I’ve lost the passion for it – Muse sending me Eloise destroyed that. All the smaller projects take it easier; they take a seat up the back on some bean bags and discuss how they are finished for the moment, but know they might be asked back for some tweaking. They are short stories that are finished or need to be edited. A couple of them are in the queue and know they will be played with occasionally.

'You have not even listed us! There are ideas back there on distant bean bags that we think you've forgotten about'
I reply that there is not even a story yet - the idea and the idea alone sit on that bean bag, and I have not thought of anything.

'What are these other things?' They poke at articles and short stories for publication - I tell them that they are small projects I might need to work on soon but will not take as much time.

They are right. I do need to list them and work out which ones to work on first, or develop in my head. Some handwritten ones have been left behind. I do not want to depress them and tell them they are abandoned for good, because I don't want them to be discarded. They simply might change - research is needed for one particular one that might need to be re-written. But that will come later. The whole gang are curious to see what I do......
Eloise and friends are taking priority, Carmine and Laurel are on hold, if not indefinitely. Angelique and her gargoyle are finished, (well, for now, it will be edited and added to), Iris and Robert finally made it to the faery realm. Trixie, her brothers and the wolves are finished, as is Damaris, as well as Agnes and Fawn. Julius and Philemon still dwell in the city, waiting to be animated, Zara and Oliver and friends are to be kind of re-written, and most of these want to join Oriana's story.

It’s just that they have become such a family of stories and ideas that I cannot ignore them now. As I become a more confident writer, and develop stories better and better as I get older, I want to do them all. They all like each other and some plan to intertwine. Many of the characters I can think of - from short stories I have written or started, are asking to be included in a trilogy idea I have had (Oriana). 'Wow!' I say 'That is quite a project, but I love it (truth be known, I love the idea of Zara and Iris running about together). There are a lot of you. I will have to think of your role in the story. Is it alright that I write shorter stories on your origins first so I know where I am coming from?'
'Sure!' is their reply 'And don't worry, you'll work out our roles, you always do.'
I feel a little pessimistic about that, but know in time it will work....

At age 11, I would not have imagined this… Although it is my imagination that is extraordinary at working things out…

Black Dog in a Blackberry Bush

Here is another story from the Fortean Times - I got this from the It happened to me volume 4 which I bought at the November 2011 Unconvention in London. Another tale of an encounter with Black Shuck, the black dog or spectral hound. This is one of those stories that helps me connect the dots when I look at my theories of strange phenomena. Experiences with spectres like these in this way - transmogrifying from mist or fog - fits well with some of the theories out there that I believe. Reading the amount I have read into the supernatural and unexplained has given me a conclusion - some things we are not meant to know. I'm alright with that...

Here's one way of meeting the Black Dog (Black Shuck, Gytrash, Barguest)

Old Shuck

 

Black dog in a Blackberry Bush

In the early 1990s I used to live in a semi-detached house in Nuthall Road, Nottingham. It had a long garden with a disused railway line at the end blocked off with wooden fencing and a full 6.5 ft (2m) hedge to the right. The left hand side used to have a wire fence, but this had long since been removed, and growing between the old posts were blackberry bushes, with vast gaps in between through which you could nip into next door’s garden. The neighbour was an old lady we got on with well so it never seemed worth putting up a new fence – besides she had three marvellous apple trees ripe for the picking!

Anyway, one night a friend and I heard a noise outside in the garden. It sounded like somebody creeping about outside so we went to investigate: nothing. Not a soul about. It was a frosty night with not a cloud in the sky and plenty of moonlight. As we stood halfway up the lawn, we heard a rustling sound in one of the blackberry bushes, which got louder as we approached. We thought it was a bird rummaging about inside.

The bush was only a few feet high and we could see more or less all round it, but the sound continued to increase. We walked closer to investigate and I pushed the branches apart and peered in to see a large thrush looking at me. After staring at me for a few seconds it quickly darted under cover and the bush started to rustle violently. I jerked away and started walking backwards.
When I had away some eight feet (2.4m), the rustling stopped abruptly and a black funnel of fog or mist shot out and arched into the air. As it descended in front of us, it began to take the shape of a huge black dog – well, I say a dog, but it reminded me of the keepers or gargoyles in the film Ghostbusters. It was roughly four and a half feet (1.4m) tall and about 3 feet (90cm) across, black like a panther, huge fangs dripping with saliva and to be honest the most terrifying thing I had the misfortune to meet.

It landed with a resounding thud on the turf and started to make a dry, throaty rasping sound, building up to a deep warning growl. Then it opened its eyes – huge, red glowing, piercing eyes. It’s impossible to explain the feeling of terror and hopelessness this produced. We both stood transfixed, unable to move or scream or even run. It was as though it wanted us to run, was playing with us.

There was a definite intelligence behind those eyes and it was studying everything about us.
It felt as if we spend an eternity transfixed by its gaze. It stepped slowly forwards and I heard my friend’s footfalls as he frantically ran to the house, leaving me with this thing bearing down on me. That was it: the autopilot came on and I turned and fled, with tears rolling down my cheeks in absolute terror. I have never run that fast in my life and never will again; it was pure adrenalin fuelled panic.

I slammed into the back door that, thankfully, my friend had not locked behind him. It burst open and I fell through, expecting to be torn to shreds at any moment. I managed to slam the door shut, fumbled for the bolts and locked it, then fell crying against it in the vain hope my body weight would somehow stop the huge beast from ploughing straight through…but nothing happened.
My friend had collapsed in front of the freezer his face snow-white and his hair standing on end. He was shaking and mumbling, but I was too terrified to comprehend his ramblings, but after a few minutes we moved into the adjoining room and looked out the window overlooking the garden. There was nothing there.

I saw my reflection in the glass; I was too ghostly white and my hair was standing up. You read of such things, but unless you have actually seen it you wouldn’t believe how strange it looks. I stopped shaking after about 15 minutes, by which time my friend had managed to compose himself. We tried to compare what we had seen… to make some sort of sense of it. We agreed on what had occurred but could find no rational explanation. He left in a taxi a short while later and refused to talk about the subject whenever it was mentioned subsequently. He just said he never wanted to think about it again.

I myself never went into the back garden of that house again. I moved about 18 months later, without setting foot outside the back door, although other members of my family did without incident. I could never tell anybody what had happened. It was too crazy: large black dogs with glowing red eyes do not leap out of small blackberry bushes in back gardens!

I spent years terrified of the dark because of this encounter, wondering why it happened and what the hell was the point of its appearance. I had been struggling with a fear of death and worrying about the point of existence as a whole. I had become a complete nihilist set on a path of self-destruction; live fast and die young was a motto that I actively embraced and sought to live out.
The encounter with the black dog seems to me to have been an externalisation of my internal terror. I couldn’t cope with it and it was destroying me. I needed to be given a jolt somehow. The black dog did this….and did indeed ‘hound’ me out of Nottingham (to East Anglia, ironically, where I found black dog stories everywhere!)

I had been living out a myth of self-destruction – and it had taken a face-to-face encounter with a myth to bring me to my senses.

JD, East Anglia, 2004



Take from this tale what you will. Believe or not, you should not care what people think about your beliefs anyway. This story might not be real, this 'JD' may have made it up. But I like it. I like to believe, besides, I don't think it matters, it's a good read...

 

The Fairy Boy of Leith, and Bovet's 'Pandæmondium'

One of the ironies of this particular blogpost, is that a few days ago, I decided the next post I would put up here would be this very one - The Fairy Boy of Leith - and as I am currently on holiday in the Blue Mountains (hence why I have not posted up anything since Tuesday) I thought I'd find time tonight to repost this piece I did in 2011. And TODAY, of all days in my life, I actually found Richard Bovet's Pandaæonium in a book shop, not even thinking it was even available in print at all. I am amazed! My friend Ronan Coghlan told me that Oakmagic Publications reported on their website that they were going to print this tome that was originally published in 1684, so I emailed them about it, and they got back to me saying that they were not going to re-publish it after all. I thought I would never see the book, and even thought the other day that I should make it a life-time goal to get it out into the world, until I realised it already was. I'm happy enough with that.

 

The Fairy Boy of Leith

• Aug. 6th, 2011 at 9:04 PM

 

I’ve been reading up on faery sightings, encounters and stories for over a year now. I’ve had a story idea for many years involving adventuring mortals with faeries and faeryland. The story started in the mid 90’s while I was at high school, and I even wrote an excerpt for a Year 12 English short story assignment. Since then the story has evolved and grown first, and for a few years it was to be a trilogy of books but then I was not sure what to write. Only a few months ago now, I decided to compile it into one book  in three parts instead. I have not written any of the story yet, instead I have taken a lot of notes and scenes are stuck in my head – which I need to get written down.

 

I think of the adventures conducted in the Alan Garner books – The Weirdstone of Brisingamen and Moon of Gomrath, and want to re-read them because of the style of journey and interaction within fairyland. But within my research of faery encounters and disappearances, I’ve come across one story more than once in my collection of folklore books – the story of the fairy boy of Leith.

 

I have personally spent a little time in Edinburgh, and lived near Leith (which I believe is famous for the location of ‘Trainspotting’) in Grantham with my friends Philip and Marianne back in April/May 2006. I also went to Calton Hill during the Edinburgh Fire Festival as I mentioned in this post here. I did not know about this tale then, but Calton Hill fascinated me then.

 

The story features a young boy – I think about 10, who lived in Leith and reported to Captain George Burton that he would go to Calton Hill every Thursday night and play a drum for the fairies. The account was recorded in Richard Bovet’s Pandæmonium or the Devil’s Cloister back in 1684 which was a book about devilry and folklore of Scotland. I found the account from Pandæmonium online.

 

THE FAIRY BOY OF LEITH.
 

THE worthy Captain George Burton communicated to Richard Bovet, gentleman, author of the interesting work entitled Pandæmonium, or the Devil's Cloister Opened, the following singular account of a lad called the Fairy Boy of Leith, who, it seems, acted as a drummer to the elves, who weekly held rendezvous in the Calton Hill, near Edinburgh.

p. 129

"About fifteen years since, having business that detained me for some time at Leith, which is near Edinburgh, in the kingdom of Scotland, I often met some of my acquaintance at a certain house there, where we used to drink a glass of wine for our refection; the woman which kept the house was of honest reputation among the neighbours, which made me give the more attention to what she told me one day about a fairy boy (as they called him), who lived about that town. She had given me so strange an account of him that I desired her I might see him the first opportunity, which she promised; and not long after, passing that way, she told me there was the fairy boy but a little before I came by; and, casting her eye into the street, said, Look you, sir, yonder he is at play with those other boys; and, designing him to me, I went, and, by smooth words, and a piece of money, got him to come into the house with me; where, in the presence of divers people, I demanded of him several astrological questions, which he answered with great subtlety; and, through all his discourse, carried it with a cunning much above his years, which seemed not to exceed ten or eleven.

 

"He seemed to make a motion like drumming upon the table with his fingers, upon which I asked him whether he could beat a drum? To which he replied, Yes, sir, as well as any man in Scotland; for every Thursday night I beat all points to a sort of people that used to meet under yonder hill (pointing to the great hill between Edenborough and Leith.) How, boy? quoth I, what company have you there?

p. 130

[paragraph continues] There are, sir, said he, a great company both of men and women, and they are entertained with many sorts of musick, besides my drum; they have, besides, plenty of variety of meats and wine, and many times we are carried into France or Holland in a night, and return again, and whilst we are there we enjoy all the pleasures the country doth afford. I demanded of him how they got under that hill? To which he replied that there was a great pair of gates that opened to them, though they were invisible to others; and that within there were brave large rooms, as well accommodated as most in Scotland. I then asked him how I should know what he said to be true? Upon which he told me he would read my fortune, saying I should have two wives, and that he saw the forms of them sitting on my shoulders; that both would be very handsome women. As he was thus speaking, a woman of the neighbourhood, coming into the room, demanded of him what her fortune should be? He told her that she had two bastards before she was married, which put her in such a rage that she desired not to hear the rest. "The woman of the house told me that all the people in Scotland could not keep him from the rendezvous on Thursday night; upon which, by promising him some more money, I got a promise of him to meet me at the same place, in the afternoon, the Thursday following, and so dismist him at that time. The boy came again, at the place and time appointed, and I had prevailed with some friends to continue with me, if possible, to prevent his moving that night.

p. 131

[paragraph continues] He was placed between us, and answered many questions, until, about eleven of the clock, he was got away unperceived by the company; but I, suddenly missing him, hasted to the door, and took hold of him, and so returned him into the same room; we all watched him, and, of a sudden, he was again got out of doors; I followed him close, and he made a noise in the street as if he had been set upon; but from that time I could never see him.

 

                                                                                                                    ~ GEORGE BURTON.

 

I find these kind of stories extremely fascinating and wonder how much truth is behind it. The more I read from past accounts of the occult and demonic events, the more I believe that the account recorded was either fabricated or distorted completely because of the author’s superstition.

 

How much of this fairy boy tale is true? Calton Hill is a place I have been to twice – once on a cold, dark, damp May Day Eve during a fierce and fiery festival, and then on a sunny noon day, perfect for a picnic and workers spending time out of the office to eat there. I picture how Calton Hill would have looked in the 1660s, when the fairy boy would have been there – there was no folly of a Greek Temple, and probably no other monuments, just a plain hill surrounded by countryside or 17th century cottages and shacks. Today, it’s just a hill covered in monuments in the middle of the city, with excellent views of Edinburgh and Arthur’s Seat.

 

And those invisible fairy gates! How fascinating it would be to see those. I am so curious as to know how it might have looked – Calton Hill has a ‘fairy hill’ look to it, nice and rounded – which is why I am not surprised it was used for fairy banquets. However, these do inspire the writer in me - here are some other Fairy Boy stories....

 

The Fairy Boy of Borgue

 

In the village of Borgue there lived a young boy who the locals suspected had a relationship with the faeries. He would disappear for days at a time and they all believed that he was spending time with them. In Katherine Briggs 'The Fairies in Tradition and Literature' she says the Kirk Session in Borgue records the questioning of the Boy of Borgue, who claimed intercourse with the fairies. Other accounts say the boy never spoke of the matter to either confirm or deny it. His grandfather sought help from a Catholic priest who gave him a wooden cross to place around the boy's neck. Once the cross was in place the boy did not wander off to visit the faerie folk again, however, according to the story his grandfather was punished by being shunned by his Kirk. Apparently they did not like faeries much but as evil as they can be they would have accepted the situation, but to have dealings with a papist, that they would not forgive.

 

The Fairy Boy of Culzean

 

Hundreds of years ago the Laird of Co' who owned Culzean castle in Ayrshire was visited by a small boy with a tiny wooden cup. He came to beg for some ale saying that it was for his sick mother, the Laird then asked his butler to fill the boys cup. To the butlers astonishment the half the barrel failed to fill the boys cup and he was loathed to open another barrel but the laird ordered him to fill the cup no matter how much ale was spent so the butler opened another barrel and just as the first drop landed the cup was full, the boy thanked the laird and went on his way. Some years later during wars in Flanders the laird was caught and taken prisoner and sentenced to death. The night before he was to be executed the door of his dungeon swung open and the boy appeared saying, "Laird o' Co', rise an go". Once outside the little boy (who was a fairy) took the laird apon his shoulders and whisked him back to his castle in a flash, a he set the laird down on the ground he said" Ae guid turn deserves another. Tak ye that for being sae kind to my auld mither".

 



Robert Kirk’s fascination for the 'subterranean folk 'was indeed decadent – how inescapable! It would be interesting to be with George Burton that night to really witness what really happened, but how would I view it as a modern girl with no superstitious inclinations, and a knowledge of human behaviour? Superstition of the past certainly distorts what we learn today of faery encounters and other forteana of the past. Perhaps I should not be so harsh on our forefathers.




The Fairy Boy of Leith - From 'Folklore, Myths and
Legends of Britain' - Reader's Digest, 1973

Calton Hill today, as seen from a kite