Faeries and Tails

Nuala was one of those young women who made it clear that the world was constructed for her pleasure. She was very beautiful and unused to misery of any form. Most people blamed her parents and gave her a wide berth. But there was one young man, Conn, the neighbours’ son, who fancied her rotten, and forgave her everything.

As children, Nuala and Conn would go out riding, but the older she got, the more she wanted to stay indoors, scrolling and taking selfies. No matter how hard Conn tried, he could not tempt her from her ivory tower. “A walk? In these shoes?” she would text, admiring her nails as she typed, and scowling at his lack of imagination.One day Conn’s parents threw a lavish party for him in the grounds of their house. Even though it was outdoors, Nuala was happy to go and chose her outfit very carefully. She bathed, and curled her hair, and dabbed Charlotte Tilbury expertly on her brow and cheekbones. She strapped sandals on her slender ankles and stepped over the lush grass to where the party was already in full swing. It wasn’t until she got there that she saw the banners announcing that Conn was leaving home - and a strange pain circled around her heart.

“You never told me you were leaving,” she said bluntly. “Who will I go riding with now?”

And without even waiting for an answer she turned on her heel and strode off home. But the iron gates seemed to have disappeared and all she could see was a narrow green door, which she hauled open and stormed through.

“Wait,” shouted Conn behind her, but she knew what she was doing - how dare he abandon her in the back of beyond? She’d show him.

In her rage she tripped up over a tree root, and landed face down in a bed of leaves.

“Nuala, please,” said Conn, catching her by the waist and spinning her round. And suddenly he was straddling her as she lay back on the leaves, and she had never looked more beautiful. And he had never looked more virile. Her heart beat faster and her lips bloomed open.

Finally his chance was here, but as he dipped his head to steal a kiss, Nuala’s scheming mind clicked back into gear, and she pushed him away.

“Get your hands off me,” she hissed, and scuttled backwards towards a circle of bushes, bright with red berries.

“Careful Nuala - you’re near the Fairy Ring,” said Conn, as he grabbed for her hand in genuine alarm.

“Fairy Ring?” she laughed, “don’t be pathetic,” as she stepped right inside it, and for good measure scooped a handful of the white violets that were so prettily dotted around. “Now why don’t you get back to your party. I’ll see you when you’ve grown up. Fairies. What an asshole.”

That night, after cleansing her skin, and brushing out her hair, Nuala blocked Conn’s number, and got into bed. But the minute she lay down on the mattress, sharp spikes twisted into her flesh, and she leaped up bleeding and crying. The white violets had vanished from their vase, and her mother and father realised, appalled, what she’d done: “You took violets from the Fairy Ring!?!”

No matter where Nuala lay down, the sharp spikes appeared beneath her, and her parents wrung their hands in anguish. They were too old and too afraid to help her. The only one she could count on was Conn. But when she reached for her phone, her hand burned as if it was a hot coal. And she knew, finally, she had done a terrible thing. What on earth was she going to do…?

Well, obviously, Conn is going to charm the fairies, outfox a wicked witch, steal the enchanted herbs and save ungrateful Nuala’s bacon, and in so doing, Nuala is going to nibble humble pie and live happily ever after as Conn’s beloved.

And I tell you this mashed-up fairytale1, not as a moral about privilege or screen time, but to illustrate, having just returned from a 10-day tour of Ireland, that fairies are no laughing matter.

In amongst a fantastic itinerary of legendary Thin Places, the tour group and I soaked up Irish culture and myth(e)ology; which is charming, and rich, and respectful of its vast and glorious history. I wanted to visit places I had only heard about: Galway, the Aran Isles, Knock and St Brigid’s Well. Having just had an Ancestry dot com update, I wanted to meet more of my ancestors, tickle the soft underbelly of the teddy bear that is Ireland, and get a wee hug from it too.

Thin Places tour at the Cat Stone

As the only Scot on the trip, our emotionally intelligent tour guide, Mindie, gently pointed out that the Irish have held on to more of their identity, and treasures, than the British. A healthy respect, augmented by belief in the fairies, has meant that many more ancient sites are held intact and revered in Ireland, than anywhere else in the UK. I’m still mulling that over, but I do know that my old Scottish Granny would often walk miles to honour an ancient Bible Stone, until one day, someone decided to use a JCB to put it in their garden. Now, that wouldn’t happen in Ireland. That type of behaviour would incur the wrath of the little people.

What struck me most on the trip, is that no one bothers with the precise facts of the matter. What they care about is the story. Was there really a race of mythical people called the Tuatha De Dannan, kings, queens, druids, healers, who lived 2000 years BC and were banished to the Underworld; this following a fabulous series of battles and an open-mic with the Milesian poet Amergin? Amergin calmed the seas and charmed the warriors, and then very cleverly divided up the kingdom to above ground and below ground. Down went the Tuatha De Danann, while the Milesians became the Gaels, the Irish, and lived happily ever after in the fresh air. They came from the Iberian peninsula (as does 7% of me, according to Ancestry dot com).

Eriu, a Tuatha De Danann Goddess at the Hill of Uisneach - the site of her burial

These people, like all of the ancients, loved a story. Bereft of digitally augmented reels of dancing puppies, they would gaze at the horizon and see an old woman, a cat, the stepping stones of giants, and they would construct a moral universe. Over in Mesopotamia, other stories were being told, of Gilgamesh, who inspired the book of Noah in the Hebrew Bible (yes, Noah was not the first to set sail in a flood). Call me an AI-phobic, heretic, luddite, but isn’t the bible one big fabulous story? God’s character arc evolving from grumpy and vengeful, to loving and forgiving. Back in Ireland, the plot was as fabulous as the characters: the goddess Eriu and her sisters were married to the three Danaan kings, who were themselves the grandsons of the Dagda, the Tuatha de Danaan god of life and death.

What am I saying? That the ancients wrote stories that we treasure as sacred texts to this day. Whether we believe them or not is missing the point. The point is that they were fabulous and moral. And written by humans.

Brigid by Erin D’Arcy

The other, marvellous thing about Ireland, was the presence of women in folklore and religion. St Dymphna, who elected not to marry her father, and of course, was beheaded for that; St Gobnait, patron saint of bees, and my favourite, the wonderful all encompassing Brigid. The daughter of a slave and a chief, a lover of peace and a fixer of problems, based (or not) on her ancestor, the goddess Brigid, she is venerated as a heroine and a saint, skilfully plaiting the cords of mythology and theology. And she has her own merch: a cross, a holy well, a flame that never goes out, lit in the altogether marvellous Solas Bhride, where all faiths and none are warmly welcomed to sit in pursuit of peace together. She now has her own national Irish holiday, 1st February - a woman with a national holiday! rare as hen’s teeth - and a growing movement among school children to celebrate it as a day of peace.

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Stories will always be how we make sense of the world.  Characters in stories include women and men, and God(s), and more.  The point of the story is more important than the supposed facts of the story.  Stories are the chaff, the grain is the point - and that includes religion. Our sacred texts are set in unfamiliar times, but they have very familiar morals.  

If stories (poems, films, songs) are how we honour and celebrate our culture, they begin at the level of the individual. (My new block of Wild Writing classes could be the perfect way to begin to tell yours). When a country, a culture, celebrates literature the way the Irish do, story is held as a national treasure. I am grateful to have a fair old chunk of Irish DNA, along with Scottish, Portugese, Brittany and my 1% Jew. But, tragically, 0% fairy. And I am blessed with having ancestors, elders, of the finest storytelling tradition. Oral stories learned in Irish, and shared around peat-fired ranges in Donegal kitchens. Can you think of any better antidote to the abuse of our traditions and humanity posed by AI, than to sit with an elder, and listen closely to their story. We have so much to learn. And too much to lose. Our stories are our lives unfolding, our means to grow, to be defined as human.

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Open Letter To My Ancestors
by Mary Ruefle

Sometimes I walk around the house 
wearing a green clay mask
it’s supposed to be for my skin
but I don’t care about that
I wear it in honor of you
I am so sadly far away from you
I secretly hope someone rings the doorbell
so they cannot recognize me
Surprise! I am seasick
on my long voyage
I’ve left everything behind
except this valise
which I protect with my body
and God’s love because I believe 
in the day I will board a bus 
with a bag of potatoes in my right hand
worth more than the valise 
and everything in it
Thank you for that
These smoked chops are incredible
You have to look at it as one person 
with a very long life
it’s better that way
blood, tears, violence, hate, ashes, everything 
the mad, blue terror of dying
of having to learn another language
Perdurabo
it all works out in time
there is no end
I had no kids
There’s a niece in Cincinnati
she’s marrying a greek next week
just so you know
I’m going to wash you off now
into the luminous depths
where even a recluse bird must fly

And if you rolled your eyes at the fairytale, there is still time to apologise before you find your favourite ring or car keys are missing tomorrow. You have been warned.