“I should perhaps add that my mother is half a MacLeod and that she and I and also Theresa MacLeod, her mother, sometimes see, hear, or feel things not readily accounted for by normal methods of human reasoning.”
The waterfall in Mrs. Ella Jackson’s garden in her childhood recalls the fairy horses in a waterfall in some pages contributed in 1932 by Mrs. Iris Strick of Devon to the Atlantis Quarterly, edited by her cousin Charles Richard Cammell and Lewis Spence. This experience is quoted from the publication referred to: “Some years ago,” in the 1920s, “I went for a long walk in the Pentland Hills, near Edinburgh. A niece, aged about thirteen, came with me, and we planned to be out all day and see if this time we could manage to thrust our way a bit further ‘through.’ We avoided explanations as to the exact meaning of this expression. In those days we were very closely in touch with each other, and my young companion seemed to have a strange kinship with Nature. We had been for some remarkable walks with a very special atmosphere of their own, but invariably, just as we appeared to be on the verge of some great discovery and the Gates of Faerie were about to open, all would change, the barriers closed down, and we were left with only a haunting longing for what might have been. Actually we never saw anything on these walks that could not be easily explained, but always we felt there was something that we had only just missed, and that another time we might slip through and see. All went well with our Pentland expedition, and about midday we stopped to rest on a hillside ablaze with bell heather. It had been rather a dour kind of grey day, but now the sun came out between the clouds, and we lay face downwards in the heather, lost in an ecstasy of beauty both of colour and scent. All sense of time passed. In Fiona MacLeod’s immortal story, The Anointed Man, [the hero] lays face downwards in the ling [heather], and we had often talked of that story and quoted passages from it; but with our lesser experience it was the bell heather that worked some ancient magic and opened our eyes to ‘something that came down the Rainbow Arches of Cathair-Sith.’ However that may be, we started up with one accord and, leaving the path, ran upwards into the hills. No doubt for the time being we were fey, and there was a delightful feeling that something unusual was about to happen, only it delayed its action, for nothing happened then.
“We went up a glen, climbed a steep bank, then downward again, and presently came to a stream, which had carved its way deep into the living rock. Very strange and eerie was that valley, with the stone sculptured by Nature into weird forms over-arching the burn, so that it became a dark, mysterious water. We became obsessed with the idea that wild fruit must be found, and after much difficulty a solitary strawberry was discovered. How any strawberry had managed to ripen in such a position was a mystery, but there it was, and we divided it—probably with a sharp splinter of stone—and consumed it with fitting solemnity. Somehow this curious action seemed to be of real importance at the time, and perhaps it was. The sound of falling water attracted us to the edge of a precipice. Our stream slid over the edge, and changed into a shining waterfall. My niece lay down on a flat stone and gazed at the water as it leapt into the depths below. The sunshine had gone, and the sky was greying with hurrying clouds. A mist of spray blew back on to us from the crest of the fall.
“Suddenly the child cried, ‘Oh! Quick, quick, quick, look at the horses!’
“‘Where?’ I shouted against the roar of the water.
“‘In the waterfall!’
“I flung myself down on the stone in her place and watched intently. For some moments nothing was to be seen in the flying spray, and then I saw them. How can one ever describe the entrancing beauty and gaiety of that sight? Passing down the waterfall, at the same speed as the falling water, was a procession of small horses and riders transparent as the water itself. The horses, with their shining quarters and flying manes and tails, were more clearly defined than the riders. The latter waved their arms above their heads as though encouraging one another in the wild game they appeared to be playing. Then they were gone, and one had time to breathe, but only for a few moments. They (or others of the same type) appeared again and again at the top of the fall, repeated the same actions, and so it went on for, perhaps, half an hour. The sky had darkened, and it had been raining hard for some time, but we took no notice, drenched as we were already with the spray. It was all such tremendous fun. The joyous abandon of the water-beings made one long to plunge over the precipice and join them in their headlong rush, but that is not the way of escape for those still caged in an earthly body. At length it dawned upon us that it was getting late; that we had, perhaps, seven miles still to walk, a train to catch, and that it was pouring with rain. One last look at the nature spirits, and we climbed down through the soaking bracken and ferns to rejoin the public path. We said little at the time; the experience had been too overwhelming for immediate discussion. On that dark and dripping walk home we felt an aching longing and nostalgia for that bright world of which we had been permitted this one glimpse.
“Later we discussed the incident at great length, comparing notes as to what each had seen, and wondering whether the little horsemen had galloped back up through the rocks for the sport of plunging down the fall anew, or whether each group was a separate unit making for some unknown destination. One solitary American has put on record a slightly similar experience, but in his case the small horses were seen in the foam of breaking waves. My own belief is that, all unknowingly, we had stumbled on some ancient Celtic ritual in which the sun, the bell heather, and, above all, the wild fruit, each played their part, and that in consequence our eyes were opened.”
As well as water spirits, there are fairies of the snow and ice, and in her childhood Miss Sylvia Birchfield, of Chicago, saw what she called “snow fairies,” which she said were “sparkly” in their long, white and silver robes.
Miss Z. of Surrey told me that she, too, had seen snow fairies. They were about three feet tall, gleaming like shining angels in raiment white and sparkling as snow in sunshine, and their large, powerful wings resembled white feathers. Many came and danced with graceful, tranquil movements, weaving about in the manner of ballet-dancers, their flowing robes wafting in the sunlight as they floated just above the level of the ground.
Mrs. Winifred Spilsbury of Sheffield, Yorkshire, saw a long procession of beings similar in appearance but that she called “ice fairies,” all going in one direction. In their semi-transparent white robes and silvery crystal headbands, they looked as if made of moonbeams. They seemed to be of different ages, and the older ones each carried a sort of wand or crystal-and-silver staff. She received the impression that this staff was a symbol of office and gave them authority to transmit psychic power and cast a protective aura over the creatures they desired to help. She spoke to them by thought, and was told: “We are gathering together to collect the spirit-forms of birds and animals, which will die in the frost soon to come. Some are changed in form, and some come back to keep the instinct of the species alive for all.” This was before the arrival of the heavy falls of snow that were to drift and cause such havoc to wildlife in April 1954, and when they actually came a week later and Mrs. Spilsbury read about the large numbers of wild ponies and other animals and birds, which were dying on the moors, she said she knew that the fairies would be there, ready to take them to a new and happier experience.
On the morning of 27 December 1961, my sister called me into the garden to look at the small, white enamel water-bowl, which we kept there for the wild birds. The water in it was frozen, and clearly engraved on the ice was the picture of a small summer-house near some trees; a figure holding what appeared to be a fishing rod; and a little sailing-boat on some water, with birds flying overhead. Around the edge of the ice picture were small close lines pointing towards the centre and forming a sort of decoration to set off the design, which must have been executed overnight, as the water bowl was re-filled every day. My sister laid some tracing paper on top of the dish and traced all the lines on it. One explanation of this particular design
is that at that time we had a tea service, table linen, vases, curtains, etc., all in the conventional Willow-pattern, and we could only surmise that as the fairy folk are wonderful imitators, they may have taken a fancy to the design seen in our house and attempted to reproduce it on the solid surface of the ice, though in a simplified form and with no great accuracy of detail. After seeing this, we were better able to understand and appreciate the lovely leaf-patterns found on frozen windowpanes on bleak winter mornings. Of course, for the materialist and the sceptics there is always the scientific explanation for these “little miracles,” but for those of us who have kept our sense of wonder Nature is full of exquisite examples of fairy artistry.
Salamander or Fire Fairies
When the child who became the celebrated Benevento Cellini was shown a salamander by his father—who gave him “a great box on the ear” to make him remember the unusual incident—the little fire-spirit was described as being like a lizard. One of the definitions of a “salamander” in the Oxford Dictionary is “Lizard-like animal supposed to live in fire,” but the next definition is merely “Elemental spirit living in fire.” We can assume from the testimony of some of my contributors that these beings can take different forms and, like other nature spirits, can also imitate the human shape. In his book Unseen Forces (Hall Publishing Co, California, 1929) Manly P. Hall described some of them as being “as large as giants of prehistoric times,” and others as “small and barely visible.” The latter ones, which he mentions, may be similar to the “spark fairies,” which I used to see on the fire-back. They had a bluish aura and flew to and fro like flies, but they swelled to the size of wasps or bees while they were absorbing the essence of the dying sparks, which they carried back to the main fire.
Mr. Tom Charman, in his notes on salamanders, wrote: “I may go weeks without seeing any, and then suddenly one or more will appear in the middle of the flames. There they will lie down, skip about, or handle the red-hot embers with great enjoyment. Often of a winter’s evening, when the fire is crackling merrily on the hearth and the sparks are flying up the chimney, these little creatures will join in the dancing fire, their limbs in quaint, closely-fitting garments, shining red in the glowing embers. On their arrival the fire becomes truly alive. They are nearly always in the fire, though at times they are outside and close to the fireplace. Towards the beginning of this year I saw a very fine salamander, whom I recognized intuitively as a Fire King. His face was very ruddy, suggesting flame, and it was strong and refined. One evening soon after this, when darkness had set in, I was sitting without a light and the fire had nearly gone out. Suddenly, my attention was roused by the sight of little salamanders running about the floor. They were throwing fire about the room. It seemed as though it came from them, because all they did was to throw forward their hands, and from these there shot out long streaks or ribbon-like lines of fire. They took a great delight in doing this, and they were running about in this fashion for some time. It seemed as though the Fire-King I had seen a few days before had brought them for me to see, though he was not visible.”
When Mrs. Clara M. A. Clayton lived in Nottinghamshire after her marriage, she was alone in the house one winter’s evening and was reading by the fire, which was gradually getting low. All at once, something that she realised was a salamander came out of it, and the fire immediately lost its glow. “The fire fairy had no definite shape or form,” she explained. “It was like a tongue of fire, yet it seemed to have a centre from which the flames rose. It was swift in its movements, and I thought it would go up the chimney when it first darted out.” She spoke to it, trying to become one with it, but it flashed back into the fire, which glowed anew with bright flames that made the room warm once more. Again she tried to communicate, and once more it darted out and all the glow went out of the fire this time for good for the salamander did not return. “The happy little life that was revelling in it and shooting out flames had left it, and had entered into the great Spirit of Fire,” she concluded.
The journalist and poet, Miss Odette Tchernine, of Fleet Street, London, became acquainted with fire fairies when she was living in the Maida Vale district of London. Intermittently at the age of six or a little less, she partly saw, partly felt, some small pleasing presences dancing around her in the light of the big open nursery fire. They were pink and gold and flame-coloured; graceful, transparent entities, weaving about her in silent friendliness, and seeming to be part of a glow of secret, contented well being. “I felt in tune with them, as if we knew about one another and had a sort of private understanding,” she told me. “It was fun, and all rather lovely.”
While being astrally projected to receive healing for arthritis, Mrs. Gwen Cripps, of Cheshire saw a fire fairy. She sent me a painting of it, though she said it gave no idea of the depth and brilliance of the fairy’s colouring. It was through the intermediary services of this little creature that she received vitality “an icy-cold, penetrating power that one feels to be galvanizing and holding together the astral body.” The little thing, nine or ten inches in height, kept darting backwards and forwards from behind a screen of intense white light, as if to gather energy from that source, and each time it did so she felt the impact. She could not say that the elemental had any endearing qualities, but it was strangely fascinating and powerful. Fierce, black brows dominated its alert face, and it gazed at her intently with enormous black, protruding eyes, which had no pupils. “It struck me at the time,” she said, “that here was a difference, for most nature spirits have soul-less eyes.” The “skin” of the face, hands, and feet was brownish, wrinkled and leathery in texture. The little creature had not assumed any fantastic clothing; rather did the red part of its person grow with the brownish “skin” of the other parts mentioned. The texture of this red part was delicate and resembled a mass of bubbles, which looked as though they had been inflated like a pressure suit glistening in the light, as if wet. Mrs. Cripps received the name “Fire Spirit” as she looked at this creature. It occurred to her that “Salamander” might be another name for it, “but I wouldn’t be too sure about this,” she added, “because I have clairvoyantly seen (in normal state) a Salamander, and although both of these had the same vital quality of dancing flames of fire, the Salamander was much more fluid than this Fire Spirit, which had a robust appearance. The vision was truly breath-taking.”
Tree Spirits
To a sensitive nature-lover the ruthless felling of a healthy tree is a tragedy. Most trees respond to our love and admiration. They have vital lifeforce, and many of them have healing properties. Some of the old trees have such a highly advanced vegetable consciousness that they possess a definite individuality, and they can externalize themselves in human shape, like the dryads of ancient Greece. When a tree has fallen, not only does such an act antagonize and drive out the lovely spirit of the tree, but it also deprives the little elves of their homes in the crevices of the tree boles, and alas the wild birds of a nesting place and a refuge among the leafy branches.
Mrs. G. K. Evason told me that a friend of hers had just returned from the office where she worked as a civil servant, and was busy preparing her evening meal when she became aware of a spirit form on her windowsill. It said that it was the spirit of the tree that had been outside her window, and it now had no home because the tree had recently been cut down. Fortunately, Mrs. Evason’s friend had not been in any way responsible for the act, for she said how she had loved the tree and found peace in looking at it when she was resting quietly in her chair.
One of the daughters of Mrs. M. Lilley drew a picture of a tree spirit whom she saw clairvoyantly. This diva was looking very upset, and a few hours afterwards, when Mrs. Lilley entered the wood at the bottom of the garden, she found that someone had cut some branches from one of the trees.
Mrs. Iris Strick used to enjoy wandering peacefully in a thick and very beautiful wood: “Wild daffodils and hyacinths, frail anemones and tiny wood sorrel grew there in profusion, and the spotted lea
ves of ‘lords and ladies’ pushed up here and there in groups. From under the sheltering ferns and bracken, shy wildlife peeped at me, rabbits scuttled from near my feet, squirrels raced up and down the tree trunks, and bird voices of many kinds filled the air with music. Under the great rocks, foxes had entrenched themselves so deeply that no evilly disposed spade could reach their safe retreat, and there was even rumour of a badger… There was magic abroad in that wood—white magic, which gave it a personality all its own… One could feel the presence of lives that are not as our lives, beings that are wild and free, and only just beyond the limit of mortal sight. Yet they seemed friendly to those who were in harmony with them; to those who could be trusted to hurt neither bird nor beast, flower, nor tree.” After a long absence Mrs. Strick revisited the wood, and found that all was “destruction and despair.” Great trees lay stark and lifeless, and she stumbled over a fallen Beech, which was lying “like a mutilated statue of ancient Greece, the graceful limbs hacked away; its pride, its glory, humbled to the dust.” The friendly feeling of the wood had gone, and hatred and fear were all around. It was not good to linger; the atmosphere was inimical to man, to the race that had wrought all this ruin. She heard a rending crash as one of the last of the mighty trees went down, and she said that “something invisible whizzed past like a streak of agony and was gone, leaving a trail of terror and rage behind it.”
At a country house in Derbyshire, Mrs. Strick introduced me to a great Cedar tree, which she said was “very friendly.” She told me to lean my back against its trunk and see if I could contact its consciousness. I can recall, even now, the tremendous power of its vibrations as they flowed through me, flooding my whole being with new life and energy. Mrs. Strick said she always experienced this feeling when she leant silently against it.
Seeing Fairies Page 18
