Botanica Fabula: Stolen away by the Fae?

vi: Botanica Fabula

Stolen away by the Fae?

Amanda Edmiston

I've always loved Hawthorn (Crataegus monogyna). Many people dislike it due to the scent of its blossoms, called May, which hold elements in common with putrefaction— perhaps instinctively recalling lore regarding the dangers of bringing it into the house. I'm lucky to be one of those people who merely picks up an olfactory flicker of something sweet and Spring-like, with only the merest hint of the sinister in its essence.

For me, Hawthorn has only positive connotations. My Gran's middle name was May, and I immediately think of her whenever I encounter the tree. I loved her stories of cycling to school in the 1930s, picking the fresh spring growth— called the 'bread and cheese' leaves —to pop between slices of bread when there wasn't much else to make a filling. One of my favourite legends connected to the plant comes from Ovid, who tells that the Roman goddess of viscera, Carna, used Hawthorn twigs gifted to her by the two-faced god Janus to lure the malicious vampiric Strige away from unsuspecting children. I knew that 'Hawthorn mends a broken heart' as a child, long before I learned that its constituents have a positive effect on the circulatory system. Hawthorn simply makes me happy, and I mention it a great deal in my herbal storytelling sessions.

The story I want to share now concerns one of these sessions, and a rather peculiar coincidence that took place while I was chatting away about Hawthorn trees...

It was during a Herbal Magic and Potent Potions workshop for families at The Scottish Storytelling Centre back in 2017. The session was part of my project ‘The Kist in Thyme’, for which I'd been gathering stories and reminiscences about plant use and folklore from across rural Stirlingshire, working with schools and older folk in the community. I was telling the audience about one of these Stirlingshire trips, about how one Hawthorn tree in a particular school playground had turned out to be a renowned fairy tree. Four generations of folk from the area remembered playing under it and thinking of it as home to the fairies, but none of them could recall who had told them that this is what it was, or whether they themselves had ever passed on the rumour to their own children or grandchildren. The story had just seemed to travel on its own.

When I’d asked the then Primary 4 group if they knew the tree I meant, they quickly led me out across the playing field to where the solitary Hawthorn grew, and pointed out the passageways under its roots. These definitely had an air of otherworldly mystery, and all the subtle indications of being potential paths in and out of a magical world. But before I become trapped in the fairy tree's shadow, unable to leave until I've told a good story— only to discover that not merely one evening but several years have passed —let me bring us back to the herbal storytelling session at The Storytelling Centre...

Here, as I shared the story of the school’s Hawthorn tree, the sound of a mobile phone jangled through the courtyard. A woman sitting at the front with her daughter reached into her pocket for her phone and, apologising, switched it off. I smiled and went on with sharing my warnings of the rules one should follow, should one ever find oneself trapped in the Queen of the Fae's domain.

But, just as I was telling the audience that if you eat food in fairyland you will forget where you came from (while at the same time offering them each an oatcake topped with hedgerow jelly, laced with hearthealing Hawthorn berries), the phone went off again— more persistently this time. The woman apologised and stepped out of the room, coming back only a moment later with a surprised and pleased but somewhat disconcerted expression. She sat back down and the session continued, but at the end she came up to me and explained what the disturbance had been.

She opened her phone and showed me the short film she'd been sent during the workshop. It showed an ancient Hawthorn fairy tree in Co. Armagh, which had been threatened with destruction by encroaching building work. Locals had protested, insisting that legend held that if anyone cut down or damaged the tree they would die young or become seriously ill, for it was home to the Fae. Their protests had been successful: the tree had been saved and was now fenced off, its presence and story safe for future generations. While she was in the workshop, her friend had come across the tree and filmed it to show her, but couldn’t wait for a reaction and so called to tell her the news first-hand. If phones must intrude on workshops, let it be for as lovely and magical reasons as this!

These magical connections to trees, our personal links and anecdotes, are what help us to treasure them and recognise their value. Returning to my visit to the Stirlingshire tree, its white blossoms had long since drifted away by the time of year that the children showed me its roots, but its blood-drop red berries were burgeoning. Many of the children had been concerned that the Haws were poisonous; overjoyed to discover that they were edible, many took a handful home as an aide memoir for the next stage of the Kist in Thyme project: to gather memories and anecdotes from their own families. It was following this that one lad came back with his Grandpa's memory of the Hawthorn— that is, of using the berries as ammunition in a homemade blow gun…

I shared that anecdote at the Scottish Storytelling Centre family sessions too, and let's just say that it led to no end of mischief. But should you ever find yourself under a Hawthorn tree trying to prevent the fairies from stealing you away, at least now you know that you have a resource at hand for protecting yourself!

References

Ovid. (2004) Fasti. Translated by Boyle, A., and Woodard, R. Penguin: London

Vickery, R. (2019) Vickery's Folk Flora. Weidenfeld & Nicolson: London

More from Amanda's 'Kist in Thyme' project can be found at www.botanicafabula.co.uk/the-kist-inthyme

Photographs by Deborah Mullen, reproduced with permission.