Foraging Through Folklore Ella Leith

Fairies and the Fifth Kingdom Ella Leith

Oh, I never saw fairies but I had a certain belief in fairies, and what gave me this belief in fairies— have you ever seen a fairy ring? It’s the most perfect thing. Round, round with the little paddock steels and the one in the centre’s for the fiddler. And you see these in certain places. I’ve seen them at the ben and the— and other places. And it’s a perfect ring, a circle. It’s a strange thing. [And it’s for a dance, is that it?] It’s where they dance, this is the track they leave and the tiny wee paddock steels and this one, a bigger one in the centre of the ring, this is for the fiddler. That was the belief. [Who’s the fiddler supposed to be?] Remember the d— oh, it wouldha been the Deil! Helen Galloway, 1972

These are the words of Helen Galloway (1903- 1987), from Port Logan, Wigtownshire. Helen was being interviewed by her nephew, folklorist John MacQueen, and spoke of the rings of toadstools (puddock or paddock steels in Scots) left behind in places where the fairies go dancing. It’s the most perfect thing, she says, but also a strange thing, and something a little bit dangerous— after all, the fiddler might just be the Devil. Certainly, it is something uncanny. This sense of unease may be attributable only to the appearance of a circle: stone circles and perfectly round hillocks are also often associated with fairies, and if you join a ring of dancing fairies you might never be able to step out again. But I think it’s the fungus as well. There’s something strange and a little bit dangerous about fungus.

The association of fungi with fairies is often seen as a particularly Irish or Gaelic folk belief. Asked whether fairy rings got their name because of the dances of the fairies, Helen’s sister Grace responds dismissively, “Not at all, nothing like that, no— we werena Heilan [Highland] or Irish!” However, there has long been a link in the popular imagination between toadstools, mushrooms, all manner of fungi, and the supernatural. Frank Dugan’s article ‘Fungi, folkways and fairy tales’ provides an accessible overview of how various fungal forms have appeared, incidentally or integrally, in literature, folklore and folk practices across Europe. He contrasts the traditions of Northern and Western Europe, where fungi tend to be associated with witches, malign supernatural creatures, and ‘lower’ animals like toads, snails and snakes, with the Eastern European tendency to celebrate fungus and associate it with magical powers and sexual prowess. In both cases, however, anything fungal is almost invariably linked to something arcane. Even in strongly pro-mushroom cultures they retain an ‘atmosphere of mystery and taboo’ (Toporov 1985, quoted by Dugan 2008).

Perhaps this ambivalence reflects our discomfort with the unknowable. Mycologists aside, most of us would probably struggle to put our finger on exactly what a mushroom is. It seems to sit somewhere between categories: it is not quite a plant, but not quite not a plant— not an animal, either (despite the folklorists’ classification of the Russian ‘The War of the Mushrooms’ as an Animal Tale), but fungi are ‘more closely related to animals’ than plants, according to mycologist Bryce Kendrick. Fungi are also organisms of extremes: some mushrooms are edible (and delicious) and even healing; others (often termed ‘toadstools’) are deadly poisonous— and it is not always easy to differentiate between the two. As well as potentially causing death, fungi feed on it, sprouting from decaying wood and foliage. They are both intrinsically earthy and somewhat unearthly— and some even have the hallucinogenic power to help you cross the threshold into another world.

Only since 1969, when Robert Whittaker proposed that fungi belong in a class entirely their own, have they been recognised as belonging to a distinct biological kingdom: the fifth kingdom, a territory apart from the kingdoms of animals, plants, bacteria and protozoa. As Dugan observes, the word ‘kingdom’ is resonant,

‘captur[ing], for the non-phylogenetic mind, something of the vastness and magic of life forms’.

And every kingdom needs a king. According to Irish tradition, the Elf King lives under a mushroom; and I remember being told a folktale called ‘The King of the Mushrooms’ as a child. In this story, the eponymous character is a tiny man with three gift-giving daughters, who is found under a mushroom and captured by a cruel king. Beyond the character’s name and place of origin, however, mushrooms don’t feature in the narrative at all: for freeing the King of the Mushrooms, a disinherited prince is rewarded with dinner with his daughters, each of whom presents a gift which helps him to defeat a series of princess-eating dragons. The mushroom may feature merely as a vehicle for referencing the man’s magically small stature, but to me it feels like more: a shorthand that alludes to something strange, something ordinary yet extraordinary, something bound to the supernatural and which, if you treat it well, may reward you with bounty.

Coming back to Helen Galloway and the fairy rings, there seems to me to be something ineffable that links fairies, fungi and us folk. Our fairy beliefs are typically tied to our localities: a particular hill, a particular mound, a known stone circle, a ring of mushrooms discovered in a nearby field. We recognise these features as something unco and strange within the familiar: places where fairies have their own practices in our midst. This is a reminder that our places may be shared by many, even by those beyond our ken. We can cautiously co-habit, but only by respecting their otherness. Respect the power of the fairies, or you might be dancing for hundreds of years— or worse. Respect the power of fungi, or you might find yourself in another, hallucinogenic world— or worse. Our places are overlaid with different and only somewhat knowable kingdoms: the kingdom of the mushrooms, for sure, but maybe also the kingdom of the fairies. References Dugan, F. (2008) ‘Fungi, folkways and fairy tales: mushrooms and mildews in stories, remedies and rituals, from Oberon to the Internet’, North American Fungi, 3(7), pp. 23-72 Kendrick, B. (1998-2020) Mycologue Publications. Available at: http://www.mycolog.com/fungus.html

Interview quotations are from the Tobar an Dualchais / Kist o Riches website, the online portal for selected items held in the School of Scottish Studies Sound Archive at the University of Edinburgh: Helen Galloway: http://tobarandualchais.co.uk/en/fullrecord/295 44

Grace MacQueen: http://tobarandualchais.co.uk/en/fullrecord/311 59

Lingzhi, Middle Daughter of the Emperor Yan Amanda Edmiston

As a professional herbal storyteller (yes, I did grow my own job!) it's easy to become intrigued by the plants used in Traditional Chinese Medicine (T.C.M.). Each herb, fungus, bark and vegetable has a legend, which accompanies the notes on constituents and clinical application that many Western herbal practitioners find more familiar. The legends retell the discovery stories, the origins of the plant’s common use and the trials of the people who chanced upon the plant’s specific healing properties. These legends give those of us familiar with the energetics of plant healing subtle insights into the plant’s ability to alter outlook and emotions, to make new connections in ways not immediately obvious in plant-lore and legends from other traditions.

But, alongside these fascinating texts that easily connect to clinical practice, there are plants which have another layer of story. Legends with mycelia of enchantment, communicating nuance to those open to the whispers of knowledge that entwine through tales often dismissed after childhood. Tales of immortal beings, transformation and magic, the workings of gods, mountains, rivers and life. These deeper, often older, stories feed into the tales of discovery, acting as stepping stones to where we're at today; when medical usage is no longer dictated by the fae, but by research papers and empirical studies. These are the plant legends that have inspired writers and poets, offering metaphors for virtues and behaviours. Typically in ancient Chinese poetry, Lingzhi— the plant I'm looking at this month— is associated with the virtues of sanctity and goodness, which by ingesting we may embody.

One of the ancient Chinese creation myths, which I first met when I was storytelling in Shanghai in 2018, is The Three Daughters of Emperor Yan. I was immediately excited by this story of the transformation of three young women from their human form into timeless beings, taking extraordinary abilities into the mortal world.

In the version I was told, the eldest daughter of the Flame Emperor Yan took the form of a mulberry tree, the youngest that of a bird, but the middle daughter, Yao Ji— who was said to be very clever, beautiful and have a kind and caring heart— tragically died young and was buried on the sun-kissed slopes of Mount Wu, at a place where the river arced. As she gracefully transformed, her soul took the form of Lingzhi, the Spiritual Mushroom (Ganoderma lucidum). Her love for people and the kindness of her heart were so strong that the mushroom became able to gift immortality.

In further stories, the reputation of this life-giving mushroom attracted the attention of Lady White Snake. In her own legends, Lady White Snake undertakes an epic journey to a Taoist temple on a mountain, seeking out the Lingzhi in order to bring her beloved husband back to life after he had died of shock upon discovering she was not entirely human, but a snake in disguise.

This is no simple fungus, this is the stuff of incredible fairy tales. We should heed them, and turn to...

…another medical legend, that I feel really leads on from the ancient stories and poetic works, and again connects the ability of Lingzhi or Reishi (the Japanese name we have adopted in the UK) to tone shen or spirit, and again takes us to a Taoist temple…

An ambitious man initially chooses to become a Taoist monk, having repeatedly failed his Civil Service entrance exams. After a year of dedicated monastic life, however, he is so shocked by his thin form and poor health that he returns to city life, wisely investing and fast becoming the successful owner of a construction company. But, unsurprisingly, his health does not recover. In fact, he grows more and more unwell and he starts to seek new reflections on his illness. One day, engrossed in self-analysis as he watches his workers dig foundations for a new apartment block, he sees them pull a huge, soft, fleshy form from the ground and, pondering the implications for himself of this hand-shaped mass, he decides to take it to a fortune teller to see if they can shed any light on its mysterious meaning. Unfortunately for the ambitious man, the fortune teller predicts disaster. The man turns pale and starts to shake, asking for advice: how can he prevent the disaster? After some consideration, he is advised that he may be able to turn the disaster into good fortune, if he dares to eat the curious, fleshy object. The poor man is horrified into silence. As that evening wears on, however, he becomes more and more aware of how vulnerable he feels so, deciding to be brave, he cooks the shiny, ruddy lump for his dinner. As the meal moves in his mouth, he heartens. Far from being inedible, the food is delicious and 48 Botanica Fabula slowly a sense of strength surges through his Garden body. As the days pass, the feelings grow. His grey hair develops renewed colour and lustre, his skin looks bright and he starts to regain his lost weight. Even his friends comment on how much younger he looks. One day, a Taoist monk is passing the site where the man is working and remarks on how well he now looks, asking if he may take his pulse. The monk sits, feeling the blood flow in the man's veins, then asks if he has eaten something that looks like a big human hand. So, the man tells the monk the whole story. When the tale is told, the monk says, Sir, you ate the herb known as the spiritual vegetable meat and now you no longer belong in this mundane world. Join me in the temple on the mountain. Become a monk and enjoy immortality on the earth. The man took his advice and, this time, stayed in the temple for good.

Now, I don't always advise doing what traditional stories, legends, snippets of folklore and fairytales tell you. Well, at least not without a little reflection first. But in the case of Lingzhi or Reishi, I will make an exception. As I've been sharing some of its stories in this column, I have been gently simmering a little of the slice I was given in Shanghai— in a pot, with some thyme, celery, garlic and tamari. So now I will sip at the broth and hope that, if it will not allow me to live forever, at least its stories will live on…

Bibliography Lu, Henry C. (1999) Chinese Natural Cures, Black Dog, New York Lin, Zhibin & Yang, Baoxue, eds. (2019) Ganoderma and Health: Biology, Chemistry and Industry, Springer Nature, Vol 1 , Nov Su, Chen (2017) Three Daughters of Emperor Yan, CIP