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It's well-known in Iceland that elves make their homes in certain boulders.

Some years ago, a certain farmer near Reykjavik resolved to blow up a particular boulder in order to make room for a new henhouse. With this in mind, he went out and bought some dynamite.

From that day, his hens began to lay fewer and fewer eggs.

Every day there were fewer eggs, until finally there were none.

The farmer called in the vet. The vet examined the chickens. The chickens were in fine health; nothing was wrong with their feed. There was no organic reason why the hens should not be laying.

The farmer decided not to blow up the boulder after all. He gave the dynamite away.

The longest day in the Northern Hemisphere is upon us: Midsummer has reached even up here in Scotland where the long days go on and on even when we don't have sun. We've had more than our share lately, which is a bit disconcerting.

I have been deep in Scottish fairy lore for a project I'm working on. It's not my usual bailiwick but I am enjoying the tour immensely. One of the unexpected delights (thanks to a recommendation of the Folk Horror Revival group) is A. D. Hope's A Midsummer Eve's Dream: Variations on a Theme by William Dunbar. I have mentioned the late medieval Scots poet in previous columns like A Headache in Medieval Scotland and A Meditation on Winter.

Magic is the science and art of causing effect to occur in conformity with our will. This will has to be focused and expressed creatively, through images, symbols, ritual, art or music - anything that connects us to the flow of Awen. The Faerie Enchantment cards are designed with these ideas in mind. -- Ian Daniels

I love it when I find beautiful, useful oracles on crowdfunding sites like Kickstarter and IndieGoGo. It seems that this is the golden age of publishing for the bold, the innovative, the avant garde--especially for those who create and produce independently (i.e. without the strictures and interference of traditional publishers). 

Who are They, the Twilight Kindreds, the Neighbors, those other peoples in the land?

Called by many names, more felt than seen, once known by everyone everywhere: who are they?

They are the Interiority, the Inwardness of things, the Inside looking Out.

Environmental? Yes. In them, environment looks back at us.

Truly, the kingdom of Faerie lies within.

By serendipity I met a friend in town on Saturday. Over coffee and an organic raspberry and white chocolate scone (still slightly warm), Mandy told me how she and a friend had been haring round Ireland on a road trip on the trail of the sidhe. Their trip took them from Tara in the east, down to Clare, then up to Carrowkeel and Knocknashee in Sligo. They took in some of the most sacred sites and amazing megaliths in the land.  But they didn't really need to stir themselves so far from Fermanagh. They are all around us here. Or maybe I am just sensitive to the local fey vibrations.

Tourists ask me if I see fairies. I answer honestly. I don't see them and I very much doubt they are very much like Mabel Lucie Atwell's vision of them.  Here is West Cavan I experience them as nature's skin turners and messengers. But maybe that's just how they want to show themselves to  me, for I have a strong suspicion that when they want to make themselves known as friendly allies they choose a form that is least threatening to their beholder. So maybe children do see Mabel Lucie Atwell creations. Musicians hear fairy music. But I have seen a hitch hiker that turned out to be a heron standing on the road verge. A local storyteller saw a bent old woman that turned out to be a hare. 'Turned' being the operative word.

Before you were even conceived, the burning times had terrorized your soul. But you can reclaim your Pagan power. 

During the European persecutions, thousands of women were killed as witches. Accusers would sometimes wipe out almost all the women of a village, along with some of the men.

I believe the burning times traumatized our DNA. This following shows how I picture it happening. 

You've heard the tale of Thomas Rhymer, lover to the Queen of Elfhame, who after seven years came back with a tongue that could never lie.

Well, Thomas of Earlston was a real, live man who lived in the 13^th century, and you can see his name on a number of charters from the time, if you've a mind to.

And here's the story of his passing.

One day in his age Old Thomas was sitting by his hearth, talking with friends. Just then a lad comes rushing in, all out of breath, and says: Come quick! You've got to see this! There's a big old stag with big old antlers just sauntering down the High Street as if he owned it!