Seasonal Folktales: Myths, Magic & Folklore of the North, from Scotland to Scandinavia

Greenfinch, an imprint of Quercus, part of John Murray Group, presents Seasonal Folktales. Myths, magic and folklore of the north, from Scotland to Scandinavia. Written and read by Morvern Graham. Introduction When I was young, my grandmother lived in an old stone cottage on the edge of a dairy farm. Below her house, past the barn heaving with noisy cows and the sweet smell of milk, was an overgrown field, with a muddy path leading down to an ancient sycamore. The tree stood in this wild meadow, like a queen atop the ramparts of her castle, strong, proud and old beyond imagining. She would have self-seeded long before the dairy farm was even built. And overseen the changing landscape across generations past. Her bark was twisted and gnarled with age. And at the base of the tree, her roots grew in an overlapping pattern, creating a small entranceway at knee height, which disappeared into the centre of the trunk. This, our father told us, was a fairy doorway. And signalled that the ancient tree was home to a vibrant community of fae folk. He would tell us stories of these fae folk on the long drive down from Scotland to the farm, passing the hours as we wound through the endless moorlands of the north. The stories of these mythical beings came alive in our minds, and the sycamore became a place saturated in magic and mystery. When we spent holidays on the farm, it became a destination of constant pilgrimage, our days punctuated by visits to the fairy tree. My sister and I would pull on our wellies and rush down to visit the tree before breakfast, and beg to do the same before we went to bed. We dreamed of befriending the fae folk, and plied our dad with questions on how to fall into their good graces, and perhaps, one day, share in their adventures. We were encouraged not to play too loudly or disrespect the nature which surrounded the fairy's home, and each time we visited the tree, we left gifts by the doorway for the fae folk to find. The gifts had to be something natural, as fairies hate metal or plastic. So we carefully picked delicate bunches of daisies, or filled tiny acorn cups with fresh milk from the farm. Occasionally, we even made them porridge, begging our grandmother to be let loose in the kitchen. Every time we left a gift, we would wait for a few hours, then excitedly return to find them gone, and replaced by something else in return. A pair of perfectly round conkers, a bowl of freshly picked brambles, or two yellow dandelion flowers. A sign that our gifts had been reciprocated. We were entranced, engaged in this exchange of treasures with these magical beings of the land. One warm April day, in the spring holidays of 2005, we visited the tree as we always did, joined this time by our younger cousins. It was a sticky spring day, the meadow was buzzing with life, and a group of wild horses grazed in a field nearby. Past the field, beyond the meadow which housed our beloved tree, there was a monstrously tall hedge which bordered the estate of a wealthy landowner. Beyond that hedge was a world very different from our wild tumble-down farm, with acres of neatly manicured lawn and a grand house which sat amid a walled garden. It so happened that on this particular day, the landowner had organised a clay pigeon drive, and the cracking sounds of gunshots echoed across the field and hit our ears like thunder. As soon as we heard them, my sister and I looked at each other with a shared expression of urgency. We exchanged the same thought without words, the fear that this callous human disturbance would frighten the fae folk, forcing them to abandon the tree and go elsewhere. Our years of friendship had taught us that they valued their peaceful surroundings, free from the noisy intrusions of urban life. Yet here were these ear-splitting gunshots, wounding the serenity of their home. All at once, my sister and I took off running in the direction of the sound, with some of our younger cousins trailing confusedly behind us. We cleared the meadow, reaching the enormous hedge as the gunshots grew louder, and tore our way through the hedgerow, scrambling on hands and knees until our faces were scratched with brambles and our hair tangled with twigs. We burst through the other side, two wild children crossing the boundaries from one world to another, and caught sight of a line of men in the distance, standing with guns aloft. We ran fearlessly towards them, waving our arms and imploring them to stop shooting, as the trap operator shouted an alarm. For the next few minutes, we advocated passionately for our faerie friends and their home on the other side of the hedge, standing boldly in front of these wealthy upper-class men. We lectured them about the importance of respecting the surrounding nature and not disturbing the creatures who lived there, while the befuddled gentlemen looked around, seeking an explanation for the sudden appearance of these wild-eyed children. Eventually, our poor father managed to claw his way through the hedge and came running over to claim us. He gave my sister and me a gentle scolding for running off, but we were emboldened, blazing with a sense of pride at having run to the defence of our faerie tree. With hindsight, I see this day as a demonstration of the power that folktales can have in our lives. Because of the folktales our father told us about this ordinary tree at the bottom of the field, the tree and its surrounding landscape became transformed into something magical. It was the stories that connected us so passionately to this tree, allowing us to build a relationship with the land. This relationship grew so strong that we rallied to defend it at any cost, feeling protective and responsible for nature and the way that it was treated by others. If this is the power that stories can have, imagine if we amplified it on a massive scale. Imagine if we told one another more folktales which connected us with the land beneath our feet and gave us a sense of pride and guardianship over this earth we call home. I truly believe the quiet yet mighty power of stories is an essential ingredient for shifting the ecological crisis we find ourselves in, allowing us to reframe how we communicate and interact with the nature we are part of. This audiobook aims to do just that through sharing some of my favourite stories from the folk traditions of Scandinavia and Celtic regions. One thing common to all folktales is their deep connection to the natural pace of the seasons. And so, in the audiobook, you will find the stories organised into the four seasons, alongside celebrations specific to these special times of year and the full moons of each month. I encourage you to listen to the stories in harmony with the turning of the year. Use the stories and guides as inspiration to live more in tune with our natural surroundings and find a softer pace of life that allows us to appreciate the value of the land which we share with myriad mythological beings. We should all be avid listeners of stories. Not only will it light up our minds with a wild, childlike wonder, but it may actually be the answer to reconnecting our hungry souls to the natural rhythms of the shifting seasons in our ever-changing modern world. To all the daydreamers. Spring We start our journey with a season full of renewal and change. Following the sleepy hush of winter, the months of spring signal a gradual reawakening and transformation of the world around us. Often, spring can seem reluctant to join us in the Northern Hemisphere, struggling to throw off the last of winter's shadow. Spring snows are common, as are storms and unpredictable weather. In the end, however, comes that joyous time when the new season fully takes hold and everything blooms into a frenzy of wild and busy life. This chapter will take us on a journey from wild forests to windswept islands as we uncover the folklore that dances within the season of spring. The Colour of Snow A German folktale Many centuries ago, long before humans walked the earth, the very first flakes of snow fell from the heavy clouds. Unlike the snow we know today, the first snow was the same dull grey colour as the clouds themselves. The first snowflakes drifted slowly downwards through the sky until eventually they touched the ground. When the first snowflakes fell, they couldn't help but marvel at this new world they found themselves in. The snow gazed in amazement at the crashing waves of the ocean, at the tall canopies of trees adorned with green leaves, at the bright array of flowers that blanketed the hillsides. Never have I seen such beauty and wonder, the snow exclaimed. Up in the clouds, everything was awash with grey, but here is such a magnificent variety of life. What a joy! As the snowflakes marveled at their new home, they found themselves feeling conscious of their dull grey colour and wished that they too could be as beautiful as their new surroundings. So they decided to approach one of the many beautiful flowers and ask for help. First, the snowflakes set their eye on the golden petals of the marigolds, growing proudly in a line. Oh, what a magnificent colour! If only I could be so striking, said the snow. Would you perhaps share a little of your rich golden colour with me? The marigolds shuffled their leaves and giggled at the grey snow. We don't think so, they chuckled. We share our colour with the magnificent sun herself, shining high in the skies. We shan't give any to the likes of you. Forlorn, the first snowflakes continued their search until they came upon a glade of electric blue cornflowers, swaying their petals elegantly in the breeze. Now yours is a truly regal colour, said the snow to the cornflowers. Might you share a little of it with me? But the cornflowers scoffed. Absolutely not, they cried. We have already shared our colour with both the wide open skies and the endless expanse of the ocean. There is certainly none left for you. So the first snowflakes left the field of cornflowers. Next, they stumbled upon a gaggle of poppies with heads of fiery red. That is a noble colour indeed, exclaimed the snow. Would you be so kind as to share a little with us? But the poppies bobbed their heads in alarm. Certainly not, they replied. We have already shared our colour with the blood that runs through every living thing. We won't give any to you. The snowflakes continued their search, asking the same question of each flower they encountered, but to no avail. Every flower refused to share even a drop of their colour. The first snowflakes began to accept that they would be forever grey and dull in a world saturated with colour, and they resolved to hide themselves away. Perhaps we should return to the clouds, they pondered, although I would hate to leave this world of exquisite beauty behind. But just as the snowflakes had given up hope entirely, a gentle voice called out to them. We would gladly share our colour with you, came the voice, and the snow looked around to see who had spoken. There, sitting among the myriad colourful blooms, was a group of flowers the snow had overlooked. These flowers were small and dainty, with delicate white petals hanging in droplets like the finest pearls. The first snowflakes felt their hearts swell with gratitude, and they joyfully accepted the generous offer of these little flowers. Every year since, when brilliant white flakes of snow cover the ground, only one flower is allowed to grow up through the layer of springtime cold. In return for their kindness, the snowdrops alone may surpass the snow and bloom throughout early spring, while all the other selfish flowers must wait their turn until summer. Mad as a March Hare A Scottish folktale You may have heard the expression, Mad as a March Hare. This saying comes from the annual sightings of hares at the start of their mating season. If you wander through farmland or fields during the month of March, you may spot hares leaping and running, or engaged in strange boxing matches, standing tall on their hind legs and pummeling each other with their front paws. Hares normally spend their lives hidden beneath our noses, lurking in long grass or wide stretches of countryside. And this fleeting time of year is the only occasion when these reclusive animals may be easily spotted. For me, seeing a hare in the wild invokes a feeling akin to spotting a mythical creature, as their elegant forms dart across the landscape with dizzying speed. Given this elusive nature, it's no surprise that the hare is endowed with strong symbolism in local folklore, particularly in Scotland, where native hare populations are high. The northern highlands of Scotland and Ireland are some of the few remaining habitats of the In winter, the mountain hare's brown fur is transformed into a snowy white coat, helping them blend into their surroundings. Their almost total appearance in winter spurred the popular belief that some hares were actually witches or shapeshifting women in disguise. This next tale, local to East Lothian, tells of one such magical woman. In the rich farmlands and rolling hills of eastern Scotland, there once lived a young woman named Hester and her husband, Angus. They owned a small patch of land on which they grew food to their bellies, selling the surplus to the locals for a fair price. Hester was an expert grower of herbs and medicines, and their house was often visited by those suffering from ailments or sickness, which Hester would treat with powerful infusions and the occasional spell. During the day, when her husband was tending to the fields of crops and vegetables, Hester would go wandering off into the surrounding woodlands. Often, she'd be gone all day, disappearing at sunrise and returning long after the sun had set. Her husband grew curious about where she went, but whenever he asked her, she'd reply with the same phrase, "'Hereabouts and thereabouts and everywhereabouts I go, abounding here, abounding there, though you shall never know." Puzzled, Angus decided not to question her any further. After all, she was a little eccentric. He assumed she simply spent her time collecting herbs or picking flowers, and thought no more about it. One early spring morning, however, when Hester once again vanished into the forest, Angus decided to lay down his farm tools and follow her. Padding across the ground on silent footsteps, he followed his wife through the forest. But after some time, he found that he had lost sight of her. He peered confusedly around. He could have sworn she was right there a moment ago, but now she was gone. Mystified, he left the forest the way he had come and resumed his farm work. Later that evening, when Hester returned, he asked her, "'Where on earth have you been?' But she simply replied, "'Hereabouts and thereabouts and everywhereabouts I go, abounding here, abounding there, though you shall never know." The next day, Angus tried the same thing again, trailing silently behind Hester as she wandered into the forest. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on her, but once again she seemed to disappear behind a glade of trees and vanish into thin air. Concerned, he called out to her, filling the forest with frantic cries, "'Hester! Hester, where are you?' He shouted until his voice was hoarse, but his wife was nowhere to be seen. As always, Hester reappeared later that evening. Angus hugged her tightly and demanded to know where she had disappeared to. Again came her reply, "'Hereabouts and thereabouts and everywhereabouts I go, abounding here, abounding there, though you shall never know.'" Angus grew increasingly worried about his wife and her secret forays into the forest. Perhaps she was bewitched by a malevolent fairy or being stolen away by goblins. The next time that Hester left for the forest, he followed behind her, this time with a hunting rifle held tightly in his hands. Once again, Hester seemed to vanish from sight and her husband ran after her, holding the gun out in front of him. He searched all over for any sign of her, until he came to the edge of the forest, where the fields of young barley sprawled out into the landscape beyond. As he looked out across the field, he saw no sign of Hester, but something else caught his eye instead. A dark shape was leaping and darting across the field. An elegant, tawny hare, jumping into the air on its hind legs and flying through the long grass. The creature seemed to be reveling in the joy of its strange dance and hadn't noticed Angus, watching from the edge of the field. Aha, a hare! That'll make a tasty meal for our pot, thought Hester's husband, who was beginning to grow tired of eating only vegetables. He swung his rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and a loud shot cracked out across the field. A silver bullet struck one of the hare's legs, and the startled creature took off, running into the long grass for cover. Angus strode out across the field to try and retrieve his dinner, but the injured hare was nowhere to be found. Angry and frustrated, Angus walked back home through the forest. When he arrived, he was surprised to find the front door open and Hester lying on the floor inside. Her face was drawn in pain and her shaking hands were pressed against her leg, where a large wound was bleeding freely. Angus ran to her side, grabbing a cloth to bind her leg and demanding to know what had happened. You shot me, husband. That's what happened, Hester replied. Angus recognized the silver bullet lodged in her leg and in an instant realized that his own wife had been the hare he had shot in the field. Hester possessed the ancient ability to change her form, a secret, shape-shifting power passed down through the generations. Every spring, she reveled in the joy of transformation into a wild hare and taking to the fields to sprint and jump and play. The following year, once her leg had healed, Angus never once asked Hester what she got up to on those early spring days. He spent his time working on the farm, and whenever he spotted a march hare leaping madly in one of the fields, he simply smiled. The Weeping Tree. A Swedish folktale. Early spring can be a strange time of year as the seasons shift. In the Nordic countries, March, April and May are often aptly nicknamed the melting months, as an entire winter's worth of snow and ice begin to thaw. The layers of mud and debris that have been hiding in the snow are released from their icy entrapment, and for a few weeks, everything feels like one big puddle as winter drains away from the landscape. This is a time many northern dwellers struggle with, those strange liminal weeks that are not quite winter and not quite spring. This folktale, collected from the north of Sweden, reminds us that there is magic to be found amid even the messiest, muddiest time of year. We need only look for it. It was late spring in the northern forests. The heavy winter snow was gone, and the ice sheets that had covered the lake for months were gradually retreating. But winter still had the woodland in its stubborn grasp, bringing frosty nights and easterly gales that refused to let the spring unfold. The earth remained in its winter sleep. The creatures of the land were silent, and many months had passed with little sunlight or colour. Deep in the old forest, where the trees stood hushed and still, a little birch tree began to cry. The young tree wept and wept, tears of sap flowing freely down its silvery white bark, and its cries echoing through the forest. Before long, the branches of the trees above began to fill with birds, who had heard the forlorn cries and come to investigate the reason for such sadness. Little birch tree, chirped the birds, why do you cry? I am crying because I can't remember anything but this long winter, replied the little birch. Everything around me is grey, cold and dull, and my heart longs for something joyful to return. The birds hated to see the little tree so distressed, so they agreed that every morning they would fill the air with song, serenading each sunrise with beautiful melodies. The chaffinch hummed, the blackbird chirruped, and the robin composed tunes so sweet, they could melt the snow from the ground. Listen to our songs, little birch tree, they exclaimed, do they not fill your heart with joy? But the little birch tree continued to cry, endless tears of sap pouring down its trunk to the ground below. Before long, the seeds and bulbs, sleeping deep beneath the ground, took notice and poked their heads above the surface, to see what was going on. Oh, little birch tree, they said, why do you cry? I am crying because I can't remember the last time I saw something beautiful, replied the little birch tree. This long winter has stripped the land bare, and everything hides cold and frostbitten beneath the earth. Well, the little seeds and bulbs felt the birch tree's sadness tenderly in their own hearts, and decided to give the poor tree something beautiful to brighten its spirits. One by one, each little seedling pushed itself up and out of the cold, bare earth, and spread its arms wide, growing taller and taller, until the forest floor was blanketed with colourful blooms once again. A symphony of delicate purple bluebells, soft yellow daffodils, blood red poppies, and electric blue cornflowers. Look at us, look at us, little birch tree, the flowers sang, swaying their petals in the wind. Doesn't it gladden your heart to see the forest alive with colour and beauty once more? But the poor little birch tree continued to cry its tears. We hope you enjoyed this preview. To continue listening to this audiobook on Google Play Books, use the link in the video description.