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‘Buried Moons: Folks Tales from Beyond the Patriarchy’


Attempts at healing
Hattie Porter

The Mermaid of Zennor, North Cornwall, England


The legend tells the story of a woman described as mysterious, beautiful and the best singer in the parish. One day she met a young man at the village church. That night, the pair went home together and neither of them were ever seen again. The villagers wondered what had happened to the women, until some time later a mermaid was spotted in a nearby Cove. The villagers concluded this was the missing woman who used to sing in Church.


In Cornish Folklore, mermaids were thought to change shape and to walk on land to entice mortal men to come and live with them at sea. Legend has it, the mermaid of Zennor lured the man she met at church into the sea with her beautiful singing voice, never to be seen again.


In the year between 2020 and 2021, 109 women were murdered by a man. In the vast majority of cases the murderer was known to the victim. 97% of women aged 18-24 have been sexually harassed and 1 in 4 women have experienced sexual abuse or rape.


The folktale of The Mermaid of Zennor speaks painfully to familiar stories of gendered violence and the elaborate tales told to encase the stark truth. Through darning the delicate egg cases and exploration and metaphor relating to the reproductive lives of sharks, Attempts at healing explores what it means to heal as an individual in the absence of tangible solutions and collective justice.   


@Hat.tea


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Viriditas, Hilda
Steph Garratt


Inspired by the writings of Hildegard of Bingen, Origin – 12th Century, Rhineland, Germany


“O most honored Greening Force,

You who roots in the Sun;
You who lights up, in shining serenity, within a wheel
that earthly excellence fails to comprehend.

You are enfolded
in the weaving of divine mysteries.

You redden like the dawn
and you burn: flame of the Sun.”


In the damp, green, surroundings of the Rhine Valley, atop her seat as Abbess of Disibodenberg Abbey, Hildegard of Bingen bears witness to the creative powers of life. She sees it in the trees and surrounding fields, in the river water flowing over rocks and coursing down waterfalls, in the animals grazing on the land and in the people picking flowers and cultivating the land. She believed this ‘greenness’ to be an expression of heaven and named it Viriditas. The idea that there was an innate and powerful vitality in the natural world around her informed all that she believed and taught; she composed songs about it, wrote extensive herbologies listing the properties and uses of countless plants, prescribed natural medicines to her charges and championed the power of the female body for its own fertile and creative Viriditas.



@Stephg.art


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Finding Balance in Bincombe
Sophie Sherwood


Retelling of The Singing Barrow, Dorset, England


Atop the hill of Bincombe lies a line of barrows, said to sing at midday if you place your ear to the ground.


It's also home to a faerie kingdom, ruled by a reformed queen.


The mind taunts and pulls at the imaginary puppet strings and causes her to snap rather than bend to the wills of life.


The skylark shows balance in the air, being elevated magically by the wind. Cosmic forces swirling around us, we must learn to work with them rather than against them.



@Photosophiaus / Sophiesherwood.co.uk


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Ptashka from Azovsteel, Ptashka / Birdie, Birdie from Azovsteel
Christina Garmasiy

Birdie from Azovsteel, Ukraine


It was the battle for the city of Mariupol from 24th February to 20th May 2022. The city was under the siege by the russian army, and the Ukrainian army as well as civilians find shelter at the giant metallurgical plant called Azovstal. One of them was Kateryna Polishchuk, a volunteer- paramedic nicknamed Ptashka (eng. Birdie).


Being under constant shelling and bombarding, it became impossible to support the lives of the wounded and the living. Without food, clean water and basic painkillers all that remained was to sing.


The Birdie sang Ukrainian lullabies and folk songs to the soldiers to ease their pain and keep them going. These songs sounded like the songs of the little blue tit, songs of hope and love.

In Ukrainian mythology birds possess the secrets of magical potions, living and dead water, and know the direction of clouds.


The blue tit announces that everything will be fine. She rejoices in the sky and the sun. The bird whistles to people about their next day, instilling hope for a better future.


On September 22, 2022, after three months of occupation and survival, the first exchange of prisoners finally took place and 215 fighters, including Ptashka (Birdie) and pregnant women returned home.


After that story, Kateryna Polishchuk was referred to as Birdie from Steel – the symbol of indomitable spirit. As she sings for a better day, we sing with her for the end of war.


@Garmasiyglass


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Renzolla 
Libby Bove

Retelling of The Goat Faced Girl / Renzolla, Italy


There was once a peasant named Masaniello, who was a father to twelve daughters. One day, when out working he was approached by a magical lizard. “Bring me your youngest daughter, Renzolla” she hissed, and I will make it worth your while. Masaniello was afraid that the lizard would surely gobble Renzolla right up, but also felt that if he should refuse, it would be him that would serve as the lizard’s supper. The next morning he returned with Renzolla in hand, and the lizard bestowed him with plentiful riches.


Renzolla was raised in the lizard’s cave. One day, the king came to visit and it was with just one look he knew that knew that he was in love. The lizard agreed that he could take Renzolla’s hand in marriage and off she went to live in the Royal castle, leaving without any mention of thanks to the lizard. To punish Renzolla for her lack of gratitude, the lizard cast a spell which turned her beautiful face into that of a goat. The king, angry upon seeing Renzolla’s new face, locked her up in a turret of the castle, and set her to work spinning flax and training animals.  "If only you were more grateful" the king would often say, “then the lizard may reverse the spell.”


Whenever Renzolla caught a flash of her features in a bowl of water or reflected in others eyes, she did not feel sadness or regret. Looking into her own yellow eyes, thick tufted jaw and protruding ears she felt proud of her strength and resilience. Should she repent to the Lizard, so she may return to her human form? Never. She would not be made to feel gratitude for what had been forced upon her. She would not be grateful for what she did not want.


@Libby.bove.arts


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The Magic Ointment
Annie Randall

Les Fees des Houles, Northern Brittany, France


One spring day, a young man ventures into his field to check on his four beloved cows, but finds them weak and unable to stand. He despairs for the worst, frightened of how this can be. He slumps to the ground, distraught. From the corner of his eye, a woman appears. He asks if she’s a fae. “Yes”, she responds. “Follow me and I’ll give you something that will heal your animals.”


They walk down a stony path to the beach, reaching a small cave. She rubs an ointment on his eyes. Suddenly she ages, becoming heavily wrinkled; a mass of green seaweed growing around her face. The other, older folk around him become young. Everything transforms - rocks into chairs, dust into velvet carpet.


He has heard of such fae-women, and is greeted by them with utmost hospitality and care. Immortal, and led by wise faery-matriarchs, they are immune to ill-health and are shape-shifters, transforming between young and old age according to the phases of the moon, or into animals such as porpoises. His fae-guide gives him a small glass vial, and says, “Use this on your cows. They will heal and be healthy for years to come, but never use on yourself or anything else. You must promise to never reveal this secret.”


Overwhelmed by their power, knowledge and kindness, he stumbles out of the cave and back to his cows. He uses the balm, as advised, and the four cows are as healthy as healthy could be for years to come.


One day, he reflects on the miracle that betook him. He remembers the faeries, their wonderful realm, and decides to go back. Ignoring their warning, he uses the balm on his eyes, hoping to join their world once more. Arriving at the cave, he finds the faeries mid-party; silhouettes of dancing figures lighting up the stone entrance. Singing, violins and flutes fill the air. He rushes in and is swirled around by various faery hands. But they know he transgressed their advice.


A young faery takes him by the hand, and ‘argh!’, pops his eyes out. Alive, but blind, he is unable to see the faeries anymore.


@Artivist_ran / Annierandallart.com


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Vixana of Vixen Tor
Rachael Milliner


Vixana of Vixen Tor, Dartmoor, Devon, England


Vixana of Vixen Tor

A tale similar to many others,

Of a Witch forced out of her home,

Distrusted for her difference,

The love of her sisters,

Using the lessons learned from her mother,

and her grandmother,

and her great grandmother,

she made potions from the land for the ailing.

fear began to spread about where her skills really came from.

In hushed tones villagers whispered about dark magic.

That she made deals with the pixies and fairies,

That she was a threat.

As hatred swelled Vixana fled the village through marshland and hid in a cave at the bottom of a tor.

The fairies that lived in the surrounding bog took pity on her and vowed to keep her safe.

Occasionally a wanderer would happen upon the tor and fearing she would be found the fairies would conjure a thick fog to confuse them.

As they attempted to find their way many would lose sight of the path and fall into the bog.

The fairies would delight at this as they gained a new dance partner and they would keep the wanderers dancing with them, sometimes for many days.

Stories began to circulate in the village about a local tor where people went missing.

The elders of the village began to tell tales of the Witch Vixana they never caught all those years ago.

Fueled by misinformation and hatred a young man from the village set out to find Vixana and end her story once and for all.

He made a deal with the fairies, that he would dance until dawn,

tricking them into believing he was just a wanderer,

and then,

as the dawn light stretched across the moor,

he found Vixana sleeping in her cave.

He picked her up and threw her into the bog.

Her body sunk deep into the marshland,

condemned forever to be submerged.


@Rjmilliner


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Weiße Frauen Pot
Amber Bardell

Weiße Frauen, Germany


Gently lighting up a clearing in these dark woods, a serene quiet is broken only by the soft humming of little flies. Their glassy flitting wings are mirrored in smiling eyes: Weiße Frauen are there, the sources of lightness. Two ethereal figures moving swiftly just above the ground, with a conscious care for all that grows around them. They possess nothing but wisdom and a kind of tranquil, careless beauty that comes with it.


Infrequent interactions with local villagers end in shameful doubting of the Weiße Frauen. Each meeting seems to suspiciously play out to their malicious expectations of the creatures who are mostly shrouded in mystery. Sometimes we encourage the worst outcome simply by expecting it, and reputations can be hard to break. The thing that brings the most wonder to these unfortunately disdained beings is their total lack of acknowledgement for this reputation. They have much greater priorities: keeping ancient traditions alive, acting as guardians for the natural world, and soaking up sun rays to keep them bright in the night.


Though it is rare, if you come across one of these eleven spirits, you may find that they are gracious, friendly and giving. They can be custodians for connecting us to illuminating ancestral pathways through the dark nights within us all.


@Amberbardell / Ambergwak.wixsite.com/mysite


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The Goddess of the Silver Wheel
Angharad Iris

The Goddess of the Silver Wheel, Wales


The story of Arianrhod features in the fourth branch of the Welsh collection of stories, known as The Mabinogian - dating back in the Welsh oral form to the 4th century BC. The Mabinogian was not set in written form until the early medieval period, and because of this, the recounted story of Arianrhod was written within the confines of the patriarchal tongue, a far cry from the depth of the ancient Goddess worshiping societies in which she may have originally rooted from.


Arianhrod’s story is one of the womb mysteries, old wives’ tales and magik. Her story is rooted in the ancient Welsh women’s traditions of the past. This is quite a contradiction to the Arianhrod who is at the mercy of her tormentors in the Mabinogion - undergoing humiliating deception by her Uncle and the men who exert power over her throughout the folk tale.


Arianhrod is the embodiment of fertility and sexual autonomy - a ‘virgin’ goddess in the ancient meaning of the word virgin - a woman who is complete unto herself; a woman who needs no protection from a man. Shame is a huge thread running through the written story, as a potential Christianised forewarning to the women who may be ‘tempted’ to delve into the ‘sinful’, and ‘shameful’ display of sexual prowess and free will.


Here is a free form written piece, in homage to Arianhrod. (A retelling of -) The Goddess of the Silver Wheel, Arianhrod.

Lost to the times of a forgotten past, From the depth of her mighty womb, The web of wyrd, Arianhrod, Spins her destiny. For these are the times where the sea, And coastal bodies lie under threat, Torn from their suckling breasts, Mothers stricken with grief, And therein lies the web, In tender embrace, To find a home, in the spinning, In the thread. It is in this destiny, Like a great net, Cast along the port, To bring back life from the bottom of the seas, To be reborn in the high winds of the rocky waters. For she is free unto herself,

Goddess of the moon, Spinner of the Silver Wheel, Weaving stories of old, For the daughters of new, To hold the precious learnings of life, In all her hardship, In all her grace. And in the hardship - You must soften, in your resilience, In your fight, To yield armor - Armor finely crafted from wool, On a battlefield, that must cease to make pathways, Free from confinement, Free from threat. Oh sister of Gwydion, Oh sister of Gilfaethwy - May you be blessed with the magik of Arianhrod, May you weave your destiny on the spindle, Drop the thread and spin, spin, spin.

@Angharad_iris / @Witch_weaver_


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Hedgelings: Hare, Mother, Sparrow
Emily Unsworth White


The Glastonbury Thorn, Somerset, England


On the longest and shortest days of our year, the Glastonbury Hawthorn flowers and has done for the last 2000 years. Her white garlands make bright the darkest night. Her twisted strong arms hold up the sky.

Our hawthorn flowers in May alongside her maiden sisters. Celebrated for her fertility, when her white garlands appear it is time to undress, feel the sun and be joyful. Pollinators take stock in her generous flowers as do humans who ingest them as a medicine for the soul. On the densley spiked branches from which these blooms dance, a labyrinth to the otherworld can be followed. As all white flowering trees, she is protected by the faerie folk and none dare to cause her harm. Weaponised during the enclosure act to keep out and keep in, she resists by mothering the hedge creatures. Nestled in her thorns animals care for their young and make safe passage. In late summer her small red fruits feed the skies, humans consume them to aid the troubles of a beating heart.

It is fabled that here Joseph of Arimathea’s staff took root to the ground and the sapling was instructed to flower on Christ’s day of birth. It is known that Cromwell’s men cut her down, for her powerful femininity was a threat to the order of the land.

From the stump up, our wise Hawthorn grew again and this time with double the branches to nurture the creatures, hold up the sky and bright the deepest winter night.


                                                                                  @Emily_molinaux / Emilyunsworthwhite.com


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The Swan Maidens
Miranda Collis


The Swan Maidens, England


A hunter would often spend the whole night, deep in a forest, stalking the deer and laying traps for game. It happened that one night he heard a whirring of wings high up in the air, so he strung his bow. What he thought was a flock of ducks, were seven swans. And to his amazement, as he crawled closer to the nearby lake, seven ‘maidens’ clad in feathery robes alighted on the banks of the lake, derobing as they plunged into the waters.

They laughed, bathed and sang. The hunter crumbled at the sight of them; especially the youngest, for she pleased him the most. He crept to the bank and took her dress of plumage back with him to the bushes. The swan maidens eventually returned to the earth to fetch their feathers, six of the eldest found theirs but the youngest couldn’t. They searched until the dawn declared its entrance (in the twilight strips of blood in the sky) 

“We must away; tis’ soon the dawn; you meet your fate whatever it be,” said the older sisters as they held each other. The youngest reassured them of her return, to the “east of the sun, west of the moon”, and so with that, the others donned their robes and flew away. The hunter came forward after hiding her robe and offered his cloak. Deceiving her into safety, and later marriage and love. Over the following years the maiden became a mother.

One day, as her daughter was hiding being the wainscoting in a game of hide and seek, she found a feathery robe. She stroked it and rubbed it on her face, beginning to cry. She took it straight to her mother, who plunged the both of them into the sky, toward the Land East of the Sun and West of the moon.



@Mirandajaynecollis


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The Bean-Nighe
Hazel Irons


A Retelling of The Bean-Nighe, Scotland


The Bean-Nighe, otherwise known as the little washer of the ford, is a feminine spirit found in the Scottish Highlands and Islands often regarded as the omen of death. It is said she can be found at highland streams and pools washing the blood from the clothes and linens of those about to die. If you believe she is near, you must not look, for when you do, your fate is sealed.

The Bean-Nighe is known far and wide amongst different Celtic communities, each with its own differences and localised folklore. Throughout them all, however, it is widely considered that Mnathan-Nighe are the spirits of women whose lives were lost during childbirth. Having passed before their time, they are cursed to act as messengers of the otherworld until their natural life span would have come to an end. Some believe their fate could have been avoided if their own linens had been washed upon their passing. The act not having been completed due to their unforeseen deaths damned them to finish the task themselves posthumously.

Throughout history omens of death have been perceived as ill-fated warnings, to be feared and avoided at all costs. For this, the existence of the Bean-Nighe is a lonely one, left to grieve the life and child she never knew and toil alone until another receives her same fate. But this cautionary tale does not cater to the souls of those who walk toward their endings with open arms. In this retelling, we explore the fate of a young woman, Inghean, whose choice it was to seek out the Bean-Nighe of her own accord.

Anticipating that she too will not survive the birth of her child after an unendurable pregnancy, she seeks out the Bean-Nighe in hopes of finding assurance and peace within her fate. Upon seeing the spirit is the mother she herself lost in infancy, she blames her own existence for her kismet and seeks to alleviate her mother of her duty as atonement for her sin. She brings the cloth to her own hands in attempts to strip her burden but the Bean-Nighe, long past having held memories of her own mortal life, is unaware of Ingheans identity. She sees this woman as any other, undeserving of her fate, and works tirelessly so that together they may complete the task, no blemish left unseen to, to relieve the daughter she never knew of any and all unfinished business going into the afterlife, so that she may be granted the rest in death the spirit herself was not.


@hazelirons


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Eldermother
Sally Dove


‘Never burn an Elder’, Celtic Mythology, UK


I found the voice of the Elder Mother when I was stumbling around in the liminal…it is where she grows…actually it is where all of us grow; the edgelands, the hedgerow, the forgotten fringes.

We are the living conduit to the wisdom in women’s bones.

Listen and remember..

My sisters and I, we dance, that is what it means to be rooted at the brink of the dimensions.

We are the elder mothers, the elder trees, your elders.

We run with the sap of earth and stars.

Our roots draw water which has bled through rock and root, crystal and decay. As it courses through our bony fingers, we see with the eyes of the ancients.

Wicked men overlaid our sisters sage knowing, with stories to strike fear in common folk. All this whilst hunting down our human witch-sisters; the medicine keepers and edge-dwellers of old time. So many deaths and we remember them all.

When we shed our leaves we do not forget, we merely make a blanket for memories to bed into our roots.

We are ‘the beginning in the end, the end in the beginning’*. Within the depths of time and each step of life, we watch, protect, warn and bless. We shed honeydew tears, confetti flowers and offer up dark, dark berries. The dark in the light, the light in the dark. Sparkle and syrup, fritter and wine, soothe and salve.

Tune into us, your Elder mother-sisters, and you tune into the deep, sensory, healing kindness of nature herself.

Your dreaming tends to us.

You paint and write for us and we are grateful.

We are teaching you to see in the dark.

You know that is where the jewels are.




Story written in collaboration with Sarah Mooney

*Quote from The Sacred Tree by Glennie Kindred

@Sallydove / Sallydove.co.uk

@sarahmooneystories