‘These stars to whom none gave their due’: Fairy and astrolatry

The Nebra Sky Disk (first millennium BCE, previously estimated c. 1600 BCE)

On stellar spirits and the gods in the stars

This is a “Goblin Market” of an article which has sat down in my drafts, unfleshed and unformed, for a little while, and has been long in the making. Now that I am releasing it, I am second-guessing its content, its relevance, its public platforming. I was initially hoping to release it before my article on Aldebaran as Fairy Knight. I mentioned previously, in this article, how “that Faery concerns itself with matters of the stars and star-worship – this much I know and have no doubt about.” The ‘starrytelling’ of Fairy is something I feel much concerned about, much preoccupied and inspired by.

In the aforementioned paper, I went on to allude briefly to the nature of my research, and the way this new influence translated practically :

“Since 2020, my quest for the gods and spirits of (or in ?) the stars led me to a quest for the “gods of the gods” of my own spiritual family, which resulted in a personal cosmology oftentimes expanding with surprising conclusions : evidences of the fae having a “star religion” or engaging in “star worship” have strongly reaffirmed my primal interest in astrology, as well as fueled a growing obsession for the lore of fixed stars in general, while encouraging ongoing practices of astrolatry as part of my own magical inclinations. […] Embroiled as I am in a complex matrix of pacts and contracts with the Pale Ones, [I have] been told by multiple astrologers, to my great bewilderment, that it shows. How traces of Faery can be seen in the natal wheel, and traced in the night sky, has since then become a niche interest of mine.”

I wish now to elaborate on the idea, and recount a little about how it all came to be, for it raises a lot of questions – and I do not have all the answers.

What are these “evidences” I am talking about, and how did I came upon them ? Are they to be found in the lore, in fairy tales, in the secret congress I hold with my closest allies ? Perhaps all – but, if so, are they really evidences, or could my own UPG be validated by other external resources and/or professional practitioners ? Would it even prove relevant, important, or crucial, to other people than me ? Who are the ‘gods of the gods’ ? How to bridge the gap with traditional astrology ? Is it really possible to map out, and interpret, traces of fairy in the nativity ?

Dwelling on, reflecting about, and pondering the matter of fairy beings being star born astrolaters, shaped my path and practice and invited it unto a new, unanticipated spirit-led trajectory, in fact, into unchartered territory proper – where any nugget of knowledge extracted is akin to gold unearthed from a deep undersea cave, and there is a reason the night sky as a primordial starry ocean is such an important metaphor for me. Interestingly enough, other astrolaters, such as Ivy Senna, also found in the parallels existing between the sea and the heavens some comforting metaphors.

Good friends ask probing questions, and Ivy recently asked me about the stars I relate to the most narratively, both on a mundane and spiritual level. This caused pause for reflection, in such a way as I feel is related to the writing of this article. I explained that, when it comes to the stars, my lack of traditional astrological knowledge renders me wary of projecting too much, and listening not enough. I am no astrologer, barely a student, and I am conscious of how this is a massive drawback in my understanding of things. Thus I keep to what I know – Fairy – as the anchor, the backbone and foundation of my craft, and am grateful for all the voices, such as Sasha Ravitch or Amaya Rourke, for mapping out this new landscape.

Starrytelling has rocked my world and my certainties upside down, not the least of which because it is scary. It is scary to be seen and witnessed, just as much as it is necessary – here was also my story, embedded in the sky, in its myths, in a way I could immediately understand and relate to on an intuitive level, without as much pre-coding and encrypting as in the natal wheel.

This is an ongoing research, and one I am hoping to flesh out better under appropriate guidance, but I seem to keep being fortunate in the people I meet, the spirits I talk to, and the resources I encounter. A caveat : I can only pretend knowing of the ways of Fairy according to their dwelling in Celtic lands, and even then, only humbly speaking from the place of my own, small experience with Them, that is far from universal or even just the safest; most recommended way of interacting and cultivating relationships with Them. I would also specify that, while I do have extensive pacts with the Othercrowd, it is never my place, nor anyone’s, to speak of the Gentry out of terms, or reveal Their secrets, and display hubris or blanket statements.

Fairies are often presented as subterranean beings (and it is true that they are thought to dwell in hollow hills or burial mounds). We could quote Robert Kirkbride, who wrote The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies – and was perhaps taken by the Good Neighbours for it : “There be many places called fairy hills which the mountain people think impious and dangerous to peel or discover by taking earth or wood from them, superstitiously believing the souls of their predecessors to dwell here.” Kirkbride equally briefly discusses the “astral bodies” of the fairies, made of “congealed air”, which are “best seen at twilight”. But there is an astrological concept, when it comes to the stars, that I feel may illuminate the nature of this subterranean dwelling, and his the cornerstone of the research of my esteemed friend Sasha, as is further outlined in her AstroMagia keynote, “The Shining Ones : Folklore’s Spirits and Fixed Stars” – that of parans relationships. In her Book of Fixed Stars, Bernadette Brady thus writes :

“In reconstructing the way in which the sky and stars were possibly used in astrology, we cannot simply search out the original stories and meanings and apply modern techniques to their use. The first important step is to understand the original methodologies that were used by our ancient predecessors [notice the use, here again, of the word ‘predecessors’].
As already mentioned, the mathematical system used by the ancient star gazers is what is called parans. It is a simple concept. Imagine that you have a 360° clear view of the horizon and let it be a starry night. If you look eastward you will see stars rising. They will be rising on half the circle of the horizon, not just due east. As you watch a star that is rising northeast of you, there may be, at the same time, another star in the southeast also rising. The two stars rising simultaneously are said to have a paran relationship (see figure 3, below), aspecced by the horizon line which is the straight line that joins the stars together. Similarly, a star may be rising as a star is setting. These two stars are also in paran relationship.”

This starry dance of stars rising and setting both above and below, mirroring each other in a perfect sphere, is a striking image merging together Heaven and Earth, Sky and Land, and is dear to my heart because of the way it complements Gaelic / Gaulish cosmology against the Three Realms of Land, Sea and Sky, or Middle, Under/Other and Upper Worlds, being inextricably linked, and the ways in which these overlap. In my own visions, the dark shape of fairy mounds against a twilight backdrop – a bell jar with starry night enclosed, akin to a snowball, each frozen snowflake a sparkling star of the purest white-gold -, is a recurring omen.

The Matter of Astronomy and Astrology in Celtic Lands

While many people will be aware of monuments such as Stonehenge, one of the reasons why we are seemingly progressing in the dark when it comes to star lore as was understood by the Celts, is that we know of little to no surviving astronomical or astrological evidences from neither Gaelic nor Gaulish lands. Part of the explanation, of course, falls back to the lack of written records left behind by the Celts themselves as a whole, for they had a well known distrust, and a certain defiance, towards the written medium, particularly when it came to their religious beliefs and ritual practices. Indeed most of what, and how, I was taught myself, was done orally, or, when the written medium was involved (my mentor and I conversing online), by deleting any traces behind us afterwards.

There is, however, proof of the Celts’ famous astronomical knowledge in various records from their contemporaries, mainly, Greek and Roman (and thus, non-indigenous) populations. To say that these pre-historians had genuine ethnographical preoccupations, however, would be going a step too far, and their accounts and records are laced with cultural bias and/or hidden agendas – we might recall as a point of comparison, for example, how most of what we know of Irish mythology was preserved down by monks of the VIIIth to XIIth centuries – in other words, people of a different faith and of a different time.

Julius Caesar, who was an invader and imperial force in the lands of continental Celts, writes of the druids (the literate and religious upper class of what used to be Gaul) in De Bello Gallico (The Gallic Wars, also recently translated as The Conquest of Gaul and written between 58 and 49 BC) :

“It is said that they commit to memory immense amounts of poetry, and so some of them continue their studies for twenty years. They consider it improper to commit their studies to writing, although they use the Greek alphabet for almost everything else. […] They have also much knowledge of the stars and their motion, of the size of the world and of the earth, of natural philosophy, and of the powers and spheres of action of the immortal gods, which they discuss and hand down to their young students […], and in reckoning birthdays and the new moon and new year, their unit of reckoning is the night followed by the day.”

Multiple elements ought to strike us here : the literate class’s “immense knowledge of the stars and their motion”, of “the powers and spheres of action of the immortal gods”, and of their reckoning of birthdays, new moon and new year as being defined first by night and then by day, are important clues. But rather that in the words of the winners of history, such hidden knowledge has a way of surviving under different circumstances through the mouth and breath of the populations themselves. Little bit of such knowledge of the stars, for example, may have survived in folk traditions – whether reconstructed or not. This was the opinion of Victorian folklorist Marie Tevelyan, who gathered together many indigenous references to constellation names in her book Folk-Lore and Folk-Stories of Wales. Recording traditional Welsh beliefs, she discusses aspects of star mythology (or mythology as relating to the stars) :

“The Via Lactea, or Milky Way, is known to the Welsh as Caer Gwydion or Gwydion’s Circle, and the other constellations are as follows: the Northern Crown is the Circle of Arianrod; the Lyre is Arthur’s Harp; the Great Bear is Arthur’s Plough-tail; Orion is Arthur’s Yard; the Pleiades is the group of Theodosius; Cassiopeia’s Chair is the Circle of Don; the Ecliptic is the circle of Sidi; the Twins is the Large Horned Oxen. The rest are named thus: the Smaller Plough-handle, the Great Ship, the Bald Ship, the Triangle, the Grove of Blodenwedd, the Chair of Teyrnon, the Chair of Eiddionydd, the Conjunction of a Hundred Circles, the Camp of Elmer, the Soldier’s Bow, the Hill of Dinan, the Eagle’s Nest, Bleiddyd’s Lever, the Wind’s Wing, the Trefoil, the Cauldron of Ceridwen, the Bend of Teivi, the Great Limb, the Small Limb, the Great Plain, the White Fork, the Woodland Boar, the Muscle, the Hawk, the Horse of Llyr, Elffyn’s Chair, and Olwen’s Hall.”

This fascinating account proposes alternative names and functions to the constellations we have come to know from Hellenic astrology. Further interpretations are discussed at large also by Mabinogion Astronomy, which comments, in particular, Lady Charlotte Guest’s translation of the Mabinogion (and her association with Taliesin Williams, son of Iolo Morganwg, after whose’s death it was discovered he had forged several manuscripts to support his research – a controversy briefly discussed by author Chris Pinard in his article ‘King Arthur’s Wain: Constellations of the British Celts‘).

Regardless of the historical authenticity of such sources (which is the great tragedy plaguing Celtic scholarship, yet still, in my eyes, less relevant or important than whether or not these endeavours mirror practical truths as taught by the spirits – and a big reason why I am persona non grata in many Recons spheres, for poetic truths informed by art and visions and dreams and trances and direct spirit communications hold as much value to me as rigorous academia), re-chartering the night sky to better suit one people’s cosmological understanding is an endeavor I am familiar with by virtue of my associations with Gaulish polytheism, where similar attempts were performed. The Gaulish Reconstructionist tradition Bessus Nouiogalation, in an article called ‘Trasnemos Galatis’ (literally, “Gaulish Astronomy”), thus proposes a collective Gaulish re-interpretation of ‘naked eye’ astronomy, and a path towards astrolatry, by seeing the stars and constellations (“consseriâ“) as the bodies of gods, heroes, and mythological figures of Gaul. The equivalences below are given for reference :

“Andromeda – Cammâ (Gaulish heroine)
Argo Navis – Mârolongos (Great Ship)
Aquarius – Alaunâ (A Dêuâ)
Aquila – Etros Taranês (Eagle of Taranis)
Ara – Carnâ (Altar, in this case stacked stones)
Aries – Moltos (Ram)
Auriga – Eponâ (A Dêuâ)
Boötes – Moltatis (Shepherd)
Cancer – Crancos (Crab)
Canis Major – Cû Sucelli (Hound of Sucellos)
Canis Minor – Colignos (Lap Dog)
Capricorn – Morigabros (Sea Goat)
Cassiopeia – Rosmertâ (A Dêuâ)
Centaurus – Uanderos (Centaur)
Cepheus – Ambicatus (Gaulish King from legend)
Centus – Morimilon (Whale)
Corona Australis – Samorix (Summer King […])
Corona Borealis – Giamorix (Winter King […])
Corvus – Catuboduâ (A Dêuâ)
Crater – Annâ (Cup)
Cyngus – Elârci (Swan)
Delphinus – Morimoccus (Dolphin, lit. Sea Pig […])
Draco – Angos (Dragon)
Equuelus – Epilos (Little Horse)
Eridanus – Abonâ Ðirânon (River of Stars)
Gemini – Iunoi (Twins)
Hercules – Ogmios (A Dêuos)
Hydra – Andangianos (Eneny of Taranis, our own idea)
Leo – Lugus (A Dêuos)
Lepus – Casnos (Hare)
Libra – Talos (Balance)
Lupus – Bledinos (Wolf)
Lyra – Crottos (Lyre)
Ophiuchus – Natrix Carnoni (Serpent of Carnonos)
Orion – Aisus (A Dêuos)
Pegasus – Epos Etrontos (Winged Horse)
Perseus – Loucetios (A Dêuos)
Pisces – Esoges (Salmon)
Piscis Australis – Esoges Dexsiuî (Southern Salmon)
Sagitta – Isos (Arrow)
Sagittarius – Belenos (A Dêuos)
Scorpio – Scorpios (Scorpion)
Serpens – Natrix Ðironiâs (Serpent)
Taurus – Taruos (Bull)
Triangle – Triocelon (Triangle)
Ursa Major – Andarta (A Dêuâ)
Ursa Minor – Artiû (A Dêuâ)
Virgo – Nemetonâ (A Dêuâ)”

Moreover, the idea of the Gundestrup cauldron, a richly decorated artefact and archeological treasure mostly known for its depiction of an antlered being interpreted as Gaulish god Cernunnos or Carnonos (the “Horned One”); potentially depicting some sort of a Zodiac wheel, has also been floated in academical debate and is certainly an attractive hypothesis.

Michel-Gérald Boutet argues, in his article ‘On Ancient Celtic Astrology and Naked Eye Astronomy – The Gundestrup Cauldron‘ (2017), that “our understanding of zodiacal stellar symbolism is but a “cultural construct.” For instance, when one looks at the vastness of the night sky, all one sees is an infinity of pin point specks of light. Connecting the bright dots into a recognizable pattern is truly an exercise of imagination. […] Therefore, the way stars and planets are grouped and charted is a strong cultural indicator on how the world is viewed and explained. […] Nomenclature for astral bodies and star clusters varies not only with time and age but also from one linguistic culture to another. Henceforth, it is possible to date and rank constellations by their mythological themes and motifs.” (Boutet goes on debunking the Celtic Tree Zodiac of Robert Graves, which is always a welcome reprieve.)

From Michel-Gérald Boutet’s article “On Ancient Celtic Astrology and Naked Eye Astronomy – The Gundestrup Cauldron” (2017)

Boutet is certainly a scholar convinced of the legitimacy of this theory, and exposes in his article how, according to him, “the Gundestrup Cauldron is a visual representation of the annual cycle and the skies depicting and charting the major constellations, stars, and planets known to the Celts in early Antiquity. Truly, it is a compendium of the astronomical science of the Celtic Druids. This can be further corroborated by the study of imagery and symbolism displayed on Celtic coinage. Again, the cauldron’s iconography perfectly agrees with linguistic data recovered from the Gallic Coligny Calendar.”

Boutet here alludes to the Spoked Wheel that is a prevalent Gaulish symbol (though the number of spoke varies greatly from ne depiction to another), a tempting parallel to the natal wheel. But any definitive conclusion on the Celts, especially one informed from the study of just one Celtic population (ignoring local variances), ought to alert us, and Boutet is thus no exception to the muddy waters of Celtic academia. While I have found certain of his conclusions useful in my practice, and aligned with my experiences of the gods and stars, some others are oddly discordant, and etymology never is a definitive way to solve an archeological puzzle. Fittingly, however, Boutet also remarks how the Cauldron as a symbol is a recurring pattern in Celtic mythologies (our plural – it matters), quoting as an example one of the myths pertaining to the Tuath Dé – the mythological race of divine beings in Ireland : “One of the four ritual objects of the godly Tuatha Dé Danann was brought from Murias (Land of the Black Sea?) [the others being a sword, a spear, and a stone, all associated with specific members of the Tribe – our note]. If we are to extract any astronomical information from the Celtic cultural database, the way to go is through an in depth analysis and exegesis of their art.” – to which we would always caution against reaching conclusions that look with a modern filter, values, and principles, to artefacts of the past.

Similarly, in a paper called ‘Early Irish Astrology : An Historical Argument‘, author, historian and novelist Peter Berresford Ellis writes :

“The constellation of Leo was known as An Corran, which means a reaping hook. Next time you look at Leo note the sequence of brighter stars rising above Regulus in the shape of a back-to-front question mark ‘?’which consequently resembles a sickle. Mars was called An Cosnaighe or ‘the defender’. Venus was identified by at least three or four ancient names, as was Mercury. These survive in modem Manx; The Pole Star was An Gaelin – the beam that lights the way home. The Galaxy or Milky Way was called Bealach na Bo Finne (the way of the white cow). Of the sun and moon we have a surprisingly extensive vocabulary in Old Irish. There are five names for the sun and six for the moon, all native concepts.
Perhaps it is superfluous to add that these terms were also backed by the necessary mathematical technical jargon required for the practice of astronomy and astrology. One should point out that while this vocabulary still survives in Irish, the English equivalents are loan words from Greek, Latin and Arabic. When the Greco-Latin ideas took firmer hold on the Irish perceptions, we note a change in the vocabulary. Native ideas of planets and zodiacal signs began to be dropped in favour of the Greco-Latin concepts and these were, at first, simply translated into Irish. For example: Aries became An Rea or Reithe, a translation of ram (aries = Latin for ram and so on); thus the constellation of Cancer was known as An Portán, the crab. There being no concept of lion in Old Irish the word used for Leo here was Cú – a large hound; while Virgo was Oighbhean, a young girl; Capricorn became Pocán, the goat; Sagittarius was An Saighead, an archer or soldier, and so on. We can perceive areas where the native and imported concepts ran side by side for Orion was named An Selgaire Mhór (The Great Hunter) but the Belt of Orion was called Buaile an Bhodaigh (enclosure or belt or the enlightened).”

He adds :

“In Old Irish there were at least seven words for an astrologer. Rollagedagh (one who gains knowledge from the stars), fisatóir (one who gains knowledge from the heavens) – still found in Manx fysseree as a word for philosopher; eastrolach (one who gains knowledge from the moon), fathach (one steeped in prophecy) and an éladoir (one who divinates from the sky), and réalt-eolach (one versed in astrology) and réaltóir. To be pedantic, néladoir is argued as meaning a ‘cloud diviner’ but it is glossed in a 14th Century manuscript as ‘astrologer’ as are all these terms.”

Berresford Ellis goes one step further in his analysis of Irish astronomy by suggesting a close relationship with Vedic knowledge of the stars, or Jyotish :

“To come to our most important question: it is pertinent to ask whether anything can be salvaged of the earliest Irish astrological traditions before the introduction of the Greco-Latin forms? It is still early days to make definite pronouncements but initial researches indicate that the ancient Irish, and, indeed, the ancient Celts, were practicing a predictive form of astrology which paralleled the early Hindu forms, that which we now call Vedic astrology. In other words, a study of linguistic concepts and early cosmological motifs and calendrical philosophies of both Celtic (inclusive of Old Irish) and Sanskrit/Vedic cultures give a path back to the common Indo-European roots of our cultures.
This is not at all surprising. Most readers will be aware of the Indo-European hypothesis and know that, of all the European cultures, Ireland has preserved more links with the Hindu branch of the Indo-European culture than any other western European people. The links between ancient Irish culture and Sanskrit/Vedic culture have been commented on by scholars since the 19th Century. […] As early as 1895 Dr Heinrich Zimmer had observed corresponding cosmological perceptions in the earliest surviving Celtic calendar, that of Coligny, and Vedic cosmology.”

Though we must be aware of Berresford Ellis’ own bias and approximations – being the author of the now infamous Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends – his attempts at fleshing out a system that is neither Greek, Roman, or Vedic, intrigues us.

In Practice : Walking the Starry Road

In Gaelic cosmology, the Sea is the land (sic) of the Otherworld and there can be, at times, a merging of the horizon and a confusion of the Sea and Sky as beings the domains of the gods. The Irish Tuath Dé, for example, have been said to arrive in Ireland by the coastline, landing in Connaught obfuscated in a magic mist or dark clouds, and it has been speculated in the Lebor Gabála Érenn (‘Book of Invasions’) that they burned their own ships to prevent them from ever living the land. The gods as immigrants speaks to me on a profound level, and has been one of the most profound lessons my mentor imparted on me when highlighting my status as a French native, living in the UK, and learning a branch of traditional Irish cunning craft and fairy seership.

My own attempts at understanding the night sky through these new lenses were facilitated by my devotional relationships to two important, presiding deities. There is, first, the Irish god of the Sea, Manannán Mac Lir, Lord of the Waves, gatekeeper of the Otherworld granting safe passage through the gifting of the silver apple branch, divine mover and shaker of the mist that conceals, and protector of seafarers, sailors, and navigators. And there is the lesser known, but quietly powerful Gaulish goddess Đirona, star-crowned jewel of the night sky and queen of the Heavens, Serpent bearing and crooning goddess craddling a basket of eggs, whom I first understood as a lunar goddess only to be later mystified by her obvious dominion over stars. This dual patronage of Sea and Sky, Heavens and Depths, would frame my entire understanding, future discoveries, and cosmology of fixed stars and constellations, by solidifying the parallel for the integrality of my delvings into astrolatry. In further developping my relationships with these gods and their magic, I started to fall more into star worship and stellar witchcraft, and meet other people having the same inclinations with which to confront my enquiries.

The connexion I am making between Fairy and star worship, is thus primarily informed by the connexions I have made between my gods and their people, our Tribe (without hierarchy), and the night sky. The question of whether or not the Tuath Dé were, themselves, fairies, or if fairies were indeed the Tuath Dé, hiding underground after Christian imperialism, is a rhetorical question for which I have little use in practice – it is my belief and experience that They, we, are all but one tribe, and the dislike and distrust my allies manifest towards Christianity is proof enough. Likewise, parallels between fairies, the dead, the gods, and the ancestors, are equally muddied and fascinating (my friend Red wrote an article attempting to elucidate some of these questions, and I would recommend the joint reading of Mark Williams’ Ireland’s Immortals – GOOD Celtic scholarship – with the excellent paper ‘Hosting the Dead : Thanoptic Aspects of the Irish Sidhe‘, by Tok Thompson, to anyone interested to know more).

Astrolatry : worship of the heavenly bodies

Pictured here is a devotional altar for fixed star Alphard during her heliacal rising season - also called Alpha Hydrae or Cor Hydrae, the Heart of the Water-Serpent, constellation Hydra (2022).

Algol. Alphard. Castor. Acumen. Orion. Alphecca. Aldebaran. Ankaa. Draco. Ursa Major. Andromeda.

These are but some of the stars and constellations I have developped a degree of intimate relationship with, informed by my fairy pacts, and whether by acknowledging existing conjunctions in the birth chart, or forging new ones through witchcraft and grimoire magic. Once again I wish to express how I am no professional astrologer. My worship of the stars is prompted by none other than a spontaneous inclination of the heart, guided by the invisible hand of my gods and spirits, and by a feeling indeed that “these stars of ours do not have their due”. But I am far from the sole astrolater there is, and farther even from the best one – pioneering voices who deserve your recognition, and, more importantly, your acknowledgement of their influence in your craft, and full credit thereof.

Alphecca is perhaps the first individual star to have given me some imagery of itself which was explicitly fairy-related – through the lense of a May Queen / Bealtaine dancing lady, crowned in flowers with petals laced in her hair. I would love to tell that I relate the most to Aldebaran, its boons and struggles, but the truth is that I am nowhere near as noble and intègre. Certainly, its Fairy Knight archetype speaks to me both ways, as Gawain and his Verdant Adversary, for I had to learn how to embody both. It is present at the beginning of my life and at its end as a hearthstone / foundation. Yet there is equally as much of Acumen in me (the Thorn-Star, fairy tree brambled with poison, gouging out the eyes of an impudent on its sharp spikes but piercing in my heart a shelter and making me « a healer with a thorn »). Or Alphard, who to me is a Water Serpent, the adder swimming in the river and the river snaking its way into the terrain like a pulsing vein in the body of the land. Or in Orion, whose goetic howls and cries for a head I hear as he drags his monumental body around the sky, bestowing me his aching right and left shoulders, and whose hunger I hope to appease soon by writing a testament of its influence in the Celtic Head-Cult… Or in Ankaa, as I try to cultivate fire in its purest expression, try and warm the rest of this cold haunted cavern that is my chart, building a hearth of piety and love and resilience, kindled through Brighidine mysteries.

My quest for knowledge and understanding started with the Pleiades, and in attempting to come up with a system relating the seven stars with the seven fairy sisters of grimoire lore and the seven planets (it proved unfruitful, unsubstantiated, and difficult to articulate). I have of course been made aware of the lore of the Watchers angels, and of fairies as fallen stars (a mythological body of lore to which I typically do not subscribe, as this goes against the integrality of my experience with Fairy, reframing it in within an explicitly Christian concept which I reject). Lately, it is the Royal Stars of Persia, and their relationship to taboos and ordeals of the Others, that have been in much of my thoughts.

My dear friend, mentor and esteemed Fairy Physicker colleague Lailoken and I, had a number of talks about fairy beings having a star religion / worship of the cosmos – comparing notes and experiences, and in particular pertaining to the relationship our Cousins cultivate with processed iron (which They abhorr) VS « star » iron (extraterrestrial / meteoric iron ore).

The question of fairies and iron is a deceptively complex one. Folklore teaches us that the Others abhorr iron, yet some accounts talk of silver or gold as well (or instead), depending on the type of spirits and the region, having arguably the same effect. We know cutting a plant with an iron tool does ‘burn’ it – the plant may show signs of trauma, and the act itself may occasionnally impact the growth back. Yet some of these very plants and beings will ask for their share of our blood, and do not seem repelled by the iron (ferric oxyde) within it – though I have known many a fairy practitioner to be anemic (yours truly included). Likewise, I have no trouble with the iron ore stone, nor with various, raw iron staining pigments drawn from the earth, such as ochres for example. No definitive, no easy way out nor clear cut, no one size-fits all, end all-be all answer exists. The Others as a rule of thumb display remarkable distrust or dislike of refined or processed metals, and of iron in particular. As to why that is, I have been inclined to infer this is in part due to the very transformed nature of the metal as a product of human civilization, which rises with the invention of metallurgy, that is being inherently hostile to the willful, mercurial and, yes, wild (read : untamed, raw, precisely unprocessed) nature of our Cousins. But that is not all there is to it, because we do know Them to be accomplished smiths of Their own, and many a Tuath Dé bear association with the art of the Forge, producing wonders such as the silver arm of Nuada. My interpretation leans heavily onto my experience, which is that it has to do with Right Relationships – with the land itself, and between its inhabitants seen and unseen.

Lailoken was the first to alert me to the unicity of star-iron, inferring that it might be sacred to Them. Our conclusions led us to think that, rather than the material itself, it is the human taming and smithing of iron which is like a perversion to Them. Lailoken posited that our Cousins seem to hold so much of a reverence for the material itself, that even a ‘perverted’ form of it is something they respect too greatly to fight. My friend came across an article discussing the fact that researchers believe virtually all iron used up into the early Iron Age was meteoric in origin, and thus we are exploring why the rise of iron smelting might have been seen as offensive to Them as the perversion of a sacred, holy materia of Theirs.

This all amazingly was further corroborated by another friend of mine, Sfinga, who supplemented pretty complementary Balkan lore around meteoric iron/star-iron, and zmaj and vila lore. She writes :

“Meteorites, fulgurites, moldavites, various materia that represent a violent piercing of the sky of iron (above the castle of Perun upon the world mountain or tree) are deeply sacred to dragons, representing the ways in which they fall from the stars that are their physical bodies or markers of their own realms/societies into ours to marry their brides and grooms. In magic to leave the body and shed the serpent skins, meteorites help one ascend, while fulgurites help one descend – we can see this all over the folklore in which a female sorceress or bride of a dragon must construct shoes made of meteorites and a distaff or walking staff as well in order to visit the Pleaides or the Houses of the Mothers of the Sun, Moon, and Wind, three important goddesses in the folk magic. Meteorites are not considered offensive to fairies (there are deep pacts between dragons and fairies, after all) and there are a great many mysteries about the aerial vila spirits and their palaces in the atmosphere under the moon, and the stellar domains of zmaj dragons who rule over weather and ecstatic, sexual ingress into the fertility of the lands. Much of this is played out in Slavic mythology, especially the less-commonly-translated lore on the Mother of the Moist Earth’s relationship with the Thundering Sky Father and the friction born of their mating which allows for dragons to enter this world, marry land spirits or people, and transform our world to resemble their own realms’ hierarchies and fertility patterns.”

Fulgurite being one of the three sacred stones of my strand of fairy doctoring, its magical pairing with star iron / meteorite in fairy rites of star worship made a lot of sense.

Jake Stratton-Kent, well known for his unparalleled contributions to ceremonial magic, also explored the possibility of fairy beings being connected to the stars. In The Testament of St Cyprian the Mage, a subsection called “Chiromancia Astrologica” proposes “an explanation so that we can see their influences; treating constellation by constellation” (the caveat here being that grimoire magic has a tendency to treat anything that is not an angel as a demon, and the reader will thus recognize some of the terminology that is proper to familiar Elizabethan magical texts, such as The Book of Oberon) :

“1 Constellation of Aries, house of Fatua or Fressina, queen of the fairies, always good, but at times seeming bad; presides over births among the people, looks to balance their physical qualities and morals. It compensates qualities with deficiencies, for example: balancing wealth with pride; beauty with conceit and coquetry; wisdom and chastity with complaining; science with pedantry, etc. Rules great men. More good than bad.
2 The house of Melusina, she who every Saturday becomes scaled from her waist to her feet, belongs to the same constellation. She loves mystery, discreet people and teaches how to keep secrets. A benefic star.
3 Constellation of Taurus, is the house of duendes, house demons and wizards, presided over by Aldebaran; rules the superstitious, imbeciles, the credulous and dreamers. Bad star.
4 The house of Salvania belongs to the same constellation, born in the kingdom of suelvas, a species of silfides [alternative form of sylphs]. Watches over agriculture and helps farmers in their work. Its protection is very good.
5 Also pertains to the same, the house of Dexgar, sovereign of mountains. Protects labourers and aids them in their works, but it demands their submission and respect. Good star, but rendered unhappy.
6 Constellation of Gemini, house of Deoinehia, chief of the meadow spirits. Presides over the work and education of herders, especially of horses, and inspires to concord and peace. Excellent star.
7 To the same constellation belongs Deer Foot, the queen of the incubi [sic]. She appears in the form of a comely woman, but conceals beneath her skirts the cloven hoof of a deer. Protects hunters but leads them into illicit and dangerous loves. Bad star.
8 Constellation of Cancer, house of Robin of the Forests, head of the hunting spirits of the night. Rules the furtive ways of thieves, hunters and bad men. Bad star.
9 Constellation of Leo, house of Alfheino, head of the white spirits. Guides the consciences of men in matters of honor and virtue. Excellent star.
10 To the same constellation belongs the house of Svvart [Swart?], great master of the spirits of the night. Leads the spirits of the great and rulers, hindering them from seeing the miseries of the people. Malefic star.
11 Constellation of Virgo, house of Hodeken, white spirit, who does not descend from its star except to distribute assistance to virtuous and chaste people. Very good star.
12 Constellation of Libra, house of Follet, head of the vagabond spirits [Will o’ the wisp, Jack o’ Lantern], that are perfidious, inconstant, voluble and capricious. Malefic star.
13 The same constellation has the house of Tomptogobe. Rules braggarts and makes them strong, also the boastful and all people who make much noise. This star promises many beatings, cudgellings and long life.
14 Constellation of Scorpio, house of Grisu, general of the malignant gnomes. These genies seek to cause bad luck and pitfalls to miners, by means of cave-ins and floods and they appear in horrible forms; rules misers, egoists, ingrates and parricides. Very bad star.
15 To the same constellation belongs Kelpic [sic] which has the form of a horse; and norickar who appears in human form. Inhabiting lakes, seas, rivers and creeks. The declared enemy of fishermen, sailors and all men who work on the waters. Very bad star, it portends an unhappy end.
16 Constellation of Sagittarius, house of the great witch nicneven; she leads in their path all wizards, and transforms good luck to bad. Evil star.
17 Belonging to the same constellation is nika, great master of the nymphs, benevolent spirits, who delight in directing men on the path of honour. Benefic star.
18 Belonging to the same constellation is Amadria, queen of the polar spirits; intelligent and kind, they like to dance beneath the Moon in meadows full of flowers; they rule doctors and direct them to select the best herbs to cure diseases. Good star.
19 Constellation of Capricorn, house of Oldnick [Old Nick], protector of pirates and smugglers, later abandons them to an unhappy fate. Bad star.
20 To the same constellation belongs Dobia, master of ghosts and spectres. He walks in solitary places, and in un-inhabited ruins and houses. Inspires terror and cowardice. Evil star.
21 Constellation of Aquarius, house of Galdrakina or Striga; instructor of wizards in the art of creating philtres. Rules poisoners, procurers of love and fallen women. Evil star.
22 Pertaining to the same constellation is Geirada; a good spirit that exempts those whom it rules of bad luck, curses and other magical weapons used against them. Loves truth and detests superstition and lies. Good star.
23 Constellation of Pisces, house of Annaberge, an evil spirit appearing on Saturdays in the form of a he-goat with gold horns riding upon a fire-breathing horse. Makes incessant war on the young and those that are inept and ignorant in pursuing their craft. Bad star.
24 To the same constellation belongs the house of Puck: the hunter of hell; causing love for men, especially the young. Although a devil, it is a benefic star.”

‘The mermaid that had forsaken the sea’

To conclude on this already far too long exploration of what is still essentially embryonic research and practices, I’d like to share a recent discovery whose mythopoetic beauty filled my heart with awe. The reading of the magnificent novel The King Of Elfland’s Daughter, by Lord Dunsany, is what came closest to an outside confirmation and validation of my research and experiences with the Others when matters of astrolatry and stellar witchcraft are concerned.

In the novel, which tells the epic story of a marriage between a noble prince, Alveric, and none other than the King of Elfland’s daughter, Lirazel, the eponymous character develops a spontaenous inclination for star worship – forbidden by the laws of Christendom which are the laws of her husband’s land. Lirazel feels for the stars a sentiment of unparalleled piety, even prompting her to name their son after one of the most iconic constellations, Orion:

“She sat then by the casement open towards eastern hills, above whose darkening curves she watched the stars. She watched so long that she saw them change their places. For more than all things else that she had seen since she came to these fields of ours she had wondered at the stars. She loved their gentle beauty; and yet she was sad as she looked wistfully to them, for Alveric had said that she must not worship them.
How if she might not worship them could she give them their due, could she thank them for their beauty, could she praise their joyful calm? And then she thought of her baby: then she saw Orion: then she defied all jealous spirits of air, and, looking toward Orion, whom she must never worship, she offered her baby’s days to that belted hunter, naming her baby after those splendid stars.[…]
And all that day Lirazel did nothing that caused anybody to wonder, but let herself be governed by custom and the ways of the fields we know. Only, when the stars came out and Orion shone, she knew that their splendour had not received its due, and her gratitude to Orion yearned to be said. She was grateful for his bright beauty that cheered our fields, and grateful for his protection, of which she felt sure for her boy, against jealous spirits of air. And all her unsaid thanks so burned in her heart that all of a sudden she rose and left her tower and went out to the open starlight, and lifted her face to the stars and the place of Orion, and stood all dumb though her thanks were trembling upon her lips; for Alveric had told her one must not pray to the stars. With face upturned to all that wandering host she stood long silent, obedient to Alveric: then she lowered her eyes, and there was a small pool glimmering in the night, in which all the faces of the stars were shining. “To pray to the stars,” she said to herself in the night, “is surely wrong. These images in the water are not the stars. I will pray to their images, and the stars will know.”
And on her knees amongst the iris leaves she prayed at the edge of the pool, and gave thanks to the images of the stars for the joy she had had of the night, when the constellations shone in their myriad majesty, and moved like an army dressed in silver mail, marching from unknown victories to conquer in distant wars. She blessed and thanked and praised those bright reflections shimmering down in the pool, and bade them tell her thanks and her praise to Orion, to whom she might not pray. It was thus that Alveric found her, kneeling, bent down in the dark, and reproached her bitterly. She was worshipping the stars, he said, which were there for no such purpose. And she said she was only supplicating their images.
We may understand his feelings easily: the strangeness of her, her unexpected acts, her contrariness to all established things, her scorn for custom, her wayward ignorance, jarred on some treasured tradition every day. The more romantic she had been far away over the frontier, as told of by legend and song, the more difficult it was for her to fill any place once held by the ladies of that castle who were versed in all the lore of the fields we know. And Alveric looked for her to fulfil duties and follow customs which were all as new to her as the twinkling stars.
But Lirazel felt only that the stars had not their due, and that custom or reason or whatever men set store by should demand that thanks be given them for their beauty; and she had not thanked them even, but had supplicated only their images in the pool.”

The occult symbolism of Lirazel scrying into the pool in an attempt to develop her own theurgical rites is absolutely striking, and brings to mind obvious images of the seventeenth arcana of the tarot, the card of The Star. It once again connects water as the portal to the Otherworld – that of the gods, of fairies, of the dead, of the ancestors – with the (night) sky of hidden constellations. Lirazel, an elfin princess, is fittingly often compared to “a mermaid that had forsaken the sea”, incapable of worshipping the attributes of the Abrahamic God of her husband, and lamenting over “these stars to whom none gave their due”, spiraling into despair.

Star worship is thus for me, much like for Lirazel, my antidote to despair – to a longing for a home I lost before I was born.