There is a lot to be said about names but it essentially boils down to ‘don’t give your name to the Folk’ and don’t expect them to share theirs with you. So rather than looking at a particular creature this week, I want to share with you some stories about names.
You will remember the story of Lorntie and the mermaid from a few weeks ago - Lorntie may have been less likely to go into the water if the mermaid had not known his name, giving the impression that a woman he knew was drowning.
While it may seem the Folk have many ways of finding out secrets, usually they will not know your name unless you or somebody else are foolish enough to give it to them, or careless enough to say it aloud somewhere they might hear you. Of course, there is always a counter example to everything when it comes to names - including in this case the story of a good doctor who was rewarded by the Folk for his service at a birth by being given a ring - he found his initials engraved on the band.
While the Folk have their own names, mostly unknown to humans, they can be very offended or even be driven away by have their name found out or by being given a name. However, some names are well known - perhaps it is not a true name, or perhaps it does not hold power . Below are four short stories about Brownies (and one ghost!) and names.
Meg Moulach or Maggy Moloch was the name of a Brownie about whom a number of stories are told and we shall come back to her another week. Although many knew her name, no harm ever came to her from it.
In Wales, a Brownie was great friends with a servant girl who had only one fault - her unquenchable curiosity to know his name. When she tricked him into revealing that it was Gwarwyn-a-Throt, he left and she never saw him again.
A Perthshire Brownie used to cause all sorts of mischief at a burn (a large stream) and people were afraid to pass at night, but one evening a man who had had a few drinks was coming home past the burn and called out “hoo is’t with thee noo, Puddlefoot?” and Puddlefoot hated the name, crying “Oh, oh, I have gotten a name. It’s Puddlefoot they call me!” And with that he vanished and was never seen again.
In a similar vein to Puddlefoot, Whittinghame was once haunted by the ghost of a little baby that had been buried without a name, and he ran up and down between the tree at which he was buried and the churchyard, wailing “poor nameless me!” and no one dared speak to him. But late one night, a drunk man, too merry to be afraid, called out to him “How’s a wi’ you this morning, Short Hoggers?” The little ghost was delighted with his name - “O weel’s me noo, I’ve gotten a name, they ca’ me Short-Hoggers o’ Whittinghame!” - and ran joyfully off to Heaven. (Short hoggers was a name for babies’ booties.)
A gnomish mother comforting her child with promises of a king’s heart to play with.
story time
Ainsel
In Northumberland, there once lived a very naughty boy who would not go to bed when it was time to sleep. His mother was worried for she knew the faries were around at night (in Northumberland fairies are called faries, pronounced farries) and it was not safe then, but the boy would not go to bed and one evening his mother left him up and went to bed herself.
The little boy was playing by the fire when down out of the chimney came a little fary girl not much smaller than himself and the prettiest thing he had ever seen. “What do they ca’ thou?” he asked her curiously. “Ainsel,” she answered, “and what do they ca’ thou?”. “My Ainsel”, answered the boy cannily and the two began to play together like any other children.
Presently, because it was night time and cold, the little boy stirred up the fire and when he did so a cinder blew out and burnt little Ainsel on the foot. She set up a wailing quite disproportionate to her tiny size: “Wow! I’m brent, I’m brent!” and from the chimney came a terrible voice: “Wha’s done it? Wha’s done it?” The little boy leapt into bed as an old fary mother came down the chimney.
“My ainsel! My ainsel!” cried the little girl.
“Why then,” said the fary mother, “what’s all this noise for? There’s nyon to blame!” and she kicked Ainsel back up the chimney.
Foul Weather
In Cornwall a story is told about a king from a far off land, who wanted above anything else to build the most grand and beautiful cathedral in all the lands around. Unfortunately, the King had been profligate with his spending and had bankrupted his kingdom, and could not afford to build the cathedral.
He went wandering in the woods puzzling away at his problem, and while there he was approach by a little old man - a gnome - who offered to build the cathedral. The King told the little man he had no money left and asked what the man would charge him.
“I won’t charge you anything at all,” said the little man, “provided you can guess my name before the cathedral is complete!”
“And if I can’t guess your name?” asked the King.
“Well,” said the little man, “then I shall take your heart as forfeit.”
The King thought about this, for truly, he wanted the cathedral very much. And he knew that cathedrals took a long time to build, and he was not a young king, having spent many years emptying his kingdom’s coffers. What were the chances that he would still be alive when the cathedral was completed? Slim, he thought, and dead men have no need for hearts.
The King went home feeling quite happy with himself, and during the day no work happened on the cathedral - but at night, an army of gnomish creatures came out of the forest to work on it. Each day the King desperately tried to think of other things to add to it that night, to give himself one more day of life - for he could think of no way to guess the little man’s name. An extra tower! Different carving on the door! A stained glass window! But eventually he had completely run out of additions and despaired of delaying completion any longer.
Once again, he wandered in the forest - and through it, right up into the mountains - trying to think of what else he could add. In the mountains he heard a terrible wailing, and since he did not have much left to live for at this point he headed towards it instead of running away. Peeping into a cave he saw a gnomish mother rocking her baby and singing to it, and the song went something like: “don’t cry, little baby, and soon your dad, Foul Weather, will bring you a king’s heart to play with.”
Well! The King had never heard such a sweet sound in all his life. He ran down from the mountain, through the forest and through his city until he came to the cathedral, and there on the tallest tower the little man was putting the finishing touch on the building, affixing the golden weathercock.
The King cupped his hands and called up to him “mind you set it straight, Foul Weather!” At that, the little man fell with a crash straight down from the tower, and was broken into smithereens, as if he had been made of glass*. And the weathercock on that cathedral has been crooked from that day to this.
*In many stories when a name is discovered it merely results in the creature losing their power over the human, and vanishing - which is the way I prefer to tell this tale. But in others, including Katharine Briggs’ retelling of Foul Weather (and in Rumpelstiltskin), it results in the death of the creature. Perhaps in order to make a bargain that may result in a dire outcome for a human, they have to commit to an equally destructive consequence for themselves if they fail?