Into The Light


Celtic Twilight.​​
Welcome to the magical world of Paul C Nixon.
Diva's, Elementals, Fairies, Elves, Witches and more are brought to life through Paul's work as a skilled woodcarver, sculptor and photographer.
When we were young, the world was filled with wonder. The wind whispered in our ears. Shadows had life and the clouds told stories.
The world is full of magic things,patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.
                                                                           WB Yeats.                                   Image size and quality have been reduced for protective reasons.
  
While the presence of fairies and magic is crucial to many European folk tales, Irish storytelling tradition is especially rooted in the fairy belief, and the varieties of fairy that are presented attest to this. A view of the supernatural was fundamental in Irish folklore, and the fairies that populated these stories were at the heart of that belief. There are three major fairy types in the Irish fairy tale canon—the Sidhe (“Shee”), the Banshee, and the Merrow. Each has its own characteristics that make it unique to Irish folklore. The Sidhe, or the Tuatha De Danaan, were considered a “distinct race, quite separate from human beings, and belief in this race of beings who had powers beyond those of men to move quickly through the air and change their shape at will once played a huge part in the lives of people living in rural Ireland” The Banshee was a variation of the Sidhe, meaning “faerie woman” or “woman of the Faerie mound,” an elfin creature whose mourning call signaled death approaching.
 The Merrow comes from the Irish word muir meaning sea and oigh meaning maid, an Irish variation of the popular mermaid archetype.
  
" Faeries, come take me out of this dull world, 
                  For I would ride with you upon the wind,                     Run on top of the dishevelled tide,
And dance upon the mountains like a flame."
William Butler Yeats.





 The Watchful Eye. (Lesidhe) Guardians of the Forest.
Hand Carved Cedar Wood.
These guardians of the forest who are always disguised as foliage are classed as solitares. They can transform themselves into an animal or plant of any shape and size. They can also imitate sounds in the forest.
Walkers who go into the deep woods are often led astray by these spirits with the hope that they become confused and lost.
                   The Watch Tower. Achill Island. Ireland.  

That the night come.
 ​​She lived in storm and strife,
Her soul had such desire
For what proud death may bring
That it could not endure
The common good of life,
But lived as ’twere a king
That packed his marriage day
With banneret and pennon,
Trumpet and kettledrum,
And the outrageous cannon,
To bundle time away
That the night come.
​WB Yeats.

      Wicked Witch.  Sculpted Cement. ​​​​

Toil and grow rich, 
Whats that but to lie
With a foul witch
And after drained dry,
To be brought to the chamber
Where
Lies one long sought 
With despair.
                                                  WB Yeats.
                                               The Witches Familiar,                                                                         St Canice's  Cathedral.  Kilkenny. Ireland.
 
 ​​I encountered this black cat inside the beautiful 13th Century Cathedral in 2016. As I walked down the center isle It suddenly ran across my path, disappearing beneath the pews on the opposide side. On leaving, the cat followed me outside only to pose in such a way on this headstone.
               
The Hags Leap, County Leitrim, Ireland. A short drive over the road from where we lived is this wonderful natural mountain formation known as Eagle Rock or The Hags Leap. My grandparents and relatives would tell stories of a powerful deity, the ancient crone of wisdom who came in the early days of mans settlement on this island and is said to have let loose the rivers and shaped the mountains with her great hammer. As a child living with my grandparents I was immersed with these beliefs. Sometimes laying beneath warming layers in the stillness of a frosty clear night as my breath rose like an apparition up into the frigid darkness, I could imagine the hags fearsome form ravaging all of natures finery. This place still echoes of her memory. She was said to despise the Summer months. She was the goddess of winter storms and loved wild weather, and had a fearsome appearance with one eye, an eye of perpetual keenness in the middle of a blue black face, and the teeth of a wild boar. Wielding a magical white rod made from either Birch or Bramble, she is sometimes seen leaping from mountain peak to peak blasting vegetation with frost. Her Druidic rod gives her power over weather and the elements. Every Summer as she gives way to her sister Bride, then turns to stone only to be reborn again every October 31st. She is otherwise known as An Cailleach Beara, meaning old wife, however she also had the ability to shape shift into a beautiful maiden. Ancient tales tell of her appearing to a heroic figure appealing for help. When the hero is able to see beyond the ugliness of her form, agrees and fulfills her wish she would then transform herself into a beautiful woman and offer herself as a reward. An Cailleach Beara is the hag aspect of the goddess and is known by many names throughout the Celtic world. She is the Neolithic goddess of Winter and one of the oldest goddess known to Ireland. She has long survived the passages of time and is believed to have travelled across Europe to these shores with the receding ice age. November 1 St, a festival known as the reign of old women is celebrated each year and is known as the day of the Banshee. On the eve of Imbolc (Jan 31st- Feb 1st) also celebrated is the feast called end of Cailleach. The death of Winter and the coming of Spring. Her face was black, of the luster of coal and her bone tufted tooth was like rusted bone In her head was one deep pool-like eye swifter than a star in the winter sky. Upon her head gnarled brushwood like the clawed old wood of the Aspen root.




  
Blood and Moon
"Like everything that has a stain of blood,
A property of the living; but no stain
Can come upon the visage of the moon
When it has looked in glory from a cloud."
WB Yeats.          
                         Moon lit Castle                  
          Duckett's Grove Castle. Carlow. Ireland.                 
                                The Red Man                                                       Fairy trickster who induces nightmares. 
                          Sculpted cement.
 
"Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a fairy, hand in hand,
For the world is more full of weeping than you can understand."
WB Yeats.   
 County Sligo. Ireland.

Under Benbulben.
Swear by what the sages spoke
Round the Mareotic Lake
That the Witch of Atlas knew,
Spoke and set the cocks a-crow.
Swear by those horsemen, by those women
Complexion and form prove superhuman,
That pale, long-visaged company
That air in immortality
Completeness of their passions won;
Now they ride the wintry dawn
Where Ben Bulben sets the scene.

WB Yeats.

                                                                                                Return to Tir Na Nog 
The fairy princess Niamh fell in love with Oisin's poetry and begged him to join her in the immortal islands. For a hundred years he lived as one of the Sidhe, hunting, dancing, and feasting. At the end of this time he found a spear washed up on the shore and grew sad, remembering his times with the Fenians. Niamh took him away to another island, where the ancient and abandoned castle of the sea-god Manannan stood. Here they found another woman held captive by a demon, whom Oisin battled again and again for a hundred years, until it was finally defeated. They then went to an island where ancient giants who had grown tired of the world long ago were sleeping until its end, and Niamh and Oisin slept and dreamt with them for a hundred years. Oisin then desired to return to Ireland to see his comrades. Niamh lent him her horse warning him that he must not touch the ground, or he would never return. Back in Ireland, Oisin, still a young man, found his warrior companions dead, and the pagan faith of Ireland displaced by Patrick's Christianity. He then saw two men struggling to carry a "sack full of sand"; he bent down to lift it with one hand and hurl it away for them, but his saddle girth broke and he fell to the ground, becoming three hundred years old instantaneously turning to dust.
The Cold Heaven

Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven
That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,
And there upon imagination and heart were driven
So wild that every casual thought of that and this
Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season
With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;
And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason,
Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,
Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken,
Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent
Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken
By the injustice of the skies for punishment?

WB Yeats.


  Through the castle window.
In Celtic mythology, the Morrigan was associated with war, battlefields, death, and sovereignty; she could shape-shift into a crow or raven. Dating back to the Copper Age, she was the dominant Dark Death Goddess of Ireland, Wales and Britain. She is one of the original members of the Tuatha De Danaan (People of the Goddess Danu), an intimidating and fierce Goddess of sovereignty. The Morrigan exists between the worlds of life and death and the Celts believed she could revive their dead soldiers to fight once more. The severed heads on the battlefield were called the “Mast of Macha” (harvest of Macha). The ground was considered sacred after the battle, as the soldiers would leave until the next day so Morrigan could gather the souls undisturbed.
  
  

     Through The Castle Window.
      Blarney Castle, County Cork.
                      Ireland.
            The Ice Queen.                                                                                  How wide your gathering arms embrace                                                                                to catch an orbit in flight.                                                                                                              Spiteful winds that pierce y our space                                                                                      from cold unblinking eyes.                                                                                                                   Its stirring in this hush of nature                                                                                          brings a wild pleasure,                                                                                                                  surrounded by a single motion                                                                                                  linking cloud and stone together.                                                                                               I sample its swelling taste                                                                                                            in a cold soundless murmur,                                                                                                      fading familiar scenes                                                                                                                     where wild creatures slumber.                                                                                                   Perhaps the Ice Queen has seized her throne                                                                      within the grandeur of these airy towers,                                                                               the calm rustle of her lofty gown                                                                                                 while her delicate tears devour.                                                                                                          I pause a while in muffled tone                                                                                                       an intruder within this expanse.                                                                                                   My lagged patterns yield their form                                                                                             as flakes gather and dance.                                                                                                         Here now your breath on tender lips                                                                                      cold bodiless and bright,                                                                                                              licks as moist droplets slip                                                                                                                to blend me from sight.                                                                                                                         As ivory wisps descend to the ground                                                                                          to hide the hopes of spring,                                                                                                             are a whitewash of marvelous designs                                                                                      as though fashioned from a dream.                                                                                                 I make my way through a path of tales                                                                                      to leave behind this enchantment at hand.                                                                     BeforeI am lulled by her delicate sway                                                                                       as her alluring insistence demands .
                            Paul Nixon                                             
                                   The Ice Queen.    
  Sculpted cement figure set into altered photography.                                                                       
  Celtic Merrow, Sculpted cement set into altered photography.

The Mermaid. 
A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.

WB Yeats.

Hobgoblin.
               Hand Carved Cedar Wood.  
These little characters for the most part are good humoured sprites, always helpful and obliging. However all good deeds must be rewarded. That goes without saying in the real world too, and the sprite world is no different. Hobgoblins do not like to be taken advantage of and so they feel it necessary for you to leave a little sampling of food, or something to drink for the little deeds they offer.     
  Leprechaun.
Hand Carved Cedar Wood.

Can you not catch the tiny clamour,
Busy click of an elfin hammer,
Voice of the Leprechaun ringing shrill
As he busily plies his trade?
WB Yeats.
​​       
    Banshee's Tower.
Ducketts Grove Castle.
County Carlow, Ireland.
As a lover of Irish folklore and ghost stories, I sought out this castle on my last visit to Ireland in 2016. As it happened I had the castle all to myself. Ducketts Grove Castle has the reputation of being haunted which includes a Banshee that is believed to inhabit this tower.
 The Gathering.
             Drumcliffe Graveyard, County Sligo, Ireland.

The two trees.
There through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Flying, crying, to and fro,
Cruel claw and hungry throat.
WB Yeats.
 The Mischief Maker.
Hand Carved Cedar Wood.

“Fairies in Ireland are sometimes as big as we are, sometimes bigger, and sometimes, as I have been told, about three feet high.” 
 William Butler Yeats

 Poulnabrone Dolmen.
The Hole of Sorrows.
Tomb 4200 BC.   
County Clare, Ireland.
Dark Woman of the Forest. Leanhaun Shee.
“I was dancing with an immortal august woman, who had black lilies in her hair, and her dreamy gesture seemed laden with a wisdom more profound than the darkness that is between star and star, and with a love like the love that breathed upon the waters; and as we danced on and on, the incense drifted over us and round us, covering us away as in the heart of the world, and ages seemed to pass, and tempests to awake and perish in the folds of our robes and in her heavy hair.
Suddenly I remembered that her eyelids had never quivered, and that her lilies had not dropped a black petal, or shaken from their places, and understood with a great horror that I danced with one who was more or less than human, and who was drinking up my soul as an ox drinks up a wayside pool; and I fell, and darkness passed over me.”

WB Yeats.
Heavens Ascent.
St Columba's Church,
Drumcliff, County Sligo, Ireland.
  The Enchanter. ​Hand Carved Cedar Wood.
This portion of a song is supposed to have been sung by a young bride, who was forcibly detained in one of those forts which are so common in Ireland, and to which the good people are very fond of resorting. Under pretence of hushing her child to rest, she retired to the outside margin of the fort, and addressed the burthen of her song to a young woman whom she saw at a short distance, and whom she requested to inform her husband of her condition, and to desire him to bring the steel knife to dissolve the enchantment.
                             
Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees,
Stirr'd by the breath of summer breeze.
And fairy songs of sweetest note,
Around us gently float.
WB Yeats.
Pixi on Duty.
​Hand Carved Cedar Wood.
Do not think the fairies are always little. Everything is capricious about them, even their size. They seem to take what size or shape pleases them.
WB Yeats.
Forest of Enchantment.
Pooka.
Phantom Fairy Creature.​ Hand Carved Cedar Wood.
The Pooka seems to be of the famly of the nightmare. Its delight is to transform itself into a sleek black horse with sulphurous blazoned eyes, seeks out a rider whom he rushes through ditches, across rivers and over mountains, only to shake him off in the dull of the morning. Especially does it love to plague a drunkard. A drunkard's sleep is his kingdom.
WB Yeats.


"Speak, speak, for underneath the cover there. The sand is running from the upper glass, And when the last grain's through, I shall be lost."
 William Butler Yeats



Full Moon on Sacred Ground.
​St James Graveyard, Castledermot, County Kildare, Ireland.
Tree Nymph.
Hand Carved Cedar Wood.

"I believe when I am in the mood that all nature is full of people whom we cannot see, and that some of these are ugly or grotesque, and some wicked or foolish, but very many beautiful beyond any one we have ever seen, and that these are not far away.....the simple of all times and the wise men of ancient times have seen them and even spoken to them."
WB Yeats.
    Flower Fairy Hand Carved Cedar Wood.

They are the flowers' guardian sprites;
With streaming hair as wandering lights
They passed a-tiptoe
And never heard the grief of care
Until this morn'
WB Yeats.
Clurichauns.
Hand Carved Cedar Wood.
Mischevious fairies with a love of drinking and a tendancy to haunt wine cellars.
Hosting of the Sidhe (Faeries).
Sculpted resin figure set in created image.

The host is riding out from Knockarea
And over the grave of Cloth-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
WB Yeats.
The Rise of the Morrigan.
Sculpted wood figure set in created image.
Dating back over 5000 years the Great Goddess Morrigan was the dominent deity throughout Europe. She is the transporter of souls between life and death. She is found where armies gather, where wars rage and where wisdom  and warnings are needed.
Only by appealing to her can a warrior become king or an army succeed. On the battlefield she appears as a crow where she can influence the battles outcome.
The Celts believed as they engaged in battle the Morrigan flew shrieking in crow form summoning a host of slain warriors  to a macabre spectral bane. When the battle had ended the warriors would leave the field until dawn the next morning. Allowing the Morrigan to claim her trophies.
Hand carved poplar wood with gesso application set into my altered photographic image.

Fairies Delight.
​Hand carved wood panel.

Let us go forth, the teller of tales,
And seize whatever the prey the heart
long for, and have no fear.
Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet."
WB Yeats.
The Olde Forge.
​Wicklow, Ireland.

WHEN ONE LOOKS INTO THE DARKNESS THERE IS ALWAYS SOMETHING THERE...
The hour of thy great wind of love and hate.
When shall the stars be blown about the sky,
Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?
Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,
Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose? 
WB Yeats.

The Green Man.
Celtic god of nature.
Sculpted cement.
For thousands of years the Green Man is a symbol of mysterious origin and history.
Associated with the Celts he is intended as a symbol of growth and rebirth, a forest god, an emblem of the birth,death, rebirth cycle of the natural year.
Two hand carved and painted relief panels depicting Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf.
Halloween rendition of Clondalkin Round Tower, County Dublin, Ireland.
Mist-clad in the light of the moon
Starspun seekers - I search for thee!
Faery light - I ask thy boon
Of branch and thorn and Elder tree!
Wood woven creatures, shadow weavers
River keepers - come to me!
Just beyond reaching
Never in keeping
Spirits of Faery - I call unto thee!
Wind-hewn wildness
Dark and brightness
Spiral enchantments - born of the sky!
Cradle me with elven hands,
Abide with me, thy human child!

W.B Yeats

The Portal.       

Enchanted Walk.

"But I, being poor,
Have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under my feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."
WB Yeats.
         Playground of my youth.

      Art.
Upon the stream that whirls along
To hold the wonderous hue alone
Or that delightful undertone
Detached from every other song.
WB Yeats.
        Bridge to Enchantment.
      Through the Castle Window.
                                  

There is another world,"
But it is in this one."
WB Yeats.
      Two Orbs in a Wicklow Wood, Ireland.
      My Secret Door. Hand carved cedar wood.


      The Tower of Faces.
   Hand carved Cedar wood, Paul Nixon.

  The Alchemist.
 ‘When supernatural events begin, a man first doubts his own testimony, but when they repeat themselves again and again, he doubts all human testimony.’
WB Yeats.
Alchemy is one of the most curious subjects in the history of science–it evokes both method and magic in popular imagination.

Where got I that truth?
Out of a medium’s mouth,
Out of nothing it came,
Out of the forest loam,
Out of dark night where lay
The crowns of Nineveh.

   Hand carved woodland faery, Paul Nixon.

 " The land of Faery, where nobody gets old
Godly and grave, Where nobody gets old
crafty and wise,
where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue."
WB Yeats.
Sculpted cement figure set into digitally created image.

 " Ah, faeries,
dancing under the moon,
A Druid land, a Druid tune!
While still I may, I write for you
The love I lived,
The dream I knew."
WB Yeats.
Hand carved cedar wood.
Luanantishee, guardians of the blackthorn tree.
  
The Lunantisidhe is another type of fairy, and are protectors of the blackthorn tree. Although they appear to be thin and wrinkled looking they are very nimble for their old appearance. They have long pointed sharp teeth, pointed ears, long arms and fingers which enable them to move about the twisted thorn branches they call home. May is their height of the year as the blackthorn comes into bloom, and is timed with the first full moon called the flower moon. The Lunantisidhe live in groups are said to hate humans with a fiery passion.
Lunantisidhe is an odd blending of the Latin word Luna (Moon) and the Gaelic sidhe (fairy). Their sole purpose is to protect the blackthorn tree from encroachment. The only time they will leave the trees it to pay homage to the moon goddess at the Esbats. ( Esbats are celebration of the 13 full moons that occur each year). They are lunar and represent the goddess at the height of her power.
  

The Face in the Window.
​Glenade House, County Leitrim.

There are a few of the open-air spirits; the more domestic of their tribe gather within-doors, plentiful as swallows under southern eaves. 

William Butler Yeats
My rendition of The Wind in the Willows.
The Ferry Master, The final  journey.

  
 Cathbad also spelled Cathbhadh, in the Irish sagas, the great Druid of Ulster and, in some legends, the father of King Conchobar Mac Nessa (Conor).
Cathbad was able to divine the signs of the days, thus to determine auspicious or inauspicious activities for certain days. According to one tradition, the queen Nessa once consulted Cathbad, asking him what the day was auspicious for; Cathbad answered that it was auspicious for begetting a king upon a queen, and Conchobar was conceived in their subsequent union. When Conchobar reached manhood, none in Ulster was allowed to speak before he had spoken, but Conchobar never spoke before Cathbad had spoken—giving Cathbad precedence over the king. Cathbad acted as the king’s advisor and is referred to as a teacher, supporting Julius Caesar’s assertion that the Gallic Druids served as repositories of traditional knowledge.
  
Cathbad The Druid. Sculpted cement figure set into a created image.
Her Anxeity
Earth in beauty dressed
Awaits returning spring.
All true love must die,
Alter at the best
Into some lesser thing.
Prove that I lie.

Such body lovers have,
Such exacting breath,
That they touch or sigh.
Every touch they give,
Love is nearer death.
Prove that I lie.
WB Yeats.
Timeless Light. Glendalough, Wicklow, Ireland.
One of the Tuatha de Danann, the fair-haired warrior Midir lived among the sídhe of Ireland, the fairy race who made their homes in the mounds of the earth. He was wed first to a woman called Fúamnach, but found himself smitten soon after by the beautiful Étaín, who he chose to wed as his second wife. Étaín quickly became the favorite of Midir and, as a jealous, scorned woman, Fúamnach did everything in her power to rid her husband of the mortal Étaín and cast a spell on the unsuspecting mortal, transforming Étaín into a butterfly. Fúamnach then creates a wind to blow Étaín away which caused the butterfly to land in the goblet of the wife of Etar, the Ulster chieftain. Etar's queen unknowingly swallows the butterfly with her wine and becomes pregnant and famously giving birth to Étaín. When she grows up in her new life, Étaín has no recollection of her past, and weds Eochaid Airem, High King of Ireland. Interestingly, his brother also falls in love with her and wastes away from his unrequited passion. It is only because Étaín promised her husband to do everything in her power to heal the brother, also named Ailill that she finally agrees to sleep with him in the hopes that it will cure him.
Ironically, Ailill misses the meeting due to a sleeping spell cast upon him by Midir who, in truth, attempts to use a physical glamour so Étaín will sleep with him and remember her former life instead. She is too clever for her former sídhe husband, however, and recognizes that something is amiss. Three times she refuses to sleep with "Ailill" until Midir finally reveals himself as the true man she is meeting. He tells her of her past with him but she refuses to leave her new husband Eochaid and the life she grew to love. However, she does confess that if Eochaid gave her permission to go with Midir, she would not object. In an attempt to win back his born-again wife, Midir approaches Eochaid in human form numerous times, gambling away all sorts of riches and treasures in an effort to persuade Eochaid. Eochaid, knowing what Midir truly wants, sets the sídhe a series of tasks which Midir completes successfully, after which Midir challenges Eochaid one last time, this time winning and demanding a kiss from Étaín as his prize.
However, instead of merely taking what he requested and was granted by Eochaid, Midir embraces Étaín in such a way that she remembers their former happy life together. To the shock and dismay to all present including the King, the couple rise into the air transforming into two swans and fly back to Midir’s fairy realm.

  
Sligo is, indeed, a great place for fairy pillaging of this kind. In the side of Benbulben is a white square in the limestone. It is said to be the door of fairyland. There is no more inaccessible place in existence than this white square door; no human foot has ever gone near it, not even the mountain goats can browse the saxifrage beside its mysterious whiteness. Tradition says that it swings open at nightfall and let’s pour through an unearthly troop of hurrying spirits. To those gifted to hear their voices the air will be full at such a moment with a sound like whistling. Many have been carried away out of the neighbouring villages by this troop of riders. I have quite a number of records beside me, picked up at odd times from the faithful memories of old peasants. Brides and new-born children are especially in danger. Peasant mothers, too, are sometimes carried off to nurse the children of the fairies. At the end of seven years they have a chance of returning, and if they do not escape then are always prisoners. A woman, said still to be living, was taken from near a village called Ballisodare, and when she came home after seven years she had no toes-she had danced them off. It is not possible to find out whether the stolen people are happy among ‘the gentry’, as the fairies are called for politeness. Accounts differ. Some say they are happy enough, but lose their souls, because, perhaps, the soul cannot live without sorrow. Others will have it that they are always wretched, longing for their friends, and that the splendour of the fairy kingdom is merely a magical delusion, woven to deceive the minds of men by poor little withered apparitions who live in caves and barn laces. But this is, I suspect, a theological opinion, invented because all goblins are pagans. Many things about fairies, indeed, are most uncertain. We do not even know whether they die. An old Gaelic poem says, ‘Death is even among the fairies’, but then many stories represent them as hundreds of years old
 WB Yeats
  
The Moods
TIME drops in decay,
Like a candle burnt out,
And the mountains and woods
Have their day, have their day;
What one in the rout
  Of the fire-born moods
Has fallen away?
  
 WB Yeats
  

 
The Apparition 
  
Old Augustinian Friary, Adare, Ireland. (1256-1316) formerly known as the Black Abbey.
    
  
  

            
  The Evil Gancanagh
There is an ancient story about the Gancanagh or from Irish gean cánach (love talker) who some perceive as an elemental to be feared of. Just like the  Leanhaun Shee feeding on the souls of young poets, the  Gancanagh robs young girls of their virginity and often their lives by his lustful ways and seduction. This elemental’s exploits have been documented throughout the centuries lurking in mountains hills and lonely valleys, where he commonly appears in the attire of well-dressed middle-to-upper class Irishmen. Constantly he seeks out young human women, who may be tending sheep, of a milkmaid, and reads their minds and deepest desires, and will appear before them as the person of their dreams.         He would reflect a subdued tremulous light enveloping them both in a sweet intoxicating mist drawing her closer allowing him to take hold of her hand and thus setting his trap. In that moment she would become his possession. His skin secretes a drug, more commonly called a toxin, which human skin can and will absorb. The drug creates a mild but constant addiction which can lead to death should the Gancanagh, as Fae often do, grow bored, and cease to give those addicted the touch they both crave, and truly need for their continued sanity and physical health.  Depending on the dosage given (and the susceptibility of the victim) this toxin will make them pine for him after they leave. A high enough dose of the toxin can cause the victim to waste away and die.
 
“Beware the tunes that touch your heart.
The Gancanagh will play the soul
Beware, sweet lass, don’t crave his art
He’ll pierce your heart and leave a hole.”