Author Archives: rogerjhorne

It should come as no surprise to pagans anywhere today that I insist on the dark tide of winter as a season relevant to many old forms of folk witchery. Whether we call it Yule or Winter Solstice or by any other name, the magic of this season enfolds so many old superstitions, folktales, and charms. But many of the old treasures of folk witchery do not use the word Yule; it is in the folklore of Christmas that we most often find these historic accounts of divination, spells, and spirits.

Most of our ancestors who practiced folk craft observed the rites of Christmas, and despite what many would have us believe, they most likely understood, in their own way, that their favorite Christmas traditions were pagan in origin. Our great-great-grand-somethings were no fools. They knew that the symbols at the heart of Christmas, gathered like jewels in a chest over hundreds of years, were older than the church and its story of the Christ child. They understood that belief and magic are complex and paradoxical at times; that to observe Christmas and to practice our art was not incongruous, but as natural as the complex evolution of the holiday itself over the ages. I’m not advocating for all pagans to embrace Christmas. (I am not even a Christian, so that would be ridiculous.) But for those who are truly interested in forms of real folk witchery alive and active in the early modern period, I am suggesting that we perhaps look beneath the surface of things, lest these treasures melt away from our grasp like snow.

One older practice associated with Christmas that is less prevalent today involves the use of a three-tapered candle resembling a fork. William Hone, in 1823, calls it a “triangular candle,” and provides the following illustration of its form:

Hone attests to the use of this candle as a part of Easter celebrations, but Thomas Hervey, in 1837, describes its use among the Irish peasantry, insisting that they were lit as “Christmas candles,” with garlands of evergreen strung around them as a kind of replacement for or extension of the Yule log. Their lighting was observed with serious ceremony, and once the three prongs had burned down into one, the remaining single-wicked candle was saved for use later in divination by gazing into its flame.

Even today, the Christmas candles adorned with evergreen garland, which are often lit in sequence relating in some form or another to the nativity story, are actually a modern iteration of the Yule log. Whereas poor and rural families gathered about the log burning in the fireplace, wealthier households began lighting candles decorated with garland as a kind of posh replacement, and it is this tradition that gave way to the decorated candles so many place as the centerpiece of the Christmas feasting table, with or without knowing that this is, in fact, the Yule log around which they gather.

Some of the old witching traditions of Christmas call on ancient spirits in the form of saints and legendary pseudo-biblical figures, not the least of which being the three Magi, whose names are Balthazar, Melchior, and Caspar. The consecration of Three Kings Water on the Twelfth Night is a well-known tradition of Scottish origin, this water being used to bless doorways and persons for protection throughout the year. In a broader sense, though, there is something exquisite in the survival of these three sorcerers of the ancient world in Christmas traditions, allowing us as charmers, conjurors, and cunning folk an entry point into a celebration that can feel, on the surface, very Christian. The rituals and lore of the three Magi are emblematic of the path of sorcerous folk through this holiday long before us, like a sign left along a winding trail, a clue hinting that even serpents may celebrate the luminous star that shines on this night–if perhaps in our own shadowed ways.

This is not to mention the mountains of specific charms performed, traditionally, on Christmas eve or Christmas day. Scot (1584) describes a talisman called an Agnus Dei or lamb cake, which is made from wax, balm, and holy water. The talisman is said to protect against all manner of woes, both natural and unnatural, and to ensure blessings when carried on the person. Inside of the wax is placed a small roll of parchment containing the following written charm:

Balsamus & munda cera, cum chrismatis unda
Conficiunt agnum, quod munus do tibi magnum,
Fonte velut natum, per mystica sanctificatum:
Fulgura desursum depellit, & omne malignum,
Peccatum frangit, ut Christi sanguis, & angit,
Prægnans servatur, simul & partus liberatur,
Dona refert dignis, virtutem destruit ignis,
Portatus mundè de fluctibus eripit undæ.

Likewise, the “waist-coat of proof” charm was said to have been worked on the evening following Christmas Day. It functioned as a wearable talisman, embroidered on an item of clothing, which would render one protected from bodily harm. The embroidered image is interesting for its resemblance to many two-headed figures, including Janus. One head wears a hat and a beard, and the other a crown, but with a beastly, frightening face. The charm, it is said, must be embroidered onto the cloth “in the name of the Devil,” which is a common phrasing in Scottish witch-lore.

But none of these sorceries, even the decidedly heretical ones or the clearly pagan ones having nothing to do with Christ, are available to us if we eschew everything labeled “Christmas” instead of “Yule.” We cast them away, despite hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years of magical tradition at our fingertips. Some of the old witching traditions of Christmas are almost completely forgotten, replaced by “Yule sabbat ritual kits” that can be purchased on the internet and paint-by-numbers-style witchery guides with no thought to the cultural origins of our magics and the generations who preserved them for our use. And so, I believe it is worth exploring where the modern pagan dislike for the word “Christmas” comes from, if only to understand how we arrived at this place.

The most obvious culprit, in my opinion, is the hateful and abusive form Christianity often takes today. How dare we take “Christ out of Christmas,” they cry out, and yet, without Christ, there is still a tree, still an ancient, sorcerous spirit who descends down the chimney, still mistletoe and holly, still lights, logs, and candles, still songs and drink, still gifts and mirth; there remains, in the complete absence of Christ, everything that made Christmas what it was to begin with, for the season we know was, in fact, already old when Christianity was young. For those who have suffered trauma in their youth at the hands of Christianity, it is perfectly understandable to want nothing to do with the thing.

Unfortunately, the pagan distaste for Christmas also comes, in part, from disinformation, especially from the common claim among modern witchcraft traditions that true witches do not and cannot celebrate Christmas. This is not only untrue, but harmful to the preservation of our traditions, for the modern forms of pop-witchery and insta-craft will always lack (in my opinion) the elegant simplicity of the old charms and rituals of the season, even if those treasures are described in our lore as “Christmas superstitions” and not explicitly as “Yule rites” (even if that is what they truly are beneath appearances). In order to recognize these treasures of craft for what they are, we must see the word “Christmas” through the long, wide scope of history–not as a single story, but as a cacophony of echoes having more to do with tradition than belief. In short, it actually matters very little to the folk witch whether there is “Christ in Christmas” or not, for the living heart of the season is the same.

And the heart of the season is not only one of light, but one of darkness as well. It was Charles Dickens who referred to Christmas eve as the “witching time for story telling.” Tales of spirits, ghosts, and other creatures who thrive in the dark time of the year were commonly shared around the fire on this night for hundreds of years. Puritans in the new world attempted to stamp out the custom, for it smacked of the old superstitions. They failed, however, as evidenced not only by Dickens’ ever-popular A Christmas Carol, but also by the works of Washington Irving and many folklorists who preserved the old darkened tales. The resurgence of Krampus traditions is perhaps one of the most prevalent examples of an old, lore-preserved spirit associated with Christmas, but there is also La Befana, who is said to be an old woman who offered the three Magi directions as they searched for the Christ child, and who has now become a kind of sorcerous Christmas spirit who very obviously resembles the early modern image of the witch. Frau Perchta plays this role as well, though in a more terrifying capacity, for the long knife she carries is used to punish naughty children by gutting them.

But the most obvious example of a thriving Yuletide spirit is Santa Claus / Father Christmas / Saint Nicholas himself, who is, of course, the very image of a sorcerer, embarking upon his flight across the night sky, transvected with the aid of his trusted magical steeds, entering houses through chimneys and key-holes, laying his gifts beneath the shrine of the illuminated evergreen tree. And it is beneath this altar that we leave our spirit offering to nourish him, consisting perhaps of milk and cookies or various other things, depending on tradition. This tree is a symbol of endurance through the bitter cold, a totem to bring joyfulness in the dark, a fetish to conjure what is outside us within us, to embody the ever-vital qualities of those green winter forests. It is the shrine around which so many still gather, even if they no longer recognize the language it speaks. Somehow, we still feel its potency without even trying, perhaps by instinct or some ancestral twinge of magic that stirs within us, whether we will it or no.

At long last, after what feels like an eternity of testing and retesting old recipes and editing entries on plant lore, The Charmer’s Root is officially available. While I love the process of weaving together a book from my old notes and folkloric research, this journey has come with more peaks and valleys than most. It’s the culmination of a long project, one that has in equal turns been thrilling and exhausting, but one that I think offers a unique window into the animist folk ways of working with plants that are not rare, difficult, or expensive, but common and abundant in North America and the British Isles, green allies who are easily found and befriended on a walk through the field, but who are also ancient and celebrated in the magical lore and texts of previous ages.

Years ago, I would never have expected to undertake writing an herbal. My approach to this aspect of the charming arts has never looked much like the most popular approaches in modern witchcraft books. I tend to favor folklore over correspondences, since for me, plants have personalities that are complex and difficult to capture in keywords. I prefer having a deep relationship with a small number of plants rather than a limited knowledge of a great many. I prefer simple herbal recipes and charms that are deceptively easy to perform over formulae that call for far-away ingredients and drawn-out processes. Most of all, while I enjoy growing plants from seed, I also enjoy foraging, since scouting out local flora is, for me, a way of connecting to local spirits. Over the years, I have realized that these preferences of mine are shared among many folk practitioners, and they are woven into this book, an approach that I have tried to define by its focus on intimacy, gentle spirit work, a reverence for local flora, and a love of folklore.

It was important to me that this book be both practical and grounded in historical magic and lore. The first section of The Charmer’s Root describes techniques for meeting the plant spirit, discerning its various magical signatures and personality, researching folklore, and performing a series of simple rituals for spirit communion, conjuration, offerings, adaptable charm-work, and ecstatic spirit flight via unguent or potion. The second section is made up of recipes, including the familiar traditions of infusions, tinctures, and the like, but also spirit waters, salts, inks, and other preparations that allow the practitioner to work with even poisonous plants in a safe way. The third section contains 36 folk-magical entries on common plants, as well as an index of over 200 plants drawn from Victorian texts.

The Charmer’s Root is available now via Barnes & Noble, Amazon, and other major book retailers, or you can order a copy through your favorite local bookstore.

With the warm months upon us once again, many of us have begun noticing the return of familiar plants around us. While we witches are quite fond of our mugwort and wormwood and nightshades (myself included), we sometimes overlook the plant allies that thrive all around us and are quite literally bursting forth to greet us outside our door. The folklore of these plants is just as vast and ancient as any mandrake, and what’s more, if you live in a place with freezing winters, they probably grow where you live.

Disclaimer: I’m not recommending medicinal use, ingestion, or any interaction with these plants that would risk your health. Folk magic with plants need not involve ingestion or even touch, necessarily. Before working with any plant, consult a trained herbalist and a medical doctor to make sure it’s safe for you.

Chickweed has long been associated with the spring and with renewal due to its uses as an early spring tonic for hundreds of years. Its folk names (starwort, winterweed, birdweed, chickenwort, and others) tend to echo three specific aspects of its nature: being associated with chickens and other birds, the night sky, and the cold months of the year.

That chickweed is generally known as a friendly, nourishing plant spirit should hardly come as a surprise. Chickens can be seen to forage for this herb at the first signs of spring, feasting on its crunchy, water-filled stalks and leaves in order to help their bodies recover from the long stint of winter, which usually provides little fresh vegetation. This plant’s long association with chickens provides another key to its nature, for the common hen is a longstanding companion and ally to humans living in rural areas, offering eggs in exchange for protection and care. Most of us know the egg’s associations with spring and with the vernal equinox, and as one of the first plants that stimulates the hen’s system at winter’s end, chickweed can be considered an ally in egg production.

Because chickweed plants tend to grow together in great, intertwined masses, it is sometimes associated with relationships and community. The fact that it is also beloved by hens, who live their entire lives surrounded by a tightly bonded flock, emphasizes, in my view, that the type of love embodied in this plant is more communal or familial than romantic. This is perhaps splitting hairs, though, since bonds of mutual care can express themselves in a variety of ways.
The older name for this herb, starwort, appears to be inspired by its pale flowers, which resemble small stars peeking out from the wet spring ground. Interestingly, the leaves are known to shift their posture by night, closing their leaves slightly around the tips of their stalks to protect new growth from frost, an adaptation well-suited to the cold environments in which it thrives. This may be the root of its occasional folk name tongue grass, though this name is also applied to other plants as well. This nocturnal movement and star-emblemed appearance suggest that this herb is possessed of a strong lunar nature, being an earthly reflection of the starry night sky that mirrors cycles of sleep. The juice-filled body of this herb has long been associated with comfort and soothing due to its myriad medicinal uses.

Violet‘s most famous quality is the gentle fragrance of its flowers, which have for hundreds of years been used as a perfume ingredient and as a culinary one as well, the fresh flowers being made into jellies, syrups, and candies. Here we must differentiate between the sweet violet (viola odorata), which is scented, and the dog violet (viola riviniana), which is unscented, though no less beautiful. The greater part of the plant’s folklore is likewise related to either the sweet scent or the vivid color of violet flowers, which have been associated with love and desire, but also with the qualities of concealment and secrecy. These qualities are embodied in the plant’s tendency to go unnoticed due to its preference for shade and its short stature, being easily overlooked so low to the ground in its favorite sunless patches.

The violet was prized in ancient times, even mentioned in legends as a perfume used by Aphrodite in order to win the adoration of Paris. Even hundreds of years ago, violet is noted as a “bridal flower” often included in the celebrations of marriage. In the spring (and sometimes autumn), the flowers of the violet are strikingly beautiful and fiercely colored, attracting early pollinators to partake of its sweetness. The heart-shaped leaves of the violet appear in the folk magical practices of many cultures, being pinned or sewn to clothing or simply carried to attract love and harmony.

This plant’s Victorian associations with modesty are distilled in the common phrase “shrinking violet,” used to refer to persons plagued by shyness. In actuality, the mythic origins of this association have less to do with shyness and more to do with arts of concealment for the sake of defense and protection. Its Greek name is supposedly derived from Ion, taken after the nymphs of the ancient region of Ionia. Myth tells us that Diana, goddess of the moon, transformed one of her nymphs into the violet flower in order to help her escape the (presumably sexual) pursuit of her brother, Apollo, god of the sun. Alternately, legends say that Zeus transformed the priestess Io into the form of a cow in order to escape the wrath of Hera, and the first plant which sprung of its own accord to feed her was the violet.

In both of these tales, the violet embodies a potency of concealment that is sometimes necessary and useful, especially to those pursued by vengeful lovers and dangerous predators. These myths, as well as the violet’s love of cool shade, were often interpreted in Victorian flower-lore to suggest a symbolism of modesty, shyness, and reserve. The violet’s true potency in this aspect, however, lies in the concealment of what is beautiful and vulnerable for protective purposes.

Though the scented and unscented varieties of violet are sometimes confused, both are closely related and bear similar magical properties, though the sweet violet’s uses are perhaps more potent in workings of an amorous nature than the dog violet.

Dandelion’s folkloric associations are vast and quite old, and its myriad uses reveal this plant to possess a great many aspects, some of them seemingly paradoxical. Its properties tend to revolve, however, around a few central points: its associations with wish-making and divination, its surprising connection to both solar and saturnine powers, and its “toothed” properties as a protective plant.

The humorous names piss-a-bed and wet-a-bed are referenced in herbals as early as the 1600s, owing both to its diuretic properties and to the staining pigment in the bright, golden flowers. It is common even today for children to prank each other by rubbing the flower heads on one another’s skin or clothing, resulting in a stain that doesn’t really look much like urine, but makes them giggle nonetheless.

Vulgar names aside, dandelion’s most commonly known use in folk magic stems from its round, tufted head of seeds that emerges after the flower has closed and matured. For this reason, it is sometimes called blowball. In folklore, the blowing of dandelion seeds (very much like the blowing of thistle seeds) is performed for a variety of purposes. When making a wish, the goal is to blow as many of the seeds as possible into the wind to encourage the desired outcome. In divination, the number of seeds left on the head after blowing is interpreted in a variety of ways: yes or no answers (many or few seeds remaining), the number of days until a specified event will occur, or the number of years left in one’s life.

This last usage emphasizes an important aspect of dandelion’s nature, being both a solar herb, possessed of the joyful and wholesome potencies of the sun, and a saturnine one, associated with the chthonic realms and the spirits of the dead. While the dandelion’s flowers mirror the form of the sun, it grows a long and deep taproot, reaching into the dark earth below to a greater extend than other plants of its size. These roots twist and wind in a manner similar to mandrake. That this plant is an intermediary between realms is also signaled by its wind-blown seeds, which give away its mercurian and psychopompic qualities. Dandelion’s personality is such an interesting contrast, being both joyful and macabre at the same time.

The very name dandelion is derived from the French dent-de-lion, referencing the tooth of a lion. This moniker is owed to the shape of its leaves, which are jagged in the manner of a cat’s teeth. Although its uses in contacting spirits, divining guidance, and wish-making are all well-known, this plant has a strong protective quality to it as well. We would do well not to mistake the dandelion’s cheerful demeanor as being entirely passive (or toothless).