Shades of Life and Death: Fairies and Colour Symbolism

There is power in colour, this much we know—we have long employed them to denote virtues, qualities, status and a myriad of other information about the individuals that adorn themselves with it in all areas of life. They have become a visual language weaving together clues about allegiances and provenance, and in magic, they can be used to draw upon the power, protection, or malice of the powers to which they are tied—for those who know where and what to look for, and when to employ them.

Today our exploration centres specifically upon the symbolism and potential uses of the shades associated with fairies (and fairy-adjacent creatures). Now, it is not uncommon for specific colours (primarily green, red or white) to be indicators of a fairy nature when worn or otherwise displayed: spirits in folk tales or songs that are clothed in green or red are often revealed (or understood) to be one of the Fair Folk, and a similarly damning combination is that of white and red—from white cows possessing red ears to the pale-skinned redheads that are often a sign of the fae-touched. Confirmation came especially to those presenting a combination of the three—a green shirt, a red cap, a white owl’s feather, for instance—and I wonder if, beyond the simple fact that an excess of signs makes it more obvious, the reason these colours are often presented together is that they exist as shades and facets that fit together to form a more cohesive whole.

“The Meeting of Oberon and Titania”, illustration by Arthur Rackham

The specific mention of these colours is not only a device that communicates in a succinct fashion the natures of these beings, but when appearing in day-to-day accounts or encounters,  they served as a warning to those unfortunate enough to stumble upon them or those seeking to wear the shade. The latter, of course, is thought to be seen as an invitation for their attention, provoking potential jealousy, outrage and mischief. However, these colours are on occasion used as a ward—sparing those wearing the shade from harm at the hands of the Folk. An account from Islay details the story of a pair of siblings that were walking past a loch when a fairy man ran past and touched the boy, blighting him with life-long paralysis. His sister, on the other hand, who was dressed in green, was left alone and uninjured (Briggs, 1961). This is an unusual account where green is thought of not as a dangerous colour that would bring malice from the fairies, but as protection in its own right, and I cannot help but wonder if it is because the fairies are so fond of wearing it themselves that this was interpreted as a declaration of allegiance as one of Theirs. 

“And there he saw a lady bright,

Come riding down by Eildon Tree.

Her shirt was o the grass-green silk,

Her mantle o the velvet fyne.”

— Thomas the Rhymer

The fairies’ fondness for green is famed, from the Queen of Elphame to fairy ladies and men depicted in the shade, and out of all the colours we could mention today, it is perhaps the most well known as being Theirs. There existed such a strong connection that green objects were sometimes intentionally called blue instead, for fear that simply saying its name would call up the fairies (Goodrich-Freer, 1899)—for as we know, there is power in names. Green was thought to be the colour of death in Celtic culture (Hutchings, 1997) which is not too surprising, given the connection between the fairies and the dead, and yet there is far more that lurks beneath the verdant surface. For green is the colour of the bountiful forest—the full might and force of nature left to flourish and consume; the creative power of life itself. It is also that of decay—when the earth comes back to claim that which has always been hers; when moss and algae take root upon that which once had a life of its own. It is the encompassing cycle of life: life to death and life from death, again and again in a fluid circle dance. It is never-ending youth and life, the kind that will never die as it is always reborn; it is poisonous jealousy; it is the patient march of time, unchanging despite the winds that blow and the cracks that appear in stone. It is that which rises to fill those cracks, between stone and road and monument. It is Elphame—betwixt and between, ever-present and waiting, patient in its claiming. It is what has ever been, and ever will be. 

Red, although slightly less synonymous with the fairies as green, is mentioned nearly as often.  It appears more in accounts of the fairy folk who are more bloodthirsty, like the redcaps who dye their hats and clothes in human blood. Now, blood is violence and strife and death, which is worth caution, but it is also life, for it nurtures and nourishes us from womb to tomb. The feelings that make us most alive are often associated with red—passion, love and desire—these things that light us up and make our hearts race in a reminder that we still live. It flows through our veins as it flows through the rivers of Elphame: a constant stream that threads us with vitality. How especially fitting this is when we consider the Pale Ones and their famed (and often dangerous) sexuality, often mentioned alongside their love of violence and merriment.  Red is also fire—the warmth in the hearth and the bonfire that bears witness to raucous merriment; it is a torch piercing the dark night to illuminate the treacherous woods. It is the fire of magic, and this is fitting when you consider the close ties fairies have to witches in folklore. The Queen of the Fairies is also a Witch Queen, and in her hands is cradled the witches’ flame, hers to bestow and to take and to wield. When she appears in red, as witches have sometimes claimed to see, more often than not this is the mantle she takes: our Lady of the Sabbat, our Lady of the flames, our Lady of love and life and death, our Mother of Witches. 

A less complementary perspective on explaining the fairies’ connection to the colour red comes from a quote from the legend of Saint Collen and the Fairy King, in which the Celtic saint claims that fairy pages wear “blue for the eternal cold and red for the flames of hell” (Briggs, 1976). The connection between hell and the Folk is well-documented: They’re known in some legends to pay a tithe to hell, and some theories regarding the origins of the fairies suggest that They are fallen angels. The mention of blue here is interesting, not just for its reference to the cold, for certain fairies (especially the Queen of Elphame) is thought to be associated with the colder and darker months of the year, but because blue is also representative of water and the ocean, which was often thought of as a gateway to the fairy realm. It is also, notably, both the fount of life and a source of death: holding within its watery depths a similar quality to blood (for are blood and water not the rivers from which life flows?) while also possessing the quality of a conduit between the mundane world and Theirs.

White is at once the most obvious and the most nebulous. The fairies are called the Fair Folk, the Pale Ones, the White People, and the Shining Ones for a reason—it is no surprise that their bleached pallor lends itself to clothing as well. And white is the colour of the dead—when life is leached from the skin; when blood ceases to pulse; when bones are picked clean and bleached by hand or sun. It is the colour of life gleaming bright and full of possibility, a blank page upon which to be written. White is the very quality of liminality: holding within itself limitless possibility, at once there and not, containing every shade and appearing to hold nothing at all. It shifts and shimmers like fairy glamour, waiting to be coloured by perception, idealisation—waiting to be written over.  It is also the colour of the luminous moon, observant and unblinking in the night. The Queen of Elphame (and the fae themselves) possesses a great many lunar qualities and is also sometimes called the Lady in White. In this aspect, she is the queen of the shades and the unseen arts, teaching us to tend to the dead, to weave fate and to see the past, present and future. Here she is Diana, riding by moonlight at the head of the Wild Hunt, her entourage of ghostly shades pale and shining behind her. 

While it is not mentioned often as a colour associated with the Good People specifically, it does on occasion appear in depictions of the Queen of Elphame, and thus I would like to make mention of black as the twin and converse of white, again holding at once everything and nothing, but it exists as the shadow cast by light—two halves of a whole. And indeed, in most cases where She appears in black, it is often noted how pale white her skin or hair is in contrast. Black is for womb and tomb, as the rhyme goes: it is the colour of the deep night, of the fertile soil, which envelops and births and breaks us down again. It is both the exacting blade of death and the tender earth cradling what is left, guiding it onwards to a new life. It is the solemn silence of sleep and death, those times when the soul slips out of the body to dance with the spirits. Let us not forget that the Fair Folk are fond of oneiric communication as much as they are thought to hold the souls of the dead in their company, and as much as they are thought to be rulers of those secret things that dwell in the shadows, betwixt and between the sun and moon and trees.

All of these shades present some sort of duality—between life and death, beauty and ugliness, a double-edged sword that dazzles and blinds with the flash of its blade—and how fitting this is when we consider the very natures of the Other Crowd. Colour aside, this duality is often on display in physical descriptions of them—it is often noted that even in the forms they take that are designed for seduction, there are usually clues that give away their fairy nature. Be it a beautiful woman whose back is as hollow as a seashell, a handsome young man whose hems are always wet, or a mysterious stranger so lovely you don’t notice their hands or feet face backwards until it is much too late. This may arguably be a sly warning—a test—or a mistake or oversight in their glamour, but perhaps it is more a reflection of their liminal nature: at once civilisation’s ideal and the horrific wilderness. This dance of life and death is something that can be applied to the rest of the colours associated with the fairies, but it is interesting how each presents additional subtleties.

WORKS REFERENCED / FURTHER READING:

Folklore and Symbolism of Green by John Hutchings

Some Late Accounts of the Fairies by Katharine Briggs

An Encyclopedia of Fairies by Katharine Briggs