The supernatural Wild Hunt has long featured in stories and myths, songs and art, which is hardly surprising, it would be an incredibly awesome event to behold. Well, as long as you weren’t dragged down to the underworld or the fairy kingdom forever and ever just for wandering outside on the wrong night. Ack, not good!
Legend has it that seeing a Hunt foretold of something horrible on the way, a war, plague or famine, or even the death of the hapless person witnessing it.
So if you’re ever out wandering in the wee hours and you hear the Wild Hunt’s horn, don’t delay, don’t look, just cover your eyes and run fast and hide before you get swept up by the Goblin King. Better hope he doesn’t spy you admiring him!
In book 2 of the Black Blood Fae series, Prince Raff has just joined Lara and Ever’s three-day wedding march back to Merrin Creek, along with most of the Elemental Court, and he warns Isla that fae processions are very similar to a Wild Hunt. Let’s eavesdrop for moment:
“And how did you sleep last night?” I ask, admiring this morning’s look of rumpled ruin—twigs and leaves crushed in her once shining yellow hair.
“Not great. There were a lot of weird noises in the dark, odd singing, screams and cries. It felt a bit like a war camp, rather than a traveling wedding party.”
“Yes, fae processions are hardly very different to a Wild Hunt. They begin formal and beautiful but quickly devolve. All manner of unspeakable things happen under moon shadow. But do not worry. You and I should form an alliance. A truce, if you like. Then when you are under my protection, no creature, wild or tame, would dare harm you.” As soon as the words have left my mouth, I know they could not have been more poorly chosen.
Her eyes have narrowed, peachy cheeks darkening to scarlet. With barely contained fury.
I’ve offended her again. When will I learn to keep my mouth shut?
Excerpt from King of Always by… me, Juno Heart, in case you’ve forgotten. 🙂
And check out this spooky 1899 poem by W.B. Yeats about the Terrible Hunt.
“The Hosting of the Sidhe”
The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving our eyes are agleam,
Our arms are waving our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing ‘twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.
Hmmm… very creepy crawly!
