As autumn gives way to winter, the fields grow quiet, the trees surrender their leaves, and darkness claims more of each passing day. Across much of Europe, this season brought stories of things traveling after sunset that no ordinary traveler would want to meet. Ghostly horsemen crossed the sky, spectral hounds hunted through the night, and mysterious companies moved through the countryside while people barred their doors and listened for sounds beyond the walls.
These tales form part of the rich body of folklore commonly gathered under the name the Wild Hunt. The stories differ from one region to another, but many share an unsettling image: a supernatural host on the move, crossing the boundary between the human world and whatever lies beyond it.
In my own understanding (UPG), the Wild Hunt is a host of entities that circles the globe during the liminal season between Winter Nights/Samhain [SOW-in], when the old year begins its descent, through the Winter Solstice, when the returning light begins its slow victory over the dark. As the season progresses, the host gradually withdraws, its riders beginning to wane in power by Twelfth Night, which I mark here as New Year’s Eve on the modern calendar, and once more retire to their rest by the first night of Yule-tide observances around the third week of January. I picture the riders passing over mountains, forests, fields, coastlines, and sleeping villages, their company changing according to the lands they cross. Some may be spirits of the dead; others may be gods, ancestral powers, fae, spectral animals, or beings whose nature does not fit neatly into any human category. They move throughout the continents, not just Europe, and can sometimes pass through places more than once as they rise during the night.
Older traditions place supernatural processions on different nights and across different stretches of winter. Some concentrate on the Christmas season and the Twelve Nights, while others connect their riders with particular feast days, storms, or local customs.
The history is wonderfully varied and perfect for the spooky season of late fall/early winter. Medieval chroniclers described ghostly armies; Scandinavian folklore preserved tales of supernatural rides; German-speaking communities told of formidable women leading winter processions; and Welsh and Gaelic traditions remembered otherworldly rulers, spectral hounds, and hosts of the dead. The name Wild Hunt became especially influential through nineteenth-century comparative folklore, when scholars began drawing together accounts that shared similar features. Those connections are worth exploring, provided we allow each tradition to retain its own history.
The oldest written shadows: Armies of the Night
One of the most striking medieval accounts appears in the Peterborough version of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Under the year 1127, the chronicler describes a company of enormous, dark hunters said to have appeared after an unpopular appointment at Peterborough Abbey. They rode black horses and black goats, accompanied by black hounds with wide eyes, and their horns could be heard through the night. According to the account, people claimed to have seen the company for much of the period between Christmas and Candlemas (Feb 1st or 2nd).¹ The description is memorable because the hunters arrive without explanation. The chronicler records the report as part of a wider account of events affecting the abbey and its community. The riders are frightening, their appearance is unnatural, and their passage seems to belong to a world operating beyond ordinary human understanding.
The timing also gives us a useful glimpse of how seasonal beliefs differed. This company reportedly appeared between Christmas and Candlemas, rather than exclusively between Samhain and the Solstice mentioned above. The winter season was a time when supernatural activity could be imagined in many forms, and the dates associated with it varied across regions and generations.
Another important medieval account comes from the Norman historian Orderic Vitalis, who wrote in the early twelfth century about a priest named Walchelin encountering a ghostly procession. The company included the dead and suffering figures, and its mysterious leader was called Hellequin or Herlequin. Orderic presented the encounter within a Christian understanding of the afterlife, but his account also preserves the image of a wandering host that did not belong to the ordinary world.² The name mesnie Hellequin [meh-NYAY el-uh-KAN]—often translated as Hellequin’s household or retinue—became associated with these supernatural processions in medieval French and Norman material. The precise origin of Hellequin’s name remains disputed, and scholars have proposed several explanations. The surviving evidence does not allow us to identify one certain origin.
The Christian interpretation of these stories is part of their history. Medieval writers might describe the dead as sinners, demons, or souls undergoing punishment, even when their accounts drew upon local beliefs about supernatural companies traveling through the night. We are not able to remove the Christian language and assume that what remains is an unchanged pagan myth. The sources tell us what people wrote, what they feared, and how they interpreted the extraordinary. They rarely give us a complete account of the beliefs that preceded them. The earliest written evidence therefore offers several recurring elements: a company that travels together, a leader whose identity varies, and a passage that can be terrifying to witness. The regional traditions give those elements different names and personalities.
The Scandinavian rides: Óðinn and the Oskoreia
Scandinavia offers some of the traditions most closely associated with the Wild Hunt in modern Heathen practice. Norway’s Oskoreia [OSS-kuh-rye-uh], also written in related forms such as Åsgårdsrei [OWS-gawds-rye], belongs to a wider Scandinavian complex of stories about supernatural rides. Swedish and Danish folklore likewise preserve names and accounts connecting spectral hunts with Óðinn [OH-thin]. The meanings and origins of some regional names remain debated, so we should avoid the trap of assuming all the names somehow refer to Ásgarðr [OWS-gar-thr] and Óðinn.³
In Norwegian stories, the Oskoreia may be a host of the dead or a company of supernatural beings traveling through the winter darkness. Horses, hounds, and the sound of a great procession frequently feature in descriptions of the ride. Depending on the account, the host might rush through the sky, cross the countryside, or pass so close to the living that those who encounter it risk being swept away. The riders could bring misfortune or serve as a frightening reminder that the boundaries between worlds were not always secure.
Óðinn is an understandable figure to associate with this tradition. Norse mythology presents him as a god of war, death, poetry, wisdom, and magic, with deep connections to the dead and the gathering of fallen warriors. In later Scandinavian folklore and subsequent interpretations, these associations help explain his role as a leader of the Wild Hunt. The medieval Norse sources, however, do not provide one comprehensive account of the Hunt in the precise form preserved by later regional folklore. Óðinn’s mythological relationships with the dead are well established; the history of identifying him with the winter procession is more complicated.
Scandinavian folklore also preserves female figures associated with the supernatural ride. One is Guro Rysserova [GOO-roo RÜS-seh-roo-vah], sometimes called Guro Åsgard [GOO-roo AWS-gar], who appears in Norwegian traditions as a formidable woman riding at the head of the company. Some accounts associate her with a powerful black horse. Her name and the details of her appearance vary across the folklore record.⁴ Guro’s place in these stories is worth remembering. The Hunt is not always imagined as a man’s procession with women following behind. Some regional accounts give a woman the authority to lead the riders herself. Her presence changes the character of the company and reminds us how much these traditions depend on local storytelling. Guro and other female figures broaden the picture, showing that the leadership of supernatural processions was never exclusively male.
Frau Holle and Perchta: the women who ride
German-speaking regions preserve some of the best-known female figures associated with winter processions: Frau Holle [frow HOH-luh], also called Holda [HOL-dah] in related traditions, and Perchta [PAIRKH-tah], whose name appears in several regional forms. Both have been connected with winter weather, spinning, household expectations, and the inspection of human conduct. In some accounts they lead or accompany a supernatural host; in others they appear as individual figures who visit households during the winter season.
Frau Holle is familiar to many readers through the fairy tale collected by the Brothers Grimm. In the broader folklore surrounding her, she can be a powerful woman connected with weather, domestic work, and the fortunes of the coming year. One familiar image describes snow falling when she shakes out her bedding. Other traditions associate her with a nocturnal company or a procession traveling through the winter landscape. The details vary by region, but not every story about Holle involves the Wild Hunt.⁵
Perchta’s traditions are especially prominent in parts of Austria and southern Germany. Her winter appearances are associated with the Twelve Nights and, in some regions, with Perchtnacht [PAIRKH-t-nakht] around January 5–6. She may travel with a company of spirits, inspect households, and reward those who have followed the expected customs. People in some areas left food for her, hoping for prosperity or protection in the year ahead. Other Perchta stories are considerably more frightening. The lazy, greedy, or disobedient might face grotesque punishments, including tales in which their bellies are cut open and filled with rubbish. These stories make her more than a simple bringer of winter blessings. She can enforce an order that demands respect, and her visit is not necessarily a welcome one.⁶
It is tempting to combine Holle and Perchta into a single ancient goddess with different regional names. Their traditions overlap, and scholars have long compared them, but their histories are not identical. Ronald Hutton’s research into female supernatural figures in Christian Europe cautions against assuming that every powerful woman in winter folklore must be a surviving pre-Christian deity. Some traditions may preserve older elements; others developed through medieval and early modern storytelling, religious change, and local custom.⁷ For our purposes, Holle and Perchta demonstrate that the winter host could be led by a woman whose authority was connected with the season, the household, and the proper ordering of human life. Her company might bring blessings to those who observed the customs, but it could also punish those who ignored them.
Diana and Herodias: the nocturnal company
Medieval ecclesiastical writing preserves another strand of supernatural processions through accounts of women believed to travel at night with a mysterious retinue. Some church texts name Diana [dye-AN-uh], the Roman goddess associated with the hunt, and Herodias [heh-roh-DYE-uhs], a biblical figure reinterpreted in medieval folklore. These accounts describe women who believed they traveled with a female leader and a great company during the night. Church authorities condemned such beliefs, interpreting them as superstition, delusion, or demonic deception.⁸ The stories blur distinctions between different kinds of supernatural journey. Some describe the dead; others involve women who believed they traveled with spirits or joined a company in a state outside ordinary waking life. Later scholars have grouped some of these accounts with the Wild Hunt, but the historical sources do not always present them as one tradition. Diana and Herodias belong in this discussion because they broaden the picture of who might lead a supernatural procession. The leader did not have to be a warrior, king, or male deity. In these accounts, a woman stands at the head of the company, and the night itself becomes a road between worlds.
Herla and Hellequin: leaders caught between worlds
Some supernatural leaders began not as gods or goddesses but as legendary rulers whose encounters with the otherworld changed their lives forever.
In the late twelfth century, the Welsh cleric and writer Walter Map recorded the story of King Herla [HER-lah], a legendary king of the ancient Britons. Herla is invited to attend the wedding of a mysterious otherworldly king. He accepts, attends the celebration, and eventually returns to his own land, only to discover that far more time has passed than he realized. His company becomes a wandering host, unable to settle back into ordinary life.⁹
Herla’s story is frequently connected with the Wild Hunt because he and his followers become perpetual travelers between the familiar world and the otherworld. Yet Walter Map’s account is a literary work, shaped by its author’s purposes and the storytelling traditions available to him. It is not a straightforward record of a historical British king or direct evidence of pre-Christian religious practice.
The tale captures one of the Hunt’s most haunting themes: the danger of crossing a threshold without understanding its cost. Herla accepts an invitation, enters a place where time behaves differently, and returns to find that the world he knew has moved on without him. His fate is not simply a punishment for wickedness. He has become a figure who belongs entirely to neither side.
Hellequin, or Herlequin, belongs to a related but distinct strand of medieval storytelling. In Orderic Vitalis’s account, Hellequin leads a ghostly retinue encountered by a priest. The name later became associated with the mesnie Hellequin [meh-NYAY el-uh-KAN], the supernatural household or company. Its origin remains uncertain, and scholars disagree about how the figure relates to other leaders of spectral processions.¹⁰
The stories of Herla and Hellequin show how regional traditions developed their own supernatural rulers. The Hunt did not require every community to recognize Óðinn as its leader. A legendary king, a mysterious otherworldly lord, or a figure whose origins were already obscure could occupy a similar place in the folklore.
Herne the Hunter: the spectral huntsman of England
English folklore offers another well-known figure associated with supernatural hunting: Herne the Hunter, connected with Windsor Forest. His earliest famous literary appearance is in Shakespeare’s The Merry Wives of Windsor, where a character describes a frightening spirit said to haunt an oak tree during the winter. Herne is associated with antlers, a spectral presence, and ominous activity around the tree and nearby livestock.¹¹
Later retellings expanded his story, giving him a more detailed human origin and explaining how he acquired his antlers. One influential nineteenth-century version presented him as a royal huntsman who suffered a terrible injury while saving a king from a stag. The Devil restored him but placed the stag’s head upon him, condemning him to a supernatural existence. These details became familiar through later literary development rather than a securely documented ancient myth.
Herne is often named as a leader of the Wild Hunt, although that connection is less firmly established in the earliest material than modern summaries sometimes suggest. Jacob Grimm helped bring Herne into comparative discussions of the Wild Hunt, and later writers strengthened the association. The suggestion that Herne is simply an English form of the ancient Celtic deity Cernunnos [ker-NOO-nos] remains speculative at beast; similar names and imagery do not establish a direct historical relationship.¹²
Herne stands at the meeting point of local legend, literature, and later pagan interpretation. A modern practitioner may experience him as a powerful presence of the Hunt, but historical writing must distinguish that relationship from what the earliest sources establish.
Wales: Arawn, the Cŵn Annwn, and Mallt-y-Nos
Welsh tradition preserves a striking cluster of supernatural hunting imagery through Arawn [AH-rown], ruler of Annwn [AN-noon], the otherworld, and the spectral hounds known as the Cŵn Annwn [koon AN-noon]. Arawn appears in the medieval Welsh tale Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed, part of the collection now known as the Mabinogion [mah-bin-OH-gee-on]. Pwyll encounters Arawn while hunting, and the two exchange places for a time. The story gives us a formidable otherworldly ruler and a hunt that crosses the boundary between human and supernatural territory.
The Cŵn Annwn appear in later Welsh folklore as spectral hounds whose cries may announce death or foretell calamity. Their howling could be heard at night, and their passage was associated with particular nights and seasons. Medieval literary descriptions and later folklore collections do not always agree on the hounds’ leader or the precise nature of the hunt. Ronald Hutton’s study of the Wild Hunt in the modern British imagination explores how some associations between Arawn, the hounds, and later figures developed through the revival and circulation of medieval Welsh literature.¹³
A female figure sometimes associated with the Welsh spectral hunt is Mallt-y-Nos [mahllt-uh-noss], or Matilda of the Night. Her story is much later in its documented form than the medieval tale of Arawn. She appears in nineteenth-century Welsh literary tradition as a spectral huntress, often connected with the pursuit of souls and the Cŵn Annwn. Her presence shows how the folklore surrounding the Hunt continued to develop long after the Middle Ages, with new figures joining older supernatural imagery.
The Welsh material broadens the picture of what a supernatural hunt might look like. Sometimes the defining feature is a pack of hounds; sometimes it is the ruler of the otherworld; sometimes it is the sound of a chase heard from a distance. The living may recognize the passage through its effects even when no humanlike rider is visible.
The Sluagh: the host that flies through the night
Across the Irish Sea, Gaelic folklore preserves another powerful image: the Sluagh [sloo-uh], a word meaning a host, army, or crowd. In Scottish Highland and Hebridean traditions, the Sluagh na marbh [sloo-uh nuh mar-uv]—the host of the dead—was described as a company of restless spirits moving through the night sky. Some accounts portray them as souls who had not found rest; others describe dangerous beings who could seize the souls of the dying or carry living people away through the air.¹⁴
The Sluagh is not always led by a clearly identified monarch or huntsman. The host itself is the central presence: a multitude moving together, sometimes like a flock of birds, sometimes arriving with a rush of wind. In some Scottish traditions, the company was believed to come from the west, and families might close west-facing doors and windows when someone was dying. The custom reflected the belief that the boundary between life and death was especially vulnerable at that time.
Irish traditions also include the slua sí [sloo-uh shee], the fairy host, which could pass through the landscape in a sudden whirlwind or supernatural rush. These Irish and Scottish traditions share language and imagery, but they should not be collapsed into a single uniform belief. The Scottish host of the dead and the Irish fairy host can overlap in the wider folklore record, yet their meanings differ according to place and story.
The Sluagh’s connection to the Wild Hunt is best understood as a comparison between related motifs rather than proof that it was always considered part of the same tradition. Like the riders of Scandinavia and the ghostly processions of medieval Europe, the Sluagh moves as a company, crosses boundaries, and can bring danger to anyone caught in its path. Sometimes the host itself is the thing to fear.
Fairy rides and the moving host
The Wild Hunt is often described as a procession of the dead, but fairy folklore offers another way to understand a supernatural company on the move. In parts of Ireland and Scotland, the Aos Sí [ees shee] or fairy host could travel in a sudden wind, a rushing noise, or a procession that passed through the human landscape without warning. In Welsh and other British traditions, the boundary between the fairy world and the world of the dead could also become blurred in stories about otherworldly rulers, hounds, and spectral riders.
These stories are not interchangeable. The fairies are not ghosts, and not every fairy ride is a Wild Hunt. Some fairy processions are journeys between otherworldly locations; some involve abduction or the theft of a human being; others warn that a person has entered a dangerous place at the wrong time. Their relationship to the Hunt rests in the recurring image of a supernatural company moving through the world, often at night and in ways that humans are not meant to interrupt.
The fairy host also complicates the idea that the Hunt is always a force of punishment. In some stories, the danger comes from being noticed, carried away, or caught between worlds. In others, an encounter may offer a glimpse of another order of existence. A traveler who hears a host approaching may have no way of knowing whether it is the dead, the fairies, a divine company, or something else entirely.
That uncertainty is part of the folklore’s power. The sound of a passing host can transform a familiar road into a threshold, and a patch of dark woodland into a place where ordinary rules no longer seem dependable.
The Ghost Riders of the American West
The American West has its own evocative image of supernatural riders: ghostly horsemen crossing the sky alongside a stampeding herd. The best-known version is “Ghost Riders in the Sky: A Cowboy Legend,” written by Stan Jones in 1948. In the song’s story, a cowboy sees a herd of spectral cattle pursued by doomed riders. One of them warns him to change his ways or face the same endless chase.¹⁵
This is a compelling parallel to the Wild Hunt, but the historical distinction is important. The song is documented, and Jones recounted hearing a version of the tale from an older cowboy when he was young. Accounts of the story’s earlier origin vary, and the available evidence does not establish a single ancient source or demonstrate that the American legend is a direct continuation of a European Wild Hunt tradition.
The ghostly cattle and riders share several motifs with older supernatural hunts: a spectral company, a terrifying passage through the sky, an endless pursuit, and a warning to the living. Yet the song’s particular story of doomed cowboys chasing a supernatural herd is a modern American legend, not a documented seasonal rite tied to Winter Nights or the Solstice. It belongs here as a comparative tradition rather than evidence of a continuous global Hunt.
The parallel is fascinating in its own right though. Across very different settings, people have imagined the sky as a road for the dead and the storm as the sound of a chase. Thunder, rushing clouds, or dark shapes crossing the horizon can become the visible edge of a story in which the living briefly glimpse a company that does not belong to them.
What archaeology can—and cannot—tell us
The Wild Hunt is primarily a subject for folklore, textual history, and the study of religious belief. Archaeology can provide context for the worlds in which such stories developed through burial practices, grave goods, depictions of animals and riders, ritual landscapes, and changing relationships with death. A carved horse, a weapon, or an image of a procession, however, cannot by itself prove that a community believed in the Wild Hunt.
Nor do medieval accounts establish that every related story descends from one prehistoric cult. The evidence comes from different periods and genres: chronicles, theological writings, literary tales, folklore collections, and local customs recorded centuries apart. Those sources can illuminate one another, but they must be read within their own historical settings.
Ronald Hutton’s work on the history of pagan religion and modern paganism is useful here because it examines how interpretations of the past develop as later generations return to older beliefs. That does not make modern religious experience meaningless, nor does the absence of archaeological evidence mean that ancient people had no beliefs that left little physical trace. It simply means that material evidence, historical testimony, scholarly interpretation, and personal gnosis answer different questions.¹⁶
For modern pagans, the Wild Hunt can still be meaningful as a living spiritual framework. We can approach it with reverence and imagination while remaining honest about the difference between what the sources record, what scholars infer, and what we experience personally.
The Hunt in modern pagan practice: clearing the old to make room for the new
For some modern pagans, the Wild Hunt is more than a frightening procession or an omen of death. It can also represent transition: a force that strips away what has become stagnant, clears the ground, and carries the old year toward its ending. The Hunt becomes a symbol or, for practitioners who experience it as an active spiritual presence, a power through which the old is released and the new is given room to emerge.
The phrase I like to use is cleansing the chaff from the land. Chaff is the husk left behind after the grain has been separated from what can nourish us. Applied spiritually, it offers a way to think about habits, obligations, attachments, and patterns that no longer serve a person or community. The Hunt may be imagined as sweeping through the landscape and carrying away what has reached the end of its usefulness, leaving space for renewal. It may be a simple removal or a far more chaotic slicing away than perhaps the folk may have originally desired. This is a modern interpretation however. The Hunt is not gentle and attempting to morph it into something that is could potentially cause harm. Older folklore often presents the riders as dangerous, unpredictable, or associated with death and misfortune. The idea of the Hunt as a deliberate spiritual cleansing may be meaningful to contemporary practitioners, but it should not be attributed automatically to medieval communities.
For those who work with the Hunt in this way, the season can invite reflection on what should be released before the light begins its return. The work need not involve waiting for a supernatural host to solve life’s problems. It can mean examining our own choices, changing habits, setting boundaries, honoring grief, and recognizing when something has reached its natural end. Some contemporary practitioners create shrines or devotional spaces for the Hunt and leave offerings. This is not a universal pagan custom, and no single ritual is accepted by all Heathens, witches, or other pagans who engage with the tradition. The practice is better understood as a developing expression of personal devotion. Some honor the host collectively; others focus on a particular leader or an associated deity, ancestor, or spirit.
Offerings reflect the practitioner’s own tradition and understanding of the beings being honored. Bread, water, oats, or other simple gifts may be used by those drawing on regional folklore about feeding a traveling host. Others offer incense, candlelight, a spoken prayer, or a symbolic act of releasing something that has outlived its purpose. These are possible modern devotional choices, not a proven ancient ritual with one prescribed formula.
A shrine need not be elaborate. A safe, modest space with a candle or electric light, a bowl of water, and a few natural objects gathered respectfully can serve as a place for reflection. Anyone leaving food outdoors should consider wildlife, local regulations, and the environment; attracting animals or leaving waste is not necessary to honor a supernatural host.
For those who experience the Hunt as a spiritual presence, the offering can be an act of hospitality and acknowledgement rather than an attempt to command the riders. A person may recognize the passing season, express respect for the dead, and consider what they are ready to release. Devotion and discernment can belong in the same practice.
The Hunt and the first night of Yule
Some modern pagans have begun recognizing the Wild Hunt on the first night of their Yule observances. For them, the Hunt marks a threshold between the fading year and the new cycle. Some follow a December Yule calendar; others place their seasonal observances closer to January or structure the new year according to their own religious calendar. This is UPG and contemporary practice, rather than a historical tradition. The seasonal pattern described at the beginning of this article is the framework I use to understand the Hunt, and I know other practitioners who approach it in a similar way.
For those who observe the Hunt at the beginning of Yule, the night may be a moment of acknowledgement rather than an attempt to summon or control the riders. A person might pause outdoors to listen to the wind, light a candle in a safe place, speak a prayer, or leave a modest offering. The purpose need not be to invite every spirit into the home. It may simply be to recognize the threshold season and approach it with respect.
A simple prayer might read:
To the riders who cross the darkened land,
to the hounds that run between the worlds,
and to the host whose names differ from place to place,
I offer respect as the old year wanes.
May what has reached its ending be carried onward.
May what is worthy of keeping remain with me.
May the turning year find me watchful, grounded, and ready
to meet the returning light.
For those who understand the Hunt as a force of clearing and renewal, another prayer might be:
Wild host of the winter threshold,
take no part of me that I have not freely released.
Let the dead be honored, the living be protected,
and the land be granted its rest.
Carry away what I have finished carrying.
Leave me the courage to do the work that remains.
As the light returns, may I begin again with clear eyes.
Anyone using these prayers can adapt the language to their own beliefs, practice, and boundaries.
Winter warnings and old superstitions
Folklore about supernatural rides carries plenty of warnings. One recurring theme is to avoid interfering with a procession you do not understand. In some accounts, seeing the Hunt is itself dangerous; in others, a person who watches, mocks, follows, or obstructs the riders risks being swept into their company. Sluagh traditions likewise warn against being caught outside at the wrong moment, especially when someone is dying. These beliefs vary by region, but they share an understanding that the living should not assume every passing presence is meant for them.
Other traditions connect the winter procession with omens of death, bad weather, war, or misfortune. A frightening sound in the night or a sudden storm might have been interpreted as the passage of a supernatural host, but a modern practitioner need not treat every gust of wind as a warning or every dream as a command.
Anyone who chooses to honor the Hunt can do so without making fear the center of the practice, but respect for a force that powerful should always be observed. You can establish boundaries that suit your own tradition, speak your intentions clearly, keep your offerings simple, and end the observance when you are ready. If a practice leaves you anxious or feeling compelled to obey frightening impressions, stepping back and grounding yourself is a reasonable choice. The Wild Hunt has always been a story about boundaries as much as movement: the boundary between life and death, the known and the unknown, the human world and whatever travels beyond it. Respecting that boundary does not require surrendering your judgment. Reverence and discernment can sit beside one another.
When the old year rides away
The Wild Hunt has never belonged to one simple story. These traditions share images of night travel, supernatural companies, and dangerous crossings between worlds, but they do not all describe the same beings or preserve one universal ancient religion. Each carries traces of the communities that told its stories, the landscapes through which the riders traveled, and the beliefs that shaped how people understood the dead and the unseen.
For me, the Wild Hunt belongs to the season when Winter Nights and Samhain take hold, begin to peak toward the Solstice, and begin to retire at mid-winter/Yule in January. I imagine the host traveling the darkened roads and skies, carrying the weight of what has ended. As the light returns, I picture the riders withdrawing from the human world, their work done until the next turning of the season.
Now that the nights are lengthening, listen to the wind and remember the stories people have told about the things that travel after sunset. Not every sound is a rider, and not every shadow belongs to the otherworld. Yet the old tales still offer a way to think about the year’s turning, the weight of what has passed, and the possibility of beginning again.
Notes
- The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, entry for 1127, Peterborough version.
- Orderic Vitalis, The Ecclesiastical History, book 8; Claude Lecouteux, Phantom Armies of the Night: The Wild Hunt and the Ghostly Processions of the Undead (Rochester, VT: Inner Traditions, 2011).
- Rudolf Simek, Dictionary of Northern Mythology, trans. Angela Hall (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1993), entries on Óðinn and the Wild Hunt.
- Lecouteux, Phantom Armies of the Night.
- Jacob Grimm, Teutonic Mythology, trans. James Steven Stallybrass, 4 vols. (London: George Bell and Sons, 1882–88); Ronald Hutton, Queens of the Wild: Pagan Goddesses in Christian Europe—An Investigation (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2022).
- Lotte Motz, “The Winter Goddess: Percht, Holda, and Related Figures,” Folklore 96, no. 2 (1985): 151–66; Hutton, Queens of the Wild.
- Hutton, Queens of the Wild.
- Hutton, Queens of the Wild; Lecouteux, Phantom Armies of the Night.
- Walter Map, De Nugis Curialium, distinction 1, chapter 11; Andrew Joynes, ed., Medieval Ghost Stories: An Anthology of Miracles, Marvels and Prodigies (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2001).
- Orderic Vitalis, The Ecclesiastical History; Pierre Bouet, “La ‘Mesnie Hellequin’ dans l’Historia Ecclesiastica d’Orderic Vital,” in Mélanges François Kerlouégan (Besançon: Université de Franche-Comté, 1994), 61–78.
- William Shakespeare, The Merry Wives of Windsor, act 4, scene 4.
- Hutton, “The Wild Hunt in the Modern British Imagination,” Folklore 130, no. 1 (2019): 1–16.
- Hutton, “The Wild Hunt in the Modern British Imagination”; The Mabinogion, “Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed.”
- John Gregorson Campbell, Superstitions of the Highlands and Islands of Scotland (Glasgow: James MacLehose and Sons, 1900); Alexander Carmichael, Carmina Gadelica, vol. 2 (Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, 1900).
- “Ghost Riders in the Sky: About the Song,” Ballad of America, https://balladofamerica.org/ghost-riders-in-the-sky/; Arizona PBS, “Ghost Riders in the Sky Book,” December 30, 2014, https://azpbs.org/horizon/2014/12/ghost-riders-in-the-sky-book-2/.
- Hutton, Queens of the Wild; Hutton, “The Wild Hunt in the Modern British Imagination.”
Bibliography
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Arizona PBS. “Ghost Riders in the Sky Book.” December 30, 2014. https://azpbs.org/horizon/2014/12/ghost-riders-in-the-sky-book-2/.
Ballad of America. “Ghost Riders in the Sky: About the Song.” https://balladofamerica.org/ghost-riders-in-the-sky/.
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———. “The Wild Hunt in the Modern British Imagination.” Folklore 130, no. 1 (2019): 1–16.
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