On this page I temporarily host essays which I have written. Some of these may have been for academic classes, others for online journals, and still others just for fun. Whatever the circumstances, I hope that you enjoy!
Currently on this page:
Exploring Pre-Christian Otherworldly Imagery in The Voyage of Saint Brendan
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Originally a Gaelic agricultural celebration, Imbolc has since taken on many different forms and meanings. In recent times, it is often associated with renewal, rebirth, and general “spring cleaning” themes. As such Imbolc is becoming increasingly popular in many Pagan communities. Yet this is only a part of the story. Imbolc has a rich history that stretches far beyond modern Pagan altars, back through Christian monasteries, and deep into ancient farmlands. It is a celebration of great antiquity that, despite its age, continues to captivate humanity today just as it did centuries, if not millennia, ago.
Originating amongst the Gaelic peoples of Ireland and the Scottish Highlands, Imbolc was an agricultural festival of springtime growth. During the cold and harsh winters that plagued the British Isles, crops could not be grown and so food had to be preserved. The coming of Imbolc heralded the beginning of the agricultural year, and along with it, the promise of fresh food. Of particular importance was the resurgence of fresh meat and milk, both staples of the Gaelic diet. It is no surprise, then, that Imbolc corresponded to the time around which livestock, particularly the lamb, was born. For this reason, Imbolc is also called Imbolg and Oimelc. Imbolg (pronounced IH-mull’g) is an Irish name that means “in the belly,” a name that easily identifies the festival with the pregnant livestock of early February. Also an Irish word, oimelc may mean “ewe’s milk.” Being high in fat content, fresh ewe’s milk would have been a great way to rebuild the bodily energy reserves that were lost over the winter.[1]
Imbolc also may have served as a special occasion for cleaning. Of course, after being sequestered in a small hut for the last several months, it only makes sense that people would have had the urge to tidy up both their living spaces and themselves. It may be from this aspect of the festival that the name Imbolc comes, for while there is no concrete evidence, it is speculated by some that Imbolc may derive from the Irish imb-fholc, meaning “washing oneself.”[2] Today, this “spring cleaning” aspect of Imbolc is very popular within modern Paganism. Many Pagan communities view this as a time to cut negative ties and to make way for a springtime renewal of the self.
Whenever going beyond the vague past of livestock production and milk celebration, it is impossible to give even a brief history of Imbolc without mentioning the Goddess, Brighid. In fact, Imbolc is sometimes referred to simply as Brigid![3] As Goddess of the hearth and livestock, Brighid served as an integral part of Imbolc, and many Imbolc traditions, both ancient and modern, were performed in her honor. Today, this Goddess is known by many names, chiefly among them Brighid (pronounced “breedj”), Bride, Brigid, Bridget, and Brigantia.
When Ireland was Christianized, Brighid’s popularity was so widespread that her attributes were incorporated into the Christian persona of St. Bridget. During this process, Brighid’s chief holy day, Imbolc, also became a part of Christian tradition as St. Bridget’s Day. Following suit, many of the Imbolc Pagan customs survived by adopting a Christian overtone and connecting themselves with the life of St. Bridget. It is largely in this form that Imbolc and its traditions survived into the modern day.
Throughout the evolution of Imbolc, many folk customs have become associated with it. While most of these have Christian façades, the Pagan themes are still highly visible. One such tradition is that of the brídeóg (pronounced “BREEDJ-ohg”), a custom which still survives in some parts of Ireland and Scotland. A brídeóg, meaning “little Brighid,” is a small doll made of fresh rushes or herbs that is then dressed in woman’s clothing. On the eve of St. Bridget’s Day, women lay this doll by the hearth in a specially made bed. They then gather around it and sing songs of praise to the Saint. This is all done in order to welcome the Saint into the household, for on this night she is thought to walk the earth. In the morning, if there is the imprint of a foot or a club in the ashes of the hearth, it is believed that St. Bridget has given her blessing for a prosperous year. [4]
Another custom, coming from the Isle of Man, is to use St. Bridget’s Day (Laa’l Breeshey in Manx[5]) as a weather marker. As a result, there are several traditional proverbs that go along with it. For example:
Laa'l Breeshey Bane, Dy chooilley yeeig lane, Dy ghoo ny dy vane.
Bride's day white, every ditch full of black or of white.[6]
In other words, if it snows of St. Bridget’s day, there will be a wet spring.[7] In a sense, this tradition is comparable to the American Groundhog’s Day, although the latter is of Germanic origin.
While it is important to know about the history of Imbolc, knowing about the festival is nothing compared to actually celebrating its mysteries. So it is that today many people gather to rejoice in the vital phenomena of birth, of sustenance, and of renewal. To many Pagans, this festival is known as Imbolc, Oimelc, or Imbolg. To Christians it is St. Bridget’s Day. Still there are others who do not have a name for it. They just know it as what their parents, grandparents, or even great-grandparents did. In the end, all are beautiful renditions of the same innate mystery that has captivated humans since they first appeared: life. Like all festivals, Imbolc is a celebration of life, a celebration that, though begun in the ancient past, still has much to inspire in its now universal audience.
[1]O'Brien, Lora. Irish Witchcraft From An Irish Witch. New York: New Page, 2004. Print. (Page 150)
[2]O’Brien, 150.
[3]Gardner, Gerald Brosseau. Witchcraft Today. New York, N.Y: Citadel, 2004. Print. (Page 130)
[4]Farrar, Janet, and Stewart Farrar. A Witches Bible Compleat. Magickal Childe Inc, 1987. Print. (Page 63)
[5]Farrar, 63.
[6]"Chapter 1 - William Cashen's Folk-lore, 1912." Welcome to Isleofman.com - The online Isle of Man Portal. Web. 23 Jan. 2010.
[7]"Imbolc 2008 Issue." Global Goddess | Goddess Women Helping Women Worldwide. Web. 18 Jan. 2010.
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Originally a Gaelic agricultural celebration, Imbolc has since taken on many different forms and meanings. In recent times, it is often associated with renewal, rebirth, and general “spring cleaning” themes. As such Imbolc is becoming increasingly popular in many Pagan communities. Yet this is only a part of the story. Imbolc has a rich history that stretches far beyond modern Pagan altars, back through Christian monasteries, and deep into ancient farmlands. It is a celebration of great antiquity that, despite its age, continues to captivate humanity today just as it did centuries, if not millennia, ago.
Originating amongst the Gaelic peoples of Ireland and the Scottish Highlands, Imbolc was an agricultural festival of springtime growth. During the cold and harsh winters that plagued the British Isles, crops could not be grown and so food had to be preserved. The coming of Imbolc heralded the beginning of the agricultural year, and along with it, the promise of fresh food. Of particular importance was the resurgence of fresh meat and milk, both staples of the Gaelic diet. It is no surprise, then, that Imbolc corresponded to the time around which livestock, particularly the lamb, was born. For this reason, Imbolc is also called Imbolg and Oimelc. Imbolg (pronounced IH-mull’g) is an Irish name that means “in the belly,” a name that easily identifies the festival with the pregnant livestock of early February. Also an Irish word, oimelc may mean “ewe’s milk.” Being high in fat content, fresh ewe’s milk would have been a great way to rebuild the bodily energy reserves that were lost over the winter.[1]
Imbolc also may have served as a special occasion for cleaning. Of course, after being sequestered in a small hut for the last several months, it only makes sense that people would have had the urge to tidy up both their living spaces and themselves. It may be from this aspect of the festival that the name Imbolc comes, for while there is no concrete evidence, it is speculated by some that Imbolc may derive from the Irish imb-fholc, meaning “washing oneself.”[2] Today, this “spring cleaning” aspect of Imbolc is very popular within modern Paganism. Many Pagan communities view this as a time to cut negative ties and to make way for a springtime renewal of the self.
Whenever going beyond the vague past of livestock production and milk celebration, it is impossible to give even a brief history of Imbolc without mentioning the Goddess, Brighid. In fact, Imbolc is sometimes referred to simply as Brigid![3] As Goddess of the hearth and livestock, Brighid served as an integral part of Imbolc, and many Imbolc traditions, both ancient and modern, were performed in her honor. Today, this Goddess is known by many names, chiefly among them Brighid (pronounced “breedj”), Bride, Brigid, Bridget, and Brigantia.
When Ireland was Christianized, Brighid’s popularity was so widespread that her attributes were incorporated into the Christian persona of St. Bridget. During this process, Brighid’s chief holy day, Imbolc, also became a part of Christian tradition as St. Bridget’s Day. Following suit, many of the Imbolc Pagan customs survived by adopting a Christian overtone and connecting themselves with the life of St. Bridget. It is largely in this form that Imbolc and its traditions survived into the modern day.
Throughout the evolution of Imbolc, many folk customs have become associated with it. While most of these have Christian façades, the Pagan themes are still highly visible. One such tradition is that of the brídeóg (pronounced “BREEDJ-ohg”), a custom which still survives in some parts of Ireland and Scotland. A brídeóg, meaning “little Brighid,” is a small doll made of fresh rushes or herbs that is then dressed in woman’s clothing. On the eve of St. Bridget’s Day, women lay this doll by the hearth in a specially made bed. They then gather around it and sing songs of praise to the Saint. This is all done in order to welcome the Saint into the household, for on this night she is thought to walk the earth. In the morning, if there is the imprint of a foot or a club in the ashes of the hearth, it is believed that St. Bridget has given her blessing for a prosperous year. [4]
Another custom, coming from the Isle of Man, is to use St. Bridget’s Day (Laa’l Breeshey in Manx[5]) as a weather marker. As a result, there are several traditional proverbs that go along with it. For example:
Laa'l Breeshey Bane, Dy chooilley yeeig lane, Dy ghoo ny dy vane.
Bride's day white, every ditch full of black or of white.[6]
In other words, if it snows of St. Bridget’s day, there will be a wet spring.[7] In a sense, this tradition is comparable to the American Groundhog’s Day, although the latter is of Germanic origin.
While it is important to know about the history of Imbolc, knowing about the festival is nothing compared to actually celebrating its mysteries. So it is that today many people gather to rejoice in the vital phenomena of birth, of sustenance, and of renewal. To many Pagans, this festival is known as Imbolc, Oimelc, or Imbolg. To Christians it is St. Bridget’s Day. Still there are others who do not have a name for it. They just know it as what their parents, grandparents, or even great-grandparents did. In the end, all are beautiful renditions of the same innate mystery that has captivated humans since they first appeared: life. Like all festivals, Imbolc is a celebration of life, a celebration that, though begun in the ancient past, still has much to inspire in its now universal audience.
WORKS CITED
[1]O'Brien, Lora. Irish Witchcraft From An Irish Witch. New York: New Page, 2004. Print. (Page 150)
[2]O’Brien, 150.
[3]Gardner, Gerald Brosseau. Witchcraft Today. New York, N.Y: Citadel, 2004. Print. (Page 130)
[4]Farrar, Janet, and Stewart Farrar. A Witches Bible Compleat. Magickal Childe Inc, 1987. Print. (Page 63)
[5]Farrar, 63.
[6]"Chapter 1 - William Cashen's Folk-lore, 1912." Welcome to Isleofman.com - The online Isle of Man Portal. Web. 23 Jan. 2010.
[7]"Imbolc 2008 Issue." Global Goddess | Goddess Women Helping Women Worldwide. Web. 18 Jan. 2010.
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Betsy Whyte’s tale, The Black Laird, is a marvelous piece from the tradition of storytelling. Its full-figured imagery and fanciful sense of action surely are more than able to enrapture even the most stubborn of audiences. While Whyte claims to have learned this story from her grandmother, this type of tale has a history far beyond the confines of Whyte’s own family. Scholarly classed as Aarne-Thompson 325—The Magician and His Pupil—this folktale has dwelt among many peoples, including those of Scotland, Norway, and even Italy. Thus Whyte’s rendition is yet another spinning of this much broader and, indeed, international tale. Yet Whyte also brings something different and quite unique to the story: While fully utilizing the basic structure of The Magician and His Pupil, she nevertheless sets her version apart by amending it with a particularly Celtic flavor. The result of this fusion is the retelling of an age-old story, which takes on a unique identity from others of its group by connecting itself with the native traditions of Whyte’s Scottish homeland.
The general tale type of The Magician and His Pupil begins with a father giving his son over to a magician for instruction. The boy, acting as the magician’s apprentice, eventually learns to be skilled in magic. He then flees from the magician but is eventually caught and transformed into an animal. However, the boy escapes once again, and a transformation pursuit follows, wherein the magician chases the boy throughout a variety of animal forms. To end this flight, the boy changes himself into a ring and finds his way to a woman, seeking asylum as one of her possessions. In the meantime, the magician becomes a worker within the woman’s household and plots to win the ring for himself. After completing a task, the woman gives the magician the ring, but when she does so it turns into a heap of corn that scatters across the floor. The magician swiftly turns himself into a cockerel, hoping to do away with the boy by eating him. Yet, before the magician has time to devour the corn, the boy transforms into a fox and bites off the magician’s head (Gibbs).
Betsy Whyte’s The Black Laird does not differ too greatly from this general tale type. In Whyte’s version, an old couple places their son, Jack, under the care of a sea captain who happens to be versed in the black arts—hence he is called the Black Laird. After a period of study, Jack is set free by his master. However, the Black Laird arranges for a duel between himself and the boy. Feeling that Jack is too powerful, the Black Laird transforms him into a horse and locks him in a stable. Jack soon escapes and is pursed by the Black Laird in animal form. Eventually the boy turns himself into a ring and enters the company of a woman. The magician does work for the woman’s family, and Jack, sensing danger at the proximity of the laird, arranges a ruse, the end result of which is that Jack is transformed into a barley seed. Appropriately the Black Laird turns into a cock and prepares to eat the seed, but Jack quickly becomes a fox and kills the laird. As is clear from this synopsis, The Black Laird’s fundamental structure is nearly identical to that of the generalized tale type, and in this respect, it is certainly no different than the many other versions of Aarne-Thompson 325 that circulate throughout the world.
Yet The Black Laird, if not unique in its basic plot, is certainly made separate by the virtue of its details, and several of these details suggest that the tale, while part of a larger oral tradition, is also representative of a distinctively Celtic mindset. Among such nuances is the fact that the magician of Whyte’s telling is both a black laird and a captain. In Celtic thought, water often was—and in some cases, still is—observed as a vehicle for magical events (Delaney 90). As Alwyn and Brinley Rees—scholars of Celtic Wales—note: “in a metaphysical formulation a ‘crossing of water’ always implies change of state and status” (Rees 107). By connecting the Black Laird with water and by having Jack join this magician at sea, Whyte uses traditional Celtic imagery to emphasize the Otherworldly nature of this event. In doing this, the Black Laird resembles a host of Celtic deities who are both wise seafarers and adept magicians, such as the Irish Manannán mac Lír (Rolleston 125). The joining of magic with water also connects The Black Laird with many other preternatural tales in the Celtic world, such as the Irish Immrama—that is, soul journeys—and the Welsh story of Gwion Bach.
The comparison of The Black Laird with the story of Gwion Bach is of particular interest, for the latter contains many motifs found in The Magician and His Pupil and is, itself, highly concerned with Celtic culture. The earliest extant textual evidence for this tale is a sixteenth century Welsh manuscript, though it is clear that the story was either copied or remembered from earlier sources (Ford 159). This tale—having been preserved in a Celtic language—offers a nice insight into the traditional mindset of the Celtic peoples. In the story, Gwion Bach has been enlisted by the witch Cerridwen to stir her cauldron. In the cauldron is an elixir that will give ultimate knowledge to whoever ingests it. Although this magical brew is meant for Cerridwen’s son, Gwion accidently takes it. He then flees, and a transformation chase ensues, ending with Cerridwen eating Gwion Bach while he is in the form of a sheaf of wheat and she that of a hen. The similarities between the story of Gwion Bach and The Black Laird are striking, and both certainly contain similar themes. Yet there are other, more subtle similarities between the two, similarities which point to a common Celtic understanding. For example, like the Black Laird of Whyte’s tale, Cerridwen is also connected with both magic and water, being said to live “in the midst of the lake Tegid” (Guest 471). Indeed, this synthesis of the magician and a watery home seems to be a very important motif of Celtic storytelling.
Beyond the connection of the magician with a body of water, Whyte’s tale denotes a specific timeframe for Jack’s study, and this again points to the use of Celtic elements within the story. Whyte tells her audience that Jack studied under the Black Laird for periods of a year and a day. This timeframe is quite interesting for several reasons. Firstly, many versions of this tales type do not mention time or, if they do, count it as a year. Therefore this detail sets The Black Laird apart from its general category. Secondly, this temporal denotation appears in a variety of Celtic narratives, wherein it often demarks a time of magical events. Thus Gwion Bach has to stir Cerridwen’s cauldron for a year and a day in order to properly brew the magical potion, and in another Welsh tale, that of Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed, Pwyll switches places with the Otherworldly king, Arawn, for a year and a day, at the end of which time he must battle a magical monster. In both of these Celtic tales, the period of a year and a day serves as a symbolic means to suggest a time in which magical skills are performed. The Black Laird certainly keeps with this symbology by having Jack go off to learn magic for a year and a day. Surely this can be nothing less than the modern incorporation of a much older, Celtic literary device.
Another important Celtic-themed detail in The Black Laird is the fact that Jack turns himself into barely at the end of the tale rather than, as the basic type would suggest, a scattering of corn. Indeed, something similar happens in the tale of Gwion Bach when Gwion turns himself into a sheaf of wheat. While these may come off as trivial details, these nuances comment on the cultural mindset of the people. Barely and wheat are by no means the same crop, yet they share a certain important characteristic: Both are used to produce alcoholic beverages. Of course, it is no surprise that such drinks played a very important part in the Celtic world, especially after the introduction of Celtic monastic culture (Hanson). That this instance in the tale should display a foodstuff uniquely definitive of the culture is supported by other versions of the story, such as the Italian rendition, Maestro Lattanzio and His Apprentice Dionigi. In this spinning of the Aarne-Thompson 325 tale type, the magician’s student, Dionigi, turns himself into a pomegranate seed. Unlike corn, a comparatively new crop in the Italian peninsula (Demetri), the pomegranate has a long and regal history in this area (“Path of the Pomegranate”). By inserting the pomegranate in the place of corn, then, the storyteller makes a gesture to the native tradition and history of his Italian homeland. The substitution of barely in The Black Laird carries the same kind of connotation, and it ultimately helps to fuse the identity of the tale with the local traditions of the land through incorporating an easily identifiable Celtic staple food.
A final strand of Celtic tradition that seems to be woven into Betsy Whyte’s The Black Laird is the imagery and symbolism of the otter. In the tale, Jack flees from the black laird in the shape of a fish, to which the black laird responds by chasing him while in the form of an otter. Again this finds a parallel in the story of Gwion Bach, wherein the same event occurs: Gwion, as a fish, is pursed by Cerridwen while she is an otter. As the presence of the Eurasian otter in the British Isles was commonplace at the times of these tales (“Otter (Eurasian)”), it may just be a coincidence that both stories utilize this creature. Yet the particular role of the otter, coupled with the fact that many other versions of the tale simply have a large fish—the magician—chasing a small fish—the pupil—, may suggest otherwise. In Celtic tradition, especially in its more modern incarnations (MacKillop 360), there exist various stories in which the otter is personified as a wily and troublemaking shape shifter. In the story of the birth of the Irish king Lugaid mac Con, Lugaid’s mother is said to have been impregnated by an otter (MacKillop 360). Similarly, in the Welsh tale, A Strange Otter, two boys capture an otter, which later turns out to be “a little man in a red dress” of the “Fair Family” (Thomas). The assertions from Celtic thought that the otter is both a menace and shape shifter fit strangely well with the role of the otter in The Black Laird. Indeed the otter propagates this stereotype as it is both a shape-shifted form and a villain. In lieu of the fact that the otter imagery within The Black Laird fits perfectly with the Celtic assumptions of the otter’s nature and that the role of the otter finds a direct parallel in the deeply Celtic story of Gwion Bach, there is little doubt that this is a genuine Celtic element.
With all of its action and magic Betsy Whyte’s The Black Laird is an exemplary piece. Sticking close by its generic Aarne-Thompson 325 plotline, this tale weaves a fantastic journey through the world of enchantment and adventure. Yet throughout this generic The Magician and His Pupil tale, Whyte includes remnants of Celtic tradition, thereby making her story unique. The connection of the Black Laird with water, the year and a day timeframe for magical apprenticeship, the substitution of barely for corn, and even the literary glimpse of an otter as the pursuer all hearken back to a much more ancient Celtic mindset. With the presence of such a combination, there can be no doubt that Whyte’s tale is a distinctively Celtic rendition of the greater Aarne-Thomspon 325 tale type. Thus in The Black Laird Whyte has seamlessly fused an international story with intimately local themes, providing a tale not just about the world but about her culture.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Dasent, George Webbe. Popular Tales from the Norse. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons,
1904. Sacred Texts. Mar. 2004. Web. 7 Dec. 2010. .
Delaney, Frank. The Celts. Boston: Little, Brown and, 1986. Print.
Demetri, Justin. "Polenta." Life in Italy. Web. 08 Dec. 2010.
Ford, Patrick K., trans. The Mabinogi and Other Medieval Welsh Tales. Berkeley:
University of California, 2008. Print.
Gibbs, Laura. "Aarne-Thompson's Tale-Type." Tales from Denmark. Mill-3043
Mythology-Folklore Online Course, 09 Oct. 2004. Web. 07 Dec. 2010. .
Guest, Lady Charlotte, trans. The Mabinogion. London, 1877. Sacred Texts. 04 Mar.
2004. Web. 7 Dec. 2010. .
Hanson, David J. "History of Alcohol and Drinking around the World." Preventing
Alcohol Abuse: Alcohol, Culture and Control. Wesport, CT: Praeger, 1995. Alcohol: Problems and Solutions. Web. 8 Dec. 2010. .
MacKillop, James. The Oxford Dictionary of Celtic Mythology. New York: Oxford UP,
2004. Google Books. Web. 8 Dec. 2010. .
"Otter (Eurasian)." Young People's Trust for the Environment. Web. 8 Dec. 2010.
"Path of the Pomegranate." POM Wonderful. PomWonderful, LLC, 2010. Web. 8 Dec.
2010. .
Rees, Alwyn, and Brinley Rees. Celtic Heritage: Ancient Tradition in Ireland and Wales.
U.S.A.: Thames and Hudson, 1961. Print.
Rolleston, T. W. Celtic Myths and Legends. Mineola, New York: Dover Publications,
1990. Print.
Thomas, W. Jenkyn. "A Strange Otter." The Welsh Fairy Book. New York: F. A. Stokes,
1908. Sacred Texts. Web. 8 Dec. 2010. .
Whyte, Betsy. "The Black Laird." Comp. Peter Cooke and Linda Headlee. The Penguin
Book of Scottish Folktales. Ed. Neil Philip. Penguin. 52-54. Print.
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For hundreds of years, The Voyage of Saint Brendan has enraptured both religious and secular audiences. Originating from a tenth century Latin text, this story deals with the miraculous journey of the Irish Saint Brendan of Clonfert as he searches for the Promised Land of the Saints amidst the tosses of the North Atlantic. Throughout his excursion, Brendan and his retinue of monks repeatedly encounter fantastic places and beings, both benevolent and terrifying. Nevertheless, all of these bizarre events and characters ultimately combine to create a commentary on the merciful power of God. Yet, while The Voyage of Saint Brendan is surely a Christian tale and while the author surely was endeavoring to create it as Christian tale, there are in fact many images and motifs within the story that allude to the pre-Christian beliefs and customs of Ireland. It is possible, then, to understand The Voyage of Saint Brendan not as separate from the secular, non-Christian tales but rather as a product of the natural outgrowth and evolution of the Irish storytelling tradition as it sought to reconcile its ancient roots with a new religion.
At the beginning of his journey, Saint Brendan gathers a group of monks, builds a currach, and heads out into the sea. Already in these opening scenes, it is possible to find nuances that connect The Voyage of Saint Brendan with the older, secular traditions of Ireland. As Brendan pushes off from the coast, the author makes a point of telling his audience that the saint is steering westwards. While this may seem like an innocent detail, the explicit mention of it may indicate a much more non-trivial, Irish belief—one which is very telling of the type of journey that Brendan is about to experience. As W.Y. Evans-Wentz, an anthropologist and compiler of Celtic folklore, explains: “frequently, in the Old Irish manuscripts, the Celtic Otherworld was located in the midst of the Western Ocean” (Evans-Wentz 333). This association of the west with the Otherworld, then, can be found in a variety of Irish literature. Yet, it also appears in more concrete ways. Bull Rock—one of the most western points of Ireland—was formerly known as Tech Duinn, or the House of Donn, and “according to the heathen, the souls of sinners visit it and give their blessing to Donn before going to Hell” (Rees 97). Clearly Tech Duinn serves as a gateway between the mortal realm and the non-Christian Otherworld.[1] Thus by incorporating this detail about the western direction of Brendan’s voyage, the author is making a typical, Irish literary gesture to foreshadow the nature of the events that are about to take place.
In the same passage that the author makes note of the direction of Saint Brendan’s voyage, he also mentions that the monks are starting their journey on the summer solstice. This, again, indicates the presence of pre-Christian, Irish tradition within the narrative. In Irish and other Gaelic lore, the summer solstice is often associated with Otherworld deities, most notably the god Manannán mac Lír. The pre-Christian Irish held Manannán to be the god of the sea as well as the overseer—or even the king—of the Otherworld (Evans-Wentz 342). Therefore it is no surprise that this deity appears in a variety of Otherworld tales, including The Voyage of Bran mac Febal and Cormac’s Adventures in the Land of Promise. While there are no surviving rites of Manannán amongst the Irish today, there is evidence that the god was praised on the summer solstice in the Isle of Man well into the 19th century (“Manx Customs Calendar”), and it is not unlikely to assume that the Irish had a similar custom, for the Isle of Man was an Irish settlement and Manannán mac Lír an Irish god. However it is recorded that, in Ireland proper, the Munster goddess Áine—associated with Manannán either by marriage or descent—was celebrated on Midsummer’s Eve (Rolleston 128). In lieu of this, the author’s remark about the summer solstice in The Voyage of Saint Brendan can be understood as the utilization of yet another, native element in order to foreshadow the nature of the monks’ adventure.
In chapter 11 of the tale, Saint Brendan and his monks happen upon an island wherein a hoard of birds is perched upon a tree. The saint is greatly perplexed as to the nature of these mysterious birds, and after imploring the Lord for understanding, one of the birds flies down to Brendan and explains that these creatures are souls who “survive from the great destruction of the ancient enemy”; yet God has prevented them “from sharing the lot of others who were faithful.” Accordingly, they are to “wander through the various regions of the air and the firmament and the earth, just like other spirits that travel on their missions” (O’Meara 21). This description offered by the birds closely resembles the Christianized view of the Irish Gentry, or Fairy Folk, and it thus adds another dimension of native Irish Otherworldliness to the tale.
Most scholars hold to the opinion that the Gentry are a diminution of the Irish gods, a process that was brought about by the Christianization of Ireland.[2] When Christianity first spread throughout Ireland, it needed a way to make sense of the old Irish gods and spirits, and, if one is to judge the past as the source for the pervasive evidence in the present, one of the ways in which Christianity did this was by assigning the race of the Gentry a position somewhere between angels and demons. As one contemporary example—drawn from the island of Minglay in 1871—states:
Many angels followed [Lucifer]—so many that at last the Son called out “Father! Father! the city is being emptied!” whereupon the Father ordered that the gates of heaven and the gates of hell should be closed…And those who were in were in, and those who were out were out; while the hosts who had left heaven and had not reached hell flew into the holes of the earth…These are the Fairy Folk (Evans-Wentz 85).
This modern portrayal of the Gentry parallels the description of the mysterious birds in The Voyage of Saint Brendan quite nicely, and it would not be a far stretch to suppose that some related idea is at work here. Indeed, similar voyage tales that were written around the same time as The Voyage of Saint Brendan—such as The Voyage of Bran mac Febal and The Voyage of Máel Dúin—contain descriptions of a variety of Otherworldly hosts. It is not illogical to suppose that the author of The Voyage of Saint Brendan was trying herein to reconcile this older belief in the Gentry with the newer Christian faith.
The linking of the Gentry with this episode in The Voyage of Saint Brendan is furthered by the fact that these spirits appear as birds. In various Irish myths, deities and other powerful beings take on the form of a bird. In The Destruction of Da Derga’s Hostel, a figure who can be assumed to be a member of the Tuatha Dé Danann—the race of Irish gods—comes to Mess Buachalla in the shape of a bird. Leaving “his birdskin [sic] on the floor of the house,” (Cross 96), the man copulates with Mess Buachalla, and from their union the High King Conaire Mór is born. In another story, The Dream of Oengus, the god Oengus mac Óg falls in love with the maiden Caer. However, through unfortunate circumstances, Caer has been transformed into a swan. Oengus eventually takes the form of a swan upon himself, and the two fly off to Oengus’ dwelling at Brú na Bóinne (Rolleston 121-2). Both of these examples clearly identify the Gentry with birds, and it is possible that author of The Voyage of Saint Brendan is extending this native image into a Christian framework.
A final nuance linking the birds of The Voyage of Saint Brendan with the Irish Gentry appears when the author connects the presence of these birds with music, stating that “one of the birds flew from the tree, making a noise with her wings like a hand-bell” (O’Meara 20). In comparison, there are many native tales in which the Gentry are associated with musical elements. In The Voyage of Bran mac Febal, Bran is walking about his stronghold when he hears a strange melody. Being unable to discern from where the music is coming, Bran at last falls “asleep at the music, such was its sweetness” (Cross 588). When Bran awakes, he finds an Otherworldly gift next to him, signifying that the music he heard was indeed not of the mortal realm. Similarly, in Cormac’s Adventures in the Land of Promise, the Irish king, Cormac mac Airt, is given a silver branch by an Otherworldly figure, and it is said that “delight and amusement enough it was to listen to the music made by the branch” (Cross 503). Accordingly, given the nature of the birds in The Voyage of Saint Brendan coupled with their connection to music as well as the mere fact that they are birds, it is possible to understand this as being yet another seeping of much older Irish tradition into the tale.
Toward the end of the narrative, Saint Brendan and his companions come upon “a sea so clear that they could see whatever was underneath them” (O’Meara 49), and looking below, they behold a hoard of frightening fish. This episode has several equivalents in Irish tradition, and beyond that, may stem from a pre-Christian mindset. The Voyage of Máel Dúin is, in many ways, a secular telling of The Voyage of Saint Brendan, and in one scene, Máel Dúin and his company come across a mysterious sea wherein “they saw a big, awful, monstrous animal in a high tree and a drove of herds and flocks round about the tree…When Máel Dúin and his crew saw that, equally great terror and fear took hold of them” (Oskamp 147). In this respect, the event in The Voyage of Saint Brendan finds a parallel in the non-Christian and celebratory heathen story of Máel Dúin. Yet, the mythological importance of this image goes far beyond The Voyage of Máel Dúin, back to a belief that may, in fact, inform both stories.
Irish mythology often portrays the land beneath the sea as both a magical and a dangerous place. After the Second Battle of Moytura, the Tuatha Dé Danann drive the Fomoire—a demon-like race—into the sea (Evans-Wentz 335). From this fact alone, it is understandable that the realm beneath the sea would be conceived of as treacherous. Still, there are a myriad of tales that are set within and expound upon the dangers of this place. In the story of Sinend and the Well of Knowledge, Sinend travels to Connla’s Well—i.e. the Well of Knowledge—, which is said to be located underneath the sea. Seeking wisdom, Sinend approaches the well, but she fails to perform the proper rites. In response, the waters rise up and chase Sinend throughout Ireland, causing the formation of the River Shannon (Rolleston 129). As evidenced from these two cases, the land beneath the waves was, to the Irish mind, a hazardous place at best, and the fact that this idea comes through in The Voyage of Saint Brendan is surely a carry-over from this culturally embedded sense of fear.
In chapter 23 of the journey, Saint Brendan comes upon an island of angry smiths, a scene which finds parallels in—and which may even reinforce—traditional Irish mindsets. To the pre-Christian Irish mind, smiths were magical beings, both in myth and in practice. Thus in The Second Battle of Moytura the Irish smith god, Goibhniu, is regarded to be just as powerful as any druid or fili. Some accounts of the tale even have Goibhniu as the first to be asked for assistance in war, to which he responds, “No spear-point which my hand shall forge…shall make a missing cast. No skin which it pierces shall taste life afterwards” (Cross 40). It is clear from descriptions like this that Goibniu—and by extension his profession—were highly regarded by the Irish. Indeed, remnants of the Irish smith cult still survive today in the modern folktales of Gobán Saor, a smith hero who uses his craftiness to outwit his enemies (Kennedy).
That the smith was considered magically powerful outside of literature and in historical reality is also attested. Perhaps the most well-known example of this can be drawn from the prayer commonly referred to as “Saint Patrick’s Breastplate.” In this famous piece, the saint prays for protection “against the spells of witches and smiths and wizards” (Cahill 118). This again points to there being an established, pre-Christian belief that smithcraft was a magical art. Accordingly, while the author of The Voyage of Saint Brendan may be placing smiths in the narrative in order to contrast the old beliefs and the new, Christian beliefs, he is nevertheless building upon the native mythos of the smith by placing him in an Otherworldly realm.
Finally, over seven years after first embarking on their adventure, Saint Brendan and his monks near the Promised Land of the Saints. Yet, before they can reach this land, they must first travel through a cloud of fog “so thick that one of them could hardly see the other” (O’Meara 67). When the fog eventually clears, the seafaring ascetics are at their destination. In a sense, the fog serves as a magical vehicle, transporting the monks to a realm of paradise. This theme of using fog, or mist, as a bridge between the mortal realm and an Otherworldly paradise appears in a variety of Irish myths and legends, and it is particularly characteristic of the echtrai, or adventure tales. In Cormac’s Adventure in the Land of Promise, King Cormac, after making a hasty agreement, losses his daughter, son, and wife when an Otherworldly host snatches them away. Distraught, the king sets out with a company to go in search of his family, and soon “a great mist was brought upon them in the midst of the plain, and Cormac found himself alone” (Cross 504). When the strange mist lifts, Cormac discovers that he has been transported to the Otherworld. A similar, yet opposite, occurrence happens in The Adventure of Laeghaire mac Crimthann. In this tale, an Otherworldly man is said to have “come through the mist” in order to enlist Laeghaire’s help (O’Grady). Here the mist serves as a gateway from the Otherworld to the mortal realm, a concept that again finds a reflection in The Voyage of Saint Brendan, when the monks depart from the Promised Land of the Saints and must travel back through the fog (O’Meara 69).
The Voyage of Saint Brendan is a truly wonderful piece of literature. Using a wild and fantastic journey as a backdrop, the author has managed to weave a humble story of ascetic piety, commenting on the omnipotence of God. Yet, while this certainly was meant to be a Christian tale, the author has nonetheless incorporated many images that allude to the pre-Christian traditions and beliefs of Ireland. Thus when Saint Brendan sets sail for the Promised Land of the Saints, the audience is told that he steers westwards—the mythological direction of the Otherworld—and that he is departing on the summer solstice—a time commonly associated with Otherworldly deities. Both of these details act in a traditional manner to foreshadow the nature of the events that are to befall Saint Brendan on his journey. Likewise, the author writes of purgatorial birds, a concept which, at its very foundation, is remarkably similar to both Christianized and native views on the Irish Gentry. The inclusions of the terrifying underwater land and the Otherworldly smiths are also indicative of pre-Christian tradition: the former hearkening back to the mythological association of the underwater realm with evil beings and dangerous adventures, while the latter furthers the idea of smithing as magical art. Finally, the mystical fog of Saint Brendan’s journey parallels the many other fogs in Irish legend by acting as a bridge between the mortal realm and an Otherworldly paradise. This above listing contains just a few of the examples of pre-Christian Irish traditions that have leaked through into this “Christian” narrative, and indeed, The Voyage of Saint Brendan contains many more instances of this blending than this current work allows space. Still, from the few ideas covered, it is possible to begin to understand The Voyage of Saint Brendan not as a completely separate type of work from the non-Christian literature but rather as a continuation and new form of the much older, native Irish tradition. After all, the point of stories is to convey a meaning about people and about culture, and in order to do that, a story cannot be separated from its native context but must evolve with it.
[1] That the dead should be linked to the Otherworld can be satisfied by Evans-Wentz’s conclusion: “the striking likenesses constantly appearing in our evidence between the ordinary apparitional fairies and the ghosts of the dead show that there is often no essential and sometimes no distinguishable difference between these two orders of beings” (Evans-Wentz 280).
[2] For discussions on the Christian reshaping of Irish religion see Evans-Wentz 427-55 and Ó hÓgáin 184-216.
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