Lughnasa, First of August

 A chairde,

Today is the First of August and in the Irish Celtic tradition, this is the beginning of the great pagan Celtic Feast of Lughnasa /Lughnasadh (modern Lúnasa), or Lammas in Scotland. (The Scottish-Gaelic version is, of course, Lúgasad). In Scotland, it was a day of local harvest fairs and one of the year's four quarter days, i.e., Candlemas (28 February), Whitsunday (28 May; originally Pentecost) Lammas (28 August), and Martinmas (28 November). But of course it goes back into pagan times, and represented the beginning of the yearly harvest. People were getting on short commons by August, and needed to bring the crops in. Because of the weather patterns in Ireland and Scotland, the year wasn't quartered on the solstices and equinoxes, because the seasons didn't correspond to those. Lughnasa was the beginning of Fall, the Harvest time, so you had the three months of Autumn, Lughnasa, Meán Fómhair and Deireadh Fómhar (i.e. Lúnasa, Middle Fall, and End of Fall.

Of course, Lugh was a great pan-Celtic god, Lugh Lámhfána Samildánch, Lug the Long-handed, many talented/gifted. Many place names in Ireland and indeed, throughout Europe, represent his name, such as, it is said, Lyon in France. In Welsh, he is Lleu.

Lugh was the son of Cian, son of Dian Cécht, the god of the medicinal arts, and Eithlinn, who herself was daughter of Balor of the Evil Eye. Balor was, of course, evil, and tried kill his grandson because of a prophesy that his grandson would kill him (how very Greek). The ardent Cian scaled the high tower Balor had imprisoned Eithlinn in, and 'took care of prophesy'. So the sea god, Manannán Mac Lir, fostered the infant Lugh (with help from Gobhniu, the smith god, thus Lugh learned many crafts). When the great god-king Nuada of the Silver Arm – in Welsh, Nudd, and in Roman times, Nodens, himself it was that brought the Tuatha Dé Danaan (People of the Danube River Goddess) to Ireland in the first place – was killed in battle with Balor, Lugh fulfilled the prophecy by killing his grandfather, Balor. A Celtic quid-pro-quo.

Meanwhile, Cian had trouble with his brother, Tuireann. Cian had a Slat Draoíchta, a magic wand, and would harass Tuireann by turning his horse into a cat and his hound into a mouse. Tuireann mentioned to his three sons how he would like to kill Cian, because obviously these humorous minor jests merited death. (/sarc) These three sons, Brian, Iuchar, and Iucharba (said to be sons of the beautiful goddess Brigid herself – lucky Tuireann!), caught Cian one day returning from the palace of the king of the gods at that time, and gave chase. Cian used the wand to turn himself into a mighty boar, to escape into the woods, but he dropped the wand in the process. So Brian and his brothers used it to turn themselves into hounds (Irish Wolfhounds, of course) and gave chase. They caught Cian and killed him.

You won't be surprised to learn that Lugh found out about all this – from his father telling him about it from his grave, mind you – and demanded his father's body price, or éiric (in English: erc), from his cousins. In the old law, murder was okay as long as you paid the erc to to family of the killed. In Old English, this was called the wergild, or man-money (N.B. A "werewolf" is a man in wolf form, one might guess.) The High King (might well have been Nuada himself at this point, if memory serves – this was a long time ago, believe it or not) summoned the Clann Tuireann an asked Brian and his brothers, 'Ar mharaigh sibh athair Lugha?" "Mharaigh," ar siad. Very laconic. Well, that was that. The king gave Lugh the right to set the éiric, and Lugh said, also very laconically, "Tri úll, craiceann muice, sleá, agus trí gháir ar chnoc." I.e., three apples, a pigskin, a spear, and three shouts on a hill."

Well, Brian and his brothers laughed at that. "Ní mór an éiric í siúd!" they laughed. Not a great erc, that! Then Lugh the Crafty explained: The three apples I want are from the garden of the Hesperides, he said. "Gairdín na hIsberine". Lugh explained these magical apples were heavily guarded. And of course – naturally – the pigskin was something akin to the Golden Fleece, only porcine. The spear belonged to the king of the Persians (who else?). All three items were on the far side of Europe, you'll note. And the three shouts on the hill? They were last, and closer to home, but perhaps the most difficult, because the hill belonged to "Fathach anTuaiscirt", the Giant of the North.

Thus Lugh sent his cousins, the Clann Tuireann on the Celtic equivalent of the Voyage of Jason for the Golden Fleece. Someday, the mood might take me to tell the tale, and how it ended, but now, I'll let you wonder. And anyway, I cannot tell it as well as Fionn Mac Cumhail could, anyway.

Lugh was accepted into the fortress of the gods because although they had smiths and poets and craftsmen galore, they didn't have one individual with all these gifts, as Lugh had. And he fathered many children (including my mother's father's people) in various forms, esp that of birds. As the Druidic religion was founded, in part, on reincarnation, some say that the great Irish and Scottish hero, Fionn Mac Cumhail was himself Lugh. And some say Lugh fathered the mighty Cúchulainn, the Irish national hero, on the woman Dectíre (let's hope he engaged the maidin in a non-feathered form).

Linguistic scholars, some of them, assert that the name of the Irish Fairie (the Sidhe) craftsman known as Leprechauns, comes from "Lugh-chromain", "Little, stooping-Lugh", maybe it does. Though I've never known Lugh Lámhfáda Samildhánach himself to stoop for anyone.

An Préachán

PS Today in Ireland, as the Church as retreated, a new Irish paganism is rampant. So I assume Lugh is worshiped again, that is, if modern Narcissists can worship anything besides self. Here is a respectful poem to the great god, and I'd wager it has more of the true spirit of the "Old Faith" in it than you'll find most anywhere else.

The Poet of Lugh

The rain falls in the temple garden,
I hear its cadence on the tiles,
Its rhythm strokes in endless patience
The arched back of the blue-gray day,
Fertilizing the thighs of the rich, warm earth
With incontinence pouring from the sky.

Ah, cold wet day of endless rain,
Winter-herald from the quiet land,
Embrace me and enrapture me
In your eternal, steady drumming
Until I wash over my banks
And make a sea of the land.

I am the stream of the temple garden,
I murmur and ebb among the rocks and courses
And am one with the rain and lowering sky;
I am the breeze in the rain that falls straight down,
I am the sound of the water from the eaves to the ground.

(The Irish is better, but the English will do here - AnP.)