Still further accounts of otherworldly travel intersect with historical record. One appears in the eighth-century Annals, perhaps an indication of popular belief that did not find expression in narrative. The Annals are not history in the modern sense but rather records of facts and dates about such matters as dynastic marriages, the inaugurations and deaths of kings, the founding or destruction of monasteries. * Until the reforms of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, their writing was a clerical franchise. Proinsias MacCana (2000) recounts the eighth-century depiction in the Annals of three ships sailing in the air. The entry for AD 743 reads, ‘Ships with their crews were plainly seen in the sky this year.’ The episode would be retold with some variations in different kinds of literature over the next three centuries. In one of the stories, set during a royal assembly at Teltown, Co. Meath, an airborne sailor in a single boat spears what he thinks is a salmon. When he comes below to retrieve the fish, he is held by the people there until he protests that he is drowning.
THE SÍDH
This word has made a bumpy passage from Irish to English usage. Most readers encounter it first in the works of William Butler Yeats, as in the title of his poem ‘The Hosting of the Sídhe’ (1899). As the great poet knew little Irish, he seemed unaware that the final -e was appropriate only for the genitive or plural forms, and he neglected the diacritical slash over the letter í. The normative Irish spelling in the early twentieth century was sídh, pronounced ‘shee’. When Modern Irish spelling was reformed about 1960, the word became sí, a form not yet widely used in English-language commentary. Classical Irish, preferred for most names in this volume, yields síd, which seems inappropriate here as most citations of the word are more modern. Aos (or áes) sídhe means ‘people of the sídh’.
The first denotation of the word is the man-made mound or tumulus, of which there are hundreds in the Irish countryside. Called the ‘fairy mound’ in English, it is usually circular and often flat-topped, sometimes ringed with stones. Archaeologically speaking, the phenomena denoted by the term sídh are not mysterious and are known by a series of semi-technical terms. They may be commemorative, such as pre-Christian passage-tombs, low round barrows or burial mounds. Or they may be defensive, such as the fortified, circular earthen dwellings known as raths, pre-Norman defensive man-made mounds, or Anglo-Norman mottes (a yet more specific kind of mound).
Of beliefs associated with the sídh there is more to say. Farmers avoided having their cattle graze on the sídh and usually shunned paths leading to and from it. The notion that any small promontory, a hill or even more likely a tumulus, is linked to the supernatural or is ‘haunted’ is probably indigenous to Europe in general, and there is nothing uniquely Celtic about it. Implicit in the etymology of the word is the origin of its perception.
Summarizing scholarship on the word’s roots, Patrick Sims-Williams (1990) argues that the derivation of sídh is sed- [sit] and that the Irish word originally meant ‘seat, abode’, later specialized as ‘abode of divinities’. Pushed aside now are assertions that sídh can be traced to the Old Irish homophone síd [peace] or the Latin sidus [star], both of which would have implied something of the character of this abode of divinities.
In pre-Christian Ireland every district of importance might have its own sídh or hill that served as a route to the otherworld. T. F. O’Rahilly (1946) asserted that there was but one otherworld with many portals. More recent scholarship, led by Patrick Sims-Williams, finds the sídh to be a proliferation of independent kingdoms, much like the tuatha of mortal Ireland, but with friendlier relations with one another. Even the two neighbouring sídh between the breast-like hills known as the Paps of Ana in Co. Kerry had no subterranean communication. Each sídh, therefore, is local.
Early Irish scribes do not use any form of the word sídh as a substitution or calque for the Latin orbe alio. Indeed, there is no Irish calque or translation of orbe alio at all. Further, with the lack of a definite article, sídh appears to imply an otherworld rather than the otherworld. It is only our modern reading of the word, influenced by eight centuries of Christian learning, that leads us to impose the definite article the otherworld when it is not implied in early contexts.
Many stories survive of mortals, usually men, who enter the sídh. Curiously, the invitation to gain entry never seems to be the reward for virtuous or generous deeds or any kind of obeisance paid to residents. Often a perfectly ordinary male stumbles upon a rapturously beautiful maiden who beckons to him in ways he does not immediately understand. As in Bran’s voyage to Emain Ablach, the mortal who enters the sídh loses track of time in the quotidian world he has left and is usually transformed for the worse when and if he returns.
Neither is the sídh the realm of the dead, the final resting place of the wicked or the virtuous. The Irish name for that place is Tech Duinn, the ‘house’ of Donn the ruler of the dead, sometimes known as Donn Tétscorach [abounding in furious horses (?)]. The location of this ‘house’ is not always specific, as it may lie beyond mortal geography. Often linked with Munster, it is sometimes identified with a rocky islet near Dursey Island at the extreme western end of the Beare Peninsula, west Co. Cork.
In earlier Irish literature the sídh is often seen as a palace or perhaps a very fine residence, much more this-wordly than otherworldly. Among the best known is Finnachad in Co. Armagh, the sídh of king Lir in Oidheadh Chlainne Lir [The Tragic Story of the Children of Lir] (see Chapter 7). Many of the most celebrated are understood to be otherworldly, even though sídh is not a part of their names: Brí Léith in Co. Longford, the residence of Midir, lover of Étaín; Clettig on the south bank of the River Boyne, residence of Elcmar, magician foster-father of Angus Óg; Femen in Co. Tipperary, home of Bodb Derg, the son of the Dagda; and Úamain in Connacht, childhood domicile of Cáer, lover of Angus Óg. Hundreds of others are known by the name of their most powerful resident, e.g. Sídh Nechtain, dominated by Nechtan.
The Modern Irish word sídh denoting ‘fairy’ in the broader sense, an extension of the more specific ‘fairy mound’, lends itself to dozens of compounds. These include ceo sídhe [fairy mist], ceol sídhe [fairy music], sídh chóra, sídh ghaoithe and séideán sídhe [fairy wind], corpán sídhe [changeling] and suan sídhe [fairy sleep]. Most fearful of these is poc sídhe [fairy stroke], in which the body is disabled or paralysed in ways inexplicable in the centuries before the development of modern medicine. A parallel belief among English speakers is the reason that ‘stroke’ is still the colloquial term for apoplexy or cerebral haemorrhage.
Knowledge of the sídh is not exclusively Irish and extends to nearby Celtic lands. Among the Manx the word shee, spelled like the anglicization of the Irish, denotes the fairy otherworld. In Scottish Gaelic it is síth, which may be translated as preternatural or spiritual. Sìthean denotes a fairy hill, perhaps with a pointed top, but not a tumulus; daoine sìth [people of the sìth] is a name for the fairies. The Welsh phrase caer siddi (earlier kaer sidi) borrows the root of the Irish sídh, as Patrick Sims-Williams points out. The borrowing represents an uncommon instance of an Irish word used to express a Welsh idea. Caer Siddi is only one of a string of alternative names for the Welsh otherworld, Annwfn (see below), but in some texts it is depicted as a fortress in an overseas land.
MANY REALMS
Despite the widespread use in English of the Irish sídh under different spellings, there is no single word or phrase in either early Irish or early Welsh that translates ‘the otherworld’ as we understand that phrase in contemporary usage. Our contemporary vision is, once again, shaped in part by centuries of Christian teaching; ‘the otherworld’ is neither heaven nor hell. A concept much like ‘the otherworld’ certainly exists in early Irish and Welsh traditions, but it is denoted by a sequence of different terms, all with different connotations and shadings. These realms, both Irish and Welsh, appear in two locations. They may be under the ground, including under lakes and springs, or they may lie on an imperceptible island across the sea, usually the
western sea, that is, the Atlantic Ocean, or under the sea.
The closest approximation to ‘the otherworld’ is the Welsh word Annwfn or Annwn, as seen from its linguistic roots. Patrick Sims-Williams (1990) endorses Eric P. Hamp’s view (1977–8) that it derives from the intensive an and dwfn [deep]. The same root dwfn contributes to the Welsh word for ‘abyss’, anoddyn. The rival older theory put forth by Ifor Williams (1951) is more speculative. Williams argues from Gaulish cognates that dwfn should mean ‘world’ and that the first element an- is a negative rather than an intensive, which would make Annwfn a semantic cognate of the alius orbis cited by Lucan. Annwfn has no cognates in Irish but appears to resemble the Breton anaon [spirits of the dead; souls’ society].
Unlike the sídh, Annwfn is a single realm that may be entered through many portals on earth and sea. This kingdom appears to be subdivided into separate sub-kingdoms dominated by a monarch who claims overlordship as the ‘king of Annwfn’. In the first branch of the Mabinogi (see Chapter 13) Hafgan is seen as ‘a king of Annwfn’ who challenges Arawn ‘the king of Annwfn’. Patrick Sims-Williams has noted that the Annwfn of Mabinogi seems contiguous with the earthly kingdom of Dyfed in south Wales and that the contention between Hafgan and Arawn is a fair reflection of medieval Welsh politics. In some texts Annwfn is identified with the tiny island of Gwales (today Grassholm), off the southwest coast of Dyfed; Bendigeidfran’s head rules over feasting here in the second branch of the Mabinogi. In the earlier Culhwch and Olwen Annwfn lies beyond Scotland.
Initially, Annwfn was seen as a place of joy and happiness, where life is enriched by enchanting music and a fountain flowing with an elixir sweeter than wine. Sickness and old age are unknown. Thus it may also be known as Caer Feddwid [W. court of intoxication or carousal]. The advance of Christianity, however, merged Annwfn with aspects of hell [W. Uffern], and its inhabitants came to be thought of as demons. The Arthur of Welsh tradition is nearly killed when he tries to retrieve a cauldron from Annwfn. Such dread gives rise to the feared cŵn annwfn [dogs of Annwfn], whose barks foretell death and who scavenge for the souls of the departed. In later folklore the dogs are led by Gwynn ap Nudd, king of the tylwyth teg, the ‘fair folk’ or fairies.
The passage of Annwfn from Elysian bliss to Stygian anguish finds no parallels in other Celtic traditions. In general, the variously named otherworlds, with two prominent exceptions, can be counted on to be places of abundant feasting and drinking, of sport and entertainment, of enchanting music, and of beautiful and submissive women. Even the two woeful domains, one Breton and the other Irish, do not present the entering spirit with the terrors Dante imagined would be visited upon sinning Christians.
Youdic, a name once uttered with fear in Brittany, is only the entrance to infernal regions. The full nature of what lies beyond was not spoken. In oral tradition Youdic was linked to a flat, dismal quagmire, Yeun or Yeun-Elez, in the Arrée mountains of Finistère département, northwestern Brittany. Those thought to be possessed by demons were cast into Youdic, and careless mortals who chanced to peer into it risked being seized and dragged down by unseen forces below. Fiends lying deep in the bog howled out at night, often taking the form of black dogs. At night also came the sounds of revelling among the lost souls. In Christian lore associated with Youdic, St Michael was named the protector who kept the innocent from falling in.
The Irish Dún Scáith [fort of shadow/fear], sometimes thought to be on the Isle of Man, may be entered and explored. It is a kind of Hades from which the deft and quick may steal a treasure. When the hero Cúchulainn and his champions land here, they have to overcome a series of challenges. Odious serpents swarm toward the men from a pit at the centre of the fortress. Next, hideous toads with sharp beaks attack; in their charging forth they turn into dragons. But the men vanquish them and thus procure an enchanted cauldron, gold, silver, an endless supply of meat and three magical crews to pull their ship back to Ireland. Escape is not simple, however. The evil spirits who protected Dún Scáith cause the Irish ship to capsize, sending the treasure to the bottom of the sea. Cúchulainn and his men swim back to Ireland where they live to tell the tale.
This Dún Scáith linked with the Isle of Man is easily confused with variations on the name, Dùn Sgàthaich, etc., which make play on Scáthach, the amazonian tutor of Cúchulainn thought to live on the Isle of Skye in the Hebrides. The Scottish Gaelic spelling Dùn Scàith may refer to a ruined fortress on the Sleat coast of Skye or to the whole of the island.
These specific locations for an otherworldly realm support John Carey’s contention (1982) that the insular Celts did not adhere to a general notion of an unlocalized, ‘overseas otherworld’. Islands that appear mythical or fabulous to us were sufficiently real to medieval cartographers to be assigned places on the map. As Carey sees it, the early Irish, especially, perceived otherworlds on actual islands. In early Europe, not just the Celtic-speaking lands, ship burials in seaworthy vessels were a common practice. Patrick Sims-Williams (1990) in commenting on Carey adds, there are ‘multiple Irish Otherworlds, located in specific places, both underground and on islands’. The otherworld is a modern abstraction.
In the story of Saint Brendan’s voyage, reviewed above, a lure for the quest was the hope of visiting Tír Tairngire [land of prophecy, promise]. It is presumed to be a land that can be reached by boat. Stories of Tír Tairngire depict a king and queen, Dáire (one of several to bear this name) and Rígru Rosclethan, who are called ‘sinless’ because they have intercourse only to produce their otherworldly son Ségda Sárlbraid. Half a dozen other stories tell of visitors to the land, some of whose behaviour is most earthly. The beautiful but wicked Bé Chuma commits adultery here with Gaidiar, son of Manannán mac Lir, for which she is banished.
Another mysterious land made a lasting mark on the world’s map. Hy Brasil is known today only in its Hiberno-English spelling, but it derives from an Irish original, perhaps Í [island] and bres [beauty, worth; great, might]. An earthly paradise lying at the same latitude as Ireland, Hy Brasil clearly builds on the much older European myth of the lost Atlantis. The Irish name may have been influenced by the boat-shaped fortress Barc Bresail built in Leinster and attributed to the shadowy king Bresal. Sometimes associated with the Aran Islands, Hy Brasil is one of many retreats attributed to the Tuatha Dé Danann after their defeat by the Milesians (see Chapter 7). Under different spellings the name appeared on a number of medieval maps in different parts of Europe and became the subject of cartographer Angelinus Dalorto’s thesis L’Isola Brazil (Genoa, 1325). The Italian spelling, with a -z-, influenced the naming of the South American nation of Brazil, but maps continued to place the island of Brasil west of Ireland well into the seventeenth century. The notion of Hy Brasil as an island without labour, care or cynical laughter, where one might enjoy the conversation of such as Cúchulainn, persisted in oral tradition until the twentieth century. A fisherman claimed to William Butler Yeats, as cited in The Celtic Twilight (1893), that he had sailed out as far as Hy Brasil.
Other islands on the western horizon offer a paradise equal to that of Hy Brasil and are differentiated by names suggesting something of their inhabitants, their promise or their location. The beautiful, sexually inviting women of Tír na mBan [Land of Women] entertain many visiting heroes, beginning with Bran and Máel Dúin, as cited above. The Living of Tír na mBéo [Land of the Living] are some of the many otherworldly consolers of the defeated Tuatha Dé Danann; this is the same land where the hero Lug Lámfhota acquires his sword Frecraid. The resourceful Tuatha Dé Danann are also thought have sought refuge where no eyes could see them in Tír fo Thuinn [Land under Wave]. The fancifulness and generality of Tír fo Thuinn appear to suggest that storytellers gave it less credence than the other western Elysiums, but it is cited in a number of Fenian stories from oral tradition.
Tír na nÓg [Land of Youth], well known in English, conflates elements of many of the islands: usually in the west, a refuge for the Tuatha Dé Danann, a place of bountif
ul pleasure and sexual promise, where youth never expires. Oral tradition assigns Tír na nÓg to several locations, most popularly at the entrance of Lisconnor Bay, Co. Clare, south of the Cliffs of Moher. Or it may be inland, such as a cave on Knockadoon Island, Lough Gur, Co. Limerick, or in the north on Rathlin Island, off the Antrim coast. Niam[h] of the Golden Hair leads the Fenian hero Oisín to Tír na nÓg, where they sojourn for 300 years. The full nature of their doings there is never detailed. On his return to mortality, of course, Oisín, like others, finds himself ravaged by the time he does not perceive to have passed. The concept of Tír na nÓg may be traditional, but it was shaped by the literary imagination of Micheál Coimín’s 1750 Irish-language poem Laoi Oisín i dTír na nÓg [The Lay of Oisín in the Land of Youth]. It is due not only to Coimín’s well-wrought text that the name Tír na nÓg became so widely known but even more to the poem’s dozen translations and adaptations, famously William Butler Yeats’s ‘The Wanderings of Oisín’ (1889). Not a copyrighted name, Tír na nÓg may appear in contexts far from its roots. Any children’s amusement park, like one in the resort town of Salthill, Co. Galway, may be called ‘Tír na nÓg’. It is also the name of the mysterious white horse in Mike Newell’s film Into the West (1993), written by Jim Sheridan.
The otherworld as distant island is less common in traditions outside Ireland. Stories of Roca Barraidh are still current on the Isle of Barra in the Outer Hebrides. On rare occasions privileged fishermen might see this enchanted island on the far horizon, which combines elements of Hy Brasil and Emain Ablach. The Scottish Gaelic roc denotes anything that tangles a fishing-hook or the tops of seaweed that appear above the water. Similarly, the Welsh Ynys Afallon [W. afall, apple] is a happy island of sensual pleasure, fertility, abundant feasting and perpetual youth on the western ocean. Ynys Afallon, along with Emain Ablach, which also contains an allusion to apples, have long been thought to contribute to the conception of Avalon in Arthurian tradition.
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