Dun Neachneohain

Dia duit, a cairde,

I would like to share you all a story from Ireland, passed down to us from within the Táin. It is not a story in its own right, but it is a short tale of a girl named Fedelm. I tell of her story with more attention than there was meant to be, but you will all find delight in it nonetheless. Although a minor character within the Táin, she tells of the doom that lies ahead for a great army ready to march. Here is her tale:

The charioteer turned the chariot around and made to set off. But they saw a young grown girl in front of them. She had yellow hair. She wore a speckled cloak fastened around her with a gold pin, a red-embroidered hooded tunic and sandals with gold clasps. Her brow was broad, her jaw narrow, her two eyebrows pitch black, with delicate dark lashes casting shadows half down her cheeks. You would think her lips were inset with Parthian scarlet. Her teeth were like an array of jewels between the lips. She had hair in three tresses: two wound upward on her head and the third hanging down her back, brushing her calves. She held a light gold weaving-rod in her hand, with gold inlay. Her eyes had triple irises. Two black horses drew her chariot, and she was armed.

“What is your name?” Medb said to the girl.

“I am Fedelm, and I am a woman poet of Connacht.”

“Where have you come from?” Medb said.

“From learning verse and vision in Alba (Scotland),” the girl said.

“Have you the imbas forasnai, the Light of Foresight?” Medb said.

“Yes I have,” the girl said.

“Then look for me and see what will become of my army.”

So the girl looked.

Medb said, “Fedelm, prophetess; how sees thou the host?”

Fedelm said in reply:

“I see it crimson, I see it red.”

“It can’t be true,” Medb said. “Conchobor is suffering his pangs in Emain with all the rest of the Ulster warriors. My messengers have come from there and told me. Fedelm, prophetess; how sees thou our host?” Medb said.

“I see it crimson, I see it red,” said the girl.

“That is false,” Medb said. “Celtchar mac Uthidir is still in Dún Lethglaise with a third of Ulster’s forces, and Fergus son of Roach mach Echdach and his troop of three thousand are here with us in exile. Fedelm, prophetess; how sees thou our host?” Medb said.

“I see it crimson, I see it red,” said the girl.

“It doesn’t matter,” Medb said. “Wrath and rage and red wounds are common the armies and large forces gather. So look once more and tell us the truth. Fedelm, prophetess; how sees thou our host?”

“I see it crimson, I see it red,” said the girl.

“I see battle: a blond man with much blood about his belt and a hero-halo round his head. His brow is full of victories.

Seven hard heroic jewels are set in the iris of his eye. His jaws are settled in a snarl. He wears a lopped, red tunic.

A noble countenance I see, working effect on womenfolk; a young man of sweet coloring; a form dragons in the fray.

His great valor brings to mind Cúchulainn of Murtheimne, the hound of Culann, full of fame. Who he is I cannot tell but I see, now, the whole host colored crimson by his hand.

A giant on the plain I see, doing battle with the host, holding in each of his two hands four short quick swords.

I see him hurling against that host two gae bolga and a spear and an ivory-hilted sword, each weapon to its separate task.

He towers on the battlefield in breastplate and red cloak. Across the sinister chariot-wheel the Warped Man deals death - that fair from I first beheld melted to a mis-shape.

I see him moving to the fray: take warning, watch him well, Cúchulainn, Sualdam’s son! Now I see him in pursuit.

Whole hosts he will destroy, making dense massacre. In thousands you will yield your heads. I am Fedelm. I hide nothing.

The blood starts from warrior’s wounds - total ruin - at his touch: your warriors dead, the warriors of Deda mac Sin prowling loose; torn corpses, women wailing, because of him - the Forge-Hound.”

Scáthach The Shadowy One

A tall woman, of pleasing figure and long fiery red hair. Who’s beauty only matched by her skill in martial arts. 

Taken from The Keltoi Facebook page, which I thoroughly enjoy.

Scathach Sca-hakh

Irish: shadow

Female warrior who lived on the Isle of Skye, and gave her name to the island; in the Ulster Cycle, she initiated Cu Chulainn in the art of war and the art of lovemaking. Forgall the Wiley sent Cu Chulainn to Scathach, figuring that she would kill him, telling the boy-hero that she was the greatest teacher, and without her he would never understand the true art of being a warrior.

Day 7 - Dark

Day 5 - Forgiveness

I have a very vivid memory of being very small, one of my first memories, of a woman, someone my mother knew, I think, telling my parents about how good they were to take on the burden  of a disabled child. 

I remember my parents reacting very strongly to this, and my mother caught between being insulted and the onus of hospitality. 

My parents never treated me like a burden, to them, I was a miracle, this child that they could not have on their own, that had almost been taken from them so many times by fate.

But I, of my own volition and from cues from others, like that woman, who made little comments, or worse, looked on me with pity, soon developed a very large well of guilt. I blamed myself for everything, and learned to apologise too much, for things I could not help or change, especially if I had a feeling something was going to happen. 

As that’s how I related to people, I did it with Scáthach too. After all, She was so much greater than me, that I felt guilt even bothering Her with my pesky offerings, like I could not repay the time She spent pushing me back where she wanted me. 

Scáthach was having none of that bullshit. She put it in no uncerrtain terms through omens and dreams that She was tired of me apologising for my existence and shouldering so much blame for things that were not my fault, and doing it was a weakness. She did not abide that kind of weakness. I would stop it. 

I kept getting shocked with static electricity when I apologised for things not my fault, and She taught me how to channel anger of those who had done great wrongs to me, so I would not be begging their pardon or taking their bullshit. 

Day 4: Beginning

I stood out in the yard in my bare feet, by a tree. The lawn had been mown that day, so the grass was sharp against the soles of my feet. I was embarrassed, and more than a little scared. I was terrified. 

I had been raised in a home where all religions were respected, but schooled by fundamentalists after being abused and bullied in public school. As much as I questioned them and debated with them, some things stuck. 

Just a month before I had been sitting in shul, singing in Hebrew, sure of my path, then, like a lightning strike (or a heart attack) She twisted me around and sat me back down. 

Did I even know what happened? how sure was I? Even if I was right, how sure was I that I wouldn’t screw this all up? I certainly couldn’t do a Salmon Leap, whatever that even was. 

I lurched a little, my muscles complaining my position on the less than level ground, but I righted myself, making a face as the whisky sloshed up the glass and over he brim, dripping down onto my fingers.

Great, I’d already screwed this up by being a klutz, I thought. 

I’d done offerings before and never really worried about it, but this was different. As long as you were polite and gave them the right things, the Fair Folk are happy enough, and ancestors are pretty chill, by and large. 

This, however, was a deity. A goddess, and I didn’t have the right words. What if I said something wrong? 

I was exceedingly tempted to take a wee bit of the Scotch to settle my nerves, but that seemed like the worst thing I could do, and I tried to ignore the smoky, peaty smell and the temptation of taking the edge off the anxiety. I had dragged Auntie to the State Store to buy it specifically for Her, it wasn’t for me.

“Um… Sgàthach? I…uh… bring an offering I thought..y’lnow, you might like. It’s a whisky, and it’s distilled on the Isle of Skye..So…I thought it might be like a taste of home? And…y’knowI’mreallysorryaboutcryingalloveryou.”

I stared at my feet a little. “Um…So I hope we’re okay…and…and…thanks.”

This is late, so I’m going to do two day, but day 3 first:

Together - Your relationship with your devotional topic

The only way I can describe the relationship I have with Scáthach is maternal, but it’s a certain kind of maternal. 

Scáthach is not like the kind of mother who gets involved in all your activities, joins the PTA, becomes homeroom parent, goes on every field trip and bakes cookies. She’s not concerned with every action, or being a ‘helicopter parent.’

She’s also not intrusive, like mothers who go through your drawers and read your diaries or set parental controls to see every webpage you look at. 

Instead, She expects you to handle things on your own, to stand strong and independent. Which is not to sat that She is absent, just that She expects you to by and large, handle your own problems to the best of your ability.

If those problems exceed your abilities, however, She will be there to back you up with a ferocity that I’ve found to be unmatched. 

If you wander from what you are supposed to be and do She will allow great freedom while disapproving, until you push the limits, and then She will snap you back, remind you of the pah to walk, and what you should be doing with force. Not violent or aggressive, but firm and unwavering. 

Day 2- How? - How did you become involved with your devotional topic?

This is a hard one for me to answer, because there could be so many different answers, that I almost can’t decide how, and the one very obvious, blatant how, is a hard thing to talk about still, but here we go anyway.

So, my biologicals drank and did many drugs during their pregnancy with my sister and I, originally intending to abort, but then deciding to adopt us out to a very very distant relative, then deciding to keep my sister (who came through the pregnancy all right) but give me up, with all my medical problems and disabilities.

My actual family adopted me and loved me from day one, and were told by the doctors at the hospital not to treat me like I couldn’t do things, or I would turn from someone with a disability into a cripple.

So they didn’t, and I grew up completely ignorant of what society and my body said I could or could not do. First was ballet, then T-ball, both of which I was horrible at and had no idea until my Auntie broke it to me bluntly. By the time I started figuring out that I had limitations other kids didn’t, I started getting angry and fighting those limitations, seeking ways around them and over them. 

I was fascinated by stories of warrior women. I was probably the only six-year-old begging to be taken to see The Ring Cycle and bawled my eyes out over Brünnhilde’s immolation the way most kids my age did over Bambi. So the bits and pieces were probably already there. 

Being raised in a witch family, there was a respect for life and death and a knowledge of it early on, especially after ancestors started poking me at four. By seven I was accidentally trancing myself often, but not understanding what I had been doing, or what happened when I tranced. To me I just thought I was daydreaming. 

By the time I reached hedgecraft in my studies, I was used to it, and once Gran explained what it was, I was so comfortable, that I just went. “Oh, that’s what it’s called? I’ve done that for ages.” Which was like the proverbial dynamite thrown into my family.

Sometimes I think I saw Her there, in the corners, when I crossed the hedge, or walked to Mag Mell (as my family calls it) but human memory is notoriously unreliable and I am never sure.

I was raised a witch, but not a pagan. I was raised Christian (Lutheran) and attended Baptist and Mennonite schools. I was always curious and always wanted answers, so I read the Bible over and over, every translation I could get my hands on. Some things I just could not reconcile, and I wanted to go back further, to the original text, because being multilingual, I know how precarious translation is. So, I started studying Judaism. I liked it. I liked it a lot, and it made some of the things that I had questions about make more sense. I started studying more seriously, and was heading toward conversion. 

Then…I lost a battle against my body. I had had heart problems as a baby, but hadn’t had issues since I was two. Apparently the old arrhythmia decided to kick in and I had a heart attack. 

There is debate in my family to this day what happened. Auntie holds that I had a Near Death Experience, Da thinks it was just a longer-term, involuntary, crossing of the hedge, because there was no bright light or tunnel.

I don’t know and I don’t claim to know. Either way, that’s where I met Her. I had no idea who She was, my mythology knowledge was pretty much derived from Greek and Roman classics and Wagner. 

She introduced Herself, and then promptly whacked me upside the head with the flat of Her sword. She lambasted me, asking me what I thought I was doing, chasing after a god that did not hold me as His own, and planning to abandon my ancestors for favour that might not come. (No one knew that I was planning to give up spirit-work and ancestor veneration with my conversion.) 

She then hugged me, while I fought Her, because I did not want to hugged by this strange lady who had hit me with a sword, yelled at me, told me things about my plans no-one else knew, and disregarding what, at that time, I had come to believe. She held me tight, despite my struggles, as if I was just a doll, petting my hair and calling me “mo leanabh,” until I started crying in frustration, and then finally hiccuped embarrassingly and calmed down. Then I woke up. 

When I woke up, I told my family what happened, and asked if there were any stories of ancestors with Her name. I never paid much attention to stories, preferring to work the genealogy through records, only resorting to stories when that failed, and I hadn’t come across it before. 

Auntie then sped home and came back, handing me a copy of  The Táin. She told me to read it, and I did, when I finished, I promptly freaked out, because apparently I had just gotten crying snot on a goddess’s clothes. 

After the freak out, I pondered what this meant for me, stopped going to shul, and after about a month, offered a bottle of whisky to Scáthach with a very red-faced apology for crying all over her. 

Who? - Deity, spirit or chosen devotion for the month

  Sgàthach. 

The Shadowy One, The Warrior Maid, She who holds the fearsome Gáe Bulg, the Spear of Mortal Pain, who stood tall and proud and taught arts both martial and magical at Dún Scáith, the Fortress of Shadows, on the Isle of Skye, which bears the mark of Her name to this day. 

Hear The Battle Cry: Prayer Beads for Scathach

Flame Jasper, Baltic Amber, and Pyrite. Adorned with a golden spearhead charm for her mighty weapon Gáe Bulg.

Clouds over Quiraing