Innocent laughter still rings in my ears. There were only a few hundred of us then. We all played, ate, studied, and worked at our tasks together. We cared for the small animals, worked in the fields, hunted in the forest, and served the families of the clan. In celebration of the spring, the older children placed us on the ground within the circle of stone and released the wild hares that were caught in the gardens and the forest. Rabbits large and small alike, of all shades of earth, in numbers too large to count, hopping across the grassy center over to us, on top of us, and all around. Fur tickled me as one jumped on my back and another poked her nose into my navel and twitched away. I held on to furry pointed ears and giggled as the Sun drank up the morning dew.
We scrambled for eggs, colored purple, yellow, and pink, buried in the grassy center of the circle. Furry hopping creatures landing on us and then tumbling off heightened the excitement of our hunt. The older children laughed on, remembering the fun they had when it was their turn. They stood on the rocks and boulders all placed an equal distance from the center. Laughing, they caught the ones trying to hop over and back to the woods, tossing them back into the spectacle.
In later years my brothers and I were sent into the forest. Initially it was to set traps for small animals, then to hunt the larger ones; the older men taught us how. We stalked in silence, tracking, and listening for the great stag. One could hear the wind whistle through his horns, and the low thunder of hooves striking the ground as he ran.
Our sisters prepared stews and cakes, and gathered herbs, roots, nuts, and fruit. Many fashioned the most colorful clothing to wear for this special day: skins treated with dyes extracted from spring flower petals, reflecting the soft tones of yellow, pink, and purple, sometimes with big wraparound hats to match! Eostre, goddess of the spring, always smiled on these colors, enhancing their brightness during the peak of the day.
We carried piles of wood—branches, trunks, logs, and leaves—that had dried during the cold, dark months of winter, stacking it high in the center of a clearing. Five trunks of wood marked the perimeter furthest from the center, each carved in the form of a chair. Straight furrows were dug in the ground connecting each chair to the two furthest away from it, forming a star of five points. The furrows crossed at five points inside the circle, much closer to the growing pile of wood. Five more seats, these made of stone, there situated forming an inner star for the chieftains.
It took time to become a chief. I was the youngest among the five. At the age of twenty-nine I left the wooden throne of the outer star and stepped up near the center. Having hunted the great stag, alone in the forest since the melting of the last snow, listening to him, eating the same food, drinking of the same stream, sharing his odor, adopting his ways, and hearing his thoughts, I tracked him. Dropping from the tree above as he ate, I embraced his outstretched neck, snapping it quickly while chanting rhythmic prose of adulation and praise. I felt his essence envelop me as he passed, and, although shocked, he recalled my chant and understood.
The fire began at dusk as the daughters of the Tautha escorted us to our seats. An elk of great proportion was proudly displayed on the altar. Antlers removed with pieces ground into powder poured into a cauldron steaming with boiling water from a moving stream, the holiest of mushrooms from the forest, and herbs of potencies known only to the priests and priestesses.
The eldest priestess drained the blood of the beast into ten vessels, reciting rhythmic words of praise as she handed each to the waiting maidens. Two groups of five maidens, each of childbearing age, poured the blood along the furrows in the ground, connecting all who sat in a throne of wood or stone. Each vessel was returned with a small remainder left in the bottom.
The drums sounded and I was led to the center, leaving my wooden seat for a younger man who had waited patently until the years had allowed for the hair of the stag to display itself from his loins to his neck, and to lightly cover a youthful chin. A maiden of the outer star removed his clothing, running her hands lightly over a newly forested chest; she sat him down, turned to the priestess, and nodded in the affirmative.
So it was every year, on the first full Moon after the melting of the last snow. Only one was allowed to enter the outer star, one advanced to the inner star, and one rose to vacate a throne of stone. It was always the eldest of the inner five who rose and was then clothed in the robe of a priest. Joined to the council of judges, they would no longer directly participate in this particular rite.
I was seated with the chieftains near the center. My garments taken from me, as with the others, I was placed by the maidens in a seat made of stone. The blood of the stag that remained in the vessels was rubbed into the sack that hung between our legs. I was the first to receive this treatment, since I had been so recently advanced. The soft touch of this tender woman provoked a passion deep inside. When her delicate task was complete, she placed her lips so close I could smell the scent of her breath; without a kiss, she released her tongue, and licked the moisture from above my lip. Stepping back, she smiled at my predicament, dropping her robe and joining the others near the fire.
The darkness was well upon us now. As the fire grew in brightness, we each ate the stew that now also contained potato and the meat of the stag. Cooked with the ingredients charged by the priestess, we felt the effects as our sight began to grow hazy. Although slightly blurred, I watched as the women recreated the battle that united our people.
Five gathered in a semi-circle around one side of the fire representing the Tuatha De Dannann, clothed only in helmets, with tightly woven skins wrapped from their feet up to the upper thigh, then skipping up to tightly cover only the midsection of the belly; a wooden sword in each hand. The other five maidens were adorned like the others and stood around the remainder of the fire representing the Tribe of Firbolgs.
As the mock battle ensued, we watched as they clashed and wrestled each other to the ground. The display continued to invoke emotion from the spectators as we cheered and shouted, passions swelling. Their bodies writhed in excitement as one conquered another. The drums would sound as Eochaid, King of the Firbolgs, was slain. The De Dannann King Nuada was triumphant, but with a hand lost in the battle. The Great Firbolg warrior Srang was then commemorated with the Dannann King Nuada. The two then threw down their implements of war and embraced with an adoring kiss, symbolizing the unity our people now knew.
Each of the women now walked along the furrows of the two stars to each of the men seated at equal points. Aroused by the display as well as the anticipation, I tried to lean forward but could not. I could barely move my head, and my arms felt bound to the chair. The maiden who played the role of Nuada stood one length in front of me and began to move with the rhythm of the drum, as did the others in front of each of my brothers. Her movements were so pronounced, as were her features, that I became entranced. The faster she danced, simulating several acts of copulation, the more awakened I became. Although alert, I could move but one part of my body.
Dancing between the fire and me, she reached her hands out and a shadow was cast across my torso. The shadow stretched across me—while reclined, I felt hands that did not really touch me, hands that caressed, stroked, and manipulated. I began to feel light-headed as she moved closer. When she leaned down to place her lips upon my loins, I noticed the other maidens performing the same action in unison on the other men. Heads of thick cascading hair moved up and down in rhythmic fashion. Round hemispherical bottoms protruding upwards toward the light of the Moon; proudly on display as the furrows of earth seeded with the blood of the stag began to glow a deep red in the dark of night.
Rotating to the next along the glowing furrows of the star, each woman danced naked in the moonlight, tossing her hair and gyrating her hips to the rhythm of the drums. Impaled upon one of the throne, breasts heaving, and hardening when placed in the mouth, I suckled each with all the enthusiasm of a newborn, and the lascivious debauchery of an adult man suffering from unquenchable thirst.
Rotations continued tenfold to the left. Our heads now fell back, facing the Moon in all her glory. Unable to push my own head upright, I sat reclined, eyes glazed as she enveloped me in warm light. Drawing our energy close, she appeared to change form, no longer a seemingly perfect sphere, but somewhat oblong, as a droplet in the night sky. Glowing brightly in a murky haze, she was all I could see, growing in size, a luminous white egg begging for union with each stroke of hardened flesh enveloped by the softness of the same.
It had all begun three generations before, when it had been determined after the wars that we were in need of greater numbers to sow and harvest the fields, hunt in the forest, and work in the homes and the temples. Although we created a class-based society, those supported by private means, and those assisted by all, we were cared for and loved. Although we did not know exactly who our parents were, we became the children of all, treated as a special group, with a twinkle in our eye and the spring in our step.
Our mother is the Moon, our father the Sun, and the stars are our ancestors. Ten of us were made each year. We never miscarried or fell to childhood illness. Born of the flesh from the time of the Tuatha to the arrival of Saint Patrick, when it was then determined that we had enough people to keep our isle filled, and out of respect for the Christ King of Nazareth, our ritual ceased.
Now I hop, as a wild hare of Eostre, from soul to soul. Hopping across oceans and skyscrapers to find a body and complete one’s trinity of matter, soul, and spirit. We are free spirits, but finite in number. We guard the souls of the patron saint of the isle; protecting them from forces unjust, serving as a guide, teaching lessons, and sharing our story. Not all can hear us, and some will hear, but not listen.
Those who do sometimes gather in a place you now call Lar Connaught, the site of the famed battle between the two original tribes. Now a small village in the west near the sea, it was built on the land that separates Moytura and Galway. There it is said that on that special night of the first full Moon of spring, one can still hear the sound of the drums, feel the heat of the fire, and be enveloped by passion. The Irish of Connaught—a truly joyous and vibrant people who link arms and sing songs of praise once a year to remember the Old Ways, and pay homage to the Children of the Egg Moon.
Dominic DiMilano is a scholar of politics, history, and ancient mystical arts. He has traveled to 12 different countries to tour and perform academic, literary, and cultural research. Dominic's web site is www.dominicdimilano.com.