In Celebration of Life

by Anna Belfrage

Tomorrow is the 30th of April, which for us here in Sweden is one of the more important days in the year. Not only is it our king's birthday, but it is also Valborgsmäss, the day when we traditionally light bonfires and sing to welcome back the sun - most understandable in a country as cold and dark as ours is during the winter.

The Celts called this day Beltane. It fell more or less halfway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice (and us Swedes have a major field day with the summer solstice, let me tell you...) and was a day in which to embrace life, to celebrate having survived yet another winter and the difficult months of March and April, when food stores were depleted and nature as yet had not revived enough to offer much in the way of edible stuff.

Beltane is a purely pagan rite. There is no saint to commemorate, no holy event to celebrate as per the Christian church. But no matter the established Church's determined efforts to eradicate this primitive feast, it has lived on, surviving irate apostles and harsh Conventicle Acts. Somehow, this celebration is imprinted in our DNA, harkening back to a time when the year was measured in solstices, equinoxes and quarter days, when human life was fragile enough for us to implore the gods to give us warmth and sun, continued life and good harvests.

Beltane was a major feast day for the Celts - a fire feast, and as mentioned above that tradition lives on up here in the north. Having said that, as far as I know there weren't all that many Celts up here, in Scandinavia, but seeing as they were a trading people I assume their cultural influence was massive - plus feasts such as Beltane, Samhain, and Midsummer are probably rooted in an even murkier past. Fire, for example, has played a major role in spring festivals since life began in the Fertile Crescent, and to this day the tradition of leaping over fires to cleanse yourself persists in countries such as Iran.

C F Hill - apple tree in blossom

The advent of spring was of utmost importance for our ancestors. Today, 3-7% of the population in the developed world are farmers, producing huge excesses of food they can sell to the rest of us. A century ago, roughly 50-60% of the population had their outcome from the agricultural sector. Before the Industrial Revolution, 80% depended on the land - and what little surplus they produced was sold to acquire necessities such as an iron plough, or salt. For them, an early spring was the difference between life and death.

The Celts, however, were more herders than farmers, and on Beltane the cattle were let out to pasture after months and months cooped up in byres. However, as any Celt knew, with the advent of spring came the increase in mischief from spirits and fairies, so to protect their cattle they lit two bonfires and drove their beasts between them, hoping the smoke would offer some protection against evil. These traditions lived on for a long time. As late as in the 19th century, Scottish Highlanders were lighting their bonfires on Beltane and driving their cattle through the resulting smoke. For good measure, the people would also run through the smoke - or leap across the embers. Similar traditions existed throughout the British Isles. For such a bonfire to be truly effective, it should be lit the traditional way, i.e. by rubbing two sticks together, but I suspect people cheated on this one, as it is very, very hard work to get a blaze going that way!

Sidney Richard Percy, Grizedale

Not only was the bonfire important as a way of cleansing cattle and people from the potential bad influence of the spirits. It was also seen as a representation of the sun, and on Beltane eve, households would extinguish their tallow candles and douse the fire in their hearths before rekindling them from the bonfire - a symbolic "here comes the sun" moment, which supposedly was to ensure the safety and fertility of the people in the household. And once the bonfire had run its course, the ashes were spread over the fields and gardens to protect the growing crops.

Originally, Beltane also included some element of sacrifice. As described in a previous post on this blog, sometimes the sacrifice made was the ultimate one - that of killing a man or a woman. This was done when circumstances were particularly dire, and generally the victim would be chosen by lottery. An oatmeal cake would be baked, it would be broken into pieces, and one of those pieces would be burnt. The pieces were then put in a bowl and passed round. Whoever got the burnt piece of cake was - so to say - toast.

The ritual of baking that oatmeal cake is known to have survived well into the 18th century in Scotland. Just like those long-dead Celts, the Scottish bakers would make a cake, break it and burn one piece. Whoever got the burnt piece had to leap the blazing bonfire on behalf of all of them. In some cases, the person who got the burnt piece was symbolically thrown into the fire and was treated as "dead" by his companions for some days.

Mostly though, the gods were appeased by somewhat less dramatic sacrifices. A cup of mead, a newly made loaf - maybe a chicken or two. And then, once the gods had been given their due, our ancient forefathers went a bit wild and crazy round the bonfire. It was party time, and there were bards singing, people dancing, mead and ale, food, more ale...Men and women retired to engage in more intimate pursuits, yet another variant of celebrating the return of life.

Van Gogh - flowering garden

In our neck of the woods, such pursuits would have to be undertaken indoors - or under a gigantic bear pelt or something. Chances are the last day in April will be cold - even very cold. But the evenings are light - where I live twilight lingers to well beyond 21:00 p.m. - and all around are signs of returning life.

The birches are decorated with minuscule leaves of brightest green, the shrubs shift into an emerald haze, and everywhere tits and blackbirds and lapwings and larks and ... well, birds in general - call and hoot that spring is here and so are they. In the woods anemones poke heads of brightest white through drifts of russet coloured leaves, the lake-shores are here and there still edged with ice, but a couple of swans sail by on the deep blue of the open waters.

Over by the bonfire, there is a smell of sausages burned to a crisp. Couples snog, or hold hands, or hug each other close, and the air is filled with the impressive sound of the male choirs singing in spring. That's what we call it; "Singing in spring". Us Swedes have books full of these spring songs, all about the melting drifts of snow, the return of the sun, of warmth, of hope that soon the ground will break out in full flower. Songs that rather unabashedly praise that first deity of human life; the sun.

For me, Beltane always brings home just what a miracle life is, an eternal cycle of dark and light. It behoves us to at times remember just how blessed we are to live on this green planet of ours. It behoves us to keep in mind that we are but the caretakers of a delicate sphere of life, as ephemeral in time and space as a soap bubble.

Monet - springtime

I'd like to end this post with one of my favourite poems - an ode of joy and gratitude for the world that surrounds us, in this case directed to God, but it could just as well be directed to Mother Nature. I don't know why it always springs to the forefront of my head this season of the year, maybe it's the sheer exuberance in it that speaks to me.

Glory be to God for dappled things - 
For skies of coupled-colour like a brinded cow;
For rose moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced; fold, fallow and plough;
And all trades; their gear and tackle and trim

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844 - 89)

Happy Beltane, everyone! May the day be long and bright, may the sun warm your skin, may a soft breeze caress your cheek.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anna Belfrage is the successful author of seven published books, all of them part of The Graham Saga. Set in 17th century Scotland, Virginia and Maryland, this is the story of Matthew Graham and his wife, Alex Lind - two people who should never have met, not when she was born three centuries after him.

Anna's books have won several awards and are available on Amazon US,  Amazon UK, or wherever else good books are sold.
For more information about Anna and her books, please visit her website. If not on her website, Anna can mostly be found on her blog.

Taking one for the Team - of the ultimate sacrifice

by Anna Belfrage

Hands up those who have ever had nightmares about being buried alive. No? Well, I guess this makes me sound very ghoulish, but I do. Through the slow march of history, many people have been subjected to the rather horrible fate of being put six feet under while still very much alive.

In Sweden, women condemned to die were almost always buried alive – as an alternative to being burned at the stake. The woman would have her feet and hands tied and then she’d be lowered sitting into a hole in the ground, incapable of doing anything but watch as the hole was filled in – with her inside. In some cases, the woman’s head was covered by a bucket. Why is somewhat unclear: was it so that the men filling in the hole did not have to look her in the face, or was there some belief that the bucket would make her passing easier?

Anyway, it was not my intention to talk about live burials. But my intended subject – bog bodies – sparked off that old fear of being buried alive (even worse in a bog, one imagines) which is the reason for the above digression. In actual fact, the bog bodies were mostly well and truly dead before the squelchy soil embraced their bodily remains – or so it seems when we study them.

The Tollund Man (Denmark) 2 500 yrs old, give or take

Bog bodies crop up all over Northern Europe, most of them dated to the Iron Age. In some cases, they seem to have died by misadventure, but mostly they seem to have been the victims of a ritual death. Were they willing sacrificial victims? Were they randomly selected or spoils of war? It is difficult to tell from the distance of several thousands of years, but there is evidence indicating that in some cases, the sacrificial lamb was indeed a volunteer, giving his or her life so that the clan might survive. Very noble, I am sure. From our perspective also very futile, but people have always done irrational things in the name of faith.

Allow me to sweep you back almost two thousand years in time. We are on a marsh, it is the feast of Beltane, a time when normally bonfires lick the sky in celebration of the return of life and warmth to the northern hemisphere. But this year, there are no overt celebrations. The people of Britain skulk through the shadows, more than aware that everywhere the Roman invaders are looking to interrupt their traditional celebrations.

A small party of people are walking briskly towards one of the hallowed places, a small grove on a hillock. They talk quietly among each other, eyes scanning every shrub, every stand of trees for a potential enemy. Only when they reach the flattened clearing at the top of the hill do they relax. Someone mutters something about how this is not right, how on this night fires should be lit, with people rejoicing that the winter is over. He is hushed by the most senior member of the group.  A small fire is kindled, a piece of dough is produced and shaped into a flatbread. It is cooked over the little fire, and right at the end, a burning twig is held to one section, leaving a black burn mark on the bread.

In silence, the bread is broken into pieces. It is offered first to the man that so far has been sitting on the edge of things, eyes locked on the night sky above. He smiles crookedly and chooses the burnt piece. A tremor runs through him as he carefully chews the bread, watched by all the others. He swallows and stands, shedding the cloak he’s been wearing. Below, he is naked. He does a slow half-turn, eyes resting with hunger on the shadowy surroundings. Every tree, every stone – he registers it in detail, and there is a stiffness to his shoulders, as if it takes conscious effort to remain so erect, so calm. No wonder, given what is to come…

Someone says something to the naked man, and he nods, almost brusquely. His beard has been recently trimmed back from its ordinary length, and when he turns towards the speaker, the fire brings out the reddish notes in his facial hair. He tugs at the single adornment on his body: a narrow strip of fox-pelt tied around his arm. Despite the chilly air, his body is covered in a sheen of sweat, and he keeps on licking his lips.

Taranis

The oldest of the men clasps his hand and says something. Another man steps forward, and he and the naked man embrace. They cling to each other, and when they at last separate, the naked man inhales, throws his arms wide and falls to his knees, facing the west. Another man takes a step forward. He’s holding an axe, and when he lifts it, the oldest man raises his hands to the heavens and invokes the Gods: Taranis, Esus and Teutates.
Thunk. The naked man sags.
Thunk.  He crumples to the ground.
Thunk. He looks quite, quite dead – but he isn’t.

Two men approach the unconscious man. He is hauled up into a sitting position, and the eldest man barks an order. A younger man rushes forward. There’s a knotted string of sorts in his hand. Swiftly, he wraps the string around the naked man’s neck, sets a knee in the naked man’s back, and tightens the garrotte. There’s a gurgling sound from the dying man. A boy in his teens rushes forward, holding a ceremonial bowl. The oldest man produces a knife and severs the naked man’s jugular. Blood pours into the bowl. The naked man thrashes despite his unconscious state. No more blood. The garrotte is tightened, there is a snapping sound as the neck breaks.

By now, the man is very, very dead. His companions mutter and pray, the effigies of gods are held aloft, and then two of them take hold of him and carry him over to a horse. Carefully, they place him atop the nervous beast, its hide a silvery white in the moonlight. In silence, they proceed down the hill, along a narrow path. The alders that line it rustle in greeting as the procession passes by, making for a dark pool in the centre of the marsh. More prayers, more effigies held aloft, and then the naked man is thrown into the still pool. It takes a long time, but at some point the waters close over the body. Over the coming centuries, his body will remain where it is, while the water dries into mud, and the marsh converts the vegetation that presently stands green and bright into peat.

The above is a fictionalised version of the Lindow Man’s last moments on earth, somewhere in the first century AD. Three axe-blows to his head, three ritualised deaths – the garrotte, the slicing of his throat, the drowning. From what can be gleaned from his body, his last meal was a scrap of sooty bread – maybe he was unfortunate enough to pick the piece of bread that had been purposely burnt, or maybe he was, as suggested above, a volunteer. Whatever the case, the rest of his physiognomy reveals a man in the prime of his life, a strong, well-fed man with remarkably well-tended nails.  If the idea was to placate the gods by offering a perfect sacrifice, the Lindow man definitely fit the bill – but what events could possibly be so dire as to require the ultimate of sacrifices, and what threats hung over the Lindow Man’s people for him to – apparently – go willingly to his death?

The answer lies in when he died and who he was. Studies of the body (discovered in 1984) have led scientists to conclude he was a Celt, and his un-scarred skin, his soft, un-callused hands indicate he was neither a warrior nor a labourer. That fox-skin tied around his arm is believed to denote someone of high birth, and the way his beard had been sawed off would indicate that until recently, his beard had been longer. Adding all this up, the general conclusion is that the young man (he was somewhere around thirty when he died) was a druid – or rather a druid in training, as this profession required a long and extensive education.

It is believed he died in AD 60. A black year for the Celtic people of Britain. A year so filled with misery and death that the farmers dared not plant their fields. It all began with the Roman’s destruction of the Isle of Mona (Anglesey).

A Druid as per 19th c painter

The Romans were in general tolerant to other people’s beliefs. As their empire expanded, they assimilated rather than converted the subjugated people – assuming everyone paid lip-service to the cult of the emperor, of course. But there was something about the druids that raised the Roman hackles, and they systematically persecuted the druids in the Gallic provinces, forcing the Celtic priests to flee to Britannia.

When the Romans launched their third attempt to invade Britain in 43 AD, one of the reasons may very well have been to do away with the druids once and for all. On the other hand, it seems a tad far-fetched: a bunch of bearded priests (and a bunch of female priests – beardless, one would hope) – what threat could they possibly pose to the Roman Empire? The answer is one of cultural identity, of political power. The druids were not only priests: they were the bearers of Celtic culture, they were renowned advisors to the Celtic kings and queens. They urged continued opposition to Rome, they scoffed at the idea that a mortal man should be considered a deity, be he emperor or not.

The Romans landed in Britain with no major opposition – at first. Once the British tribes gathered that the Romans were here to stay, leaders such as Caratacus tried to drive them off. Didn’t work. Through years of guerrilla warfare, the Romans persisted, building one base after the other, starting with Colchester. Caratacus was defeated in open battle a couple of times, fled to the Brigantes whose treacherous queen had him put in chains and delivered to the Romans as a gift-wrapped little parcel.

In the south, the British tribes grumbled under the Roman tribe – but there were benefits as well, such as more trade, more comforts. In the north and the west, the resistance continued, much of it led by the druids from their power base on the Isle of Mona – which also acted as a huge granary for the Celtic people.

In early spring of the year 60 AD, Suetonious, the Roman commander, had had enough: he went after Mona, and two Roman legions carried the day against the fierce and brave but very undisciplined Celtic army that faced off against them. The druids were killed, the hallowed groves were chopped down, the hallowed wells desecrated, and the Celtic resistance was well and truly quenched. Or was it? Suetonious did not get much time to savour his victory, because news reached him from the south, telling him the Iceni under their queen Boudica had risen in revolt. Colchester had been sacked and torched, and now the Iceni horde was making for London. Suetonious had no choice but to hasten east to defend what little remained of Roman Britain.

As many of you know, Boudica’s revolt was triggered by Roman avarice and their horrible treatment of her daughters – and, perhaps, a conclusion that the Roman yoke would not be quite as easy to bear as the British had originally thought. As the Iceni rose in anger, the Silurians further to the west kept the second legion (based in Gloucester) fully occupied – mere coincidence? Or was this the result of a larger Celtic agenda, driven by the druids?

The Dying Gaul By Copy after Epigonosantmoose ([1]) [CC-BY-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Ultimately, Suetonious won over the Iceni – despite being severely outnumbered. Yet another catastrophe for the Celts, with over 80 000 Celtic warriors killed in the aftermath of the decisive battle. The druids were gone – well, almost – brave Boudica and her army was dead, and the fields that should have been planted lay fallow, auguring a winter of starvation for the British people.  The Gods had turned their faces from the Celtic people. Something had to be done – and it had to be done fast. Ergo, the complicated human sacrifice described  above.

We will never know for sure if the above events triggered the human sacrifice resulting in the Lindow Man. But as a hypothesis, it seems plausible – and there is no doubt whatsoever that the Lindow Man died as described above. A ritualised death, carefully staged so as to honour the Gods. If the intention was to have the Gods smite the Romans and drive them from Britain, the sacrifice was a failure. If, however, it was intended as a plea to safeguard the Celtic people, it was somewhat more successful. After all, when the Roman Empire succumbed to the Germanic invaders in the fifth century AD, there were still plenty of Celts in Britain – more than enough to take up arms against the flood-wave of Angles, Saxons and Jutes. But that, as they say, is a different story!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anna Belfrage is the successful author of seven published books, all of them part of The Graham Saga. Set in 17th century Scotland, Virginia and Maryland, this is the story of Matthew Graham and his wife, Alex Lind - two people who should never have met, not when she was born three centuries after him.

Anna's books are available on Amazon US,  Amazon UK, or wherever else good books are sold.
For more information about Anna and her books, please visit her website. If not on her website, Anna can mostly be found on her blog.