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Posted by on in Culture Blogs

 

A Tale of Connory Mór

 

This is a tale of Connory Mór, the greatest of all Ireland's kings. Listen well, you.

 

Though he had not one gray hair in his beard, Bresal son of Brosnas was accounted the wisest Druid in all of Ireland, so that when King Eterscélae came to die, it was he who partook of the Bull Feast in order to divine his successor.

The Bull duly sacrificed, Bresal ate and drank his fill of the meat and broth and, wrapped in the bull's hide, lay down beneath the apple trees of the royal dún to dream of the next king. All night druids chanted over him incantations of truth.

In the morning, he arose and told the assembled men of Ireland: He who is to be king will come to Tara stark naked, at daybreak, bearing a stone in his sling.

Men were accordingly dispatched to each of the four roads that led into Tara to await his coming.

 

Young Connory—not yet called Mór, the great—was out hunting with his three foster-brothers when word came to them that the king had died, and that all men were to gather to Tara for the Bull Feast.

Come with us to Tara, his foster-brothers said to Connory, but Connory had spied a number of large, white-speckled birds, of unusual size and color, which he felt inclined to hunt, so he told them: Go on, and I will meet you there.

So they went, and he followed the birds in his chariot, sling in hand: but always the birds preceded him, out of range by the length of a spear cast. All day he followed them, until his horses began to tire. So he jumped from the chariot to follow on foot, and bade his charioteer return home when the horses were rested.

He followed the birds, always a spear-cast beyond him, until at sunset they came to the ocean. Here the birds turned, did off their bird-skins, and stood before him as warriors, with sword and spear.

I am Nemglan, said their chief, king of your father's bird-troops. I hereby lay upon you this geis: that henceforth you kill no birds, for they are your kin by birth.

This I did not know, said Connory. (His father, in fact, was a man of the West who had come in to his mother through the smoke hole in the shape of a bird; but Connory did not know this.) This geis I receive upon me.

This also I lay upon you, said Nemglan: that you lay aside all your clothing, and go this night to Tara, with a stone in your sling; for there your fate awaits you.

This also I receive, said Connory, and did as the man of the waves had bade.

Last modified on

 

 

Dear Boss Warlock:

Please help settle a dispute.

My boyfriend says that you're still skyclad if you're naked but wearing a cloak. I say you're not. What do you think?

Shivering in Sheboygan

 

Dear Shiver:

To quote Granny Weatherwax: "That's witchcraft today: all jewelry, and no drawers."

Well, let's look at the matter logically.

If all that you're wearing is a pair of jeans, are you skyclad? No.

If all that you're wearing is a shirt, are you skyclad? No.

(Gods help us, Pagan English actually does have a term for just such an absurd state of semi-dress: shirt-cocking. [See what hitting the pagan festival circuit will do to you?] Just what the female equivalent of this might be, Boss Warlock does not know. Readers?)

If all that you're wearing is a chef's apron, are you skyclad? No.

If all that you're wearing is a cloak, are you skyclad? Yes.

Why is a cloak different from a chef's apron, a shirt, or a pair of jeans?

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Recent Comments - Show all comments
  • Steven Posch
    Steven Posch says #
    You know what they say: "If they're looking, it's probably not at your feet."
  • Katie
    Katie says #
    …and if all you’re wearing is socks/slippers (the so-called Minnesota Skyclad)? It may look ludicrous, but it is so very practica

Posted by on in Culture Blogs

 

 

Merrymeet 1997

 

It's been hot work at Grand Council all day, so I head down to Gull Lake for a quick dip before dinner. What I see there astounds me.

Clearly, word of the wild witches has got out. Every fishing boat on the lake has—coincidentally, no doubt—just happened to drift over to our side, the prospect of naked pagans apparently outweighing that of walleye on this sunny late August afternoon.

Ritual robe hiked up to her knees, a woman sits at the end of the dock, dangling her feet in the water.

Gods, what's with these people? I say, taking off my shirt. I'm half tempted to wave. All this to see a little bit of skin?

Cowans, she commiserates.

Hey, screen me, would you? I ask, crouching.

Anything for a fellow conspirator, she says, raising her arms.

Screened by her back and generous hanging sleeves, I slip out of my kilt and over the edge.

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