|
Technically, an equinox
is an astronomical point and, due to the fact that the earth wobbles on its axis slightly
(rather like a top that's slowing down), the date may vary by a few days depending on the
year. The autumnal equinox occurs when the sun crosses the equator on it's apparent
journey southward, and we experience a day and a night that are of equal duration. Up
until Harvest Home, the hours of daylight have been greater than the hours from dusk to
dawn. But from now on, the reverse holds true. Astrologers know this as the date on which
the sun enters the sign of Libra, the Balance (an appropriate symbol of a balanced day and
night).
However, since most European peasants were not accomplished at calculating the
exact date of the equinox, they celebrated the event on a fixed calendar date, September
25th, a holiday the medieval Church Christianized under the name of 'Michaelmas', the
feast of the Archangel Michael. (One wonders if, at some point, the R.C. Church
contemplated assigning the four quarter days of the year to the four Archangels, just as
they assigned the four cross-quarter days to the four gospel-writers. Further evidence for
this may be seen in the fact that there was a brief flirtation with calling the Vernal
Equinox 'Gabrielmas', ostensibly to commemorate the angel Gabriel's announcement to Mary
on Lady Day.)
Again, it must be remembered that the Celts reckoned their days from sundown to
sundown, so the September 25th festivities actually begin on the previous sundown (our
September 24th). Although our Pagan ancestors probably celebrated Harvest Home on
September 25th, modern Witches and Pagans, with their desk-top computers for making finer
calculations, seem to prefer the actual equinox point, beginning the celebration on its
eve.
Mythically, this is the day of the year when the god of light is defeated by his
twin and alter-ego, the god of darkness. It is the time of the year when night conquers
day. And as I have recently shown in my seasonal reconstruction of the
Welsh myth of Blodeuwedd, the Autumnal Equinox is the only day of the whole year when
Llew (light) is vulnerable and it is possible to defeat him. Llew now stands on the
balance (Libra/autumnal equinox), with one foot on the cauldron (Cancer/summer solstice)
and his other foot on the goat (Capricorn/winter solstice). Thus he is betrayed by
Blodeuwedd, the Virgin (Virgo) and transformed into an Eagle (Scorpio).
Two things are now likely to occur mythically, in rapid succession. Having
defeated Llew, Goronwy (darkness) now takes over Llew's functions, both as lover to
Blodeuwedd, the Goddess, and as King of our own world. Although Goronwy, the Horned King,
now sits on Llew's throne and begins his rule immediately, his formal coronation will not
be for another six weeks, occurring at Samhain (Halloween) or the beginning of Winter,
when he becomes the Winter Lord, the Dark King, Lord of Misrule. Goronwy's other function
has more immediate results, however. He mates with the virgin goddess, and Blodeuwedd
conceives, and will give birth -- nine months later (at the Summer Solstice) -- to
Goronwy's son, who is really another incarnation of himself, the Dark Child.
Llew's sacrificial death at Harvest Home also identifies him with John
Barleycorn, spirit of the fields. Thus, Llew represents not only the sun's power, but also
the sun's life trapped and crystallized in the corn. Often this corn spirit was believed
to reside most especially in the last sheaf or shock harvested, which was dressed in fine
clothes, or woven into a wicker-like man-shaped form. This effigy was then cut and carried
from the field, and usually burned, amidst much rejoicing. So one may see Blodeuwedd and
Goronwy in a new guise, not as conspirators who murder their king, but as kindly farmers
who harvest the crop which they had planted and so lovingly cared for. And yet, anyone who
knows the old ballad of John Barleycorn knows that we have not heard the last of him.
Incidentally, this annual mock sacrifice of a large wicker-work figure
(representing the vegetation spirit) may have been the origin of the misconception that
Druids made human sacrifices. This charge was first made by Julius Caesar (who may not
have had the most unbiased of motives), and has been re-stated many times since. However,
as has often been pointed out, the only historians besides Caesar who make this accusation
are those who have read Caesar. And in fact, upon reading Caesar's 'Gallic Wars' closely,
one discovers that Caesar never claims to have actually witnessed such a sacrifice. Nor
does he claim to have talked to anyone else who did. In fact, there is not one single
eyewitness account of a human sacrifice performed by Druids in all of history!
Nor is there any archeological evidence to support the charge. If, for example,
human sacrifices had been performed at the same ritual sites year after year, there would
be physical traces. Yet there is not a scrap. Nor is there any native tradition or history
which lends support. In fact, insular tradition seems to point in the opposite direction.
The Druid's reverence for life was so strict that they refused to lift a sword to defend
themselves when massacred by Roman soldiers on the Isle of Mona. Irish brehon laws forbade
a Druid to touch a weapon, and any soul rash enough to unsheathe a sword in the presence
of a Druid would be executed for such an outrage!
Jesse Weston, in her brilliant study of the Four Hallows of British myth, 'From
Ritual to Romance', points out that British folk tradition is, however, full of mock
sacrifices. In the case of the wicker-man, such figures were referred to in very
personified terms, dressed in clothes, addressed by name, etc. In such a religious ritual
drama, everybody played along.
In the medieval miracle-play tradition of the 'Rise Up, Jock' variety (performed
by troupes of mummers at all the village fairs), a young harlequin-like king always
underwent a mock sacrificial death. But invariably, the traditional cast of characters
included a mysterious 'Doctor' who had learned many secrets while 'travelling in foreign
lands'. The Doctor reaches into his bag of tricks, plies some magical cure, and presto!
the young king rises up hale and whole again, to the cheers of the crowd. As Weston so
sensibly points out, if the young king were actually killed, he couldn't very well
rise up again, which is the whole point of the ritual drama! It is an enactment of the
death and resurrection of the vegetation spirit. And what better time to perform it than
at the end of the harvest season?
In the rhythm of the year, Harvest Home marks a time of rest after hard work.
The crops are gathered in, and winter is still a month and a half away! Although the
nights are getting cooler, the days are still warm, and there is something magical in the
sunlight, for it seems silvery and indirect. As we pursue our gentle hobbies of making
corn dollies (those tiny vegetation spirits) and wheat weaving, our attention is suddenly
arrested by the sound of baying from the skies (the 'Hounds of Annwn' passing?), as lines
of geese cut silhouettes across a harvest moon. And we move closer to the hearth, the
longer evening hours giving us time to catch up on our reading, munching on popcorn balls
and caramel apples and sipping home-brewed mead or ale. What a wonderful time Harvest Home
is! And how lucky we are to live in a part of the country where the season's changes are
so dramatic and majestic!.
 |