The dismemberment motif that’s so often found in Indo-European creation myths has a direct relationship with the practice of ritual sacrifice in Indo-European pre-Christian religions, because sacrifice may be seen as a sort of re-enactment of that very first violent death, and the resulting dismemberment that resulted in the initial creation of the physical world.30 Sacrifice is, therefore, a conscious act that meant to be thought of as a way to ensure that creation continues. It’s essentially intended to ‘create’ a burst of energy, reflecting that initial burst of creation itself, in order to ‘feed’ the process and ensure the cycle of life continues on as it should.
Where there is a beginning there will inevitably, ultimately, be an end. If there is a creation myth, then, there is likely also going to be a myth about the end of the world – a Book of Revelation to its Book of Genesis, as it were. As such, the act of sacrifice is one small way that might help put off the inevitable, or at least keep things on a more even keel while we plough on through the universe, on our way to a spectacular demise. In doing so, the cycle of life itself may be renewed, which helps to make sure the crops grow, livestock are well-fed on freshly grown grass in the fields, and so on.
Sacrifice, in this context, has a specific definition. We’re not talking about the more colloquial kind that views anything that’s ‘given up’ to the gods (or spirits or ancestors) as a sacrifice. A ‘votive offering’ may be a more apt description there – where an offering is given without any intention of coming back for it or using it from that point onwards. A sacrifice, according to the definition that archaeologists and anthropologists use, refers to the deliberate and conscious act of killing something in a ritualised manner. The sacrifice may then be given as an offering.
In an Indo-European context (in particular), a necessary part of this sacrifice is some sort of violence in the manner of the death, and this often comes in the form of a deep and decisive slit to the throat (after the animal has been stunned by a blow to the head). This causes blood to gush out with quite some force, so although it may not be a ‘peaceful’ death, it’s at least quick. In examples of (suspected) human sacrifice, we might see a ‘triple death,’ where the victim is bound, hit across the head, and then stabbed or garrotted.31 In either case, sacrifice often involves what’s called ‘overkill’ – where far less effort could have been expended to achieve the same result.
All of this therefore suggests that the degree of force was a necessary, fundamental part of the ritual – perhaps because it was seen as a way to release the ‘creative’ life-force of the sacrifice. That might seem a bit ironic under the circumstances, seeing as the most immediate result is ‘creating’ death, but this in itself may have been a pre-emptive sort of way to take control of things. If the sacrifice was meant as an act of renewal, the lack of sacrifice meant no renewal would take place, which could then threaten an end of the world scenario. The sacrifice itself may have therefore have been intended as a stand-in or substitute for that ‘end of the world scenario,’ so it didn’t have to happen in the real world. The sacrifice is therefore essentially a proxy for something far worse.
Sacrifices are difficult to see in the archaeological record. Although we might see the physical remains of an animal or person, and although we might even see that they died an obviously violent death – from knife marks slicing into bone, leaving behind evidence that their throat had been slit with a significant degree of force, for example – we can’t always see the intent behind it. We can say they appear to have died in a ritualised manner, but that doesn’t have to mean this ritual must have been sacrificial in nature.
One thing we do often find is evidence of burning in relation to finds that appear to be votive in nature (i.e. offerings or sacrifices), and this is especially true of cereal grains and animal bones that are found at funerary monuments, which may suggest people held feasts and sacrifices in the shadow of their ancestors in particular.32 The fact that burning appears to have been a necessary part of these rituals is interesting, then, and it again gives us cause to get comparative as a way of helping us to figure out why.
Returning to Vedic tradition and the figure of Agni, the fire god, we learn that he is said to have been born as a result of a fire drill being rubbed together. As Agni was born from these flames, it also created a sacred fire, and tradition has it that Agni arises on the altar whenever this type of sacred fire is lit – specifically, a fire that’s kindled using friction alone (not a lighter or a flame from another fire, etc.). His presence, right at the heart of this sacred flame, means he is then able to transmit all of the offerings that are placed in the fire to his fellow gods. Of course, this sacred fire has to be lit in exactly the same way as the very fire that created him in the first place – so friction has to be used. In this respect, the practice can be thought of as a recreation of the circumstances of Agni’s own birth, which means it can be seen as a way for Agni to be reborn, over and over again. Given the role Agni had in creation itself, this sacred flame is obviously extremely important, and its re-creation reflects a fundamental understanding of the world and our place in it.33
What’s even more significant here is that this concept of a sacred flame, lit only by friction, can be found in a number of other Indo-European cultures. We find evidence of it amongst the Gaels, Scandinavian and Germanic cultures, and also the Classical cultures (the Greeks and Romans), for example. In Gaelic tradition, this friction-fire is called a ‘need-fire’ or tein’-éiginn, and it’s said to have been the traditional method used for lighting the Beltaine bonfire, for lighting the hearth for the first time in a new home (according to Irish sources), and for lighting a bonfire – similar to the Beltaine bonfires – as a saining ceremony (a ritual of protection, purification, and blessing all rolled into one) during times of murrain or plague (especially in cattle), or a poor fishing season that showed no signs of improving, for example.34 In each case, the hearth in every house in the area would be extinguished, and then a torch would be lit from the tein’–éiginn so it could be taken home to relight the hearth, and sain the cattle, the fields, and/or the fishing boats in the area. The exact same sort of practice is recorded in ancient Greece; after the battle of Plataea in 479 BCE, for example, every hearth across the whole of Greece is said to have been extinguished and then relit, using torches that had been brought from the sacred hearth at Delphi.35
At Bealltainn in Scotland, once the communal bonfire had been lit offerings were meant to be made (presumably being left in the flames), as well,36 suggesting a more recent reflection of this ancient, Indo-European belief, where the flames may be seen as a means of facilitating communication with the gods.
It’s surely significant that the most common funerary rite found during the majority of the Irish Iron Age is cremation, which may have been a way of sending (or returning?) the beloved dead home to the gods. The events that took place at Navan Fort sometime around the first century BCE to the first century CE are also highly suggestive. As we’ve seen, after building a massive structure – 40m in diameter – with five concentric circles of wooden posts and a gigantic oak post set right in the centre of it all, which probably stuck out through the roof. The evidence suggests that soon after construction had finished the entire building was then filled with rocks, interspersed with some kindling here and there, and the whole thing was then set on fire. The remaining mound was then covered over with soil (brought from a number of different places in the surrounding area). The inference here is that the whole process may have been intended to ‘create’ an otherworldly home for the gods – a síd – and so we might wonder if the act of burning it was a means to ‘send’ it to them.37
Considering the evidence here (and there’s so much more we could look at as well), it’s no wonder that fire seems to have played such a central role in the pre-Christian practices of the Iron Age people of Ireland. This sacred fire that’s created only through friction can be understood as a conduit – a link to the gods, and to the otherworldly realm they reside in – and it may also serve as an altar of sorts: a sacred place where offerings are made, where communion and communication, as well as revelation may also take place. This has a number of strong implications for our own practices, as Gaelic Polytheists.
References
30 Bruce Lincoln, Death, War, and Sacrifice: Studies in Ideology & Practice: Studies in Theory and Practice (1989), 167-170.
31 Of course we don’t know for sure if the examples that have been described as human sacrifices (e.g. bog bodies) really are sacrificial victims. The best we can say is that the manner of their deaths appears to have been ritualised. Sacrifice may be an explanation that makes the most sense, to a lot of people at least, but ‘ritual’ isn’t necessarily exclusive to a religious context. For a discussion of sacrifice, and its definitions, see: Miranda Aldhouse-Green, Dying for the Gods: Human Sacrifice in Iron Age and Roman Europe (2001), 22.
32 See Ger Dowling, ‘Landscape and Settlement in Late Iron Age Ireland: Some Emerging Trends,’ in J. Cahill Wilson (Ed.), Late Iron Age and ‘Roman’ Ireland: Discovery Programme Reports 8 (2014).
33 Anders Kaliff, ‘The Vedic Agni and Scandinavian Fire Rituals: A Possible Connection,’ in Current Swedish Archaeology 13 (2005).
34 Constance F. Gordon Cumming, In The Hebrides (1883), 194.
35 E. Çayr, The Study of the Concept of the Sacred Hearth and Greek Goddess of the Hearth and their Association with the Prytaneoin, its Origins, and its Development (Ankara, 2006), 11.
36 W. G. Stewart, The Popular Superstitions And Festive Amusements of the Highlanders of Scotland (1823), 259.
37 R. B. Warner, ‘Keeping Out the Otherworld: The Internal Ditch at Navan and Other Iron Age “Hengiform” Enclosures,’ in Emania 18 (2000).
Eòlas 