Despite the fact that Mabon does
involve the concept of sacrifice, but one that is symbolic only, Mabon is one of the pleasantest holidays. The
sacrifice is that of the spirit of vegetation, John Barleycorn.
Occurring 1/4 of the year after Midsummer, Mabon represents
mid-autumn, autumn's height. It is also the Autumnal Equinox, one of
the quarter days of the year, a Lesser Sabbat and a Low Holiday in
modern Witchcraft.
Technically, an equinox is an astronomical point and, due to the
fact that the earth wobbles on its axis slightly , 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 Mabon, 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.
Although our Pagan ancestors probably celebrated Mabon on
September 25th, modern Witches and Pagans 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 seen in a 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 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 Mabon 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.
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 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, Mabon 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
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.
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