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“the end[s] of mythology”: Piety and Impiety in Vincent Woods’ A Cry from Heaven
Opening: Discovering an Ancient Past
Beginning in 1999, the Republic of Ireland’s National Roads Authority began planning the
M3 Motorway scheme (Republic of Ireland 1). Designed to relieve traffic flow northwest of
Dublin, the controversial four-lane highway was to pass through the historic Boyne River valley
where the seventeenth-century Battle of the Boyne was fought and where the prehistoric
Newgrange monument stands. The Boyne River valley is also the site of the Hill of Tara, and the
M3 was to pass within two miles of this sacred site where the high kings of Ireland were
crowned (Owen). Shortly after it began in the spring of 2007, however, roadway construction
was temporarily halted when it unearthed a previously unknown prehistoric site that has been
described by the chairman of Ireland’s National Trust as “a temple, after the fashion of a
comparable discovery at Emain Macha, seat of the kings of Ulster” (Owen; Clinton qtd. in
Oklahoma).
At the same time the National Roads Authority was planning the M3 and just under two
years before construction would discover this prehistoric site, the ancient myth of Deirdre was
being rediscovered on the National Theatre stage.1 In June of 2005, the Abbey premiered
Vincent Woods’ A Cry from Heaven, a visceral verse drama that feels at once ancient and
contemporary, alien and familiar. Despite their radically different projects, the M3 Motorway
scheme and Woods’ drama have this in common: Both journey through and excavate an ancient
1
“Rediscovered” because, during the twentieth century, the myth had lived a full life on the stage: The first version
was AE’s (George Russell) ground-breaking Deirdre (first performed 1902) followed by W.B. Yeats’ verse one act,
Deirdre (first performed 1907) and J.M. Synge’s posthumously-produced meditation on death, Deirdre of the
Sorrows (first performed 1910) (Fackler, That Tragic Queen 95, 105, 115). In 1975, a new Deirdre play joined the
Deirdre theatrical canon when the Abbey’s Peacock Theatre produced Ulick O’Connor’s Noh-modeled Deirdre
(Abbey Theatre).
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landscape—one physically and accidentally, the other psychologically and deliberately.
Furthermore, in bringing the distant past into present light, both raise important questions about a
contemporary Celtic society’s relationship, indeed, its responsibility to its ancient past.
The Plot of A Cry from Heaven
Woods’ version, like so many of its predecessors, fleshes out the basic plot of the myth,
adding material of his own invention.2 The play opens with a traditional gathering of the tribe on
Samhain, a Celtic holiday that archaeologist T.G.E. Powell notes marks the end of both the
pastoral grazing season and the Celtic year as it turns toward the dark months of winter (Powell
144-45). Woods’ script acknowledges both the pastoral and seasonal components of the Samhain
celebration by staging an unusual ritual in which two bulls, one of Night and one of Day, battle,
2
The myth of Deirdre has been preserved in both oral tradition and manuscript form, the most important manuscript
sources being the Book of Leinster, dated circa 1160 C.E., and the fourteenth-century C.E. Yellow Book of Lecan
(Gantz, Early 21). In That Tragic Queen: The Deirdre Legend in Anglo-Irish Literature, Herbert Fackler points out
that it is the Yellow Book of Lecan version, translated into English in 1862 by Eugene O’Curry, that provides some
of the “ornamental” or more romantic details found in the works of the Irish Literary Renaissance. By contrast the
Book of Leinster version is “rough and barbaric [. . .] and notable for a stark simplicity of action and naturalistic
detail” (Fackler, That Tragic Queen 4); it is to this spirit that A Cry from Heaven holds.
Although many versions take artistic liberties with the myth, the narrative remains essentially the same in all. In
his introduction to That Tragic Queen: The Deirdre Legend in Anglo-Irish Literature, Fackler summarizes the
mythic narrative thus:
[A] daughter is born during a visit Conor makes to his harper Fedlimid, and it is prophesied she will cause
the death of the house of Usna and the fall of the King’s palace at Emain Macha. She is named Deirdre
(“Alarm”). Although it is proposed that she be killed, Conor causes her to be set aside in the wilderness and
raised apart from all human company except that of her tutor and guardians. As she grows to desirable
womanhood [Conor] determines to wed her, but she encounters Naisi, the eldest of the sons of Usna, and
the two elope, taking with them an entourage which includes Naisi’s brothers Ainnle and Ardan. After
some time in exile, Conor sends the lover an emissary, the honorable Fergus, to offer an amnesty. They
return, Conor uses a ruse to separate them from Fergus, and the sons of Usna are slain. Deirdre either dies
of sorrow or commits suicide, or is kept by Conor for a year before committing suicide, depending on
which variant ending is followed. Fergus retaliates by burning Emain Macha to the ground and joining the
forces of Ulster’s enemy in the forthcoming great war with Connacht. The story, then, not only contains all
the elements necessary for coherent and unified narrative, but also explains the presence of the greater
Ulster champion Fergus on the side of Maeve and Ailleel of Connacht, and serves as preamble to the Táin.
(Fackler, That Tragic Queen iv-v)
As Fackler points out, Deirdre’s story is a remscela or pre-tale to the Táin Bó Cuailnge, the Cattle Raid of Cooley,
that pits Ulster against its neighboring and rival province Connacht. The Táin is the central tale of the larger Ulster
Cycle, a collection of myths about the exploits of the warriors of the Red Branch, most notably the hero Cuchulain
(who is strangely absent from most versions of Deirdre’s story), and their king, Conor.
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thus re-enacting the struggle between summer’s light and winter’s darkness. In addition to
celebrating this struggle between light and darkness, Woods’ Samhain gathering also celebrates
the recently negotiated peace treaty that has brought Fergus back from exile: Reunited with his
Ness, Fergus’ wife and Conor’s mother, the deposed king Fergus officially renounces his claim
to the throne and agrees to take on the role of elder statesman as councilor to King Conor, the
very nephew-stepson who has usurped Fergus’ throne. Despite the evening’s celebratory tone
and fine speeches, it becomes clear that the peace between Fergus and Conor is an uneasy one
and that Ulster remains poised on the brink of civil strife.3
Much of the rest of the play is dominated by the uneasy political situation surrounding
Conor’s court.4 It is into this state of political uneasiness that Deirdre is born and, because of the
prophecy surrounding her, is nearly put to death. However, as he does in the myth, Conor
decides to save Deirdre, to have Leabharcham raise her far “from the sight of men,” and perhaps
to “marry her [him]self” (Woods, Cry 17). Because Deirdre is raised in isolation, she is largely
shielded from—though not entirely unaffected by—the court’s anxieties. Eventually it is the
anxiety she feels regarding her own captivity and future—the promised marriage to an older man
whom she does not love—that urges Deirdre to escape her lonely existence and seek the
beautiful hunter of whom she has dreamt.
3
This strained peace echoes the more recent history of Ulster: the post-Anglo-Irish war partitioning of Ireland into
north and south and the resulting Irish Civil War; the “Troubles” that plagued Northern Ireland during the second
half of the twentieth century; and the current situation marked by an uneasy peace created by the Good Friday
Accords and on-going attempts at political power-sharing.
4
The onstage tension is made even more tense and familiar by the adding of psychological tension as well.
Leabharcham, Deirdre’s foster mother, is the seer Cathach’s wife, but they have not been emotionally or physically
intimate for years largely because of the loss of a child and Cathach’s all-but-stated homosexuality. Fergus, Ness,
and Conor are locked in a strange web of political-psychological-sexual tension that, in the case of Fergus and Ness,
mixes political debate with bedroom seduction (Woods, Cry 4.3). Before Deirdre elopes with Naoise, Deirdre and
Ness vie for control of Conor’s affections. Conor all but banishes his nephews Naoise, Ainnle, and Ardan because
he sees them as a potential threat to his political power. In fact, much of the play’s backroom political intrigue takes
on the appearance of a family quarrel, the kind one might find in a psychologically realistic domestic drama.
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After Deirdre and Naoise meet and until Naoise’s death, Woods’ script follows the mythic
narrative closely: The two elope protected by Naoise’s brothers, Ardan and Ainnle; as a result,
Conor seeks vengeance on Deirdre, her companions, and all who would shelter them and
eventually chases Deirdre and the brothers to Scotland where, save for the comfort of each
other’s company, the exiles live rather unhappily. Fergus arrives in Scotland with a promise of
forgiveness and the exiles return to Ireland only to be separated from their protector through
Conor’s trickery. Refusing to be turned aside from the call of their homeland and of fate and
hoping that Conor will still honor their truce, the former exiles accept Conor’s invitation to dine
in the Red Branch Hall. There they are besieged, defended by those Ulster warriors loyal to the
House of Usna; once the battle turns against their allies, the brothers enter the fray and are killed
by Conor’s overwhelming forces.
From the death of the sons of Usna until play’s end, Cry takes some interesting liberties with
the myth. Immediately after Conor’s forces have killed the brothers offstage, Conor brutally
rapes Deirdre onstage. Approximately nine months later, Deirdre bears a son whose paternity is
unclear. As a result, so too is the infant’s fate, which is debated by the members of Conor’s court
in much the same way his mother’s fate was debated at play’s beginning. Shortly after bearing
the child, Deirdre hurls herself “from the battlements,” splitting “her mind asunder on the rocks”
that lie below (Woods, Cry 108). While this exact mode of death is Woods’ invention, it is in
keeping with one version of the myth: In the Book of Leinster, while being driven in a chariot,
Deirdre “let her head be driven against [a boulder], and the boulder made fragments of her head,
and she died” (Gantz, Early 267). The little hope that flickers at this point in the play is
extinguished when Deirdre’s foster mother, Leabharcham, murders Deirdre’s child rather than
surrender him to Conor who will certainly kill the infant himself once he learns the child is in
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fact Naoise’s. Into this world of death, Fergus arrives, a living witness to the destruction of both
Deirdre and Ulster itself. Following Fergus’ return, the action closes much like it began: The
Bulls from the Samhain celebration re-enter and complete their ritual, though this time the Bull
of Night triumphs, killing the Bull of Day; the two bulls lie down together, presumably in peace
but apparently both dead or at least in a death-like state.
Two Worldviews: The Political and the Natural-Supernatural
Perhaps the most striking feature of A Cry from Heaven is that within the script exist two
different worlds—the political and the natural-supernatural.5 The political world is the world of
Conor’s court, the world of the túath or tribe; in short, the world of politics.6 It is a world of
tension and intrigue that is dominated by politicians and warriors, all of whom are—with the
exception of Conor’s politically powerful mother, Ness—men. As king, Conor is, of course, the
primary representative of the political—a man who wields power to maintain power and who
sees the world entirely in terms of power relationships. Appropriately, the language of Conor and
his court is the language of politics and political power. A quick perusal of the first scene alone
reveals a long list of political language: “throne,” “loyalty,” “honourable,” “pledges,” “true,”
“brave,” “kingdom,” “strength,” “power,” “peace,” as well as “division” and “dissension”
5
A Cry from Heaven also appears to draw upon two differing dramaturgical traditions: the Shakespearean History
Play and Greek Tragic Drama. The association of the former with the political world and the latter with the naturalsupernatural world reinforces the difference between these two worlds.
6
From one perspective, Cry is a court intrigue, thus making the play feel more like a Shakespearean History Play
than an ancient myth. (It’s worth noting that Cry makes use of a five-act structure and is written in verse that tends
toward blank verse, suggesting the influence of Shakespearean dramaturgy.) In particular, Cry offers several echoes
of Richard III. For instance, both plays feature usurpers who come to the throne during a time of civil unrest and
who gain and maintain their power through political savvy and treachery, including the betrayal and murder of their
own nephews. Furthermore, the success of both Richard and Conor hinges on romantic success with a powerful
woman; there is even a faint echo of Richard’s wooing of Lady Anne (Richard III 1.2) as Conor and Deirdre spar
and flirt in Cry 2.3. Finally, the ending of Cry suggests a further debt to Richard III: The returning Fergus is not a
wrathful warrior bent upon vengeful destruction (he does not raze Emain Macha as in the myth); rather, his is
reminiscent of a triumphant Richmond whose final speech restores order to a war-torn realm.
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(Woods, Cry 1.1). The political men of this world do acknowledge the existence of the naturalsupernatural—Conor regularly turns to his chief seer Cathach to predict the future by reading the
stars or animal entrails—but they do not always respect the natural-supernatural. Rather, these
political men see Cathach’s “readings” merely as a tool for making political decisions.
It is this often disparaged natural-supernatural world that Deirdre inhabits and represents. As
its name suggests, this world merges the natural and the supernatural, a union that is in keeping
with a traditional Celtic worldview in which certain natural places and animals are considered
sacred and may be connected with the supernatural Otherworld. The script’s references to
“reading” the innards of sacrificed animals echoes another way the Celts fused the supernatural
and the natural: The Celts’ practice of animal sacrifice is well-supported by both the
archaeological and the historical records.7 The script’s language also reflects the importance of
the natural-supernatural. Cry contains numerous references to the supernatural and the sacred:
sacrifice and other rituals; omens, signs, prophecy, and prophetic dreams; spells and fate; augury
and the “reading” of the natural world, especially the stars and animal entrails.8 Diction and
imagery associated with nature flow throughout the script as well. Talk of animals, both actual
and figurative, abounds with bulls, deer, and birds, particularly ravens and caged birds, holding a
special place in the script’s array of nature imagery. The script also references both the heavens
7
Consider, for example, excavations of temples and burial sites (Green 182), as well as Pliny’s famous description
of a Druidic bull sacrifice (qtd. in Powell 183).
8
The text’s repeated references to fate and its staging of Deirdre’s tragic fate suggest the influence of Greek
Tragedy. From the prophecy surrounding Deirdre’s birth to Deirdre and her companions’ increasing awareness and
acceptance of their coming doom, Cry concerns itself with the workings of fate. In fact, as the plot moves ever
closer to its fatal climax, the script feels less like Shakespeare’s Richard III and more like Sophocles’ Antigone. One
moment perfectly exemplifies this shift toward Greek Tragedy—Deirdre’s suicide, which, in keeping with the tropes
of Greek drama, occurs offstage. Onstage, Leabharcham narrates the action at it transpires, conjuring Deirdre’s
terrible death within the mind’s eye (Woods, Cry 108). Deirdre’s tragic, offstage death recalls the deaths of ancient
Greek heroines such as Sophocles’ Jocasta and Antigone. Furthermore, the very manner of Deirdre’s death—her
body, particularly her head, is smashed upon rocks—recalls not only the Book of Leinster account of her death (see
above), but also the death of Euripides’ title character, Hippolytus, as he is dragged from his chariot by his horses,
“Dashing his head against the cruel rocks” (Euripides 219).
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(sky, clouds, stars, sun, and moon) and the earth (trees and forests, bodies of water, land and
rock). Two further nature motifs recur—that of snow imagery and hunting, the latter intimating
that humans, too, can have a relationship with, if not a place within, the natural-supernatural
world. (As we shall see, the hunt is central to understanding the script’s use of myth.)
If Conor is the chief representative of the political world, then Deirdre is his naturalsupernatural counterpart, not only representing the natural-supernatural but actually embodying
its dual identity. Even before her birth, Deirdre is associated with both nature and the
supernatural: The stage direction describes her pre-birth cry as “unearthly” while Ness ascribes
the cry to the sounds of a hunted wild animal (Woods, Cry 9). Furthermore, because of the
prophecy of destruction that is tied around her neck from birth, Deirdre is raised almost entirely
isolated from society (i.e., the political world) and is kept company chiefly by the nature that
immediately surrounds her and the prophetic dreams she has of a man with “[raven] Black hair,
snow-skin, [. . .] lips / Of rowan-red” (Woods, Cry 46). If Deirdre generally speaks about her life
experiences using the language of nature, then she experiences her life largely guided by the
supernatural. For example, Deirdre becomes aware of Naoise in dreams and, as a result, actively
seeks this dream-man. Perhaps the best example of Deirdre’s living according to the dictates of
the supernatural occurs near script’s end when she sees that no one is present to greet her and the
brothers upon their arrival at Conor’s Red Branch Hall. Reading in this absence of welcome a
signs of impending death, Deirdre repeats the same simple but precise refrain: “This is where it
ends” (Woods, Cry 94). Raised apart from the political world and entirely within the naturalsupernatural world, Deirdre can both read the signs and humbly submit to the fate those signs
announce, however tragic that fate may be.
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The Conflict Examined: Impious and Pious Reactions to the Natural-Supernatural
The Samhain Ritual: Conor’s First Impiety—the Political Rejects the Natural-Supernatural’s
Invitation
In other versions of the myth, the natural-supernatural and the political do of course come
into conflict simply because their respective representatives, Deirdre and Conor, have conflicting
desires. In A Cry from Heaven, however, the conflict between the political and the naturalsupernatural is made even more visible, the two worldviews coming into conflict throughout the
script. Even before Conor seeks to control Deirdre, the primary representative of the naturalsupernatural, we see evidence of Conor’s disrespect for the natural-supernatural. In fact, as we
shall see, it is Conor’s lack of respect for the natural-supernatural that in Woods’ version
appears to bring into being the curse associated with Deirdre.
Scene two contains an intriguing Samhain ritual not found in any other version of the myth:
Overseen by Cathach, whom the script identifies as Conor’s seer, two egg-like spheres are
produced and out of them emerge “two men in bull costumes,” one representing the Bull of
Night, the other the Bull of Day (Woods, Cry 7).9 After articulating reasons why each should be
triumphant, “The two Bulls enact a short ritual battle. As the black bull [of Night] seems to be
gaining control, Conor steps between them and kills the black bull” (Woods, Cry 8; my
emphasis). Conor announces the defeat of darkness and crowns Day the winner. As he crowns
the Bull of Day, “a cry is heard, a scream, a note unearthly, human, terrible” (Woods, Cry 8).
This is, of course, the cry of Deirdre from the womb. What the script suggests is that Deirdre’s
terrible cry is a reaction to Conor’s impious action; it is as if her cry is an alarm of protest raised
by the natural-supernatural—the “cry from heaven” of the title. Just as he had done previously in
9
One is immediately reminded of the importance of the bull to the Celts’ pastoral society and that Deirdre’s tale is
an important prequel to the Táin. See above.
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usurping the throne, Conor has taken control of that which is not his to control—in this case, a
sacred ritual. By entering into and actively participating in the ritual without first being invited,
Conor has overstepped his bounds, asserting his political will upon the natural-supernatural.
According to Woods’ version, it is Conor’s impious action and not Deirdre’s birth that calls into
being the prophesied downfall of the House of Usna and the destruction of Emain Macha; it is
Conor not Deirdre who causes the script’s ensuing conflict.
Deirdre and Naoise Meet: Naoise’s Piety—The Political Accepts the Natural-Supernatural’s
Invitation
There are, however, representatives of the political world who, unlike Conor, do not treat the
natural-supernatural with irreverence—namely, Conor’s nephews and potential political rivals,
Naoise, Ardan, and Ainnle. In fear of their physical prowess and growing popularity, Conor
sends the brothers away from the public eye by “rewarding” them with a month of hunting
(Woods, Cry 2.3). The situational irony is pronounced: Sending the sons of Usna away with the
goal of decreasing their threat to Conor’s power is precisely the action that subverts that goal.
Furthermore, by sending them away from the political world, Conor not only throws the sons of
Usna into Deirdre’s path, but he also aids in transforming them from warriors—the power behind
Conor’s political power—into hunters—denizens of the natural world, thus aiding them in their
initiation from the political to the natural-supernatural.10
In 3.1, the scene just prior to her meeting with Naoise, Deirdre recounts her dream of a
beautiful hunter who stalks and slays a deer. She describes the hunt in vivid, sexually charged
10
It is worth noting that in Celtic mythology one way humans are brought into contact with the supernatural
Otherworld is by means of the hunt. Consider Pwyll’s first encounter with Arawn’s stag in the first branch of the
Mabinogion and the Fenian Cycle tale in which Finn MacCool hunts a woman of the Sidhe who appears in fawn
shape (Green 182, 167).
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language that ends thus: “The deer swooned in his arms / And died exalted. / If such a man is
flesh / Our bed will be forever wakeful” (Woods, Cry 47). In their meeting scene (3.2), Deirdre
and Naoise re-enact this dream hunt, though, as we shall see, with a surprising reversal. The
scene’s stage directions suggest that the lovers will meet in a setting fitting for an encounter with
the natural-supernatural: There is “Morning mist drifting” (Woods, Cry 50). Mist is, of course, a
frequent sign in Celtic mythology that the human is about to encounter the supernatural or
Otherworldly.11 Through the mist, Deirdre watches the figures of Naoise, Ainle, and Ardan and
then lies down to feign injury. The stage directions continue: “We hear a cry, a mingling of
Deirdre’s pre-birth cry and the cry of a deer” (Woods, Cry 50-51). Once again the
supernatural—the unearthly quality of Deirdre’s pre-birth cry—and the natural—the deer’s cry—
are brought together, reinforcing their close relationship in the world of Celtic mythology with
the added suggestion that Deirdre has actually become the deer, perhaps through an act of shapeshifting. Moreover, this cry, as the stage direction makes clear, is meant to echo the cry at the
end of the bullfighting ritual, though this time, the cry has a more ambiguous function than it did
in response to Conor’s impiety. Here the cry both announces and reminds: It announces the
importance of the meeting that is about to take place, as well reminds us that this meeting brings
the prophecy regarding the destruction of the House of Usna and Emain Macha closer to
fulfillment.
As a hunter, Naoise is, of course, drawn toward the deer-like cry and, therefore, toward
Deirdre. After discovering Deirdre, Naoise kneels to tend to her injury (Woods, Cry 50-51). The
implication is that at this point in the scene, Deirdre is the deer; however, after Naoise kneels, a
striking reversal occurs: The stage directions state, “Deirdre maims or cuts Naoise” (Woods, Cry
11
Take, for example, the third branch of the Mabinogion in which a mist descends on Manawydan and his court and
then dissolves, leaving Manawydan and three companions alone in a now-deserted kingdom (Gantz, Mabinogion
86).
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51). It now becomes clear that it is Deirdre who is the hunter and Naoise the prey. (Again, it is
worth remembering Finn MacCool being drawn into the supernatural Otherworld after chasing a
fawn who turns out to be a woman of the Sidhe (Green 167).) Naoise, however, responds to the
injury not with a cry of pain as might be expected but rather with dream-like speech: “Why do I
feel all this took place before? / That we met here—or two / Who had our spirits and our eyes?”
(Woods, Cry 51). After accepting that this seeming dream is actually real, the two “embrace,
kiss” and then acknowledge that they have become “Two souls, one body” (Woods, Cry 51-52).
Deirdre and Naoise are being united through a simple ritual in which Deirdre claims her rightful
role, saying, “I am the huntress: / You are the deer” to which Naoise responds, “And so I die”
(Woods, Cry 53). The scene closes, appropriately, with the simple stage direction, “They make
love . . .” (Woods, Cry 53). The “two souls” do, in fact, become “one body.”
As we can see, the entire meeting scene seems Otherworldly: There is mist, an unearthly cry,
the possibility of shape-shifting, spellbound lovers, and a three-part ritual exchange
(maiming/cutting, embracing/kissing, love-making) that unites the lovers by reversing their roles
in the hunter-hunted relationship. If Conor has unwittingly prepared Naoise to leave the political
world by transforming him from warrior to hunter, Deirdre has completed Naoise’s initation by
fully welcoming him into the natural-supernatural world she represents. But this ritual is no mere
theatrical trope that recreates a strange ritual in order to trick the reader (or audience) into
believing that something “magical” has just happened. Rather, two key moments in that ritual
suggest that, whether he is conscious of it or no, Woods is tapping into a tradition far more
ancient than that of the century-old Abbey Theatre.
The first key moment in the ritual is when “Deirdre maims or cuts Naoise,” effectively
reversing their roles in the hunter-hunted relationship (Woods, Cry 51). Through this action,
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Deirdre gains a kind of power over Naoise that is almost magical in its result. In his careful if
controversial study of three Celtic variations on the same mythical love triangle that involves an
older leader, a young woman, and a young warrior, Celticist Jean Bertrand (pen name Markale)
proposes a cultural source of Deirdre’s power over Naoise. In Chapter 8 of Women of the Celts,
Markale observes that in the tales of Tristan and Iseult, Diarmuid and Grainne, and Deirdre and
Naoise there exists a geis or the remnants of a geis laid upon the man by the woman. (The geis
(plural geissi) is a magical charge laid upon an individual, usually a king or warrior, that either
restricts him from performing or forces him to perform a particular action.) According to
Markale, in all three of these mythic tales, the young warrior is, through the geis, honor-bound to
elope with the woman, thus saving her from an unwanted marriage to an older man (Markale,
Women of the Celts, Chapter 8). In Tristan and Iseult from the Arthurian tradition, the lovers
drink a potion that binds them; Markale explains that this love potion functions as an acceptable
replacement for the no-longer understood notion of the geis (Markale, Women 216). In the tales
of the Fenian Cycle’s Diarmuid and Grainne and the Ulster Cycle’s Deirdre and Naoise, the geis
is more obvious. In the former, Grainne first asks Finn MacCool’s son Ossian to take her away
so that she won’t have to marry Finn. Ossian cannot comply with her geis because he is bound
by another geis that supersedes Grainne’s new geis—he cannot compete with his father for a
woman. Diarmuid, however, has had no such geis placed on him, so when Grainne requests his
help, he must in fact acquiesce or be shamed (Markale, Women 209-211). In Deirdre and
Naoise’s story, the stinging geis Deirdre lays is accompanied by physical action. According to
the Book of Leinster version, translated by Jeffrey Gantz, “Derdriu leapt at [Naoise] and seized
him by the ears, saying ‘Two ears of shame and mockery these unless you take me with you!’”
(Gantz, Early 261). In Cry, Deirdre’s physically wounding of Naoise is therefore in keeping with
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both the cutting spirit of the geis, as well as the physical expression of the geis found in the
mythic version. Naoise’s wound is a physical mark of ownership—a branding that seems
appropriate to the pastoral-political culture in which Naoise has been raised—and of mastery—
itself appropriate to the hunt that so often figures in human encounters with the naturalsupernatural. Simply put, the wound both embodies the geis that Deirdre lays on Naoise in the
myth and shows that Naoise now belongs to Deirdre and to the natural-supernatural world she
represents.
The second key moment in the ritual occurs in apparent response to the first. Naoise responds
to his wounding by saying, “Why do I feel all this took place before? / That we met here—or two
/ Who had our spirits and our eyes?” I argue that he experiences this feeling not so much because
he has dreamt the scene previously, but rather because the two are, in fact, re-enacting an ancient
ritual described in numerous other Celtic myths. In their classic Celtic Heritage: Ancient
Tradition in Ireland and Wales, Alwyn and Brinley Rees refer to this ritual as “king-marriage,”
the conferral of kingship upon that man who “showed favour to, or [was] accepted by, the lady
who personified the realm” (Rees and Rees 146). Among others, archaeologist T.G.E. Powell
points out that this “lady” is in fact “the local territorial nature goddess”—such as Étaín or Medb
at Tara in Ireland—or her human representative—such as Rhiannon in Dyved, Wales (Powell
150). In this marriage between a mortal king who represents the tribe and a goddess who
represents the land, we see the image of a harmonious relationship between the political and the
natural-supernatural, between the people and the landscape they inhabit. According to tradition,
the benefits of this harmonious relationship were bestowed upon the kingdom and its citizens;
similarly, an inharmonious relationship between king and goddess resulted in disaster for the
J. Jones 14
kingdom.12 As Powell summarizes, “the welfare of the túath, or tribe, was [. . .] considered to be
dependent on the ritual success of the king” (Powell 149). It is, however, essential to note that
the king’s “ritual success” is dependent upon the king’s deference to the goddess. As the Reeses
state, sovereignty is only granted to that man who “showed favour to, or [was] accepted by” the
goddess (Rees and Rees 146). Clearly, a harmonious marriage and successful reign can only
result when the political respects and defers to the natural-supernatural.
Again, it is important to note that the two moments in Cry’s ritual meeting scene—Deirdre’s
wounding of Naoise and Naoise’s intimation that all this has been done before—appear to have a
kind of cause-effect relationship similar to that of Conor’s crowning of the Bull of Day followed
by Deirdre’s pre-birth cry. In both cases, there is an invitation to take part in a specific ritual,
either as a respectful observer (Conor is invited to observe but not interfere in the bullfighting
ritual) or as a direct participant (Deirdre’s geis-laying/wounding invites Naoise to participate in
the king-marriage ritual). In the latter case, Naoise shows the proper respect due the naturalsupernatural: he defers to the natural-supernatural by accepting his role as the hunted and by
accepting Deirde’s invitation to participate in the king-marriage ritual. As a result, Naoise is fully
welcomed into the natural-supernatural world—and into the arms and favors of the territorial
nature goddess represented by Deirdre. Furthermore, as a re-enactment of the king-marriage
ritual, the union of Naoise and Deirdre unites the political and the natural-supernatural worlds
and, in Woods’ version, effectively makes Naoise the rightful king of Ulster. In Conor’s case,
however, Conor’s interference with the bullfighting ritual without first being invited to
12
The Arthurian myth of the wounded Fisher-King and the Irish Mythological Cycle tale concerning Nuadu of the
Silver Arm offer some insight into the bond that was believed to have existed between kingdom and king: The
wounded ruler’s affliction harms—as in the case of the Fisher-King—or is capable of harming—as with Nuadu—his
realm (Nitze, William A. “Perceval and the Holy Grail.” University of California Publications in Modern Philology
28:5 (1949): 316 qtd. in Campbell 409; Green 162-163). Similarly, a ruler who has failed to secure the support of the
goddess has also been symbolically wounded; as a result of this affliction, his kingdom will suffer. It should be
noted that the symbolic wounding inflicted on the rejected sovereign differs from the physical wounding or marking
that Naoise receives at the hands Deirdre: The former is a sign of rejection, the latter of selection by the goddess.
J. Jones 15
participate directly is a rejection of the invitation to participate in the ritual as an observer.
Conor’s interference is also an act of impiety and, therefore, is a rejection not only of the
invitation to ritual but also of the natural-supernatural itself. His impious rejection further
cements Conor’s position as the leader of a political world that no longer respects and defers to
natural-supernatural world. He is in fact breaking the bonds that, traditionally speaking, exist
between the king and the goddess, between the political and the natural-supernatural, thus
endangering Conor’s sovereignty and, by extension, the wellbeing of his people.
Deirdre and Conor Meet: Conor’s Second Impiety—the Political Rejects the NaturalSupernatural, Part II
No one action within the script more clearly reveals Conor’s disrespect for the naturalsupernatural than his treatment of Deirdre immediately following Naoise’s death. Entering with
hands covered in his own nephews’ blood, Conor confronts Deirdre who responds by undressing
and saying, “Take me, Conor; / This is the body that you have waited for. / Its soul is fled”
(Woods, Cry 102). This, too, may be read as an invitation to participate in a ritual, the first part
of which is Deirdre’s undressing. The proper response to this ritual invitation might be to reclothe Deirdre, thus restoring her dignity and respecting her mourning. In short, Conor could
take a step toward redressing the wrong he has just perpetrated by re-dressing Deirdre. Once
again, however, Conor acts impiously in response to an invitation to participate in ritual: Instead
of showing Deirdre the respect due her as both a woman in mourning and as a representative of
the territorial nature goddess, Conor “suddenly hits her hard across the face, knocks her down,
and rapes her” (Woods, Cry 102). Though it may appear that Conor’s actions comply with the
command of the natural-supernatural (“Take me, Conor”), it is clear that Conor’s rape of Deirdre
J. Jones 16
violates the spirit of the invitation to ritual. Conor’s violence demonstrates both his power and
his desire to control that which has been previously beyond his control—Deirdre’s body,
Deirdre’s soul, and the natural-supernatural Deirdre represents. This violent attempt to control
Deirdre inverts the proper relationship that should exist between the political and the naturalsupernatural. Conor is in effect committing the supremely impious act by violating both the
goddess and the natural world she embodies. All that can result from such impiety are death and
destruction: Deirdre’s suicide; Leabharcham’s infanticide; Emain Macha’s devastation.
The Samhain Ritual Revisited: Balance Restored
The script closes with the return of the bullfighting ritual: “The Bulls of Day and Night
re-enter, blood-stained, battered. They face each other, embrace, kiss; the Bull of Night kills the
Bull of Day. They lie down together” (Woods, Cry 114). This final moment recalls both Conor’s
initial impiety and the successful union of Deirdre and Naoise. In recalling the former, we see
that the initial Samhain ritual has, at long last, been completed, though with a difference: In the
properly completed ritual, darkness not day is triumphant and the two lie down side by side,
perhaps in peace but also seemingly dead. The correctly completed ritual reminds us that it was
Conor’s action (and not Deirdre’s mere existence) that created the script’s conflict and intimates
that if Conor had not intervened in the bullfighting ritual, none of the ensuing death and
destruction would have taken place. If the death of the Bull of Day recalls Conor’s impiety, the
bulls’ embrace and kiss recall Deirdre and Naoise’s union during their meeting scene and, by
extension, Naoise’s piety. In echoing Deirdre and Naoise’s union, the bull’s embrace and kiss
suggest that seeming opposites—Day and Night, man and woman, hunted and hunter, the
political and the natural-supernatural—can in fact unite.
J. Jones 17
What is troubling about this correctly enacted ritual is that in between the act of kissing and
the act of lying down together, there exists the violent act in which Night kills Day. The
disquieting suggestion is that violence is necessary to bring about the peaceful union of
opposites. While that may very well be the suggestion, it is important to remember that the
bullfighting ritual is just that—a ritual. The violence the ritual contains is a ritual representation
of violence and is, therefore, less troubling than the actual violence Conor’s impiety causes. But
if this violence is part of the ritual, what then is the purpose of the ritual and what particular part
does violence play in that ritual? The answer lies in the ritual of the king-marriage that Deirdre
and Naoise reenact. The ritual violence of Night’s killing of Day echoes the ritual violence of
Deirdre’s geis-laying/wounding of Naoise. Both ritual violent acts show the natural-supernatural,
through its representatives the Bull of Night and Deirdre, asserting its preeminence over the
political, represented by the Bull of Day and Naoise. Just as it functions in Deirdre and Naoise’s
meeting scene, Night’s violence serves as a reminder of the proper relationship that must exist
between the political and the natural-supernatural; that is, the political must first defer to the
natural-supernatural before the two seeming competitors can lie down as equals in either the little
death of Deirdre and Naoise’s love-making or the presumed death of the bulls at curtain’s close.
Conclusions: “the end[s] of mythology”
But why resurrect the myth of Deirdre onstage now and why offer this particular version of
the myth? One answer lies in an interview Texas Tech University’s Kairos magazine conducted
with playwright Vincent Woods. In that interview, Woods explains not only his reasoning behind
taking liberties with the myth’s traditional ending, but also his thoughts regarding Cry’s
contemporary significance:
J. Jones 18
I wasn’t satisfied with the traditional end in which Naoise and his brothers are killed and
Deirdre eventually kills herself. I wanted the play to address what I perceive as the end of
something in Ireland—almost the end of mythology, the end of legend. For me, it ties in
with the destruction of landscape around Tara and with what society has become. [. . .]
There is also Naoise’s last love speech to Deirdre before he goes to battle which is a
description of the landscape and the journey to Tara [. . . . That] was written very
deliberately to sound bells in people’s minds here about the motorway that is being
bulldozed through that landscape now. And maybe to get people to think about the
country, the society we have created—our attitudes towards the present and the past.
(Woods, “Working” 4).
By directly referencing the M3 motorway scheme, Woods makes it clear that the script’s
exploration of the relationship between the political and the natural-supernatural is relevant to a
contemporary audience. According to Woods, contemporary Ireland must more carefully
consider the current relationship that exists between the political, represented by contemporary
society and its desire to build “the motorway,” and the natural-supernatural, represented by “the
landscape around Tara [. . .] that is being bulldozed.” In both the past and the present, in the
world onstage and off, the human failure to respect the natural-supernatural can have
catastrophic consequences—and not simply for the landscape and the ancient past preserved
there.
As previously noted, the fate of the political world—the kingdom and the people within it—
is linked directly to the fate of the king, particularly, as T.G.E. Powell has explained, the fate of
the king’s “ritual success” (Powell 149). A pious king brings prosperity to the kingdom and its
inhabitants; but what happens to the people of an impious king like Conor who disrespects the
J. Jones 19
natural-supernatural and, in doing so, violates the terms of the king-marriage? Within the script,
Woods answers this question clearly, creating a symbol of the result of the broken king-marriage,
a symbol he elucidates in the Kairos interview: “I wanted this play to perhaps indirectly speak to
[the destruction of landscape and the state of contemporary Irish society], and therefore you have
this short lived new generation out of the legend. You have a child who’s born, Deirdre and
Naoise’s child, who is only allowed to live a short time” (Woods, “Working” 4). When the
political world disrespects the natural-supernatural world, the result is death—the death of a
people, whether physically, as is the case with Deirdre and Naoise’s child, or psychologically as
Woods’ interview suggests: “I think here in Ireland there’s an attitude of, ‘Who needs
mythology?’ ‘Oh, that old stuff.’ The sentiment ties into what I’m doing in the play which is the
killing of myth at the end of the play” (Woods, “Working” 7). As such, the death of Deirdre and
Naoise’s child doesn’t necessarily represent the literal death of a people for Woods. The infant’s
death does, however, represent the death of mythology, and, through it, the psychological death
of the society that, by refusing to acknowledge the potential value of its own mythology, has in
effect murdered both its mythology and itself.
When read in this light, A Cry from Heaven’s announcement of “the killing of myth” and
“the end of mythology” functions much like Deirdre’s pre-birth cry (Woods, “Working” 7, 4): It
raises an alarm. Cry urges contemporary audiences to take a second look at myth and to consider
myth’s contemporary significance. Woods’ work also invites its audience to ponder the potential
end of myth and what that end might usher in: the breaking of ancient, time-proven relationships,
especially the close relationship between people and place. Specifically, A Cry from Heaven
serves as a reminder to contemporary Ireland that it cannot market myth and the landscape that
inspired and preserves myth, while at the same time ignoring the message of myth and
J. Jones 20
destroying that same landscape. Such impiety can only result in the destruction of the two parties
bound by the king-marriage relationship—the landscape and the people who call it home.
J. Jones 21
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