The Taking of the Sidhe Mounds

After the great victories over the Fomorians and the establishment of their rule over Ireland, the Tuatha Dé Danann found themselves facing a new challenge – not one of war, but of governance and the future of their people. The time had come when they could no longer live openly in the mortal world as they once had, for the age of gods walking among men was drawing to a close.

The Dagda, now the undisputed king of the Tuatha Dé Danann after Lugh had withdrawn to pursue his own divine mysteries, called a great assembly at Tara. From every corner of Ireland, the gods and goddesses came – warriors and craftsmen, druids and poets, healers and musicians. The hall had never seen such a gathering of divine power, and the very air shimmered with their combined presence.

“My kinfolk,” the Dagda began, his voice carrying the weight of ages and the wisdom of kingship, “we stand at the threshold of a new era. The mortals multiply across Ireland, and their world grows stronger while the paths between our realm and theirs grow narrower. The time approaches when we must choose our dwelling places in the Otherworld and establish our courts there for all the ages to come.”

A murmur ran through the assembly, for they all knew this day would come, though many had hoped it might be delayed longer. Brigid the Wise stood first among the goddesses, her flame-red hair catching the light of the torches.

“Father Dagda,” she said, using the title of respect though she was not his blood daughter, “you speak of dwelling places in the Otherworld. But Ireland itself is riddled with sidhe mounds and sacred places where the barriers are thin. Could we not make our homes there, remaining connected to the land we have loved and protected?”

“That is precisely what I propose,” the Dagda replied with a smile. “Throughout Ireland there are great mounds and sacred hills where the Otherworld touches our world most closely. These sidhe mounds shall become our palaces and our kingdoms. But the question before us is this: how shall they be divided fairly among so many with equal claim to honor and respect?”

This question sparked immediate debate. Some argued for division by deed and merit – those who had fought most bravely in the great battles should receive the finest mounds. Others insisted on division by craft and function – smiths should have mounds rich in metals, healers should have places where healing herbs grew most abundantly, and so forth.

Manannán mac Lir, the sea god, spoke from his place near the western wall. “Perhaps we should draw lots, leaving the choice to fate and the will of the gods above us.”

But Nuada of the Silver Hand shook his head. “Fate has already played too large a role in our destinies. Let us use wisdom and deliberation to make this choice, not chance.”

The debate continued for three days and three nights, with various schemes proposed and rejected. Some suggestions led to heated arguments, for every god and goddess had developed preferences for particular places in Ireland that held special meaning for them.

It was on the fourth morning that Aengus Óg, the god of love and poetry, approached his father the Dagda with a request that would change everything.

“Father,” Aengus said, “I have heard all the debates and proposals, but I have a different idea. Rather than arguing over which mound is most beautiful or most strategically placed, why not allow each of us to choose based on our own hearts’ desire? You, as our king, should make the divisions, and we will accept your wisdom.”

The Dagda considered this carefully. His son’s suggestion had merit, but it also placed enormous responsibility on his shoulders. If he divided the sidhe mounds unfairly, or if he showed favoritism, it could split the Tuatha Dé Danann permanently.

“There is wisdom in what you say,” the Dagda replied. “But I must ask something of you first. If I am to make these divisions, will you trust in my judgment even if the choice I make for you is not what you would have chosen for yourself?”

“I will,” Aengus said without hesitation. “I trust your fairness and your love for all our people.”

One by one, the other gods and goddesses gave their agreement. They would accept the Dagda’s decision regarding the division of the sidhe mounds, trusting in his wisdom and impartiality.

Over the next seven days, the Dagda traveled the length and breadth of Ireland, visiting every sacred mound and otherworldly place. He consulted with the spirits of the land, meditated on the nature and desires of each member of his divine family, and carefully considered which dwelling would best suit each personality and function.

When he returned to Tara, he was ready to announce his decisions. The great assembly gathered once more, and with formal ceremony, the Dagda began the allocation of the sidhe mounds.

“To Brigid of the Sacred Flame,” he declared, “I give the sidhe mound of Kildare, where the eternal fire shall burn and where all arts and crafts shall flourish under her guidance.”

Brigid stepped forward and accepted a golden key, the symbol of her new realm. The assembly applauded, for the choice was clearly appropriate – Kildare was already sacred to her worship among mortals.

“To Lugh of the Long Arm,” the Dagda continued, “I give the sidhe mound of Knock Aine in County Limerick, where the sun’s power is strongest and where his light shall bless all who call upon him.”

And so it continued. To the Morrígan, he gave the mound of Knocknarea in Sligo, where she could survey all battlefields and watch over the sovereignty of Ireland. To Dian Cécht, he gave a mound near sacred springs where the healing arts would be strongest. To Goibniu the Smith, he gave a place where the earth was rich in metals and where the sound of his hammer would echo through both worlds.

Each allocation was met with approval and understanding. The Dagda had indeed chosen wisely, matching each god or goddess with a place that complemented their nature and enhanced their powers.

But as the ceremony continued and fewer mounds remained, some of the assembly began to notice something troubling. The Dagda had given away many of the most beautiful and powerful sidhe mounds, but he had not yet assigned one to himself or to his son Aengus.

Finally, Nuada voiced what many were thinking. “Great Dagda, you have been generous beyond measure in your allocations, but where will you dwell? Surely the king of the Tuatha Dé Danann deserves the finest of all the sidhe mounds?”

The Dagda smiled, but there was a touch of sadness in his expression. “I have reserved for myself the sidhe mound of Newgrange, greatest of all the sacred places in Ireland. It was there that I first came to know the goddess Boann, and it is there that my heart has always found its home.”

There was general approval at this choice, for Newgrange was indeed the most magnificent of all the sidhe mounds, older than memory and more powerful than any other otherworld gateway in Ireland. But then Aengus stepped forward with a troubled expression.

“Father,” he said quietly, “I notice that you have not yet assigned a dwelling place to me. Have I done something to displease you? Have I proven myself unworthy of a sidhe mound?”

The Dagda’s face fell, and for the first time in the entire ceremony, he looked uncertain. “My son,” he said, “I fear I have made a grave error. In my care to be fair to all others, I have neglected to reserve a mound for you. All the great sidhe places have been allocated, and I…”

“But Father,” Aengus interrupted, his voice gentle but insistent, “you said that Newgrange was yours. Yet you have not yet taken formal possession of it, have you?”

The Dagda looked confused. “No, I have not yet performed the ritual of claiming, but—”

“Then by the laws you yourself established,” Aengus said with a smile that held both love and cleverness, “Newgrange is not yet officially yours. And I claim it now, by right of first possession.”

Before anyone could react, Aengus spoke the ancient words of claiming and performed the ritual gestures that would bind him to the great mound. By the time the Dagda realized what was happening, it was too late – the magical bonds were already formed.

For a moment, the assembly held its breath. Would the Dagda be angry at his son’s audacious trick? Would this cause a rift in the royal family of the gods?

But then the Dagda began to laugh – not with anger, but with genuine delight and pride. “My clever son,” he said, embracing Aengus before the entire assembly, “you have learned the most important lesson of kingship: that sometimes one must be willing to give up what one desires most for the good of all. And you have also learned that wit and intelligence can be more powerful than brute force or royal authority.”

“But where will you dwell, Father?” Aengus asked, suddenly concerned that his trick might have left his father homeless.

“Where I have always dwelt,” the Dagda replied with contentment, “in the hearts of my people and wherever I am needed most. A true king’s palace is not built of stone and earth, but of the love and loyalty of those he serves.”

And so the division of the sidhe mounds was completed, with Aengus ruling from Newgrange and the other gods and goddesses settling into their new otherworld realms. But the Dagda’s words proved prophetic – he continued to be revered and welcomed in every sidhe mound throughout Ireland, for his generosity and wisdom had earned him a place in all their hearts.

The taking of the sidhe mounds marked the end of one era and the beginning of another. The Tuatha Dé Danann became the aos sí, the people of the mounds, withdrawing from the everyday world of mortals but remaining forever connected to Ireland through their sacred dwellings.

From their sidhe mounds, they continued to influence the world above – blessing the worthy, inspiring artists and poets, protecting the land from harm, and ensuring that the magic of Ireland would never entirely fade from the world.

The story of the division became a lesson in leadership and fairness, teaching that true authority comes not from taking the largest share for oneself, but from ensuring that all are justly provided for. It also showed that sometimes the greatest gifts come not from what we receive, but from what we are willing to give away.

And it established forever the connection between the Tuatha Dé Danann and the sacred landscape of Ireland, ensuring that as long as the sidhe mounds endure, the old gods will remain present in the land they loved and protected, ready to aid any who approach them with respect and genuine need.