Deaths of Gods

As I’m working through these retellings, I realized there are a lot of deaths—particularly of beings we recognize as gods, and it’s bothering me that these are the stories we have.
Some years ago on a discussion list, a person newly exploring Gaelic mythology asked how anyone could worship Lug when he was dead—it said so, right in the Lebor Gabala. I responded by saying that first, the Labor Gabala and pretty much everything else we have in the written literature was recorded by medieval Christians, many of whom were working very hard to record but also euhemerize the stories to disguise they were about non-human beings. Second, if we accepted the death tales of the Tuath Déa as written, they are all dead—the Dagda died of a poisoned wound given him by Cethlenn, wife of Balor (though it took him 120 years to die of it!), Nuadu and Macha died at Maige Tuired, as (probably) did Ogma. There are death tales for almost anyone well-known enough to have a story. And third, I’ve experienced Lug as alive and well, so I simply assume the tales of his death are exaggerated…

But these are the stories we have—stories where gods are made into mortals, portrayed as powerful sorcerers maybe, but not divine, with only whispers of what the stories might have been before later cultures wore away the shape and the meaning. We don’t know which parts of the story are old and which are late poetic accretions added by Christians who may not have known or cared that the Tuath Déa were not merely heroic humans but gods. Many of the monks seem to have been more interested in proving that Ireland had just as much history as Israel and Greece combined to worry about muddling stories or making up pieces to fit themselves into the known world.

So how do we find the stories underneath the stories? Different scholars have tried comparing across different Celtic cultures (like Gruffyd’s study of Math vab Mathonwy) to try to determine the ur-story. Some have tried to dig into the names of the personages—a technique favored by the Story Archaeologists. Others have compared medieval literature to recorded folktales to try to determine what is “real” and what is added—but that brings in all the baggage of determining the reality and age of oral traditions and the various pressures they have to deal with over time, particularly in a culture that has adopted a philosophy generally hostile to the subjects of the stories. All of these techniques can be useful, but none are flawless or trouble free; and none can offer a certain answer, only possibilities.

Which leaves us with inspiration. As we develop relationships with these gods, inspired by somewhat distorted stories, we may have insights into what is true rather than historical. How does the Children of Turenn even make sense if Cian is an eternal god? Or did the Gaels never see their gods as eternal? Yet centuries after Lug was supposed to have died, he is said by poets to have visited people—attended Cú Chulain in his hour of weakness, shown a king the future of his dynasty, appeared over embattled people to rally their strength in the fight. Are we then to suppose that the gods were mortal, but then left mortality behind to live in the Otherworld? Is that what it meant when they retreated to the Sidhe mounds, that they gave up a mortal or physical existence?

I don’t have answers, yet, but I’m seeking, and I’ll be glad to hear any thoughts folks might have. How do you work with the stories of gods’ deaths? In this season supposedly driven by Lug’s remembrance of goddesses’ deaths (Tailtiu, Buí, Nás, Carman), this seems like an important problem to think on.


Marriage(s) of Lug

The text traditions, mainly from the Dinsenchas, give Lug four wives: Buí, Nás, Echtach, and Englic*. These four are named in the Metrical Dinsenchas (Gwynn translation):

Echtach, daughter of white-toothed Daig, Englec, Nás, guileless Buí these are the wives of Lug, lord of hosts, who were the flower of gracious queens.

And in an 11th century poem by Flann Mainstrech in the Yellow Book of Lecan:

Echtach, daughter of the Dagda with white smoke, Englic, Nás, Buí, without treachery/cheating, these are the wives of Lug, with many troops.

Various tales of each of them are recorded in the Dinsenchas** but we have no stories of how or why or when Lug married any of them. Some neo-pagan groups have associated Lugnasad with Lug’s marriage to the land—and I’ve seen recons argue that the neo-pagans made this up, but they’re actually in older company.

Lug’s marriage was a topic of interest in the late 19th and early 20th century, with several scholars proposing Lugnasad as being the celebration of his marriage (to someone). The earliest mention of this idea I’ve found is John Rhys in his 1896 Lectures on the Origin and Growth of Religion as Illustrated by Celtic Heathendom, where he suggests that nasad is related to Latin nexus ‘a tying or binding together, a legal obligation’ and that a derivative, ar-nass is used to denote betrothing a daughter. He then goes on to connect this with a quote he had from a book in the library of the Royal Irish Academy D, iv..2:

The Refuse of the Great Feast which I mentioned, that is Taillne. It is here that Lug Scimaig proceeded to make the great feast for Lug mac Ethlenn for his entertainment after the battle of Mag Tured ; for this was his wedding of the kingship, since the Tuatha Dé Danann made the aforesaid Lug king after the death of Nuadaa. As to the place where the refuse was thrown, a great knoll was made of it: this was [thenceforth] its name, the Knoll of the Great Feast, or the Refuse of the Great Banquet, that is to say, Taillne, at the present day.

Along with references to Baile in Scal, where Lug is seen with a beautiful woman he names as the Sovereignty of Ireland, Rhys takes this to mean that Lug married the land (the Sovereignty) which he names Eirinn, and that it was this event Lugnasad actually celebrated, rather than the funeral rites of gods who were unlikely to have actually died in truly pagan myths.

This idea was taken up by a number of other early scholars, to the point that it was sometimes mentioned in passing as taken for granted. Westropp (1920) offers this in his “The Marriages of the Gods at the Sanctuary of Tailltiu”:

Oengus, after the so-called ” first battle of Magh Tured,” made the Lugnasad feast for the marriage of Lug to (the kingdom of) Eriu, when Lug was made king after Nuada. One may recall the cryptic allusion in a Gaulish tablet found at Alesia: “May the marriage (?) rejoice the god Ucuetis in Alesia.” Now Eriu was in some tales a daughter of Umor and Tailltiu was daughter of Mac Umoir. The solar god “Mac Greine,” too, had married a goddess (the same, or bearing the same name) Eriu, and was defeated (and “slain”) at Tailltiu by the Milesians. We seem to be hot on the scent of the lost tradition of the goddess who fostered the sun god at the Fir Bolgic sanctuary.

Probably the most intensive study of this was done in Grufydd’s Math uab Mathonwy, a study of that branch of the Mabinogion, in which Grufydd searched for the Ur-myth that inspired the Mabinogi of Math. Part of the work he did with this was comparing the tales of Lleu Llaw Gyffes and Lug Lamfada among other Irish stories presumed to be related, to develop this story skeleton:

(I) A certain Giant (or King) had an only daughter. It had been prophesied that his daughter’s son would kill the Giant with a particular spear, on the night of his wedding.
(2) He, therefore, guarded his daughter from all men in a strong tower, so that she should have no son.
(3) The Hero, by magic help, gained access to the Giant’s daughter, and begat a son.
(4) The Giant’s daughter gave birth to a son.
(5) The son did not prosper until he got a name from the Giant, his grandfather.
(6) By magic means, the Hero forced the Giant to name his grandson Lui Lavada/Lleu Llaw Gyffes.
(7) In the circumstances indicated in the prophecy, that is, on his own wedding night, Lui/Lleu hurled the particular spear as described in the prophecy into the Giant’s eye and so slew him.

Whether this is an accurate reconstruction is uncertain, but the amount of material Gruffydd drew on to develop his hypotheses is impressive. This book is dense with stories from both the texts and from recorded folk tales. Unfortunately his story reconstruction does very little to tell us why this story would have been important, giving only structure and not the meaning held in the culture(s) that told it.

Much of this scholarship is denigrated today, often for good reasons: early methods were not terribly rigorous with random suppositions sometimes replacing well-reasoned hypotheses, there was a tendency to try to crush every mythology into cognates of Greek myths, and the idea that more than one person might have the same name was generally ignored in favor of collapsing them into one, among other issues.

Yet no one can deny the tradition of Telltown marriages, and marriage traditions at a variety of Lugnasad sites, as recored by Marie MacNeill in her masterwork on the holiday. Sadly, none of this answers the question of how and when and why Lug married any of the wives we have recorded or whether Lugnasad actually was originally a commemoration of the marriage of Lug to the Sovereignty of Ireland. There is some tie between Lugnasad and marriages—as well as the more often mentioned funerals of women such as Tailtiyu, Buí, Nás, and Carman.


* Spellings of these names vary, but these seem to be the more commonly used spellings. One text mentions Buach, but scholars seem to have effectively argued that this is a variant of Buí (also Bua, Boí).
** Buí: Knowth, Nás; Nás: Nás; Englic: Bansenchas, Knowth (though the relation to Lug is not mentioned here); Echtach alone is not mentioned in these sources, unless there’s another spelling I’m missing.

For What Do We Strive? Lugnasad Thoughts

For those who set the dates of the festivals by stones and stars, tomorrow is Lugnasad. Although I’ve been writing about Lug this year, his stories aren’t the only one associated with the festival. There are the stories of Carmen, Áine, and Crom Dubh—the harper in the cave, the bull sacrificed and restored, and the Cailleach’s reaping contest.

The Cath Maige Tuired doesn’t end with Balor’s defeat, but goes on to the ransom of Bres—and Bres’s ransom is closer in spirit to many of these other tales, in that it speaks to the harvest and feeding the people, as many of the other stories do. (I don’t think it’s an error that the subtitle of the CMT is “The Battle of Mag Tuired and the Birth of Bres Son of Elatha and his Reign”. The point of the story is to speak of Bres, who resembles many other Lugnasad figures, tied to the harvest, who would prefer to keep it for themselves rather than share it among the people, perhaps because they are greedy—and perhaps because they represent the rights and needs of the land rather than the people. Balor gets all the press, but Bres’s knowledge is the real prize of the battle.

So what is the heart of Lugnasad? I propose that it is this: there is no harvest without striving, no striving without change, and no change without loss. Lugnasad should remind us of what we have let go in striving for what we want, and to honor both the losses and the striving as much as the harvest that is won. Lugnasad’s oldest name is Brón Trogain, which is generally taken to mean something like the sorrow of the earth, with connotations of the sorrows of birth. As the earth gives birth to the harvest—and may thus, like Bres resist giving it away—how do we pay for the harvest? How do we, like Lug, remember the suffering of our foster mother? What do we give up in our striving? And for what do we strive?

There are more stories–of weddings and prophecies and possible deaths–to come!



The Ransom of Bres

Eochu Bres, son of Fire, Bres the Beautiful, son of Elatha, sat with his back to a stone, his sword at his feet. The Fomoire were fleeing, running back to the sea. There would be no rulership again for him in this land that he loved and he wanted no other.

It had always been the land, for him, and he had ruled with a deep love of the soil and field and fruiting bush. It had not been in his heart to rule the people, to be a sovereign to them and concern himself with feasts and judgment. He was a fine warrior, but did not love war and felt no awe of those who did. He loved the poetry of sun on the soil and wind in the wheat too much to care for the ranting of poets.

He had lost his wife—had left her to seek his father and she had returned to hers. Their son had come to him—and his father’s people had convinced the boy to spy on Bríg’s people and he had died a spy before he was old enough to bear a spear and shield. And he, Eochu Bres, would die for trying to take back what he had lost. Let his blood feed the land he loved so well—he head no heart for more fighting.

It was the youth who had defeated Old Balor who found him there, contemplating his losses. Samildánach, they called him, and Lamfada, but he looked only a little older than his Ruadan, dead in Goibniu’s forge, slim and tall and a face that looked like it one easy to smile, the hair golden to Ruadan’s red. Would Bríg’s people be glad to hear of his death? Would the boy boast of it at the feast later?

“You do not reach for your sword,” said Lug.

“No, I do not choose to fight,” Bres answered.

“Will you ransom yourself then?”

Bres looked into the glas-blue eyes, his own widening in surprise. “You would take my ransom rather than my head?”

“If you will offer one I may accept, I will.”

Bres thought of what he had to offer. His wealth had been the wealth of the Tuath Déa’s ruler. He had no family who would own him but his father, Elatha, if that good man were not dead on the field. He touched the warm soil beneath him, and knew that all he had was his love of this place and the blessing of his hand.

“If I am spared, the cows of this land will always be in milk,” he said. His mother’s people loved milk above all things, and his blessing could make it so, even though he were not king.

The youth looked at him, considering. “I do not think that is a thing anyone can do,” he said, “and if you could, it would be unkind to do it. Is there anything else you can offer?”
Bres nodded to himself. He had his mother’s gift of the soil and its growing things. “If I am spared, your people will reap a harvest every quarter.”

Lug paused, then shook his head. “Each harvest is a sorrow to the earth. I would not have that sorrow multiplied. That will not save you.” He frowned. “Less will save you, cousin.”

“What?” If it was not milk or harvest to feed them and their people, what could he offer?

“Tell me,” said Lug, “how shall we plow? And how shall we sow? And how shall we reap? You know the land and it’s husbandry, tell these things, and you will be saved.”

Bres shook his head and smiled. This young champion understood and made him understand what had never been clear before. The best things were a balance, not an abundance beyond reckoning. And he told Lug the secrets of plowing and sowing and reaping, the secrets he had learned in loving the land, and so Bres was saved.

Defeat of Balor

The heavy heat of the day pressed on the warriors like a relentless hand, sweat soaking clothing and slipping grips. The battle did now wait for a cloud or surcease of wind. Blood ran on heated ground, a deafness of clashing filled every ear, unending.
Lug heard the battle but could not see it from the safe place the Tuath Déa had set him, guarded by his nine foster brothers to protect him and his arts. But he knew the fate on him, know it lay on the field and not in the safety of the hall. No tyrant would release the land because he only lived.

One hour of waiting became two and his brothers did not mind when he began to sing to pass the time and did not hear when he wove the sleep strain into the song. Asleep, they did not see him slip from the hall and race to the field, just as the Tuath Déa fell back, wounded and tired and missing the healers’ well. Lug saw the slaughter, the blood and the torn ground, its harvest only pain and bones, and knew it must end soon.

Lug began to sing the chants of battle, hopping one-footed, one eye closed, one arm behind in the crane stance that called up the powers of the three realms. He sang to them of the death of tyrants, sang them tall in their love of their kin, sang them strong in their hope for a better future and the knowledge of their own gifts. He turned to the Fomoire and sang them fear, the knowledge of their enemies’ strengths and the heat of the long day wearying their arms, weighing on their weapons, too heavy to lift, the weight of death breathing on their necks. *

Heartened, the Tuath Déa cried out in defiance and rushed the field. Fearful, the Fomoire held their ground with the grimness of those who knew death spoke their names.

Lug fought among them, but with his goal always in mind. It was not hard to see Balor—the strong warrior stood a head taller than all those around him, his poisoned eye covered with a flashing metal shield to keep him from burning everything he faced. Lug knew his goal and knew his fate and came to the towering warrior and cried out:

“My challenge to you, O Balor of the Mighty Blows, tyrant who bleeds the land of Eire and harvests the cries of the people! It is I, Lug Lamfada, Samildánach, who calls to you, though you were the one who named me!”

Cold crept into Balor’s belly at the sight of the young man with his daughter’s golden hair and sea-shifting eyes. He heard the name and knew it, remembered the roll of apples and the dark-eyed gardener with his weak little son. If this was his death, if the words of his wife must come to be, he would die with the host of his enemies.

“What chatterer is this?” he cried. “I will look upon you before you die.” He began to lift the metal shield from his poisoned eye turning it to the golden youth, the grandson who was not to be, and the shining host beyond.

Lug held steady, the spear still in his hand, and when the space was enough made the cast, crying its name to speed its flight. Ibar found its mark flawlessly, piercing the poisoned pupil, driving the deadly orb backward, burning the embattled band of Balor with furious fire. The Fomoire wailed as Balor fell and with him nine nines of warriors.

Ibar returned to the call of its master, and spear in hand Lug Lonnbeimnech stood in stillness, Balor beaten, the Fomoire fleeing with their first warriors fallen. Fate was full.
Balor was beaten but not yet dead, beckoned to his grandson, grim and silent. Macnia came to the fallen warrior, looked in his ruined face, the black burning poison that burned his cheek, and wondered what would happen now that he had done what he had been born for.

“You are a brave, strong lad,” Balor said, “and I am not sorry to have such a destroyer, but I would not have all I am lost, grandson. Take my head and put it upon your own and the blood of my head will grant you all my power, all my knowledge, and the leadership of the Fomoire.”

Lug looked again at the burning hole that had been the poisoned eye, the steam that rose from it, hotter than blood. He looked at the strong arms of the man who was his grandfather, saw the light of life fading in him. “I will take your head, grandfather,” he said, and saw triumph in the remaining eye. Lug drew the Answerer, the sword Manannán had gifted him, and cut cleanly. He lifted the great head to the level of his own. “But I do not choose your power. It was no fool Tailtiu raised.” He set the head on a tall stone of the field, and the first drop of blood spilt the stone in two.

And this was the end of Balor, war-chief of the Fomoire, and the fulfillment of the prophecy of his wife Cethlenn. **


* If you’d like to read a translation of the poem that appears as Lug’s speech in the Cath Mage Tuired, Isolde Carmody has a translation here: I’ve taken liberties with this very dense and not entirely intelligible piece of poetics.

** This tale owes inspiration obviously to the Cath Maige Tuired as translated by Elizabeth Grey, but also to folktales of Balor’s defeat. In some, Lug chases Balor all over Ireland before he finally defeats him. I didn’t feel the need to leave the Plain of Pillars, but felt the final test of Lug’s choices was a good inclusion.

The Coming of Lug

Camall mac Riagail stood at the door of Teamhair as the sun settled down in the latter part of the day. The king and his company were already within and no one else expected. The feast would begin at sunset and the planning for war soon after, for Nuada was king again and the Tuath Déa meant to throw off the yoke of the Fomoire.

Movement, on the western horizon, and the flash of metal, drew Camall’s eyes. A host of armed riders swept up to the foot of Teamhair’s hill carrying no sign or device of the expected company and at their head was a warrior whose helm shone so bright it seemed a second sun rising out of the sun’s setting. Their horses were surely of the plains of Tethra, foam-bright and swift as wind on waves. The leader dismounted and walked up to the door, removing his helm to reveal a rosy, youthful face, not the mature warlord Camall expected.

“Who comes?” Camall asked.

“Lug Larmansclech, called Samildánach, is here, the son of Cian son of Dian Cécht and of Ethne daughter of Balor. He is the foster son of Tailtiu, the daughter of Magmor, the king of Spain, and of Goibniu the Smith, and of Manannán son of Alloth.”

“And whence came you?” Camall asked, not at all sure that a grandson of the Fomoire war-chief was welcome in the hall.

“From where the yew trees shadow the gliding swans of Ethan Ablach,” he said.

“And what art do you practice? For the first geas of Teamhair is that none enter without an art.”

“I am a builder,” the youth said, showing his calloused hand.

“We have a builder already, Luchta, fair brother of one you claim as fosterer. We do not need you.”

“Well do I know him, for he taught me. I am a smith,” he said.

“We do not need you. We have a smith already, Colum Cualeinech of the three new techniques.”

The youth frowned a little, but said, “I am a champion.”

“We do not need you, champion, for we have one already in Ogma mac Ethlenn.”

“I am a harper,” he said, showing his hard nails cut to catch the strings.

“We do not need you,” Camall said, “for we have a harper already, Abcan mac Bicelmois, who was chosen in the sidhe-mounds.”

The youth gave a small smile, as if he expected no different answer. “I am a warrior.” He waved to the host behind him. “And my foster brothers come with me to join your people.”

Camall shook his head. “We do not need you. We have a warrior already, Breasal Etarlam mac Echdach Baethlaim.”

“I am a poet and a historian,” Lug said.

“We do not need you. We already have a poet and historian, En mac Ethamain.”

A small frown barely touched his lips, but he smiled again. “I am a sorcerer, trained in the magics of three peoples.”

“We do not need you,” Camall said. “We have sorcerers already. Our druids and our people of power are many.”

“I am a physician.”

“We do not need you, for we have Dian Cécht, whom you claim as kinsman.”

“I am a cupbearer,” he said, with a graceful turn of his hand.

“We do not need you. We have cupbearers already: Delt and Drucht and Daithe, Tae and Talom and Trog, Gle and Glan and Glesse.”

“I am a good brazier.”

“We do not need you. We have a brazier already, Credne Cerd.”

The youth smiled, as if this were a game and he saw the winning move turns back but had played out the gambit anyway. “Ask the king whether any here possess all these arts: if they do, I will not enter Teamhair.”

Camall nodded and turned from the door and into the hall to stand before Nuadu on the king’s seat, with Ogam and the Dagda beside him. He told them who and what stood at the door and they listened intently.

“Three challenges to test this Samildánach,” Nuadu said, “and the first is mine before he may enter. Bring out my fidchell boards to the door and we will play.”

The boards were set out in the doorway and Nuada sat to play against the newcomer. Nuadu played the first game to lose, to understand the youth’s strategy, but even so did not win the other two games, learning only that the lad had surely fostered with Manannán of the Seven Gambits, for he knew each one of them.

“You may enter Teamhair,” Nuadu said. “My challenge is answered.”

Before Lug could pass the doorway, Ogma issued his challenge, throwing a flagstone of the great hall, so large twenty own had put it in its place, out through the wall of the hall. Lug took up both the flagstone and the stone of the wall and threw them both, each landing in their places as if a master builder had laid them. And so he passed the challenge of Ogma.

Camall stood aside to let him enter, but as he did the sun dipped below the horizon and Lug shook his head, saying, “I shall not enter through the door for I know the second geas of Teamhair: that none may enter through the door past the sun’s setting and before the sun’s rising. I will not break it.” Instead, he took a few steps back and leapt over the wall, landing on the stones of the court as light as the seed of a thistle settling on the surface of water.

As he stepped into the gathering, Nuadu offered him the seat of the sage, which he accepted. Finally, the Dagda offered his challenge in the body of a harp. “Play for us, oh son of Tailtiu of the sweet voice.”

Lug took the harp and touched its strings to test the tuning, then settled it in the crook of his arm. He played for them the first strain of music, the sleep strain, that he had learned at his foster-mother’s knee and all in the hall slipped into rest. He played for them the second strain, the strain of sorrow, and all woke to cry and lament every sadness in their hearts. Then he played the final strain, the strain of joy, and all their sadness was forgotten in the brightness of his tune.

The Dagda nodded, and caught Nuadu’s eye. “He has passed the third test.”

And Nuadu, having seen him pass the challenges, wondered if this youth might b the one to release them from the Fomoire’s bondage. Nuadu spoke with Ogma and the Dagda and they all agreed that this was the leader they had waited for. So Nuadu and the Samildánach exchanged their seats, and soon after Lug called the council of the two brothers, the Dagda and Ogma, and his two kinsmen, Goibniu and Dian Cécht, and they held council on Grellach Dollaid to plan the path to their victory.

The Second Fostering

No weeping was heard from the Fir Bolg queen as Cian rode away with his little son behind him, but singing. She sang in the dialect of her people and the boy sand the song back to her, a wild, heart-trembling tune that caught in the ear and made the tongue long to join in. Both voices, high and fine, sounded across the wide plain and even through the woods they passed into, until the travelers stopped for the evening.

At Goibhniu’s forge, the lad was eager and never made complaint for having to learn to raise the fire before shaping metal. He sang to the wood and the flames and made a steady, strong fire as good as Goibhniu himself, and whether making the fire or forging a blade, the sparks never burned him.

When Goibhniu taught him the charms for the hammer and for the metal’s shaping, he set them to tunes, singing them in soft drones like bees as he worked, beating the shapes to the rhythm of the singing, rather than singing to the hammer’s calling.

He did the same with the charms Luchta taught him to see the shapes within the wood, to know where knots would lie and how to work them into the strength of a shape instead of its weakness. Credne’s brazing was also set to song, as he taught the way of shaping the soft metals into coils and curves, how to set the pins that held spear head to haft, how to read the strength of the softer metals and how to blend them for their purpose.

And so it was when Airmed and Miach, his aunt and uncle, came to teach him healing. Airmed would teach him the lists of plants and their ailments, and the lad would recite them back to her in his sweet voice giving them tone and rhythm not in the words. He sang the charms for setting bones and restful sleep for the ill and for drowning out pain as his hands moved gently over the ill bodies of animals and men.

It was his aunt, Etan, who rejoiced in him, for he would learn any lay she gave him on the first hearing, rhythm for rhythm and point for point, and when she questioned him on the meaning, thinking he simply leaned the sound and not the sense, his exposition startled her, for he had heard not only the surface of the story but often the words set sidewise and the judgment of the rhythm on the story’s meaning. He seemed to devour every story she could give him and taught her a few of the Fir Bolg tales. She called him a well of stories, for they seemed to sink into him and fall his depths. It was Etan who was most sorry when Manannán sent for him, for she feared his harper’s fingers would break in the learning of the sword.

The lad went to Emhain Ablach with the mastery of his kinsmens’ arts: smithing. brazing, carpentry, poetry, and healing. From Tailtiu he had learned harping and sorcery. Manannán would add to his store of spells and teach him the arts of war and water.