Seeking a theoretical model for feminist criticism, Elaine Showalter proposes the Ardener model of intersecting circles representing male and female spheres, a crescent of each sphere free from the intersecting circle. The male crescent, though not experienced by women, is known, because male culture dominates and represents itself. The female or "wild" crescent, the area "spatially, experientially," and "metaphysically" outside the male sphere has been "muted" both in language and power and must, therefore, be examined in an attempt to represent the whole human experience. Showalter asks feminist critics of women's writing to explore this crescent, to reveal the muted plot, the "undercurrent" flowing beneath a text which must participate simultaneously in the dominant culture. As we might expect, the perspective from the "wild" crescent varies from that of the dominant sphere: Carol Gilligan asserts that a different moral perspective is an important result of women's early training in, to use Showalter's term, the "wild" sphere. From studies she conducted on females in different stages of moral development, Gilligan concludes that women tend to base their moral judgments on concern for responsibility, nonviolence, consequence, and context; the model of human moral development, however, sets judgment based on abstract codes of rights or principles as the highest level of human moral development. Based only on the male model of moral development, the model disregards the female process as either deviant or undeveloped. But, Gilligan argues, acceptance rather than exclusion of the female model will result in a more complete, balanced model of human moral development. By and large, however, the female model has not been incorporated: lip-service is paid to the values of caring, but nations and political parties openly pursue only principles. Culture, of which legend and myth are an early and persistent element, seems to authenticate this system of moral dominance. Recognizing the problem, women writers have attempted to develop revisionist versions of ancient myths. As Susan Gubar writes, referring specifically to the Persephone myth, "Writers who are convinced that gender definitions reflect and enforce the terrible recurrence of … myth," must rewrite myth to evade it. But such revision can be more than evasion: In the revaluation of social, political, and economical values that Alicia Ostriker sees as one of the tasks of the revisionists, the "wild" crescent, or the other model of human moral development, with all its restrictions and all its possibilities, can be presented as, if not a substitute model, at least an equally viable one.

Julia O'Faolain is one of several contemporary Irish women writers who are attempting a revision of Irish myths, history, cultural and political attitudes. Apparently telling a tale of the sequence of Irish "Troubles" in No Country for Young Men, O'Faolain uncovers a destructive pattern that, despite its inevitable trail of personal and political disaster, persists through myth and history into the present time. O'Faolain's central character, Gráinne O'Malley, alerts the reader to O'Faolain's myth, when she tells the American film-maker James Duffy that she is named after the central figure in the Diarmuid and Gráinne legend. According to Eóin Neeson's rendering of the legend, Fionn Mac Cumhal, the general of the Fianna warriors in Ireland, decided to assuage his loneliness by marrying Gráinne, the beautiful daughter of King Cormac. But Gráinne, reluctant to marry the aged Fionn because she loved Diarmuid, one of Fionn's young warriors, put geasa, similar to obligations of honor in an Arthurian legend, on Diarmuid, and he was obliged to flee with her. Furious, Fionn sent hosts of the Fianna after the runaway lovers, to battle the forces supporting Diarmuid and Gráinne. Much land was destroyed and many lives lost before Fionn, aided by magic, succeeded in killing Diarmuid. Still desiring Gráinne's favors, Fionn remained away from the Fianna pleading his cause. When, for the sake of her children, Gráinne finally consented to return with Fionn to the Fianna, Oisin, bitter at the destruction, blamed, not Fionn for what he had wrought, but Gráinne.

Order then is restored to the Fianna when Gráinne foregoes her own desires and accepts the principle of conquest. As a woman, Gráinne is related to Ireland. Indeed, a modified version of the sexual paradigm of territorial conquest that Annette Kolodny "unearths" in American "herstory" and literature could also be used to describe Ireland, "Mother Ireland" and "the Old Woman"—hence a less sexual figure than the young America—in much of Gaelic and Anglo-Irish literature. As a source of disorder, Gráinne, in both the myth and O'Faolain's novel, is related to that aspect of the country that resists control. Gráinne O'Malley, however, does not capitulate in order to restore the "order" derived from male principles; in this, O'Faolain's novel proves more optimistic than the controlling myth.

O'Faolain's novel moves between the Civil War in 1922 and the "Troubles" of divided Ireland, in 1979. The central characters are part of a political dynasty—a frequent occurrence in Irish politics, the de Valéra and Cosgrave families are examples—founded by the hero Owen O'Malley in 1922. The 1916 Rebellion is over, but the Irish imagination is still fired by the idealism of those heroes whose execution turned their minority cause into a popular one. O'Faolain's work probes the source of the political conflict in the Republic of Ireland today, a conflict that was born in 1922 when some members of the Irish government repudiated the Treaty signed by their representatives in England. These members and their followers, insisting they were following the principles of the executed heroes, took up arms against the Treaty forces, thus beginning a protracted and deadly civil war. Owen O'Malley was such a man. American money and sympathy had flowed to the revolutionaries following the 1916 executions; such money, coming generally from Americans of Irish descent, was available as long as England was seen as the enemy. Irish Americans, however, might falter at the idea of financially assisting Irishmen to kill Irishmen. Men like O'Faolain's Sparky Driscoll were sent to Ireland from the American aid societies to monitor the situation and to recommend groups for financial support. Winning Sparky over to the antitreaty cause is, therefore, very important to Owen O'Malley. In 1922, after months of fighting, the country exhausted and success remote, the leaders of the antitreaty party agreed to rejoin the government they had abandoned, but some of their followers refused to accept their decision and resorted to guerrilla attacks against both the Republic and the Six Counties. These men, the Irish Republican Army, have been sporadically active since 1922, and, when trouble flared again in the 1960s over reforms in the Six Counties, the IRA received a much-needed transfusion of purpose and men.

Judith Clancy, sister-in-law to the dead Owen O'Malley, links the two periods. Her release from the convent where she has spent more than fifty years into the care of her nephew and niece, Michael and Gráinne O'Malley, triggers the plot. Owen Roe O'Malley, son of Owen, uncle of both Gráinne and Michael, now a member of the present Irish government, worries that "mad" Aunt Judith may reveal something, never specified but perhaps best left hidden, to James Duffy, an American film-maker recording stories of the early troubles. Indeed James's quest is clandestine: His employers desire a propaganda film to increase American financial contributions to the "Banned Aid" society that seeks to undermine both the Six County state and the Republic, and which has been condemned by the government of the Republic. Judith who, we are told, often refers to her memory as a bog, "referring as much to its power of suction as to its unfathomable layers," is thus linked with the sources of disorder who may disrupt the established pattern.

Judith first introduces us to a pattern which should remind the reader of the Gráinne myth. As Gráinne was condemned for the disorder that followed Fionn's pursuit of his desire, so women have been condemned throughout Irish history. Judith thinks back to her history lessons: All Ireland's troubles, the girls were told, were due to the "frail morals" of a woman. It is worth examining the facts from which this principle of Irish history is derived. In the 1100s, when Ireland was torn with internecine struggle, one Diarmuid Mac Murrogh, king of Leinster, carried off Dervorgilla, wife of the Lord of Brefni. Like the mythic Gráinne, Dervorgilla invited the handsome Diarmuid, and although peace was finally declared, a deadly feud ensured between the rival lovers. When fighting broke out again in 1166, Ó Ruairc repaid the trespass, by allying with Mac Murrogh's rebellious chiefs, invading Mac Murrogh's land, and forcing him into exile. Mac Murrogh, accompanied by his beautiful daughter Eva, took refuge in England, where he appealed for Henry II's aid in restoring his kingdom. Eva became the "matrimonial prize" of Strongbow, the soldier who conducted the invasion of Ireland. Thus began the long history of English involvement in Irish affairs. Of Dervorgilla we know no more, but history, as Judith Clancy notes, holds her responsible for Ireland's fate, as if historians like myth-makers believed in woman's magic, irresistible lure. The struggles for land and women are curiously linked and similar in their destructiveness: Fionn devastated the land in order to attain the young Gráinne; O Ruairc seized Mac Murrogh's land because the later had taken his beautiful, presumably young, wife; Mac Murrogh exchanged his young daughter for repossession of his land. Seizure or exchange of land and of women is balanced, suggesting an equality between the two commodities. If we substitute Ireland's symbolic name for the land, we have violent exchanges of old women for young women, and vice versa.

In myth and in history adherence to principle allows men to follow a particular course without consideration of its effect on the community, on women and the common people. Adherence is made easier, is in a measure justified, if women or the people are seen as inferior to the leaders. In 1979 Gráinne O'Malley realizes that most Irish men still think of women as chattel, though this basic notion is disguised in the 20th century by sentimental, romantic, or "realistic" rationalizations. The androcentric pagan religion and Fianna warriors are represented in the 20th century by the equally androcentric Christian religion and the Irish Republican movement. The priests and the warriors define women. Judith remembers the priest, home from World War I, counselling the young girls to go forth as inspirations, lamps held up to light men's ways. Proud of their virtue, the girls fully realize that such virtue can only be preserved by ignorance. "Eve's sin"—desiring knowledge and naming things—must be avoided at all costs. From Virginia Woolf to Simone de Beauvoir, 20th century writers have revealed the limitations and distortions of this vision of woman as man's inspiration, but in 1916, this was the picture that inspired such idealists as Patrick Pearse. In its asexuality, this ideal is linked to the ideal of the land as the "old woman."

Owen Roe, son of a warrior and himself a warrior-in-waiting, sees, not the angel in the house, but the debased earth goddess. Sexual relations to Owen Roe are simply necessary animal functions; the creation of an emotional or intellectual relationship with one's sex partner is, he thinks, an artificial, female, and unnecessary structure. Gráinne asks him why he broke off their brief affair: was she too demanding? the wrong partner? Because he likes "bed," Owen Roe answers, is no reason to think that he spends his time thinking about it. "Bed's simple really," he asserts. Women mess things up by making a "production" about "bed." It is all the nuns' fault, he continues; convent girls end up believing they have "the holy grail" between their legs, "and some knight is going to come and find it." Women and sex are a means to physical pleasure for Owen Roe; he has no objection to their receiving the same from him, but rational discussion of sex and emotions, implying, as it may, a woman's ability to objectivize, and exposing, as it may, Owen Roe's fears and ignorance, is apparently unthinkable. Later that night, reflecting on why neither passionate men, like Owen Roe, nor frigid men like her husband, Michael, can discuss sex, Gráinne concludes that the church is responsible: "Monastic tradition described woman as a bag of shit and it followed that sexual release into such a receptacle was a topic about as fit for sober discussion as a bowel movement." Although Gráinne's summary seems closer to Owen Roe's views than to those of the romantic priest, both are similar in their refusal to acknowledge sexual relationships, a refusal that may have at its source the superstitious fear of woman's lure.

Owen Roe's perspective is more pervasive in a secular world than that of the priest. Sensing Gráinne's discontent and aware of the deterioration of their marriage, Michael O'Malley thinks he "Didn't fuck her enough. Women wanted it … because it confirmed their sense of themselves … Basic creatures really." Again, Michael tells Duffy that women masquerade, "being ashamed of their essential function." Like Owen Roe, then, Michael thinks that frequent sex should keep a woman happy, but he also realizes that since he cannot, or is unwilling to, satisfy Gráinne, she does need another relationship. At this point, Michael acts as do women Gilligan has studied in the second, immature, phase of female moral development. Michael has accepted the code of mutual caring, but the balance is undermined because one partner, Michael in this case, is in a position of psychological dependence. Needing Gráinne, he tricks her into returning to him when he takes their Great-Aunt Judith into their home. Desolate, not at the idea of Gráinne's infidelity, but at her leaving and disturbing his rhythm, Michael wonders could she not have got the sex she needed in Ireland? Must she go to America for that? Michael's Grandfather Owen O'Malley explained his opinions to another American, the Republican fundraiser, Sparky Driscoll, in 1922:

"The 'people' are clay. You can do what you like in their name but, as Aristotle said of men and women, the formative idea comes from the male and the clay is female; passive, mere potentiality. The clay here is the people who has no self and no aspiration towards determining anything at all until we infuse it into them. We are their virile soul. We are they."

Woman is not a creature with an individual destiny: defined either as inspiration, source of physical satisfaction, or as clay, the necessary intermediary between a great man and his descendants, she is in every instance seen only as she relates to man.

Accepting these definitions is destructive to women. In 1922, Judith Clancy adopts the angel myth and forcefully pushes knowledge of sex away, repressing it along with other forbidden knowledge in the unfathomable layers of her bog-like mind. She realizes that her sister, Kathleen, is more attracted to Sparky Driscoll than to her fiancé, Owen O'Malley. Sparky constantly reminds Judith of animals, whereas she sees the ascetic, priest-like Owen as incorruptible. Appalled, however, when she finds her own body betraying her by responding to Sparky's kiss, ashamed when she remembers an image of dogs coupling as Sparky warns her that Owen may be a homosexual and therefore not an appropriate husband for Kathleen, Judith represses both knowledge and emotion. In every vision of physical attraction, Judith sees animals: Sparky looks at Kathleen with "dog's eyes"; he is a "ferret" who summons "the worst, most buried filth." Alarmed at her own response, fearing that Kathleen will leave Owen and go with Sparky to America, and fearing also that Sparky will upset Owen's plans by reporting negatively on Owen's decision to fight the Treaty and thus cause Owen to lose the American funds he needs to carry on the fight, Judith kills Sparky. Judith has responded as much to her emotional as to her political convictions. Her intellectual acceptance of the priest's definition of woman and her repression of the evidence of her emotions necessitates acceptance of sex as "buried filth." The text often comments ironically on itself: Owen Roe tells Gráinne, referring, he thinks, to Aunt Judith's secret, but also, of course, to her repressed sexuality, "Even harmless secrets … because of being hidden, breed maggots." Judith's saving action cannot, of course, be acknowledged—this would certainly dry up American funds—so Judith is spirited into a convent by Owen O'Malley and Sparky's murder is blamed on forces of the British crown. Judith's madness is the result of accepting male definition and of acting in the male mode—of being willing to sacrifice for the sake of Owen's principle, not only Kathleen, Sparky, and the Irish people in war, but also her own imminent sexuality. Deprived of her family, her freedom, her future, and almost of her memory—for Owen prescribes electric shock to soothe her—Judith herself becomes one of the sacrifices on the altar of Owen's ambitions.

The Diarmuid and Gráinne myth is reenacted in Kathleen's life with only a depressing variation. Engaged to Owen O'Malley, whom prison has made "cold as ice" and "A machine run on will power"—a man who cares for causes, not people—Kathleen is in love not only with Sparky Driscoll, but with the possibility of another life created by herself and for herself. She resolves to go to America with Sparky to escape the war Owen is determined to unleash and to build this new life. When Judith, to forestall this impulse of disorder, kills Sparky, she ironically helps deprive Kathleen of a self-created life, a life the mythic Gráinne experienced, at least for a time.

From this point on, Kathleen appropriately disappears from O'Faolain's text, defined only by her male relatives—even her wedding is a blank in Judith's memory. Absence from the text, indeed, is a recurrent motif in the stories surveyed: Gráinne disappears from Fianna legends once she acquiesces to Fionn's wishes; Dervorgilla disappears from "his story" once she returns to Ó Ruairc from Mac Murrogh. Years later, when Judith complains to Owen of his locking her away in a convent, causing her to disappear, Owen retorts: "What's wrong with being here?… You should see poor Kathleen struggling with the kids. She looks ten years older than you do." Judith asks whether Kathleen is "still pretty," and Owen replies, "Kathleen … is the mother of six children with another on the way." As for her happiness, Owen says, "She has her children. She knows she is useful." Owen Roe later confirms this picture of Kathleen as a tired, disillusioned woman whose single importance was to be the "clay" that O'Malley molded, the potentiality from which HE created his political descendants. Like Gráinne, Kathleen ends her life caring for the man who destroyed her personal happiness and nurturing warriors who will preserve his destructive vision.

The Diarmuid and Gráinne myth spins out finally in the 1979 story of Gráinne O'Malley, Michael O'Malley, and James Duffy. Married to the alcoholic Michael when little more than a romantic school-girl, Gráinne has never had a satisfying sexual relationship. She left Michael hoping to save her "unsuccessful, comfortable marriage," and she returns to him hoping to spark some life into both Michael and the marriage. But Michael apparently lost both his voice and his interest in sex in the brawl following his renunciation of Theo—the one woman for whom he'd ever felt passion—because of her unsuitability to be the wife of an O'Malley. Weary of her half life, Gráinne turns to Owen Roe, looking, as she remembers, "for more than sex, or more through sex." But Owen Roe, as noted earlier, responds only physically. A year after the brief affair, he strides into Gráinne's life again to warn her to dismiss James, her American friend who is probing too deeply into Judith's memory. Gráinne consents on the condition that Owen Roe stop taking her son Cormac to Republican gatherings. His refusal makes Gráinne realize that he would sacrifice Cormac's safety to his own political ambitions. Seeing Gráinne's distress at his "lethal" selfishness and the danger this poses for Cormac, Owen Roe seeks to calm her: "Silly Gráinne," he smiles, and reaches for her breast, "cupping it with authority." Owen Roe's reaction is a "natural" result of his definition of women: comfort a woman sexually, he assumes, and one will also soothe away the irritating questions, questions he believes to be his prerogative rather than Gráinne's. Gráinne responds at the level Owen Roe has assigned her: like an animal protecting her young, she bites his hand and continues to do so even after she tastes his blood. He, in turn, slaps her face back and forth, in a brutal, irrational fury that continues after she releases his hand. "Mad harridan," he cries as he slaps her. Indeed, in his terms, Gráinne is mad—mad to resist the pattern which the powerful males will impose, mad to resist the physical comfort these males may grant.

This resistance is Gráinne's first real step towards freedom: the earlier flight and return to Michael were false moves, ultimately ineffectual. She continues to resist by seeing James and by exploring the bog-like depths of Judith's memory. Traditional roles are reversed in James and Gráinne's relationship. Gráinne feels her body to be inferior in beauty to James's "gorgeous" body; she delights in sensations she had never dreamed of, in making love for her pleasure. James is horrified at Gráinne's insistence on secrecy, despite her delight in and love for him. This secrecy seems to make him "a nineteenth-century whore," "a promenading penis," and "a secret sex object." Like both the mythic Gráinne and Kathleen, Gráinne decides to go away with her lover, realizing that Michael's dependence will not change and that she cannot save Cormac. Considering her responsibilities and the consequences, Gráinne makes a moral choice. But the forces of order, Owen Roe and the Irish police, aided unknowingly, but appropriately, by Owen Roe's retarded disciple, Patsy Flynn, combine to forestall Gráinne's departure. Flynn, Judith's successor in the new "old" pattern, condemns sexuality as Judith had done. As Judith responded, against her wishes, to Sparky's kiss, so Patsy, as he lies in wait to kill the "Californicator," feels the emotion of James and Gráinne "locked into his own, maddeningly, like the pedal of someone's bike getting locked into yours." Political concerns, however, outweigh the unusual emotional involvement for Patsy: to preserve the honor of the O'Malley family and to safeguard the dynasty set up by Owen O'Malley for his heirs, Owen Roe and Cormac, Patsy kills James. Having said goodbye to Michael and Cormac, Gráinne is left standing alone, waiting unknowingly for the dead James. The text, not the woman, then disappears.

To return to an earlier point—Owen O'Malley's yoking of women, land, and the people—Irishmen see woman, not as an equal but different principle, but as deviant. This deviancy asserts itself in action disruptive to the established, male pattern, hence must be repressed in the interest of order. This same order extends to nature, which man cultivates or tames. We first meet the young Judith Clancy as she contemplates, from the rigorously ordered garden of the convent, the less tamed aspects of nature.

This region [the bog] was as active as a compost heap and here the millennial process of matter recycling itself was as disturbing as decay in a carcass. Phosphorescent glowings, said to come from the chemical residue of bones, exhaled from its depths. "Bog" was the Gaelic word for "soft" and this one had places into which a sheep or a man could be sucked without trace.

The bog was pagan and the nuns saw in it an image of fallen nature. It signified mortality, they said, and the sadness of the flesh, for it had once been the hunting ground of pre-Christian warriors, a forest which had fallen, become fossilized and was now dug for fuel.

Similar in its relation to Showalter's "wild" area of female experience, the bog, in its peripheral position between culture and totally untamed nature, also resembles the area that Sherry Ortner finds assigned to women "outside and around" male culture. The danger of the bog is stressed repeatedly: Owen Roe, Cormac's political mentor, also initiates Cormac in the "risky" sport of riding on the bog. Dealing with Owen Roe, Gráinne thinks, is as dangerous as walking across a bog: "You never knew when the ground might give way under your feet." In its ability to swallow men, the bog symbolizes the male fear of the female, "fallen nature," or the trap of sexuality in the nuns' eyes. The bog, however, is essential. It provides the commonest and cheapest source of fuel for Judith Clancy's class. Men cut into it and take its peat to their homes as a source of cooking and heat. And it is more than this. Trying to explain the Southern Irish attitude to the IRA, Gráinne tells James:

"We double think. In practical terms we're dead against them, but in some shady, boggish areas of our minds, there's an unregenerate ghost groaning 'Up the rebels.' Most of us keep the ghost well suppressed, but children, drunks, unemployable men, and emotional misfits can become possessed by it."

In its ability to preserve and regurgitate often contradictory materials, the bog also symbolizes Judith's memory. Whatever its meaning, symbolic or natural, the bog, despite its essential role, is potentially a source of disorder, a constant threat to the established order.

The common people also threaten the established order. In 1922, Sparky Driscoll and the Clancy family, except Judith, plead with Owen O'Malley not to destroy the material improvement the people have achieved as a result of their successful struggle against Britain. But O'Malley is unwilling to give up the principle of a wholly free Ireland. The people, he says, are not the best judges; he dismisses their right to self-determination and to a better life, asserting that the people must "be goaded for their own good." Judith realizes, many years later, that Owen, like Fionn, could not distinguish what was good for the country from what was good for himself. Michael, too, realizes that his grandfather, who "helped forge change through violence, ended his days guarding the outcome from any further change." For, realizing the time was not yet ripe, Owen O'Malley cynically preserved a status quo contrary to his ideals, but beneficial to both himself and his heirs. Owen Roe swings full circle: as Owen O'Malley's pragmatism guided him from his principles into a successful career of compromise, so Owen Roe lives this compromise, but works towards the ideal of the dead Owen. Gráinne realizes that Owen Roe, too, cares nothing for individual human beings, but will risk Cormac's life and another civil war, believing the ensuing chaos may bring him to power. The same arrogance that allows these men to dictate women's actions also abrogates the rights of an entire nation, decreeing bloodshed and violence to restore a principle they believe in, thus confusing in their madness the country with themselves.

The madness that forces women to act against their best judgments and against their best interests is, in No Country for Young Men, associated with the political confusion that has affected Ireland for over sixty years. The possibility of immediate change is remote, but there are some optimistic glimmerings in O'Faolain's work. In a work that emphasizes the preservative power of the bog, we might expect Judith's memories to be preserved, and we are given strong suggestions that she has taped, and so preserved them. In another instance of intertextual commentary, Owen Roe tells Gráinne referring to the 1922 troubles—but the remark ironically applies to Judith's secret—that "In memory as in matter, Nothing … is lost. It comes back in another form."

But O'Faolain offers more than symbolic hope, based on the laws of nature. In the final revision of the myth, Gráinne is brought to the point of awareness. Despite the loss of James, Gráinne has experienced existential freedom: "fatigue, habit, heritage," she realizes, are merely illusionary stakes which she can thrust aside any time she wants to. Return to Michael and her old pattern is not inevitable. The text falls from Gráinne, not she from the text. When the voices cease to define her, she, and the country by implication, can proceed to define herself. Re-creating, or re-assembling myth and history from her "crescent," O'Faolain has, like the bog, transformed and preserved the material. The "phosphorescent glowings" come, not from the "chemical residue of bones," but from the artistic distillation and purification of history. For, as O'Faolain's text preserves the truth about the fictional O'Malley family, so the myths and texts of history have preserved, albeit in scattered formations, the truths of the past. O'Faolain challenges her readers to a new beginning, then, not through the traditional Irish way of physical revolution, but through textual revolution. The "glowings" are uncertain; Gráinne stands alone, but male history itself is, O'Faolain shows, a record of the consequences of following principle at the expense of community. A wider perspective in general leads to a wider level of tolerance; faint as they are, O'Faolain's "glowings" suggest the benefit to the Irish people in political leaders' abandoning the predominantly male model of human judgment and establishing instead a wider model, one that incorporates both male and female moral perspectives. Incorporating the vision of the Gráinnes and the Kathleens, this wider model might eventually incorporate the vision of the majority of the Irish people, north and south, Protestant and Catholic. But it is the women who will have to effect the change: being largely unaware of the injustice and danger inherent in a pattern which benefits them, men will act only when women place a compelling vision of human harmony before them—a vision which, if clearly seen, may finally prove as irresistible as and may, indeed, be Gráinne's ancient geis.