“The glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armour against fate;

Death lays his icy hand on kings:

Scepter and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.”

—Excerpt from “Death the Leveller” by James Shirley

Advancements in technology and science have granted us many marvelous advantages in our battles with Nature, armed with her natural disasters and illnesses. However, she has an ace on her fingertips and isn’t shy in using it to capsize all of our elaborate efforts and delirious dreams. Death by her hands will inevitably meet us all one day. Even with the reach of our intelligence and the manifestations of our creativity, we have yet to unravel a path of escape away from this fate.

Many of us digest this knowledge with stoicism or dignity. We gently care for those on the edge of passing and bestow upon them our last and loving impressions. Even for those whom we never had the window to say our farewells, we send the energy of our prayers and tributes to unite with their departed spirits.

Some funerary practices preserve both the bodies and memories of the newly deceased through stone memorials, sealed coffins and mummification. Other traditions may return the vacated body directly back to the Earth through cremation or sky burials. Regardless of custom, as we watch caskets lower into the soil, ashes scatter in the wind or flesh consumed by wildlife, it further instills respect for Nature and her stacked decks.

As the sun is pulled below the horizon, darkness fills the space where the light once shown. The stars and moon reappear and signal to most humankind that the time is now to turn to our beds and wind down into a temporary slumber. Before we switch off our lamps, most of us take the precaution to secure the locks on our doors and draw the curtains closed. Perhaps our worries stem from primal instinct or cautionary tale, but the nighttime realm has a reputation of ushering danger in the form of villains, specters and beasts.

One of the most infamous of these nocturnal haunters is the vampire. They make a home of the enveloping darkness, stalking unsuspecting victims, invading their space and feasting upon their life’s blood. If you happen to have fallen prey to one of these monsters, you may experience immense fatigue, a sickly pallor and discover two pin prick wounds somewhere on your neck. Unfortunately the news is dire, because the vampire’s bite is always fatal and there will be no escaping the fate of an early coffin.

On rare occasion, however, a vampire’s casualty may be given an impossible choice: expire peacefully and see what comes next or embrace the curse of immortality in an endless nightmare. Does this dark offer stem from boredom, loneliness or even misplaced pity? We may never know. Only those who are no longer able to see the light of day would be able to tell us the truth.

Most of what we know from Irish mythology and folklore comes to us from a culture of oral tradition, where young and old alike would encircle the flame and listen with rapt attention to the tales of epic gods, cunning druids, brave heroes and the strange otherworld. Many of these tales are attributed to the poet Oisín.

Although a human being of tangible substance, Oisín’s origin is a curious story. His father was Fionn mac Cumhaill, leader of the Fianna before him and his mother was a woman named Sadhbh. As the tale begins, Sadhbh was a beautiful maiden who had fallen into the hands of a dark druid named Der Doirich. She spurned his affection and out of spite, the druid transformed her into a doe, casting her out into the wilderness. Taking pity on her, a servant of Der Doirich told Sadhbh that if she were to step foot in the castle of the Fianna, the druid’s spell would have no hold. Without a second thought, she took off for the castle.

It was on the journey there and through the forests that she was ambushed by a party of hunting dogs. As luck would have it, they were Bran and Sceolan, Fionn’s hounds under a different spell of illusion. They recognized Sadhbh for what she truly was and guided her out of the forests and into the arms of the Fianna. She and Fionn married and soon became expectant parents.

However, this is where the happy ending goes awry. As Fionn was off in battle, the pregnant Sadhbh was tricked by Der Doirich into leaving her refuge and she resumed the form of a doe, disappearing once more into the wild. The heartbroken Fionn searched with his hounds far and wide for many years, to no avail. In the seventh year, they stumbled across a lone child in the undergrowth. From his fawn-like features, Fionn knew that this boy was born of Sadhbh and was his lost child. He took the boy in, named him Oisín and taught him the ways of the Irish hero.

During the Middle Ages and Renaissance era, women often provided the role of local apothecaries and healers —nuns among them. While most of what was sold promoted health and well-being, it was also common knowledge that a selection of poisons may be available to help you get rid of a pest infestation, or perhaps a pesky rival. Many of these concoctions were derived from specially cultivated gardens. It can make one wonder about those herbs of healing growing alongside their deadly cousins and who would be tending to them as well.