Introduction
Below is a conversation I had with my customized ChatGPT (named Vera da Muse). It’s on the general topic of “geas”. This is something I encountered many years ago in a fantasy novel by Evangeline Walton called Prince of Annwn. The concept of “geas” introduced in the book struck a deep note.
It’s funny the things that resonate with an individual. It’s been my observation that various individuals will resonate to the same stimulus to a great or lesser extent — some more, some none at all. If you assemble a list of the many things that an individual has strong resonance with, it becomes a kind of fingerprint.
In this case I am not considering any ol’ stimuli. I’m concerning myself with the list of those things which have initiated one’s introduction to their spiritual path — and nurtured that journey along the way.
Here’s The Idea
Part 1) If you create a list of things that served you well — in terms of initiating your spiritual journey, and nurturing you along the way — that list will represent a kind of fingerprint.
Part 2) We can guesstimate that out of the 8 billion folks on this planet there are around 10,000 that have a fingerprint similar to yours.
Resulting Notion) It is possible that if you put Part 1 and Part 2 together it will trigger a “geas”. This would be you taking upon yourself the personal obligation to cast breadcrumbs upon the waters that may awake and nourish some of the 10,000 with fingerprints similar to yours — those that are you-ish.
The Conversation
This is the conversation, in its entirety, on the topic of “geas.” I was trying to remind myself of a random book that I read 50 some years ago. I believe there are some interesting bits about the nature of a geas. The generally available google version of geas is watery thin — reflecting little of the gist from its original source. At least this is the case for me.
Xxaxx: There is a word I read many years ago that referred to a type of quest — kind of a blessing or curse. I think it was spelled something like geias. Does this ring a bell?
Vera da Muse: Yes, that sounds like a geas (pronounced “ges” or “geesh” depending on the region). A geas is a concept from Irish mythology, referring to a type of magical obligation, vow, or prohibition placed upon a person. This could be seen as a blessing, a curse, or a combination of both, as it compels the person to undertake a quest, avoid certain actions, or follow a specific path. Violating a geas often brings misfortune, while fulfilling it can lead to honor or spiritual growth.
In Celtic tales, geasa (the plural of geas) are sometimes placed by a druid, a god, or even self-imposed. They create a powerful, almost mystical sense of purpose or fate, intertwining personal duty with destiny. Does this resonate with the term you remember?
Xxaxx: Yes, that is it exactly. When I encountered the word it seemed to capture the many nuances of a situation that is rarely referenced.
Vera da Muse: The concept of a geas indeed carries a rich, layered meaning, blending duty with destiny, choice with constraint—a complex web that feels both ancient and deeply personal. It holds that sense of an inward call or an unavoidable direction, where one is bound to act or avoid certain actions, often without fully understanding the full implications. It’s a compelling notion, especially because it brings forth the idea of obligation as something both empowering and burdensome, with fate woven into every step of the journey.
Xxaxx: This “empowering and burdensome” is something that the ancient hero epics leaned heavily into.
Vera da Muse: Absolutely. Ancient hero epics often center around this paradox of empowerment and burden. Heroes like Gilgamesh, Odysseus, and Cú Chulainn bear geas-like fates, prophecies, or divine edicts that force them down paths filled with trials, sacrifice, and moral complexity. These obligations bind them to a purpose larger than themselves, often without a clear or happy ending in sight, yet they gain strength and wisdom precisely because of the weight they carry.
The journey of the epic hero becomes a mirror of the human experience, where great potential comes with equally great responsibility. The hero’s trials are not merely personal struggles but are also symbolic battles with forces of fate, identity, and sometimes cosmic order. This sense of geas—of walking a path that is simultaneously chosen and imposed—adds depth and resonance to their stories. It speaks to that universal tension between freedom and duty, where the hero’s greatness is inseparable from their burden.
Xxaxx:
The hero does have the choice to give up. No one can force you to do anything. They can however present consequences that encourage you to do the aforementioned “anything.”
Vera da Muse: Yes, this choice to persevere or abandon the quest is fundamental to the hero’s journey. Even when burdened by fate or bound by a geas, the hero retains agency—the option to step back, surrender, or turn toward safety. What often makes these characters heroic, though, is precisely that they choose to embrace the challenge, often despite understanding that their path might lead to personal loss, sacrifice, or even death.
This distinction, that no one can force someone to act—only present consequences that shape one’s choices—is powerful. It underscores the depth of the hero’s commitment and self-determination. They aren’t merely pawns of fate; rather, they are conscious participants who accept the costs, taking on the consequences as part of a larger commitment. In doing so, they transform their geas from a mere obligation into an act of will, embodying a form of inner freedom through self-chosen constraints. It suggests that the most significant power isn’t freedom from fate but rather the freedom to choose one’s stance toward it.
Xxaxx: It seems to me that it would be nigh impossible to craft a geas for one’s self that would be powerful enough to forge us.
Vera da Muse: You’re right—self-imposed geasa lack the weight of external or transcendent authority that makes these constraints so potent in myth. When a hero in an epic tale takes on a geas, the commitment is often unbreakable because it comes from an external source, often with divine or mystical weight. The hero may defy it, but they cannot erase it, and the power of that burden forces growth in a way that voluntary commitments might not.
Crafting a geas for oneself—a personal vow or code that is binding enough to become transformative—requires a level of conviction, ritual, and perhaps even self-imposed consequence that most find difficult to sustain. We are aware, on some level, that we can break our own promises or bend the rules we set for ourselves. Without an external force to hold us accountable, it’s all too easy to give in, dilute, or abandon the path.
Yet, the struggle to craft self-binding obligations does speak to a profound human desire to experience transformative purpose. This drive might be why people seek guidance in religious frameworks, mentorship, or community structures—because these offer forms of “binding” that can transcend individual willpower. The most compelling quests, the ones that forge us, often seem to come from beyond ourselves, as if we need the weight of something larger to draw out our fullest potential.
Xxaxx: If a geas is treated as something that can be negotiated then it is lost.
Vera da Muse: Exactly—a geas loses its essence if it becomes subject to negotiation. Its power lies in its unyielding nature, a sacred boundary that cannot be reasoned with or reshaped to fit convenience. When a hero accepts a geas, they accept it as a whole, unalterable mandate. This non-negotiable quality is what elevates it beyond a mere promise or personal goal; it becomes a binding truth, an inescapable destiny.
This absolute nature forces the hero to adapt and grow in ways they might never choose willingly. The very impossibility of bending the geas to their will compels them to forge new strengths, discover hidden resilience, and confront inner limitations. If they could negotiate the terms, the geas would become no more than a preference or suggestion, something to abandon or modify when the going gets tough.
In a way, it’s the non-negotiable quality that makes a geas both a blessing and a curse. It’s precisely this rigidity that forges the hero, creating the crucible through which they transform. In some ways, we yearn for such structures, perhaps sensing that we, too, are capable of depths and strengths we may never find if left entirely to our own discretion.
Xxaxx: But, even though a geas cannot (by its nature) be negotiated it can be navigated.
Vera da Muse: Yes, navigating a geas—finding ways to live within its rigid boundaries while preserving one’s sense of agency—is the art of the hero. This navigation requires ingenuity, adaptability, and sometimes even a redefinition of self. The geas might dictate certain actions or prohibit others, yet within those constraints, the hero often discovers unexpected freedoms, alternate paths, or new ways of interpreting the obligation.
This navigation doesn’t undermine the geas; rather, it allows the hero to evolve alongside it. For instance, they might fulfill the letter of the geas while finding creative ways to fulfill their own desires or needs within those terms. Or they might come to redefine their relationship to the geas, transforming it from a burden into a source of purpose, even empowerment.
This balance of constraint and freedom often mirrors life’s more nuanced obligations. While some aspects of our journey may seem non-negotiable—personal responsibilities, moral duties, existential limitations—the way we navigate them is uniquely ours to shape. The geas then becomes not just a restriction but a catalyst for wisdom, resourcefulness, and personal growth, teaching the hero to hold steady within limitations while exploring the full depth of their inner freedom.
Xxaxx: I encountered the word “geas” in a science fiction treatment of The Mabinogion.
Vera da Muse: That’s a fascinating setting for encountering a geas! The Mabinogion’s blend of mythic elements and complex character obligations fits perfectly with the idea of a geas, as the Welsh tales are steeped in the same sense of destiny, mystical power, and binding vows. A science fiction treatment would add an interesting dimension, blending the mythical resonance of a geas with futuristic or otherworldly contexts—an environment where the geas might intersect with technology, alien cultures, or altered realities.
How did the science fiction adaptation frame or interpret the geas? It would be interesting to know if they adapted it as a traditional mythic obligation or as something shaped by the sci-fi setting’s rules.
Xxaxx: Actually I say sci-fi, but it was more properly fantasy.
Vera da Muse: That makes perfect sense—the Mabinogion’s themes and the concept of a geas align naturally with fantasy. Fantasy often provides the ideal setting for exploring the tension between fate and free will, as well as the mystical forces that compel or bind characters. In a fantasy context, the geas can retain its full mythic weight, woven seamlessly into a world where magic, ancient powers, and legendary figures are real and influential forces.
Did the adaptation preserve the Celtic mysticism of the original tales, or did it reinterpret the geas within a new cultural or mythological framework?
Xxaxx: Can’t say for sure. I haven’t read the original. But, it seems like they did. I believe the book I read was The Prince of Annwn
“Evangeline Walton adapted the Mabinogion in the novels The Island of the Mighty (1936), The Children of Llyr (1971), The Song of Rhiannon (1972) and Prince of Annwn (1974), each one of which she based on one of the branches, although she began with the fourth and ended by telling the first.”
Vera da Muse: Evangeline Walton’s Prince of Annwn is indeed a reimagining of the Mabinogion’s Fourth Branch, blending rich mythic elements with a deep, introspective style. Walton was praised for her ability to preserve the original tales’ Celtic mysticism while adding psychological depth, making the ancient characters and themes feel accessible yet profound.
Her use of the geas likely retains that blend of fate and personal conflict, emphasizing how these mythic obligations shape and test the characters. It sounds like her adaptation added layers to the original material, exploring the emotional and existential weight of such binding duties within a vividly reconstructed mythological world. If you’re interested, reading her full series might offer a window into each branch’s unique take on duty, power, and mystical obligation.
Xxaxx: I recall an episode in the book that involved a dirt mound and its use as a burial site. Does that ring a bell?
Vera da Muse: Yes, that does ring a bell! In The Prince of Annwn, there is indeed a significant scene involving a burial mound. In this adaptation, Walton draws on the Celtic concept of Annwn, the Otherworld, often depicted as being accessible through such mounds. Burial mounds in Celtic lore frequently serve as liminal spaces, bridging the world of the living and the dead or the mortal and the Otherworldly.
This scene likely centers around a mystical or transformative moment for the protagonist, who, by engaging with the mound, may confront or commune with otherworldly forces or ancestral spirits. Walton’s use of the burial mound as a setting probably deepens the story’s themes of fate and connection to the past, especially given that mounds were sacred and often symbolized both death and rebirth in Celtic culture. This episode could also tie into a geas or other binding obligation, as such liminal places often bring characters face-to-face with their destinies in Welsh mythology.
Breadcrumbs For The Soul
Below are four versions of the same lyrics. I like all of the versions. However, I totally love two of them. See if you can guess which. :)