The moon was full over the Boyne Valley. Then, darkness took a bite out of it.
Bakunawa rose from the Atlantic, its massive jaws unhinged, swallowing the lunar light. The tides surged, threatening to flood the green fields of Ireland.
Calculations were simple for the beast: Eat moon. Sleep.
It didn't count on the Mother.
The Awakening of the Land
Danu did not rise as a monster. She rose as mist from the river. She felt the salt water encroaching on her sweet springs.
"Greedy worm," she whispered.
She did not strike with lightning. She used Sovereign Writ. She spoke to the land, and the land answered.
From every mound (sídhe) in Ireland, the Tuatha Dé Danann poured forth. Lugh with his spear, Ogma with his club, the Dagda with his harp.
"Sing," Danu commanded.
The Great Clamor
The gods didn't sing a lullaby. They screamed a war chant. They beat their swords against their shields. The Dagda played a chord that sounded like a mountain cracking. The Banshees added their wails to the chorus.
Bakunawa, deep in the sky, paused. Its sensitive ears, tuned to the silence of the deep ocean, were bombarded by the cacophony.
The noise was physical. It vibrated the dragon’s skull. It shook the scales loose from its hide.
Communal Clamor. The beast’s ancient weakness.
Bakunawa roared in pain, spitting the moon back out. It couldn't concentrate. It couldn't hunt. The noise was maddening.
Thrashing, the great serpent turned tail and dove back into the deep ocean, swimming for the quiet of the Philippine Trench, leaving the moon—and Ireland—safe and loud.