The Samhain Guardian: Celtic Roots of the Lantern

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Long before Stingy Jack walked the earth with his cursed ember, long before his name became synonymous with carved lanterns, the Celtic peoples understood a terrifying truth: there are nights when the dead walk among the living, and only the prepared survive until dawn.

This is not the story of one damned soul. This is the story of traditions born from genuine fear—practices carved into root vegetables and set burning against the dark, not as decoration, but as defense. This is the origin that predates the legend, the folklore that gave Jack’s lantern its meaning.

This is the story of Samhain.

The ancient Celts—who inhabited Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Cornwall, Brittany, and parts of what is now England and France—measured time through the agricultural cycle, dividing their year into two great halves. The light half brought growth, fertility, and warmth. The dark half brought death, introspection, and the rule of winter.

The boundary between these halves was marked by sacred festivals. Beltane, celebrated on May 1st, welcomed the light half with bonfires and fertility rites. Samhain, celebrated from sunset on October 31st through November 1st, marked the beginning of the dark half—the time when the old year died and the new year was born from darkness.

Samhain was widely regarded in later tradition as the Celtic New Year and the most spiritually potent—and dangerous—night of the entire year. On this night, the Celts believed, the boundary between the mortal world and the Otherworld grew gossamer-thin, nearly transparent, allowing passage between realms that should remain separate.

The Otherworld—called Tír na nÓg (Land of the Young), Mag Mell (Plain of Joy), or simply the Sídhe—was home to the aos sí: the fairy folk, often understood as the ancient Tuatha Dé Danann who had retreated into the hollow hills. These were beings of terrible power and alien morality. On Samhain, they could cross over. And not all of them came with peaceful intentions.

To understand the protective traditions that arose around Samhain, you must first understand what folklore held walked abroad on that night.

The aos sí were not the delicate, benevolent fairies of Victorian tales. In Celtic belief, they were powerful, capricious, and dangerous. They could bless or curse with equal ease. They could steal children, replacing them with changelings. They could strike a person dead with a glance or drive them mad with enchantment. They could lead travelers astray into bogs where they would drown, or into the hollow hills where they would dance for what seemed like minutes but was actually decades.

But the aos sí were not the only danger.

The dead themselves could return on Samhain. Not as shambling corpses, but as spirits—some seeking to visit their living families, to warm themselves at their former hearths one last time, to share in the feast and remember what it was to be alive. These ancestral spirits were not malevolent. They deserved respect and hospitality.

However, not all returning spirits were benign. Some were angry, vengeful, or confused. Some had died badly—murdered, betrayed, or left unburied. Some had unfinished business. And then there were darker entities: malevolent beings that normally could not enter the mortal realm but on Samhain found the barriers weak enough to slip through.

All of these, according to tradition, walked abroad on Samhain night. The veil was thin. The barriers were weak. And mortal families needed protection.

By the early modern period—and likely for centuries before in varying forms—a distinctive protective practice had emerged in Ireland, Scotland, and the Isle of Man: the carving of faces into root vegetables and setting them with flame.

The tradition is well-documented from the 19th century onward. In Ireland and Scotland, people carved turnips and rutabagas (called “swedes” or “neeps”). On the Isle of Man, the Hop-tu-Naa festival featured carved turnip lanterns called “moots.” Regional accounts occasionally mention other root vegetables, though turnips and rutabagas were by far the most common, being both available from the harvest and large enough to carve.

The work was difficult. Turnips are dense and fibrous, their flesh resistant to carving. Rutabagas are even harder. Using whatever tools they had—knives, gouges, scrapers—families would hollow out these vegetables with painstaking care. The difficulty was part of the purpose. Every cut was an investment of effort, will, and intention.

Once hollowed, the carver would create a face—not a cheerful face, but a frightening one. The faces featured gaping mouths with jagged teeth, hollow eyes that seemed to stare into the soul, twisted expressions of rage or madness.

Folklore holds that these grim faces served multiple purposes:

They were meant to frighten away malevolent spirits. A wandering entity approaching a home and seeing these demonic visages might believe the dwelling was already occupied by something dangerous and move on to easier prey.

They were meant to confuse supernatural beings. If hostile spirits saw faces in the windows and on doorsteps, they might mistake these carved guardians for actual occupants and not realize living humans sheltered within.

Some later tellings interpret the faces as souls between worlds—beings caught in limbo, neither fully alive nor completely dead. By acknowledging these liminal spirits, families hoped to gain their protection or at least their neutrality.

They provided protective light in the darkness. Light itself was understood as a ward. Fire was sacred. Flame drove back shadows where dangerous things could hide.

Into the hollowed vegetables, families placed candles or, in some traditions, burning coals. The light flickered through the carved eyes and mouths, making the faces seem alive, watchful, animated by something more than mere flame.

These guardians were placed at vulnerable points: doorways, windowsills, gates, the boundaries of properties. They formed a perimeter of protection, declaring to the Otherworld: This far and no further. We respect you, but we do not welcome you. Tonight, we guard our own.

The carved lanterns were not the only protection. On Samhain eve, as the sun set and darkness claimed the land, communities would gather to light enormous bonfires.

These were not ordinary fires. They were ritual fires, built with ceremony and intention. The Samhain bonfires served multiple purposes:

They were beacons of community. On the most dangerous night of the year, people gathered together rather than facing the darkness alone. There was safety in numbers, strength in unity.

They were offerings. Portions of the harvest were thrown into the flames—offerings, in some accounts, to appease the aos sí and honor the dead. In some traditions, all hearth fires in the community would be extinguished before Samhain, and every family would relight their home fires from the communal bonfire—symbolizing unity and renewal.

They were divination tools. Young people would throw marked stones into the fire, then search for them the next morning. If a stone was missing or damaged, ill fortune was predicted for the person who had thrown it.

They were protective barriers. Fire was the ultimate ward against supernatural forces. The light pushed back the darkness. The heat created a space of life and warmth against the cold breath of death.

(The practice of driving cattle between twin bonfires for protection and blessing is most commonly attested at Beltane in May, though Samhain fires served their own communal, protective, and divinatory purposes.)

Protection was not enough. Folk wisdom held that sometimes the best defense was clever disguise. By the early modern period, the practice of “guising” was well-established, especially in Scotland and Ireland.

On Samhain night, people—particularly young people—would dress in costumes and masks. They wore animal skins and furs. They blackened their faces with ash. They donned grotesque masks carved from wood or formed from straw. They dressed as the dead, as spirits, as the aos sí themselves.

The reasoning was simple: if you resembled the supernatural entities that walked abroad on Samhain night, those entities might mistake you for one of their own and pass you by without harm.

The disguised revelers would go from house to house, performing songs, poems, dances, or plays in exchange for food offerings. This was not mere entertainment. It was ritual theater serving sacred purposes.

The “guisers” represented the spirits themselves. By offering them food and hospitality, families fulfilled their obligations to the Otherworld—feeding the dead and the aos sí by proxy.

In Scotland, this practice was called “guising.” In Ireland, it was sometimes called “mumming” or “going about in disguise.” In the Isle of Man, young people carried their carved “moots” and demanded contributions for their Hop-tu-Naa songs. In Wales, it was Calan Gaeaf, celebrated with bonfires and fortune-telling.

These were survival strategies, passed down through generations. The costumes, the lanterns, the bonfires, the offerings—all of it formed a system of spiritual protection for navigating the most dangerous night of the year.

Inside the home, protected by carved lanterns and blessed fire, families prepared for Samhain with their own rituals.

The feast was central. Families would prepare elaborate meals—the best food they could afford, the finest portions of the recent harvest. But this was not merely a celebratory dinner. It was communion with the dead.

Extra places were set at the table. Empty chairs stood ready. Portions of food were set aside for the ancestors—deceased family members who were welcomed to return on this night. In some traditions, thresholds were symbolically kept open so spirits could enter. In Ireland and Scotland, families prepared barmbrack (a traditional fruit bread often containing tokens for divination) and, in some later traditions, held “dumb suppers”—meals eaten in silence to honor the dead.

(The practice of baking and distributing “soul cakes” was more typical of English All Souls’ Day observances, though the broader custom of offering food to the dead was widespread.)

This hospitality was crucial. By honoring deceased loved ones, by welcoming them home and feeding them, families hoped to earn the ancestors’ protection against more malevolent spirits.

Stories were told during the feast—tales of the family’s history, of ancestors and their deeds, keeping memory alive. By speaking the names of the dead, by recounting their lives, families kept those spirits present and powerful.

Divination was practiced extensively. Samhain was considered the most potent night for seeing the future. Young women would peel apples in one long strip and throw the peel over their shoulders, hoping it would form the initial of their future husbands. Nuts were named for potential lovers and thrown into the fire—if a nut burned quietly, the love would be true; if it popped and jumped, the relationship would be turbulent.

And through it all, the carved lanterns flickered in the windows, standing guard against the night.

While core beliefs about Samhain were shared across Celtic lands, each region developed its own specific traditions and fears.

In Ireland, the púca was particularly feared—a shape-shifting creature that could appear as a monstrous horse, goat, or goblin. After Samhain, any crops left unharvested were considered “púca’d” and inedible. The Dullahan, or headless rider, was also dreaded—a harbinger who carried his own severed head and was said to call out names as a portent of imminent death.

In Scotland, the Cat Sìth prowled on Samhain night—a large black fairy cat with a white spot on its chest. Families would leave out saucers of milk for the Cat Sìth. If the offerings pleased the creature, it would bless the house. If ignored, it would curse the household’s cattle. The Cailleach, the divine hag goddess who personified winter itself, was said to strike the ground with her staff on Samhain, bringing winter’s frost.

In Wales, people feared Yr Hwch Ddu Gwta (the Tailless Black Sow) and the Ladi Wen (White Lady). After the Samhain bonfire burned down, everyone would race home shouting “May the tailless black sow take the hindmost!”

In Cornwall, the festival was called Allantide or Allan Day, celebrated with large, polished Allan apples given as gifts and used in divination.

In Brittany, the night was known as Kala-Goañv (beginning of winter), with similar traditions of honoring the dead and protecting against malevolent spirits.

In the Isle of Man, Hop-tu-Naa featured turnip lanterns called “moots” and traditional songs accompanying door-to-door visits.

Each region carved its lanterns according to local tradition, used whatever vegetables grew best locally, and feared different specific entities. But all shared the fundamental belief: Samhain was dangerous, the veil was thin, and only the prepared would see morning safely.

When Christianity spread through Celtic lands, the Church could not eliminate Samhain. The festival was too deeply rooted, too central to the agricultural and spiritual calendar. Instead, the Church absorbed and transformed it.

All Saints’ Day, honoring all saints and martyrs, became fixed on November 1st under Pope Gregory IV in the 9th century. Around 998, Abbot Odilo of Cluny established All Souls’ Day on November 2nd, dedicated to praying for all the faithful departed. The night before All Saints’ Day became known as All Hallows’ Eve—eventually shortened to Halloween.

This was not coincidental. By overlaying Christian holy days onto Samhain, the Church sought to Christianize the pagan festival. The honoring of the dead remained, but now framed as Christian prayer for departed souls. The protective rituals continued, but now under the banner of Christian faith.

Yet the old ways persisted beneath the Christian veneer. People still carved their turnip lanterns, still lit their bonfires, still wore their costumes. The Church might call it All Hallows’ Eve, but in practice, it was still Samhain. The veil still grew thin. The dead still walked. And the carved lanterns still stood guard.

For centuries (and likely over a millennium in varying forms), families in Celtic lands carved their protective lanterns. The tradition was practical, passed down not as quaint folklore but as necessary spiritual technology.

These were not decorations. These were wards. These were shields against the supernatural. These were declarations to the Otherworld: We understand the old compact. We respect the boundaries between worlds. We honor the dead and acknowledge the aos sí. But we also protect our own.

The carved guardians were not named yet. That would come later, when an Irish blacksmith named Jack would trick the Devil and be condemned to wander with his own hollowed turnip and infernal ember. But the tradition—the practice of carving protection into root vegetables and setting them burning against the darkness—this was already ancient when Jack took his first breath.

When Irish and Scottish immigrants fled to America in the 19th century—particularly during the Great Famine—they brought these traditions with them. But the New World offered something transformative: the pumpkin. Native to the Americas, pumpkins were abundant and vastly easier to carve than tough turnips. The transition was rapid. By 1867, carved pumpkin jack-o’-lanterns appeared in Harper’s Weekly, cementing the tradition in American culture.

This was the foundation. This was the origin. This was why Jack’s lantern had meaning and power. Because for centuries before him, Celtic peoples had understood a fundamental truth:

On the night when the veil grows thin, you need light in the darkness.

You need a guardian face to stand watch.

You need the protection of carved symbols and sacred flame.

You need a barrier between your world and the Otherworld.

Long before Jack, there were guardians.

Long before the pumpkin, there was the turnip.

Long before Halloween, there was Samhain.

And on that night, when October turned to November and the year turned from light to dark, the Celtic peoples carved their protections and lit their fires and stood against the thin places where the worlds touched.

The tradition has endured. We still carve faces. We still light the flame. We still set our guardians in windows and on doorsteps.

Most people who carve jack-o’-lanterns today don’t know they’re continuing a centuries-old practice of spiritual protection. They don’t know their decorative pumpkins descend from protective wards carved by people who genuinely believed their survival depended on guarding against the aos sí.

But the symbolism endures. And every October, when jack-o’-lanterns glow in the darkness, the ancient guardians stand watch once more.

The veil grows thin.

The dead walk abroad.

The flame flickers in the carved face.

And we remember, even if we’ve forgotten we remember, that some traditions exist for a reason.

Some protections should never be abandoned.

Some nights require guardians.

This is one of them.