The Cult
Balor was never worshipped, so far as any evidence reaches: no Irish inscription names him, no sanctuary can be assigned to him, and the medieval literati who wrote him down were antiquarians of their own past, not his priests. What the corpus preserves in place of a cult is a landscape and a fear. The landscape is Tory Island off the Donegal coast, whose oral tradition pins his fortress and Eithne's tower to named rocks — Tór Mór above all — so that his 'cult site' is the cliff-line itself, still pointed out from boats. The fear is the evil-eye complex: Irish folk practice kept a working armoury of protections against the withering look — spitting, salt, turned garments, praise deliberately qualified — and Mac Cana and Sjoestedt are surely right to read Balor as that folk-belief grown into a king. Between the rocks and the rituals stands the only institution that demonstrably served him: the monastic schools whose scribes copied Cath Maige Tuired into Harley 5280, keeping the tyrant's dossier alive as literature.


