Manannan Trilogy

by Michele McGrath

  The woman nodded. “No problem with that.”

  Later that evening, as Niamh was preparing for their journey, Olaf said, “Are you sure you can do this? I’m weaker every day and the boat is heavy to manage.”

  “What choice do we have?” Niamh asked bleakly. “If we stay here you’ll lose your arm and possibly your life as well. It’s unfair to put Ean at risk to help us. His mother was right about that.”

  “I don’t think Ragnar’s people would hold either him or you.”

  “Nor I, but we can’t be sure, can we? Far simpler to go by ourselves.”

  Olaf nodded, looking out of the doorway at the setting sun. “The weather should favour us at least. Light winds and a calm sea if I’m any judge. Easier for you to work the boat that way.”

  “I’ll pray that you’re right,” Niamh said with a smile.

  Her prayers seemed to be effective for the weather did favour them. Ean and Peddyr helped them to push the boat out into the rippling waves and then stood waving them goodbye. Together they hoisted the sail and turned the boat’s head north towards the point. This time there was little exhilaration in the voyage. The effort of raising the sail had tired Olaf considerably and he flopped against the side of the boat. After a little while, he slept. Niamh was deeply thankful that the sea stayed calm and the wind drove the boat forward in the right direction. She sat still, hugging the tiller. She watched anxiously for any signs in the water that might give her warning of the presence of rocks.

  She was stiff and tired before the time came to turn the boat’s head to the south and come down the other side of the island. She had stood well out from the land, not knowing how far the sandbanks and breakers extended. They were now only a distant blur on the horizon. She could go no further on this tack; she would have to come about and it would take the two of them to ease the sail into its new position.

  “Olaf,” she called. “Olaf, wake up. It’s time to turn the boat.”

  His eyes opened and he peered up blearily into the light. “Where are we?” He struggled to sit up and then looked around.

  “The breakers are over there.” Niamh took a hand off the tiller to point. Olaf stumbled to his feet, clinging to one of the ropes that stayed the mast.

  “Why did you go so far out? We’ll be in the northern land if we don’t turn now.”

  “I wasn’t sure how far the breakers extended.”

  “Not as far as this! Turn the tiller into the wind and hold it tight.” Olaf unhitched the rope holding the sail from its pin and pulled it to the other side, making it fast. Then he joined her at the tiller, grasping it with his good hand.

  “When I tell you, turn the tiller away from sail. The boat will buck as the stern crosses the wind. Brace yourself, keep still and help me hold it.”

  “I will,” she said and she heard the fear in her voice.

  “Now!”

  Niamh pushed with all her strength and slowly the tiller turned. The boat’s stern moved with it and the vessel lurched through the waves, rolling so, for an instant, Niamh thought the sea would flood inside. Small waves certainly crashed against the sides, drenching them with spray but little water came aboard. Then they were through and pointing back towards the island. Olaf tightened the sail as much as he could for the wind was now blowing at an angle to the bow. They began to slice through the waves.

  “Hold her like that,” Olaf said, taking his hand from the tiller. “Stay out and we’ll be able to get round the headland. He slumped down again onto the floor of the boat.

  “Are you all right?” Niamh cried shrilly.

  “I’ve been better but I’m not dead yet!” Olaf raised his head and grinned at her. Horrified she saw the tell-tale red stain on his upper arm.

  “You’re bleeding again! Oh what can I do?”

  “Don’t let go of the tiller or you’ll drown us both! I’ll get some rope to tie around it. That’ll do until we can get to shore.”

  Olaf made a noose, pulling it tight with his good hand. Niamh helped as much as she could with only one hand free from the tiller. Olaf told her not to tie the tiller, or the currents would knock them off course.

  Niamh was shaking with cold, fear and aching muscles as they rounded the point at last and came out into the big bay. She saw the river mouth and, with almost her last strength, she drove the boat towards it. She hoped to get far enough upriver to find somewhere to land and tie up the vessel. Olaf, by this time, was slipping in and out of consciousness, and would never be able to reach Ragnar’s village unaided.

  The boat drove forward, with the wind dying away behind it, until it gently grated onto the sand and came to rest. Niamh forced herself over the side and jumped down into the water, wading ashore, the mooring rope held tightly in her hand. She hitched it to a tree, knotting it carefully as Olaf had shown her so many months ago. Then she returned to the ship. She checked Olaf’s wound and padded it with cloth, retying the rope so the blood flow was stilled at least for the time being. She covered him over with their cloaks, made him as comfortable as possible and set a jug of water beside him. Then she left him lying there and set out to walk the remaining miles to Ragnar’s village.

  20

  Niamh made no effort to conceal her presence; she was too tired and anxious. So she did not see the watchers until she walked right into their arms.

  “Oho! What have we here?”

  The man was large and his breath smelled vile, but Niamh did not draw away from him, instead she clutched at him as if she was drowning.

  “The Red Lady! Take me to the Red Lady!” she cried into his ear.

  “What do you want with her?”

  “She told me to come. Please, hurry. It’s urgent.”

  “Better do as she says, Hein. You don’t want the Red Lady to put a hex on you.”

  “Come on then.” Roughly the man took her arm and would have urged her forward, but she needed no urging. Linked together, they all but ran the last half mile into the village.

  “Renny! Renny!” Niamh called as soon as she was near enough to be heard. She almost wept with relief when she saw the tall red haired figure hurrying out to meet her.

  “Niamh! What is it? What’s happened to you?”

  “We didn’t do anything to her, Lady, honest!” Hein protested.

  “Not me,” Niamh cried, shaking off his restraining hand, “it’s Olaf!”

  “Where is he?” Renny asked, peering around her to find him.

  “He’s back on the boat, wounded. It’s too far to carry him.”

  “Wounded?”

  “In his arm, an old wound that won’t heal and now it’s getting worse!” Niamh’s voice was full of her fear.

  “Pall, Reifnir, Hein, Iarl get a litter and fetch the man here to me. Gilla, Asta – build up the fire and heat water.” Niamh moved as if to go after the men, but Renny held onto her.

  “Niamh — stay and tell me about Olaf’s wound. Then we can be prepared.”

  “They may not find him.”

  Renny smiled. “Of course they will, unless you brought a fleet with you! How many boats did you leave in the river mouth today?”

  “Only one.” Niamh looked sheepish. “But Olaf may not want to come.”

  “Does he know what he’s doing?”

  “Not fully. I don’t want him hurt.”

  “He won’t be. Go into the house and wait for me while I give these men their instructions.”

  Niamh ducked under the doorway and entered a room full of light. Two women were building up the fire and had lighted several tallow pots. As Niamh came forward hesitantly, one of them smiled and said to her, “I remember you. You’ve been here before.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You looked better then; you’re as white as a sheet now.”

  “It was a difficult journey.” Niamh felt her legs suddenly giving way and she tumbled down onto one of the seats by the fire.

  “Fetch her some of the berry wine.” Renny had seen her fall and hurried
over to her.

  “Are you hurt too?”

  “Only tired.” Niamh wrapped her fingers around the beaker that was thrust into her hand and sipped cautiously.

  “Anxious too, no doubt,” Renny said briskly. “Now tell me why you’ve come here and what’s happened to your man.”

  “It’s a long story...”

  “Tell it quickly so that we may be ready when they bring him back.”

  Niamh told her about Olaf’s first wound and what she had done to heal it. Then she described the fresh injury, which would not heal. Renny was frowning when she had finished.

  “Do you think you can help him?” Niamh asked her anxiously.

  “I don’t know. It may already be too late and it’s probable that the arm can’t be saved, if he’s to survive. Yet what I can do, I will.”

  When Olaf was brought in on his litter, her frown deepened. Somewhere on the journey, his senses had left him and he lay unconscious, his breath rasping in his throat. One of the women came forward, carrying a jug of water but Renny motioned her away.

  “Leave him asleep. It may be for the best.” Gently, she unwrapped the bindings on Olaf’s arm. Her fingers probed the wound and she bent towards it and sniffed. Then she sat back on her heels and looked at Niamh.

  “There is one thing I can do for him but it’s unpleasant and, although I’ve seen it done, I’ve never done it myself.”

  “What is it?”

  “Burn the poison out of the wound.”

  “Burn it?”

  “Yes. Seal the lips of the cut and where the skin has turned blue, with fire.”

  “Is there no other way?” Niamh asked fearfully.

  “It’s too late for ointments or brews. See here.” Renny traced the line of blue that discoloured Olaf’s pale skin. “The poison is being drawn into his body. Once it reaches his heart it’ll kill him as surely as any dagger. Only two things can stop it. Either I burn it out or his arm must come off.”

  “Will he be able to use his arm again if you burn it?”

  “Not as it is now. Other things must be done before that happens, but there’s little time left if we’re to save his life. That must come first. Giving him back the use of his arm is for later. This is for you to decide, Niamh.” Renny looked into her eyes. “To rouse Olaf now would be a cruelty. I must hurt him and it would be better done if he remains asleep. I can’t tell you that burning the poison will do what we want, only that I know no other way and I will try if you agree.”

  Niamh’s eyes dropped to Olaf’s pale face, lingering there, while her mind tossed in turmoil. “Olaf agreed to come here to ask for your help,” she said at last. “I don’t want him to die and so, if there is no other way, I agree.”

  The next hour passed in hurried preparation. Cauldrons of water were heated. The fire was blown up until the embers were white hot. Renny’s husband brought her pieces of metal in different shapes and on her instructions, put them to heat on the fire. Olaf was lashed down tightly to the litter with leather straps so he could not move. Four of the strongest men were stationed around him, ready to subdue him if he fought against his tethers. When all was ready, Renny said, “Go away, Niamh, you should not be here.”

  Niamh shook her head. “If he has to endure it, so do I. Maybe he’ll look for me and I don’t want him to think I’ve deserted him. Besides...” She gave Renny a watery smile. “...One day I may have to do this for some other poor soul so I need to watch you.” Their eyes met and Renny nodded.

  “Stay then but further back, so, if you can’t stand it, you won’t get in the way.”

  “That’s sensible,” Niamh agreed and moved behind the men, but she made sure she could still see Olaf’s face.

  Renny took a deep breath and removed the padding she had placed on Olaf’s arm, exposing the wound.

  “Now Edan, the thinnest piece...” She stretched out her hand and her husband gave her a glowing piece of metal, well wrapped in a smoking cloth.

  “Hold him!” The men’s hands gripped Olaf’s arms and legs and without hesitation, Renny laid the shining shard against the side of his wound. The skin sizzled and a terrible smell filled the air. Olaf lunged forward, a great cry forced from his throat. The men pushed him back and Renny ripped the metal away, looking intently at the blackened flesh. Niamh felt her stomach churn, but she kept watching. Then Renny carefully handed the blade to her husband who plunged it back into the fire.

  “Another!” Sweat was standing out like beads on her forehead, but Renny did not stop what she was doing. Time after time, she seared the hot metal against Olaf’s skin, delicately tracing the blue marks until all of them were burned away. After the first three times he did not fight again. For an instant, Niamh wondered if he was gone, but then she saw the shaking of his legs and knew that he still lived.

  It seemed hours later, although it must have been minutes, when eventually Renny said,

  “Enough. I have done all I can. If there is any more poison inside, he must fight it on his own. Asta, the salve.” Very carefully, Renny spread the ointment over Olaf’s burned flesh, using only her fingertip. Niamh came forward and knelt beside her. Together they lifted the arm and wrapped it up.

  “You’re crying,” Renny said and it was only then that Niamh realised that her face was wet with tears.

  “Thank you for what you’ve done,” Niamh said. “That can’t have been easy.”

  “It wasn’t. Now we must pray that I was in time and I’ve burned enough of the poison so that he’ll get better.”

  The days passed into weeks and Olaf still lived. At first, he lay like one stupefied. Then gradually, he woke to his pain. Fever came, when he shook with cold while his skin burned like fire. Niamh and Renny took turns watching him. During that time of anxious waiting, Renny became a teacher and Niamh proved an apt pupil.

  “I wish I’d known all this before,” she said with a sigh. “You’re so clever.”

  “Not me,” Renny said gently, a small reminiscent smile on her lips. “All I’ve taught you came from my beloved Màistir. Until I met him I was far more ignorant than you are. It was his special gift to me and he made me promise to pass my knowledge on to others. I’m glad to give it to someone who’ll value it as much as I do. I charge you to keep passing on the knowledge to anyone who’s willing to learn so it doesn’t die.”

  Niamh worked hard, learning and practising the things Renny taught her. She also helped in the work of the village, conscious of her debt to those around her. No one said that she and Olaf were unwelcome, but Niamh wanted to do as much as she could to set against the burden of Olaf’s needs.

  The day came when he opened his eyes and they were clear. Both women were with him at the time and he recognised them. The pain had lessened, soothed by the syrup of poppies that Renny gave to him.

  “It’s like magic,” Niamh said in wonder, as she watched the lines of pain fade from Olaf’s brow.

  “My Màistir taught me how to make the syrup. He planted some special seeds his father brought from the east and these wonderful red flowers grew. I go back to the place now and again to harvest enough for our needs. I’m so glad I can. People get well faster when their pain is taken away.”

  The flesh on Olaf’s arm was pitted and whitened where his skin had been burned away. His wound had closed, with new skin growing over the top. The shape of the metal blades was etched into his arm and would never leave him. His life had been saved, but he could not use his arm any better than he had before. If anything, it was worse.

  “Is there no more we can do for him?” Niamh asked Renny, when they were apart and he could not hear what they said. “He feels so useless as a one-armed man.”

  “His arm might be broken again and the bones reset, but, even then, I’m not sure if doing that would work. His muscles have been twisted in some way and they lie awry. You can feel the bump of them at his elbow.”

  “I’ve wondered about that.”

  “I don’t know what’s happened. Perha
ps they’ve come apart from the bone. I can’t tell.”

  “So there’s nothing you can do? He’ll have to be like that for the rest of his life?” Niamh could hear the despair in her voice.

  “Nothing I know how to do,” Renny replied. “Such an injury didn’t occur during the time my Màistir was with me. He never told me and I could do Olaf more harm than good if I tried. Better to leave it as it is.”

  “If only we knew where your Màistir went,” Niamh said, as Renny’s husband came round the corner to them, a mended bridle over his shoulder. He smiled when he saw them.

  “Talking secrets together?” he asked, dropping a kiss onto Renny’s head.

  “Niamh was saying she wondered where McLir had gone when he left the island.”

  “He went towards the south east, towards Bretyn.”

  “You know?” Niamh was surprised.

  “Renny and I watched him sail away. He didn’t change his course, as long as we could see him. You remember, don’t you?” he asked his wife.

  “I’ll never forget.”

  “Then he might still be there,” Niamh gasped.

  “No he isn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My brother, Dag, sent a ship after him. McLir killed Sétanta who was Dag’s ally. They searched the shoreline to the east but they could find no trace of him or his ship.”

  “Oh.” Niamh’s disappointment was so evident that Renny put her arms around her and hugged her close.

  “Dag wasn’t away long and Bretyn has a big coastline with many inlets that would hide a ship the size of Wave Sweeper. He could still be there, but we’ll never know for sure where he went unless he comes back and tells us.” Renny sighed.

  “He’ll never do that,” Edan said. “Not while Dag is alive and Sétanta’s son still hunts him. He’s gone where none can call him back. His gods go with him. He was a good man and many owe their lives to him.”

  The conversation ended, but Niamh did not forget. As she prepared for their voyage home, thoughts went round and round in her mind. Perhaps the searchers had missed some clue. Maybe someone in Bretyn had word of him. McLir had left the island years ago, but there are not many men who can cure illnesses and fewer still who are called magicians. Surely there would be some rumour of him across the sea, if he was still alive. She faced the possibility that he was already dead. If he was, nothing could help Olaf.