Manannan Trilogy

by Michele McGrath

  “Come outside. I must talk to you.”

  They walked along the riverbank. “Have you decided?” Niamh asked.

  “Tell me what you think first.”

  “I think you should go ahead,” she said as firmly as she could, although her voice was shaking.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re a very brave man. You’ve suffered so much pain and this’ll make you suffer again, perhaps even worse than you did before. I couldn’t do it myself but you could, I know it. You can face any danger and, if you don’t do this, you’ll always regret the fact that you didn’t try. Isn’t that so?”

  Olaf smiled. “You know me too well. Do you think you could nurse me again as you did before. I won’t sicken you with my weakness?”

  “Never!”

  “And if my arm remains useless, you’ll not grieve?”

  “I’ll grieve, but we’ll both know that it was meant to be. We came all this way to find McLir in the hope he could heal you. I say, let him try.”

  “So be it, then.”

  24

  When it came to the breaking of Olaf’s arm, Niamh found she could not look. They were no longer in the village. When Olaf had told McLir of his decision, the magician nodded and said,

  “I’ll do as you ask. You’re young and strong and, if the gods favour us, we may have some success.”

  “When?”

  “Soon, but not here. There’s a woman who’s skilled in caring for the sick. She has helped me before and this will not be a simple or easy thing to do. We’ll go to her, so that she can oversee your care if I am called away.”

  So, later on that morning, Olaf and Niamh boarded McLir’s boat and set off downstream. The current was swift and there was no need to raise the sail. They had only to fend off the occasional large rocks that appeared from time to time in the water. It was barely noon when McLir turned the prow towards the bank where a small stream entered the main river.

  “We must walk from here,” he said.

  Olaf jumped down from the high prow and lashed the boat to a tree. “Shouldn’t we hide it?” he asked.

  McLir smiled. “The people know whose ship this is and no one would dare to touch it. They’re afraid I would turn them into toads if they steal it or take anything from it.”

  “And would you?” Niamh asked, her eyes wide.

  McLir laughed at the awe in her voice. “I don’t have such powers and I’m not sure I would use them if I did. Come now.” McLir shouldered his pack and led the way along a faint trail that led into the hills. The path quickly became steep and Niamh had little breath left for speech as they struggled upwards. They crossed a flat summit and then plunged down into a valley on the other side of the hill. They walked for some time, until they entered dense woodland. This brought back memories of being lost, but McLir did not hesitate and went forward with confidence. Niamh looked around her and she could see no signs which would guide him on his way. Then he stopped and pointed. A spiral of smoke rose in the sky.

  “We’re almost there,” McLir said, hurrying forward. They followed closely and came to the edge of the woods. A small group of huts appeared before them, with fields in which crops were growing and animals grazed. They were seen, for a whoop went up. Two children came running, a boy of about ten summers and a little girl who could barely walk. McLir stopped and opened his arms to them and they plunged in.

  “These are Guinn and Annwyl, Elin’s children and here she is.” McLir picked up the baby Annwyl. He came forward to greet a small dark woman who came out of the largest hut, drying her hands on a sacking apron.

  “Let me take her, Meistr. It’s not fitting for you to carry her.”

  McLir laughed. “I could not carry her far, she’s becoming too heavy for me and Guinn is growing like a weed in the summer rain.”

  “You’ve been away too long, Meistr. But whom do you bring with you today?”

  “People in need of your help. These are Abban and Niamh.” He waved them forward. “This is Elin, the wife of Aneirin. He’s not here?”

  “He’s hunting. He won’t be back before tomorrow night.”

  “I look forward to seeing him then.”

  “Come in, Meistr, you and your friends and tell me in what way I can help you.”

  “Meistr, that’s a fearsome thing,” Elin said when McLir told her what he proposed to do. Her eyes sought Olaf’s across the fire. “Are you sure it’ll help?”

  “Sure? No, but I believe that it’ll make a difference, even if it’s a small one.”

  “It’s a chance I wish to take,” Olaf said. “If you’ll help us, Niamh and I will be very grateful.”

  “I wouldn’t do such a thing for gratitude,” Elin said sharply. “I already owe the Meistr more than I can ever repay. Without him I would no longer have my son. If he says he’ll do this and needs my help, he has only to ask. But it’s still a fearsome thing and will cause you much pain.”

  “I’ll do what I can to ease that pain,” McLir promised.

  Next morning, everything was made ready. McLir gave Olaf a beaker of ale into which various substances had been stirred.

  “It’ll make you lose your senses for a time and you’ll struggle less. Do you trust me?” McLir asked Olaf with a smile.

  “I trust you,” Olaf said, raising the beaker as a toast to him and drank the ale to the last drop. He lay back and tight straps tied him tightly to a wooden bench. His arm had already been positioned on a piece of wood that would hold the bones in their new position. Niamh was surprised how quickly his eyelids drooped and his head lolled to one side.

  “Quickly now!”

  McLir lifted a stone hammer and felt Olaf’s arm for the breaks. Niamh turned away, but she still heard the crack, crack, crack of the bones as they were shattered. The grunts of the man, feeling the pain through his stupor, almost broke her courage.

  “The ointment!” She turned back to her duties and passed the jar to McLir. The thick yellow cream was spread over the battered skin. McLir twisted the arm this way and that, pushing against the rapidly swelling skin as he forced the bones into their new position. It was done in only a few minutes. Between them, McLir and Elin tied more wood on top of the arm, so it was held firm.

  “That has gone well, better than I expected. Most of the muscles have unravelled themselves. It should be enough, at least, I hope so. Now we must wait,” McLir said. “It’ll be a little while before he regains his senses.”

  “That can’t have been easy. Have some ale,” Elin offered. “Niamh looks as if she needs it and you are pale, too, Meistr. If you wish go out and sit in the sun, I will watch him until he wakes.”

  Niamh and McLir left the hut and went to sit on the trunk of a fallen tree which served the family as a bench. Silence surrounded them, as they sat there together. Only the sound of the animals and the wind through the leaves could be heard, although Niamh kept listening for any murmur from the sleeping man. The baby was asleep too and Guinn was off somewhere on an errand of his own. The silence lulled Niamh and her eyes were closing, when McLir asked suddenly,

  “Where do you come from? You are not Norse as Abban is, for all he uses another name now.”

  “You’re right. I come from the western isle.”

  “It’s a large place. Where exactly?”

  “I lived in a small rath inland from the town the Norsemen call Veigsfjorthr.”

  “What’s the rath’s name?”

  “We called it the place of the oak, ‘Ait Darach’ in the language of us both.”

  The man looked surprised. “How do you know we share a tongue?”

  “You speak certain words in the way that I’ve known all my life.”

  “Your ear’s good, for I’ve been many years away from those lands. But tell me who lived there with you.”

  “I lived with my father’s brother, his wife and the rest of our tribe.”

  “What is your uncle’s name?”

  “Aed, the son of Lir and Sionain
n.”

  The man drew in a hissing breath and he looked at her sharply. His eyes widened as if he had just received a shock. His face paled and his hands clenched.

  “You know who I am.” It was a statement not a question and Niamh nodded.

  “I do, although no one spoke of you when I was growing up. Eber told me about you when he was taking me away from the rath for my wedding. Until this moment I did not truly believe his words.”

  “Eber was always my friend, one of the few who stood by me when troubles came. Is he still alive?”

  “I think so. He was when I left him.”

  McLir put out his hand and stroked the softness of her hair. “I never expected to see you again in this life.” His eyes were bright with unshed tears. “It was one of the hardest things I have ever done, to leave you behind me. Did Eber ever tell you about your mother, Emer?”

  “He said that you loved her, but she died and you never spoke of her again.”

  “I didn’t speak of her because I couldn’t. She was very beautiful. Had she lived we would have married.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “My father sent me on a journey. I didn’t know that I left her with child. When I returned, she was already dead and buried.”

  “Why didn’t you take me with you when you left for good?”

  “You were well and cared for. I was going into danger and you looked even more like Emer then than you do now. You reminded me of my loss and I couldn’t bear it. Forgive me.”

  His dark eyes searched her face and she nodded slowly. Then she reached beneath her tunic and pulled out the last of the golden flowers. She put it into his hand. He shied away as if the metal burned him. He looked at it for a long moment in silence and then he said,

  “I gave this to your mother, but it’s one of a pair. Where is the other?”

  “I gave it to Renny, to thank her for the help she’d given to us.”

  “Then it is well disposed.” He smiled and, for a little while, they sat in silence as they each fell deep into their own thoughts.

  Then Niamh started to say, “Meistr...”

  McLir interrupted her, “You, alone in the world, may call me ‘Athair’ as a daughter should and I shall call you ‘Iníon’, for you are my child.”

  Niamh smiled and began again, finding the word odd, for she had never used it before. “Athair, do you really think that Abban has a chance of using his arm again?”

  “If I didn’t think so, I would have done nothing to him. I think he’ll use it again, but never as he did before. It’s been too badly hurt. You care deeply for this man, don’t you?” Niamh nodded and a tear rolled down her cheek as she thought of Olaf in agony. “You’re a long way from my brother’s house. How did you come to be with Abban?”

  “It’s a long tale and Abban may wake up soon.”

  “We’ve time. He’ll not wake for some hours. Tell me.”

  So Niamh told her story. This time she kept nothing back, not even Olaf’s true name. McLir listened mainly in silence, only asking a question or two to make things clearer.

  “You’ve had a journey of which the bards would sing,” he said when she had finished. “Your grandfather was a great traveller in many lands and he’d have been proud of you. What do you hope for when your journey is at an end?”

  Niamh smiled, but her smile was sad. “I would like to go back to our farm on the island. I would like to live in peace with Olaf and, if God wills it, to bear his children.”

  “You’ve never quickened with a child?”

  “No, never. It makes me sad and I wonder what I’ve done that no baby has ever grown inside me.”

  “Children come and go as fate decrees and some women cannot bear children. Others can be helped to do so.”

  “Olaf’s brother’s wife, Eithne, gave me a drink made out of dandelions, burdock and yarrow to help me conceive, but nothing happened.”

  “That’s not strong enough, merely an old wife’s remedy. If you’re sure you wish to have a child, I have other potions which might help you, but no need just yet. It’ll be some time before Olaf is fit for such things.”

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  “He’s a brave young man and he has treated you with unusual respect. Those are two things that must stand in his favour.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Annwyl began to cry at that moment. Niamh immediately rose and went to relieve Elin’s vigil. She found Olaf still asleep, but his face was pale and great beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

  “Only to be expected,” McLir said when she called him. “He’ll get worse before he’s better.”

  His words proved only too true. There were times in the next few days when Niamh wished she had persuaded Olaf otherwise. He tossed and turned in a fever, rarely opening his eyes and making only inarticulate sounds. They bathed him, when his skin was hot, and gave him cool water to drink.

  “He can still swallow and doesn’t choke. That’s a good thing,” McLir said. He dribbled a little sweet syrup between his lips. When he did so, the tossing eased and Olaf slipped back into darkness.

  It was early on the third day that he opened his eyes and looked around him. Niamh was sitting beside him, watching his face. She had been alerted by his sudden stillness and wondered whether it was a good sign or a bad one. Her heart pounded when he smiled at her.

  “How do you feel?” she asked gently.

  “Thirsty.”

  He drank some water and even managed to sip a little of the broth that Elin had made against his waking. Then he drifted off into sleep again. This time his sleep was easier and McLir smiled when he saw him.

  “He’ll start to heal now,” he told Niamh. “You need no longer worry about him.”

  McLir was proved right. From that day onward, Olaf improved rapidly. McLir left them at the farm with Elin and her husband, Aneirin, who had returned when Olaf was unconscious. He had shared the watching with Niamh and his wife. McLir gave them instructions and Elin was obviously used to the work, for she knew just what to do. She had often worked as McLir’s assistant, if a cure was difficult or a patient needed careful nursing. Also she and her children went out into the woods gathering leaves and plants and berries, which she dried or pounded into paste. These were the bases of McLir’s remedies. When he was well enough, Olaf and Niamh went with them and came back carrying huge bundles.

  “When the Meistr returns he’ll need all we can find,” Elin told them. “He rewards me well for my labours and it’s easy work.”

  “It wasn’t easy to look after me,” Olaf murmured.

  She laughed. “You were little trouble compared to some he’s brought to me before. May they all be like you.”

  It was almost ten days before McLir came back. Olaf was himself again, although he said that the splint made him itch worse than dancing lice.

  “You must bear it a while longer,” McLir said, running his fingers over the arm and pushing to feel the ends of the shattered bones. “The bones need time to join together, but they’re doing so and the lumps of fibres are flatter. I’m pleased with you.”

  “How soon will we know whether I can use my arm again?”

  “When this new moon has passed and the next moon is aging. Then I’ll release your arm and we’ll see. It’ll be very weak and you must work slowly to regain your strength.”

  He drew Niamh aside and put into her hands a stoppered vial.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Something to bring a baby. I’ve had to go far for one of the herbs that are in it, but I found it at last. Drink it after he plants his seed in you. This syrup has helped others, it may help you.”

  “Thank you.”

  25

  Niamh had no need of the syrup for several weeks, but, in the end, one night she used it with joy. Olaf’s splint had been taken off and his arm was straight again. As McLir predicted, his muscles were very weak, but he could curl his fingers and even carry some weight.

&n
bsp; “Healing will take time. Don’t try to hurry,” McLir warned him. “Speed may do you harm. Every day you must use your arm a little more and you will see how fast it heals.”

  Olaf took him at his word. He sought jobs to do, helping Aneirin on the farm and caring for the animals. They often went hunting together and became fast friends. Niamh stayed behind with Elin, working in the house, looking after her children and making more of the potions that McLir needed. McLir was often away now, for longer and longer periods.

  “We must go home soon,” Olaf said one day, looking at the falling leaves, “or we’ll have to wait here until spring. We won’t be able to manage the boat in a winter storm.”

  “Yes. It’s not fair to expect Elin and Aneirin to feed us through the winter,” Niamh agreed, realising what he meant. “They’ve been so good to us. When McLir comes here next, we’ll tell him and take our leave of them.”

  They had been walking along one of the forest paths as they talked and came to place where some grassy turf ran down to a little stream. It was still hot, although the nights were growing colder and the air held the tang of autumn. Niamh stooped down to drink and wet a cloth to wash her skin. Suddenly she was aware that Olaf was watching her, in a way he had not done for many weeks. She smiled at him and he took her hand. He led her away to where some ferns grew thickly enough to make a fragrant bed. Very slowly he undressed her, stroking her breasts and the places where she cried out for pleasure. Then he was moving inside her, slowly and then more and more urgently. They came together in a moment of purest joy.

  When she returned to the house, Niamh took out the little vial McLir had given her and drank its contents to the last drop. “If he has not planted his seed in me this afternoon,” she thought, crossing her fingers for luck, “he never will.”

  “We must leave you soon,” Olaf told Aneirin and Elin as they sat together one evening, several weeks later. “We’ve been waiting for McLir to come back, but there’s no sign of him and, if we don’t go, we’ll not be able to cross the winter sea.”