Manannan's Magic (Manannan Trilogy Book 1)

by Michele McGrath

  After I finished my meal, he took away the bowl and drew back the sheepskin that covered me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I need to examine your injuries, now you are awake.”

  “You'll hurt me,” I protested. I tried to push his hand away, not wanting any more pain, ever again.

  “If I do, tell me and I shall stop,” he promised. Pain only stabbed me when he adjusted the splint on my leg. Even that was nothing like the anguish I had endured before. The angry bruises on my side were already healing, fading from purple to brown and yellow. My leg was still swollen but no longer hot.

  “How long have I been ill?” I gasped, realising that a long time must have passed since I was injured.

  “Almost three weeks.”

  I lay back, limp, as if all the stuffing had been knocked out of me. Such a long time and I had known nothing about it at all.

  “Good, everything is healing well. You must be more careful, now you are in your senses. When you fell, you broke your right leg and cracked two ribs. I trussed up your chest and bound your leg to a splint. This’ll keep the bones together until they can fuse. You must not try to move. Stay as still as you can. Breaks like these take time to mend. It’ll be some weeks more before you’re well enough to walk again.”

  He covered me up and, as he moved away, a thought struck me.

  “Where am I?” I asked him.

  “You’re in the cave that I have made my home.”

  “But no one knows where you live.”

  “That’s because this place can only be reached by water. It’s hidden from the land.”

  “Only by water?” I repeated feeling shocked. Who would willingly choose to live far away from other people, in a lonely sea-bound cave? And why?

  He nodded. “I brought you here in my boat. I didn't think you’d remember the journey. You’re in one of the sea caves on the eastern coast of the island.”

  “What a strange place to live.”

  “I have my reasons.”

  He had made me curious. Yet I was too weak to make the effort to ask him anything further, until I woke the next morning. Then all my questions returned. I had thought of another one too, far more important to me. If no one had any idea where the magician lived, they could not possibly know I was here either. Not unless he had told someone and who would he tell?

  As soon as he stirred and came over to me, I asked, “Does anyone know I'm here?”

  “No. You've been too ill for me to leave you, and I don’t even know your name.”

  “Then my mother will be frantic! If no one knows where I am, they’ll all think I fell into the sea and drowned!” Horror swept over me at the thought. Mummig is not like my father. She loves me and I love her. She’d be distraught. Father was more likely to be furious. He'd probably think I'd fallen just to give him trouble. Everyone would have searched, of course. They would not have found any trace of me and I had not returned. They must simply have given me up for dead by now.”

  “Now you are recovered sufficiently to be left alone. I’ll go and send a message to your people, telling them you’re alive and what happened to you. Shea can stay here with you, for the short time I'm away, to keep you company. What is your name and where do you live?”

  “Please, would you do that for me? My name is Renny; I'm the daughter of Oshin and Feena. My home lies on the north side of Sniaull Mountain, beside the Awin Vooar. The village is called Ballabeg. Anyone will tell you where it is.”

  “The little place by the great river,” he translated, thoughtfully. “How fortunate your language is similar to my own. We can speak to each other easily.”

  “Our fishermen say they can understand the speech of people from the western island. You come from there, don't you?” I asked shyly.

  He smiled down at me. “Perhaps.” He fetched a jug and put some food beside me, where I could reach it without moving. Then he built up the fire. “Rest quietly. Do not move. Go back to sleep if you can. I’ll not be long. Shea, stay with her!”

  He wrapped himself in his cloak, picked up his staff and departed. The dog obediently settled down beside me. But he never took his eyes away from the opening, through which his master had disappeared. I stroked his fur. He only grumbled deep in his throat and did not turn his head. His mind was with the one he loved, not me.

  When the stranger had gone, I obediently tried to doze again. The cave was quiet, for the day outside was fine. Only a gentle breeze drifted in through the entrance. Watery sunlight flickered through the gap, dappling the walls in light and shade. I watched as the sun crawled slowly across the room, until my eyes closed. I must have slept, for it did not seem long before Shea jumped to his feet. He barked joyously as his master entered the cave.

  “I sent the message,” the stranger told me, sitting down to warm his hands at the fire. “Your parents will have it this evening.”

  “You have been away such a short time. I expected you to be gone for hours.”

  “A fishing boat was out in the bay. I came alongside and asked if one of the sailors would take the message to your people for me. The boat will go ashore at dusk and someone will go to the village then.”

  “Thank you, you’re very good.” I sighed. “My mother will be happy now. I only wish she could be with me.”

  Sadness showed briefly on McLir's face. “I’m sorry, that’s something I can’t do for you.”

  I bit my lip. “Why not?” I did not actually say the words aloud. Yet they seemed to hang in the air between us and he answered my unspoken question:

  “I can’t bring your mother here, for I don’t want anyone to find out where I live. You’re not yet well enough to go home. Such a journey could undo the healing which is taking place. It might even leave you with a crooked leg. You’d never walk again without a limp. There’s no need for you to go yet. You’re welcome to stay here until you’re well enough to leave.”

  “Sir, my father will want me home once he receives your message and knows I’m still alive. He’d never allow me to remain with you.” I tried to imagine Father's face on learning where I was and quailed at the thought.

  “Your father can’t find you, so he has no choice in the matter. Anyway, he’d not want you to be crippled, unnecessarily, would he? He’ll just have to wait until you’re able to make the journey safely.”

  “He’s an impatient man.”

  “This time, he must curb his impatience.” His tone was firm and held a note that I recognised instinctively. It was the arrogance of a man used to having his commands obeyed.

  He would say no more, and I did not press him. I was only too aware of how much he had already done, and his words had frightened me. My father only tolerates my presence at home because I'm not yet old enough to leave him, not for at least another year at least. I am sure he wants to get rid of me as soon as possible. If I became a cripple, I would not be able to marry and leave him. If I could not work, what man would pay a dowry for me? I'd be left at home, a constant burden to my father. He only valued me for what my bonding would bring to him one day. I feared marriage and child bearing, as any girl does, but not being married was an even worse fate.

  “If I stay here, will I be able to walk properly again?” I asked, unable to keep the anxiety out of my voice.

  “I think you will. I hope so. Only time will really tell,” the stranger said. With that, I had to be satisfied, although my fear did not go away for many weeks. He had reminded me, though, of the debt I owed him. I tried to find the right words to thank him for all he had done.

  “I’ve given you a lot of trouble already, and I'll give you more if I stay. I haven't even thanked you for saving me from drowning yet,” I said, shyly. “If you hadn’t rescued me and cared for me, I’d certainly be dead.”

  “Shea found you, although I’d seen the cliff fall and you falling with it. If we hadn't been on that part of the strand . . .”

  “Why were you there,” I broke in, “in the middle of a dreadfu
l storm?” It seemed very odd to me. Few people went out in such weather for any reason, unless they had been caught unawares, like me.

  “There’s great energy in a storm,” he told me, “a stronger power than any possessed by man. I glory in the fury of the raging elements.”

  His face became rapt. I stared at him blankly, astonished. It had never occurred to me that someone could be entranced by the violence of a storm. Most of us fear the damage strong winds and lightning can do. We huddle inside until everything is over. I tried to imagine anyone choosing to be out amidst such turmoil and failed. He was a strange being and I did not even know who he was.

  “If I'm going to stay here with you,” I said shyly, “I need a name to call you by.” The new confidence I had in him seemed like a glow deep inside me. “When I told you mine, you didn’t tell me yours. Please tell me. I wouldn’t want to seem rude to you.”

  “I’ve many names in many different places. My real name is Manannan, the son of Lir,” he answered, with a smile. “You may call me McLir, as most people do.”

  Little did I realise then that all men would come to know his name in future years. His fame would spread far and wide. I called him 'McLir' for weeks, until, in the end, I gave him another, more suitable name. To me, he became 'Màistir' which means 'teacher'. Indeed, he was a beloved teacher to me for as long as we were together.

  4

  The cave was a strange place for anyone to choose to live. A narrow slit opened out from the sea, wide enough to provide a concealed mooring. Wave Sweeper, McLir’s boat, hung safely there at anchor. Jagged rocks, crusted with shells and seaweed led to a small ledge in front of the crack in the rock. This tiny hole led to an interior as large as the biggest dwelling. The entrance sat high enough above the water so only the most violent storm would reach it. Yet an active man could easily climb up, even if carrying a heavy load. All this I learned later of course, when at last I began to move again.

  For the moment, the cave itself was my whole world and I found it a fascinating place to be. A small stream trickled down the rock walls on its way to the sea, providing us with sweet water. McLir had constructed a fire pit among some rocks, so cleverly that the smoke funnelled up through a hole in the ceiling. Fumes did not eddy around the room as they do in most houses. He had also made a wooden shutter to block the entrance and keep out draughts. The fire of turf and driftwood kept us warm, even on the coldest days. He had tied an old fishing net under the roof, on which large bunches of plants lay drying. Their sweet, musky scent drifted down to us, mingling with the salt smell of the sea. Some strings of smoked fish hung there too and root vegetables. The walls had been smoothed and the floor flattened where storm waves had ground the rock away. McLir told me that the land had been lower then, and this place under water. He kept the floor swept clear of the blown sand so only a few grains remained in the crevices.

  My bed had been set in the most sheltered spot, nearest to the fire and furthest from the opening. McLir’s bed lay nearer the entrance, to one side of mine. He had little furniture in the place. He had the beds, a stool and a rude table made of planks, balanced on a couple of rocks. I never imagined a magician’s home to be like this, so poor and bare. Neither did McLir fit the picture of a magician I carried in my mind. He did not dress in rich clothes, he worked hard and he spoke to me kindly. I was deeply thankful that he was not the powerful, evil sorcerer the storytellers tell us about.

  But he did own one thing in the cave that seemed magical, at least to me. I shuddered fearfully when I first spotted it lying on the table. I had never seen a book before, although Jole had described books to us. He had seen them in the west, where many of the priests can read. But they are rare here. I don’t even know if there are any on this island, unless perhaps the king owns one. Certainly, I have never heard of any here in the north. No one is rich enough to own a book or learn how to read. Even Father Peddyr does not have one. He cannot read and he has learned the words of all the services off by heart.

  This book was a large volume, covered in mottled skin that looked very old and soiled, as if it had been handled many times and was well used. The book lay all by itself on the table. I wondered what marvels it must contain; spells and enchantments, cures and curses. I longed desperately to look inside, but fortunately the book lay out of my reach. Would I have actually turned the pages? Perhaps – and maybe something dreadful might have happened to me if I had. The strange thing drew my eyes, as if it was a wild animal, trapped and waiting to bite me. However, when nothing happened, I was faintly disappointed.

  No one in my village reads or writes. Only a magician or a monk needs such awesome skills. Why would an ordinary person want a book? I had never met a monk, and McLir was my first magician, although he always denied being one. He must be able to read, though, and perhaps write as well. If Father Peddyr had found out McLir had these abilities, no wonder he warned us about the old forbidden magic. Books are supposed to be unholy things, unless they are scriptures and sacred. Ordinary people are not even allowed to look at a Bible for themselves. A priest always explains what the words mean, so we do not make any errors. Why would anyone want to read?

  I no longer had any fear of McLir, nor did I believe he dabbled in unholy things. He had always been kind to me, and he had no idea who I was when he found me. Why had I feared him so much the first time I ever saw him? Why I had ever thought he was anything but caring? Many months passed before I realised that, unconsciously, I had reacted to the emotions McLir, himself, was feeling. He had stepped ashore in a place he did not want to be, as if he was escaping from those who pursued him.

  Later on that first afternoon, as I became more aware of my surroundings, McLir did something strange. He pulled down some of the plants from the net in the roof and put them into a bowl. He sat at the table grinding away at them with a round stone.

  “Why are you doing that?” I asked him curiously. I had often ground corn for my mother to bake into bread, but never seeds or plants or berries.

  “I am making a drink for you,” he replied, “a brew of comfrey, which helps broken bones to knit. Comfrey is called ‘knit-bone’ by my people. I don’t know why this herb works so well, but it certainly does.”

  “Can I do the grinding for you?” I asked. I wanted to do something, and my hands moved more easily now they were no longer scraped and sore. I was tired of just lying, doing nothing.

  He glanced at me, and then he nodded. He seemed to realise how much I longed for a task to distract my thoughts. He got up, put a pad on my lap and gave me the bowl and the grinding stone.

  “This comfrey smells awful,” I said, sniffing as I rubbed the sickly green mixture. I pulled a face at its sourness.

  “Smelly or not, comfrey will help you get well.”

  I spent the afternoon – the first of many – grinding the comfrey plants into a fine powder, until McLir was satisfied. He mixed the contents of the bowl with hot water and made me drink the full cup. The brew tasted as peculiar as its smell. I had to hold my nose, but I forced the drink down to please him.

  “Good girl,” he said as I handed him the empty cup with a shudder.

  Once I had taken over his task, McLir had returned to the table and opened up his book. He made marks on one of the leaves using a sharpened seagull’s feather dipped in some dark liquid.

  “So you can write,” I exclaimed, watching him with fascination and in a kind of terror. Nothing had happened when he did so and I realised there was little for me to fear. “I’ve never seen anyone write before. May I look at what you’re doing?”

  He laughed, but he brought the book over to show me the marks he had set down. His writing looked like lines and squiggles, but he had also drawn a picture of some plants I thought I recognised. I looked at the strange marks in awe.

  “What do the marks say?” I asked, thinking to hear something magical.

  He watched my expression change and must have read my thoughts, because he laughed again. “Only that
elder grows in the third meadow from the dead tree by the river,” he told me.

  “Why did you write such an odd thing?”

  “I note things down, because I want to remember them, especially if I won’t need to use the knowledge for some months. Elder is a useful plant, but it doesn’t grow profusely hereabouts. I’m making a note of where it is. Then I can go back and find the bushes, when the time is right. Winter is the season I gather the berries and the bark for use in my mixtures.”

  “How do you know so much about plants? Even the older women in my village do not have such knowledge about these things. I have never met anyone like you before.”

  “My father travelled in foreign lands where they study the earth and the plants that grow. He learned many strange things from those people. He taught me. I became interested and sought new knowledge wherever I found it, as he did. I’ll tell you about his voyages one day. Journeys make interesting tales for a winter’s evening, although some of the things he told me seem unbelievable, even to me.” He smiled.

  “I’d enjoy hearing about them.”

  Some days later, I could leave my bed and prop myself on the stool beside the fire. McLir always made sure my leg stayed perfectly straight. I looked after the things that were cooking and kept the blaze alight with the wood and turves piled nearby. Sometimes I sewed; often I ground seeds, shelled acorns or separated out elderberries from their stems. McLir always had one or two mixtures bubbling over the flames. Some of them had to boil hard; others just simmer. I needed to make sure that each mixture cooked in the way he told me.

  McLir taught me the names of the plants I worked with and some of their properties. I found it almost impossible to remember everything he said; they were all so different. In fact, I no longer wondered why McLir wrote things down. My mother had used a few of the herbs for flavour in her cooking, but most were quite unknown to me.

  McLir had collected huge bunches of blackthorn, camomile, wild garlic, mint, lavender, rowan, rosemary, sorrel, yarrow, foxglove, elder, hawthorn and ivy. Unfortunately, he also gathered the smelly comfrey he still made me drink every night. We made brews, teas, poultices, or dressings for wounds from these plants, and they were greatly in demand.