Mannan: A Tale of Vengeance: A Novel in the Chronicles of Philip Williams

by Jason Henry Evans

  A man stepped forward. “Mannan, your mother led us here. To honor your father we went. But I will not shiver with the women and children.” The men agreed with nods and affirmations. “You ask if remember Leinster. I say ‘Aye, I do.’ I remember how to reave and how to ambush. And so do these men. We want justice.”

  “Your words are clear, cousin. But while we go marching like fools to avenge our hurt pride, what will your children eat? Who will take care of your wives when you’re gone? We must be clever. But first, we must tend to our wounded and bring home our scattered herds.” Mannan scanned every man’s face. Were they satisfied? No. But they saw the wisdom in his words.

  That night the wounded were taken care of. The hungry fed. Sentries walked the perimeter. Food was made and places were arranged for the displaced to sleep. In all these things Eibhlin took charge with Sarah at her side. “Here, eat something.” Eihblin handed a warm loaf of bread to Mannan and Seamus.

  “Grammercy,” Seamus said. He broke it and handed a piece to Mannan. “Now what?”

  “In the morning we separate these people. You’ll have to take some in, I’m sorry.” Mannan bit into the bread.

  “Don’t be. There’s safety in numbers. The more people at my farm, the better. Hell, I’m surprised I haven’t been raided yet.” He paused, then spoke. “Where is your sister and Ote?”

  “They went to check the fish traps. They’ll be fine. The Mickens have to come here before they get to my farm,” Mannan said.

  Seamus looked hesitantly at Mannan. His eyes concerned yet confused. “What is it?” Mannan asked.

  “Do you blame your sister?”

  Mannan ate another piece of bread. “She’s young. She has our father’s temper. Diarmuid though,” he paused. “Diarmuid should have known better.” Mannan looked up into the evening sky now that the sun was setting. “Deborah doesn’t remembers our father leaving for war. She remembers coming to the Highlands. But she doesn’t remember before. She doesn’t remember the struggle. It’s as if every day here makes Leinster fade into a dream. As if our lives there were a story old women tell children to get them to sleep.”

  “The past is the past, Mannan.”

  “Aye. The past is the past. But would we be in this mess if we truly understood how we got here? It’s as if we must trip over the same stone to remember our toes. It makes no sense,” Mannan said. He got up from his seat and searched around for something to drink. He found an animal skin half filled with wine and returned. “Here, take some.”

  Seamus drank. “So, what do we do?”

  “I don’t know, but give me time and I might.” Mannan took the skin back and took another swallow.

  ◆◆◆

  The dispossessed slept at Ullum and Sarah’s farm. Fortunately, there was still a sliver of summer left and many could sleep outside. But Mannan had his own problems to think about. He had to see if Deborah and Ote were all right. He also had to feed the cattle before they went rummaging through his only field of barely. Finally, Mannan thought long and hard about how to end the conflict with the Mickens.

  After speaking of his ideas to his cousins, the group split up to find lost cattle and salvage what they could from their homes along the border with the Mickens. Mannan went home and found smoke lazily drifting from the hearth. Deborah and Ote were fine. He sighed in relief.

  Ote met him outside the door with a spear. “Are you safe, Ote? Where is Deborah?”

  Ote nodded behind himself, to the house. “We’re safe. She’s inside.” Mannan jumped from Fiona and Ote took the horse to the barn. “We heard. All along the border the Mickens raid. What do we do now?” Ote asked.

  “We feed the cattle,” Mannan said. He looked to the end of the valley. If a raid came, it would be from there. “Get the cattle moving to the far end of the valley. I’ll be along shortly.” Mannan rummaged through the house, hoping for some bread. When he saw Deborah, there wasn’t much to say. He knew she was still more girl than woman, so he tried to protect her.

  Once he had his fill of bread and butter Mannan shepherded his small herd of cattle from the rear. He used soothing sounds, soft words, and the occasional shove to get the back end of the herd closer to the front, where Ote was.

  They walked until they reached the far end of the valley. The small creek opened up into small ponds, lush with vegetation the cattle loved to eat. The lulling of happy cows was always something Mannan enjoyed. He caught up to Ote and spoke with him at length. “Do you understand?”

  Ote looked to the hills and nodded his head.

  The cattle grazed all morning long. Meanwhile, Ote found wild raspberry bushes and picked the fruit, giddy as a child.

  “You know if you save some of those, mother will bake you a pie.”

  Ote looked up, mouth stained with fruit. “Oh, that is a good idea!”

  “Do you hear that?” Mannan asked.

  Ote strained to listen, but could hear nothing over the cows.

  “There,” Mannan pointed. In the distance five riders came down a ridge at a gallop. “Run, you fool!” Mannan got up and started climbing the hill behind him. He could hear the panic of the cattle as they turned and scattered to avoid the Mickens.

  “Run, Ote. There is no time. Run!” Mannan scrambled up the hill. Behind him the Ote panted as the horses got louder. The war cries of the Mickens pierced the air.

  Mannan made it to the top of the hill with lungs bursting. He turned to see Ote right behind him. “Come on, you idjit! Come on!” The horses were at the base of the hill. Ote made it to Mannan and the two began their descent on the other side. They ran to a small grove of oaks with the horses in hot pursuit. It was going to be close.

  Ote stumbled, tumbling down the hill. Mannan wanted to stop, but his momentum lead him forward. If he tried to stop, he would tumble, too. “Wait,” Ote called. The screeching war chants of the Mickens were clear as highland streams now. They were very close.

  Almost there. If I can just make the trees, Mannan thought.

  Suddenly one of the horses reared, throwing his rider. The other three tried to slow their mounts, but it was too late. Another Micken reared his horse as half a dozen arrows pierced his body. Arrows came from every direction, it seemed. As Mannan reached the grove, two of his cousins stepped forward, bows in hand. The let loose a volley. Ote scrambled to Mannan.

  “You were right,” Aaron Rue said, knocking another arrow. “They were going to come here next.”

  Three dead men lay strewn on the hill, but one man lived. He whimpered in agony. “Mercy, Mannan. Mercy,” he called out. Mannan took a dirk from his sleeve and stood over the youth. How old was he? Fifteen? Thirteen?

  “Looks like your arm’s broken,” Mannan said.

  The youth panted out of pain and fear. His eyes darted from foe to foe. A dozen men now circled around him. Grim men with hate in their eyes. Mannan spoke for them all. “You go back and tell Connell, I did not mean to kill Diarmuid. I will swear to that until the Lord takes my last breath. Understand?”

  The youth nodded his head.

  “Tell him, we can still be neighbors. But this must stop.” Mannan looked at his cousins. “You tell Connell, that we want peace. Fall will be here soon. We will all starve this winter if we’re busy murdering each other instead of harvesting.” He bent down, grabbed the boy by his hair. “If there is any more raids, any women despoiled or livestock stolen. If any more blood is spilled, it is on him.” Mannan saw the boys fear and pitied him. “Get up and go. Take some water, if you wish. But go.”

  The boy was helped to his feet and disarmed. He climbed back over the hill alone, disappearing into the valley.

  “Now what?” Asked Aaron Rue.

  “Help me gather my cattle and those horses. We’ll need them to patrol and watch the border,” Mannan said.

  ◆◆◆

  It was night time and the moon lit up the valley. Cows slept at the base of the hill where Mannan kept watch. Fiona jostled nervously. “Easy girl, easy.” H
e brushed the side of her neck and made cooing sounds. Fiona, snorted and neighed softly in reply. The only real relationship I have is with this horse, Mannan thought.

  Below was Seamus’ farm. The barely still looked freshly cut from their stocks. A lazy puff of smoke rose from the chimney in his house.

  There. The sound of horses at the other end of the valley. The sound increased as they got closer. Seamus’ cattle jostled and mood nervously. Now Mannan could see the torches as the Mickens road towards the home.

  “Now, cousin?”

  Mannan unstrapped his spear from the side of Fiona and tucked it under his arm. “Now, Brian.” He let out a murderous cry as he urged Fiona down the hill. The mare gained speed as they went. Soon they had passed the cattle, then the house. Mannan saw the two dozen Mickens on horseback coming towards him at a frightening speed. He released the spear from his armpit, carried it over his head and threw it at the first rider in front of him.

  The man screamed as he fell from his horse.

  Mannan rode through the other riders, slowed Fiona and turned around. The Mickens tried to stop their charge, but it was too late. Short of the house and entangled with MacOwen riders, they tried to turn around and flee. But men and women jumped up from behind bushes and oak trees carrying slings and short bows. They cut the Mickens down like so much barley. It was over quickly.

  Seven Mickens lay dead in the road leading to the house. Six others were wounded. That left eleven men untouched except for their pride. Lochlan among them. “What will you do with us?” Lochlan said.

  “Well, if I had the time, I’d teach you how to sniff out a proper ambush,” Mannan said. His cousins laughed loudly at that one.

  “How did you know we would come here?” Lochlan asked.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? The most prosperous farm for miles and its right on the border? Why wouldn’t you raid her first?” Mannan laughed. His eyes twinkled for a while before he became earnest. “I meant that message I sent. Diarmuid’s death was an accident. After all that was said and done, I bore him no ill will.”

  Lochlan spat on the ground. “I saw you, Mannan. You may lie to this trash you consider family, but I was there. You murdered my kin.” A torch reflected in Lochlan’s eyes. In there was a touch of madness, driven by grief.

  “That’s it. I am done. Seamus?” Mannan called. “Two men to a horse. Take their weapons and tie their hands. Lead them back to their lands, understood?”

  Seamus nodded his head.

  Mannan turned back to Lochlan. “My Christian charity wears thin, Lochlan. Continue to molest us, continue your pillaging, and I will put you in an early grave. I swear by St. Brigid.” He turned to Seamus. “Get these men out of my sight.”

  Each Mickens was tied and placed upon a horse with another of their kin. Four riders lead the prisoners off into the night.

  “Well done, boys!” Brian clapped his kin on their backs. “Well, done! Mannan, we should celebrate.”

  “We should sleep. This isn’t over,” he said.

  Aaron Rue offered Mannan a swig of beer. “You know they won’t quit,” he said.

  Mannan drained the dregs and thought. “We have to make them quit, Aaron. Hit them hard. Hit them somewhere personal.”

  Aaron smiled. “I like that. But what will that do?”

  “Do you remember Leinster? How we would raid the English and they would come down from Dublin in full force and scatter us? But the minute we surrendered, accepted the Queen’s peace, all was forgiven. If we hit them hard enough, make it personal, they’ll be too afraid to hit us back. They will sue for peace. We will be merciful to our neighbors and sow good feelings between us.”

  “I hope your right,” Aaron Rue said.

  ◆◆◆

  Mannan sat there and watched his mother cry. These were sorrowful tears. “Now don’t go carrying on in front of the boy,” his father said as he kissed his mother one last time. The man with the black beard bent over and messed Mannan’s hair. “You’re the man of the house now. Take care of your sister and your ma, understand?” Mannan nodded yes. As his father opened the door the whirl of bagpipes and cheering men assaulted his ears. Mannan’s father turned around one last time and smiled.

  “Da!” Mannan cried out. “Da! Don’t go,” he said.

  “Mannan,” Eihblin said as she shook her son. “Mannan, you’re having a bad dream.”

  Mannan sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  “Just as well,” Ote said. “We need to go any ways.” He handed Mannan his dirk. The two men got up and splashed cold water on their faces to revive them. They went to the barn where Fiona and a second horse taken from the Mickens rested. Mannan walked by his chain mail and sighed. “Ote, help me put this on.” It was time.

  The two rode out to a specified place near the border of their lands. There they met twenty other MacOwens. Seamus, Aaron Rue, Brian and others. They all carried spears for thrusting and small swords at their hips. Many came with bows.

  Mannan wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do. Nothing seemed right anymore. But he hoped that this would be the end of it. Once, when he was a boy his father told him of bear baiting. Where six dogs would fight a bear. He described how exciting it was, how the crowd cheered and the animals barked and howled at each other. But Mannan was a sensitive boy and all he remembered was how the sport petered out into agony as the dogs died one by one and the bear sometimes bled out. Mannan’s greatest fear was that this war between the Mickens and them would bleed them all white leaving the dead to bury the dead. They were taking a great risk.

  The sky turned from dark blue to purple as the MacOwens rode along the dirt path into Micken territory. They bypassed smaller targets. Hovels and small homes with barely a cow between them. This was the usual way in Ireland. Pick the lowest fruit.

  “There,” Ote said. “There’s our prize.”

  Mannan looked at his men. “You all know what to do?”

  They nodded in silence.

  Mannan nodded in reply and grabbed his spear before he kicked Fiona in her sides, hurling the mare forward. Behind Mannan his kin formed a wedge—a V in horses— with their spears overhead as they screamed.

  The sleepy farm awoke quickly. Men poured out of the house with swords and axes. Women screamed and babies cried. Mannan threw his spear and ran past the house before turning around.

  “YOU,” someone shouted.

  Mannan saw Lochlan pick up a spear. He charged towards him, but Fiona stopped and reared throwing Mannan to the ground. Dazed, he looked up to see Lochlan thrust downward. The spear caught Mannan’s arm as he turned, rending cloth and flesh. But Mannan couldn’t think of that right now. He had to stand.

  Lochlan thrust again. Mannan caught the shaft and the two wrestled for the weapon. Hate burned in Lochlan’s eyes. It scared Mannan to see it. He head butt Lochlan, who released the spear and staggered back.

  “Tell your kin to end this,” Mannan said brandishing the spear.

  Lochlan trembled with rage. “Never.” He reached into his Irish sleeve and pulled out a dirk.

  Mannan sighed and dropped the spear, pulling out a dirk of his own.

  The two danced around each other as chaos ensued around them. Lochlan thrust, then Mannan. “You murdered Diarmuid,” Lochlan hissed.

  “I did not mean too,” Mannan said.

  “I will see your last breath,” Lochlan said as he lunged forward.

  Mannan stepped aside and caught Lochlan’s arm in his armpit. He came down with his dirk, but Lochlan caught the forearm. Mannan’s dagger was inches from Lochlan’s throat. The two stood trembling in a test of strength. Mannan desperately trying to force his blade down while Lochlan tried to keep it away. Neither man had the edge for a time. But Lochlan started trembling. His sneer turned to worry. His eyes went back and forth between Mannan’s blade and Mannan’s eyes. Slowly, the blade grew closer to Lochlan’s throat. “No,” Lochlan cried as the tip pierced the flesh of his throat slowly. “NO,” he said agai
n as his strength failed and the blade went deeper. His eyes mad with rage, Lochlan spat blood into Mannan’s face, then screamed. His scream became a cry. His cry became a whimper, then a sigh. Lochlan’s weight collapsed as Mannan gently led him to the ground.

  As Mannan stood and wiped his blade on Lochlan’s clothes he noticed the fighting had stopped. Dead men, mostly Mickens, carpeted the ground. Some women came out and wept for their dead brothers and husbands. “You,” Mannan told a Micken woman. She seemed about fifty. “Take your female kin, your children, and your wounded, and go. Find some place safe. Take what food you can.” He trembled with rage.

  The woman’s eyes widened and she began to cry again. Her color left her face. “All right.”

  “Tell Connell, that we are done. Tell him that we can strike him anywhere, at any time. Do you understand?

  The woman nodded slowly between sobs.

  “Good. Now take your kin and go,” Mannan pleaded. He turned to Seamus. “Take whatever you can carry. Take the horses.” He looked at the house. “Get everyone out of there and burn it. Burn it to the ground.”

  Within minutes the door splintered from the MacOwen axes. Men went through and dragged everyone who thought they would be safe behind stout doors. Other men looted the house, then set the place on fire.

  Weary, Mannan found a horse. “Where are you going?” Aaron Rue asked.

  “Home,” Mannan said as he climbed atop the Irish pony. “I’m tired. Besides I need to check in on Ote and my mother.” He looked around the carnage wrought upon the prosperous farm. “Finish up here?”

  Aaron Rue nodded.

  The day was fully upon them now. Mannan turned back towards the house one last time. Small flames licked the one window and smoked billowed out of the front door. He turned back to ride out as a line of seven women and children began the slow march in the other direction. A sharp pain pierced his chest watching them go. What have I done? He thought to himself. I am no better than the men my family fled in Leinster. Redshank, Ulstermen, or English, I care not. I am no better.