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

by Jason Henry Evans

  Mannan’s mind weighed each option and found each one lacking. Run away or fight? He could not choose. He went to a stream to drink and bathe. He splashed water in his hair and on his face but still no answer. When he was done, Mannan he walked back to the chapel and sat in the dark, small building. He prayed for peace for his people. He prayed for forgiveness from Riona. He prayed for wisdom.

  The smell of boiling oats wafted from the priest’s little cottage as Mannan’s kin sat eating their fill of salt porridge. Mannan walked up to Fr. Duncan who stirred a large pot over a camp fire outside the cottage. “Father, the Lord has shown me another course. I—”

  “Is that smoke?” Brian asked.

  Off in the distance a lone column of smoke came from the east. “My farm,” Mannan muttered.

  Chapter 8

  Fiona thundered down the trail at full gallop. Mannan’s heart beat in time with the horses racing steps. Brian, Aaron Rue, and the others raced behind their leader, trying to keep up. Mannan did not care. He had to get home. If he had to ride the life out of Fiona, if he had to tumble down a mountain and break both his legs, he had to get back home. What was I thinking? Why did I leave them alone? Mannan’s thoughts echoed again and again in his mind.

  They rode over hill and dale until the familiar hills of home came into view. Mannan spurred his horse forward until it crested the hill. On the other side his barn and chicken coup lay in ruins while the roof of his home burned brightly.

  “Where’s Deborah?” Ote asked. Before Mannan could look or answer Ote galloped down the hill. Some two hundred yards away arrows flew towards the house and Ote. All missed but they did spook the horse. Ote tried to hold on to his mare’s reins, but he rode with no saddle and the mare threw him off.

  “Mannan, what do we do?” asked Seamus.

  Mannan did not hear his cousin as he kicked Fiona in the ribs and rode forward down the hill. When he reached the gate the old mare cleared it easily. In the middle of the small valley he could see Micken boys reaving his cattle. Some were on horseback, most were on foot. He pulled his sword as he rode closer.

  The one’s on foot dropped their spears and shepherd’s crooks and ran in every direction. One was actually brave enough to let an arrow fly, which sailed over Mannan’s head. Another, this one on a red pony, turned to charge Mannan.

  As they closed Mannan lifted his sword overhead and stood in his saddle. Suddenly he shifted his weight left as the rider came to his right. The boy’s sword blow swept past Mannan and he continued on. He did not see what his kin did to the Micken kern but he did hear the clash of steel and the cries of pain and anguish.

  Three more Mickens on horseback were within twenty feet of him. Mannan veered to the right to slaughter the nearest on horseback. The boy looked scared and tried to turn his brown mare away. Mannan smiled as he closed in on him. Suddenly three arrows crashed down. Two hit Fiona and one hit Mannan’s sword arm. The horse stumbled and Mannan flew forward. He hit the ground and day turned to night.

  ◆◆◆

  “Mannan, Mannan,” called Seamus. “Wake up, you damn fool.”

  Mannan opened his eyes and the world turned queerly. He tried to sit up but the dizziness and sour stomach were too much for him. Every image moved by slowly while every sound slowed and echoed in his mind. “Mannan. Mannan,” said Seamus. “Get up now, we’re not safe here.”

  “Wha—” Mannan mumbled.

  Mannan felt an arm around his back that held him up. He was dizzy and his head throbbed. Why was he seeing red? Why did his head throb the way it did? He felt Seamus drag him somewhere, but Mannan couldn’t deduce where. His legs were like jelly. The whoosh of arrows rained down upon them.

  “Aaron, take him,” Seamus said.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, just far from here, now go.” Seamus finished handing Aaron Mannan’s half-conscious body and turned around to face whoever awaited. “Don’t let him die, do you understand?”

  “Aye, don’t let him die,” said Aaron Rue. He kicked his heels into his horse and the two of them were off.

  Mannan’s head throbbed. Who had him? Where was he going? What happened to the battle? As the horse trotted away from the cattle the jarring was too much for Mannan. He slipped in and out of consciousness. “Mother,” Mannan said. “Deborah,” he cried out.

  “We’ll find’em, cousin,” Seamus said.

  ◆◆◆

  “MOTHER,” Mannan cried out as he awoke. His head ached. A thousand pains, some sharp, some dull, brought him to his senses. He could feel a bandage on his head. “What happened?”

  A woman’s voice responded. “Ambush. After trying the ambush at the chapel, those Micken bastards raided all the homes east, one by one.”

  Mannan tried to think through his throbbing head and aching body. “I don’t understand. They already stole all of our cattle and livestock. The goats, the chickens. Why?”

  The woman came near with a cup and sat down. Her piercing blue eyes never left his. Her blond hair, graying at the edges, bounced in a haphazard bun. “Here, drink some water.”

  “Thank you,” Mannan said. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “It was a trap. It was designed to get our menfolk together in one place. They hit your farm last.”

  The door swung open while a storm raged outside. A figure came in, stout and broad. A flash of lightening lit up the man as he removed his brat from his head. “Does he know?” Seamus asked.

  The stout woman shook her head no.

  Seamus sighed and nodded. He went to the hearth to warm his hands.

  “What is going on?” Mannan’s vision blurred as he spoke. He looked at the woman, Seamus’s aunt, if he remembered correctly. “What’s going on?”

  Seamus grabbed a stool and sat in front of Mannan. “This is hard, cousin. But, you must focus. You’ve been asleep for over a day now.”

  “A day?” Mannan tried to stand but his legs were still watery.

  “Listen cousin. Connell laid a trap for us. A perfect trap. He goaded us to gather our strength. Your home was the last straw. He knew we would rally to your home.”

  “What happened?”

  “Slaughter happened. The arrows came down like rain. When you fell, it broke us and we scattered . . .” Seamus’ face reddened as he fought back tears. “They butchered those they could find. Butchered them like animals.”

  “How many, Seamus?”

  “Of the forty menfolk who rallied to your farm, twenty are dead and another 6 are so injured I cannot say if they will live the week.”

  Half their strength. Half of the men dead. Never in Leinster was the fighting and reaving that bad. Never. Grief over took fear as the home spun around Mannan. Then a knot leapt into his throat. He reached out for Seamus’s arm. “Cousin, what of Deborah? What of my mother?”

  Seamus’s aunt took Mannan’s hands gently into her own. Her eyes did not waiver. “Your mother lives. She is weak though.”

  Mannan tried to stand. “I need to go to her. Where is she?”

  “She stays with Aaron Rue’s folk. Other injured women are there,” she said.

  Mannan’s heart beat loudly in his chest. “What of Deborah?”

  The woman’s face reddened and her lips trembled as she shook her head slowly.

  “We don’t know where she is,” Seamus said. “Some half dozen are missing now. Ote and Deborah among them.”

  “I need to see my mother,” Mannan said.

  “There’s more,” Seamus began. “Connell let it be known that if we want peace the price is you. There is a bounty on your head, Mannan.”

  Clever, Mannan thought. It was an old tactic the English would use in Ireland. Turn on your kin and collect your pardon. As rebellions grew desperate men would take chances they would normally never take. In the Second Desmond War it was said half of the Earl of Desmond’s officers went missing because their kin turned their heads in. Connell had learned his craft well.

  “No one k
nows you’re here. It’s safer that way,” Seamus said. “Aintin Clare, get him some food. He’s bound to be weak.”

  “I don’t want food. I want to see my mother.” Mannan tried to stand again. This time Seamus put a hand on his shoulder. The slightest pressure sent waves of pain through Mannan’s body.

  “Aintin Claire had to put fifty stiches in you. Twenty of them in your scalp where you landed on a rock. Your shoulder was dislocated, too. It was a good thing you were asleep when I put it back in.”

  “I thank you, Cousin, truly.” Mannan tried to get up again.

  “You’re too weak. You need to eat, and drink and rest. There will be time for all of that later. Besides, no one is going out in that storm. The damn rain falls sideways.” Seamus removed his hand from Mannan’s sore shoulder. He spoke again, but this time gently. “Your mother is strong. We both know that. As for your sister and Ote—”

  “That daft boy will get her killed if he hasn’t already. I—”

  “Ote is a man, fully grown. He’s a good fighter and quick with his wits. You’re sister’s feisty and clever, too. We’ll look for them when the storm passes. Right now, you need to rest.”

  Seamus, of course, was right. Mannan could barely sit up, let alone dress himself or ride. Every moment of consciousness reminded him that it was cold and wet outside. His chest faced the hearth, so it was warm while his backside felt the damp air next to the wall. “Perhaps you’re right.” He took a bowl of broth from Claire. It warmed him all over to eat. It also reminded him of his ailments, too. The talk was all too much for Mannan and he dozed back to sleep, too weary to be bothered by worries or bad dreams.

  ◆◆◆

  Late in the next day Mannan hobbled out of his sick bed. Seamus provided him a sure footed, furry garron, short and stout, for him to ride. He took the bit well but had no saddle. It did not matter to Mannan. The weather changed with the rain. Summer was always short here and now fall would be upon them soon. Mannan thought of all the widows and their children without their fathers now because of this feud.

  They rode in the drying mud that was once the shepherd’s paths and light roads of late spring and summer. It was hard riding that sent shivers of pain to every corner of Mannan’s body. But he had other things to think about. “How is everyone?”

  “Tired. Broken. Sad,” Seamus replied.

  “I believe uncle Ullum would be happy to turn me over to—”

  “No one blames you, Mannan.” Seamus turned to his cousin. “Throughout all this you have shown a restraint others would not have. You sued for peace repeatedly.”

  “Mayhap I shouldn’t have,” Mannan said.

  Seamus paused and thought. “Mayhap. But you were the one who always said we should be grateful for being here. That this place would be our salvation.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “You weren’t wrong, cousin.” Seamus nodded behind him towards the border. “They just weren’t listening.” They rode a little further. “You know we’ll have to kill Connell. Not for what he did to your family and your home, Mannan. But because he won’t stop.”

  Mannan clenched the garron’s reins. “It scares me, Seamus.”

  Seamus raised an eyebrow. “Eh?”

  “When I awoke at the chapel, I regretted my words to Fr. Duncan. I thought perhaps my leaving would placate Connell. But then he attacked again. Then I saw my home burned down. It’s about survival now. Just like it was in Leinster. Kill or be killed.”

  “But you said it scares you, cousin. How?” Seamus asked.

  “Because when I finally do kill Connell Mickens, I will enjoy it.”

  The two rode on until they reached Brian’s house. Several men and women convalesced in the late afternoon sun. Brian himself chopped wood. When the horses got closer Brian and the others did a peculiar thing. They all stood while the men removed their caps.

  “What is it?” Seamus asked.

  Brian put down his ax. “Mannan, your mother.” Brian’s face reddened as he choked back a sob. “She was delusional two days ago. Confused, too. But we got her fever down. She ate and drank. Then . . .” he trailed off again. Gathering his strength Brian spoke. “Last night, while everyone slept, she walked out of the house. We didn’t find her till this morning.”

  Mannan slipped from the back of his garron and fell to the ground, aggravating his stiches. He struggled to stand in the mud. “Help me. Someone help me.” Cousins stood him up and Mannan made his way to the door. He opened and felt a wave of stale, hot air. The room would roast any animal. Was this the reason everyone was outside? “Mother?”

  Brian’s wife sat next to Eibhlin who was swaddled in blankets. She fidgeted and mumbled throughout with a feverish expression on her face. Her left eye was swollen shut. Her hands were wrapped in linens.

  “Mannan,” Brian’s wife said as she stood. “I’m glad you are here.”

  “What happened here? Did she fall?””

  “No,” she said. “She came to us like that. No one is sure, but I would guess the Mickens abused her in some way.”

  Mannan trembled with rage. It was an old feeling. Injustice, rage, and insult. Like a fire with dry kindling they were easy to light but hard to keep burning. All they did was leave a person weary and cold.

  “My son, is that you?”

  “Ma, it is me.” He smiled. She smiled back.

  “I am so happy you are alive, my son.” Eibhlin caressed his cheek. “Do tell me this is over?” She shivered violently for a moment.

  “It will be, mother.” He grabbed her hand and kissed its palm.

  “Good,” Eibhlin said wearily. “Is there another blanket. I am so cold.”

  “I’m sorry mother, there isn’t any,” Mannan said.

  Brian’s wife squeezed Mannan’s hand as tears poured down. She nodded and left to give them privacy.

  Eibhlin said nothing for a great while. She coughed and shuddered for a bit.

  Holding her hands, Mannan started to pray. Mercy, Heavenly Father. Mercy, Dear Virgin. Mercy, St. Andrew and St. Patrick. Mercy.

  “Your father would be very proud of you, my son. The way you lead this family. The way you worked so hard. Your father never worked as hard as you.”

  “Don’t talk, Ma. Save your strength.”

  “He . . . would be . . . very proud.” She sighed and breathed her last.

  Mannan looked at her tenderly. He wanted to cry. He knew tears were right. But none came. All he felt was relief for her and weariness for himself. In a moment of exhaustion, Mannan laid his head on his mother’s blanketed thighs still muttering mercy and fell asleep.

  ◆◆◆

  Seamus gathered some other men and a wagon. They placed Eibhlin in the cart and drove her body to the chapel, where Fr. Duncan held it. Some women came with linen and wrapped her body. A girl place a crown of flowers upon her head. It would be night soon so all departed for their own homes except Manan. Numb and cold, he sat in the small chapel as incense burned and candles flickered.

  “There’s supper, if you’re hungry, Mannan,” Fr. Duncan said.

  Mannan didn’t reply to the fat priest. He sat on the ground of the chapel near his mother’s body. Memories of Leinster flooded his mind. Easter vigils and Christmas sweets. His mother coming out to the field with cold river water at the height of harvest when Mannan’s father and all the men reaped the wheat. He remembered the screams of labor from across the yard as Deborah was being born. How worried he was to hear his mother in distress. Then the joyous moment when his sister wailed and the women inside laughed for joy.

  Deborah. Could it be that she was dead, too? That he would never see her wicked smile or her sharp tongue. He hoped it wasn’t true. He prayed it wasn’t true. A part of his heart wanted to search for her. He knew Ote was looking, as well as some of his kin. Another part of his heart wanted to burn every settlement between the valley and the coast as revenge.

  Still another part of him was tired. Tired of the fighting and tired of the
strife. Mannan remembered an odd verse the priests had him read when he was small and still learning. A young man wanted to follow Jesus, but had to bury his father. Let the dead bury the dead. That’s what Jesus told the man, who went away never to be heard of in the Gospels again. Let the dead bury the dead. Mannan the boy couldn’t understand why the man in the story couldn’t follow the Lord. Mannan the man couldn’t understand why Jesus would ask a man to choose.

  Deborah, he thought. If you live, have faith. We will come for you. But mother comes first. He knew if things were different, Deborah would do the same. Deborah, the little girl his mother would suckle. The little girl who’s smiled lit up the night. When she was small, he couldn’t stop kissing her, his little sister. He remembered long summers chasing butterflies with her. Late fall evenings when his father told ghost stories.

  He remembered the long nights when his mother secretly wept after putting Mannan and his sister to bed. The nights when she pined for her husband knowing he was not coming back. He remembered the first bitter spring in the highlands, helping his cousins repair that ancient house and putting a new roof on it. The look of pride on his mother’s face.

  He remembered her gracefulness, her quit wit and love for her neighbors. She always baked an extra loaf for company or for those poorer than them. His grief turned to anger as he thought of the Micken’s who darkened their door, asking for handouts. But Mannan’s mother always obliged. “Blessed is the one who is kind to the needy,” She would say, quoting Proverbs. He bit his lip and fought back bitter tears at the injustice of it all.

  “Mannan, I know you have no interest in food, but what about beer? I have a hogshead I’m itching to open. Have you eaten or drunk at all?” Fr. Duncan asked.

  “No. Furthermore I don’t want to. Not now.”

  Fr. Duncan came closer. “Mannan, I know you mourn. We all do. Your mother’s passing touches us all. But she would not want you to harm yourself on her behalf. You’re not eating. You’re not drinking. Do you wish to join her?”