Manannan Trilogy

by Michele McGrath

  Niamh stared at the fire, trying to remember. Someone once had cared for her, she had always known that. The only thing she recalled was sitting on a broad lap and playing with a dangling necklace. “Did he wear a disk of metal that shone?”

  Eber laughed. “He did. Fancy you remembering that, of all things.”

  Niamh lifted her eyes to him. “Thank you for telling me,” she said softly. “I am glad to know a little about my parents.”

  “Their tale is for your ears alone. Don’t speak of them where we’re going. Manannan’s name used to be well known as both a healer and, some said, a magician. It is not wise to be close kin to such as he. For that reason Aed hopes to marry you far away where none of us can be harmed by his memory. Don’t forget.”

  “I won’t.”

  5

  The next day, the last of their journey, was very hot. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled in the hills.

  “It has been raining in the mountains,” Eber said, looking at the sky with a frown.

  “What does that mean?” Niamh asked, catching a tone of concern in his voice.

  “We must hurry. The only ford is a deep one and, if the river floods, we’ll not be able to cross until the level goes down.”

  They broke camp hurriedly and made good speed for the better part of the morning.

  Eber thought that they would probably arrive at Barrfind’s rath some time in the late afternoon, if they could cross the river. He reluctantly halted when the sun was in its zenith to ease the horses. He called Niamh to him and ordered her to put on her best clothes. He wanted her to make a good impression on her bridegroom.

  Niamh washed herself as well as she could in a nearby stream. Then Betha helped her into the fine red dress and laced a golden girdle around her hips. Her grandmother’s torc shone against the rich colours and fitted snugly around her neck. Her hair was brushed out and braided, then piled on the top of her head. The golden flowers were fastened firmly into her plaits, so they should not drop off during the ride. A light veil was attached to her head-dress, floating behind her as she walked. When she was mounted again, her best cloak was smoothed to fall over the back of her horse. Eber looked at her critically and then nodded.

  “You look well. I am sure that Barrfind will be pleased with your appearance.” He smiled at her and Niamh smiled back.

  “Thank you.” Excitement welled up inside her, mixed with a kind of sick apprehension. In a few short hours, she would know her fate.

  Then Eber formed up the troop, putting Niamh on his right hand and led them down the twisting path into the valley.

  In her finery, Niamh felt even hotter than she had been earlier in the morning. Sweat broke out all over her body. It was not yet offensive and she hoped they would arrive before she turned rank. They rode through thick woodland as they came down the hill. The trees thinned out and they emerged into a meadow which had been undercut by the power of the water.

  Eber swore when he saw it, for the river was already in spate and churning fiercely. “Hurry,” he shouted and kicked his horse forward. The rest of them thundered after. Niamh’s skirts flapped with the wind of their passage. She held tight to the mane of her horse, not wanting to be unseated and spoil her dress. Eber drew rein at the brink of the river, near some rocks. When Niamh looked around, the place seemed vaguely familiar to her.

  “I don’t see a ford,” one of the men said to Eber. “We can’t cross that, especially with these women.”

  The brown swirling water frothed and foamed against the bank, bearing leaves and the branches of trees past them with great speed.

  “The ford is here. Those rocks mark the spot and we must cross immediately. Look at the sky.” Eber turned and pointed behind him. Black clouds were massing on the horizon, not yet near enough to block the sun, but coming closer with every minute. Lightning flickered in their midst and it was possible to see the rain falling from them, it was so heavy.

  As she looked at the clouds, Niamh suddenly realised where she had seen this place before. It was the river in her dream! She whirled to tell Eber, but he and another man had already forced their horses into the raging flood. He would not be able to hear her if she shouted to him. The beasts struggled forward, half swimming, as the current battered against their legs. The waters mounted higher and higher on their hocks. In the centre of the river, they had to swim properly and it was some time before they staggered to their feet again. Slowly they moved forward. Eventually the river became shallower as they climbed up the bank. When they were there, Eber turned and waved. His shout carried faintly across the river.

  “Bring them!”

  One of the remaining men caught hold of Betha’s bridle. Another man took Niamh’s. She tried to snatch it away from his grasp.

  “No, no. We mustn’t!” she gasped, her dream image vivid in her mind.

  “Don’t be such a coward,” he said impatiently, moving forward and dragging her along with him. She glanced back over her shoulder. The clouds were almost upon them and the rain was falling onto the woods they had just left. The man pulled her down the bank and into the water. “Hitch up your skirts and hold tight,” he ordered. Niamh did as she was told but she felt frozen. She whispered a prayer that her dream had been an illusion as the waters rose around her.

  They were in the centre of the river when lightning flashed almost over them. The horses screamed and reared. Niamh’s horse ripped its bridle away and plunged forward, off the ford and into deeper water. The plunge broke Niamh’s hold on the animal. She fell off into the cold and swirling stream, trying to keep her head above the surface. The weight of her clothes dragged her down and she could not prevent herself from sinking. Niamh struggled, knowing that, if she did not reach the air, she was lost. She fought her way upwards and her head came out of the water. She gasped before she went down again. A second time she thrashed up, but her strength was ebbing fast. She broke the surface. At that moment, her flailing hand hit a branch that had been carried along beside her by the current. She grabbed it and wound her arms round the wood, clasping it to her and letting it carry her along. The waves still splashed over her face, but she held up her head as high as she could. She snatched just enough breaths to keep conscious. Then the river jammed her hard into a bend which had been undercut by the torrent. A tree hung out over the water and she was swept into one of its roots. The blow made her lose her grip on the branch that was holding her up, but she caught at the tree instead and held on.

  Bit by bit she pulled herself forward into the slacker water behind the tree. She managed to lift a leg over one of the roots, then another. Agonisingly slowly, Niamh climbed up the tree, its rough bark scratching her hands so her blood flowed bright on her sodden clothes. If she had ever been asked, Niamh would not have believed that she could ever have reached the bank above without help. Fear and sheer determination drove her on, until she flopped down on the muddy grass and allowed her aching eyes to close.

  6

  When Niamh opened her eyes, the world was swaying. A light rain fell on her upturned face. Voices spoke around her and above her but she did not recognise the words. Then darkness came again.

  Hours later, she woke to moonlight filtering through the horn coverings of a high window. She turned over and groaned. Immediately, hands stroked her face, a woman’s hands, for her skin was soft. Tinder flared and the light from the tallow lamp cast a soft glow over the bed. A woman was bending over her, a stranger who wore a starched white wimple.

  “Where am I?” Niamh whispered to her.

  “You are safe. In the morning all will be well. Sleep now.” The woman’s hands passed over Niamh’s body and the covers were tucked more firmly around her. Then the light was blown out and darkness fell once more.

  Niamh roused to the sound of bustle and voices singing. The morning light shone upon rough stone and a few wooden cots set along the walls of the room. Two women were moving down the passage, carrying water and loaves to those who were lying there.

/>   “Ah, you’re awake. Good,” said a familiar voice and Niamh turned to see a tall woman approaching her bed with a bowl in her hand.

  “You spoke to me during the night,” Niamh said, recognising the voice.

  “I did and I’m glad you are looking better now.” The woman bent down, dropped a cloth into the bowl and gently washed Niamh’s face.

  “What happened to me?” Niamh saw that both her hands were swathed in linen bandages.

  “You ripped your hands on the bark of a tree climbing out of the river. Are you hungry?”

  “No. I’m too sore.”

  “No wonder after what happened to you. You’ll be hungry enough in an hour or so, when some of the stiffness has worn off.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “Wait a moment.” The woman put down the washing bowl on a table and pulled a small three-legged stool up to the bed.

  “That’s better,” she said, seating herself. “I’m not as young as I was and the night was long. Well, Odhran, who farms the land close to the river, found you lying there on the bank. When he couldn’t rouse you, he and his sons brought you here.”

  “Where is ‘here’?”

  “You’re in the place where we tend the sick. This is Saint Bridget’s Convent and we’re the sisters of Saint Bridget, nuns who serve the Christian God. How did you come to fall into the river?”

  Silence fell as Niamh searched for an answer to the question. After a moment, she raised puzzled eyes to the nun’s face. “I can’t remember...”

  “No matter. Don’t tease yourself. Memory is an odd thing. Sometimes it takes time to return. I’ve seen this happen before. Rest now and recover your strength. If you need anything, call and someone will come to you.” She rose briskly, picked up her bowl and continued down the room.

  By the time the noontime meal was served, Niamh had recovered her appetite, if not her memory. Another nun helped her to sit up and eat the vegetable broth and coarse bread that went with it. Then she took Niamh to the privy. Fortunately it was not far, because Niamh’s legs ached with every step and she swayed alarmingly. The nun kept a firm grip on her arm and she made the journey without any mishap.

  When she returned to her bed, Niamh was only too grateful to lie down and rest again. In the afternoon, another of the nuns came to her, rubbed some sweet-smelling ointment into her skin and replaced the blood-stained bandages on her hands. By evening Niamh felt much better. She was able to walk around the room alone holding on to the walls, although she still felt very weak. She slept that night without waking.

  Next morning, one of the nuns came to her once she had eaten her breakfast and said,

  “Sister Superior asks you to come to her room. Please follow me and I will take you to her.” Niamh rose and followed her down some stone steps and into a walled area. They passed by the side of what looked like a church and then into a small house built leaning against one of its walls. The nun tapped on the wooden door and opened it. The woman who rose from behind the table was the nun Niamh had seen during her first night in the convent.

  “Come in and sit down. I am Sister Fionnait. How do you feel now?”

  “Much better. Thank you for your care of me.”

  “It is a pleasure to see our work so well rewarded. Thanks be to God.”

  Sister Fionnait rose and went over to a press that stood against the wall. She returned with a small bottle and two goblets. She filled them and passed one of them to Niamh, who sipped cautiously. It was a drink that she had rarely been given before.

  “Mead?”

  Sister Fionnait nodded. “We keep our own bees here and make both honey and mead. I find that a little sweetness soothes both body and spirit.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’ve been here almost two days now and in that time no one has come seeking you. So there are some questions I must ask, if you are to return to your home.”

  “I understand.”

  “Has your memory returned at all?”

  “I have tried to remember, but everything is still hazy. I was on a horse, I think. It reared and threw me off into the water. I was on a journey to somewhere I had never been before.”

  “Did this place have a name?”

  “It must, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “Where did you journey from?”

  “From my home.” Niamh said this much more confidently.

  “And where is that?”

  Niamh shook her head in puzzlement. “I don’t know. How strange.” A dark mist seemed to lie over her senses.

  “Do you know your name?”

  “I don’t even remember that.” Niamh looked at the nun and fear was in her face.

  Sister Fionnait smiled at her reassuringly and said, “You’re not the first person to lose her memory after such an experience. You’re lucky to be alive. It’s likely you’ve suffered at least one blow to the head, while you were in the river, if not more. You very nearly drowned and you were almost dead from the cold when you were found. Don’t strain after the memory. It’ll come. In the meanwhile, we must have something to call you.”

  Niamh smiled at her, “Please find a name for me.”

  “You remind me a little of my sister so, if you don’t dislike it, we will call you ‘Ana’ until you remember your own name.”

  “Thank you, I like it well.”

  “Then, Ana, I have something to show you which may help your memory.”

  From the press, Sister Fionnait removed a bundle and put it on the table. She opened it and removed the tattered remnants of a red dress.

  “You were wearing this when you were found. These too.” She laid on top the torc and the golden flowers. “The flowers were tangled up in your hair. You were fortunate that they weren’t lost in the river.”

  Niamh touched the gold trinkets with a careful finger. “They’re beautiful. Are they mine?”

  “You don’t remember them?”

  “No.”

  “You were dressed like a princess or for some great occasion...”

  “Was I?”

  “You are of the right age to be wed. Were you going to your wedding perhaps?”

  “I might have been.” Niamh lowered her head and her hands clenched in her lap. “I have no memory of those things or why I was wearing them. They are unfamiliar to me.”

  “No matter. They are so unusual that someone, somewhere, will know them. One of the sisters is an artist. I’ll ask her to draw the torc and the flowers onto a piece of vellum. Then I’ll send it with the men along both banks of the river and towards the hills. It’ll give you enough time to recover your full strength before your people come to claim you. In the meanwhile, you’re welcome to stay with us here.”

  7

  The days passed slowly in the convent and Niamh soon fitted herself into their rhythm. As she gained strength, she began to help the sisters with their tasks, cooking and cleaning and looking after the sick. She also helped in the fields with the crops and the animals. She found the tasks easy. It seemed to her that she must have done such work before. Her hands had a skill her mind did not remember. That puzzled her even more. ‘I came here dressed like a princess, yet I know how to milk a cow and scythe corn,’ she thought, wonderingly. ‘What sort of a person am I?’

  Niamh also began to go to the church with the sisters. Unlike the work she helped with, their services seemed strange and foreign to her, as if she was hearing such beliefs for the first time. When she told Sister Fionnait of her thoughts the nun said,

  “Perhaps you and your people are not Christian.”

  “We cannot be, otherwise I would know more about your God.”

  “Perhaps that is why He sent you here, so we may teach you,” Sister Fionnait said with a smile.

  “I should like that,” Niamh replied. “Your God seems to be kind.”

  After that, Sister Fionnait spent some time with Niamh every day, reading the holy books to her. Niamh found them fascinating and wished she could read
them for herself but no one had ever taught her to read.

  “If you stay with us I could teach you,” Sister Fionnait said, “but perhaps your fate lies elsewhere.”

  Niamh smiled but did not answer. She was drawn to the quiet peace of the convent but she had a strong feeling that she would not stay there long.

  Two Sundays passed before the men returned. They had searched as far as the source of the river and had no news to report.

  “We asked the people who lived along the banks and for some distance inland. We went as far as the borders of our tribal land, but we found nothing and the drawings you sent with us did not help. If the maid passed though this area, no one remembered her. We’re sorry, Sister. We have failed you.”

  Sister Fionnait sighed. “You’ve done your best and for that I thank you. Perhaps this young woman is not meant to return where she came from just yet. I must think what is best to do next.”

  Niamh wasn’t disappointed when she learned of the lack of news. “I’m happy here in the convent with you, Sister. I don’t want to go anywhere else just yet.” They were sitting in the sisters’ small garden beside the river.

  Sister Fionnait looked deeply into Niamh’s eyes. “You may stay here but only for a little while longer. Eventually you will have to leave. Our sisters are called to do the work of God and to serve others all the days of their lives. I don’t believe you hear such a call, do you?”

  “Maybe the call will come to me soon,” Niamh said hopefully, yet her words were hesitant.

  “Or perhaps it will not. I think, if you were meant to lead this life, you would already know and be ready to take your vows.”

  They fell silent for a few moments, a comfortable silence, each thinking their own thoughts. Then Sister Fionnait said,