Manannan Trilogy

by Michele McGrath

  17

  As the days passed, Olaf rapidly recovered. He was young and fit and, once he had started to eat again, his body responded. His arm healed too, although it was still too soon yet for the splint to be removed. Olaf complained that he had no feeling in the fingers of his injured hand and indeed he could not grip anything.

  “You must wait,” Niamh consoled him, “until the splint is off.” She made him a sling to hold his arm and he was able to move about again. Every day, Olaf walked further and further to increase his strength and often Niamh went with him, but she found it hard to match his stride. One day they went to the cove where first they had joined together. Olaf gave a laugh as he recognised the place and started to run down the hill onto the sands. Her heart was in her mouth as she watched him, for she knew running would jolt his arm. She followed him and had just got to the beach when he turned and made his way slowly back to her. She started to say something to him, but stopped when she saw the whiteness of his lips. He did not complain, but she knew he was in pain again. He sat down beside her on the sand and said with a sigh,

  “When will I ever get better?”

  “Have you never broken a bone before?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve been very lucky.”

  “Odin has always favoured me until now.”

  “It’ll take some weeks for your bones to knit. Be patient.”

  “I’m not a patient man.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t even enjoy you as I used to do, without two good arms to hold me up.”

  At that, Niamh smiled. “Perhaps we can find another way,” she said, carefully placing herself on top of him and bending forward for his kiss.

  All was well between them and, if anything, their bond was strengthened by the difficulty. Yet there was trouble brewing within the rath. Grettir ignored Olaf, always turning away when he saw him approaching. Niamh noticed also there was a change in the seating arrangements at the night meal. Where once Olaf had sat near the centre of the main table, now he was relegated to a seat at the edge. He used to join in the singing and telling of tales; now he was mostly silent. He answered when someone spoke to him, but he did not speak freely to the others as he used to do.

  “What’s wrong with him? He’s changed so much,” Niamh asked Geirdis one day.

  “Didn’t I tell you this would happen?” the old woman answered. “A one-armed man can’t fight and everyone knows it, including Olaf.”

  “He still has his arm!” Niamh retorted.

  “But can he use it?”

  “It’ll be weeks before we know for sure.”

  “I’ll offer you some advice against that day, if you’ll let me,” Geirdis said softly. “You had your way and you’ve shown me something I didn’t know. I still think you were wrong, but I’m grateful for the lesson.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Make preparation in case his arm remains useless.”

  “What sort of preparation?”

  “Olaf won’t take kindly to other tasks. He’s been a warrior all his life, a warrior of some renown. He’s been used to admiration and respect. He’ll hate remaining here where everything reminds him of his past, which can’t be regained.”

  Niamh’s eyes widened. “Are you telling me that we should leave here?”

  “Would you go with him if he did?”

  “Of course I would. He brought me here and claimed me. I belong to him and we are together.”

  “There are men with both arms who look at you and would want you now. How can a one-armed man satisfy your needs?”

  “I want no other man than Olaf and if he goes, so will I.”

  “Then, in your place, I would make haste with your preparations. If the day comes when Olaf knows for sure he can no longer fight, he’ll despair and you must have something ready to offer him. Otherwise he might easily decide to throw himself over the cliff.” Niamh shuddered.

  After that, Niamh watched Olaf carefully. She hurried through the tasks she had to do and then she slipped away and followed him. At various times, she saw him practice throwing a lance against a target or exercising with his sword. He could not yet throw or fight for long, but the skill was still there and his strength was growing. Only when he tried to grasp a shield with his injured hand did he fail. His fingers would not hold it firmly. Even when he forced them through a thong tied to the handle, he did not have enough strength to raise the heavy shield. It would not cover his body but dangled uselessly to one side and often fell to the ground.

  One day, Geirdis came up beside Niamh as she was watching and motioned her back behind the house. “It’s as I said: he can’t use his arm to fight.”

  “The splint isn’t off it yet and the bones are still weak.”

  “By now his fingers should be able to grip. They were not broken.”

  “Are you saying he’ll always be this way?”

  “It’s what I think.”

  “You were wrong about him before.”

  “I grant you that, but his injury was far too bad for him to escape completely unscathed. We both know that. You’ve done well, but you must accept that unless he becomes again the man he was, he won’t be satisfied.”

  Niamh nodded. Geirdis had put into words her own fear. “What more can I do?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing more to do.”

  On the day that Niamh removed the splint, it was seen that Olaf’s arm had been twisted. He had lumps beneath the skin. Niamh knew then that her knowledge had not been enough and her fingers lacked the skill to align the bones correctly through the swelling. She cursed Geirdis silently for her unwillingness to help, although she knew that some of the others she had treated were not much better.

  Olaf swung the arm experimentally, trying to move it upwards, but the swing was very small. Without saying anything, Geirdis offered him a cup of ale and, thoughtlessly, he reached out his right hand to take it from her.

  “No, the other hand,” she said.

  He did so, curving his thumb around the cup. The rest of his fingers would not move and the cup tumbled to the ground, wetting their garments.

  “A waste of good ale,” said Grettir who was watching. Niamh wished he was not, but she had no power to exclude him. She also accepted he had a right to know about the fitness of one of his warriors.

  Olaf started to say something and then closed his lips tight.

  “If you cannot hold a cup, you cannot hold a shield,” Grettir said.

  “By the next raid, I will be able hold it,” Olaf muttered through gritted teeth.

  “I’m not like Brunn. There’s no place on my ship for a one-armed man, or even in the front of my warriors when we next attack. If you’re hoping for a speedy death you won’t find it with me. From now on you can stay with the women and old ones where you belong.”

  He walked away and did not see Olaf half rise to challenge him. Geirdis’ hand clutched at his sleeve.

  “Don’t,” she hissed. “What can you hope to accomplish? He would slaughter you with three blows in your present state. If you wish to challenge him, you must get your arm working again.”

  Geirdis’ words drove Olaf to work even harder than he had done before and he ended each day exhausted. He forced himself to form a fist, but his grasp on anything remained weak. He was able to lift his arm a little higher but could not carry a weight. One day, by chance, Niamh found him in a woodland clearing, hacking at the underbrush. His face, when he turned to face her, was distraught.

  “What’s the matter?” she cried, coming forward to embrace him, but he pushed her away.

  “My arm’s useless. Why didn’t you let me die?” It was the first time he had ever spoken like that to her.

  “Because I knew you would live...”

  “As a one-armed man? What use is that?” he interrupted.

  “I don’t have the skill to set an arm properly. No one here does. Your arm is not completely useless and there are many things that can be done one-ha
nded.”

  “Name them.”

  “Farming, fishing, building, tending the animals; there are others.”

  “But not fighting.”

  “You could still fight if you were forced to ...”

  “Without a shield, I wouldn’t last long.”

  “You’re not really thinking of going on Grettir’s next raid are you?” Her fear made her heart beat faster.

  “He won’t have me. I can’t persuade him.”

  “You want to go so you won’t come back.” He nodded, looking everywhere but into her eyes. “What of me? Without you, I don’t want to live.”

  He turned to her then. “You’re beautiful, many men would want you.”

  “I can’t bear children,” she whispered.

  “Perhaps with some other man you could...”

  She put her hands on his shoulders and gave him a little shake.

  “Olaf, I want you, only you. Ever since that first time you took me, I’ve wanted no other man. It’s my sorrow that I’ve given you no fine sons...”

  “So we’re both wounded in our different ways.”

  She nodded. Olaf dropped his sword to the ground and dropped down onto the turf. She sat beside him and he put his arm about her shoulders. For a little while silence fell, while she searched for the right words to express what she was thinking.

  “Does it fret you terribly to be here among your own people but not as you once were?”

  “You know it does. Every day I see people looking at me. Some pity me and others are glad I’m a cripple now. I don’t know which is worse.”

  “Suppose we left here, just the two of us. Find some other place where no one knows us and there is no one to remember or remind you.”

  “Where would we go? What would we do?”

  “Perhaps we could go to that abandoned house we found. It wasn’t in such a bad condition. If we both worked, we could make it weather-tight. The land is good there, you said so yourself, and we could fish.”

  He stared at her. “I am neither a farmer nor a fisherman.”

  “I wasn’t bred to be a slave, even your slave, but I have survived.”

  “True, you were not. You would go with me?”

  “If you’ll take me.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  For several days nothing more was said. It seemed to Niamh that Olaf did not spend as many hours working with his weapons. He talked with a number of the farmers and fishermen he would have ignored before. He also took a long walk with his brother and came back looking more cheerful. She hoped this was a good sign and Eithne confirmed it to her later.

  “What did they talk about?” Niamh asked.

  “Your plan to move away from here.”

  “And what does Mar think about that?”

  “He thinks it’s a sensible idea. A man like Olaf could never fit into a lesser role than the one he’s always had. He’d be sure to annoy someone and there’s no honour in dying in a brawl.”

  “Do you agree with him?”

  “I do. Olaf’s too good a man to lose in such a way, but I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you too. You’ve been a good friend to me ever since I arrived.” Niamh gave Eithne a hug.

  “We’ll be able to meet again,” Eithne said, with a smile. “The place where you’re going is not far away, only an afternoon’s sail. Mar says he’ll take me there when you’re settled.”

  “That’s good to know. I don’t think we can come back here. Too many memories and the possibility of trouble, with Abi among others.”

  So it seemed as if Olaf had begun to accept the plan. Niamh did some hard thinking herself. She knew that they would need various things to take with them. It was many months since she had even thought of the gold that she had brought with her from her home. She had changed its hiding place several times and it now lay buried in the ground beneath her bed. There were craftsmen who worked with metals and, for Olaf, she knew she was willing to sacrifice her treasure. The torc would buy them a boat, tools and provisions until they could till the ground and harvest the crops. Olaf would have to do the bargaining for her. He was used to doing so, when he had returned with plunder from the raids. One night, when everything was still, she dug into the ground between their bodies and unearthed her treasures. Olaf moved a little restlessly, disturbed by her movements, but no one else stirred. She hid the linen bag under her clothes and tied it tightly. She would tell Olaf about it when they were alone and she could not be overheard. Then she would let him decide what to do.

  Next day, she could find no sign of him anywhere within the rath. The other men were preparing the longships and their weapons, for Grettir had announced that they would leave the following day and go north. It was almost mealtime when Niamh saw Olaf at last. She was carrying a platter of bread into the hall when he came in. He looked pleased with himself and smiled when he saw her.

  “I must speak to you.”

  “I need to speak to you too.”

  “After we’ve eaten.”

  At that moment a group of men approached, laughing and shouting. When they saw Olaf and Niamh standing together, Abi, who was with them, deliberately jostled into Niamh. He caused her to stumble and the bread she was carrying fell on the ground.

  “Your wench is clumsy, Olaf. If she were mine, I’d soon mend her ways with a stick.”

  Olaf took a step forward, putting himself between Niamh and Abi. “You pushed her, Abi. The fault isn’t hers. Be on your way and leave us alone.”

  “You speak very cockily, for a man with a useless arm. Are you trying to call me a liar?”

  “It happened as I said, take it how you will.”

  “You’ll answer me for that insult.”

  Olaf stiffened, knowing this was exactly what Abi had intended, his revenge for Niamh preferring him. But there was only one answer he could make.

  “Where and how you will.”

  “Hold!” Grettir pushed between them and thrust them apart. “What’s going on here?”

  “Olaf insulted me,” Abi replied. “He called me a liar.”

  “And you heed his insults? You would fight with a one-armed man? What glory for you to slay a cripple?”

  Olaf stiffened. “I’m not afraid to fight Abi. I have always had the better of any encounter with him. I can still beat him, one-armed or not.”

  Grettir’s eyebrows rose. “You were always the cock crowing on the dunghill, Olaf, even when we were boys. Your voice had some value then, but a bird with one wing is only good for the pot. Your time has passed and I would have thought you realised that by now. Abi is a strong warrior as well as cunning in the ways of the sea. I won’t have him fight you and perhaps come by a scratch or two which prevents him from coming on the raid. We leave tomorrow and I need every man fit and unmarked. He can kill you when he returns, if he chooses to bother with such as you. I’ll not stop him then. For now, be grateful I’ve spared your life for a few more weeks, but heed this — your place is no longer among the warriors. Sit with the workers and in future, speak small to your betters.”

  He grasped Abi by the arm and pulled him away. Abi looked back over his shoulder as if he would have returned, but he was given no chance. Olaf stood rigid like a stone, his hand clenched at his side and his face white. Niamh did not dare speak to him and the other witnesses moved away, leaving them standing there alone. Then Olaf turned and walked blindly out of the hall and into the darkness. Niamh followed. He walked with hasty steps to the small gate and said a couple of words to the man who guarded it. The man asked him a question which Olaf answered, his tone firm. The man reluctantly opened the gate for him and Olaf strode through. Niamh ran forward, just as he was shutting it.

  “Let me through.”

  “Where do you think you’re going at this time of night?” The man asked her.

  “After him.” She pointed to Olaf’s rapidly receding figure.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you. In his mood, who knows what he might do to
you.”

  “You’re not me and I’m going to stop him doing anything stupid.”

  “He won’t heed a girl like you.”

  “He might. Let me pass right now or I’ll lose him!”

  He dropped his arm and pushed the door wider so Niamh could squeeze through.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” She heard him call after her.

  Without the light of the moon, Niamh would certainly have lost Olaf in the darkness. Fortunately, he was silhouetted against the starry sky and she was able to follow him at a distance. It was difficult, because he was almost running. She slipped and slid on the broken ground and once she fell forward as a bramble snagged her robe. The unexpectedness of it forced a cry from her as she tumbled to her hands and knees. Olaf heard and whirled round. She could hear him coming back as she pulled her skirt free.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Me. Niamh.”

  He had reached her now and grasped her roughly by the arm, giving her a small shake. “Were you following me?” His tone was one she had never heard from him before.

  “Yes. I was afraid for you. I didn’t want you to come to harm.”

  “Do you think I’m unable to look after myself? That I am useless?” He shook her harder and she found it difficult to force the words out as her teeth juddered together, but she did.

  “Of course not! But no one could have heard the things Grettir said without being furious. Why does he hate you so much that he would humiliate you like that?” The shaking stopped, Olaf’s hand fell away from her and he stood very still.

  “Because, ever since we were boys, I’ve beaten him in every fight and every drill. I’ve killed more men, gathered more booty and stood higher in Brunn’s eyes than he ever did, son though he was to him. He’s always hated me, but for all that, he spoke no more than the truth about me tonight.”

  This time her hand grasped his arm and she was the one who shook him. “No he did not! Grettir’s a fool; how often have you said it yourself? Only an idiot would prefer Abi to you. He might have two arms, but his brain is wooden about everything but the sea. Grettir will come to regret his choice, you’ll see. You can do more now than he’ll ever do. I know it.”