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

by Jason Henry Evans

  “It was a good morning, wasn’t it?” Ote asked.

  “Aye, Ote. It was.”

  “I can’t wait to tell Deborah. Oh how happy she’ll be.” Ote almost sang that last sentence.

  “Now you mind your mouth, Ote. We’ll surprise mother and Deborah during dinner, understand?” Mannan scowled.

  Ote shrank. “Aye, at dinner.”

  Mannan had been too stern. “You did good Ote. You did well for all of us.” He placed his hand on Ote’s shoulder, which made the youth smile. He grinned a toothy grin while the ground sloped further into the small valley towards home. In the distance the sound of clucking chickens floated on the wind. Ote leaped out of the cart. “I bet she’s feeding them now.” He ran the rest of the way down the road.

  “Idiot,” Mannan mumbled as he urged the horse on. When he got to the house Ote had wrapped himself around Mannan’s sister Deborah. She was all of fourteen years old and wild like a wolf. Their embraced lingered as the two awkwardly kissed. Ote was close to six feet tall, gangly and lean while Deborah was almost half a foot shorter. The symmetry of it just felt odd to Mannan’s eyes. “Ote, put these boxes and bags in the barn,” Mannan barked. “And unhitch the horse.”

  Reluctantly, Ote tore himself away from Deborah to go and do what he was told.

  Mannan jumped down from the wagon and tramped to the well. As he drank from a bucket his sister traipsed over with a smirk on her face. “How now, brother?”

  Mannan gulped more water, then wiped his face. “Jesus, Deborah. You could have any boy or man in two valleys and you choose him.” He shook his head.

  “I like Ote,” she said defensively.

  “Why? He’s gangly, clumsy, a pimpled mess of a man.”

  “He’s kind and he’s sweet. He has no pretense about him.” Deborah quieted as a breeze picked up and blew her auburn hair into her face. “Besides, the world needs kindness right now.”

  Mannan couldn’t argue with that.

  “I see your back from the trade?” A voice echoed across the valley.

  Mannan recognized that voice and smiled for a second time. “Mother!”

  “Don’t come near this house unless you’ve washed. Supper will be done soon. Ote, make sure you wash up to. I want no horse stench in my house.”

  “Aye, mother.”

  Mannan washed his hands and scrubbed his face with the brisk well water before coming inside. “I’ll set the table.”

  “You will not. Where is my kiss?”

  Mannan kissed his mother’s forehead.

  “That’s better. How did Ote do?”

  “Well, I suppose.”

  “Now what does that mean?” The old woman asked as she walked back to their home.

  “I know he means well, but Ote wouldn’t last half a day in Leinster.”

  “So what? We aren’t in Leinster.”

  Mannan leaned in and took his mother’s hand. “Ma, I know he cares for Deborah dearly, but how can he protect her? How can he protect you?”

  She snatched it away. “Who says I need protection?”

  “You know what I mean, Ma.”

  “Why I birthed seven children. Two died in childbirth, two more before their second birthday. And your two older brothers and your father got themselves killed in that foolish war.”

  “I know, ma.”

  “Know this, then. I moved heaven and earth to get us here. It was the foolishness of men that put us here in the first place. And I have had enough of it. If your sister fancies the lad, she can’t do any worse than your father did.”

  Mannan sighed as he went inside. He did not mean to get into this argument again. “I am the man of this house—like it or not— the responsibility falls on me.”

  “Aye, that’s true.” His mother picked up a wooden spoon from the table and went to the hearth. Before stirring the stew, she pointed out the window. “So it’s your job to teach him.”

  Mannan did not want to argue anymore.

  His mother’s tone softened. “I know it’s hard on you. I know you’re worried for her. Worried for me. But Deborah has your father’s fire and my stubbornness. Like many of our kind, her fire will push Ote forward. All you have to do is teach him what you can.”

  Mannan kept his piece as he put bowls out on the table.

  A knock on the door surprised both of them.

  Mannan set aside his work to answer the door. An old woman in threadbare clothes trembled before them. “Good day,” Mannan said.

  “Good day, Mannan. Is Eibhlin about?”

  “Mirriam?” Mannan’s mother called from the hearth. “Come in, dear thing. Come in! Mannan, fetch some butter and some milk.”

  “Thank you, Eibhlin.” The old woman hobbled over to a chair. Eibhlin found a blanket and placed it around her knees while Mannan went and got a croc of butter and the milking pail. “Ote,” Mannan called. “Leave the horse hitched to wagon.”

  “But why?”

  “I think we’ll be escorting that Micken woman home after supper.”

  It was true. The old woman stayed for supper. They ate eel and lamprey soup with carrots and leaks, thickened in cream. A loaf of fresh bread accompanied the stew. Mannan and Ote said very little as Eibhlin and the old woman chatted for an hour. As the meal ended Eibhlin went to the hearth and pulled out a second loaf of bread.

  “Oh no, Eibhlin, that is too generous,” Mirriam said.

  “Nonsense. I have plenty.” She looked at Mannan. “The trade went well, did it not?”

  “Aye, it did,” Mannan said sheepishly.

  “Well, I don’t want to be rude.” Mirriam eyed the bread hopefully.

  “Then it’s settled. Ote, fetch some butter from the shed.” Eibhlin snapped her fingers and the gangly Ote was off.

  Soon Mannan helped Mirriam into the wagon while Ote placed the loaf of bread and a small croc of butter next to the old woman. “Be back before the nightfall, Ote.”

  Ote nodded. “Aye, I’ll do my best.” Ote tugged on the reins and the horse trotted away.

  “Bless you, Eihblin. Bless your family, too.” Mirriam waved as the wagon moved away from the house. Her face reddened as she waved.

  “Goodbye dear. Come by anytime,” Eibhlin said before returning to the house.

  Mannan followed. “Why did you give her our food, ma?”

  “Why? Did you see her? In her threadbare clothes? She probably walked all morning and was turned away from at least half a dozen houses before coming here.”

  “With good reason, Ma. Things are desperate. We cannot afford to feed every beggar that come to our door,” Mannan said.

  Eibhlin dismissed the complaint with a wave of her hand. “Nonsense,” she said. “It is our Christian duty to provide charity.”

  “Aye, it is. But what will happen when we need charity? Who will provide it to us?”

  Eibhlin shrugged. “The Lord will provide.”

  “Ah, Ma,” Mannan grunted.

  “The Good Lord led us out of Leinster. He found us passage across the Irish Sea. We must trust in the Lord, Mannan. We are his flock, not a pack of wolves ready to pounce and devour others. Remember that.”

  His mother was naïve, Mannan was sure of it. They may need that bread at some point. Or that butter. And a cow could only give so much milk. Why couldn’t his mother see that? They had to look out for themselves, first.

  “Besides,” Eibhlin began. “You said the trade went well.”

  “It did, ma.”

  “And Ote’s pearls?” Eibhlin leaned in to hear.

  “Captain Honor gave us rods of Iron, a box of nails, some Iron tools and horse shoes,” Mannan said.

  “Was that all?”

  “No. He has extended us a line of credit for the pearls. He will return in two months with other goods we can settle on.”

  “You see, the Lord has blessed us. Why not be generous?”

  “Oh, there’s one other thing. Diarmuid of the Mickens, he has invited us to a feast in three days. He wants t
o thank us for introducing him to Captain Honor.”

  Eihblin’s face lit up. “Well now, go enjoy yourself.”

  “You don’t understand, mother. He invited all of us.”

  Chapter 3

  The next three days were as lovely as the day the Pink Maiden came. The bright days and short nights of summer were upon them now and everyone would try to celebrate them as much as possible.

  The word had spread that the Mickens would host the MacOwens at the farm of Diarmuid Micken as a thank you for introducing them to the trade. There had been some tension in previous years as the number of those fleeing Ireland grew in number. The land here was different from good Leinster soil. Wheat and barley were harder to grow and the cattle were different here, too. So every new face in the valley meant fear of theft and starvation for the settled. As for their landlords, the Mackenzie didn’t care that the Highlands couldn’t support many more people; they just collected the rents.

  None of that mattered today. Today would be a rare day of celebration and feasting. Deborah had left out milk from the day before so the curds could separate from the whey. She fed the chickens this morning while Mannan milked their prize heifer. Meanwhile their mother Eibhlin washed and mended their best clothes for the celebration that evening.

  “Mannan, time for supper,” Deborah called. Mannan looked up from his stool to see his sister come to the small barn. Every day she gained a woman’s figure and every day she looked more like their mother. “No beer today, Ma wants to take it with her tonight.”

  Mannan nodded. “That’s fine.”

  Deborah tilted her head and furrowed her brow. “This is all for you. If you hadn’t invited the Mickens to the trade, there would be no party.”

  Mannan stood and carried the bucket of milk towards the house. “I did it for Captain Honor, not for the Mickens.”

  “Still, they are grateful.” Deborah reached out and touched Mannan’s free hand. “I know things have been hard, but they don’t have to be hard today. Enjoy yourself.”

  Eibhlin greeted her children warmly. She took a large wooden spoon and ladled fresh cream into the soup of root vegetables simmering on the fire. Their house was hardly worth the name. The build was common for the Highlands, but different from those in Ireland. In the highlands, stones were gathered and stacked into walls packed with earth for insulation. Timber was carved for ceiling joists and covered with thatch and turf to keep the rain and cold out. The buildings were long and usually held livestock on one end with their family on the other. But Mannan had built a second building from the ruined foundations of a previous owner which he restored into a barn.

  “Eat Mannan, you’ve worked hard.” Eibhlin poured more soup into his bowl.

  “I don’t think my dear brother wants to go to the party,” Deborah interrupted. “I think it’s Riona that makes you shudder, brother.” Her lips curled into a mischievous smile.

  Mannan returned the statement with a glare.

  “You leave your brother alone, Deborah,” Eibhlin said sternly. But then she turned to Mannan and softened. “If you do fancy this Riona, tonight would be the perfect night, my son. They hold you in high esteem, the Mickens do.”

  Deborah jumped into the conversation. “Besides, I think she fancies my brother, too. I’ve seen the way her eyes linger on your form as you walk to and from at the chapel. In fact, I don’t know if I like the way she leers at you. She might be a hussy.”

  “I’ll not have you meddling in my affairs Deborah. Why—”

  “I’ll be wanting grandchildren soon,” Eibhlin interrupted.

  Mannan turned to defend himself, but Deborah shot back with another comment. Every time he tried to defend himself from one woman, the other would interject with another comment. Teasing Mannan was so much fun, partly because he knew when to withdrawal and was very good natured about it. Soon supper was done and the dishes washed. After kissing his mother on the forehead, Mannan went back out to complete his chores.

  “Son. SON,” Eibhlin called.

  “Aye, Mother?”

  “Come here, I have something to show you.” Eibhlin’s eyes sparkled.

  Mannan dutifully turned back to the house. Eibhlin’s right arm was hidden behind her back. As Mannan came closer she revealed a bundle of blue cloth with colorful trim. “Your Ionar is done.” Lovingly, she put the garment in Mannan’s hands.

  It was a short jacket, common in Ireland, with a high waist and pleats attached, if one could afford the fabric. The sleeves were usually very minimal, but depended upon the style and the fashion at the time of its making. This one was a deep blue with yellow, red, & white trim. Thick woven cloth was sewn into the waist as trim in red and yellow. More woven trim sat around the neck. But it was the sleeves that took Mannan’s breath away. Eibhlin had woven one greyhound on each sleeve in natural white thread. The greyhound stood on its hine legs and it’s tale curled around and found its way into its mouth.

  “Mother,” Mannan began, but he did not know what to say.

  “I still had your father’s croix, but it was so worn.” Eibhlin fought back tears. “So I decided what better tribute to him than to divvy it up and use it as trim on your Ionar?” She forced a smile before grabbing a square of linen. “Now, your father will always be with you.”

  Mannan rubbed the trim gently with his thumb. He had seen his father wrap that woven belt around his waist a thousand times as a boy. When he left to join the fighting, he had a new croix made, so he left the old one at home. Mannan never saw his father again. “Thank you, mother.” His faced flushed as he fought back tears. “Now I have to go to the Mickens party. If only to brag about my mother.”

  ◆◆◆

  It was late afternoon when Mannan, Ote, and his family all boarded the wagon. “Everyone ready?” Ebhlien, Deborah and Ote, replied with smiles. Mannan snapped the reins and the horse began his trot down the road. A walk to Diarmud’s farm would take half a day on foot. It would be even longer if they had to carry the cheese curds and fresh beer, so they took the wagon.

  The day was so pleasant that Eibhlin began to sing, something she did not do very much in the highlands. Meanwhile Deborah and Ote played tickle games the way young lovers do. It annoyed Mannan, but no harm came of it so he kept his peace. Since his father’s death Mannan had been the man of the house. A title that he felt required a serious disposition. He had his mother to think of. He had to find a suitable match for Deborah, although that didn’t turn out the way he wanted. But today the weariness of being the man in charge lifted and even Mannan found himself singing along.

  Soon the smell of roasting meats wafted, ever so gently, on the air. Cattle was too valuable to slaughter in the highlands. Butter, milk, cream, and cheese were all more valuable than meat. Even the animal’s dung could be used as insulation or even fuel. Yet the smell of roasting beef grew stronger with every moment. Clearly the Mickens had done very well if they slaughtered a cow for the evening.

  The sounds of laughter accompanied fiddle music as they got closer to the farm. In the distance horses were tied to trees and railings all over the property. A bonfire blazed near the front of Diarmuid’s house, even though the sun still hung precariously in the sky. As they approached the home, a tall, gangly boy with a light brown beard came running up. His golden hair bounced to and fro with every step, catching the sun’s light. “Mannan! Good woman Eibhlin, god save you,” he said as he grabbed the horse’s reins. “My brother was hoping you would come. He’s saved a place for you.” The handsome man offered Eiblin his hand.

  “That is very kind of you, Angus. How is your mother?” Eibhlin asked. She took Angus’ arm and walked away from the wagon, leaving the goods to Mannan and Ote.

  “Ote—” Mannan had no words. Ote and Deborah lay wrapped around each other in a tinder embrace. “Ahem,” Mannan said. Usually words came easy to Mannan. Especially insults to Ote. But watching him caress and kiss his sister left Mannan dumbfounded. “Ahem,” he said again.

 
Deborah whispered something to Ote, then laughed. “Very well. Very well. We must bring the beer and curds.” Deborah sat up in the wagon and adjusted her bodice. Her auburn hair was a tangled mess that she tried to order while Ote and Mannan carried things. Mannan scowled at her for her indiscretion. Deborah stuck her tongue out as a retort.

  When the goods had been delivered to the table, Mannan caught glimpse of a cousin wrestling with one of the Mickens, so he walked over to watch. The Micken was almost a foot taller than his cousin, but the wiry MacOwen had the other man by the waist and would not let go. Come on, Seamus. Flip the bastard, Mannan thought.

  Suddenly Seamus flipped the Micken man and ended the match. Cheers and groans accompanied the thud of the other man hitting the dirt. The accolades were followed by clapping and laughter. As they untangled from each other and began to brush off the dirt, each man got a cup to drink. Seamu’s eyes wandered as he sipped, suddenly stopping at Mannan. “Cousin!” he called.

  “Seamus. Still the best wrestler in the county, I see.” Mannan grinned.

  Seamus tilted his head towards the Micken. “He’s good, but naïve. Next year he’ll have the better of me.” Seamus took another sip.

  “But not today, eh?”

  Seamus smiled. “No. It seems not.”

  The two cousins walked away from the makeshift wrestling circle. Some thirty feet away was a gnarled oak with three horses tied to it. “Thank your mother, Mannan, for the barely and vegetables during the last of winter. It made the difference with my mother,” Seamus said.