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

Page 10

by Jason Henry Evans


  Mannan said nothing.

  “For a moment, just a moment now, let us celebrate her life. The good she did. Let us toast her legacy. If not for your sake, then for hers.” The priest placed a hand on Mannan’s shoulder. For some reason, the gesture touched Mannan. He looked around the empty chapel and a shiver shot up his spine. What’s the harm? He thought.

  Mannan stood. His back and legs numb and cold from sitting on the floor.

  Fr. Duncan smiled and placed his arm around Mannan’s shoulders, and smiled.

  They left the chapel and went to Fr. Duncan’s cottage. Next to the door was a large barrel with a spigot sitting on a bench. The priest opened his front door and Mannan followed. Inside was a sparse interior. A sagging bed lay to the right and across it a table with a few earthen mugs, two wooden plates, writing ink, paper and four books. “I’ll be right back.” Fr. Duncan grabbed two large mugs and went outside. Mannan scanned the books. He found the Bible and opened it up to the Psalms as the door swung open.

  “You found the Good Book, I see. I can read it to you, if you wish?” He handed Mannan a mug brimming with beer as he sat on the edge of his bed.

  “I’m fine, father.”

  Fr. Duncan took a long drink. “You said your parents wanted you to take your vows. Did the local abbey not take you?”

  Mannan shook his head. “The Second Desmond War came and my father went to fight for the earl.” Mannan paused. “He never came back. How was I to leave my mother and infant sister? I had cousins and uncles who could help with the planting and the harvest. But how could I leave?”

  Fr. Duncan nodded his head. “I understand.” He drank some more. “You know your mother was lauded in this community. Everyone loved her, revered her. She was a saint.”

  Mannan drained the mug. “Aye, Father. She died a saint, too. Martyred by weaker men.”

  “I know you’re angry, but—”

  “Anger does not begin to describe what I feel.” Mannan’s heart pounded in his chest. “When I think of the unjustness of all this . . .” He trailed off mumbling.

  “I think we could both use another drink.” Fr. Duncan stood and took Mannan’s mug. He returned with beer slopping to and fro as he waddled back. “What do you think?”

  “It’s very good. What did you flavor it with?”

  “Molasses. I recei ved some a while back. Delicious, no?” He drank deeply. The mug left his lips leaving a trail of beer foam glistening down his beard. “Excuse me,” Fr. Duncan said as he wiped it from his face. “Your mother will have a beautiful mass.”

  Mannan drank deeply from his mug. “What about the others? Where was there ‘beautiful mass’? And what about the dispossessed? What about the homeless?”

  Fr. Duncan sipped and listened.

  “I am sick of this world, father. I am sick of its harshness. I am sick of its pettiness. I am sick of its small dreams and its bitterness.” Mannan drank again.

  “We must learn to endure. To hold on to what is dear. This is a test, Mannan. A test from God.”

  Mannan snorted. “God did not insult my sister. Diarmuid did. God did not brutalize my mother or burn out my kin. That was the Mickens. They are small, bitter people and I loathe them.” He drank some more.

  “We must love our neighbors, Mannan. We must turn the other cheek and learn forgiveness for others while we seek it for ourselves.”

  “And what of justice father? What of right and wrong?”

  “Are you the judge of right and wrong, Mannan? Only God can judge that.”

  “I CAN judge that. In the 17th chapter of St. Luke’s it says that the kingdom of God is in all men. That means they have the ability to know right from wrong. Every step on this path I have tried to turn back. I apologized. I showed restraint. I even returned Riona to the Mickens when I could have bargained for much more. Yet they kept escalating.” Mannan jumped to his feet and ran to the door, opening it and point to into the night. “Right over there we parlayed, father. Right over there. What did my mercy and my charity get me and my kin? An ambush. My men died that day while I was ‘turning the other cheek.’” Mannan fumed thinking of the indignities suffered by the MacOwens. Then he saw the barrel and poured another cup. “I’m not asking for revenge, father. I’m asking for justice. Justice for my dead mother. Justice for my people. Justice for me.” Mannan took his filled mug and drank deeply. “I did not ask for any of this. I did not ask for my father to abandon us and die. I did not ask to be displaced and have to leave Leinster. Yet I was grateful to come here.” He stretched his arms out and looked to heaven. “This cursed ground that makes us peck at the soil with hammer and chisel. And I was grateful for it, too. I was grateful for my full belly and my warm fire. I was grateful for my accounting of grain and dried fish. Of smelly, skinny cows who begrudge a quart of milk. I was grateful because there was peace.”

  Fr. Duncan rose from his seat and went outside. A chill shivered him as he poured another glass. “’Judge not lest ye be judged.’ It says that in St. Mathew’s. Just as much as I implore you not to judge the Mickens, I cannot judge you, either.” He took a long pull from his mug. “I don’t know your wounds, Mannan. I do know your mother loved you dearly. I know that you have been a blessing to us all with your industry and your fairness. But I also know this. The earnest man I see before me is in danger of losing his soul. That rage and violence are like two wolves scratching at your door.” He drank some more. “Don’t let them in, Mannan.”

  Mannan turned away and looked into the night sky. A glittering band of stars lit up the night. He did not need to have Fr Duncan tell him that. He could hear those wolves nipping at his heal and scratching at his heart. He knew he was at a precipice—and it scared him. Mannan looked at the chapel, its candles flickering and dying in the windows. “I have to stay with my mother,” he slurred. “I must keep vigil.”

  Fr. Duncan gently grabbed his shoulder. “Let the dead take care of the dead. My fire is warm and I have plenty of blankets. Stay here tonight.”

  Mannan looked at the little cottage. He was tired. While the ale fought back the cold, he knew it wouldn’t last. “Thank you, father.” He followed Fr. Duncan inside and heard him latch the door. The portly priest poured a bowl of stew for Mannan, which he ate heartily. They spoke to each other of lighter subjects. Of summer dances and pretty girls. Of his mother’s sweet fruit pies and delicious stews. They laughed and sang songs. Soon drowsiness overcame him. Mannan slept well that night, dreaming of better days.

  Chapter 9

  The next morning came pleasantly. Mannan always felt awful after an evening of drinking, but this time things were different. His head did not throb so much and the world didn’t seem so bright. When he awoke the cottage of Fr. Duncan was abandoned. The fire had gone out in the night and the door was ajar, flooding the place with light. He staggered outside to feel the warmth of the sun on his face. Standing before him was Aaron Rue.

  “God save you, Mannan.” Aaron Rue embraced Mannan tightly.

  “God save you, cousin.” Some of Mannan’s family had arrived early. As he spoke with them, others came. First there was a dozen. Then two dozen. Fr. Duncan ordered some men to move things outside because the chapel would not hold them all.

  “Are you ready?” Fr. Duncan asked.

  Mannan nodded his head as Ote, Seamus, and the other men stood by to give him strength. The assembled divided themselves into two groups as Mannan and his cousins held Ehblin’s shrouded body behind the priest. The walked between the two groups and to a high table at the end of the procession. Mannan saw his kin with reddened faces and heard their soft wails as they progressed. His mother’s body was laid on three chairs, before a makeshift altar table.

  Fr. Duncan began the mass. He blessed the body and led the Act of Contrition in Latin. As the prayers were said, the sound of horses galloping interrupted the prayers. A commotion started as family members in the back gasped while others talked loudly. One woman screamed.

  Mannan went to s
ee what was going on. At the sight of the riders a hot fury erupted from his bowels. He trembled with rage while he moved forward. “How DARE you?”

  “Mannan, don’t!” Seamus grabbed Mannan by his waist. It did not stop him from dragging Seamus five more feet before he stopped. “How DARE you?”

  Ten riders on horseback lined up in front of the cemetery. Mickens riders, everyone.

  “You dare come here on the day my mother is put to rest?” Mannan wrestled with Seamus. Other cousins flanked Mannan. Some pulled dirks and swords.

  One of the Mickens, Angus by name, got down from his horse. He wore no armor and carried only the dirk on his belt. He raised his hands in the air. “Let it be known that the MacOwens drew swords first on this day.”

  “First?!?!” Mannan fought to break Seamus’s hold. “What do you want? What else can you take from me?”

  Angus drew his dirk, holding it from the blade with the handle pointed at Mannan. As he looked into Mannan’s eyes he tossed the blade into the grass. “What do I want? I want to pay my respects to your mother.”

  Mannan stopped struggling, confused at what had just happened.

  “Your mother was a saint. A good woman who practiced charity to kin and neighbor alike. I had no quarrel with her. I come to honor her, if you let me, Mannan Mor MacOwen.” Angus stepped forward and embraced Mannan.

  Another Mickens dismounted and tossed his dirk against a grave stone. “We almost starved to death two winters ago. If it weren’t for your mother’s generosity, my parents would be dead. I owe her and you a debt.”

  “Aye, your mother nursed my mother when she took fever after giving birth,” said another man. “Her bread kept us alive until spring,” said another. “When we first came, your mother taught us what herbs to collect and which plants to avoid.”

  One by one each man came to Mannan with stories about his mother. Each man dropped his dirk before Mannan’s feet and embraced him. Some wept. Overwhelmed with the respect his enemies were showing, overwhelmed with the violence, and overwhelmed with his own loss, Mannan wept, too.

  “Come, let us say prayers for the dead together, as brothers and sisters,” Fr. Duncan said.

  Mannan fought his tears. “Aye, let us do that, father,”

  Together Mickens and MacOwen celebrated Eibhlin’s life and prayed for her soul. They stood and kneeled in peace and said mass together, taking communion. When the service was done, men from both families carried her body to an open grave and poured dirt over her. Each man and woman said their condolences to Mannan at the grave site. When it was all over the MacOwen women prepared a meal to break their fast of the day.

  Angus and the other Mickens turned back to their horses.

  Mannan walked with them. “I thank you for the respect you showed my mother. But don’t think that this thing is over between our families.”

  Angus looked at his kin, then to Mannan. “It is for us.”

  “What do you mean?” Mannan asked.

  “When you raided Diarmuid’s farm, you burned his house and stole his cattle. By all the laws of Ireland you were within your rights. But you let the wounded go. And you did not despoil our women. That was a kindness which we will long remember, Mannan.”

  One of the other Mickens spoke. “When I heard what Connell had done to your mother I was ashamed. Kin or no, I will not fight with a man like that. I,” he looked around to his kin. “We, will not fight for a man like that. We left Leinster, we left Ireland because we did not want to be that kind of man.” He got on his horse. “Now I’m going to go home now. If you pillage my land, I will defend it and my family. But no more.”

  Angus continued. “He speaks for all of us. We’re done with this.”

  Mannan could feel his mother’s warmth well up inside him. It would only be good manners, he thought. “Don’t go. Are you hungry? We have plenty to eat.”

  Angus climbed upon his horse. “I thank you, Mannan, for your hospitality. But this is a MacOwen party. We aren’t kin. But we can be good neighbors.” He turned his horse around and started down the road. “If I hear anything, I will let you know. Anon, neighbor.”

  Mannan watched as his former enemies rode down the road to their homes. He turned to find Seamus and Ote sitting on grave markers. “Well that was surprising. What did they say?” Seamus asked.

  “They are done. They won’t fight us unless we try to pillage their farms.”

  “That cuts the Mickens strength by at least a quarter,” Seamus said.

  “Aye, it does. But I don’t want to think about that.” Mannan said. He put his arm around Seamus “How are you?”

  “I’m thirsty,” Seamus said. “Is there any more of that hogshead the priest was talking about?”

  Mannan smiled for the first time in a week. “Let’s go to the barrel and find out.” They walked past their kin and towards the priest’s cottage. “Any word about Deborah?” The words caught in his throat.

  “None. Ote looks for her constantly. He doesn’t eat. He falls asleep atop his pony,” Seamus said.

  “We’ll join him tomorrow.” Mannan said as he walked back to his kin. Fiddles played alongside recorders and Bodhran drums. Whiskey, beer, and wine were passed around while MacOwens remembered every kindness Eibhlin’s extended in her life. Toasts and prayers were dedicated to her. For once, the tears came easily to Mannan, tears mingled with laughter.

  Soon the food came out. Roasted meet from a slaughtered calf – a high honor during the early fall. Blood pudding and river trout swimming in butter. It was good to eat and be full. Mannan fell asleep relieved that the day had gone so well. It was warm next to the fire they built, so he made a blanket of his great kilt and fell asleep looking at the stars. It still hurt that his mother was gone. But the company of his kin assuaged his suffering. The respect of those Mickens helped as well. She led a good life, he thought to himself. As sleep overpowered him Mannan saw her face in the stars and dreamed of better days.

  Chapter 10

  The day after the funeral, Ote and Mannan returned to the farm. Work on the farm felt better than anything that had happened in the last three weeks. The cattle had scattered, as had the horses and the chickens. However, most animals are creatures of habit. Many of them had returned looking for their next meal. The house was salvageable, too. The walls were scared with fire, but not damaged. The roof was gone, but the main ceiling joists were barely touched. Even the goods inside were in passable shape.

  “Look Mannan, it’s a miracle,” Ote said.

  “If it’s a miracle, then it’s one of haste.” Mannan walked around the soot and ash blanketing the floor. “They must have known they couldn’t be here long. They were too far away from their own lands.” He touched a joist now blackened but undamaged. “They must have tossed some torches on the roof and rode off. If it had rained, the thatch would probably still be here.” He left the house. Outside the lulling of cattle distracted him. “Well hello girls. How are you?” He grabbed a handful of grass and fed one of the furry highland cows. The heifer took the grass and gently ate from his hand. These cows weren’t like the Irish cows he grew up with.

  Irish cattle were broad, round things with coarse, short hair but at least 5 and a half feet tall. The heifers gave milk for days and the meat was sweet when he could get it. Highland cows were thinner. They had a shaggy appearance and were squat, sturdy animals. They were gentle, too. Like a child, they had never picked up any of the nasty habits Irish cows had. They didn’t produce much milk and their flesh wasn’t tasty like Irish cattle, but they were easier to manage.

  Mannan looked around and took mental notes of all the work that had to be done. New fences and new pens. A new roof for his home and a new barn. It would take years to complete it all.

  “Mannan,” Ote said as he pointed down the valley. “Riders.”

  Mannan walked back to the house to buckle his sword belt. Ote did the same. As the riders came approached he walked back to the fence. Four riders trotted towards the fence
. They were all Mickens. “How can I help you, neighbor?” Mannan asked.

  “Just wanted you to know some of your cattle wondered on our land,” the lead Mickens said.

  “I’d thank you for their return.”

  “You’ll have to get them yourself. We have no time to babysit your cattle,” he said.

  “I thank you anyways, neighbor.”

  The horsemen turned around to ride off. The leader said one last thing before going. “Not that it’s your concern, but Riona and Connell have had a falling out. She has banished him.”

  If this was true, then it was really going to end. The bloodshed and the violence. “Why do you tell me this?”

  “I thought you’d like to know,” said their leader. He nudged his mare and the four of them trotted away into the valley.

  “Well, saddle up our horses. We’ve got cattle to find,” Mannan said.

  The two went out and wrangled cows from one end of the valley to the other. There weren’t many to begin with, but that meant Mannan knew each cow by sight. They found some in a field, others taking a drink by a stream. One they found nursing a new born calf. “I found some tracks going into this wooded glen,” Mannan said.

  He followed the tracks down till he was in a small thicket of tall bushes. He could hear a stream and smell the water, so he went further in. Mannan peered into the brush and saw the brown furry backside of one of his cows, lying down. “Alright you, time come home now.”

  The cow mooed in reply. It stood and started its walk back home. Behind the cow was a woman, dirty and still in the brush.

  Mannan’s heart jumped into his throat. Could it be? He jumped down from the horse. “Deborah? Deborah?” He grabbed the girl by her waist, shaking the mud off of her face. “Deborah,” he whispered. “Wake up, lass. Wake up.” She wasn’t dead. Mannan had seen enough dead to know she wasn’t among them. But he had to wake her up. Gently, he let her go and went to the stream. He filled a cup he carried with him and splashed it on her face.

 

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