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This fragment was found, almost immaculately preserved, in a monastic grave near the Old Tower on St. Patrick’s Isle. It appears to be part of the recollections of a Christian monk on the pagan ways of his ancestors; surprisingly, he does not condemn those that came before as heretics or unbelievers, but instead praises their courage and strength
From On Mona’s Ancient Ways by Lord N.More (1887, London). This obscure text seemed to receive a limited printing, for the revived interest in Manx folklore and customs at the end of the 19th Century had not yet begun. A.W.Moore makes brief references to a “sadly rare yet superb book” published a few years before his own defining work on Manx history was finished. Luckily the surviving copy in the Manx Museum retains most of the translation, which is present in full below:
My home is not the home my ancestors knew; in ages past, I am told we all spoke the Gaelg, the tongue we share with our kinsmen in Ireland, and there were no Northmen in these lands. We did not follow the gospel of Christ, either; we worshipped the rivers and hills, and the Sorceror-King who ruled us, and knew not of Heaven or Perdition. This was a land of ignorant heathens and noble men, prideful warriors and barbarous witches; all know the tales of Finn and Oshin, the foul Bugganes, though few would dare admit such to a priest.
Ah, Manannan, Mannin! How hard it is for a Manxman to not sing his praise! Sorceror-King with the truth-telling sword and the corselet of everlasting life, the steed Enbarr of the Flowing Mane and his journeys ‘cross the sea. He was not like the gods of the Northmen; he was our god, who lived amongst us as a benevolent King and stood as a terrible foe to our enemies. The men of Erinn name him a trickster for his spells, but we saw him not as such, for though he could conjure up spectres and horrors to terrify those that would seek harm to his Isle it was done for the good of those he loved. Aye, a man of nobility and dignity - for though he was a pagan, he was a man of virtue, and loved by all who served him.
My grandfather was a pagan, and told us stories his grandfather told him of Manannan; he was a tall man, who looked unlike us, for though we are a short and red-haired race of pale skin our King was tall and tan like the cliffs of Balleira; he was said to look like a man of the distant east, of the Holy Land, and I wonder if he was at one time a Jew or Samaritan and erred from the path of God to seek his own power. He would ripple with strength, Some say that he brought a witch-wife and a host of men with him in a ship the length of a great hall and was clad in shining armour; others say he arrived alone ‘pon a coracle of gilt leather and strode the lands as naked as a babe. I know not, and perhaps I never shall.
There are tales we rarely share, but here I shall try to tell one hidden tale that reveals the true nature of Manannan; he told my grandfather’s grandfather of the Rhyme of Oshin, a blessing from his land far to the East, in which he was given the gift of eternal life and powers beyond mortal measure through the willing sacrifice of many powerful men. He claimed that his duty was to understand Man and all his flaws; to see the nature of Man throughout all under the Kingdom of Heaven, to test the will of those he met and to protect those he came to rule.
The Witch-Wife, as they called her, was a woman of equal power to Manannan; she would gather the seas about her lover’s feet and whisper his ships into being, and would sing songs that rose and flew from the Druidale to the peaks of Barrule. Such beauty in flesh will ne’er be seen against amongst the living, I am told. She grew on the garlic-stroked banks of the river that the Northmen call Hrams-á; we name it Rhamsaa. If some of the songs are to be believed then Manannan knew his Witch-Wife in another life, though she had no memory of such, but nonetheless came to love him once more - and will do again, o’er the centuries, while her King remains untouched by disease or death until the end of the world.
He was the King that armed Lugh, the King that was bested by Saint Patrick, Lord of the Giants and friend to Finn McCooill. He was King of Man. Even the most devout Christian nods to him as they leave our shores, for he watches from afar; waiting for the golden time to return like-glorious to the throne of Mann. Perhaps he will find Christ? The forgiveness of the Lord is unparalleled.
A note: though monastic burials do not typically include grave goods, the monk that was buried with this fragmented text was buried with a simple gilt twin-headed Aquila; perhaps a Roman trinket?
