Excerpt from Time Enough by Lise Mayne

An Historical Fiction Epic from Lise Mayne

Jun 16, 2025

Synopsis of Time Enough:

In the early 1900’s, a Manx family of miners subsists on a small-hold farm; their lives are stable, steeped in routines, love and faery lore, but they are on the verge of ruin. The young family must leave forever, in search of a new life. How will a mother of six, Euphemia, and her eldest son, Henry, make a home in a totally unfamiliar place? William’s younger brother, Thomas, posts their bond for emigration to Michigan. Euphemia suspects her first lover has ulterior motives and that he will destroy her. Henry, almost a man, longs to remain and save their land. No matter. They must go. Too late, they discover they are trapped. Euphemia and Henry together and separately, must struggle to surmount betrayal, abuse and heartbreak. On a three-decade journey from Isle of Man to Saskatchewan, via Michigan and Manitoulin Island, we are immersed in this moving saga of Euphemia and Henry’s fight for independence. A sweeping novel about sacrifice, courage and the unexpected rewards of risk and resilience. Can forgiveness restore love and bring hope? Is there time to heal the past and build a future?

“Time Enough is an epic family saga that explores the power of love, courage and what it means to be home. Meticulously researched and exquisitely rendered, Mayne stakes her claim as a historical fiction writer-to-watch. A masterful achievement.” — Ali Bryan, author of Coq

Excerpt from Chapter One

(Place: Isle of Man, May, 1904: A grandmother and her daughter-in-law are sitting side-by-side on Faery Hill, presenting the daily offering to the faeries, as is customary amongst the Manx people. The grandmother, Nan, shares the secret that she has asked her son in America to rescue the family from disaster.)

“Whatever do you mean, Nan?” Her tone harkened back to fifteen years ago. Is she sinking into depression again, after all this time? Oh no. “You’re here, Nan. We’re all here. Our Henry’s learning from you; the others will too. There’s no rush. Don’t you always say there’s time enough: traa dy liooar, is it? I’ve learned that much, you all say it so often.” She attempted a laugh. Please, please let me bring her out of it, like I did before.

Nan patted her hand. “Well done, my chree. You’ve an ear for Manx.” Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry to say, there is no more time.” Her muffled voice dropped the words into her lap. She pounded her fist against her thigh, then raised her head to meet Euphemia’s gaze. Suddenly it seemed the birds fell silent and the wind dropped to earth. Whatever can she mean? She seems angry, and sad, both.

Nan inhaled, as if preparing to push a boat into the water. “The Little Ones had something important to say, t’other night. Terrible news, I’m afraid, my chree. Themselves said someone in the house will pass over. Soon. “Goll sheese ny liargagh: he’s going down the slope, fast.” Didn’t need them to tell me that. I know it. As do you.”

“Know what?” A roar like crashing waves on the sea blocked her ears against Nan's shaky voice.

“Please, we must be honest and face facts, dear one. I’ve suspected since New Year’s morn. Saw it plain as day, in he ashes from the chiollagh, which I spread on the floor, to foretell the year ahead, ye ken, according to the old ways. The faery footprints led out the door, not in. Luck has left our house.” Nan paused and looked past the cliffs, breathing harder than she had after mounting the hill.

The ominous tone tempted Euphemia to laugh. Nan seemed to sense her doubt. “I didn’t want to believe it, either; I’ve watched for the signs and now I’m sure. William’s been poisoned, by the lead mine. We call it “the milk reek,” my chree. The sweats, the shakes, and especially the ill temper, so unlike my boy. He’s getting worse every day. Goll sheese ny liargagh.”

Euphemia’s lips parted, but the protest caught in her throat, as if clogged with ashes from the hearth. She collapsed backward, nearly overturning the little cups. Nan lifted her head and held the cool flask to her lips.

“Drink a bit, lass.”

Euphemia jerked upright, grabbed the flask, and gulped. She coughed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“It can’t be,” she said, sputtering. As she tipped the flask back again, whispers whirled around her. “Yes, yes, it is. Yes, it is. Yes, it is.” The hair rose on her arms. Her head swam. Tears stung behind her eyes but wouldn’t fall.

“Aye, doesn’t bear thinking about, my chree, I know. I tried to pretend, too. I’ve seen you do the same, seen the worry at you, when William coughs, or shouts at the boys. It’s not him. It’s the sickness, my chree. Oh God, the loss of another son to those damned mines.” She hit her thighs, as if hurting herself could ease her pain. Euphemia recognized that impulse. “So many families torn apart. So many wid—” A sob completed the awful word.

True. Eva, Mary, Amy, others whose names she didn’t know, gone away, forced to find work in English factories after their husbands’ passing, their children left with kinfolk, or orphaned. If anything happens to William, could I leave my five youngsters, least of all my newborn babe? To be raised by their grandparents, who mightn’t live long enough to see them grown? Now tears and milk spilled freely. My milk will be spoiled tonight, curdled. Hugh will get the colic and not sleep….

“Shh. There, there, I’ve a solution.” Nan’s voice brightened as she expelled one word: “Thomas.” Euphemia thought she detected a note of excitement, where usually Nan sounded disappointed, even angry, when mentioning her youngest surviving son…

“And now, why, the mine’s killing my William. Well, not if Themselves and I can help it.” Her voice retrieved its headstrong tone. “Thomas brought me a daughter, and you’ve given us grandchildren. He’ll do his duty again, you’ll see. I’m awaiting his answer.”

“No, no, please, Nan—” The last thing she wanted was Thomas to return. Well, there could be one worse thing. She fell back on the ground, damp seeping into her clothes. She yanked at the grass with clenched fists.

“Come, lass, the dew’s falling. You’ll catch your death. We’d best get back or they’ll think we’ve been fetched away. Not a word to William, mind. I’m prepared for a battle with him. Quick, there’s the first star. Help me up,” she said, patting Euphemia’s knees.

“We mustn’t be caught here after sunset or the Red Caps will take us, sure. The way down is much easier. I can almost run, like a young girl. Ah, was, was,” Nan expressed her customary wistfulness for times past. “Here’s the basket, my chree. Let’s see who gets home first.”

Lise Mayne, author, lives in Nanton, Alberta, Canada. Historical injustice and the search for home are central themes of her work. Her novel, Becoming Sand, presented a fictional Francophone family’s history in Canada. Her new novel Time Enough, Oprelle Publications 2024, is the migration saga of a family from Isle of Man to Canada via Michigan in the early 1900’s. An excerpt was published by Sunspot Literary Journal in the Rigel 2022 contest. Lise’s poetry appears in several international literary publications, nominated for five awards. Lise is a member of The Writers’ Union of Canada, The League of Canadian Poets and the Alexandra Writers’ Society. She volunteers as a Rocky Mountain bluebird nest-box monitor, plays the harp, and cherishes time with her family.