The Return of Fursey Page 11

  “Very well,” said Fursey weakly, “but I should be greatly obliged if you would keep some paces from me and slightly ahead. You will readily understand that, not being accustomed to the company of the undead, it will take me a little time to become used to your presence. No discourtesy is intended.”

  The vampire bowed stiffly and fell into position as Fursey desired, and together they began to walk along the moonlit road. There was silence between them for a long time, and Fursey had begun to reflect that in such an unlucky looking countryside even such a companion was better than none. He kept a nervous eye upon the vampire all the same lest the latter should become sportful or indulge in trickery. At last his companion vented a deep-fetched sigh.

  “Human beings are very unkind to us forlorn denizens of the spirit world,” he said. “I suppose they don’t always mean to be, but they are nevertheless often unkind.”

  “How so?” asked Fursey.

  “Why do you think that spirits manifest themselves to humans at all? Loneliness. A spirit bound to some forlorn spot experiences an intolerable boredom and a homesickness for all that he has left behind him in the world of men.”

  “Humans are also lonely,” said Fursey.

  “It’s different,” replied the vampire shortly. He seemed dissatisfied and changed the subject. He cast an appreciative eye over Fursey’s armour.

  “I have been admiring your furniture,” he said. “I observe that you are a Viking gentleman.”

  “No,” replied Fursey. “I was with them, but I’m not one of them. I’m a Tipperary man, born and bred.”

  “That Clonmacnoise business has been a sad disappointment. I was speaking to-night to the banshee attached to the Mulligan family and she’s very sore about it.”

  Fursey pricked up his ears. “I’m interested in that. What actually happened?”

  “Well, a large scale battle was expected between the Norsemen and the Mulligan clan. A member of the lower orders, a base and abject fellow, who had got a lift in a chariot from Limerick, gave the alarm, notifying the Mulligans of an impending Norse raid on Clonmacnoise. The banshee, who is a lady of great charm and refinement, repaired last night to the residence of the young chieftain in order to give notice in the traditional manner of the impending slaughter. I must say that it was most impressive. I watched her myself from a vantage point in a neighbouring tree. She put up a very good show, if you’ll pardon the colloquialism. She walked around the ramparts in her traditional garments of white gauze, wringing her hands and moaning most plaintively. It was interesting to see the tapers being lit in each bedroom of the prince’s dwelling and the startled residents sitting up in bed. At every corner of the ramparts she seated herself languidly for a few moments while she combed her white, silken hair, continuing all the while to give tongue to the most lamentable complaint. It was unutterably sad and most touching and did not fail to bring tears to my eyes. But no sooner had she commenced the second movement of the Grand Wail under the prince’s window than the craven died of fright. The lady is a very considerable artist, and she is very put out about it. She feels that her professional integrity is besmirched.”

  “Why?” asked Fursey.

  “Well, after all, she had given the traditional notice of impending battle and slaughter, and, as things transpired, there was no battle at all. On the following morning there was no chieftain to lead the doughty Mulligans against the Vikings.”

  “But at least the young prince died,” objected Fursey.

  “But he died for the wrong reason,” snapped the vampire, “and he died in bed, which is disgraceful to a Mulligan. He was to have died honourably on the following day, his backbone hewn in twain by a giant Norseman.”

  They proceeded for some time in silence while the vampire conquered his momentary ill-humour. When he spoke again it was with affability.

  “I judge,” he said, “from your alarming furniture that you are walking the high roads seeking adventure.”

  “Not exactly,” answered Fursey.

  “When seeking adventure,” continued the vampire, “the principal thing is to avoid deep wells, hollow trees and such obscure places. One must always keep in mind that while one’s entry therein may be easy, one’s coming forth may well be miraculous. When I was of the world of men my mind thirsted after honourable adventures. My name was George, and you can picture me setting out along the crooked roads every springtime in search of adventure, mounted upon a Kerry jennet. The winding roads of this land had an unfailing attraction for me. I loved above all the sight of the road rising and disappearing over a little hill. One never knew what lay beyond the rise. Turns in the road are attractive too, because one can never be quite certain of what one may encounter round the bend. Of course, in point of fact, there is never anything round the bend; but when a man ceases to believe that there may be, it is time for him to die.”

  Fursey glanced almost with affection at the silent, sad creature who walked a few paces distant from him. He quickened his pace so as to bring himself alongside the vampire and fell into step with his companion.

  “Did you never have any adventures?” enquired Fursey.

  “One only in a whole lifetime,” replied George sadly; “that is to say, only one before my final one.”

  “Tell me about it,” requested Fursey. “I have grown footsore, and it will haply enable me to forget for an hour my manifold pains and aches.”

  The vampire stared gloomily at the road before him for a while before he began.

  “All your life,” he said at length, “avoid one thing as you would avoid the very plague itself. Never have dealings with a rowan tree.”

  “A rowan tree?” queried Fursey.

  “Yes, a rowan tree, the tree with small, red berries, which some people call the mountain ash. It’s a tree with properties of a magical character, only too often productive of dolour and annoyance. It was in the month of May—the spring had been late and the bushes and trees were as yet only covered with a fine web of green, when one pale, sunny evening I came cantering down a country road on my Kerry jennet, seeking as ever some honourable adventure. In the centre of a patch of grass stood a single rowan tree. The evening air was balmy, and I dismounted so as to rest myself and my steed. It was a pleasant place neighbouring on a small lake, on which, as I lay idly on the grass, I counted twenty sleek ducks and one bedraggled drake who, even as I looked at him, made his way up on to the bank, cocked a knowing eye at me, and staggered away in search of refreshment. In short, it was a pretty, sylvan scene. Suddenly I became aware of a series of strained sighs proceeding from the tree against which my head was resting. Imagine my astonishment a moment later on hearing from the woody depths a voice, which addressed me as follows:

  “ ‘Noble sir, within this tree are bound by wicked enchantment the one-and-twenty daughters with which bounteous Nature graced Mulligan, Prince of this territory. So singular was the beauty with which we were endowed, that it awakened the base desires of a roving magician, as unattractive as he was spiteful. When we each and every one of us had spurned with ignominious words his repeated offers of marriage, he wrought with deadly malice a potent spell, which had the deplorable effect of binding us in this tree in enchanted sleep for a period of five hundred years. The five centuries are now at an end. Do you, good sir, cut down this tree and effect for us our release from our leafy prison.’

  “On hearing this eloquent discourse breathed in dulcet tones like to the sound of harps, I was at first deprived of speech. Then I realised my good fortune. It’s the dearest wish of every gentleman who wanders the roads in search of adventure, to come upon a distressed lady whom he can free from enchantment or from the foul machinations of a giant or similar depraved character, but to be presented with the opportunity of liberating in the one operation no less than twenty-one distressed virgins exceeded my wildest dreams. This, I told myself, will make me famous throughout the land. I had no axe with which to fell the tree, but I set about the operation with my sword. Th
e bole of the rowan tree is slender, but my sword was correspondingly blunt, and the task was a tedious one. From time to time I paused to rest, but not for long. The other twenty distressed ladies joined in their sister’s plaint and, in accents mild but urgent, exhorted me to persevere. I had happy visions of a well-deserved rest when their liberation should be accomplished, my head pillowed in the lap of the stateliest of the virgins, while her twenty beautiful sisters sat couched among the wild flowers, singing melodious songs for my delight. At last, when I had all but cut through the bole, I exercised the strength of my arms and, breaking off the trunk, overthrew the tree. The one-and-twenty virgins issued forth.”

  “That must have been a memorable moment,” interjected Fursey enthusiastically.

  “It was indeed,” said the vampire sadly. “I had forgotten that the distressed virgins were over five hundred years old. There issued from the stump of the tree the most incredible procession of aged crones, the ugliest creatures that ever Nature formed.”

  “Bewhiskered, I suppose?” said Fursey.

  “Bewhiskered to the knees,” said the vampire dramatically. “You never saw their like for decrepitude. Each held one hand at the back of her hip to prevent her framework caving in, as they doddered around me, overwhelming me with their thanks. I all but took to my heels, not leaving behind me as much as a kind look.”

  “Remarkable,” said Fursey.

  The vampire shook his head dolefully. “Their visages were so time-shattered that one marvelled that one could look on them and live. They were veritable night hags, yet so strong was their feminine spirit that they immediately hobbled over to a nearby elder tree and began to pluck the sprigs and berries for colouring matter to make rouge for their cheeks. My gallant Kerry jennet shied when she saw them and, breaking her halter, made off in a frantic canter, her hooves beating sparks out of the road. The last I saw of her was crossing the skyline still in full gallop.”

  “It was very awkward for you,” said Fursey.

  “Awkward!” exclaimed the vampire. “I can tell you that it was more than awkward when they began to remind me of the respect and honour owed to poor, distressed gentlewomen by their saviour. They adjured me to choose one of their number for spouse, insisting that it was customary. They admitted a slight discrepancy in age, but reminded me that their hearts were young.”

  “It was a choice that I should not care to have to make,” remarked Fursey.

  “I didn’t make it,” replied the vampire, “though to all my protestations of my unworthiness of such an honour the reply of the eldest sister was ever the same. ‘Nay, proud George,’ she said, ‘you are our saviour, and you must have the reward hallowed by tradition and immemorial custom. Make your choice. There is not one of us but will rejoice to be your bride.’ ”

  “A ticklish situation for a man of honour,” commented Fursey.

  “Very ticklish,” agreed the vampire, “yet so ardent was their spirit that they followed me around for three weeks to the great scandal of the countryside. The clergy took a poor view of it and spoke very ill of me. Eventually there was nothing for it but to make my escape under cover of darkness.”

  “Adventure is not all that the writers of romance would have us believe,” remarked Fursey sagely.

  “It’s not,” said George, “but my thirst for adventure was not quenched. I sought it afterwards for many years, but only found it once again.”

  “What were the circumstances?” enquired Fursey.

  “I prefer not to speak of it,” replied George solemnly. “Suffice to say that I undertook to lay a master vampire. He won.”

  “So that’s how——,” said Fursey gently.

  “Yes,” was the reply. “I am now the father and grandfather of many vampires, both male and female. It’s not a bad life if only human beings would leave us alone. But they’re always messing round with pointed stakes, fresh garlic and wild dog roses, so that you’re never quite certain when it’ll all end.”

  They had come to the low wall of a churchyard. The vampire stopped.

  “Here our ways part,” he said. “I reside over there in the building inscribed ‘Family Vault.’ Would you care to come in for a few moments to meet the girls?”

  “No, thank you,” said Fursey hastily. “I have to be on my way.”

  “Goodbye then,” said the vampire with a wave of his pale hand. “And don’t think so badly in future of us who belong properly to your world, but have lost our places in it.”

  CHAPTER V

  The day was ebbing. The entire arc of the sky was curtained with cloud. A grey, monotonous light occupied the countryside. The wind had pressed against Fursey all the morning and afternoon while he toiled along the crazy track which wound up the hillside, and he was conscious now of a wintry chill in the air; so that when he came to a grassy bank crowned with a tangle of thorn, he crept gratefully into its shelter. He seated himself with a sigh of thankfulness and, resting his elbows on his knees, stared down at the Tipperary plain, which lay beneath him like a vast carpet, patterned in varying shades of green and criss-crossed by lines of hedges and boundary ditches running in all directions. He could just discern in the green distance a fluffy ball of smoke, which hung in the air, marking as with a dot the site of the city of Cashel. It was three days since Fursey had parted from the vampire beside the broken wall of the churchyard, and ever since then he had been travelling in a wide circuit so as to avoid the road which crept across the plain, and to avoid above all the settlement of Cashel, which was the seat of the ecclesiastical and civil government. It was scarcely three months since the authorities at Cashel had sought to cure Fursey of his sorcery by the simple expedient of tying him to a strong stake of faggots and burning him, and he knew that in the neighbourhood of the settlement he would be readily recognised. Although he was tired he was reasonably content: he had circumambulated the danger zone successfully and was near his objective. Two days previously he had rid himself of his armour and his battleaxe, realising that by now news of the Norse raid on Clonmacnoise must have spread far and wide, and consequently that as long as he wore the incriminating Viking dress he was in far greater danger from his countrymen than from a wild beast which might come strolling out of the forest. He knew that if he were seen by one of those lank shepherds clad in sacking, who were to be met with mooching about in the most unexpected places, the hue and cry would be raised; so he had shed his martial furnishings and had proceeded on his way clad in his homely cloak and pigskin trousers.

  Fursey was tired and very lonely. Indeed, as he rested his chin on his cupped hands, it was his extreme loneliness that occupied his thoughts. All his adult life he had lived in community, and he now found his own company in the highest degree burdensome. It was a terrible thing to have no one to talk to. He shook his head despondently and began to reflect on his melancholy situation. He knew of no one in the entire world who had his interest at heart or even cared what became of him. He doubted if even Maeve cared. Did her thoughts ever stray back to those days when they had first known one another? It had been in her father’s cottage at the edge of a mountain lake not very far from the spot where he now sat. For three glittering weeks they had walked and chatted, scrambling over the boulders at the lake’s edge, until Fursey had been caught in the web of her kindness and had lost his heart utterly. But had she ever loved him? He doubted it. He knew little of women and less of the emotions that inform their actions, but he suspected that what had been a glorious companionship for him had been for her no more than humdrum daily existence. It was true that at a moment’s notice she had run away with him from the very steps of the altar; but, he asked himself bitterly, was it not the case that in so acting her motive had been to avoid an unwelcome marriage? He could not believe that she had ever really cared for a boastful bully like Magnus. Her father had forced the marriage upon her; and, acting on a sudden impulse, she had seized the opportunity of escaping from it. It was not love for Fursey that had motivated her actions at any time
. On her own admission to the Abbot Marcus her only feeling for Fursey had been pity because he was helpless and without friends. Fursey’s spirit twisted and turned inside his frame under the torture of those remembered words. He found himself grinding his teeth angrily. He was rather surprised at the sudden vision he had of himself sitting crouched at the edge of the track, grating his teeth horribly in anger at the thought of his wrongs. The picture pleased him. It made him see himself in an unaccustomed light—as a very formidable fellow, intent on the satisfaction of his injuries, so he crunched his teeth again with greater vehemence.

  “I’ll get even with them both,” he said darkly. “First I’ll quench Magnus, and then I’ll brew Maeve such a powerful love potion that she must needs worship me for evermore.”

  But instead of being ravished with delectable visions of the future, Fursey began to brood gloomily on his imminent apprenticing to the master sorcerer Cuthbert, a man with whom he was already acquainted and whose proximity had always filled him with fear. The prospect of spending some weeks, or even months, in the company of such a formidable wizard caused Fursey the liveliest apprehension.

  “It will be a dark and dirty business,” he muttered, and began to think bitterly of the forlornness of his situation. His thoughts wandered back to his lack of someone in whom to confide. He thought of Albert, but he hesitated a long time before summoning his lugubrious familiar. At last he sighed despondently and whispered the name.

  “Albert!”

  The two bear’s paws came slowly into being, followed by the rest of Albert’s unlovely anatomy. The familiar was squatting on his hunkers on the path, his head bent forward as he contemplated his master balefully.

  “You don’t seem very pleased to see me,” said Fursey. “Your face is a veritable map of sorrow.”

  Albert’s smoky red eyes flashed fire. He bared his teeth.