The Return of Fursey Page 5

  It was fortunate for Fursey that he was drunk during the latter part of his progress through the wood. It was true that he was inclined to see the subsequent phantoms and demons as pairs of twins instead of singly; but the alcohol seemed to give him an unexpected second wind at the moments when he most needed it. Moreover, it served to dull his senses. Had he to run such a gauntlet when sober, it is unlikely that he would have succeeded in doing so without becoming deranged in his intellects.

  All at once he found himself in a small clearing. Now that he was clear of the trees it was less dark, and Fursey stopped to peer left and right around the open space ringed irregularly by the black forest. The atmosphere of the place, the air tremulous in the twilight, filled him with peculiar foreboding. As he stood hesitating, he was suddenly conscious of a furtive breeze that seemed to come slipping around a mass of lichen-crusted rock which lay athwart his path. A chill breath of air struck him in the face, and a moment later he became aware of a small wind of an uncommonly pestilential character. Above the whispering of the forest he could hear the sound of water close at hand. As he stood with a beating heart listening, his senses strained to the utmost, there came suddenly skipping around the pile of rock a strangely disreputable-looking demon. It was covered with matted hair and seemed to Fursey an apparition of a particularly unlucky looking character. It paused on the path about ten paces from where he stood and, fixing its eyes upon Fursey, displayed a double set of teeth. Then it bent down and started whetting its fangs on a stone. Fursey was much affected by this baleful sight, and it was borne in powerfully upon him that the creature was bent on doing him a personal mischief. He felt that it was no empty phantom, and the conviction grew in him that this was something he had better not have seen. The creature suddenly wagged its head in Fursey’s direction.

  “What would you have?” it asked.

  Fursey grew pale about the lips and was too overcome to vouchsafe an answer. The demon, its fangs having now been sharpened to its satisfaction, stood once more upright and began to skip and gambol to and fro among the rocks, round and round Fursey, in ever diminishing circles. Suddenly as the phantom wagged its head, the soft moonlight fell full upon its face, and Fursey noticed that from its countenance sprouted a formidable pair of boar’s tusks. A flood of relief swept over him.

  “Stop,” he said in a thin voice. “Aren’t you the demon Elemauzer­?”

  The hideous apparition ceased its capering and stood stock still.

  “Yes,” it answered, surprised. “Who are you and what are you doing in the forest on a night such as this?”

  Fursey, as he answered, made a mighty effort to interlace authority with his words.

  “I do not tell my business to underlings. Kindly take me to your master Satan, who is present in this forest to-night.”

  The demon seemed startled. It stood looking at Fursey for a moment rather crestfallen.

  “Follow me,” it said at last, and, turning, made off across the clearing. Fursey followed, quaking.

  They came to a narrow rustic bridge, beneath which a torrent sighed and roared. Fursey hurried across in the wake of his guide, not daring to glance down at the white water foaming in the hollows between the thirsty crags. They continued across another stretch of open ground until they came to a long, low grassy mound. Fursey recognised it as a barrow, the burying place of some old pagan king, who, before the beginnings of history, had been here laid to rest with fabulous ceremony. The demon stopped and turned its unattractive visage to Fursey.

  “Satan will manifest himself here, sir,” it said. “You have only to call upon him.”

  “All right,” replied Fursey, eyeing the apparition with considerable trepidation. “You may go now about your business. I shall not require you further.”

  Elemauzer still hesitated.

  “I hope it’s nothing in the nature of a complaint to the Boss,” he said ingratiatingly. “I had no idea you were a friend of his. Anyway, I wasn’t really going to harm you. I was only joking.”

  “That’s all right,” gasped Fursey. “Please go away.”

  “Goodbye, sir,” said Elemauzer humbly, and he touched his forelock. “I wish you a successful outcome to your business.”

  He spun himself suddenly on one toe and was gone. Fursey peered left and right to convince himself of the fiend’s departure before venturing to lean against a rock and wipe the sweat from his forehead with the tail-end of the hempen rope which he still carried.

  “If there’s much more of this,” he said, “I’ll fall into a lunacy.”

  He let his eyes travel about him so as to ascertain the exact nature of his surroundings. He seemed to be still in the clearing, which was apparently larger than he had at first imagined. It was an area of tumbled rocks and bracken, enclosed by the wide circle of the forest, black, rustling and muttering, never still. In the light of the moon the clearing was filled with a misty splendour. Here and there were grey pools of shadow, but in general the night was blue and luminous. Fursey looked at the low green barrow a few yards away and thought of the pagan king only a few feet down, the black earth packed tightly against his fleshless face. He shuddered; it was surely a place of ill-omen. He remembered his errand and his heart shrank within him. He had endured so much to-night already that he began seriously to doubt his ability to support a prolonged interview with as formidable a personage as the Archfiend Lucifer himself. He was sorely tempted to leave the Devil undisturbed and stay where he was until morning. He could then retrace his steps through the forest by daylight when its dread visitors would presumably have gone. This course of action appealed to him very powerfully, but he forgot completely that the demon Elemauzer had no doubt hastened away to acquaint the Lord of Hell with the fact that a gentleman had called to see him. He was therefore considerably startled when there was a sudden flash of blue light, accompanied by a smell of a very sulphurous character, and a voice addressed him affably.

  “Good evening, Fursey. I trust that you find yourself in the best of health.”

  When Fursey turned his head a yellow vapour was dispersing and creeping away along the ground; and there, lounging against the barrow, was no less person than the Prince of Darkness himself.

  “Thank you,” ejaculated Fursey nervously. “The truth is that I find myself in the utmost solicitude and agitation, but I trust that you’re keeping well yourself.”

  The Devil inclined his head politely, but said nothing. As he and Fursey gazed at one another Fursey got a sudden shock. On the couple of occasions on which the Enemy of Mankind had previously appeared to him, seeking to purchase his immortal soul, Satan had manifested himself as a suave, debonair personage, dressed in the latest fashion and irradiating good fellowship and bonhomie. Fursey recognised the lineaments of the Prince of Darkness, but it was with difficulty; for the dark-complexioned fiend presented the appearance of a very decayed gentleman indeed. His countenance seemed tarnished with malignant vapours and his black cloak was singed and smelt abominably of brimstone. In fact, the Archfiend was a hideous piece of wreckage, very rickety as to his legs, and generally very much in need of repair. Fursey gazed at him in amazement. A melancholy smile played about the Devil’s aristocratic features; then he emitted a sigh that seemed laden with all the heartbreak of history.

  “Nay,” he said gently, “do not enquire solicitously about my health or as to whether things are not going right in Hell. It’s true that things are rather disturbed below. We have had our first Irish ecclesiastical contingent, and they are making things hot for the whole of us; but that is only a small part of my troubles.”

  He gazed into the distance, a look of unutterable sadness shadowing his fine, dark eyes.

  “I fear,” he continued, “that I grow wilted and old. Soon people won’t believe in me any more.”

  “Oh, you must cheer up,” said Fursey. “Things aren’t as bad as all that. There will always be some to believe in you.”

  “I suppose so,” replied the Devil, but w
ithout much apparent conviction.

  There was silence between them for a while. The Devil gazed at the turf between his feet. He looked like a man in whom hope had died. He didn’t seem to have a jig left in him. Fursey was suddenly struck by the strangeness of the situation. He watched the Devil round-eyed, and all at once stirred nervously. His companion looked up.

  “I may as well tell you,” the Devil said heavily. “It’s a relief to talk to someone. Sit down on the sward.”

  “On the what?” queried Fursey.

  “On the sward,” repeated the Devil.

  Fursey sat down on the sward.

  “Since I last saw you,” began the Archfiend, “I’ve just missed having finis put to my career. And it would have been a pity, for it’s been an interesting and adventurous career. It was one of your countrymen that nearly did for me. He was very adroit, far too adroit for me. He comes from your part of the country; maybe you know him. He’s called The Gentle Anchorite.”

  “I’ve met him,” said Fursey hoarsely, “and broken bread with him.”

  “With a mallet, I expect,” replied the Devil gloomily. “He lives on a crust a day, and he’s always about two months in arrears with his meals. He’s a man of the most formidable sanctity.”

  “Was he unkind to you?” asked Fursey inadequately.

  The Devil’s visage assumed a very peculiar character.

  “You probably know,” he began, “that people of every class and condition come to Hell, but the most numerous are those who have sinned as I have sinned, through pride. And the greatest sinners in this category are those who pride themselves on their virtue. The righteous and the presumptuous are packed into every tenement in Hell in such myriads that the housing problem is becoming very acute. But I always find room for more, and it has ever been a point of honour with me to provide a warm corner for those who have passed their lives presumptuously convinced of their own virtue. Such a one is the man who likes to be called The Gentle Anchorite. Forty years ago he took up residence in an unhygienic cave on a waste and windy hilltop some miles south of Cashel, and there he has since lived on a sparse diet, every day increasing in sanctity. He is a most hardened anchorite, and for many years has subsisted entirely on an occasional crust or a handful of nettles, washed down by a mouthful of water every Saturday night. Some of my liveliest demons tried their hand at tempting him, but all to no avail. Succulent meats were passed to and fro beneath his nostrils, attempts were made to dazzle him with showers of gold and the promise of kingdom, whole platoons of the most engaging females were perambulated up and down before his eyes, a series of poetry readings were initiated in an attempt to beguile him; but for all the success we met with we might as well have been trying to interest a bullock in the intricacies of classical music. He didn’t pay the slightest attention. He just sat in front of his cave meditatively prosecuting his researches for fleas, of which he harboured untold myriads. The most alluring visions had no meaning for him. What matter if he had continued to sit there until his death, in this state of pious stupefaction; but he is an ambitious man, and many years ago he decided to take the offensive himself and carry warfare down the avenues of the world of shadows. In short, it became his practice to fling aside his passivity when one least expected it, and hit back at any demon foolhardy enough to approach him. In the course of many years he has become a man very expert at dominating devils. Experienced fiends give him a wide berth, but the fascination of what is difficult has proved an irresistible bait to many of my younger and more adventurous subjects. The net result has been that Hell has suffered grievous casualties at his hands—some fifty of my nimblest and most daring imps have been tied down by him in sundry bog pools in the unattractive moorland on which he dwells.”

  “I’ve heard of these things,” said Fursey softly. “Prudent demons eschew the neighbourhood.”

  “The young are always reckless,” said the Devil, “and even the most needle-witted imps have fallen a victim to him. Would that I had learnt from their example!”

  “Did you venture yourself,” queried Fursey, “to knit the issue with him?”

  “Unfortunately,” sighed the Devil, “I knitted it. I have no one to blame but myself. I knew The Gentle Anchorite to be a sapient man and a performer of many remarkable miracles, but my accursed self-confidence betrayed me. You know,” said the Devil, turning a piercing eye on Fursey, “that I am of Jewish origin?”

  Fursey thought for a moment. “Of course,” he replied.

  “Well,” continued the Archfiend, “I have all the faults and virtues of my race. I possess in a high degree the ability to take punishment and come up smiling. You may try to subdue me by insult, you may think you’ve rid the land of me and my companions, but you might as well try to put a cork permanently under water. The moment your heavy hand is removed, I bob up again. This quality I account a virtue. I am one who recovers heart quickly, therefore I can truly boast that my spirit is indestructible. But there is another side to it. I am artistic and wayward, qualities the possession of which I account a vice. As far as The Gentle Anchorite was concerned, I should have left well alone; but the danger attracted me. What artistry, I thought, to bring about this man’s ruin by giving him cause for such pride as never Christian heart had felt before. He has overcome some fifty minor demons, I said, and his pride in his achievement is great. Let him imagine that he has wrestled with and overthrown the dread Emperor of Hell himself, and his very heart and brain will burst with overweening vanity. So confident was I of success that before I set out upon my mission I ordered a special pit to be dug in Hell and paved with glowing anthracite for the reception of the man who had wrought such havoc among the battalions of the lost. Then I winged my way to Ireland, and for a whole week I hovered in the air above the hermit’s cave. I watched him as he squatted on his lean hunkers in the cavern mouth, a long rusty beard enveloping the lower part of his face, and the rest clothed with dirt of various kinds and colours. I watched the tawny wolves who came from the holes in the hillside and sat at his feet without fear. I saw him take his daily exercise, an amble around a nearby crag and back. I endured with fortitude for seven days the chill winds of the upper air, while, with all the will power which I have at my command, I insinuated into his mind the insidious temptation. ‘You have tied down nearly fifty filthy demons,’ I urged. ‘Why not tie down the Prince of Darkness himself, and so gain the glory of having rid mankind of him forever?’ At length my efforts were rewarded. I saw him dismiss his friends the wolves, bidding them go as he wished to meditate. I saw him walk up and down thoughtfully with tempered gait. I saw him dig a mighty cavity in the ground to hold me. I watched his preparations, and at the proper moment I manifested myself. I came as Lucifer, striding across the mountains in all my panoply of terror, while the miserable hermit in his rags took his stand on the bare hillside to receive me, quite unafraid. I had a clever plan. I meant to allow him almost to overcome me, and it was my intention at the last moment to substitute an airy phantom in my place.”

  “The combat must have been of a nature terrific beyond all description,” remarked Fursey, round-eyed.

  “It wasn’t,” said the Devil lamely. “I rolled the thunder around the sky a bit in keeping with my dignity, but I was afraid to make too much noise for fear of frightening him. Also I reduced myself to my natural size and took my stand ten paces distant from him.”

  “What happened then?” asked Fursey with bated breath.

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t exactly know,” replied the Devil gloomily. “I only know that I got the worst of it from the very beginning. He had some religious sleight-of-hand up his ragged sleeve, and he shouted something at me in Latin, which had the effect of rendering me earthbound. I found myself suddenly bereft of my power either to rise into the air or to disappear, nor was I able to transform myself into a hare or other animal noted for its speed, which would have enabled me to make my escape. He then ran at me and smote me about the head so shrewdly with a club,
with which he had armed himself, that to the present day I have a singing in my ears. For his age he was remarkably agile, and no matter how I doubled and ran, every time I turned my head, there he was cantering close behind. He seemed full of advantageous devices; that is, they were advantageous to himself. Finally he caught up with me, and with his club struck me a buffet that left me all bemused. While my brain was still beclouded, he tripped me and set about rolling me in a bed of furze. I need not tell you that by this time I was in a state of sore vexation but I was in no mood to grapple with him: my sole concern was to make my departure with the utmost despatch. I succeeded at last in this, and fled down the hillside with The Gentle Anchorite in close pursuit. I had to endure the indignity of precipitate flight along many miles of country road. All the children of the countryside were waiting for me, and they pelted me mercilessly with stones. At last the hermit’s wind gave out, and he fell exhausted at the fourth milestone. One little brat of about seven years of age kept following me for a mile further, but fortunately his aim was poor. He only registered one hit, when he took the tip off my ear with a piece of slate.”

  Fursey sought to assume a sympathetic cast of countenance and shook his head disapprovingly.

  “One thing is certain,” concluded the Archfiend as he looked down at his torn and shabby garments. “Never again will I put a foot in the holy land of Ireland.” He bent a steady gaze upon Fursey. “I don’t like your countrymen,” he said. “They’re too rough.”

  There was a silence between them for a few moments. The Devil shifted himself on the barrow so as to attain a more comfortable position, and crossed his knees nonchalantly. He glanced at Fursey and then began to study his finger nails, which emitted pale sulphurous flames. Fursey, sitting on the sward with his parted legs stretched out before him, gazed at his toes and said nothing.

  “I assume,” said the Devil at last with a show of indifference, “that you didn’t come here through courtesy merely to enquire about my well-being. Am I correct in assuming that it was business brought you?”