The Return of Fursey Read online

  “Well, yes,” conceded Fursey awkwardly. “In a way.”

  “I suppose you want something of me,” said the Devil, with a trace of hardness in his voice. “No one ever seeks me through a desire for my company. I suppose you want me to do something for you.”

  “I have put the pursuit of good behind me,” burst out Fursey. “I have come over to your side. I am determined to become a man of violent and atrocious character.”

  The Devil glanced at Fursey’s innocent, moon-round face, and a slight smile flickered across his own countenance and disappeared beneath one of his pointed ears.

  “Why?” he asked solemnly.

  “The virtuous have done me great injury,” replied Fursey. “They’re still intent on tying me to a bundle of faggots and burning me with colourful ceremony. Any moment the King of Mercia may decide to demand impossibilities of me; and when I disappoint him, as I undoubtedly will, he will mete out to me a fate worse than death. I understand that he is very practised in meting out such fates.”

  “He is,” grinned the Devil. “Ethelwulf is a playful lad, and very ingenious.”

  This remark seemed to Fursey to be in bad taste, having regard to his unenviable situation; but he ignored it and continued:

  “Lastly, they have taken from me and carried away to Ireland the woman without whose company life seems to me dull and unprofitable.”

  “Wait now,” said the Devil. “Are you certain you want her back?”

  “Of course I want her back,” retorted Fursey.

  “Do nothing rash,” advised the Archfiend. “You have lived with her for two months, and it’s not as if your heart was still palpitating with the first tumults of love.”

  “I want her back,” replied Fursey determinedly.

  The Devil shook his head disapprovingly. “I advise you not to be too hasty,” he urged. “You may be in love with her now, but cast your eyes twenty years ahead. Just imagine the old muzzle of her staring across the table at you three times a day. It gives one furiously to think.”

  “I don’t care what you say,” asserted Fursey. “I am determined to recover her.”

  The Devil shrugged his shoulders.

  “May I ask a question?”

  “Certainly,” replied Fursey.

  “Was your union consummated?”

  “Certainly not,” said Fursey indignantly. “We both had a good Irish Catholic upbringing, and we don’t know how.”

  The Devil seemed impressed and lapsed into silence.

  “Her laughter was part of the loveliness of the world,” said Fursey, striving manfully to overcome his emotion. “The taking of her from me was a maimed business. But I mean to become apt in the practice of sorcery, so that I may transfix and utterly destroy Magnus, who has carried her off to Ireland to make her his bride.”

  “Sorcery,” said the Archfiend meditatively. “You mean learning how to sweep the dust of the street towards his door so as to inflict him with the palsy or something equally unpleasant. You may succeed in annihilating him by sorcery if he’s a man accessible only to coarse influences. I don’t set much store by magic myself. It’s old-fashioned stuff and belongs properly to a period prior to my era, though it survives here and there.”

  “I possess the spirit of a sorcerer,” replied Fursey. “My trouble is that I’m lamentably inept in the practice. In fact, I may as well admit that I’m acquainted with no occult devices whatever. I’m no good at wizarding at all.”

  “I suppose that there’s a certain amount to be said for sorcery,” said the Devil. “One may learn the most arcane secrets and wander at will through the abysses of the unseen world. But time passes. What do you want of me, Fursey?”

  “I want to know how to get to Ireland, how to recover Maeve, how to consume subtly and altogether destroy the baneful Magnus (or at least how, by the operation of magic, to afflict him with monstrous boils and warts), and lastly how to escape and live happily ever after.”

  “You’re asking a great deal,” replied the Devil testily. “I can neither recover Maeve for you nor instruct you in conjurations and charms. I might also add that the recipe for happiness is unknown to me. All I can offer you is two pieces of advice. I can advise you how to get to Ireland and I can advise you as to the present whereabouts of the master sorcerer Cuthbert, to whom you would do well to apprentice yourself. The rest is up to you.”

  “I suppose I must be satisfied with what I can get from you,” replied Fursey hesitantly. “The state in which I find myself at present is so benighted that any help is welcome.”

  “You realise, of course,” continued the Devil, looking at him hard, “that I am first and foremost a business man. You must pay my price. I shall require your soul in exchange for my advice.”

  “That’s barefaced robbery,” ejaculated Fursey indignantly. “My soul is worth more than two pieces of advice. Not so long ago you offered me in exchange for my soul, kingdoms, troops of females of the most lively and amiable character, and even a reputation as a man of letters.”

  “My poor Fursey,” replied the Archfiend sympathetically, “you have little wit. Is your brain so moist that you do not realise that circumstances have changed? On those previous occasions when you refused my offers for your soul, it was I who was the petitioner. Now it is you who stand in need, and are the bidder. You need my advice. I fix the price. Take my offer or leave it.”

  “It’s a black market operation,” muttered Fursey.

  “I don’t know why you hesitate,” said the Devil irritably. “Just now you told me that you were determined to become a man of violent and atrocious character. What better beginning can you make to a life of iniquity than the sale of your soul to me?”

  “That’s true,” said Fursey despondently.

  “Well?”

  “All right,” said Fursey glumly. “I suppose I have no choice. What do I do?”

  “Well, we should really begin the ceremony by devouring the boiled bones of a black cat,” replied the Fiend; “but as I don’t suppose you have a black cat about you, we can dispense with that preliminary.”

  He raised his hand and made a mysterious pass in the air. Immediately a thick, dun vapour came rolling from behind a rock and came to rest at his feet. The Devil pulled up his sleeve and plunged his arm into the vapour. When he withdrew his hand, Fursey saw that he was holding what seemed to be a small chunk of sulphurous mist. This he parted delicately and drew out two pieces of goat’s skin parchment, an iron pen and a small knife.

  “It’s necessary,” he explained, “that the agreement be written in your blood. Are you not feeling well?”

  “I don’t know why,” replied Fursey, “but I begin to feel peculiarly indisposed.”

  “The night airs and the damps of the forest affect some people adversely,” said the Devil smoothly. “Oblige me by rolling up your sleeve.”

  The quaking Fursey did as he was bid. He emitted a short, sharp yelp of pain as the Devil, wielding his knife dexterously, made a small incision in his arm.

  “Can you read or write?” enquired the Archfiend.

  “No,” replied Fursey mournfully.

  “Then I’d better indite the agreement. All that will be necessary will be for you to affix your mark.”

  The Devil wrote assiduously for a few minutes.

  “I wish you wouldn’t keep jabbing the pen into my arm,” complained Fursey. “If you do it again I’ll call the whole thing off.”

  “I’ve got to dip the pen in the ink,” retorted the Devil. “Will you kindly stay still. I never knew such a complaining fellow.”

  At last the documents were completed, and the trembling Fursey affixed his mark to each.

  “Why do there have to be two copies?” he enquired.

  “It has to be in duplicate,” explained the Devil. “One copy is filed in my closet in Hell and the other must be swallowed by you.”

  “Swallowed?” repeated Fursey faintly, fixing his eyes on the thick goat’s skin parchment.

>   “Yes,” said the Devil briskly, “and swallowed entire. No chewing or biting bits off. I once let a robber captain from the County Cork consume his agreement in bites; and when I wasn’t looking he bit his signature off and spat it out. Oh, he was a tricky fellow all right.”

  Fursey gave a wan smile and continued to contemplate the bulky parchment.

  “It will have a most adverse effect on my digestion.”

  “Nonsense,” rejoined the Devil, “you’ll have it down in no time. Go on, try.”

  A moment later Fursey was lying across the barrow choking while the Devil thumped him on the back.

  “Is it up or down?” queried the Fiend, turning Fursey over.

  “Up,” gasped Fursey.

  “This is very vexatious,” said the Devil. “Try it again. Grip it firmly with your gullet and give a sudden swallow.”

  Fursey tried again, while the Devil pushed hard at the rolled end of the parchment which protruded from Fursey’s mouth. A corncrake-like rattling came out of Fursey’s throat, and he evinced every sign of imminent suffocation. The Devil removed the parchment and peered down Fursey’s throat.

  “The passage seems somewhat narrow,” he said in disappointed tones. “I’m afraid I’ll have to let you tear it into pieces and swallow a little at a time.”

  Fursey seated himself on the barrow and addressed himself to this unappetising meal.

  “I don’t see why all the chewing is necessary,” declared the Devil, who was watching him closely. “You’ll have all the ink washed off.”

  Fursey turned on him eyes full of pathos and slowly swallowed the last fragment.

  “How do you feel?” asked the Fiend when the operation was complete.

  Fursey did not answer for some time, but sat staring in front of him with his eyes glassy.

  “I admit to a certain depression of spirit,” he said at last.

  “That’s nothing,” answered the Devil, giving him a hearty slap on the back. “Now for my part of the bargain. You may succeed in recovering this woman to whom you are so honourably attached, by learning the ingredients and use of love philtres from the sorcerer Cuthbert, who as a wizard is at the very summit of his profession. Similarly, you can learn from Cuthbert how to overcome and demolish your rival Magnus. But you must be assiduous in your magical studies, otherwise you will never succeed in quenching Magnus.”

  “I’ll apply myself with the utmost zeal,” declared Fursey earnestly. “I’m determined to quench him, preferably with the greatest pain and inconvenience to himself.”

  “You are already acquainted with Cuthbert,” continued the Devil. “For many years people believed him to be a highly respectable sexton, most sedulous in the performance of the duties of his state in life; but recently strange happenings of a magical nature in the neighbourhood of Cashel, enchanted cats and the like, gave rise to suspicion. Accusations had been levelled against Cuthbert, and the authorities, deeming it wiser to be sure than sorry, decided to burn him forthwith. He succeeded, however, in making his escape into the mountains twenty miles south of Cashel. He has now set up residence in a damp, unhealthy cave in the hillside over a place called ‘The Gap’.”

  “I know ‘The Gap’,” replied Fursey.

  “Well, seek him out and ask him to take you on as an apprentice sorcerer. You may mention my name if you think it will help.”

  “Very well,” answered Fursey. “But how do I get back to Ireland? I came here flying on a broom, but brooms require to be anointed with a magical ointment. The little I had is exhausted and I don’t know how to manufacture a further supply. More­over, I doubt if flying conditions are now favourable in view of the approaching equinox.”

  “Have you not heard,” enquired the Devil, “that there are at present some alleged Norse traders in port?”

  “I have,” responded Fursey. “In fact, I’ve seen some of them.”

  “How did they seem to you?”

  “To tell the truth, they looked to me men of gloomy and ferocious disposition.”

  “So they are,” the Devil replied happily. “They are Viking raiders, intent on a sudden onslaught on the Irish coast.”

  “I hope you’re not going to suggest,” put in Fursey nervously, “that I should have dealings with them?”

  “I am,” replied the Devil dreamily. “They would welcome a man like you, who knows the country, to guide them to some sleek Irish monastery.”

  “But,” said Fursey shakily, “will I not be in certain danger from them? They are men of proud temper, who look as if they might be unkind.”

  “Sigurd the Skull Splitter is their captain,” continued the Fiend, ignoring Fursey’s feeble objections. “It will be a most promising start for you in your life of depravity. Tell them that your one ambition since you were a boy has been to become a Viking, and offer to pilot them to the rich monastery of Clonmacnoise. A little exaggeration will be advisable. Tell them that the monastery is piled high to the roof with gold plate and similar valuables. You can confide in them and tell them that you’re a wizard and that through your control of the winds you can secure them a smooth sea passage.”

  “But,” protested Fursey faintly, “I don’t control the winds.”

  “You’re a terrible man for raising difficulties,” said the Devil shortly. “What matter whether you do or not as long as you succeed in convincing them? Bring a few stones with you wrapped in a piece of cloth and tie it to the mast with due ceremony. You can inform them that you have favourable winds tied in the cloth.”

  “But if they should discover the deception,” objected Fursey. “Is it not the case that these Northmen are rather hasty of temper?”

  “A little snappish sometimes,” conceded the Devil. “But I don’t know any other way you can get to Ireland. I’m afraid you’ve no choice.”

  He regarded Fursey for a moment, and then added sympathetically:

  “Would you like a few minutes to let your thoughts dwell on the King of Mercia’s College of Torturers before you make up your mind?”

  “No,” responded Fursey hurriedly. “I’ve made up my mind. I’ll do it.”

  “Good,” said the Devil briefly. “Goodbye now, Fursey. I have other work to do. I advise you to get back through the wood to your cottage and make your preparations.”

  “Just a minute,” said Fursey.

  The Devil, who had begun to disappear rapidly from the feet up, manifested himself once more in his entirety.

  “What is it now?” he asked impatiently.

  “As I came here,” said Fursey nervously, “the wood was populous with shadows of most uninviting aspect. I would be greatly obliged to you if you would convey me rapidly to my own door and thus free me from the painful necessity of proceeding once more through the forest on foot.”

  “Certainly,” replied the Fiend, and seizing Fursey by the hair, he sprang two hundred feet into the air. Fursey emitted a scream of mingled pain and fright.

  “I declare to goodness,” muttered the Devil between his teeth, “I never knew such a complaining fellow. Some people are never satisfied.”

  He glanced to left and right, and then shot across the ceiling of the forest, still holding Fursey by the hair. Fursey thought his last moment had come, and he kicked wildly as his dangling feet trailed across the treetops. It was a painful and terrifying journey, but it had at least the merit of celerity. He found himself suddenly deposited on his own doorstep, his legs too weak to support him. The Devil did not stay to bid him goodbye a second time, but returned the way he had come, in a delicate streak of lightning.

  “By God,” said Fursey, as he arose shakily to his feet, “I appear to be embarked on a business of strange and fearful import.”

  CHAPTER III

  It was the turn of the tide, an hour before dawn, and the Vikings were preparing to launch their long dragonship on to the waters. Fursey cast an apprehensive glance at the never-tranquil seas and, summoning all his courage, approached the group of Norsemen that stood on the sho
re. By the fluttering torchlight he could see that they were hardy fellows, in aspect wild, brutal and terrific beyond description. They wore coarse woven cloth beneath their armour. Their helmets were distinguished by horns and wings, and their corselets of thick leather were covered with chain mail and iron scales. Those in authority wore necklaces and armrings of gold, while the ratings had to be satisfied with heavy beads of amber and glass. Shields, swords, spears and battleaxes were piled suggestively on the beach. But it was not their barbaric appearance which dismayed Fursey; rather it was their intent visages, which seemed to him devoid of candour and kindness. But he knew there was nothing for it, and he approached with a quaking heart.

  “I beg your pardon,” he lisped. “I want to speak to Captain Sigurd the Skull Splitter.”

  Dark eyes were turned on him, dull and heavy. A man pushed his way forward and confronted Fursey. His limbs were large and uncouth, and there hung from either side of his mouth a pair of moustaches so long that he had their ends tucked into his belt. When Fursey looked up at the visage furrowed with cunning, he felt his blood turning to water. He dropped his eyes, unable to bear the Skull Splitter’s scrutiny.

  “Well,” demanded that personage, “what do you want of me?”

  Fursey moistened his dry lips.

  “I want to become a Viking,” he quavered.

  There was a moment’s silence, then Fursey heard a series of short, gruff barks, which he took to be laughter; but when he glanced round the circle of fierce faces they were all regarding him impassively.

  “Have you run away from school?” asked Sigurd at last.

  There was another series of brief barks, and Fursey saw that they were all looking at him, waiting for an answer.

  “I’m afraid I’m not making myself clear,” he said. “I’m forty years of age and a very formidable wizard. I can be useful to you.”

  “A wizard?” queried Sigurd.

  “Yes,” answered Fursey. “Just watch me.”

  He walked a few paces up the beach to a withered thorn tree which stood beyond the line of shingle. The Norsemen followed him and stood in a circle watching. Fursey uncoiled the rope from his shoulder and flung the end of it over one of the gaunt branches. With a wave of his hand he directed their attention to the boughs naked of leaves.