The Return of Fursey Page 8

  When Fursey awoke he climbed on to his seat again and sat blinking at the misty splendour of the morning. As far as his eye could see was a line of broken beaches and green headlands, backed by forest.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “South coast of Ireland,” answered Snorro, “approaching the Saltee Islands.”

  Of course. The little breeze that blew was laden with pleasant odours and heavenly fragrance. It could not be otherwise—it came to their nostrils across the holy land of Ireland. They were rowing close inshore to obtain such protection as they could from the breeze, which was unfavourable. Fursey could see at the edges of the woods droves of pigs feeding on nuts and roots, while the herdsmen, clad in goat’s skins, sat blowing patiently through rustic pipes very much out of tune. Here and there, where a woodland track leading from settlement to settlement came for a little space into the open, a traveller on horse or foot paused to stare out to sea at the long oaken ship with its two great dragons rearing themselves from the water fore and aft. By Sigurd’s orders all weapons had been concealed, and the banner that was flown indicated trade; but, as the morning wore on, Fursey noticed that excitement was manifested in every settlement which they passed. Horsemen would set out galloping along the roads and little bands of five or six men would run out to the end of a spit of land and even up to their waists into the sea, waving swords and defying the Norsemen to land and fight. The Vikings paid no attention, but continued to bow over their oars. Fursey’s heart gave a mighty bound, however, when he witnessed the first of these challenges and watched half-a-dozen starveling natives capering madly in the surf as they brandished notched and rusty swords and howled opprobrious epithets at the disciplined Viking force of ten times their numbers. As the dragonship sped swiftly by there were tears in Fursey’s eyes. It came to him that whatever else one could say about his countrymen, no one had ever been able to accuse them of cowardice.

  The breeze had been leaning over for some time, and now it was found to have veered sufficiently to justify raising the great raven sail. While this was being done, breakfast was handed around, a hunk of badger flesh, garnished with garlic and kale. Fursey knew that Norsemen were vain of their appearance, but he was surprised to see that now that they were rid of the necessity for rowing they produced bronze razors and small mirrors made of polished steel. Hooking their moustaches carefully back behind their ears, they began to shave the rest of their faces. The older and more wrinkled sea rovers were even provided with large wooden spoons, which they placed in each side of their mouths in turn so as to stretch their corrugated cheeks and so have a smooth surface for the passage of the razor. Then they plaited their moustaches and set to polishing their bronze and amber armlets and necklaces. Only when these offices had been completed did they begin to manifest an interest in the strange shore along which they were travelling. Snorro knew the coast intimately and was able to name every headland and islet. The seaboard was strange to Fursey, though he remembered having heard the names of the larger landmarks and territories. He was able, however, to explain certain phenomena unfamiliar to the Norsemen, as, for instance, the meagre, half-naked creatures, more like some nondescript species of the animal order than human beings, who came to the mouths of their caves or suddenly popped up their heads from behind rocks to stare at the strange ship.

  “They’re undoubtedly maritime hermits, who live largely on shell fish,” explained Fursey to the intrigued Vikings.

  “But do they not live in community?” he was asked.

  “No,” replied Fursey. “Their love of monastic seclusion is such that they cannot stand the sight of one another,” and he made a feeble attempt to explain the nature of sanctity. But the Vikings only shook their heads and made the centuries-old joke common to every Germanic tongue, in which Ireland is called “Irre-land”—the Land of the Mad.

  On the following morning they rounded the toe of Kerry and started to make their way up the west coast. As they passed under the Skellig and Blasket Islands, places efflorescent with sanctity, the Norsemen gazed with amazement at the headlands on which motionless figures knelt with arms outstretched in prayer. Fursey explained that these were saints, who had taken up this devout position many years before and were in a state of abstraction from the things of sense ever since. One reverend figure, his bald pate covered with a fine green moss, particularly took the sea rovers’ fancy; and they became turbulent until Sigurd, to quiet them, steered close inshore so that they could have a good look at him. He knelt on a small grassy plateau at the cliff’s edge and was at least a hundred-and-twenty years old. His clothes had been worn off him and swept away many years before by the action of wind and rain, but Heaven had not suffered him to be ashamed, and accordingly a thick, white beard covered every part of his person. In his outstretched right hand a pair of squirrels were laboriously raising a family.

  “Are you certain he’s alive?” asked Snorro suspiciously.

  “Of course he’s alive,” retorted Fursey indignantly. “Even in my time in Clonmacnoise there was a Father Juniper, a man of such gentleness that ducks came without fear and roosted on every part of his person.”

  “Was he canonised?”

  “No, he was expelled,” replied Fursey. “His benign influence was such that he charmed the wolves, and he invariably came back from a walk accompanied by two or three of them. The abbot had to keep armed men permanently posted at the gate. It was an expense, and it was felt to be bad for discipline.”

  As they sailed northwards towards the broad mouth of the River Shannon, Fursey sat silent in his place amidships, the prey of painful thoughts and imaginings. His conscience was nibbling him. He glanced furtively at the unattractive countenances of the evilly-disposed men with whom he was associated. It was all very well launching oneself into a life of iniquity, but surely there should be some pleasure or gain to be got from it. One had only to contemplate the fierce aspect of his companions to realise that they were men exposed to all the hurricanes of unbridled passions, and their very proximity was alarming to Fursey. Yet these were the men whom he was helping to lead against his own countrymen and, worse still, against his own kind. His conscience told him that he was on the wrong side. “Ill will come of it,” he muttered to himself.

  “We’re passing Ballybunion,” said Snorro suddenly.

  Fursey roused himself to gaze with morbid horror at the little town which had the worst of all names.

  “You know the settlement?” asked Snorro.

  “No,” responded Fursey, “but I’ve heard of it. I understand that the dissolute inhabitants are entirely given over to pleasure and vice. It’s much frequented in the summer months by members of the lower clergy, who spend their time gaming and in the consumption of strong liquors. It’s a notorious centre for cockfighting, dicing and other licentious pursuits.”

  Even though it was still only early afternoon, the night life of Ballybunion was already under way, and one could hear the wicked hum of the settlement, the barking of depraved dogs, the incessant rattling of dice boxes and the indignant howls of drunkards being ejected from taverns because they had no more money. But the dragonship soon left this modern Babylon behind and crept up the estuary of the River Shannon.

  It was almost dusk when they arrived at Limerick and, rowing some hundred yards beyond the settlement, anchored in mid-stream. There was much whispering among the crew, and at length a boat was lowered, into which Sigurd and Snorro scrambled.

  “Come on,” said Snorro to Fursey, “but leave your weapons and helmet behind.”

  The surprised Fursey climbed into the boat and Snorro quickly rowed ashore. There Sigurd gave his final instructions to Snorro in undertones, and strode away by himself into the town.

  Fursey glanced around him and saw that the city consisted of an irregular patch of grass, around which were dotted at intervals some fifty or sixty circular cabins, built of wickerwork and thatched with straw. Beyond the houses he could see in the gathering dusk fields of t
illage and pasture stretching away to the outskirts of the forest. The inhabitants, who were mostly Danes, wore multi-coloured cloaks chequered with spots and stripes. An occasional Irishman was to be seen clad in a loose-sleeved mantle of frieze. On the quay beside Fursey a local saint was solemnly shaking hands with his friends before setting out on a perilous journey into the wilds of North Kerry, where he was to make his fourth attempt to convert the robber lord of that territory, known far and wide as The Wolf of Ballybunion. In the centre of the green an idle crowd was listening to a street preacher, clad in a kilt of severe and uncompromising cut, who was urging them to burn something or other of which he didn’t approve.

  “Come, and I’ll show you the city,” said Snorro, touching Fursey’s­ arm.

  “Why have the others not landed?” asked Fursey as they set out.

  “Sigurd is afraid that they’ll start drinking in some Mariners’ Rest and betray the fact that we’re not traders. So he has confined them on board ship until we start upstream before dawn.”

  “And where has he gone himself?”

  “He has gone to the King’s House to fix things. That’s it over there, the building with the three skeletons hanging from the tree outside the door.”

  “What do you mean by ‘fix things’?”

  “Well,” explained Snorro, “when we sack Clonmacnoise and pass by here again to-morrow evening the King will expect a percentage in return for keeping his mouth shut and not impeding our passage. After all, he’s a Christian, and would normally be expected to oppose a raid on a monastery.”

  “It’s all very bewildering,” said Fursey. “I always understood that although this is a Norse settlement it had been converted to Christianity and was notable for its piety.”

  “It is rather in process of conversion. The King is a Christian, but most of his subjects still cling to the older faith. He does not persecute them on that account, being a liberal and enlightened man. Most of the public institutions are still what you people call pagan. And certainly it is the case that Limerick has always been noted for its many religious institutions. There, for instance,” said Snorro, pointing to a cluster of huts within a palisade, “is The Sick and Indigent Sea Rovers’ Institution.”

  Fursey peered over the palisade and saw half-a-dozen ancients doddering round the enclosure.

  “All hardy Vikings once,” declared Snorro. “Now all they’re any good for is eating porridge and yapping about their battles with their toes to the fire. Over there is The Broken-Down Norsemen’s Institute. It’s necessary to have lost a minimum of two limbs to secure admittance.”

  “Let’s have a drink,” suggested Fursey suddenly.

  “Certainly,” agreed Snorro. “Have you any money?”

  “No,” replied Fursey, “but I have a rope. All I want now is a tree.”

  Snorro searched the gathering darkness anxiously with his one eye. At last they detected a tree in a quiet place behind one of the cabins. Soon they were seated on the turf and provided with a flagon of ale apiece.

  “Why did you bring your battleaxe with you,” enquired Fursey, “if Sigurd doesn’t want it to be known that we are an armed force?”

  “An odd battleaxe doesn’t count,” replied Snorro. “A Norseman would look naked without his battleaxe. Besides, in a strange town you have to have something to keep away the dogs.”

  They sat for some time in silence. If Fursey had hoped to make Snorro drunk and so effect his own escape, his plan was doomed to failure. Snorro continued to drink, but very temperately. At last Fursey spoke again.

  “Why have you and I landed?”

  “We’re to spend the night in the town to pick up any gossip that may be relevant. Before we go upstream tomorrow we must be certain that nothing untoward is happening in the neighbourhood of Clonmacnoise. If there’s a war in progress, or any movement of armies, we’ll hear it talked of in the place in which we’re going to spend the night.”

  “I see,” said Fursey. After a few moments he ventured another question. “I’m not much use to you as a spy. Why did you bring me with you?”

  Snorro emptied the beaker before he answered.

  “Well,” he said, “before an undertaking such as tomorrow’s raid it’s usual to take the omens. The crew are anxious that this should be done so that they may have some indication of what to expect to-morrow.”

  “It seems reasonable,” remarked Fursey, “but what has that to do with me?”

  “Well,” replied Snorro, “taking the omens involves the examination of entrails for the purposes of divination, and Sigurd was afraid that the crew might perform the ceremony while he and I were absent on shore. That’s why he told me to take you along with me.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Fursey. “I’m sure it’s an interesting ceremony, but I don’t mind missing it.”

  “You won’t miss it,” said Snorro patiently. “It’s your intestines that are to be consulted.”

  “My intestines!” ejaculated Fursey. “But will I survive the cere­mony?”

  “I never heard of anyone that did,” replied Snorro gloomily. “But you needn’t worry. Sigurd had got it adjourned for twenty-four hours. You see, we plan to anchor the ship to-morrow around the bend below Clonmacnoise, and you and I will land and creep to within sight of the monastery. You will point out to me the dispositions of the settlement; and then we are to creep back and report to Sigurd, who will draw up his plan so as to take the place by surprise.”

  “I see,” said Fursey impatiently, “but what’s that you said about an adjournment for twenty-four hours?”

  “Sigurd explained to the men that your usefulness will not be exhausted until the attack has been launched. He pacified them by promising to divine from your entrails after the raid whether or not we shall have a smooth passage home. The men are inclined to grumble; they say it’s not quite the same thing. They’d rather learn about the probabilities of success beforehand.”

  “Naturally,” was Fursey’s feeble rejoinder. “Nevertheless, I trust that Sigurd prevailed.”

  “He did. Anyway,” said Snorro soothingly, “I would not wish you to be put to death until you have worked magically on my coat of mail, as you promised, so that through it no steel may bite.”

  “That will take some time,” responded Fursey hastily. “It will be necessary for me to collect certain powerful herbs and unguents.”

  “There’s no hurry,” Snorro assured him as they arose, “you have really until to-morrow afternoon. I wouldn’t wish you on any account to botch the job on the coat of mail.”

  Fursey was very pensive as they walked back through the town. Although it was now quite dark, most of the inhabitants seemed to be out of doors, leaning against the walls of the houses gazing into nothingness.

  “What do you think of Limerick?” asked Snorro.

  “It seems to be a city of bewhiskered old women,” replied Fursey.

  “It is,” replied Snorro, “both male and female.”

  They had come to a low, rambling building in the centre of the town.

  “This is where we stay for the night,” said Snorro, and he read for Fursey the inscription over the doorway. “ ‘Night Shelter for Unemployed Vikings, under the patronage of Thor the Thunderer.’ That’s Thor,” he added, pointing to where there stood over the doorway an immense statue of a very formidable character waving a hammer. They had to take their place in a queue of Norse down-and-outs in sordid and base attire. It was hard to believe of most of them that they had once ridden the seas in search of adventure, for they were in general low and obscure fellows with squalid beards and dangling hair. They all appeared to be suffering from malnutrition, and those that weren’t either lame or halt had broken backs or lacked their full complement of eyes, ears and arms. When the queue moved forward sufficiently to bring Snorro and himself within the doorway, Fursey saw a broad-shouldered warrior seated behind a table in the entrance. He had a battleaxe swinging from his wrist by a leathern thong, and he was enteri
ng each man’s name in a sheepskin register.

  “That’s the Superintendent,” whispered Snorro.

  As Fursey and his companion came alongside, the Superintendent glanced up at them and shot at them a series of questions.

  “Newcomers?”

  “Yes,” replied Snorro.

  “Names?”

  “Snorro and Fursey.”

  “Occupation?”

  “Able-bodied seamen, at present unemployed.”

  “Race?”

  “Norse.”

  “Religion?”

  “Worshippers of Thor the Thunderer.”

  “Very well,” said the Superintendent. “Battleaxes are to be surrendered at the Office. It will be returned to you in the morning,” and he handed a small metal check to Snorro. Then he read aloud to them the regulations, a copy of which hung on the wall.

  “1. The Superintendent has the right to refuse admission to anyone who may reasonably be suspected of being in a rabid state.

  “2. Any attempt at stabbing or throat-slitting will render the offender liable to immediate expulsion.

  “3. Knives, spears, swords, battleaxes or hatchets smuggled into the Institution under circumstances giving rise to the reasonable suspicion that they have been brought in for an improper purpose are liable to confiscation.”

  Fursey and Snorro passed into the dormitory. About thirty inmates were huddled over a spark in the fireplace at the far end of the room. The hall was long and narrow, and a long bench ran its entire length. About three feet higher than the bench a rope also ran the length of the room. One slept sitting on the bench with one’s hands on the rope. You then rested your chin on your hands like a dog resting its chin on its paws. At sunrise the Superintendent, after a warning shout, cut the rope with his battleaxe and all the late sleepers fell on to the floor. These things were explained to Fursey by a thin, white-faced creature who sat down beside him. Snorro had gone out into the washroom which adjoined the dormitory. The stranger, who addressed Fursey in nervous, intimate whispers, was barefooted and clad in rags. Indeed, the only entire garment he had was a battered Viking helmet. He seemed haunted by some fear, and his eyes kept shifting up and down the room. Fursey realised suddenly that he was in an extreme state of terror and that he had perforce to speak to someone.