by Mervyn Wall
Fursey heard this speech with considerable trepidation, but he smiled bravely and assured the sorcerer that there was nothing he would like better. Cuthbert rose smiling and laid a skinny hand on the shoulder of his apprentice.
“Take some of the heather,” he said, “and make yourself a comfortable couch. The taper is flickering out. It’s time for all good people to be in bed.”
CHAPTER VI
Notwithstanding Cuthbert’s apparent enthusiasm on the night of Fursey’s arrival, he manifested no inclination on the morrow to commence the instruction of his apprentice in the sinuous mysteries of witchcraft. A great lethargy possessed him, and during the ensuing weeks he lazed about the cave, sometimes drinking moodily, at other times sitting for long hours with a twisted smile on his face as if his mind was busy with curious and serpentine designs. He roused himself from time to time to deal with customers, besotted peasants who came with offerings of rough wooden bowls or ill-made pottery, requesting him to cure warts or whooping cough. Except for these folk cures he did no magic; and Fursey, secretly glad of the respite, performed the menial tasks of the cave, drew water from a nearby brook and brought in sticks and gorse to burn, for it was already winter. The only other duty laid upon him was the collection of herbs and venomous plants, which he soon learnt to identify. Besides their use in the making of drugs and medicines, Cuthbert spoke constantly of the necessity for building up a large stock of magical armament in keeping with his position as a major sorcerer. Fursey was a docile and assiduous servant, and came back from each excursion bowed beneath a load of poisonous fungi, foxgloves, hemlock or the dreaded deadly nightshade. He even went beyond his instructions and brought in plants that looked to him tolerably venomous. Some of these Cuthbert discarded, other he put aside to try by way of experiment on the next peasant who should call seeking his assistance. Fursey was kept busy. Some herbs had to be gathered at certain phases of the moon, and he spent a week hunting for a stone which it was indispensable to find in a peewit’s nest. A brisk trade developed with the other warlocks scattered throughout the hills. On Cuthbert’s instructions, Fursey carried loads of dogwood, hawkweed and henbane to their caverns and bargained with them for elf-shots, murderers’ knucklebones and the fingers of unbaptised babes. Cuthbert spoke vaguely of making magic brews and performing ritual but his lassitude was such that he never made a start.
At first Fursey was nigh overcome by the demoniacal character of his surroundings. The weather was of a very irregular character. Patches of druidical fog floated against the wind, and the neighbourhood was subject to sudden storms and hail. One heard strange voices on the breeze, and at times the air would be filled with a kind of twittering or chirping, which Fursey knew to be the voices of spirits. It was not unusual to meet some initiate toiling up the track with a load of assorted stones collected from four parishes, or to see a wizard coursing back and forward on the hillside in the form of a greyhound. The night was often hideous with tumults and strange bawlings, and from the mouth of the cave wandering fires were visible. At first Fursey could not sleep at night through fear of being suddenly embraced by the spectral arms of some visitant. He felt that if he were to experience such a foul caress he would surely breathe forth the vital spark. But soon the fatigues of the day, his journeyings hither and thither, guaranteed his night’s rest, and he was asleep as soon as he laid his head on its rustling pillow. He accustomed himself also to the less alarming of the magical manifestations. He could look on a griffin rampant in a green field without feeling an overmastering desire to take to his heels. He came to appreciate that these projections and appearances, not being directed at himself, were in nowise likely to injure him. He knew that no one on the mountain had reason to bear him malice, so that he no longer took cover if he saw a pale young gentleman floating by him on the wind or beheld high overhead in the grey cloud drift of the sky a boat of shining crystal rowed by a faery on his way to The Land of Youth. He even accustomed himself to the scratching and mewing of enchanted cats at night and their hideous caterwauling. There was, however, one mountain slope which he avoided, a place where chimeras, spoorns, calcars and sylens slouched among the rocks leering at the passers-by. Turko the Crystallomancer had told him that on the summit of the mountain itself dwelt belated worshippers of Ogma and Segomos and the other weird, cruel and bloody divinities of the Gael. Their devotees adored holy wells and the elements, and their crude shrines were tended by loathsome and malignant witch-hags. They were the last worshippers of the old native faith, which had been supplanted everywhere else by the foreign religion that the blessed Patrick had brought from Britain. Fursey knew that wherever there was strong religious conviction there was blood-letting and oppression, so he avoided the hill where the pillar stones of paganism still stood. Once when he was on his way to a piece of soggy ground well known to him as a place where all classes of vegetable wickedness grew in hideous luxuriance, he essayed a short cut, which brought him within the shadow of the mountain of ill-repute. All at once he found himself on the edge of a crevasse across which a bridge had been flung. A woman stood on the bridge and, as Fursey stopped to stare at her, she held out her hand, offering him a cluster of nuts. He immediately turned and retraced his steps, and as he glanced fearfully over his shoulder he saw that both bridge and woman had vanished. In this neighbourhood on All Hallows Eve the nature spirits of paganism fore-gathered, lingering for a while as if in sadness by the cairn on the mountain top and beside the dolmen which Christian iconoclasts had overthrown. Fursey saw their great shadows against the sky at sunset and fled to the safety of the sorcerer’s cave.
Before a couple of months had run, Fursey had come to know, at least by sight, most of the mountain dwellers who lived nearby. The mathematicians rarely spoke to anyone and had no interest in Fursey’s bundles of herbs or venomous plants. All day they sat in the openings of their caves working out problems far exceeding all numbers in arithmetic. The sorcerers were in general cross-grained and snappy, and were always asking Fursey to undertake little jobs for them, such as the kidnapping and murdering of small boys, from whose boiled bones a powerful ointment could be made. Fursey invariably declined with his best regrets, pleading that he was articled to Cuthbert and was precluded from performing such tasks for others, however anxious he might be to accommodate them. The wizards would mutter in their beards and become very testy in their subsequent conversation, so that Fursey as soon as courtesy permitted would bid them good day, hoist his wares on his back and proceed on his way.
Some fifty paces from Cuthbert’s cave dwelt an alchemist, a person of the human species, but lame and crooked, squat and bandy-legged. As one might expect of a man whose only desire was to assemble wealth, he was in the highest degree hard-visaged. His efforts to turn into gold the flint arrowheads and horseshoes with which his cave was littered, appeared to meet with little success. Clad in base and servile weeds, he seemed an impoverished and benighted creature. From time to time, when he wearied of treating his flints and horseshoes with balm of mercury and putting them through the various methods of alchemical confection, he would revert for a week or so to a search for the Elixir of Life. He would sit for days almost completely immersed in a herbal stew over a slow fire, striving to renew his youth by saturating his body with certain potent juices, of which sugar of mercury and celestial slime were important ingredients. The preparation of this bath was a slow affair, a lengthy process of congealation and distillation was necessary before the advent of a divine sparkle in the mixture indicated to the alchemist that it was time for him to peel off his clothes and get in. He was an unfriendly fellow, who held intercourse with no one. He was suspicious of all who approached his cave, imagining that they were intent on prying into his alchemical secrets.
Fursey met the cow while he was on one of his excursions collecting sowthistle, nipplewort and buckbean and similar herbs of a soothing nature. Although the snow had fallen in thousands during the preceding night, he found the constant bending and tugg
ing at obstinate roots very warming, so he had taken off his cloak and flung it on a nearby hedge. When his basket was full, and he turned to resume the garment, he saw the last shred of it disappearing down a cow’s gullet. Fursey’s first thought was that the cow was apparently hungry. There was snow on the ground and the poor beast’s bones were apparent through its hide. Then it was borne in on him that he had seen that particular cow somewhere before. When she slowly stirred her ears, he remembered Turko’s crystal. For a long time he stood staring at the cow, while she returned his gaze with impassive melancholy. It was apparent that no thoughts were stirring in her brain, she was just looking at Fursey because she couldn’t think of anything better to look at.
“She’s lost her way,” he thought, “and she’s suffering grievously from malnutrition.”
He put down his basket and scraped away a square yard of snow from the ground. Then he directed her attention to the grass growing underneath. The cow seemed unimpressed.
“I don’t wonder that you’re dejected,” said Fursey. “You look as if you hadn’t eaten anything for a month. If only I had my rope with me I’d produce some body-building food for you. The best thing you can do is to come along with me and we’ll find you something to eat.”
He walked round the cow and gave her a smart slap on the buttock. As she did not seem to have anywhere in particular to go, she permitted Fursey to drive her before him up the track to the cavern. Cuthbert, who was sitting inside drinking a flagon of mead, sprang to his feet when the cow walked into the cave and stood staring at him, flicking her tail.
“Where did you get her?” he demanded hoarsely. “Did you steal her?”
“Certainly not,” replied Fursey primly. “I just brought her along for a square meal.”
Cuthbert muffled a curse, and began hastily to move his most cherished possessions out of the cow’s reach.
“You’d better get her out,” he said meaningly.
“You surely wouldn’t begrudge her a bite to eat,” retorted Fursey. “The poor thing is almost hollow.”
Taking up his rope he cast it over a projecting ledge of rock and pulled. Immediately a load of hay fell from the ceiling. The cow bowed her head and began to munch contentedly. There was a string of blasphemy from the back of the cave, and a moment later Cuthbert came clambering across the hay.
“If you haven’t that animal and the haystack out of this cave by the time I come back,” he snarled, “I’ll have your life.”
He stamped out into the open air and disappeared from view. When the cow had eaten her fill, watched by the admiring Fursey, he led her out and tethered her in a hollow in the cliff, where she would be assured of some protection from the elements. Then he started to carry out the hay in armfuls and pile it about her. The cow watched him contentedly. Then she brought up Fursey’s cloak from her stomach by way of cud and started to chew it reflectively. Fursey shook his head at her in smiling disapproval, and returned to the cave to sweep out the last traces of the hay. As he finished the task, Cuthbert re-appeared and stood in the cavern mouth watching him approvingly.
“I’m glad this happened,” declared Cuthbert. “The incident has thrown a flood of light into the recesses of your soul. As it happens, I am a profound psychologist as well as a considerable sorcerer. When I saw the care you bestowed upon that ruminant I read your spirit like an open book. Your soul stood naked before me.”
“What did you see?” asked Fursey, leaning on the broom.
Cuthbert nodded his head sagely. “Your affections have welled over the dam of your resolution. Your brimming heart craves an object to love and cherish. We must win the woman Maeve for you at once. We have delayed too long.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Fursey delightedly.
“Don’t thank me,” replied the sorcerer in businesslike tones. “To a considerable degree I am consulting my own convenience and comfort in the matter. Unless we provide you with a proper object for your affections, I don’t doubt but that before long you will have the cave so full of feathered and four-legged pets that there will be no living here at all. Not that I blame you,” he added kindly. “It’s your nature, and no man can slip away from his nature. Now, what was it I undertook to do for you?”
“First we have to rid the world of an objectionable oaf called Magnus,” prompted Fursey; “a man who has done grievous wrong to me and mine.”
“Exactly,” said Cuthbert. “I clearly remember the circumstances. We shall slay him to-night.”
“How?” asked Fursey breathlessly.
“Such a matter is a mere bagatelle to a man like me,” replied Cuthbert. “I’ll riddle him with magic. Let me see.” He seated himself on his favourite rock and absently conjured up a flagon of black ale to help him in his cogitations. “How would you like him to die?” he asked at length.
“Roaring,” replied Fursey without hesitation. “Roaring and wallowing in a horrible manner.”
“Let me see,” repeated Cuthbert. “We could overthrow him by cold and heat, but that would require a spot free from observation, a napkin of unblemished whiteness and a chafing dish. We have the first named, but we lack the other two; so we’ll have to think of something else.”
He took a long pull at the flagon of ale and ruminated.
“Will you be satisfied,” he said at last, “if I afflict him with a lingering and painful disease, so that his speech and hearing become benumbed, his toes and fingers fall off, and he finally be bereft of every sense?”
“No,” declared Fursey fiercely. “I will not be talked into a persuasion that anything less than his total demise will suffice.”
“But it’s a lovely spell,” said Cuthbert coaxingly. “Its first effect would be to afflict him with a baldness; and all we would need for it would be the toenails of an unbaptised male child, the entrails of a sacrificed cock and the molars of a glutton.”
“I respect your artistic instincts,” said Fursey firmly, “but I will not be satisfied unless you pierce the fluidic envelope of his soul.”
“Very well,” sighed Cuthbert, “have it your own way. We shall drown all his faculties at once if you so desire. We could waste him by burying a taper, but that’s a slow and tedious business. The surest and speediest method of inducing death is to get your familiar to wear a pair of the victim’s drawers while a certain potent spell is woven. The drawers are then dipped in boiling water mixed with blood, and buried. Death follows within an hour.”
Fursey’s fancy was for a moment beguiled at the thought of Albert in the unaccustomed garment, but he shook his head sadly.
“I haven’t got a pair of his drawers,” he admitted reluctantly.
“You’re not much help to me,” muttered Cuthbert. “There’s only one thing for it. We must have a parricide’s skull. Go over to Festus Wisenuts and borrow the one he has. Tell him I sent you and he won’t hesitate to lend it.”
“Is it essential?” asked Fursey in dismay.
Cuthbert turned on him a glittering eye. “Yes,” he answered, “if you want the job done to-night. In the meantime I’ll prepare the ingredients, and we can start the spell the moment you return.”
Fursey set out reluctantly. Although he had been more than four months resident in the cave in the Knockmealdown Mountains he had not yet seen the erratic landlord whose sub-tenant he was. He dreaded, however, that unless Magnus was quenched to-night, long months might elapse before Cuthbert would again be in the mood to weave the necessary spell. He knew the exact location of Festus’ dwelling and began to hurry his steps, remembering that he had left Cuthbert with almost a full flagon of ale in his fist. It would be a heartbreaking disappointment if on his return he were to find the sorcerer, as was so frequently his wont, lying on the floor of the cave snoring.
As Fursey approached the rocky place where Festus lived, there was a crack of thunder overhead and there fell from the sky suddenly an abundance of white pullets. On striking the ground they shook their tails and scampered away in all directions, wa
tched by Fursey with eyes as round as saucers. He halted in miserable indecision, and it was a long time before he succeeded in forcing himself to go on. As he dragged his feet after him towards the yawning mouth of the cave he saw with relief that there were no sentinel moles. A single green cat sat in the entrance washing her face. She looked up as Fursey approached and contemplated him inquisitively, with one green forepaw suspended in mid-air. Fursey eyed her suspiciously and walked in a wide circle round her. As he did so, he came suddenly on Festus Wisenuts himself in the opening of the cave.
Festus was exactly as Fursey had heard him described, a tall, grim-visaged man with a long, slender, silvery beard, clad in an imposing black gown ornamented with the signs of the zodiac. He did not observe Fursey’s approach, being apparently intent on the spell which he was weaving. Fursey watched with horror as the old man in hideous ecstasy capered round a copper tripod, sprinkling ground glass and powdered spurge. Beyond the tripod stood a virgin kid crowned with vervain. Suddenly Festus began whirling himself round in a magical manner. Faster and faster he whirled, while the air became full of a sound like the plaining of damned souls. All at once, Festus stopped and tearing a stone of red enamel from the folds of his flowing black gown, flung it into the tripod. An inky cloud billowed forth and enveloped Fursey. Half-blinded, Fursey retreated backwards until he bumped into the wall of the cave, where he stood with coal-black hands and face, coughing and rubbing his smarting eyes.
“Success at last!” came an exultant voice. “I have created a tawny Moor.”
Fursey, his eyes still streaming, stood gaping at Festus.
“Approach,” commanded the magician, “and henceforth do my bidding.”