The Return of Fursey

by Mervyn Wall

“Hold your tongue,” snapped the goat-man. “Fursey, order this monster of yours to disappear.”

  Fursey did as he was bid.

  “Now,” proclaimed the goat-man, “you may get your broomstick and take yourself home. You’re expelled from the Sabbath. A man who cannot keep his familiar under control, cannot hope to be initiated as a fully-fledged sorcerer.” There was a murmur of approval. Fursey went without a word. He found his broom beside the lake where he had left it, and in a few minutes he was winging his way across the mountain. As he flew southwards his emotions were of a very mixed character. He was relieved to be away from such an abominable spot, and he was strangely pleased that he had escaped initiation. It left him as he was before, a sort of half-sorcerer. He did not doubt but that Albert’s behaviour had been deliberate, and that its object had been to embarrass him. Had not his familiar threatened to thwart and annoy him? But it might well be that Albert had unsuspectingly done him a very good service. Fursey was sick of the company of magicians, which seemed to him to be not only unpleasant, but in the highest degree dangerous. He was tempted to turn the broom handle in another direction and wing his way to some territory where he was unknown, but he remembered the love philtre now ready for use. At all costs he must secure possession of it. Then, if Cuthbert permitted him to do so, he would take his departure. “I must really get rid of Albert,” he told himself, “if I don’t, he’ll get me into serious trouble.”

  When he alighted on the hillside before the cave, the light was creeping into the sky in the east, and in their nests the birds were stirring their wings. As he entered the cave the first thing he saw was the broad buttocks and twitching tail of the cow.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, giving her an affectionate slap on the flank.

  The cow raised her head and swung it around to look at him. Then she turned away and buried her muzzle once more in the bucket which contained the love potion. There was a loud, sucking noise.

  “Come away,” shouted Fursey, realising suddenly what was happening; but by the time he had dashed to her head and snatched away the bucket, it was empty. For a moment he felt like striking her, but a wave of misery swept away his anger, and walking to a rock in the cave mouth, he sat down in bitter despondency. He was recalled to present events by a gentle nuzzling on the shoulder. He looked up. The cow was beside him. She extended her broad, rough tongue and licked his ear. He sprang to his feet. There could be no doubt about it: the light in her eye was an amorous one.

  Two hours later, as the returning sorcerers circled the hillside on their broomsticks, they marvelled exceedingly to see Fursey scuttling in and out among the rocks with a cow loping close behind him. From time to time he turned and beat her about the head with an empty bucket; but when he resumed his flight, she followed once more at a steady trot, mooing pathetically.

  When Cuthbert returned to the cave he had shed altogether his character as goat-man. He was once more the friendly, though sometimes snappish, master whom Fursey had previously known. When he was told of the loss of the philtre, he gave vent to a sudden outburst of rage, but he recovered quickly and acted towards Fursey much as he had acted before. Fursey noticed however that the line of his mouth was more tightly drawn, as if his patience was almost exhausted. He helped to secure the cow and tie her once more in her stall, but her heartbroken mooing got on his nerves to such an extent that after two days he obtained Fursey’s consent to destroy her.

  A deep depression settled on Fursey. He was unwilling to leave the hillside as he still nourished a hope that Cuthbert might yet consent to help him either in the matter of removing Magnus or by preparing another philtre, but he felt himself to be in such disgrace that he did not dare to raise either matter with his master. He knew too that his stock stood very low on the mountain. The other wizards when they passed him on the hillside, averted their heads and plainly indicated that they were not on speaking terms with him. It was a week before Cuthbert summoned him to the back of the cave and spoke to him about his affairs.

  “I hear,” began the sorcerer smoothly, “that you did not show up at all well at the Sabbath. It’s evident that you will never graduate as a wizard.”

  Fursey nodded his head in sorrowful assent.

  “You will really have to go away,” declared Cuthbert with a sudden burst of impatience. “You were useful to me as a servant, but the sight of your doleful countenance is having a most depressing effect upon me; and if I have to endure it much longer, it will certainly drive me back to drink. Nor can I risk the spoiling of important experiments through your incompetence. That love philtre would still be here only for that cow you had mooching around the place.”

  “I’ll go,” replied Fursey, “but first I have three requests to make.”

  “Three!” shouted Cuthbert. “I must say that I admire your audacity.”

  “Yes,” replied Fursey determinedly, “first I want you to help me to rid myself of Albert.”

  Cuthbert had looked as if he was going to fly into an uncontrollable rage, but when Albert was mentioned, his countenance underwent a sudden change.

  “That’s the first wise thing I’ve ever heard you say,” he conceded. “It’s high time that a stop was put to that fellow’s proceedings. We’ll auction him off this evening.”

  “I give you a present of him,” replied Fursey. “It will be a little acknowledgement of my debt to you. You auction him and keep the proceeds.”

  Cuthbert looked pleased. “Thank you,” he said with a courteous bow. “I’ve no doubt but that we shall find a purchaser. A spare familiar is always useful.”

  “All I want,” said Fursey heavily, “is to be assured that I shall never see his ugly face again. I want to be entirely rid of him.”

  “You’re right,” said the sorcerer. “It’s obvious that you don’t know how to control a familiar, and a desperate character like Albert is apt to get a man into trouble.”

  “I have two other requests.”

  “What are they?” asked Cuthbert shortly.

  “I want you to annihilate Magnus and win for me the love of his beautiful spouse.”

  Cuthbert sprang from his seat and raged up and down the cavern.

  “We’re back where we were when you came here last October,” he stormed. “Why I have neglected to turn you into a toad long since, is something which I shall never be able to explain to myself.”

  “Satan would have wished you to help me,” replied Fursey quietly.

  Cuthbert paused at the sound of that great name.

  “The fact that you are well-connected,” he said acidly, “doesn’t justify you in imposing on everyone you meet. I refuse absolutely to do any more magic on your behalf. I shall not manufacture one drop of love potion while you are still within the territory. As for Magnus—well, I’ll do this much for you: I’ll give you some advice before you depart from here to-morrow.”

  Albert was auctioned that evening. Fursey summoned him, and he squatted on the central table, his snout wreathed in a self-satisfied smile. There was a good attendance, and the wizards whispered to one another and nodded their heads gravely as they felt his hocks and his haunches, and examined his teeth. The bidding was brisk and rose quickly from a set of moles’ paws to a wraith in an enchanted bottle. There the bidding ceased, and Albert was knocked down to an earnest, young wizard who was known to be a coming man. Fursey made a declaration solemnly handing over the familiar; and at his new master’s bidding, Albert gracefully disappeared with a smug smile upon his face.

  On the following morning Fursey coiled his rope and slung it over his shoulder. As he stood in the mouth of the cave ready to depart, he looked down sorrowfully at his tattered clothes and broken shoes.

  “Will you not even give me a small phial of water,” he asked, “to pour on Magnus’ doorstep, so that by its latent magic, he may fall grievously and haply kill himself?”

  “I’m determined to give you nothing of a magical nature,” replied Cuthbert firmly. “I’m convi
nced that if I did, you would inevitably misuse it and injure yourself. Your wit is too thin. I advise you strongly never to attempt to practise the fatal arts. You’re a man whose brain moves round and rattles in his head. I’m persuaded that dire effects will attend any magical operation in which you have a hand.”

  Fursey looked at him glumly. “You promised me advice. How will I proceed to destroy my enemy and win the affections of Maeve?”

  “You must overcome Magnus by natural means.”

  “How?”

  “You must challenge him to fight.”

  “But,” protested Fursey, “he’s a very considerable muscle-man.”

  “I’m not sending you away empty-handed. I’ve composed a letter for you. When you come within sight of Magnus’ dwelling, pause in your travels and take up your abode in some convenient thicket. Then send this letter to him by trusty messenger.”

  “What’s written in the letter?”

  Cuthbert unrolled a small parchment and read:

  “Deliver up at once, perverse monster, the woman of whom you have robbed me, before my just rage brings about your deserved destruction.

  Your implacable enemy,

  Fursey.

  If he has any manhood at all, he will react violently to such a challenge, and will come forth at once to meet you.”

  “And suppose he kills me?”

  “Why will you always insist on looking on the dark side of things?” asked Cuthbert impatiently. “Even if he does, your troubles will then be over. But there’s no need for you to let yourself be killed. All you have to do is exchange a few lusty knocks with him, and then when he’s not looking, stab him with a bodkin.”

  Fursey looked gloomily at the piece of parchment and stowed it away in his pocket.

  “Here is a poisoned bodkin. It’s in a sheath, so that you won’t kill yourself with it. A single scratch will encompass Magnus’ death. Now are you satisfied?”

  “It’s all very fine to talk,” whimpered Fursey as he took the bodkin, “but this Magnus is a man of the most unexampled fierceness. He’s a most savage character as well as being a regular Hercules. It’s in the highest degree unlikely that I’ll survive his initial blow.”

  “Then why let him have the first blow?” said the exasperated Cuthbert. “All you have to do is get in the first buffet yourself; and when he’s on the ground, you can finish him off with the poisoned bodkin.”

  “I see,” said Fursey.

  “When he’s slain,” continued Cuthbert, “keep your head about you: don’t fall into a swoon through exceeding joy. Remember you still have to won the woman.”

  “Could you not give me a small bit of magic,” pleaded Fursey, “just enough to take away his bodily strength before I fight him.”

  “No,” snapped Cuthbert, “it concerns my honour. If I gave you anything magical, you would surely transfix yourself. Goodbye now, and don’t come back.”

  “Goodbye,” said Fursey, and he turned and made his way slowly down the hillside towards the plains and the world of men.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Fursey made his way along the shoulder of the mountain, knowing that on the windswept ridge the ground would be dry and firm underfoot. He continued as far as he could on the higher levels, descending slowly in a sweeping curve towards the plain. When at last a direct descent of the mountain flank became necessary, he picked his way carefully round the patches of soggy grassland, often turning to retrace his steps so as to avoid the treacherous peat swamps which lay across his path. He had a wholesome fear of the sodden bogs, so deceptively covered with fine grass. He knew that a single false step in those areas would result in a sucking sound and his total disappearance. But he made his way down the hillside without mishap, and in the early afternoon came to a long line of hedge, bright with hawthorn blossoms. He soon found a gap and clambered through into a bed of nettles. A moment later he was on the road. He seated himself on the bank amid the daisies and the buttercups, and sighed with satisfaction. It was good to have left the mystery-riddled mountains behind and to feel one’s feet on the solid highway once more. He sat for a long time in quiet contentment. It was a still, bright afternoon. The air was soaked through and through with sunshine. It oozed like honey from a comb, spreading itself on the thick, green tangle of the hedgerows, and slipping down to surround and embrace the dandelions and the primroses and all the other white and yellow flowers which brightened the borders of the road. He glanced down the highway and over the plain. As far as his eye could see, the countryside was alight with the graceful gaiety of May. Some trees sported buds which resembled brussels sprouts, the chestnuts were laden with their usual white pyramids: indeed, every tree had something fresh to show, for over all lay the delicate, green web of spring. He smiled, rubbed his chin and began to plot his course.

  It was not difficult. He did not know the exact site of Magnus’ dwelling, but he believed it to be in the vicinity of The Gap, the great pass separating the Knockmealdown Mountains from the neighbouring range. All that he had to do, was to follow the road until he had made a half-circuit of the mountains: probably a day’s travelling would bring him to his objective. He was so pleased at having escaped unscathed from sorcerers’ territory that he did not worry as to how he should encompass Magnus’ dissolution and win the affection of Maeve. The sheathed bodkin in his pocket gave him confidence, and he determined not to occupy his mind with future events until it was necessary for him to do so. He sat for a long time in dreamy vacancy, dimly aware of the minute sounds about him, the careful stirring of a bird in the hedge and the slight rustle of the long grasses as they captured a straying wind, held it for a moment and let it go. He lacked the will to proceed further, and a long time elapsed before he rose to his feet, hitched his rope over his shoulder and made his way down the road. With the renewal of physical activity his mental lethargy departed, and soon he was whistling blithely. After the manifold dangers through which he had passed, the possibility of being recognised, denounced and burnt as a sorcerer scarcely bothered him. It was nearly a year since he had been in the hands of the authorities at Cashel, and he felt that the passage of time must have made him less readily recognisable—at least, he would not still be in the forefront of men’s minds. So he went on his way, passing without fear the mud and wickerwork cottages before which naked children played and tumbled, while dogs ran round importantly. He even shouted a greeting to the women sitting in the doorways polishing cheap ornaments of bone and bronze. He looked with affection on the evidences of human activity, the carefully woven thorn fence enclosing the field, the wooden plank across the stream, and the heaped peat won from a neighbouring bog. He stopped for a while to watch from a distance a group of men by the side of a lake busy at work on the framework on a coracle, bending the strong wattles and covering them with hide. Evening came as he proceeded, and with it came rustling showers of rain. Mists drifted across the plain, parting from time to time to let the weakened evening sunlight pick out some scene of faeryland unreality. The road was stony, and he began to become very footsore. He halted at sunset, and seated himself in the shelter of the ditch. His rope quickly procured him his supper, and he began to eat with relish. He had finished his meal and had a beaker balanced on his nose draining the dregs of the ale when he heard a lonely sound some distance down the road. A quavering voice was raised in lamentation, and the words came clearly to his ears:

  “Woe to Fursey!”

  He dropped the beaker and sat paralysed. He listened to the pad of approaching footsteps, and heard the voice once more. It began with a series of staccato groans, then rose in a melancholy wail until it attained a high pitch, where it remained.

  “Woe to Fursey!” it announced. “There is a chattering in the sky, and when I listen I hear voices. I hear voices in the earth and voices in the winds. And all the voices that I hear, have but the one burden: ‘Woe to Fursey!’ ”

  Fursey blinked incredulously, then he dropped on his hands and knees and, crawling forward
a couple of paces, raised his head over the edge of the ditch. He peered cautiously in the direction from which these alarming words proceeded. A strange-looking character in fluttering rags was approaching with a lengthy stride down the centre of the road. His head was bare, and he was plentifully supplied with grizzled whiskers. As he came by Fursey’s hiding place, he raised a skinny arm high over his head and gave vent to another moan.

  “Woe to Fursey!” he repeated in heartbroken tones.

  As he passed by and continued down the road, Fursey watched him from over the edge of the ditch like a rabbit looking out of a burrow. When he had gone some distance, Fursey scrambled to his feet and ran down the road after him. The stranger proceeded with a long, springy stride, but Fursey caught up before long and patiently trotted alongside. It was some minutes before the old gentleman noticed his presence. When he did become aware of the small man running beside him, anxiously attempting to attract his attention, he halted and looked at Fursey enquiringly. Although the stranger was big-framed, he was meagre and bony. His watery blue eyes were benevolent, but they wandered across Fursey’s face without apparent interest.

  “Have you come that I may hollow out a grave for you?” he asked.

  “I have not,” answered Fursey, more alarmed than ever. “What put that thought into your head?”

  “I beg your pardon,” replied the stranger. “I am a Christian man, and one of the corporal works of mercy in which I habitually engage, is the burial of the dead. I thought for a moment that you were a client.”

  “I’m very far from dead,” retorted Fursey. “I merely wish to enquire what you were shouting as you came along the road.”

  “I have no recollection.”

  “But it was only just now. You were calling out ‘Woe to Fursey’ or words to that effect.”

  “Was I? The name Fursey is quite unknown to me. I must have been prophesying. No doubt I was in a state of angelic possession.”

  “Angelic possession?”

  “I’m a rustic prophet,” explained the stranger mildly. “I’m frequently moved to prophecy, particularly on Fridays and Satur­days.”