The Return of Fursey

by Mervyn Wall

  “Do you think that you’ll feel moved any more this evening, sir?”

  “I imagine that it’s worn off now, but I can’t say for certain. Why?”

  “Because my name is Fursey.”

  “Indeed. That’s very interesting. Well, I mustn’t detain you any longer. Good evening to you.”

  “I’m accompanying you,” declared Fursey determinedly.

  “Why?”

  “In the hope of hearing something more. After all, it’s very alarming to hear a gentleman of your apparent piety shouting one’s name on the breeze and coupling it with woe and destruction.”

  The old man meditated for a moment. “That never occurred to me before,” he said at last. “I suppose that it may well be alarming if one has something on one’s conscience. I’m sorry if I distressed you. The best thing you can do, is repent of whatever you have to repent of. Then you’ll be safe.”

  “I can’t repent just yet,” Fursey blurted out. “I’ve an important murder on hands.”

  “Oh, dear me,” said the rustic prophet in shocked tones, “you shouldn’t do that. Don’t you know it’s wrong?”

  Fursey stirred uncomfortably. “I can’t help it,” he faltered. “A murder is necessary to enable me to put my affairs in order. After that I expect to be happily married. Maybe I’ll repent when that joyful event has taken place.”

  The old man shook his head disapprovingly. “I’m afraid that you are in evil case, and stand sorely in need of spiritual treatment. I’ll stay with you for a little while. It may be that the spirit of prophecy will seize on me again, though I really think that it’s gone for the night.”

  He seated himself on a bank by the wayside and allowed his pale blue eyes to travel over Fursey’s person. Fursey stood stock still in front of him until the scrutiny was complete.

  “Your shoes are sadly broken,” remarked the prophet at last. “Oblige me by accepting mine.”

  “Oh no,” protested Fursey, “I can’t do that.”

  The old man removed his sandals without a word and laid them at Fursey’s feet.

  “Please do not deprive me of the merit I shall gain in Heaven by my charitable act,” he pleaded.

  Fursey stared at him, not knowing what to say. In the face of such insistence it seemed discourteous to refuse. He seated himself on the bank and taking off his broken shoes, shamefacedly assumed the stranger’s footwear.

  “You are most generous,” he muttered.

  “You have little understanding,” replied the prophet mildly. “I am in fact most selfish. I have merely exchanged the perishable goods of this world for a sure reward in the next. To be unselfish in these matters one would have to give without hope of recompense. Only those who do not believe in an after-life, can be truly unselfish.”

  “Do you always act like this?”

  “Certainly. I have been addicted to the practice of charity ever since as a small boy I learnt that whatever I gave away, would be repaid to me in the next world a thousandfold. Only last week a wandering bandit held me up at the sword’s point and robbed me of my cloak. I ran beside him for an hour-and-a-half offering him my drawers as well. He persisted in refusing them, saying that he had a pair already. At length in exasperation he turned on me and beat me sorely.”

  “I’m not surprised,” commented Fursey. “Why do you do these things?”

  “Because I am a Christian.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but is it not the case that everyone in this country is a Christian, barring those who have adopted the professions of banditry and sorcery?”

  “No,” replied the stranger. “I’ve walked the roads of this country for well-nigh fifty years doing good, but I’ve never met a Christian man other than myself.”

  “I’ve a suspicion that it’s not healthy to be unique. One of these days the authorities will burn you.”

  The prophet shrugged his shoulders. “What’s that to me? The stake would be merely the antechamber to Heaven, where a vast reward awaits me.”

  Fursey pondered in silence. It seemed to him that for the first time in his life he had met a really good man, and moreover a man who might be prepared to help him.

  “Sir,” he said at length, “if you wish to do good, you have here a Heaven-sent opportunity. You see before you a man whose misfortunes and miseries are such, that they have become an everyday part of his existence.”

  The rustic prophet rubbed his hands with gratification.

  “Tell me more,” he said. “Anything that I can do to relieve you of your misfortunes and make them my own, will fill me with the greatest satisfaction. Hold nothing back. I am afire with Christian charity.”

  Fursey hesitated for some moments wondering how he would begin his marvellous tale. At length, encouraged by the eager old man, he commenced in a faltering voice to relate his story. He told of his years of happy ignorance as a laybrother in the monastery of Clonmacnoise, and of how a year previously the forces of Hell had invaded the holy settlement and made his cell their headquarters, from which to sally forth to tempt the good monks from their duty. He related how every wicked wile had failed. The obstinate sanctity of the monks had been such that showers of gold, offers of kingdom, and visions of the most lively and engaging females had left them unmoved, but the discipline and good order of the monastery had been sadly disturbed; and to rid the settlement of its unwelcome visitants, it had been deemed necessary to expel Fursey, to whose person the devils had particularly attached themselves. The rustic prophet listened round-eyed, interrupting only with an occasional pious ejaculation, as he heard how Fursey, relieved of his vows, had been forced into marriage with a witch, and how, as she lay dying, she had, before he knew what was happening, breathed into him her sorcerous spirit.

  “So you’re a wizard,” he exclaimed in horrified accents.

  “Yes, but an extremely unwilling one. I’m able to fly on a broomstick and produce food by pulling on a rope. I know no other sorcery whatever. Tell me, sir, is there no way of curing a sorcerer of his affliction other than by burning him to a cinder? You’re a man who has travelled the roads of the world, and are no doubt learned in these things.”

  The prophet raised a claw-like hand and stroked his grizzled whiskers meditatively.

  “I’ve never heard of any other method of treating sorcery,” he said at last, “but we could try reversing the process by which you became a wizard. You could try breathing your sorcerous spirit into someone else.”

  Fursey shook his head despondently.

  “There are few who would wish to accept such a legacy.”

  “Nonsense, I’ll accept it. It will be a most charitable act and will put me in the very front row in Heaven.”

  Fursey looked at the mild-featured old man with astonishment.

  “Are you not afraid that it may put you down into the other place?”

  “I’ve no reason to believe so, as I’ll never make any use of the sorcerous powers which I’ll obtain from you. All my life I’ve been a powerful drawer of souls. I’ve endowed many monasteries with the gifts acquired by my sanctity. It’s unlikely that in my old age, now that passion and desire have long since ceased to trouble me, I shall be tempted to make use of such unholy powers as may attach themselves to my person. Let us lose no time, but proceed at once to the experiment.”

  Fursey rose joyfully to his feet and stood facing his benefactor.

  “How exactly did the old witch pass her spirit to you?” enquired the prophet.

  “She simply breathed suddenly and violently into my mouth when I was not expecting such action on her part.”

  The old man rose to his feet and took his stand squarely on the roadway. He opened his mouth and closed his eyes tightly. Fursey, his heart beating excitedly, filled his lungs to bursting point, so anxious was he to make a good job of it and leave no trace of the sorcerous spirit in his system. Then he exhaled violently down the old man’s throat. The prophet reeled and placed a trembling hand over his heart.

 
; “How do you feel?” Fursey enquired anxiously as he helped his companion to sit down. The old man seemed to find difficulty in speech. Tears oozed from his eyes and made a wayward course down his corrugated cheeks. His mouth remained open, and he gasped once or twice.

  “I feel queer,” he said at last. “My stomach seems to be on fire, and I’m conscious of turmoil in my chest, as if certain of my organs were fighting one another.”

  Fursey could contain his impatience no longer. He ran to a nearby tree to put the experiment to the test. He uncoiled his rope with trembling fingers and flung it over a branch. “Bread,” he whispered in an agonised voice and pulled the the rope. It ran over the bough and fell to the ground at his feet, but no foodstuffs of any kind materialised.

  “Hurrah!” he shouted, “I’m cured.”

  “I hope it’s all for the best,” gasped the old man, who had risen to his feet and tottered after him.

  “Of course it is,” cried Fursey giving the prophet a slap on the back that nearly put him forward on his face. “Here, take this rope and throw it over one of the branches. Now, ask for wine.”

  The old man seemed upset, but he did as he was bid. He showed surprising agility a moment later in skipping out of the way when a gigantic beaker came crashing through the foliage. Fursey danced and capered for joy, but his benefactor, far from sharing in his good spirits, had seated himself once more on the bank, the picture of doleful foreboding. Fursey looked at him in amazement.

  “What’s wrong?” he enquired. “Why don’t you take the wine? Surely you’re not a teetotaller?”

  “This is a dark and sordid business,” replied the prophet. “I fear that ill may come of it.”

  “Nonsense,” rejoined Fursey. “A few more years in this wild world of sin and wrong, and then you’re off to Heaven to claim your glittering reward. I don’t know what you’re looking so miserable about.”

  “I don’t know what I’ve swallowed,” groaned the old man, “but whatever it is, it has affected my system powerfully. I’m conscious of heartburn and something akin to palpitations. But apart altogether from that, I fear that I have acted somewhat precipitately in the matter. Already my rashness has betrayed me into mortal sin. I have produced alcohol by witchcraft. Oblige me by taking back your terrible gift.”

  “Not on your life,” rejoined Fursey. “It’s far safer in the keeping of a man of sterling piety like you. Drink the contents of the beaker and forget your worries.”

  “I’m afraid to move,” whimpered the prophet, “lest perchance I fall down and die before I have confessed my sin. It is the teaching of the infallible church that a lifetime of austerity and prayer is obliterated by a final grievous sin and that nothing awaits the offender but the Pit.”

  “I’ve been walking on a tight rope over the Pit so long,” replied Fursey, “that I exude brimstone through every pore. I have to leave you now as I have an important murder on hands. The best thing you can do, is trot down to the nearest monastery and devote the rest of your life to doing penance. I’m very obliged to you for your kindly act. Goodbye.”

  He turned and stepped out gaily along the road, his heart lighter than it had been for many a long day. He reminded himself that in future he would have to work or beg for his bread, but he felt that to be a small price to pay for his relief from the incubus of sorcery. After all, you could not pay too high a price for normality. So he continued lightly on his way until the road bent suddenly towards the mountains, and he saw high above him the great cleft which was known locally as The Gap. He hastened his steps, happy in the thought that the greater part of his journey was over. He soon came to a crossroads and realised that the road which intersected his own, was the one which led to The Gap. As he turned the corner he became suddenly aware of a hideous and unwieldy demon sitting on a stile at the side of the road. The creature was of extraordinary aspect and stature, at least ten feet in height and built in proportion. He was coal-black in hue and covered with a rough, hairy hide. His deformed head was made remarkable by a pair of eyes like burning saucers and ears that hung down nearly to the ground. He had a pair of feathered legs and was very sordid as to his habiliments. He was in every way a most deformed monster, most dreadful to behold, and the fact that he was breathing forth flaming sulphur, did not add to his attractions. Fursey was most unfavourably impressed.

  “Good evening,” he said hurriedly, and hastened his steps along the road.

  “Just a minute, boss,” said the monster hoarsely, sliding his loathsome carcase from the stile and lumbering across the road. Fursey knew that it was unlucky to encounter such apparitions, and unluckier still if they chose to follow you. He quickened his pace, but the cacodemon joined him and kept walking alongside.

  “Did you hear me talking to you?” he growled, looking down at Fursey menacingly. “I desire some conversation with you.”

  “I’m busy,” replied Fursey nervously. “It’ll have to be some other time. Go away now like a good man.”

  The cacodemon parted his hairy lips and disclosed a mouthful of teeth that gleamed and champed.

  “I have my orders,” he said doggedly. “If you won’t wait to hear what I have to say to you, I’ll just have to break one of your legs to prevent you proceeding further.”

  Fursey came to a halt and looked up at his terrible companion with foreboding.

  “What is it?” he asked faintly.

  “Life is a loathsome business,” said the cacodemon. “Why not end it?”

  “What’s that?” squeaked Fursey.

  “Self-destruction. Why not escape from your worries and your troubles by suicide? It’s very easy.”

  Fursey moistened his lips, but was unable to reply.

  “About thirty paces to the left,” cooed the monster ingratiatingly, “there’s a lovely precipice. Why not fling yourself over?”

  “Because I don’t want to,” gasped Fursey. “Please go away.”

  “Oh no,” leered the cacodemon rolling a flaming eye at his victim. “I’m never going to leave you as long as you live.”

  He fastened a huge claw on Fursey’s arm and gave him a friendly squeeze as if to emphasise his words. Fursey staggered and just managed to gain the grassy bank beside the road before his legs gave away. He seated himself quaking in every limb. The demon took his stand facing him and wagged his head roguishly.

  “Don’t you understand?” he said persuasively. “I’m tempting you.”

  Fursey took a look at the monster’s flaming jowls, shuddered and turned away his face.

  “Consider your situation,” continued the cacodemon quite unabashed. “You’re a sorcerer whose powers benefit him nought, but are on the contrary an intolerable burden. Sooner or later you must fall into the hands of authority, from whom you can expect nothing but an uncomfortable end by fire. You have found life empty and unprofitable. Man has been unkind to you and will continue so, because you are weak and unfitted by nature for the struggle of life. Your birth into a world inhabited by the hard and the strong, was a mistake and a misfortune. You have nothing to hope for in this world, and in the next only the flaming pit of Hell awaits you. Let me lead you to the accommodating precipice to which I have already referred, and show you how easy it is.”

  “It would seem the height of foolishness,” faltered Fursey, “to precipitate myself into Hell prematurely.”

  “Maybe Hell doesn’t exist,” was the smooth reply. “It’s certain that this world is a miserable abode. Why hesitate to barter your present tangible misery for the possible miseries of another world which may not exist? Perchance the end of all is dreamless sleep.”

  “All matter clings to its present existence,” argued Fursey. “That’s true even of a lifeless stone. It resists destruction. One has to pick up another stone to smash it.”

  The monster looked at Fursey with disgust and spat a sheet of flame into the hedge.

  “If you think you can blind me with science,” he said stiffly, “you’re very much mistaken.”
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  “Anyway,” continued Fursey gaining courage, “you have your facts all wrong. I’m no longer a sorcerer, but a normal country lad. What makes you think that I’m so miserable? I have my hopes to sustain me.”

  The demon opened his jaws and beat his teeth together so alarmingly that the resultant sound was like the strokes of a hammer on an anvil.

  “You’re an obstinate man,” he said gratingly. “Don’t you realise that I’m talking for your own good. If you’re not miserable now, you’re at least going to be miserable henceforth. I shall never forsake you as long as you live. How do you like that prospect?”

  “I don’t like it at all,” admitted Fursey.

  “Well, self-destruction is the only means you have of escaping me.”

  “Look here,” said Fursey determinedly. “I know that it’s the object of demons to persecute and delude mankind. Do not imagine that you can fascinate my imagination with your apish threats. You may think that you’re putting up a great show with your eyes like burning saucers and your hide like a doormat, but I’m accustomed to such manifestations. You needn’t think to impress me with your monstrous proportions or with threats to rend me in pieces. I have suffered so much terror and affrightment from your like during the past year that I can gaze on the worst that Hell can produce, quite unappalled. Oblige me by loping away now in a rapid canter. Any negotiations that I care to enter into with the powers of darkness, will be with the Prince of that dreadful territory from which you have escaped. He’s an old friend of mine. Be on your way now, and don’t bother me any more.”

  The demon seemed considerably taken aback. A stream of black smoke issuing from either nostril, gave the impression that he was entirely deflated.

  “Is it that you want to see the Boss?” he asked in astonishment.

  “I don’t discuss my affairs with underlings and callboys,” said Fursey haughtily. “What are you in Hell anyway? A scullion or a stoker, I suppose.”

  “All right,” muttered the cacodemon as he passed rapidly into a state of condensation. “I’ll call the Boss.”