by Mervyn Wall
“ ‘He doesn’t look very human to me,’ observed Fursey.
“ ‘He’s not supposed to be very human,’ rejoined Cuthbert. ‘Didn’t I tell you he’s to be a minor literary man?’ ”
Eventually, Fursey—with his friend Satan’s invaluable assistance—eludes the inquisitional authorities and retreats to a quiet vale called The Gap. Here Wall, a city-boy ignorant of country life, engages in some pretty, Gerty MacDowellish picture-writing:
“When evening comes and the beginning of twilight, the road and countryside become charged with a peculiar opalescent atmosphere as if a faery world had been superimposed upon our own, so that one almost doubts the reality of tree and field; and, according as temperament dictates, either hurries on in terror of what one may meet, or else lingers filled with a sense of wonder and a content that seems to belong to another existence.”
At The Gap Fursey falls in love with Maeve, who is affianced to the rough and somewhat brutish soldier Magnus. But before long he’s on the run again, taking temporary refuge with the Gentle Anchorite. This holy man rather proudly declares that he has been a hermit “nigh on forty years, and I can boast that never once have I indulged in the sensuous practice of washing.” When Fursey shares the Gentle Anchorite’s cave, he is sorely tried: “Hour after hour Fursey tossed on the straw unable to sleep. When a man of determined sanctity has lived in a small cave for forty years the insect life is apt to assume alarming proportions. Bugs, resigned for many years to the thin diet which the hermit’s skinny frame provided, after one nip at Fursey scuttled off to tell their friends, and soon all the game in the cavern were making in his direction.”
As should be evident, The Unfortunate Fursey is—as Wall himself has said—a loosely constructed fantasia on witchcraft and religion in the Middle Ages, but also, implicitly, a critique of contemporary Irish mores and provincialities. Still, comedy predominates, even if it is sometimes a rather despairing comedy, and myriad pleasures await the new or returning reader of Wall’s masterpiece. As the Abbot Marcus wisely says: “A lifetime’s study and observance has convinced me that in the land of Ireland anything may happen to anyone anywhere and at any time and that it usually does.”
Michael Dirda
Michael Dirda, a longtime reviewer for the Washington Post, is the author of the 2012 Edgar Award-winning On Conan Doyle. His other books include the memoir An Open Book and several collections of essays, including Readings, Bound to Please, Book by Book, Classics for Pleasure and Browsings. In 1993 Dirda received the Pulitzer Prize for distinguished criticism. He is currently at work on a book about late 19th and early 20th-century popular fiction, tentatively titled The Great Age of Storytelling.
CHAPTER I
It is related in the Annals that for the first four centuries after its foundation by the blessed Kieran the monastic settlement of Clonmacnoise enjoyed a singular immunity from the visitation of imps and ghouls, night fiends, goblins and all sorts of hellish phantoms which not unseldom appear to men. Within the sound of its bells the dark operations of magic were unknown, for no witch, sorcerer or charmer could abide the sanctified air. Other religious settlements were sadly plagued by disembodied spirits, demons, lemuses and fauns snorting and snuffling most fiendishly in the darker corners of the corridors and cells, and it was not unusual for a monk to be seriously injured or lamed as a result of their mischiefs and devilments. Philomaths of the profoundest erudition century after century poring over the great elephant folios in the library, shook their heads and warned their brethren that they could not expect to be always immune from such visitants, and that if the Prince of Darkness did but once gain a footing, he would be aflame with the thwarted malice of centuries. But the monks put their trust in the blessed Kieran and in their own sanctity, and it may have been their presumption in this regard that at last opened the door to the pestilential demons which towards the close of the tenth century thronged to Clonmacnoise from their horrible and shadowy dens.
The holy place had its first indication that its defences had been breached when one evening in early April Father Killian, who had the care of the monastery brewery, emerged from his place of work to take the air for a few minutes before returning to the main building for vespers. He had worked diligently all day, and the night air was pleasing to his heated face. It was a dark night, and he experienced some difficulty in finding his way between the cells and huts to the palisade which surrounded the settlement. When he reached it at last he stood for a time looking across the fields towards the river invisible in the darkness. It was very quiet: nothing was to be heard but the regular grunting of a monk in a nearby cell, who was plying his discipline with more than usual determination. Suddenly the moon came from behind a cloud, the river flashed silver, there was a blast of pestilential wind, and Father Killian became aware of a huge swarthy cacodemon sitting on the palisade some paces from where he stood. The face of this hideous spectre was turned back to front, and it was crunching and eating red hot coals and other dangerous matters with its teeth.
Father Killian, knowing that it was always ominous to see such a creature and that it was best not curiously to meddle, would have taken to his heels if only his legs had obeyed him, but they were paralysed with terror, which was by no means allayed when the hellish goblin, swinging itself suddenly from the palisade, took up a position beside him, and in an ingratiating manner began to tempt him to deny God and curse the Abbot. When the startled monk found his voice it was to begin a devout recitation of the psalms, whereupon the demon seized him by the throat in a fearful grip and well-nigh throttled him. He lifted Father Killian and flung him against the base of the round tower thirty yards away, and then letting out a hideous yell the creature vanished in a foul black smoke, leaving behind him so intolerably stinking and malignant a scent as is beyond all imagination and expression.
The fiend’s parting scream brought the monks from their cells like a swarm of bees, and compressing their nostrils between their forefingers and thumbs by way of protection against the horrid and noisome stench, they made their way through the murky smoke to carry the unconscious Killian back to the monastery.
Two hours later the Abbot Marcus, returning to Clonmacnoise by boat from a day’s fishing on Lough Ree, found the settlement in turmoil. The entire community crowded around him as he took his chair in the chapter house, and the white-faced Killian was carried in and propped against a wall where the Abbot could see him with convenience. The Abbot listened with some impatience to the chatter of the affrighted monks before sternly dismissing them to their beds; and then, having ascertained that Father Killian was capable of speech, he helped him to a chair and slowly drew the story from him.
“Hm!” said the Abbot, “how can you be certain that it was not the false impression of a timid and fretful imagination?”
Father Killian assured him that it was not, and showed his bruises and the mark of the fiend’s nails upon his throat.
“I still don’t believe it,” said the Abbot; but seeing the indignation in the monk’s face, he added charitably:
“You are the best brewer we have ever had in Clonmacnoise, but I have thought of late that from excess of zeal you are inclined to overwork. That might perhaps account for your hallucination. I think I will take you out of the brewery and put you in charge of the poultry, where you will find the work more agreeable to your present nervous state.” And the Abbot Marcus, who was renowned far and wide for his kindness, assisted the still dazed Killian across to his cell and into bed, and left him with a promise to remember him in his prayers.
On the following morning a dish of broken food was put into Killian’s hand, and he was led into the poultry house, while the brewery was committed to the care of a father of noted piety, who many years before had made a vow never to drink anything but water. The Abbot assembled the community and lectured them gravely on their childishness and their lack of faith in the blessed Kieran. When he had brought his address to a firm and dignified finish, the
monks and novices dispersed to their daily tasks somewhat reassured, though an inclination to glance over their shoulders remained with them during the day.
About the hour of sunset a sudden shower of fish, which fell from the heavens like hail, occasioned the Abbot certain disquiet. During the night hoarse coughs and deep sighs were heard in the passages, followed by the barking and baying of giant dogs. On the following morning an octogenarian monk made his way into the Abbot’s presence with the help of two sticks to complain of the presence in his cell during the night of an evil spirit in the form of a beautiful harlot, bravely dressed, who with mincing gait and lewd gestures had tempted him to fornication. This sequence of inexplicable events forced the Abbot to the conclusion that the monastery was badly haunted.
During the day he read up the subject in the library with the help of the apprehensive custodian, and at nightfall every monk, student and novice was assembled in the great church. As he faced them and looked at their white faces strained and tired from lack of sleep, the Abbot felt an immense pity for his spiritual children. A shudder passed through the community as he took for his text the words from the thirteenth chapter of Isaiah: “Fauns, Satyrs and the hairy ones shall dance in their palaces.”
“The day of battle is at hand,” began the Abbot. “The Evil One has gained entrance to the holy city of Clonmacnoise.” He went on to warn them of the sinuous cunning of the Fiend, who has a myriad devices at his command, and whose minions might be expected to appear in the guise of goats, hares or horned owls. If in their cells they were to hear most lamentable moan and outcry proceeding from some invisible source, they might shrewdly suspect a manifestation. If an evil spirit did manifest itself, they should be armed to address and speak to it, and should adjure the spectre in the name of God, if it were of God, to speak; if not, to begone. “Should a ghastly apparition suddenly confront you, be not over-confident in yourselves and presumptuously daring, but fervently recommend yourselves to God. A valiant warrior of Christ is always armed with the buckler of faith and the breastplate of hope. Dread particularly the fiend who appears in another guise, fascinating your senses and deluding you with glamour. A stoup of holy water is most healthful and efficacious, and a sure protection against the malice and attacks of unclean spirits.” At the conclusion of the sermon holy water and books of exorcism were distributed to all.
The monks went slowly to their cells, their minds filled with apprehension. Before long, restless spirits could be heard groaning and sighing in the passages. About midnight the first explosion occurred. Father Leo had observed a pale, bleeding wraith, which crooned softly as it attempted to draw and switch away the quilt and blankets from his bed. As he did not deem its answer to his adjuration satisfactory, he gave it a slash of holy water, which caused it to explode and disappear through the ceiling in a sheet of flame, setting fire to the thatch in its passage upwards. An unearthly silence followed; but before long other distant rumblings were heard, and soon the monastery was filled with smoke, noise and the smell of sulphur.
When the bell rang for matins the monks came from their cells a little haggard and shaken, but with renewed confidence. Everywhere that the enemy had manifested himself he had been defeated. Father Sampson had spent the night struggling with an incubus, but as Sampson had been a wrestler at the court of the King of Thomond before he entered the cloister, he had been well able for his adversary. Brother Patrick had been caused annoyance by a huge black dog, hideous to look upon, barking at him from a corner of his cell. As Patrick had been too terrified to reach for the holy water, the demon had remained until the crowing of the first cock; but the lay brother had suffered no inconvenience other than loss of sleep; and Brother Patrick remarked philosophically: “I wouldn’t have slept in any case.” Other monks had been scandalised by the presence of damsels of excessive comeliness, who had succeeded in divesting themselves of the greater part of their clothing before the fathers could find the right page in the books of exorcism. A suave gentleman of swarthy aspect, thought to be the Prince of Darkness himself, had actually had the audacity to try to tempt the Master of Novices and had got very much the worse of the encounter.
The Abbot, who again spent the morning in the Library and was beginning to find the subject interesting, assembled the community once more and warned them of the further evil sleights and tricks the Fiend might be expected to have at his command. He admonished them particularly to beware of complacency, an injunction which most of the brethren were inclined to think unnecessary. During the afternoon the Abbot was grieved to receive applications from many of his monks for permission to leave the monastery for varying periods in order to visit sick relatives and aged parents whom the applicants accused themselves of having sinfully neglected for many years. He sternly turned down all such representations, and the applicants set themselves to the business of learning the exorcisms and adjurations by heart, and looked to the oncoming night with doleful foreboding.
For fifteen successive days Clonmacnoise was haunted horribly. It became commonplace for a monk on turning a corner to be confronted by a demon who saluted him with cuffs and blows. Hydras, scorpions, ounces and pards frequented the cells, and serpents filled the passages with their hissings and angry sibilations. The nights were hideous with a horrid hubbub, a clattering of wrenching doors, and the howls and shrieks of invisible beings.
On the sixteenth day a sullen deputation of elderly monks awaited on the Abbot.
“It’s not the look of the demons I mind,” said Father Crustaceous. “A sentence or two of Latin soon disperses them. It’s the lack of sleep.”
“I don’t mind the ones on two legs or even four,” said Father Placidus, “but I can’t abide loathly worms and dragons.”
“The long and short of it,” said another hard-bitten veteran, “is that we’re of opinion that it’s time for you in your capacity as Abbot to take these hellish sprites and bind them to the bottom of Lough Ree.”
There was a general grunt of assent. The Abbot did not appear to have heard the last remark.
“The learned Gaspar Diefenbach has written at length on the subject,” he murmured absently.
“There is a sort of feeling in the monastery,” said Father Crustaceous grimly, “that our affliction by these fearful demons may be due to a lack of proper sanctity in high places.”
The Abbot’s fingers played nervously with a heavy folio of Cornelius Atticus.
“I will not do anything with unbecoming haste,” he said shortly. “I must give some time to reflection and prayer.”
Muttering, the deputation shuffled out of the cell.
Two days later, before the Abbot had completed his meditations, the haunting suddenly ceased. A free and balmy air pervaded Clonmacnoise; an expression of relief, almost of gaiety, manifested itself in every face, the monks went about their work with a lighter tread. Credit was generously given to the Abbot, for it was believed that the deliverance was due to his prayers. No doubt he had taken the matter up very seriously with the blessed Kieran, who, after all, could scarcely turn a deaf ear to the representations of his own abbot; and, of course, everyone knew how powerful was the influence exercised by Kieran in Heaven. In anything touching Clonmacnoise he was sure to be called in for consultation, it would be discourteous to ignore him when great decisions were to be taken affecting his own foundation. The Abbot, though he said little, seemed to be satisfied that he had managed things very well with Heaven, so that it was with considerable chagrin that he listened to the halting story of a wretched lay brother, who three days later threw himself on his knees at the Abbot’s feet.
Brother Fursey possessed the virtue of Holy Simplicity in such a high degree that he was considered unfit for any work other than paring edible roots in the monastery kitchen, and even at that, it could not be truthfully claimed that he excelled. The cook, a man of many responsibilities, was known on occasion to have been so wrought upon by Brother Fursey’s simplicity as to threaten him with a ladle. The lay
brother never answered back, partly because in the excess of his humility he believed himself to be the least of men, and partly because of an impediment in his speech which rendered him tongue-tied when in a state of excitement or fright. So it came to pass that for three whole days the wretched lay brother kept his alarming knowledge to himself through sheer terror at the thought of having to face the Abbot. While all Clonmacnoise believed that the satanic hordes had taken their departure, one man alone knew that they had not.
When the settlement had first been plagued by demons, Brother Fursey, in common with everyone else, had been strongly moved to perturbation and alarm, but when night after night had passed, and the first week had crept into the second, without his having been maltreated or belaboured, or even seeing a demon in the shape of beast or bird, he happily concluded that his soul was too mean to excite the avarice of Hell. So while the rest of the community sweated and prayed, Brother Fursey, convinced of his own worthlessness, slept blissfully beneath his blankets; but on the very first night during which the others were untroubled by devilish manifestations, the door of Brother Fursey’s cell was suddenly and violently flung open. The lay brother started into a sitting position and fixed his eyes on the open doorway with some misgiving, for he knew that it was unlucky for the door of a chamber to open of its own accord and nobody to enter. He had been sitting thus for some time when an ungainly creature of the gryphon family ambled in from the corridor and, casting a disdainful glance at the startled monk, sat down in the centre of the floor. It wheezed once or twice as if its wind were broken, and gloomily contemplated the resultant shower of sparks which fell in every corner of the cell. Appalled at such a foul sight, Brother Fursey fell back against his pillows. When he roused himself again, he felt that he was like to lose his wits, for a seemingly endless procession of four- and six-legged creatures of most uninviting aspect was shuffling in through the doorway and disposing themselves about the cell. An incubus followed, and clambering on to the bed, seated itself without much apparent enthusiasm astride on Brother Fursey’s chest. The lay brother was by this time so nigh driven frantic by fear that he scarcely noticed the galaxy of undraped females of surpassing loveliness who assembled in a corner and appeared to be exchanging gossip while they tidied up their hair. Lastly there entered a black gentleman who walked with a slight limp. He carefully closed the door behind him and, advancing to the head of the bed, saluted the lay brother politely. Brother Fursey’s brain simmered in his head as he tried to remember the form of adjuration, but the only words that he could bring to mind were those of the Abbot’s injunction: “Be not overconfident in yourself and presumptuously daring.” The sable gentleman signed to the incubus to give place, whereupon, grunting horribly, it slid off Brother Fursey’s chest and, waddling across the room on its bandy legs, seated itself astride the prie-dieu. The dark stranger sat on the side of the bed and addressed the monk with affability.