by Mervyn Wall
“You have no occasion to be alarmed,” he said. “You must regard this as a friendly visit.”
Brother Fursey’s eyes rolled agonisingly towards the stoup of holy water on the adjoining table.
“Now, now,” said the Devil, shaking his head reprovingly, “you mustn’t do that. Even if you can nerve your arm to stretch it forth from beneath the bedclothes, I would point out that in the past fortnight myself and the children have acquired considerable dexterity in skipping out of the way of a slash of that nasty, disagreeable stuff, especially when it is cast by a shaky hand. Now,” he continued, “I expect that you are mildly exercised as to the reason for this seemingly discourteous interruption of your sleeping hours. We had no choice, Brother Fursey, we had no choice. Never in all my experience as a devil have I encountered such obstinate sanctity as exists in this monastery. The boys are half-blinded with holy water and completely worn out. They need a rest, a little while to recuperate before returning to the fight, newly armed with the experience they have gained, the next time to succeed and to wipe out forever this sickly plague-spot of womanish men and chanting monkdom.” Here the archfiend grated his teeth horribly, and lightenings danced in his eyes; but he glanced down in a manner by no means unfriendly at the wisp of hair and the two button-like eyes above the quilt, which was all that could be seen of Brother Fursey.
“To compress the matter into a nutshell,” continued His Highness, “I admit that my forces have been worsted in the first encounter, but I am not the sort of demon to retire with my tail between my legs and meekly allow the victory to my opponents. My troops are in need of rest and re-armament, that is all. What with the smell of incense, the splashing of holy water and the sound of the Latin language, there is no safety for any of us in this settlement elsewhere than in your cell, where due to the happy chance of your having an impediment in your speech, we are in no danger of being suddenly ejected, by a string of Latin or a shrewd adjuration, into the outer air, which is a different sort of place entirely. If I were to withdraw my legions altogether for recuperation to a clime more salubrious and more welcome to their natures, that dull fellow you have for abbot, would be up to some game such as the sevenfold circuit of the bounds of the settlement with chantings and bells so as to render our return difficult, if not altogether impossible. I intend keeping a foothold in Clonmacnoise until I clear it of its pale inhabitants. Your cell is our sanctuary. You, my dear Fursey, are our bridgehead.”
For a few moments there was silence broken only by the chattering of the monk’s teeth. Then a choking sound became audible from beneath the quilt. The black gentleman withdrew a pace with some distaste.
“I beg of you,” he said coldly, “to give over your attempts at prayer. You know well that your fright is such as to render you incapable of the formation of a single syllable. We are both men of the world, and a ready acceptance of the position will do much credit to your commonsense and make for mutual respect. And now, to show you that I am not ungenerous, but am willing to repay your hospitality, I should like to do something for you. Purely as a matter of accounting and to keep my books straight, I shall, of course, require your soul in exchange. It’s not a very valuable soul, its market value would be small; but you won’t find me haggling over the price. Are you perhaps a lover of beauty?”
The demon waved his hand, and a queue of desirable females began to move monotonously across the cell from the door to the far wall, where they disappeared through the plaster. The monk gave vent to a deep groan and closed his eyes tightly. When he re-opened them with due caution his visitor was regarding him with professional interest.
“You have been a long time in a world of wattled huts and whitewashed cells,” he said. “Do you never long for the freedom you once had, to climb the hills and move through the woods just as you please? The breeze was pleasant when you were a boy, the forests were full of mystery, and you had a great liking for paddling your feet in the fords of rivers. All the length of a summer day you had to yourself, with no one to say ‘Fursey, do this,’ or ‘Fursey, do that’.”
Immediately a bird call was heard and the gurgling of streams. A silvan sounded a few hesitant notes on a rustic pipe, and the cell became full of heavenly fragrance and sweet odours. The demon studied the lay brother’s reactions in his staring eyes and twitching forehead. It was all he could see of the monk, who had the bedclothes drawn up to the bridge of his nose.
“I’m afraid your tastes are vulgar,” said the fiend with some disappointment. “What about a mighty reputation as a warrior?”
Brother Fursey became aware of the clash and clamour of battle, the heartening burst of trumpets, and the brave flash of coloured cloaks as swords were wielded. At this point the lay-brother lost consciousness, for his was a timorous nature, and he had always been adverse to violence.
For three days the wretched Fursey crept about the monastery as in a trance. He spoiled hundreds of edible roots and pared large slices of flesh from his thumbs. He would certainly have fallen foul of Brother Cook but for the latter’s exceeding good humour resultant on the departure of a poltergeist which had made itself at home in his cell and whose least prank had been to heave him out of bed several times during the night. It was only at the close of the third day that Brother Fursey gathered together his wits and the remnants of his courage. He came faltering into the Abbot’s presence and knelt at his feet. It took the lay-brother a long time to stammer out his story. The Abbot heard him in silence sitting brooding in his great chair. At length he arose, uttered a sigh; and raising Fursey, bade him return to the kitchen. Then he summoned the elder fathers to council and when they had assembled, he went down on his knees before them.
“I accuse myself,” he said, “of spiritual pride. In my foolish presumption I imagined that my wretched prayers had been efficacious. The clearance of the greater part of the settlement from fiendish visitants has, in fact, been due to the stalwart piety of you, my fathers, and of the rest of the community.” Then not wishing to cause his monks further embarrassment by the sight of their abbot so humbling himself before them, he got to his feet and resumed the abbatical chair. Alarm, and then consternation, manifested itself on every face as he related the lay-brother’s story. There was some toothless whispering among the fathers and a great nodding of bald heads, then Father Crustaceous spoke.
“None of us is without sin,” he said, “and a man’s sins concern only himself and Heaven. Let us proceed at once to consider how Brother Fursey may best be relieved of this intolerable burden, and these execrable fiends be dispersed and scattered for once and for all. No doubt your lordship can now make arrangements to surround and lead them into captivity, preparatory to binding them securely to the bottom of Lough Ree.”
The Abbot coughed.
“I am but a poor sinner,” he said, “in sanctity the least among you. Many a man excelling me by far in piety has in the course of such an operation been torn into small pieces, and the pieces dispersed no man knows where.”
“If such should be your fate,” said Father Placidus, “you would be assured of a martyr’s crown. Your saintly successor would certainly not omit to plead at Rome the cause for your canonisation.”
“These matters are not easily put into execution,” remarked the Abbot diffidently.
“It should at least be attempted,” said Father Crustaceous.
“But how will the monastery benefit by my demise and subsequent canonisation, if the suggested operation be not efficacious in scattering the dread sprites that infest it? My saintly successor would be in an even worse plight with the horrid example of my failure before him.”
The Master of Novices rose to his feet. “Fathers,” he said, “this discussion is getting us nowhere. I am responsible for the spiritual care and well-being of our novices and students. I cannot but rejoice that the female demons who have displayed themselves with such disregard for decency in the cells of our impressionable youth, now restrict their disgraceful activities to one
cell only, and that cell the cell of a lay-brother so grounded in piety as to be indifferent to their hellish charms. Let us leave well alone. Brother Fursey is winning for himself a celestial seat. Would you deprive him of it? Who knows but that the sufferings which he is at present enduring, may not result in his speedy demise and assumption to his Heavenly reward? He seems to me to be a man of poor constitution. With Fursey’s happy translation Heavenwards, the Archfiend will no longer have a foothold in Clonmacnoise.”
“Is there not a danger,” asked Father Placidus, “that Brother Fursey, being subjected to such an assembly of the batteries of Hell, may before his constitution fails him, succumb to the unhallowed suggestions of the Evil One, and even form a compact with him detrimental to this holy foundation?”
“But,” said the Novice Master, “I understand from our lord the Abbot that this lay-brother is a man of such resolution and so charged with the seven virtues, that he laughs to scorn the most insidious temptations that Hell has been able to devise.”
“That is generally true,” said the Abbot. “According to what Brother Fursey has related to me, only one suggestion of the Fiend appeared to him to have been even sensible. With more than diabolical cunning the Father of Lies represented to Brother Fursey the attractiveness of murdering Brother Cook by creeping on him unawares and tipping him into the cauldron of Tuesday soup. But as soon as this devilish suggestion was insinuated into Fursey’s mind, his mental agony was such that he for once succeeded in bursting the bonds which impede his speech, and he called aloud on the blessed Kieran for aid, which aid was forthcoming with such little delay that the desire to kill faded instantly from Fursey’s mind beneath the outpouring of grace which drowned and overwhelmed his soul. I think we may safely assume that now that Brother Fursey is aware of this chink in his armour, he will be forearmed to resist any infernal promptings in this regard to which he may be subjected.”
“Nevertheless,” said Father Placidus, “a word to Brother Cook would perhaps be not amiss. He should not turn his back to Brother Fursey, and it would be no harm to remove any choppers that may be lying around the kitchen.”
“A good cook is hard to come by,” muttered Father Crustaceous.
“It is agreed then,” said the Master of Novices, “that the heroic Fursey continue to hold at bay the powers of darkness until his happy demise (which will deprive the Archfiend of his only foothold in Clonmacnoise) or until the blessed Kieran intervenes powerfully on our behalf, whichever be the shorter. In the meantime the community should address itself urgently to prayer.”
“And,” added Father Crustaceous, “our lord the Abbot will no doubt make every effort to increase in sanctity, and in the intervals of his fastings and scourgings he will continue in his studies as to how demons are best fastened to the bottoms of lakes. Is that the position?”
“That is the position,” said the Abbot shortly, and he dismissed the council.
When Brother Cook was informed of the grievous temptation to which his helpmate was exposed, he generously urged that it was not fitting that a man of Fursey’s piety should be called upon to perform the menial tasks of the kitchen. The Abbot, however, insisted that Brother Fursey continue his offices among the edible roots, whereupon the Cook respectfully petitioned for a transfer to the poultry house, where Father Killian, who had never fully recovered from his grim experience, was not doing as well as might be desired. The Abbot curtly refused, and there was much grumbling in the monastery at the deterioration in the cooking, due to Brother Cook’s difficulty in keeping his mind on his work, and the fact that he spent most of his time with his back to the wall watching Brother Fursey.
A week passed, and a certain uneasiness began to pervade the settlement. It was true that Brother Fursey’s hair was now white, but he showed no signs of dissolution; and it was not doubted but that the imps and ghouls were steadily recruiting their strength for a renewal of the assault. Every morning he was questioned by the Abbot as to the previous night’s experiences, and he stammered out his story to the best of his ability. On Thursday he had been offered the crown and robes of the King of Cashel; on Friday efforts had been made to beguile him with mellifluous verse and the promise of a reputation as a man of letters. On Saturday he had to be carried on a stretcher from his cell to the refectory; for Satan, losing all patience at the unfortunate lay-brother’s lack of interest in a shower of gold, had handed him over to four poltergeists to work their will on him: but by nightfall Brother Fursey had sufficiently recovered to be able to limp back to his cell with the aid of a borrowed crutch. The monks began to be horribly alarmed.
Father Crustaceous sucked hard at his one remaining tooth.
“There’s nothing for it,” he said. “Father Abbot must set about binding them to the bottom of Lough Ree. What’s he hesitating about? Is he afraid they’ll spoil the fishing?” The old men rose with one accord and stumped and hobbled to the Abbot’s cell.
“I won’t do it,” said the Abbot violently. “That’s final. But,” and he fixed his eyes on Father Crustaceous, “I have under consideration the allotting of the holy task to a father of greater sanctity than myself.”
Father Crustaceous’ mouth fell open. There was an uncomfortable silence, which was broken by the suave voice of the Master of Novices.
“I imagine matters can be arranged more suitably,” he said, “and with satisfaction to all. We must expel Brother Fursey from Clonmacnoise before the horrid strangers that frequent his cell, feel that they are strong enough once more to assail us. When Fursey is gone, their foothold will be gone. There is no time to lose.”
Every face brightened.
“Do you think it quite fair?” began the Abbot.
“Is he not a harbourer of demons?” asked Father Placius hotly.
“Fair or not,” said the Master of Novices, “we must consider the good of the greater number. Remember our innocent, but perhaps imaginative, novices subject at any moment to the onset of a bevy of undraped dancing girls.”
Father Crustaceous uttered a pious ejaculation.
“So be it,” said the Abbot, and he turned away.
Within a short space the astonished Fursey found himself led to the great gate that opens on The Pilgrims’ Way. The Master of Novices pointed out to him his road and indicated that he was never to return. Brother Fursey wept and held on to the other’s cloak, but the Novice Master broke his hold, and left him with his blessing and the present of a second crutch.
On the side of the hill Fursey sat down in the heather and turned his red, swollen eyes to where the towers and cells of Clonmacnoise lay cluttered in a little heap beside the river. Lucifer came and stood beside him.
“If it would afford you any satisfaction,” said that personage, “I will rive one of the round towers with a ball of fire. I regret that I am not allowed to damage the churches or cells.”
“No,” said the ex-monk, who now that there was no urgent necessity for him to speak, found that he could do so with reasonable fluency. “I wish you’d go away. You’re the cause of all this,” and he burst into a fresh fit of weeping.
The Devil hesitated. “What are you going to do?” he asked.
“What can I do?” moaned Fursey. “No religious settlement will admit me with the reputation I’ve acquired.”
“The world is a fine broad place,” said the Devil.
“What is there in it?” asked the ex-monk. “I looked at it long ago and left it.”
“There are women, riches, fame and sometimes happiness.”
Fursey raised his voice in a howl. “Are they there for a white-haired old man with a broken hip?”
“I’m sorry about the hip,” said the Devil. “I assure you there was no personal ill-feeling.”
“Have you not shown me such numbers of luscious and agreeable females that henceforth all women that I shall meet, must seem to me hideous and in the highest degree undesirable? What are the little wealth and distinction that must be wrested from the world, to me
who have rejected showers of gold and the thrones of kings? Demon, you have undone me.”
Lucifer regarded him not unsympathetically.
“You should have come over to my side in the beginning,” he said. “I’d have made you abbot of that place, and we’d have wrecked it together.”
The ex-monk emitted a dolorous moan.
“Give over this unmanly plaining,” said the Devil with some impatience, but Fursey’s only answer was: “What will become of me? What will become of me?”
“To live, a human being must eat,” remarked the Devil sagely. “The best thing you can do is to go down to the city of Cashel and there secure for yourself employment suitable for you having regard to your age, sex, physique, education, normal occupation, place of residence and family circumstances.”
“I’ll have to go to Cashel anyway,” replied Fursey. “It’s the only place this road leads to.”
“Cashel is a fine big city,” said the Devil meditatively. “It has a hundred and twenty-two wattled huts as well as the King’s House and the new thatched palace the Bishop has built for himself. You’d be assured of employment in such a teeming centre of population.”