by Mervyn Wall
As it wasn’t deemed fair to throw The Gray Mare into the water in her present somnolent condition, she was awakened with difficulty by the judicious prodding of the soldiers’ spears. Father Furiosus then ordered that she be stripped to her shift; but while this was under way, an unexpected difficulty arose; it was discovered that she didn’t wear one. After much sifting of his memory for a precedent, the friar consented to her being immersed in such clothes as she had on, a careful search having first been made to ensure that she had no heavy stones concealed so as to defeat the ends of justice. Her shoes were removed and her hands and feet tied crossways, the right hand to the left foot and vice versa. During these preparations some of her old spirit seemed to revive, and she laughed immoderately, complaining in a cracked voice that the soldiers were tickling her. Finally a rope was tied around her waist. Two soldiers were given the loose end and instructed to hold it tightly, so as to be able to pull her out again when directed to do so.
At a command from the friar she was lifted by brawny arms, a queer little bundle with her grey hair streaming behind her. On no one of the hundreds of faces that were bent upon her, was there sympathy apparent. Every face expressed the same feelings—loathing and strong religious emotion. As Father Furiosus with sure dramatic instinct delayed the final command, the tension became so palpable as to be almost unbearable. All at once he raised his two arms high above his head. The crowd held its breath.
“Now!” he shouted, bringing his arms suddenly down to his sides. The soldiers swung back and heaved. The crowd drew in their breath with a loud penetrating hiss as The Gray Mare flew through the air, rolling over and over. The Bishop and the King had risen to their feet, and every neck was craned as she struck the surface of the water with a mighty splash. She immediately disappeared from sight.
A disappointed howl arose from the crowd.
“She’s sunk!”
Indeed, there didn’t seem to be much doubt about it. Father Furiosus counted a hundred. There was still no sign of The Gray Mare.
“Pull her out,” commanded the friar. “God has clearly demonstrated that she’s innocent.”
“Wait,” said the Bishop. “Give her a bit longer. It’s better to make sure.”
Father Furiosus gave him a quick look. “I’m not going to have murder on my soul,” he said roughly. “Pull her out.”
The two soldiers bent their weight upon the rope to the accompaniment of hoots and angry shouts from the crowd. She seemed to be a long way down, for there was still no sign of her.
“Pull harder,” shouted the friar savagely, and he gripped the rope himself. The howling of the crowd arose in a crescendo, and they broke their ranks, knocking over the few soldiers who tried to restrain them. Men and women rushed to the river bank, picking up stones as they ran.
“Get back,” shouted the friar furiously, as he strained at the rope.
The Gray Mare’s head suddenly broke the surface. Her mouth opened, a stream of water came out, followed by a feeble curse.
At that moment a sudden terrified cry pierced the air.
“Look at the hill!” someone screamed.
So insistent was the cry that everyone turned. About two hundred yards away where the road wound over the hill, stood two figures, one a graceful man clothed in black and the other a monk leaning on a pair of crutches. It was not these two that had caused the alarm, but a motley crowd of dreadful creatures that were topping the rise for hundreds of yards on either side of the road. Cacodemons, black and grey, lumbered along. Minotaurs, leopards and hippogriffs came into sight peacefully cropping the grass in the neighbouring fields. Centaurs cantered back and forward. A legion of imps came leap-frogging across the rise. Furies and vultures flew from tree to tree. A moving sea of scorpions crept along the shallow ditches, interspersed here and there with a brace of cockatrices or a hippogiraffe.
For one moment the human beings by the river bank stood petrified. Then someone raised a shout:
“The demons from Clonmacnoise!”
Immediate panic ensued. The rope that held The Gray Mare was dropped, and she sank once more to the bottom. Soldiers and people ran blindly in all directions, some in their frenzy were so foolish as to run into the river. Bishop Flanagan was one of the first to fly. He sprang into the royal chariot with such agility and determination that he knocked the unfortunate Cormac out the far side. The Bishop seized the reins and would have left the King behind only for the devotion of two slaves who bundled Cormac back again just as the Bishop made off in crazy career across the fields. Chariots were driven into ditches and gates, and a score of serfs and underlings were trampled underfoot. Father Furiosus made a gallant attempt to stay the panic, until he observed on his left an outflanking movement by a squadron of poltergeists, variegated in hue, but mostly yellow and green; and from seven to nine feet in height. From their drooping shoulders their long arms swung obscenely, the fingers nearly touching the ground. Their faces were creased with unholy smiles. Father Furiosus took one look at this hideous apparition, and jumped into the last chariot. In the space of two minutes there was no one in sight. Even those who had been bruised and wounded by the horses’ hooves made their escape, some on their hands and knees, with astounding alacrity.
Brother Fursey stood in the middle of the road propped up by his crutches, and gaped down at the extraordinary spectacle. At one moment the road and fields seemed to be full of people running madly in all directions, the next moment there was no one to be seen. While he was trying to understand this remarkable phenomenon, the Devil touched him gently on the arm.
“At this point,” he said, “our ways part, but I want you to know what a pleasure it has been to have made your acquaintance; and I want to thank you again for your company, which has done so much to relieve the tedium of the journey. I will not flatter you by saying that you are in any way remarkable as a conversationalist, but I can assure you that I have rarely met a better listener.”
He took Fursey’s listless hand and shook it warmly.
“I am speaking no more than the truth, my dear Fursey, when I say that I have acquired a great affection and genuine regard for you. If at any time I can do anything for you, you have only to call on me. I am to be found in the flesh in the Devil’s Glen in Wicklow, where myself and the boys are now repairing for a much needed rest. One last thing before I go—I want to direct your attention to the fact that an unfortunate fellow creature of yours is at this moment in process of drowning in that pool in the river where you saw all those people. I need say no more—you are a man and a Christian.”
Brother Fursey turned and found himself alone. Nowhere could he see even one of the ghastly host that had accompanied him for the previous three days. The fields and hills were deserted. He could hardly believe his good fortune. A great lump came in his throat and nearly choked him. He hurried forward with tears of thankfulness streaming from his eyes, but the scraping and thumping of his crutches seemed to him to beat out in rhythm the Fiend’s parting words: “You are a man and a Christian—a fellow creature is drowning.” A loud sob came from his throat as he realised vaguely that some duty had been laid upon him when his one desire was to get as far away as possible. He didn’t know what was required of him, nor did he wish to give the matter any thought. In his hurry his crutch slipped among the loose stones on the road, and he fell heavily. As he lay sprawling, groping blindly for the crutch, the words came into his mind again: “A fellow creature is drowning.” He clambered painfully to his feet, hesitated and groaned aloud; then turning towards the river, he made his way slowly across the fields. Soon he was standing on the trampled grass at the edge.
CHAPTER III
Fursey stood motionless, gazing out over the flood of brown, bog-stained water that moved by impassively. At this point a narrow mudbank extended into the river forming a backwater in which the water circled ever so slowly, eddying slightly as it rejoined the main stream. Nothing was to be heard but the tiny flap-flapping of the wavelets against the bank on which
he stood.
“There’s nothing here at all,” he said to himself. “This is very remarkable.”
His eye fell suddenly on a rope lying along the grass, and trailing over the bank into the river. Beyond the rope a stream of bubbles rose delicately and broke on the surface of the water. This seemed to him even more remarkable, so he hurried over and began to haul in the rope. It was heavy work, especially when one was trying at the same time to maintain an upright position on a pair of crutches; so after he had tripped himself twice, he abandoned the crutches and, seating himself on the grass, pulled at the rope as if his life depended on it. He was greatly amazed when a little old woman tied in a ball, bobbed up on to the surface and came drifting towards him. At first he couldn’t reach her; but he hit on the expedient of passing the armpit of one of the crutches over her head, and so by hooking her under the chin, he was able to yank her up on to the bank. His strong, rough fingers quickly untied the ropes that bound her feet and hands. She lay to all appearances dead, and the ex-monk, not knowing what to do, gazed down at her in mingled pity and horror. He did not for a moment doubt but that this was more of the Devil’s work, and he was swept by a flood of fierce indignation against that suave personage.
All at once he remembered an incident that had occurred at Clonmacnoise the previous year. On the feast day of the blessed Kieran, after the usual banquet at which ale and mead had been consumed in great quantities, little Brother Patrick had insisted on going for a walk along the bank of the River Shannon. The great river flowed past the settlement, and the diminutive monk insisted that he wanted to look at the full moon, which, he said, reminded him of his mother. Brother Fursey and a few laughing lay-brothers went with him. It was a good thing they did, for the voluble Patrick had not gone very far before he fell into the river. His frightened brethren managed to fish him out and carry him back unconscious to the monastery. Father Sampson, who was knowledgeable in such matters, had immediately swept them all aside and, seizing the damp and bedraggled Patrick, had flung him across the gatepost where he worked on the lay-brother’s back with a see-saw motion to the vast admiration of the group of half-tipsy monks. In a few minutes Brother Patrick had come back to life, laughing uproariously and still talking about his mother.
The recollection of this event had no sooner crept across Fursey’s mind than he seized The Gray Mare and laid her across a granite boulder so that her head and legs hung down on either side. After a moment’s thought he placed his hands carefully on her back below the ribs, and began to exert pressure, rhythmically swaying himself back and forward on his crutches. Nothing happened for a long time. Fursey’s difficulty was to remain awake. He had not had a full night’s rest since the awful evening when the legions of Hell had first ambled into his cell at Clonmacnoise; and the see-saw motion of artificial respiration induced sleepiness. Twice he tumbled backwards, but he picked himself up and resumed his good work without even pausing to examine his bruises. At long last he was rewarded by a low cry from the old woman. He redoubled his efforts, and she began to scream. Fursey paused and carefully turned her over. She was a strange sight with her old grey locks plastered to her head. She looked up at him with bleary eyes.
“I’ll admit anything you want,” she gasped. “Why don’t you burn me and have done with it?”
While Fursey was wondering what this strange speech could mean, she lapsed once more into unconsciousness. He began immediately to chafe her hands and feet vigorously. When he looked at her face again he was delighted to see that her eyes were open and were fixed upon him. He began to laugh immoderately.
“What are you trying to do?” she asked savagely. “Rub the skin off me?”
This surprised Fursey greatly, and he was looking down in wonder at his large rough hands when she struggled feebly into a sitting position and aimed a blow at him. The startled Fursey retreated a few paces and stood looking at her with dumb reproach. A lump came into his throat; he felt that his eyes were about to fill with tears: he bowed his head, and turning, started to hobble away. A cracked voice called after him:
“Where are you going?”
Fursey turned. “I don’t know,” he answered.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Just a stranger who brought you out of the water and back to life.”
The Gray Mare turned this over in her mind for a few moments, and when she spoke again, her voice was more gentle.
“You’re some class of a monk?”
“No. I was once, but not now.”
“They thrun you out?” queried The Gray Mare.
“Yes,” answered Fursey, the pink blood gliding into his cheeks.
The old woman emitted a throaty cackle.
“Was it creepin’ after some high-steppin’ young female you were?”
“Certainly not,” replied Fursey indignantly. When he remembered all the high-stepping young female demons that had crept after him, his indignation increased.
“Certainly not,” he repeated. “Nothing of the sort.”
The Gray Mare seemed to have lost interest in his affairs. She was peering short-sightedly to left and right.
“Are they all gone?” she asked in a loud whisper.
“I don’t understand,” said Fursey. “There’s no one here, if that’s what you mean.”
“Dirty pack of murderers,” muttered the old woman. “They’d have left me to drown.”
“Well, you’re not drowned,” said Fursey. “May God and the blessed Kieran have you in their keeping,” and he turned away once more.
“Mister monk,” called out the old woman.
“Yes?”
“You can’t leave me here to catch my death of cold in my damp habiliments,” she said coaxingly. “You’ve a kind face, mister man. Do me another kindness, and I won’t forget it to you. Would you ever carry me up to my little house beyond on the hill? I doubt if I could get there by myself, I’m that weak.”
“Certainly,” said Fursey.
It was a nightmare journey. It is bad enough to have to climb a hill on crutches, but it is infinitely worse to have to do so with an old woman on one’s back. The Gray Mare seemed to think it was all a great game. She belaboured Fursey with her fists pretending he was a horse, all the time crowing and cackling and exhorting him to “gee-up.” The unfortunate Fursey stumbled on his way, gasping and grunting, sometimes choking and sometimes weeping from sheer misery. At length he stood at her door: how he got there he never knew.
“Carry me in,” commanded the old woman.
Fursey ducked his head and struggled in through the low doorway. It was an ordinary kind of cabin with a great hole in the centre of the roof to let out the smoke. The Gray Mare slid off his back and leaned against the table, her wet garments clinging to her skinny frame. She shivered violently as she began to speak. Fursey did not hear what she said. He half-closed his eyes as the walls of the room swayed sickeningly: he saw the floor coming up to meet him, and he was conscious of falling heavily.
When he awoke he was in darkness and lying on a hard pallet covered by a ragged blanket; but he did not mind how hard his bed was, provided he was allowed to lie still and rest his aching legs and back. He was conscious of distant crooning and muttering: while he was wondering about it vaguely, he fell asleep again. And so for an interminable period he slept and awoke and dozed, blissfully at peace. He was fully awakened at last when a door was opened, and the light from another room fell across his face. The Gray Mare was standing in the doorway grinning in at him.
“Are you awake, mister man?” she croaked.
“Yes,” said Fursey, sitting up. “I’m awake.”
“Maybe you’re hungry and would like something to eat?”
“Yes,” said Fursey eagerly. “I’m hungry.”
“Well, come and get it,” she said, and she went back into the far room.
Fursey got off the bed wonderfully refreshed, and followed her. It was only when he was standing by the table in the outer room that
he remembered that he had forgotten his crutches. He staggered and held on to the table with both hands.
“What’s wrong with you?” queried The Gray Mare. “You’re not going to go unconscious on me again?”
“I’ve forgotten my crutches,” said Fursey. “I can’t walk without them.”
“Nonsense,” replied the old woman. “You’ve just walked in here without them. You don’t need crutches.”
“I assure you that I do,” replied Fursey earnestly. “My hip was smashed by a poltergeist.”
“Arrah what,” said the old lady, “the lad only sprained it. I cured you while you slept. You did me a kindness, and I told you I wouldn’t forget it to you. Just try, and you’ll see that you’re able to walk.”
Fursey was accustomed to obedience, so he immediately relaxed his grip on the table and essayed a few steps across the floor. To his huge delight he found that he could walk. To convince himself of the genuineness of this astounding miracle he started to run up and down the kitchen.
“I can walk,” he cried. “I can walk.”
“Stop running,” said the old woman. “You’ll upset the pot. Sit down there and have something to eat. You should be hungry. You slept the whole night through and most of to-day. It’s already late in the afternoon.”
As Fursey seated himself he observed on the table what appeared to be a small wax image of a man. The light from the smoke hole in the roof fell directly upon it, so that he could see it clearly. A little tuft of white hair was tied to the head, and it was partly wrapped in a piece of thick brown material similar to the habit he was wearing. A dead snail pierced by a thorn lay on its hip. While Fursey was still gazing at the image The Gray Mare suddenly snapped it from the table and turned her back. A moment later she went to the fire and threw something in. Then she kneaded the image between her skeleton-thin hands until it was just a lump of shapeless wax, which she put away carefully on a shelf. She seated herself at the table opposite Fursey and sneezed once or twice. In answer to his polite enquiry, she explained that she had caught cold as a result of her immersion in the river. Fursey looked from her to the bare board between them and then back at her again, wondering with a sinking heart whether there was any food in the house. She seemed to guess his thoughts.