by Mervyn Wall
“Well,” averred Fursey, “I’ll know what to do if I ever meet a basilisk.”
Their path had brought them to a small grotto in the shade of an oak tree that seemed to Fursey to have a particularly haunted look. Cuthbert paused.
“I want to show you my latest acquisition,” he remarked, “a young gargoyle which I purchased from a seafaring man from the country of the Franks.”
He whistled sharply, and an ungainly creature lurched into view from the dark interior of the grotto. It was swarthy in hue and had two sharply pointed ears. Its mouth hung open in a permanent grin, and from the tip of its tongue there was a steady drip of yellowish liquid. Fursey, who felt himself afraid of nothing as long as he had Cuthbert on his side, cautiously ventured out his hand to pet the creature.
“Be careful,” warned the sexton. “That drip from its tongue is venom. Every drop wounds.”
Fursey hastily withdrew his hand and stepped back a pace.
“It’s nearly an obsolete form,” explained Cuthbert, “although the creatures were at one time common in the country of the Franks. Of late the people in those territories have been making images of them in stone and affixing them to the exterior of their churches. There’s a perverse strain in the master builders of that country, which finds expression from time to time in such freakish behaviour.”
“What are you going to do with him?” asked Fursey.
“Well,” said Cuthbert, “it’s a little experiment of mine. I’m trying to make him half-human. I hope to pass him off as a minor man of letters. He has many of the qualities. Observe the cute narrowly-spaced eyes and the steady dribble of venom from the tongue. He will make a very passable man of letters, or rather one who imagines himself to be a man of letters.”
“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? Wait.”
Cuthbert put his hand into his pocket and took out a handful of horse’s teeth, which he spaced carefully across the gargoyle’s mouth, beneath the upper lip. “How’s that?” he asked.
“I suppose it’s an improvement,” muttered Fursey, without much conviction.
Cuthbert nodded to the gargoyle, which shambled back into the depths of its cave. The sexton glanced up at the sun, which was very round and red, and just above the horizon. “Time for something to eat,” he remarked, and started to lead the way back to the cottage. As the two sorcerers crossed the orchard, the shadows of the trees lay like long grasping arms across the grass. With the advent of evening Fursey felt that something more than eerie had begun to pervade the neighbourhood of the sexton’s house. As they left the orchard and passed the blasted oak at the end of the yard, something in its woody depths sighed heartbrokenly.
“What was that?” enquired Fursey with a tremor of fear in his voice.
Cuthbert smiled slightly. “A tax-collector whom I embedded there many years ago,” he replied. “A very forward fellow.”
As they made their way across the yard, the four ducks buried their heads in their inky pool, so that as Fursey and Cuthbert passed, only four sinister stems were visible pointing heavenwards. Whether they were eating mud off the bottom or whether it was an act of homage to their master, Fursey was unable to say. Cuthbert pushed in the door of the cottage, and Fursey, with growing apprehension, followed him into the kitchen. The sexton took the lid off the cauldron, which was simmering over fire, and smelt its contents.
“Done to a turn,” he remarked brightly. He removed the meat with a pair of tongs and placing it on the table, deftly hacked it into two portions with a hatchet. He pushed one portion in front of Fursey.
“I think I can produce food too,” announced Fursey, who thought it was time to give a further demonstration of his wickedness. “You haven’t got a rope, have you.”
Cuthbert pointed to a coil of rope on the wall, and watched approvingly while Fursey took the rope down and with trembling hands cast one end of it over the crossbeam that supported the roof.
“What will we require?” asked Fursey.
“Butter, bread, ale and condiments,” replied Cuthbert, beaming at his pupil.
Fursey fixed his mind on butter and pulled the rope gently. A lump of choice butter slid half-way down the rope, stopped, and travelled back into the rafters again, where it disappeared.
“You must pull harder,” said Cuthbert encouragingly.
Fursey flung all his weight on the rope and was immediately deluged in a shower of foodstuffs. Rather breathlessly he retrieved them from the floor and placed them in a neat pile on the table.
“My soul is lost,” he told himself; but he didn’t allow his mind to dwell on such a painful subject. As he seated himself at the table he found himself wishing that he knew how to imprison Cuthbert in a tin canister, so that he might make his escape. The two ate in silence, Fursey tearing greedily at the meat, for he was very hungry. At length they sat back and contemplated with satisfaction the heap of bones that lay piled between them.
“Do you know,” began Cuthbert, “I never saw a goodlier man than yourself, nor one so well of eating. It’s hard to believe that you’re a monk at large.”
“I’m no longer a monk,” responded Fursey. “They relieved me of my vows. That was good meat,” he added by way of changing the subject.
“Very succulent,” agreed the sexton. “I’m very addicted to goat’s flesh myself.”
A sudden feeling of nausea clutched at Fursey’s stomach.
“Was that a goat?” he asked faintly.
“Yes,” replied Cuthbert, his eyes glinting viciously, “that was The Gray Mare’s goat. She died last night in the course of certain operations of a magical character which I was forced to conduct in self-defence. I think you were present at the time.”
Generous tears came into Fursey’s eyes as he gazed down at the neat heap of bones which represented the last mortal remains of his late acquaintance. “I’m not only a sorcerer,” he told himself, “I’m a cannibal.”
The sexton noticed his distress.
“Come now,” he said soothingly, “a mug of ale.”
He filled two beakers, and a long draught of the heady brew served to clear Fursey’s depression of spirit.
“To give that goat her due,” said Cuthbert, “she was a most remarkable animal. One afternoon in the course of one of her incursions into my garden she ate a row and a half of belladonna—enough poison to lay every man, woman and child in the territory on their backs frothing at the mouth, but did she show any sign of it? Not a bit, except for a gamey light in her eye. She finished off with a dessert of mandrakes, hemlock and hazelnuts, and walked back to The Gray Mare’s cottage without a stagger.”
Fursey contemplated the heap of bones and shook his head sadly.
“You know,” continued Cuthbert reminiscently, “The Gray Mare was a bit of a snob—she liked to show off, and she always rode that goat to a sabbath instead of coming on a broom like the other warlocks and witches of the countryside. I remember once as she was flying by the steeple of Kilpuggin Church, nothing would do the goat but to turn aside to eat the weather vane and some of the lead off the spire. It was a most comical sight—the other witches careering by on their brooms enjoying to the full The Gray Mare’s embarrassment; while the poor old lady, red in the face and half mad with chagrin, belaboured the goat and tried to drag her away from the weather vane, and all the while the goat held on to the lead of the spire with her teeth.”
Cuthbert was silent as memory after memory chased across his forehead. At length Fursey ventured to speak.
“I don’t wish to interrupt your contemplations,” he said, “but I have resolved to let no day pass without learning something of value to me in my new profession. I should deem it a great favour if you would instruct me as to how to ride on a broom. I have my late wife’s besom with me, and it wants still a couple of hours to darkness. I could do a couple of pr
actice flights up and down the orchard.”
“Certainly,” replied Cuthbert, “but first I must show you my store-room.”
Fursey chafed at the prolongation of his stay in the cottage, but he was careful to avoid arousing the sexton’s suspicions. It was evident that Cuthbert was rather vain of his possessions. The sexton led the way across the room to what seemed to Fursey to be a blank wall.
“You see,” remarked Cuthbert, “the magician also controls visibility.”
He clapped his hands and uttered a string of evil-sounding jargon. Immediately there appeared in the wall a green door engraved with the mystical number seven. Cuthbert opened it, and they went in.
The store-room was not large, but its contents were so neatly packed on shelving which reached from floor to ceiling, that advantage had been taken of every inch of available space. Fursey realised with horror that he was in a veritable arsenal of witchcraft. There was a shelf of witches’ poisons: aconite, deadly nightshade and hemlock. Neat trays contained the ingredients for vicious brews and enchantments: hazelnuts, chestnuts, mandrakes, mallows, metals, poplar leaves, salt, wild parsley and vervain. There was a plentiful supply of mandragora, which is potent in death spells. In a corner was a keg of powder suitable for the manufacture of love philtres. There were cages containing snakes, toads, frogs, beetles, hornets, ferrets, owls, vipers and asps; and a neat row of bats hung upside down from a rack on the wall. In carefully labelled boxes there were moles’ feet, murderers’ knucklebones, hogs’ bristles, sage, powdered flints and loadstone. Nothing was wanting that might be required in the black ceremonies of the night. Fursey realised with horror how well Cuthbert was supplied so as promptly to execute whatever iniquity his mind might suggest.
“It’s fascinating,” he muttered as he followed Cuthbert out again into the kitchen, and the green door effaced itself from the wall behind them.
“Fascinating,” said Cuthbert, “but rather frightening. Isn’t that what you really mean?”
“Yes,” agreed Fursey.
Cuthbert seemed pleased at this attitude of mind in his pupil, and as they made their way once more to the orchard, he chatted wickedly, giving Fursey many abominable counsels. Fursey scarcely heard him, his mind was too taken up with the necessity of making his departure with the utmost despatch. He kept a tight grip on the broom, which he had taken from its corner behind the door. When they reached the orchard, they took their stand on the grass between the trees.
“You’ll have a clear run,” remarked Cuthbert, “down the avenue between the trees, and then you can fly back. Don’t try for altitude at first. Keep about a yard and half off the ground.”
“What do I do?” asked Fursey.
“Throw your leg across, and sit on it,” replied Cuthbert. “It’s only a matter of balance.”
“But how do I make it go?” enquired Fursey.
“Just wish it to go,” answered Cuthbert. “You can give your directions aloud if you like.”
“But is it not the case,” queried Fursey anxiously, “that once unknown forces have been unloosed, not even the sorcerer himself can always control them?”
“Nonsense,” retorted Cuthbert. “I don’t know where you got these odd scraps of information. They’re certainly not applicable in the circumstances. Try it now.”
Fursey gripped the broom frantically with his hands and knees. He closed his eyes.
“Fly,” he lisped in a thin, quavering voice.
He was conscious of being suddenly yanked into the air and found himself a moment later in a tree. Cuthbert was standing underneath with set lips contemplating the broken branches and the pink apple blossom which was still fluttering to the ground.
“What did you do that for?” asked the sexton crossly. “Come down.”
“How did I get here?” asked Fursey in amazement.
“You flew straight into it,” replied Cuthbert shortly. “Come down before you do any more damage.”
Fursey descended amid a further shower of apple blossom.
“Now be careful,” admonished Cuthbert. “Look where you’re going.”
Fursey threw his leg over the broom once more. “Fly,” he repeated desperately.
The broom shot over the hedge, across the yard and made straight for the wall of the cottage.
“Stop!” howled Fursey.
The broom reared in mid-air, and fell, together with Fursey, into the ducks’ pool.
“You appear to have an impetuous and fatal tendency to do the wrong thing,” asserted Cuthbert a moment later, as he helped Fursey out of the quagmire. “You’re very black; you better come in and wash yourself. I wonder where my ducks are.”
“I’ll try it once more,” declared Fursey desperately. He pointed the handle of the broom at the gap between the cottage and the clump of neighbouring trees.
“Fly,” he shouted, “as quick as you can.”
The broom sprang forward. It just missed the gable of the cottage, and in a moment was careering down the road borne at a height of about two yards above the ground.
“Come back!” he heard the sexton shouting, but he bent his head over the handle of the broom and whispered agonisingly “Quicker!”
His habit flapped madly in the breeze as he careered around the bend of the road and over a bridge. It was difficult to steer the broom around the many corners of the road without disaster, but Fursey clung on grimly, a great feeling of exultation in his heart. “I’m away,” he kept telling himself. “I’ve escaped.”
A mongrel dog came tearing out of a farmhouse and followed the broom for half a mile barking furiously, but the pace was too much for him, and he had to give up the chase exhausted. A band of pilgrims which was coming along the road intoning a doleful hymn, dropped their staves when they saw Fursey approaching, and precipitated themselves over the hedges. One foolish fellow who kept running back and forward, unable to make up his mind as to whether the left- or right-hand ditch promised the greater safety, had reason to repent his indecision, for he was struck on the forehead by Fursey’s sandal and stretched senseless as the broom careered past. Fursey held on like grim death, not presuming to move a muscle for fear he would fall off. The cattle in the fields stared at him with unbelieving eyes before turning to scamper in all directions. A hen who seemed to imagine that he was chasing her, ran in front of him for at least a mile before flinging herself in desperation through a hole in the hedge.
Fursey had been so intent on escaping from Cuthbert’s cottage that he had given no thought at all to the question of where he was to go. This problem began now to insinuate itself into his mind. The only place he could think of was the monastery. It was the only home he knew, and the Abbot Marcus was the only person who had ever been really kind to him. So he bent towards the broom handle and whispered: “Take me to Clonmacnoise.”
No sooner were the words uttered than the broom forsook the road and made across country towards the line of mountains. Most alarming of all, it started to rise steadily, and the terrified Fursey observed the fields beneath him shrinking in size and the roads becoming thin wavering threads. It seemed to him that his plight was desperate, alone in the upper air, with only a slippery shaft of wood between him and destruction. Suppose he ran into a cloud and was suffocated!
“Albert!” he called hoarsely. “Albert!”
Slowly the familiar took shape, seated on the broom handle facing Fursey. His fur was all blown backwards by the wind, and he clung desperately to the slippery handle with his bears’ paws. He glared at Fursey with angry resentment.
“Nice time to summon me,” he snarled. “Do you want to break my neck as well as your own?”
“Albert,” whimpered Fursey, “stop it from going so high. Bring it down nearer the earth.”
“Why did you get on to the bloody yoke,” screamed Albert, “when you didn’t know how to manage it?”
“Albert, please. How will I get it to go down?”
“You’ve only to tell it to stop,” shouted Alb
ert above the screaming of the wind. “Not now, you nincompoop! We’re flying over a lake.”
Fursey ventured to look down and saw a stretch of water far below. He shuddered and closed his eyes.
“Albert, don’t go away.”
“Open your eyes and look where you’re going,” howled Albert. “Do you want us to crash into a mountain at this speed?”
“Albert, I’m sorry if I was ever unkind to you—”
Albert bared his teeth in a hideous grin.
“Order me to disappear,” he screeched. “I’m only upsetting the balance of the broom.”
“Don’t go, Albert. I like your company.”
Albert glared at his master with his eyes full of bale.
“We’re crossing the mountain ridge,” gasped Fursey.
Albert made an effort and swallowed his ire. “Tell the broom to go down to within a few yards of the ground and not to hit anything,” he said huskily.
Fursey managed to enunciate the command and added the injunction that speed should be slackened. The broom descended and swooped gracefully over a mountain top. Fursey drew his breath and looked around him. They were descending a green, swampy glen that cut deep into the hills. Lower in the valley were scattered cottages and in the distance a glittering river winding through the plain. He recognised the curve of the River Shannon.
“It won’t be far now,” he announced joyfully.
“If you’re making for Clonmacnoise, as I judge from the look of the countryside,” responded Albert, “I’d advise you to dismiss me. I don’t imagine I’ll be popular with the monks.”
“That’s true,” admitted Fursey. “You may vanish.”
Albert thoughtlessly permitted his paws to disappear first, with the result that he fell off the broom before the process was complete. Fursey looked over his shoulder and saw the familiar rolling among the rocks and vanishing as he rolled. But Fursey had no time to feel concern for Albert’s safety. The broom had crossed a small stream on the floor of the valley and was ascending a low ridge of grassy hill. As it topped the rise Fursey saw the broad, sluggish Shannon before him meandering between its lines of golden reeds. Between him and the river was the Pilgrims’ Way and a mile away on his left the two round towers and the cluttered huts of Clonmacnoise. As he came sailing down the hillside and turned into the Pilgrims’ Way he saw monks who had been working in scattered groups in the fields, suddenly dropping their spades and running hell-for-leather for the monastery. As he approached flying at a height of six feet above the roadway, he saw the great gates being slammed, and a moment later a discordant clamour of bells smote the air. The broom reared sharply and flung Fursey on to the road, where he rolled over and over in the dust.