The Unfortunate Fursey

by Mervyn Wall

  The first witness proved to be a shepherd clad inadequately in a yard-and-a-half of sacking. He testified to happenings of a diabolical character in the neighbourhood of The Gray Mare’s cabin, sundry lightnings, and barbarous and discordant screams. He was followed by Cuthbert, who left his coat open so that the court might appreciate the fact that he was wearing a hair-shirt. Cuthbert, it appeared, had been startled from his prayers by the hubbub at the old woman’s cottage, and on coming out into his yard to investigate, he had been nearly knocked down by the sudden descent of Fursey on a broom. When he had sought refuge in his cottage and bolted the door, the baffled Fursey had cast a malignant spell and slain everything within its ambit. The sexton burst into tears as he contemplated the four stricken ducks. A murmur of sympathy ran around the hall.

  “How precious to him are a poor man’s possessions,” muttered Canon Pomponius.

  Other witnesses testified to finding the murdered body of The Gray Mare. The three monks from Clonmacnoise swore to having seen Fursey capering and ambling through the air on a broomstick up to the very gates of the settlement. Lastly, the Abbot Marcus arose and in dry, colourless words answered the questions that were put to him by Father Furiosus. Yes, the prisoner had told him a long, rambling story, in the course of which he had freely admitted that he was a sorcerer and had practised sorcery. The Abbot’s voice sounded through the room like a dull bell, cold and toneless. Not once did he glance at Fursey. At the other end of the hall the two grim-visaged clerics, who had been listening intently to all that was said, began to lay out additional instruments and to test their machinery, watched by Fursey with a disturbed and unquiet eye. Suddenly Bishop Flanagan’s voice inserted itself between the friar’s questions and the Abbot’s mechanical answers.

  “We have heard enough,” he announced, his words falling like metallic drops. “The wretched man is a very synthesis of deformities. Let us proceed at once to break him on the wheel and tear his flesh from his bones with hooks of iron.”

  A murmur of approval passed along the benches. When Fursey recovered his breath, he glanced agonisingly at his lawyer. Apollyon shook his head dolefully.

  “You’re in a tight corner,” he whispered, “but I have a card up my sleeve yet.”

  Abbot Marcus did not resume his seat. “My lord bishop,” he said, “I have not finished. It is but proper that I should relate to you the story that this poor man, your prisoner, told me when he admitted his sorcery.”

  Cuthbert stirred uneasily on his seat and threw a covert look at Apollyon who immediately glanced away. From the moment he had first espied the Byzantine Prince in the court, Cuthbert had manifested a slight uneasiness and the appearance of being puzzled. The two had glanced at one another frequently during the proceedings, but had not once met one another’s eyes. It was as if two armed, but mutually neutral, powers had for the first time discovered that there was a point at which their interests clashed, and each seemed to feel embarrassment.

  The court listened spellbound while the Abbot Marcus repeated Fursey’s story in simple, telling words. Cuthbert’s face expressed bewildered indignation as the tale of his sorceries was unfolded. Father Furiosus was the only one who manifested impatience. When the Abbot had finished he could contain himself no longer.

  “Of all the absurd stories,” he burst out. “It was clearly demonstrated at the water-trial which I myself conducted a week ago, that this much-maligned woman, The Gray Mare, was innocent of the charge of witchcraft. Anyone who doubts it, flies in the face of the whole body of canon law and sacred tradition, and is little better than a heretic.”

  The friar glanced fiercely from face to face as if to challenge anyone to contradict him, but no one seemed interested in The Gray Mare; all eyes were bent on Cuthbert. The Bishop’s nostrils had widened, and when he spoke, his voice was as smooth as silk.

  “What has our honest friend Cuthbert to say to these charges which the prisoner has levelled against him?”

  The sexton fell upon his knees and, throwing his eyes to Heaven, called on all the saints in the calendar as witnesses of his innocence. He tore open his coat to show that he was the wearer of a hair-shirt; and struggling to his feet, he raised his robe so that all might see the horniness of his knees from frequent praying. Never had such a wicked charge, he said, been preferred against a good man. Was further proof needed of the execrable Fursey’s guilt?

  Not a muscle moved in the rows of white faces that were bent upon the sexton. At length Father Furiosus spoke.

  “Was not this the man who laid the charge of witchcraft against the saintly Gray Mare?”

  There was a nodding of bald heads.

  “And was not this the man against whom the saintly Gray Mare laid a countercharge of sorcery?”

  There was a further nodding of heads.

  “And that charge is now corroborated by the story of the prisoner. My lord bishop,” said the friar with finality, turning to the great gilt throne, “this matter requires further investigation.”

  “Why?” asked the Bishop mildly. “Is it not an accepted principle in witchcraft proceedings that where doubt exists, one should convict. The Church’s point of view is happily summed up in the well-known phrase: ‘Burn all; God will distinguish His own’.”

  “That is true,” agreed the friar.

  “There is an excellent pyre erected outside my palace,” continued the Bishop. “It can easily accommodate two.”

  Cuthbert emitted a forlorn groan as if to express his opinion of human depravity, and once more cast up his eyes to Heaven; but this time he was careful to note the exact position of the smoke-hole in the roof. Help came, however, from an unexpected quarter. The Byzantine Prince was once more on his feet.

  “I object,” he said.

  “Sit down,” commanded the friar.

  “I won’t sit down,” replied Apollyon hotly. “I object.”

  “You can’t object,” retorted Furiosus.

  “What about the defence?” asked Apollyon shrilly.

  “What defence? Your client has been proved guilty.”

  Apollyon swung away from Furiosus and faced the Bishop and the assembled clergy.

  “My lord and very reverend fathers,” he cried, “my client is not a sorcerer. The unfortunate Fursey has had an experience which few of us would wish to undergo, he has become possessed by a devil. And this devil, intent on the innocent Fursey’s destruction, speaks through his mouth and proclaims him a sorcerer, just as he pours forth hideous lies damaging to the character of this good man, the sexton Cuthbert.”

  A wavelet of excitement stirred in the hall. The Abbot Marcus rose to his feet and for the first time looked across at Fursey. Then he turned to the Bishop and spoke with agitation.

  “This may well be,” he said. “It would explain much. I can vouch that Fursey has been all his life an exemplary monk. A man does not all at once turn to wickedness.”

  Cuthbert was quick to see his advantage. “It’s very likely true,” he cried. “When Fursey came careering into my yard on the broomstick, he swayed uncertainly as if the control did not rest in his own will, but in some force hidden in the dark depths within. And this extraordinary fabrication of lies about me is surely not the invention of a simple monk, but of a demon of more than ordinary wickedness and wile.”

  Father Furiosus seemed momentarily thrown off his balance by the quick turn of events and by the change in mood of those present. While he hesitated, Apollyon addressed the assembly in ringing tones.

  “During the recent haunting of Clonmacnoise,” he cried, “when devils abounded in every hole and corner, my client had the misfortune to inhale a demon of a particularly mischievous and mendacious character, who now possesses him utterly. In Fursey himself there is no guile. He is deserving of your tears, not your reprobation.”

  “Have you known of such cases?” queried the Bishop, turning to Furiosus.

  “They’re quite common,” replied the friar shortly. “I knew an Archdeacon once
who swallowed a demon in a lettuce. But if this man is possessed, I’ll soon rid him of his tormentor.”

  “What are they going to do to me now?” quavered Fursey, as he saw the friar rolling up his sleeves.

  “It’s all right,” hissed Apollyon in his ear. “It’ll hurt, but it’s far better than being burnt.”

  The Bishop did not seem to like the turn of events, but he said nothing as the friar ordered the two blacksmiths to unloosen Fursey from the floor. Furiosus then took Fursey by the arm and led him gently but firmly to the end of the room where the two hard-featured clerics were sorting out their instruments.

  “Don’t worry,” he said kindly, as he gripped Fursey firmly by the shoulders. “I’ll have that noisome devil out in no time.”

  “You won’t hurt me?” whimpered Fursey.

  “No,” replied Furiosus, surprised. “I won’t hurt you. I’ll only hurt the devil that possesses you. Open your mouth wide, and keep it open.”

  The friar shouted a litany of prayers down Fursey’s throat, and then three times adjured the devil to come forth. Nothing happened. All present had crowded around and gave sundry advice, which the friar shook off impatiently. He commanded that the doors be left wide open so that the devil might find a ready exit; and he advised that all should keep their mouths tightly closed lest the demon discover a refuge, and he would have to go through the whole exorcism again. The onlookers needed no second warning, but stood with their lips tightly compressed. King Cormac made doubly certain by covering his mouth with both hands. Prince Apollyon followed the proceedings with the greatest interest. In fact, everyone was pleasantly thrilled except Fursey.

  “The essence of the operation,” explained Father Furiosus, “is to make the body of the possessed person such an uncomfortable habitation that even the most obstinate demon does not care to remain in it.”

  Fursey heard this speech with dismay, and he was further disquieted when he saw the two sallow clerics come forward and take their places on either side of the friar.

  “I want to give warning,” continued Furiosus, “that there will be much fracas when I draw forth the foul and unclean spirit. He will be in the highest degree evil-smelling and may box the ears of some of those present, but no matter what buffets you must endure, stand your ground and do not withdraw. The strength of the possessed person may well exceed the strength of the weightiest Canons of the Chapter, so you must all be ready to fling yourselves on this unfortunate man and hold him down while I draw forth the confused demon. The first method I shall attempt is that of fumigation.”

  One of the lantern-jawed assistants handed the friar a salver of white powder. Furiosus applied a taper and held the burning material under Fursey’s nose. Fursey sneezed several times, and the tears ran down his cheeks while the friar with much muttering and murmuring attempted to draw the demon from his nostrils. This method proved unsuccessful, and on the friar’s instructions a tub was filled with water. Fursey showed exemplary patience as he was deftly stripped and immersed.

  “We may get the demon out by the fear of drowning,” explained Furiosus, “but the subject must be held completely under the surface lest the demon seek refuge in his hair.”

  Several of the bystanders ventured to open their lips to mutter from the corners of their mouths that it was all most interesting, and that there could be no doubt but that Father Furiosus was a most well-informed and experienced man. When a few minutes later Fursey was lifted from the tub and laid on the couch in a half-drowned condition, they crowded around, anxious to miss nothing. Furiosus expanded his chest and addressed his audience once more.

  “Indeed, this is a most stubborn demon,” he said. “We must apply fire to the subject’s feet.”

  When a moment later Fursey emitted a bloodcurdling, sub-human howl, a thrill of excitement passed through the onlookers­.

  “At last,” said the friar with satisfaction, “we have made contact with the demon, and it is evident that he does not like our attentions,” and he distributed cudgels to six of the sturdiest present. Between them they gave Fursey many sore strokes, but in spite of his screams and harrowing contortions, the demon would not come forth. They ceased their good work at last through pure weariness, and Fursey’s cries died away in a whine of despair.

  “Indeed, he is troubling you sorely,” said the friar, bending over Fursey sympathetically. Fursey returned his gaze with eyes dull and glazed.

  “Carry him to his cell,” commanded the friar. “It is grown late in the afternoon. Let his wounds be searched in the best manner. Tomorrow we will try breaking him on the wheel.”

  Fursey was carried out by four soldiers, and the company broke up, congratulating each other on their interesting and informative day.

  CHAPTER VII

  It is usual to complete a day of arduous religious duties with a solemn banquet. When the foods and wines had been transferred from the sweating tables to the capacious ecclesiastical stomachs, and the guests were reclining on the rush-strewn floor about the great fire in the Bishop’s dining hall, Apollyon announced that it was incumbent on him to leave Cashel on the morrow and continue his journey. The other guests were too replete to argue with him, so they contented themselves with murmuring their regrets and continued dreamily cracking walnuts between their teeth. Apollyon obtained permission to pay a last visit to his client, and left the fire-lit room alone. When he reached the street, he summoned one of his veiled attendants, who was on duty at the ox-cart.

  “Be prepared to vanish, ox-cart and all,” he told the rest of his entourage, “immediately on my return.”

  He then made his way between the huts closely attended by his cloaked and veiled companion. When he reached the flight of steps that led underground to Fursey’s cell, the soldiers on guard, who had already experienced the foreign gentleman’s generosity, hurried forward to open the gates. Apollyon paused to congratulate them on the care they were taking of their prisoner, and distributed a few chunks of gold which he withdrew from the depths of his pocket. When he reached the noisome cell in which Fursey was confined, he found the demoniac sitting on the edge of his pallet dolefully examining the blackened skin and blisters on the soles of his feet. He greeted Fursey heartily.

  “Well,” he said, “we can congratulate ourselves on our resounding victory.”

  “Ay,” replied Fursey colourlessly.

  “Why are you so morose?” asked the Devil warmly. “You’re alive, aren’t you, unburnt?”

  “Yes,” replied Fursey, “but I think that most of my bones are broken.”

  “Tut, tut,” said the Devil. “I never knew such a complaining fellow. It’s nothing to what they propose to do to you to-­morrow.”

  Fursey looked at him, but said nothing.

  “They’re determined to get that devil out of you. They’re going to break you on the wheel to begin with, and then they’ll proceed to tear you in all parts of your body with red-hot pincers. If the demon still obstinately refuses to quit your body in spite of the dire tortures to which he is subjected, they will have to dig for him.”

  “What do you mean, ‘dig for him’?”

  “Disembowelling,” replied the Devil.

  “But can’t you explain to them,” suggested Fursey anxiously, “that all this vast expenditure of labour will avail them nought, as I haven’t got a devil.”

  “If they can’t find a devil after thoroughly searching you, they’ll conclude that their first diagnosis must have been correct, and they’ll burn you as a wizard.”

  “I see,” said Fursey.

  “I’m told,” remarked the Devil, “that a sorcerer in the fire feels only the calm ecstacy of purification and deliverance as the flames devour his body.”

  “I hope you’re right,” responded Fursey, without much conviction.

  “Don’t worry,” declared the Devil. “I have a plan.”

  “No, thank you,” rejoined Fursey. “I’d rather be disembowelled. I don’t think you’re a man whose judgment can
be trusted.”

  “Don’t be silly,” replied Satan, “I can effect your escape.”

  “That’s all very well,” replied Fursey, “but will I survive the project?”

  “Of course,” asserted the Devil, stepping aside. “Look.”

  “Who’s that behind you?” asked Fursey suspiciously, as he peered at the cloaked figure in the shadows.

  “One of my faithful servants, who will now exchange clothes with you and so enable you, in the guise of my attendant, to effect your departure from this melancholy abode.”

  “It’s very nice of your faithful servant,” replied Fursey, “but what happens when they find him in the morning? Has he no objection to being disembowelled in my stead?”

  “Your substitute, who by the way is a lady, will vanish shortly after you and I gain the street, and in the morning when they come to look for you, the cell will be empty.”

  “Oh, so she’s a demon,” observed Fursey with distaste.

  A shrill feminine voice came from behind the veil.

  “I’m not a demon,” it said testily. “I’m an elemental.”

  “That’s all right, Gertie,” said the Devil soothingly. “He didn’t mean any offence.”

  Satan seated himself beside Fursey and rubbed his hands with satisfaction.

  “I’d better explain,” he said. “Take off your cloak and veil, Gertie, and let the gentleman see you.”

  Gertie did as she was bid and disclosed an attractive young woman of considerable embonpoint, daintily clad in the prevailing fashion.

  “The stench in this place is something awful,” she remarked acidly.

  “To the best of my recollection,” said the Devil, turning to Fursey, “I’ve already informed you that certain of the ecclesiastics known to us both fill me with a strong distaste. In particular I don’t relish that vulpine bishop at all. I think he’s about due for a very thorough harrowing, and I’m going to set the matter in train to-night. Now, it’s not easy for a demon to harrow an ecclesiastic who is quick with the holy water and the Latin adjurations. Many of my nimblest demons have been worsted in such an encounter and bear the marks of the struggle to the present day. So I’ve borrowed four frisky elementals, who, as they are many thousand years older than Christianity, are quite unaffected by holy water, adjuration or exorcism; and I’ve instructed them carefully in the principles of infestation and temptation. Gertie here is a specimen. Isn’t she lovely?”