by Mervyn Wall
Bishop Flanagan sat up in bed suddenly, his heart pounding with terror. There could be no doubt about it: the music and the cloying voice filled the room. Could it be that there was a woman in his palace? He stretched out his arm and taking the flint from the table by his bedside, struck it and lit the rushlight with a shaky hand. The flame threw grotesque shadows on the walls as he moved the taper to left and right, and peered around the room and up at the ceiling. The music had ceased. He listened for a long time, but he could hear nothing other than the surge and ebb of the friar’s snoring in the neighbouring room.
“Most remarkable,” he said aloud, as he extinguished the rushlight and laid his head back on the pillow, but he had no sooner decided that his experience belonged to the deceptive borderland of dreams, than he was once more startled in to a sitting position by a sound which he immediately identified as the insidious rustling of a comb. His ears followed in horror the sensuous sweep and the little crackling sounds of a comb moving through hair that was long and luxurious. There could be no doubt about it, there was a woman in his room. Before the affrighted prelate could decide what action to take in this unprecedented situation, a sweet, winning voice spoke close to his ear.
“What a lovely man!”
Surrendering himself to the wild impulse of the moment the Bishop precipitated himself on to the floor. He scrambled hastily to his feet and retained enough presence of mind to seize the rushlight and flint before dashing into the friar’s room. He closed the door behind him and, after several attempts, succeeded in lighting the taper. He glanced fearfully at the wavering shadows on the walls, and then hurried over to the friar’s bed. Father Furiosus was slumbering fitfully, but when Bishop Flanagan shook him, a tousled red head rose suddenly from the pillow.
“There’s an evil and sportful female in my room,” whispered the Bishop urgently. “She’s trying to entice me to licentiousness!”
“What’s that?” exclaimed Furiosus, sitting bolt upright in bed and disclosing a chest covered with matted ginger hair.
The Bishop repeated his alarming intelligence. Father Furiosus stared at him incredulously, but the prelate’s estranged face and his eyes, fiery and hollow, carried conviction.
“Did you see her?” demanded the friar.
“No,” replied the Bishop, “but I heard her combing her hair, and I heard her voice when she tried to entice me, a voice sweet and evil like the sound of flutes.”
“I’ll soon fix her,” exclaimed the friar, stretching a muscular arm under the bed for his blackthorn stick. “Do not let the matter flurry or excite you. I can see that your nerves are all unstrung.”
“Be careful,” begged the Bishop as Furiosus clambered out of bed. “She can sing. Take heed lest she lewdly excite you by trolling filthy songs.”
“I can withstand the most alluring nymphs,” affirmed the friar, brushing him aside. “Before I’ve done with the trollop,” he added fiercely as he tightened his grip on the blackthorn, “I’ll give her many sad strokes.”
He snatched the rushlight from Bishop Flanagan and striding across the floor, flung open the door of the other room.
“There’s no one here,” he exclaimed.
Bishop Flanagan peered nervously over the friar’s shoulder.
“She was here,” he asserted. “Look under the bed.”
There was no one under the bed. Father Furiosus held up the rushlight and examined the ceiling, then he turned and eyed Bishop Flanagan suspiciously.
“Are you quite certain that you didn’t consume more wine this evening than you admit?” he asked roughly.
All the Bishop’s dignity and habits of command came back to him as he heard this insult.
“Certainly not,” he retorted frigidly, and he drew himself up to his full height, an imposing figure in his horsehair nightshirt. “I tell you I was not mistaken. If there is no one here of flesh and blood, then what I heard was by the contrivance of a demon.”
Furiosus expanded his nostrils judiciously.
“It may be,” he said at last. “I myself have been much troubled this night by persistent dreams of a very lewd character. The Devil may be attempting to excite us to bad thoughts. But it’s cold here, so I’m going back to bed; and I advise you to do the same. Address yourself to prayer, and if there’s a further manifestation, call me.”
The friar strode out of the room banging the door behind him, and the Bishop heard the bed in the far room creaking painfully as Furiosus climbed into it. Bishop Flanagan crept back into his own bed too, more chagrined at the ease with which the friar had taken charge of the situation than fearful for his own safety. He left the taper lighting on the table so that he might be the better able to grapple with any situation that might present itself, and he saw to it that his bowl of holy water and his book of exorcisms were close to hand. What an overbearing fellow Furiosus was, always ready to push himself forward and take charge, making everyone feel like a small boy in his presence! Bishop Flanagan made up his mind firmly to deal himself with any further lascivious sleight-of-hand on the part of visiting sprites or imps, and on no account to summon the help of the masterful friar. He was sitting in bed propped up by the pillows, meditating thus when he became aware of a well-shaped damsel slowly assuming shape in the far corner of the room. In spite of his determination to remain cool, sweat broke out on the Bishop’s forehead and, trickling down his face, disappeared drop by drop inside the collar of his nightshirt. Still he refrained from stretching out his hand for the holy water. He told himself that he must wait until the impudent vision had taken full shape; the target would be bigger and there would be less chance of missing with the holy water.
At last she was entirely there in all her evil comeliness, an enchanting vision, her form elastic and light, with flexible limbs and a juvenile grace in her every movement. As she moved towards the alarmed prelate, her expressive features and eloquent action harmonised blandly with each other. A sound indicative of his anguish burst from Bishop Flanagan’s throat, and seizing the bowl of holy water he flung it desperately at the approaching vision. To his horror it passed right through her and was shivered in atoms against the wall. As she continued to approach he sprang out the far side of the bed and, clutching the book of exorcisms, he swamped her in a deluge from the Vulgate. He did not dare raise his eyes from the page until he was out of breath. When he glanced up fearfully she was still there, scarcely three paces from him, evidently experiencing the greatest difficulty in in restraining her merriment.
“Begone!” quavered the Bishop. “I know you to be nought but a vain impression in the air.”
She regarded him for a moment roguishly; and when she spoke, her voice modulated itself with natural and winning ease.
“I’m thousands of years old,” she said in dulcet tones. “You’ll never get rid of me with that modern Christian stuff.”
Bishop Flanagan’s mouth fell open, but no sound came forth. He cowered against the wall as she opened her lips again, and sweet, amatory words came out.
“Why are you so difficult?” she asked. “You will never find a woman so passionate, so loving or so submissive.”
It is likely that the Bishop would have lost his life through sheer horror at these plausible words, only that he was suddenly recalled to the consciousness that the friar was in the neighbouring room by a series of bull-like roars which proceeded therefrom. Bishop Flanagan was immediately galvanised into action, and seizing the rushlight, he tore open the door and dashed into Furiosus’ bedroom. Great as was the Bishop’s alarm, he stopped petrified at the sight that met his eyes. The friar was tumbling around on the floor fighting madly to escape from the obscene advances and abandoned caresses of three females of the most luscious character imaginable. But Bishop Flanagan did not forget his own peril for long. He ran to the struggling mass on the floor.
“Nice time,” he snarled, “to be slaking your lusts, when I’m half-slaughtered by the most hideous apparition that was ever seen!”
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p; With a mighty heave Father Furiosus was on his feet, flinging the three sportful damsels against the far wall. He seized Bishop Flanagan by the throat and pressed him back against the bed-post.
“Let me go,” gasped the Bishop, “or you will incur the penalty of excommunication.”
“What do you mean by that accusation,” howled the friar, “and I locked in deadly combat with the forces of Hell? Take it back before I tear the skinny throat out of you.”
“I’m sorry,” panted the Bishop, “I take it back. I didn’t know they were demons too. There’s one in my room, the most terrible vision that eye has ever seen.”
Father Furiosus released the Bishop and stood looking around the room breathing heavily. The three high-stepping females had disappeared. The friar tiptoed over to the door and looked into the Bishop’s room. It was likewise empty. Then he returned to Bishop Flanagan, and the two of them conversed in whispers.
“She had a singularly evil countenance,” said Bishop Flanagan,” his voice still trembling with fear. “There was a hot, unholy fire in her eye. Neither holy water nor exorcism availed ought against her.”
“That’s bad,” replied Furiosus, shaking his head gravely. “It would appear from what you tell me that these painful phenomena are female elementals, probably sylphides—most difficult to get rid of. However, I will sprinkle my stoup of holy water on the walls and ceiling. While I am so engaged, do you turn up your most powerful exorcism, and we will read it aloud together.”
“What will we do if all four renew the assault in unison?” asked the Bishop shakily.
“It will be a triste and ominous affair,” replied the friar gloomily, “and may well spell damnation for us both.”
“Not if we continue heroically to resist their unhallowed designs,” asserted the Bishop hysterically.
“The flesh is weak,” muttered the friar darkly. “I will thoroughly besprinkle the walls. Then we will pray.”
When the last drop of sanctified water was exhausted, and the pair had read in tremulous tones the most powerful exorcisms available, they took their seats back to back in the doorway between the two rooms, so that between them they had the whole field of battle under surveillance.
“I fear me,” said the Bishop in a tremulous voice, “that if they renew the onset, they will have some new artifices and stratagems at their command.”
“Whatever they contrive or whatever manœuvres they indulge in, we will give them a good fight,” responded Father Furiosus.
“What avails a good fight, if one loses it?” said the despondent Bishop.
Father Furiosus did not answer. Though he did not care to admit it even to himself, he was considerably shaken by the night’s happenings. It was the first time in his career as a thwarter and scarifier of demons that he was faced with the probability of the usual spiritual weapons breaking in his hands. Moreover, he was a man who never before had failed in such work, and the possibility of being this time unsuccessful was galling to his spirit in the extreme. He had never before been faced by forces as old as the world itself, and he did not like the new experience. Further, he was a man of simple mind, who became annoyed when confronted with something which he did not understand. And he could not understand what had got into the elementals to make them behave as they did. He understood them to be ordinarily a people who amused themselves playing hide-and-seek in forests and rivers, or disporting themselves in flame or in the upper air— a more or less useless people who had at least the virtue that they left human beings alone. But if what Bishop Flanagan asserted was true, if both holy water and exorcism had failed, then things looked black indeed. He hardly cared to think what might be the outcome of the affair.
He was sunk in gloomy contemplation when the Bishop’s sharp elbow stabbed him in the ribs.
“Listen,” squealed the Bishop hoarsely.
Furiosus listened. He heard music, at first faint, then swelling in volume and coming nearer, soft, sensual cadences, with little runs of semiquavers of a particularly suggestive character. The friar raised the sleeve of his nightshirt and wiped his eye into which the sweat was running, half-blinding him. He could feel the Bishop’s bony back pressed against his own, stiff as a board with fright. In a few moments the air about them was throbbing with curious songs and music. The friar turned, and putting out his hand, took his companion by the arm. The Bishop immediately fell on the floor.
“What did you do that for?” demanded the friar in a testy whisper.
Bishop Flanagan seemed incapable of movement, but his eyes held a world of pathos.
“Don’t leave me,” he managed to gasp.
Father Furiosus helped him to his feet.
“The holy water has let us down,” said the friar hoarsely. “It must indeed be elementals. Be prepared for a manifestation any moment.”
It had begun. In the wavering glimmer cast by the rush-light, gossamer shapes swayed and slowly took on the form of four highly agreeable females. They lounged gracefully in a corner of the room, smiling engagingly at the paralysed ecclesiastics. Father Furiosus essayed an exorcism in a cracked voice, but his heart was not in it, for he felt a certain premonition that his efforts would be unavailing. His voice trailed off and stopped. Just as he had feared, the four sylphs, far from disappearing in a sulphur flash and a foul smoke, started putting the finishing touches to their coiffures and adding a last dab of rouge to their lips and cheeks.
“Hurry up, Gertie,” said one of them. “Let’s get them.”
“It’s my considered opinion,” muttered the friar, “that it’s high time for both of us to take evasive action. The best moral theologians have only one recommendation to make in cases of acute temptation—Fuga, which is translated ‘Flight’.”
“But suppose,” quavered the Bishop, “that they surround us?”
“I wish you wouldn’t keep clinging to me,” exclaimed Father Furiosus irritably. “Please let go my nightshirt. Now, listen. By ‘Flight’ the Fathers do not mean merely that one should remove oneself physically from the location and occasion of the temptation: that would avail us little, as I doubt not but that these harpies can run as fast as we; but it is implied also that one should forcibly occupy one’s mind with other things, and on no account venture to reason or argue the temptation out of existence. That way lies failure, the death of the soul and the pit of Hell. Nothing is so salubrious in temptation as the mortification of the flesh which is tempted, so let us betake ourselves with all speed to some refuge where we can proceed at once to the practice of the counsels of the Fathers in the matter.”
“There’s a fine bed of nettles against the wall of my stockyard,” said the Bishop eagerly.
“Come on,” said the friar, and the two of them made off through the far door. The Bishop, who was lithe and nimble, soon outdistanced the friar, and he had the backdoor of the Palace unbolted before Furiosus caught up with him. They raced across the yard barefoot, the Bishop pattering far ahead. The prelate, who felt that the situation was critical, did not hesitate to pull his nightshirt over his head as he ran, so that he was stark naked when he reached the nettles, of which there was a particularly luxurious bed. Father Furiosus saw him stretch his skinny frame at the head of the slight incline where the nettles grew, and roll himself over and over down through the nettles until he reached the bottom. Then he picked himself up, scampered up again over the broken stems and repeated the operation.
“There’ll be a nice scandal,” muttered the friar, “if any of the parishioners see his lordship running around in the buff.”
But Father Furiosus did not delay in following the Bishop’s example. He stripped off his nightshirt and with tightset lips selected a corner where the nettles were five feet high. The ground shook as his brawny frame tumbled over and over down the incline.
Some time later the moon which had modestly hidden her head, emerged sailing from behind a cloud. She saw two naked men squatting uncomfortably in the centre of a completely flattened nettlebed, watche
d from beyond its fringes by four pensive sylphs.
“I fear we have ground all the venom out of the nettles,” whispered Furiosus, “and the bad women are still there. I fear that unholy desires may yet arise in me.”
“Sh!” said the Bishop, “lest they hear. There’s a small pond beyond the stockade. Let’s make a run for it.”
All the long night through, the sylphs, once more in their native element, danced beneath the trees by the side of the pond, while from the centre, immersed to their necks in freezing water, the Bishop and the friar watched them glumly.
CHAPTER VIII
The road that goes south from Cashel winds crazily; taking little runs over ridges, and curving so as to skirt the irregular boundaries of the farmlands. It is an absurd, switchbacking Irish road, never straight for more than a hundred paces, encouraging the wayfarer with the hope that there may be something unusual and peculiar around the bend or over the brow of the hill. The roadway is hemmed in on either side by hedges of blackthorn, brambles, gorse and sallies. Through gaps, ineffectively blocked by old buckets and pieces of bedsteads, the traveller catches glimpses of the endless green fields and the contented cattle scattered over the plain. From behind a gate an occasional cow, having nothing better to do, will stare with gloomy insolence at the passer-by; or on turning a corner you may suddenly come upon a donkey who to all appearances has been standing in the middle of the roadway for weeks sunk in unutterable boredom. There are not many human habitations, and such few as there are, are built in the wrong places—on low ground, so that the rainwater gathers on the surrounding hillocks and flows with ease in through the front door. 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.