by Mervyn Wall
This speech seemed to Fursey unduly boastful, but politeness demanded that he make a sound indicative of his admiration. Thus, encouraged, the hermit continued his recitation.
“To-day I have had to struggle with a demon of more than usual agility and guile. I saw him first on awaking this morning. He was furry and had snouted jaws; he looked dazed and languid and was peering in at me through the mouth of my cavern. Strange to relate none of the usual exhortation or adjurations had the slightest effect upon him. I chased him all over the mountainside, and while he seemed lumbering and slow in his movements, he was surprisingly nimble in dodging. I caught him at last a couple of hours ago. I admit it was more by luck than anything else. He tripped over an outcropping rock. The creature seemed by then exhausted, and I had no difficulty in fastening him to the bottom of a bog pool convenient to my cave. I must examine him further to-morrow as I have never before seen a demon quite like him. The chase has left me in almost the same state of exhaustion myself. That is why we are proceeding to an ale-house, where I can recoup my strength.”
“Very interesting,” commented Fursey, hoping that his companion would not discover that he was a wizard.
They had by now come to a low-sized, thatched house with some writing above the door.
“Here we are,” declared the anchorite. “I cannot read myself, but the legend runs ‘Cow’s Head Select Tavern,’ which is the name of the place. The inscription is in the Latin language, and was carved by a parish priest from Donegal who had been drinking for a week and was unable to pay his score. The work was accepted by the proprietor, who is a man sensible of the value of culture, in full discharge of the debt. The building is a very ancient one. The same inscription may be seen carved vertically on the left doorpost in Ogham, which was the way the learned wrote before the introduction of Latin lettering into this country.”
Fursey expressed his admiration of these things, and the two of them bowed their heads and entered the low doorway. The interior was dark, but Fursey’s eyes soon became accustomed to the half-light, and he saw that a long wooden counter ran down the middle of the room. Behind it stood the proprietor, who was bald and had neither beard nor eyebrows. There were several customers in the tavern in various stages of intoxication. They seemed upset by the entry of the anchorite and retired with one accord to the far end of the bar where they covered their mouths and noses with their hands. The proprietor hastily picked up a clothes peg from a neighbouring shelf and fixed it to his nostrils before approaching to enquire in what way he could be of service. The anchorite withdrew the hen from the depths of his clothing and placed her on the counter. From her long proximity to the holy man’s person the bird seemed dazed and languid, and she seemed to find it difficult to keep her feet. She staggered once or twice and fell.
“The animal doesn’t seem in very good condition,” remarked the proprietor diffidently.
“She’s all right,” retorted the hermit. “She’s a stranger here, and she’s shy. You’ll find her good eating.”
The proprietor felt the bird’s breast and wings while she gazed up at him mournfully.
“I’ll allow you four beakers of ale or three of mead,” he declared at last.
“Very well,” replied the anchorite. “Mark me up four beakers of ale. And this gentleman has a loaf.”
The tavernkeeper felt Fursey’s loaf judiciously with his thumb.
“That’s very good bread,” he declared, “I’ll allow you two beakers of mead.”
“Right,” said the hermit. “Give us the ale first.”
At a signal from the proprietor a small boy whom Fursey had not noticed before, emerged from beneath the counter and with a piece of charcoal drew two columns on the whitewashed wall. In one of them he inserted four strokes and in the other two. He then crossed through two of the vertical strokes, and the proprietor produced two foaming beakers of ale and placed them on the counter. He then went to the door and drew in a few breaths of fresh air before replacing the peg on his nose and retiring to the furthest corner of the room. Fursey and the hermit took their beakers and seated themselves on a bench that ran along the wall.
“This is all of the highest interest to me,” observed Fursey. “I have never been in a tavern before.”
The Gentle Anchorite took a long swallow of ale and scratched the black rusty hair on his chest reminiscently.
“It’s a very efficient system,” he remarked, “though I’ve been told that there are barbarous foreign lands too backward to appreciate its merits. They have instead some highly involved method which they call ‘coinage.’ They have little bits of gold and other metal, on which is engraved the head of the king; and in their benighted ignorance the backward inhabitants of those lands attach a disproportionate value to the tiny amulets and use them for all purposes of exchange.”
“I seem to have heard,” replied Fursey racking his brains, “that there were at one time big territories called Greece and Rome which had some such complicated system.”
“There were,” agreed the anchorite triumphantly. “And where are they now? Wiped from the face of the earth forever, while this country, the Island of Saints and Scholars, still endures.”
Fursey smiled happily and finished off the dregs of his ale. His companion nudged him sharply.
“Listen,” he whispered.
Fursey listened to the conversation which came up to them from the far end of the tavern. A small man who was the centre of an admiring group, was holding up to ridicule all writers alive and dead, punctuating his witticisms and sallies with bursts of cackling laughter which made Fursey shudder. As Fursey glanced in his direction, he recognised with alarm the gargoyle whom he had seen in Cuthbert’s garden. The creature caught Fursey’s eye and gave him a friendly nod.
“Oh, you know him,” remarked the anchorite apparently relieved. “I feared from his appearance that he was a petty demon of the trickier sort.”
“I know him slightly,” responded Fursey nervously. “He’s a minor man of letters.”
“Oh, that explains it,” answered the hermit, and he arose to order another two beakers of ale.
Fursey glanced around the tavern covertly to assure himself that Cuthbert was not present. He told himself that the one person whom he must avoid above everyone else in the world, was the sexton of Kilcock Churchyard. Cuthbert’s feelings towards him would certainly be not benevolent, in view of the disclosures he had made about Cuthbert at his trial before the Cathedral Chapter. It was bad enough to be burnt as a sorcerer, but it would be infinitely worse to be turned into a toad and kept indefinitely in a jar. But Cuthbert was not present. He had evidently turned the gargoyle loose on the world, or else the creature had escaped. Fursey washed down his relief with a long pull at his second beaker of ale.
“You can never be sure of whom you’ll knock against,” confided The Gentle Anchorite. “I was in here a few years ago, sitting where we are sitting now, having a drink with a most affable gentleman who insisted on paying for everything we drank. I was most favourably impressed by his demeanour and apparent piety, until glancing down suddenly I observed with some alarm that my companion had hands like the claws of a bird. Needless to say I immediately challenged him, and forthwith he turned into a spectre, badly-made and ill-dressed, very wicked-looking and stinking insupportably. His well-pressed cloak and kilt became all at once coarse black garments, dirty and singed by the flames. He made off through the doorway, and I would have followed him and transfixed him, had I not been prevented by the weight of the drink which he had forced me to consume. Nevertheless, the management was very grateful to me for having rid the house of him.”
Fursey smiled with the left side of his mouth, and ruefully contemplated the empty bottom of his beaker.
“What would he have done if you hadn’t discovered him in time?” he asked.
“It’s obvious that he came here to tempt me,” answered the hermit. “No doubt after we had put down another few drinks, he would have invit
ed me round the corner of the house to meet some lively and engaging female that he had conjured up. Or he might have attempted to dazzle me with the offer of a kingdom in exchange for my soul.”
“It just goes to show that a man must be very careful whom he talks to,” asserted Fursey.
“Oblige me by taking that grin off your face,” said the anchorite to Fursey, as he arose to indicate to the proprietor that it was time to serve the two beakers of mead.
“Was I grinning?” asked Fursey.
“Yes, ever since you began your second mug of ale,” replied the hermit severely. “It’s not at all dignified.”
As they sat in happy appreciation of the bouquet of the mead, Fursey watched with interest as a cow was driven into the tavern, and the small boy got a ladder and laboriously began to mark up a thousand beakers of ale on the wall, commencing high up in a corner near the ceiling. The cow was driven behind the counter, while her late owner, a melancholy-looking, ale-sodden farmer, sat down and began at once to reduce the number to his credit. A few moments later a little old woman entered, a shawl over her head, and placed two eggs on the counter. She was served with a half-beaker.
When The Gentle Anchorite had drunk his way through half his goblet of mead, he smacked his lips with satisfaction and plunged reminiscently into his life history.
“As a youth,” he began, “I was a careless and indifferent fellow, much addicted to the sport of taws, a game played with round pebbles which one precipitates with the thumb, attempting to strike the taw of the opponent. Many a hen I stole from my mother’s yard and gambled away at a taw-school. But I was saved early from a life of sin and entered the monastery at Cong. It was clear from the very first that I was marked out for a life of saintliness. As a novice my rapts and ecstacies alarmed the monks. It was not unusual for me during dinner in the refectory to be sometimes raised ten cubits from the ground, my spoon and knife still clutched in my fists, and landed in a height of passive contemplation where I experienced an ecstacy and an abstraction from the things of sense quite unobtainable by the less-favoured members of the community. At length the Abbot took me aside and advised me that I was far too pious for the smooth working of the monastery. I concurred with him in this: it was obvious to me that my extreme saintliness was leading my brethren into the sins of envy and jealousy. I wandered south and found a suitable cavern above the Cashel road. I drove out a family of wolves that had made it their habitation, and installed myself therein. I have been there nigh on forty years, and I can boast that never once have I indulged in the sensuous practice of washing.”
The anchorite raised a black claw and pulling back his sack-cloth, bared his chest for Fursey’s inspection. Fursey moved along the bench away from the holy man, seemingly overcome by such evidence of piety.
“I remember well,” continued the hermit, “the first demon who attempted to harry me. I had just placed on the slab that serves me as table, the handful of acorns which was to constitute my evening meal, when I heard him snorting at the entrance to the cave. I admit that I was not without fear. It was my first experience of demons, and I didn’t know whether he was intent on taking my life, or whether he would rest satisfied with a bout of harrowing and attempted seduction. Uttering a passionate cry for strength I went to the cavern’s mouth to encounter him. At first I could see nothing, and then about ten paces away a sort of black phantom with horns and tail presented itself and began to gambol about before me. He was a demon with burning eyes and claws upon his hands, and as he skipped about, he turned from time to time and grinned at me furiously. The uncouth sight was too much for me: I retired precipitately into the furthest corner of the cavern where I fell on my knees and gave myself over to prayer for strength in the fiery trial of martyrdom and for help in the hotter fire of temptation. I was awakened from my devotions by a scream like that of a screech-owl, and on looking up beheld the horrible enemy squatting on his hunkers before my table from which he had swept my handful of acorns. He had placed a hunk of succulent meat upon the stone, and before my eyes he took it up with both claws and devoured it bones and all. Being of a quick understanding, I speedily appreciated that his object was to tempt me to the sin of gluttony. It was Eastertide, and a paschal taper stood to hand. I immediately seized it and broke it over his head. I cannot truthfully say which of us chased the other out of the cave, but the two of us coursed back and forward over the hillside the whole night through. My memory again fails me as to which of us was the pursuer and which the pursued, but I do remember most distinctly that every time I found myself within his reach, I received countless slaps and blows from a stick with which he had armed himself. His sportiveness abated just before sunrise, and I was found in a debilitated condition in a furze bush by some peasants on their way to market.”
“You must have been somewhat exhausted,” remarked Fursey.
“Somewhat exhausted!” echoed the hermit indignantly. “I had just enough respiration left to prevent their burying me.”
“Our beakers are empty,” observed Fursey, who was beginning to tire of these reminiscences and was anxious to be allowed to speak himself.
“And likely to remain so,” replied the anchorite gloomily. “We have nought left to trade for ale. Holy Poverty has its disadvantages.”
“Leave it to me,” said Fursey knowingly. He hitched his rope over his shoulder and made his way out of the tavern. He was back in a few moments, his arms loaded with foodstuffs, four loaves of bread, an aromatic cheese and a couple of pounds of best butter.
“Where did you get them?” asked The Gentle Anchorite suspiciously.
“Never you mind,” said Fursey.
“If they’ve been stolen—” began the anchorite virtuously.
He seemed less inclined to press the matter when a few moments later three glistening pots of mead were set in front of him.
Fursey took his own three pots from the counter in a wide embrace and carried them over to where his companion was sitting. For some moments no word was spoken while each addressed himself seriously to the business of emptying one of the pots. At length Fursey took his face out of his beaker and languidly wiped a few amber-coloured beads of the liquor from his cheeks and chin. He sighed and putting his elbow on the table, rested his head on his hand. For some time he regarded his companion pensively.
“You’re a man of great learning and piety,” he said at last. “Perhaps you can help me in my trouble.”
The hermit threw back the rusty hair that hung down over his face, so that he could see Fursey more clearly.
“If it’s anything in the nature of a miracle,” he replied, “I’ll be glad to oblige you; but a small offering is expected. The labourer is worthy of his hire.”
“It’s nothing like that,” responded Fursey. “I only want advice.”
“Oh,” replied the hermit, and he seemed to be somewhat disappointed.
“Do you know anything about love?” enquired Fursey.
“Of course I do,” retorted the anchorite. “By God’s grace I can see as deeply into the abyss of love as any man.”
“How does one set about winning a woman’s love?” asked Fursey.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” rejoined the anchorite haughtily. “You don’t appear to realise whom you’re talking to.”
“I mean no offence,” explained Fursey. “But there’s an amiable young woman of my acquaintance, and I’m sore assotted on her.”
The anchorite groaned aloud in anguish. “Seek not to follow after the daughters of iniquity,” he quoted.
“She’s the daughter of a man called Declan,” replied Fursey.
“I don’t care what her father’s name is,” retorted the anchorite. “I warn you that you’re walking on the brink of Hell.” And he began to exhort Fursey to be strong in faith and put his confidence in God. Fursey only half-listened to his exhortations. The conversation seemed to him to have taken a wrong turning, but he felt too happy and dreamy to bring it back. His mind wandered to p
ast events, and he found himself regretting that he had not made better use of his stay in Cuthbert’s cottage. He should at least have remained until he had learnt the ingredients, composition and use of love philtres. Fursey sighed as he thought of his lost opportunities. Here he was a fully-fledged wizard, and the only sorcery he knew was how to fly on a broom and how to produce food by pulling on a rope. He fixed his eyes dreamily on the anchorite’s long rusty beard and wondered if he pulled it, would a loaf of bread fall on to the table. Probably not, probably only a colony of bugs. His thoughts drifted to Maeve and the last time he had seen her, standing against the evening sky waving her hand to Magnus as he rode down the track from the cottage. The muscles of Fursey’s body jerked convulsively as he tore his mind away from the image which was so acid in his memory. What was the use of wishing for further magical knowledge? Magnus had Maeve, and it was too late.
He sighed and forced himself to listen to the anchorite, who was droning some story from the life of a lady saint, in the apparent hope of edifying Fursey and winning him from carnal desire.
“. . . . her eyes,” concluded the hermit, “no longer lit up with the wild delight of the delirium of vice and bacchanalian orgies, but glowed softly with the blessed peace of conscious forgiveness.”
“This old fool wants to do all the talking,” thought Fursey. “He won’t let me get in a word at all. I’ll show him.”
Fursey emptied his beaker and waited for the mead to subside in his stomach. Then he plunged into a rambling account, punctuated by hiccoughs, of the life and times of Blessed John the Dwarf, which he had heard read aloud in the refectory at Clonmacnoise. Between his hiccoughs and his faulty memory, the story of Blessed John, which should have been edifying and exemplary, became, as Fursey related it, very funny indeed. The good humour increased as The Gentle Anchorite also became afflicted with the hiccoughs, and Fursey had perforce to halt from time to time in his story to laugh at his companion. Merriment is infectious, and soon the hermit was emitting short melancholy barks, the sort of laughter one might expect to hear coming up out of a grave. He clawed his lank beard and asserted that Fursey was the pleasantest fellow he had ever met. Fursey slapped the anchorite jovially on the knee. A cloud of dust arose that nearly blinded both of them. As they staggered around sneezing and rubbing their eyes, their merriment nearly reached the stage of convulsions.