by Mervyn Wall
Albert rose from his hunkers and held out his paw. Fursey took it and shook it sadly.
“Goodbye,” said Fursey.
“Goodbye,” replied Albert. “Don’t forget,” he added anxiously, “that you’ve to order me to vanish.”
“Disappear,” commanded Fursey; and as Albert dissolved, Fursey waited to utter a final word of melancholy valediction to a single smoky red eye which hung alone in the air for a few seconds after the rest of Albert had gone. Then he turned hurriedly on his heel and made off down the road that led to Cashel.
CHAPTER X
About an hour later Fursey’s unwilling feet brought him to New Inn Cross. A crossroads is at all times a place of foul repute, a point where watchful fiends are apt to lurk, and a spot likely to be used for nocturnal dances and all classes of witchery. Fursey would have hurried by, but he was suddenly rooted to the road at the sight of a familiar figure in black leaning nonchalantly against a gate. It was Cuthbert! A dark lock of hair hung over his forehead obscuring one of his eyes. The other eye was fixed upon Fursey. A witchhazel wand was propped against the gate beside the sexton. In his hand he held a silken bag, and a red cock was perched upon his shoulder.
Such was Fursey’s terror that he stood in the middle of the road bereft of the power to move either forward or backwards: his legs had become like two rods glued to the ground. His heart gave one mighty whack in his chest and then seemed to stop beating altogether. He struggled to regain his breath, his mind the prey of the most painful imaginings. He saw himself turned into a toad and imprisoned in an earthen jar for the duration of Cuthbert’s life; and on the sexton’s demise, perhaps handed down to generation after generation of sorcerers as an interesting specimen. The intolerable boredom of such an existence was borne in powerfully upon him and filled him with the strongest disquiet. It might well be that many thousands of years would elapse before some accident occurred to break the spell and effect his release. Through a film of mist he observed the sexton detaching himself from the gate and sloping across the road towards him. He became aware that his limp hand had been lifted from his side and was being warmly wrung.
“My dear friend Fursey,” came the sexton’s voice, “you have no conception of the pleasure this encounter affords me. I located you in my crystal about an hour ago and travelled here to intercept you, as I desire to have some discourse with you in private.”
Fursey was not conscious of what happened next; but when he became once more aware of the world about him, he found himself propped against the gate while the sexton fanned him anxiously with his hat.
“That was a bad turn you took,” purred Cuthbert. “My poor friend, wait here for a moment while I procure you a stimulant.”
The sexton grabbed Fursey’s length of rope and hurrying to a neighbouring tree, flung it over one of the branches. He gave it a sharp jerk and deftly caught the cup of mead which fell from the foliage. He came running back without spilling a drop, and having prized Fursey’s teeth open with his witchhazel wand, he poured the entire contents down Fursey’s gullet. Fursey hiccoughed and recovered full consciousness.
“Are you all right?” asked Cuthbert.
“I’d like to sit down,” responded Fursey feebly.
Cuthbert helped him into a sitting position with his back supported by the gate, and stood over him cracking his fingers nervously. Fursey gazed disconsolately from the red cock perched on the sexton’s shoulder to the small silken bag which swung from his hand. Then a seemingly interminable spate of words fell from Cuthbert’s lips. Fursey’s wits were too scattered to follow the sexton’s flow of talk, which seemed to be about Fursey’s health. Fursey was not concerned about his health: what he was worried about was his future; but as Cuthbert’s deluge of words flowed over his consciousness, odd words and broken sentences began to form a sediment, which he turned over slowly in his mind and began to examine. The sexton appeared to be trying to explain away the part which he had played at Fursey’s trial, and to convince Fursey that he felt for him only fraternal goodwill and benevolence. Fursey pricked up his ears and began to listen. Then he fixed his gaze on Cuthbert’s face. There could be no doubt about it. The sexton’s manner was ingratiating; the emotion that lit his countenance was the desire to please. Could it be that the tremor in Cuthbert’s voice was due to fear?
“You understand,” concluded Cuthbert, “that no other course was open to me. I had no idea that Satan held you in such esteem that he was prepared to conduct your defence in person.”
So that was it. Cuthbert, far from wishing to destroy him, was eager to placate him; not through any love for him, but because he was, as Cuthbert saw it, under the Archfiend’s powerful protection. Fursey sat looking at his toes reflecting on the strangeness of things, while the sexton shifted his feet nervously, apparently anxiously awaiting Fursey’s judgment. At length Cuthbert spoke.
“Tell me,” he begged, “that you forgive me and that we are friends again.”
Fursey cocked his eye at Cuthbert’s face.
“Yes,” he replied, “I forgive you. Now, help me to my feet.”
Cuthbert hastened to comply and assisted in massaging the hinges of Fursey’s knees, from which the weakness had not yet quite departed.
“Remember,” said Cuthbert, “that if I can at any time be of the slightest assistance to you in any matter great or small, I am entirely at your service.”
“Thank you,” replied Fursey, “I think I must be going now.”
“Not that I wish to imply,” continued Cuthbert, “that a man of your lively and subtile temperament, who has the added advantage of being so highly connected, should ever stand in need of the assistance of a man in such a humble line of wizarding as myself. You are a man who has it in his power to confuse and dazzle tigers, but I shouldn’t wish you to depart without realising to the full the depth of my esteem.”
“It’s very nice of you,” answered Fursey, “but I really must be going. I’ve an important appointment in Cashel.”
“Before you go,” protested Cuthbert, “I insist that you honour me by accepting from me a small gift.”
Fursey looked at him uncertainly.
“What is the nature of the gift?” he asked suspiciously.
“You are going to Cashel, a place dangerous to such as you on account of the prevalence there of religious jugglery. I shall provide you with a protector so that none will presume to approach you, let alone lay hands on you.”
The sexton’s eagerness was such that before Fursey could reply, Cuthbert had shaken on to the road from the silken bag which he carried, a variety of curious objects, human knuckle-bones, nail-parings, moles’ paws and elf-shots, things which immediately suggested to the startled Fursey that an operation of a magical character was imminent. Cuthbert then seized the red cock which was perched on his shoulder, and before the luckless bird had time to do more than give an indignant croak, its neck was wrung and its corpse flung on the ground. In a twinkling the sexton had drawn in the dust of the roadway with his witchhazel wand a circle with four divisions and four crosses.
“Stand inside,” he commanded.
The trembling Fursey deemed it safer to obey. He watched with horror as Cuthbert deftly arranged the objects that had fallen from the silken bag.
“You have no occasion for fear,” the sexton assured him, “I shall also draw with charcoal the Star of Solomon and the Sacred Pentagram.”
This operation was completed before Fursey found his voice.
“What are you going to do?” he quavered.
“I’m going to conjure up a poltergeist,” replied Cuthbert, “and instruct him to accompany you everywhere you go, and cast around you the cloak of his protection. By magic I shall constrain him to appear.”
Fursey opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“The thing to remember,” declared Cuthbert as he briskly completed his preparations, “is that it is the double tail of the serpent which forms the legs of the solar cock of Abra
xas.”
“I really have to go,” gasped Fursey.
“You can’t go now,” said Cuthbert sharply. “If you step outside the circle, you are likely to be subtly consumed and altogether destroyed. The terrible citizens of the spiritual world are all about us, and but for the judicious precautions which I have taken, I would not be able to answer for the safety of either of us.”
Fursey felt his knees weakening again. He closed his eyes and tried to pray while Cuthbert made mysterious passes with his wand and began to mutter strangely. Suddenly Cuthbert raised his two arms above his head and yelled three times in honour of triple Hecate. Fursey crumpled up and fell at his feet. As Fursey grovelled on the ground, he observed a thickening of the air at a spot just outside the circle. Something was slowly taking shape. At first the form was shadowy and strange, but before long it took on flesh, until it stood there in its entirety, a huge creature some eight feet in height with powerful, hunched shoulders. Its swinging arms were so long that the knuckles of its hands almost touched the ground. In general appearance it resembled a man, save only that it was green in hue. As its eyes, alight with hot, unholy fires, fixed themselves on Cuthbert and Fursey, its features became distorted in a sardonic grin. The creature was bald, and a fine steam arose from its polished green skull.
“Eminently satisfactory,” said Cuthbert rubbing his hands. “What’s your name, my good fellow?”
The grotesque creature answered with its tongue hanging half-a-foot out of its mouth.
“Joe,” it said. “Joe the Poltergeist.”
“Very good, Joe,” said Cuthbert briskly. “You see this gentleman here at my feet?”
“Ay,” replied the poltergeist.
“Well, listen carefully to your instructions. You will, when I tell you to do so, resume your invisibility and attach yourself to this gentleman as his protector. You are not to leave him for a moment. If aught menaces him, you will take immediate steps to ward off the danger. It is anticipated that it is from human beings that the danger will threaten. You will deal with those human beings as you think fit. Do you understand?”
“Ay,” said the poltergeist.
“Now, disappear,” ordered Cuthbert. “Do you hear me? Disappear.”
Fursey clambered to his feet and got behind Cuthbert. When the sexton spoke again, Fursey was aware of a new note in his voice. It seemed to Fursey like a note of anxiety.
“I’m addressing you, Joe the Poltergeist,” enunciated Cuthbert with severity. “I command you to vanish.”
For a moment there was silence, then as Cuthbert turned to him, the terrified Fursey saw that the poltergeist still stood in the roadway, with an obscene leer creasing his unattractive countenance and his long talons twitching alarmingly.
“Something has gone wrong with the spell,” muttered Cuthbert out of the corner of his mouth. “He declines to vanish. For your life, do not stir outside the circle.”
The master sorcerer made several passes in the air, but they in nowise served to relieve the situation. The sexton seemed puzzled; then he turned and fixed a suspicious eye on Fursey.
“Have you by any chance,” he enquired, “crosses or religious amulets about your person, which may have interfered with the smooth working of the spell?”
“No,” replied Fursey.
“Are you sure?” asked Cuthbert sharply as he noticed Fursey’s hesitation.
“I admit,” faltered Fursey, “I admit that I said a prayer while the spell was in the course of being woven.”
Cuthbert greeted this intelligence with a sharp intake of breath.
“Nice mess you’ve landed us in,” he hissed. “Such a contretemps is altogether outside my experience. I haven’t the faintest idea how we’ll get rid of him.”
“Couldn’t we make a run for it,” suggested Fursey hopefully.
“Don’t attempt anything of the sort,” snapped Cuthbert. “If we as much as put a foot outside the circle, he’ll tear us in pieces.”
Fursey shivered as the poltergeist began to lumber around the edge of the circle grating his teeth horribly.
“It’s a tricky situation,” commented Cuthbert. “Of course I could try to undo the spell by reciting it backwards, but such an operation is fraught with danger. The magic is liable to stick in one’s throat. I think the best thing that I can do, is begin again and weave the spell once more, and we’ll see what happens.”
“Is there not a danger that if you pursue such a course, the net result may well be that we shall have two poltergeists to contend with instead of one?”
“There is wisdom in what you say,” answered Cuthbert thoughtfully. “There’s really only one thing to do. I shall have to fly home on my witchhazel wand and consult my books. I have no doubt but that Camerarius will have something to say in the matter.”
“Can’t you take me with you?” enquired Fursey anxiously.
“I regret that my wand is too light to carry two,” replied Cuthbert. “You can await my return in perfect safety provided you remain within the circle. I expect that I shall be back before nightfall. Do not let the phantom coax you into leaving the circle.”
“You need have no anxiety on that score,” Fursey assured him.
“Very well,” said Cuthbert, and throwing his leg nimbly across his wand, he shot vertically into the air to a considerable altitude. Fursey saw him peering to left and right to get his direction before making off over the tree-tops towards the north. Joe the Poltergeist was apparently taken by surprise, and he manifested in no uncertain manner his chagrin at the loss of one of his prey. For some minutes he ran up and down roaring horribly, then to relieve his feelings he pulled up a couple of trees by the roots and tried to tear up a length of road. At last he came back and opening his mouth, displayed before the quaking Fursey two magnificent sets of grinders, which he gnashed horribly.
How long Fursey could have endured the proximity of the dreadful creature without breathing his last through sheer fright, it is impossible to say; but at that moment the sound of many voices striking up a hymn was heard from round the bend of the road. All at once the poltergeist seemed to forget Fursey, he turned immediately on his heel and lumbered off to investigate. The moment he had turned the corner and was out of sight, Fursey shot like a bolt from the circle, burst through the hedge without seeing it, and made off across the fields.
A party of a dozen monks from Clonmacnoise, pilgrims to the shrine of the saintly Gray Mare, moved slowly along the southern road. They had walked twenty miles since morning; and as they plodded along, they leaned wearily upon their staves. It was with a view to whipping up their flagging enthusiasm now that they were nearing their destination, that the Master of Novices, who was in charge, ordered them to strike up a hymn. The monks sang lustily, for the hymn was well-liked, having a jovial swing. As they approached a bend in the road, little Brother Patrick made frantic attempts to pitch his voice above the musical baying of Father Sampson, so as to convey to his brethren the alarming intelligence that he had just espied a flying wizard in career over the tree-tops. But Brother Patrick failed to make himself heard, and the hymn continued for several minutes until it was brought to a sudden close by the appearance of Joe the Poltergeist round the bend of the road. The band of pilgrims stopped dead and stood huddled together in the centre of the track as the grotesque monster lumbered in their direction. Their first instinct was to take to their heels; but the Master of Novices, always a cool man, succeeded in staying the panic. A small stream crossed the road about fifty paces from where they stood. The ungainly stranger continued towards them until he reached the middle of the stream, and there he took his stand facing the pilgrims, a horrid and fearsome sight with the water flowing over his hairy, green ankles. It was apparent from his menacing demeanour that it was his intention to oppose their progress. In the unearthly silence that seemed suddenly to have fallen over the entire countryside, Brother Patrick at last made himself heard. His report of the flying wizard did nothing to allay the appreh
ensions of his brethren, who shifted nervously as they realised that there was devilry afoot.
“What is he?” asked Father Placidus in a thin voice. “Is he an arch-vampire?”
“A poltergeist by the look of him,” replied Father Sampson.
This opinion was substantiated a moment later when the horrid spectre stooped down suddenly and, picking up an armful of stones, began to pelt the monks mercilessly.
“Stand where you are,” commanded the Novice Master. “In a struggle between Good and Evil, the Good must never give ground.”
“I observe that he has taken his stand in south-flowing water,” said Father Sampson, who had an eye for strategy. “I doubt if we shall succeed in overcoming him with spiritual weapons, for it is a well-known fact that south-flowing water has magical properties.”
“We can only try,” answered the Novice Master, and taking his book of exorcisms from under his arm, he advanced ten paces towards the poltergeist.
The exorcism was unsuccessful. The poltergeist laughed uproariously during the first part of it; and before the Master of Novices had got as far as the adjuration, Joe swept the book from his hand with a well-aimed lump of rock. The Novice Master retreated precipitately to his brethren on the roadway.
“Perhaps we should essay the fulmination of an anathema,” said Father Placidus, who was so beside himself with terror that he scarcely knew what he was talking about. In fact, the general fright was such that the monks would very likely have bolted only for the powerful influence of Father Sampson. The ex-wrestler was not only unafraid, he was spoiling for fight. His ire increased when he received a blow of a stone on the forehead. He tore off his monk’s habit and revealed a frame knotted with muscle.
“Father Novice Master,” he begged, “give me leave to assail this offensive demon. I am confident of my ability to weaken and annihilate him.”
The Novice Master blenched. “It is a perilous undertaking—,” he began.