The Return of Fursey

by Mervyn Wall

  “Things are going to be different from now on,” said Fursey gently. “When you first introduced yourself to me and informed me that I had inherited you as well as a magician’s powers, I was so revolted at the thought of being a wizard that I could not bear the sight of you. Nor did I entertain sympathetically your repeated demands for my blood. But things are going to be different from now on. I am resolved to live a life of unexampled depravity.”

  “If you wanted to do me a good turn,” suggested Albert, “you could either sell me or make a present of me to some full-blooded enthusiast who is embarking on a career of sorcery. That’s my only chance of survival.”

  “No,” said Fursey determinedly. “I won’t part with you. You’re the only friend I have.”

  Albert emitted a despairing moan.

  “To others,” said Fursey, “you may be a terrifying citizen of the spiritual world, but to me you are my familiar, personal to myself, and my very dear friend.”

  “That’s all very fine,” said Albert lugubriously, “but as things are going at present, I don’t think I’m long for this world.”

  “But I need you,” insisted Fursey. “Never have I stood so much in need of advice and assistance. My affairs have taken a very sinister turn and are at present in a state of grave detriment.”

  “It’s no use expecting nimble service from me,” replied Albert. “At present I haven’t the energy of a ninepenny rabbit.”

  “Will my blood restore you?” asked Fursey.

  Albert raised his head expectantly. And then in the half-light of the cottage Fursey deliberately did evil for the first time in his life. He took a knife and, making an incision in his thumb, fed some drops of his blood to his familiar. When the ghastly ceremony was over, Albert sat back on his hunkers, far from satiated, but filled with optimistic expectation of brighter days to come.

  “Now,” said Fursey, “to business. I am much in need of advice.”

  Albert had no tail, but he wagged his hindquarters courteously.

  “I have an enemy,” began Fursey. “He has just carried off an amiable young woman on whom I am sore assotted. How will I get even with him?”

  Albert thought for a moment.

  “You don’t happen to have a hairless cat?” he enquired.

  “No,” replied Fursey. “I’m sorry.”

  “If your enemy was here,” said Albert, “you could imprison him in a leather bottle, or alternatively you could spread the venom from a toad, or other baleful juices, on his linen. But, of course, he’s not here.”

  “No,” said Fursey. “I don’t know where he is.”

  “If we had some eggs,” said Albert, “we could labour them in a pail of boiling water and see what happens. But, of course, you’d need to know how to do it. Unless a wizard is very expert in the weaving of a spell he cannot always be certain of immunity from danger to himself.”

  Albert paused and gazed for a moment thoughtfully into the fire.

  “I have it,” he said suddenly, slapping one clenched bear’s paw into the palm of the other. “You should hide under his bolster a rope composed of the hairs torn from the head of a raging hyena. That will cause his fingers and toes to rot and fall off.”

  “I wish you’d be practical,” replied Fursey shortly. “I haven’t got the head of a raging hyena.”

  “Well, have you got the marrows of an unbaptised babe? They’re very useful in inducing delusions and insanity.”

  “I haven’t,” said Fursey peevishly. “I haven’t got any of those things.”

  “Well, why not simply afflict him with a lingering and painful disease?”

  “Because I don’t know how.”

  “Do you not even know enough,” enquired Albert hopefully, “to afflict him with a lameness?”

  “No,” replied the exasperated Fursey. “You know perfectly well that the only magic I’m competent to perform is the production of food and drink by pulling on a rope.”

  “And I heard you this evening,” said Albert, shaking his head reprovingly, “telling Abbot Marcus that you had become most learned in occult devices. I’m afraid you’re an extreme liar.”

  “That was a defensive stratagem,” answered Fursey.

  “Do you even understand the powers of seven and nine?”

  “No.”

  Albert shook his head despondently. “I’m afraid you’re a sad sorcerer.”

  They sat for a while in silence, Fursey watching his familiar’s face anxiously, while Albert gazed broodingly into the fire, occasionally shrugging his shoulders and muttering to himself as he dismissed some plan that had suggested itself to his mind. Finally he raised a hairy paw and scratched his head.

  “I can’t think of anything,” he said. “After all, if you don’t know any sorcery, there’s nothing to be done in that line. You’ll have to proceed by ordinary natural means.”

  “You’re not much help to me,” said Fursey.

  “What’s the use of trying to help a shiftless fellow like you?” snapped Albert. “You’ve been a sorcerer for three months and you’ve learnt nothing. I don’t know what you’ve been doing with your time.”

  Albert rose and shook himself like a dog. Then he shambled over to the door and back again.

  “Of course, there’s one thing you might do,” he said.

  “What’s that?” enquired Fursey eagerly.

  Albert threw a quick look at his master. “There’s an old acquaintance of yours in the neighbourhood,” he said slowly.

  “Who?”

  “Satan.”

  Fursey sat back slowly in his chair and his eyes met those of his familiar. Albert was squatting on his hunkers and gazing steadily at his master.

  “I’m not acquainted with Satan myself,” he said diffidently. “We belong to different mythologies. But I understand that he is an affable gentleman, always willing to oblige a friend.”

  Fursey said nothing.

  “I don’t want to seem inquisitive,” continued Albert, “but it would clarify matters considerably if you would tell me the exact relationship in which you stand to the dread Emperor of Night.”

  Fursey had become suddenly wan. He passed his tongue over his dry lips before he spoke.

  “When I was a laybrother in the monastery, Satan appeared to me and sought to persuade me to sell him my soul. I refused. He appeared to me several times afterwards before I fled to this country, and each time he repeated his offer. He always treated me with courtesy, asserting that he had taken a liking to me, but how do I know whether or not to believe a being whom mankind calls ‘The Father of Lies’? He insisted on doing me several services, in order, I suppose, to ingratiate himself with me. It is sufficient that I have always rejected his offers.”

  “Would you reject them, now that you have determined to live a life of iniquity?”

  Fursey said nothing for a long time, but sat brooding on his forlorn situation. His mind hardened as he remembered how the good and the pious were seeking his destruction.

  “How do you know he’s in the neighbourhood?” he asked at length.

  “You forget that I’m an elemental spirit,” replied Albert. “In my capacity as an ethereal essence I get to know a lot of things.”

  Still Fursey hesitated. Then he suddenly envisaged the exasperation of the King of Mercia on discovering that the wizard whose life he had saved was unable to perform the simplest magical operation. He did not doubt but that a wealthy monarch like Ethelwulf had in his dungeons a repertoire of the most exquisite tortures. He shuddered.

  “Yes,” he said huskily. “I’ll seek out Satan and ask his help. Where is he to be found?”

  “There are things happening in the forest to-night,” replied Albert darkly. “He is there—with his friends.”

  “The forest is vast,” quavered Fursey, “and it is an uncouth place in which to wander alone and after nightfall. How will I find my way to him through the profound darkness that will obtain?”

  “The moon is full to-night. Y
ou will find your way by moonlight. You know the broad track that enters the forest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Four hundred paces along that track a bridlepath branches off to the left. You must follow the windings of that bridlepath until you penetrate deep into the wood.”

  “Wait a minute,” interrupted Fursey. “The week before last a merchant who had lost his way took the track of which you speak. The unfortunate man had to run a distance of five miles, pursued by a numerous banditti.”

  “It is true,” admitted Albert, “that the forest abounds in dishonourable fellows of the robber class, but you will be lucky if it is only human beings that you encounter.”

  “What do you mean by that statement?” demanded Fursey. “Is the woodland frequented by wolves and wild boars?”

  “They are present in force,” conceded Albert; “but it was not such creatures that I had in mind.”

  “Please be explicit,” said Fursey. “I may as well know the worst.”

  “I said that there were things happening in the forest to-night,” replied Albert. “You may find your road incommoded by the presence of ghouls.”

  Fursey looked at him. “Maybe it would be as well to call the thing off.”

  “Nonsense,” rejoined Albert, “you’re not the sort of man to be alarmed by a vague wraith or two.”

  “Amn’t I?” interjected Fursey. “I’m glad you think so.”

  “The truth is that certain tenants of the tomb are abroad. As you proceed along the woodland path you will probably be conscious of unseen intelligences about you. If they materialise, you would do well to have no conversation or dealings with them, as all spirits are of a variable disposition and inclined to deceit.”

  “You needn’t fear,” retorted Fursey, “that I’ll force conversation on them. I’m not proceeding into the forest at all. I’d prefer to surrender myself to the King and let him torture me into a knot.”

  “Don’t be silly,” rejoined Albert. “All you need is a stout heart.”

  “But that’s a thing I haven’t got.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t always be making such capital of your poverty,” said Albert crossly. “It may be effective in argument, but it gets you nowhere in life. I’m only trying to help you.”

  “You’re a great help,” snapped Fursey. He sat for a while gazing into the fire in much dejection of spirit.

  “Suppose,” he said at last, “suppose I do commit myself to the dangers of the forest, and succeed in escaping destruction by bandits, wild boars, wolves and the ghastly inhabitants of the tomb, what happens after that?”

  “Deep in the forest,” replied Albert, “you will come to a rude bridge of hurdles flung across a chasm.”

  “And I suppose,” said Fursey gloomily, “there’ll be a couple of poltergeists waiting there to throw me over.”

  “I don’t think the matter is a suitable one for joking,” said Albert huffily.

  “I assure you that I don’t feel a bit like joking,” replied Fursey. “All that you tell me is most dismal to my ear. What will I encounter at the bridge?”

  “You may not encounter anything,” said Albert stiffly, “but in its neighbourhood you will very likely espy a dark, low-sized fellow with the face of an ape.”

  Fursey breathed heavily through his nostrils. “You seem to be acquainted with all the riff-raff of the World of Shadows,” he said severely. “What is he? Some class of unclean spirit, I suppose?”

  “He’s the demon Elemauzer,” said Albert with dignity. “You will have no difficulty in recognising him. He has a pair of boar’s tusks, which are in the highest degree formidable.”

  When Fursey spoke again it was in a strange hollow voice:

  “The whole affair seems to me to wear a dismal aspect.”

  “You mustn’t let ideal terrors influence you,” urged Albert.

  “In the long run,” replied Fursey, “the adventure might well prove a bootless undertaking.”

  “You must act in the matter as suits your convenience and pleasure,” answered Albert coldly. “Take thought.”

  “I’m taking thought,” said Fursey, “and the whole business seems to me to be in the highest degree unwholesome.”

  “I admit that once you are in the forest it will be necessary for you to behave with uncommon caution.”

  “You’re very glib,” said Fursey, “but it seems to me that I’ll be very lucky if I succeed in advancing one hundred paces into the forest without being torn into small pieces by someone either spectral or mundane. As for you, there’s no need to maintain that black and sulky aspect; it’s I, not you, who must face these manifold dangers.”

  “So you’re going to go?”

  “I don’t see what else I can do,” responded Fursey. “I’m in imminent danger of destruction at the hands of the Christian monarch who rules this territory, and it seems that Satan is the only one who can advise me. I feel moved to much cursing and swearing, but unfortunately I don’t know how.”

  “When you encounter the demon Elemauzer, you should address him courteously and ask him to direct you to the Prince of Darkness. He will not hesitate to do so.”

  “I will,” said Fursey glumly, “if I get that far. I’ll enter the forest well charged with ale. It may serve to allay my trepidation.”

  “Before you order me to disappear,” said Albert, “I would remind you that I will be due for another feed of your blood at latest the day after to-morrow.”

  “Kindly vanish,” ordered Fursey, “and don’t bother me further. I’ve enough worries of my own.”

  Albert disappeared slowly with a wriggle of indignation, and Fursey was once more by himself.

  CHAPTER II

  It is unlikely that Fursey would have ventured into the forest at all that night but for the courage artificially induced in him by the consumption of large quantities of ale. Although it was not yet dark when he left the cottage, he held a lighted lantern high above his head. He had a length of rope slung over his shoulder and his gait was somewhat uncertain. It was a couple of miles to the edge of the woodland, and by the time he arrived among the occasional trees that were the outposts of the forest, he had sobered considerably. The shades of evening had deepened between the trees and, as Fursey stood peering into the green gloom, indefinable fear gripped him. Even the trees seemed to him to wear a look of conscious mystery. The path which he must take was murky and in the highest degree uninviting. He stood in an agony of indecision. He was sorely tempted to retrace his steps, and it was only by keeping constantly before his mind the elaborately equipped torture parlours of the King of Mercia, that he hardened his courage sufficiently to enter the forest. He told himself that he would be wise to hasten so as to complete as much of his journey as possible before the light faded altogether from the sky. This thought seized on his mind so powerfully that he began to run. It seemed an age before he reached the spot where the fatal bridlepath wound off to the left. Here he paused, the prey of the most painful imaginings. With a shaky hand he flung his rope over one of the lower branches of a tree.

  “A large beaker of ale,” he whispered.

  The beaker slid down the rope, and Fursey took a long pull, half emptying the vessel. Then he secured himself a second beaker, made an attempt to damp down his terror, and started to tiptoe down the bridlepath, filled with dismal foreboding. It seemed to him a profound forest and very dusky, but he did not dare let his mind dwell on its secrets. Instead he sought to conjure up an image of himself being introduced to a company of the King’s most expert torturers. Once, as the pale glimmer of his lantern lit up a space between the trees, he thought that he saw something very frail moving in the black depths of the wood; but in the dubious twilight he could not be certain. He stopped to take a swig from his beaker before hurrying on. He had gone a long distance along the crazy track when he was brought to a standstill by the sudden appearance of a dingy phantom leaning against a tree. It turned on the quaking Fursey an eager, frenzied eye, and contemplated
him for a moment before suddenly springing eight feet up the bole. The wonder was that Fursey retained his wits. As it was, he staggered uncertainly and with difficulty kept his feet. The phantom was of peculiar aspect. He seemed a sullen, rancorous fellow and had piercing eyes like those of a water-rat. It was quite apparent to Fursey that he was a demon of the lower sort, but in spite of his uninviting aspect he seemed to be a knacky and ingenious fellow, for before the eyes of the startled Fursey he began to climb the tree with his teeth. This unusual behaviour was little calculated to allay Fursey’s disquiet. He became suddenly galvanised into action and began to run with such violence that he dashed himself against a tree. In a flash he was on his feet again and scuttled down the track as fast as his legs would carry him. He was conscious of mad laughter accompanying him as he ran. It seemed to come not only from behind the trees and from the undergrowth, but to be all around him. Fursey ran faster than he had ever run in his life before, and as he ran he raised the beaker to his lips and strove to drink at the same time, spilling most of the liquor in his efforts. He had turned a corner and run right through a meagre gentleman in a shroud before he noticed him. When Fursey realised what had happened, he did not pause to make any explanations, but ran all the harder. When he stopped at last through sheer exhaustion, the blood was pounding in his temples and his heart felt as if it might at any moment burst through his chest. He leaned against a tree to recover his breath.

  “By God,” said Fursey, “this is a sombre business.”

  The wood was quiet. Between the treetops came the random light of the moon, shedding over all a dismal sepulchral illumination. But the wood was quiet, and Fursey allowed himself to hope that he had passed successfully through that area of it which was haunted. But before long his hopes were dashed, for he had no sooner recovered his breath than he observed something approaching him, flitting from tree to tree. Whatever it was, it seemed of flighty and unsettled character, and very bristly. Fursey did not wait to scrutinise it further, but hastily finished his beaker of ale and took to his heels once more.