by Mervyn Wall
“Just look,” he ejaculated. He gripped the ground firmly with his front paws and shook himself like a dog. He was immediately enveloped in a cloud of white dust.
“What’s that?” asked Fursey in surprise.
“Dandruff,” snarled Albert. “My coat is falling out in chunks.”
Fursey ran his eye over the rusty black hair which covered his familiar.
“How is that?” he asked innocently.
“How is that!” howled Albert indignantly. “Because you’re deliberately starving me. I’m almost completely dehydrated.”
“Oh,” said Fursey with distaste. “I suppose you’re looking for more of my blood.”
“More!” screeched Albert. “What did I ever get out of you except a thimbleful? Didn’t I tell you the last time you summoned me that I needed feeding at least every second day? God be with the days when I had a master with some sense of his responsibilities! I didn’t know how lucky I was. You’d never think to look at me now that I was once a nimble and lively elemental. Your meanness and neglect has me completely destroyed and punctured.”
“See here,” said Fursey. “I’m not going to stand impertinent backchat from you. I’ve enough troubles of my own without, every time that I see you, having to concede to your selfish demands.”
“Selfish demands!” Further words failed Albert. He rose and padded back and forward on the road for a few moments, throwing his snout despairingly to the sky as if to call all creation to witness that never had an elemental been so tortured. At last he came to rest opposite Fursey, and bent his gaze upon his master with hatred flickering in his eyes.
“I only wish,” he choked, “that in your recent several perambulations a brace of lusty wolves had fastened on you with their paws.”
“To feed you constantly with my blood,” said Fursey coldly, “would seem to me curious and dreadful conduct.”
“You’re a man of perverse intelligence,” yelped Albert. “Who better than I can advise you as to what things will tend to your profit and welfare? But you are determined to maltreat me and make an enemy of me.”
“I’m tired of your company and your bad temper,” replied Fursey. “Kindly vanish.”
“I’ll thwart you in your designs,” screeched Albert as he began to disappear in spite of himself. “I’ll frustrate you. I’ll tell every spirit and demon I know that you’re nothing but a hard-fisted curmudgeon.”
As he faded into nothingness Fursey shook his head sorrowfully. He sat for a time in gloomy meditation, then he rose with a sigh and continued his way along the mountain track. He had not travelled very far when he came to the edge of a small moorland lake. A man in grey stood on the brink. He held a fishing rod in his hand and was carefully coiling up his line. When he saw Fursey, he walked over to join him.
“Any luck?” asked Fursey, nervously wondering who the stranger was.
“No luck,” replied the angler, “though I tumbled one or two.”
Fursey recognised in the stranger’s eye the mad glint of the fanatical fisherman.
“Is the fishing any good around here?” he asked soothingly.
“No,” said the stranger. “Limestone bottoms.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Fursey.
“It’s a very serious thing for an angler to have a limestone bottom,” explained the man in grey.
“I suppose so,” said Fursey, looking at his companion curiously.
“Ground feeding,” said the angler.
“I see,” said Fursey.
“Maybe you’re going my way,” said the man in grey. “Up the hill? My name is Turko.”
Fursey bowed his head politely, but did not otherwise reply, as he deemed it unwise to tell in turn his name to the stranger. The omission did not pass unnoticed by Turko, and he eyed Fursey suspiciously as they mounted the track. They had not walked very far when he suddenly stopped and turned about.
“I trust that you’re not a spy from Cashel,” he said menacingly, “because if you are, it would be better for you that you had never been born.”
Fursey hastily assured him that nothing was further from his thoughts than to spy on anyone.
“What are you doing then in this gloomy and inhospitable region? I warn you not to attempt to dissemble. You’re in a very sorcerous neighbourhood, and we refugees in the hills are men of irritable temper.”
Fursey did not like the turn the conversation had taken, but he thought it wiser to speak the truth.
“My name is Fursey,” he replied. “I’m seeking an old acquaintance named Cuthbert, who, I have been told, has taken up residence in these hills.”
“Oh,” said Turko, “so you know Cuthbert. He lives in a cavern some distance from this spot.”
“Being in the neighbourhood,” volunteered Fursey cautiously, “I thought it would be but courteous to call on him and pay my respects.”
Turko shot a quick glance at him and then began to lead the way up the hillside in silence. They had progressed a considerable distance before he again stopped and spoke.
“You know that Cuthbert is a sorcerer?” he asked, looking Fursey straight in the face.
Fursey hesitated. “Yes.” he replied at last; “in fact, I have some slight acquaintance with sorcery myself, but I’m in a very small way of business.”
Turko seemed at last convinced of Fursey’s bona fides. His face cleared, and he took Fursey by the arm. When he again spoke, his voice was shot through with friendliness.
“I see by your dress,” he said, “that you are a stranger in these parts, but if you are a displaced person like ourselves you are heartily welcome to our community. A couple of months ago the Bishop of Cashel launched a pogrom against the men of intellect resident in his diocese. Many of us met our end at the stake, which is an unlucky way to die and very inconvenient. Others did not even get that far, but died uncomfortably during the preliminary examination, in which racks, thumbscrews, knotted cords and ingenious wheels were brought to bear in order to drive home the authorities’ point of view. Fortunately, some of us escaped by timely flight to the hills, and we now dwell in rather loose community in sundry caves and foxholes which we have rented from Festus Wisenuts, who is the landlord and sole owner of this area of mountain. You will find us an interesting and distinguished company. I myself am a crystallomancer—I read the future in a crystal. I possess a very potent stone, which I brought with me in my flight. Our community does not lack scryers and astrologers; we have an abundance of sorcerers, a couple of mathematicians, a ventriloquist, two conjurers, three clairvoyants and one reciter of poetry.”
“One cannot but be at home,” murmured Fursey courteously, “among such polite society.”
“We are fortunate in having an enlightened and sympathetic landlord,” explained Turko. “He’s a man of ineffable ambitions, who for many years devoted himself to the mysteries of occult mathematics, a subject which is enveloped in a chaos of cloud and darkness. To tell you the truth, I doubt if Festus Wisenuts came out any wiser than he went in. But he is a man with a raging thirst for knowledge, and for some years past he has been treading the crooked paths of sorcery. He began his studies by taking up residence among the tombs, but I don’t think he learnt much there either. He now lives a little distance from here in a dreary cavern and does magic all day long. He rarely emerges except to climb the mountain to a plateau of abominable repute, where he spends a couple of hours trying to coax the demons from their marshy haunts.”
“He must be a man of interesting and elegant mind,” said Fursey nervously. “It will be a great pleasure to make his acquaintance.”
“Yes,” said the crystallomancer slowly, seeming to weigh his words. “I have no doubt but that you will find him interesting. He is a man of most distinguished appearance, tall, grave and handsome. His face is ornamented with a narrow, silvery beard, which is the envy of many. He affects a black cloak covered with the signs of the zodiac, which imparts to him a priestly appearance. But I’ll let you in on a se
cret,” added Turko confidentially. “He’s not any good as a wizard. A man like Cuthbert could make rings round him. But naturally none of us ever dares to let him suspect our opinion of his efforts and achievements. After all, he’s our landlord; and if he took it into his head, he could turn us all out of our caves with a notice to quit. Of course, he’s not likely to do so. I suspect that he’s secretly glad of the proximity of so many wizards. You see, he’s not at all above picking up magical tricks from his tenants and pretending that they were always part of his own repertoire. But I’ll say this for him, he’s a man devoted to his profession. He works hard. As I passed his cave on my way down here, he was standing in the entrance essaying some magical sleight-of-hand with the remnants of a goat.”
“Is it not the case,” enquired Fursey, “that these interesting experiments are not always performed with complete immunity from danger to those who undertake them?”
Turko lowered his voice. “I’ll be quite frank with you,” he said. “I’m glad that I’m not a wizard. The gift of sorcery is frequently an embarrassing profession; in fact, it’s apt to prove in the highest degree perilous.”
“There’s no need to tell me that,” replied Fursey with conviction. “I know from my own experience that a sorcerer needs the utmost subtlety to continue alive at all.”
“That is so,” conceded Turko; “but I wasn’t referring to outside interference by busybodies, who can only think in terms of flaming pyres and torture chambers. I was referring rather to the perils to which even a cunning wizard exposes himself when actuated by an insatiable and base curiosity. Too frequently he will essay untravelled fields of experiment and will unloose potent forces which he lacks the knowledge to control. The end is disaster.”
“Crystal gazing seems a much safer profession,” remarked Fursey sadly.
“It is,” agreed the crystallomancer, “though the authorities burn you for that, too; but there’s no use worrying about such things, as they’ll burn you for almost anything. In the eyes of established authority the one unforgivable sin is to have an original and enquiring mind. Ideas—that’s what they’re afraid of.”
“Life is very peculiar,” commented Fursey.
“But to come back to what I was saying,” continued Turko, “Festus Wisenuts as a wizard labours under a feeling of inferiority. He knows in his heart that he’s a negligible sorcerer, but he daren’t admit it to himself or to anyone else. The result is that to convince himself and others of his great abilities he’s always attempting the most extravagant experiments. At one time he had a young cockatrice chained in the depths of his cave, and he spent a fortnight trying by magic to teach it to play the bagpipes. As you may well imagine, the cockatrice didn’t like it; and it strained at its chain and behaved in a most formidable manner, menacing destruction to all who approached. We were all of us afraid to enter the cave to pay the rent, and Festus Wisenuts became quite nasty about it. Then, unlike other sorcerers, he will not rest content with a dun dog or a speckled cat as his familiar, but must needs have nothing less than a tawny Moor. Well, tawny Moors are hard to come by, and for a long time past he’s been trying to conjure one into existence. He spent a week going around in circles with his face awry, breathing to left and right, and sprinkling powdered loadstone; but all he succeeded in conjuring up was a young hippogriff suckling its supernatural children.”
“Was there no sign of the tawny Moor?” asked Fursey, interested in spite of himself.
“Not a sign,” answered Turko shortly. “He tried it again, lost his head in the middle of the spell, forgot the words, and all but turned himself into a frog.”
Before Fursey could comment there was a sudden clap of thunder overhead and a comet shot across the sky. Turko flung himself on his face and Fursey immediately followed suit.
“There he is again,” said Turko savagely. “Another experiment gone wrong.”
When the crystallomancer was satisfied that the danger was past, he got slowly to his feet and brushed the dust from his clothing.
“I have little sympathy with such apish antics,” he commented bitterly. “I don’t mind a man becoming learned in runes or spending his time compounding salves. I don’t deny that magic may be useful sometimes; for instance, in enabling one to tie up an enemy’s guts. But there should be a law against a man releasing infernal powers when he doesn’t know how to control them. What are you standing there for? Why don’t you come on?”
“Do you not think,” enquired Fursey, “that it might be wiser to retrace our steps?”
“Nonsense,” replied Turko shortly. “You’ll have to get used to the perils inherent in close residence to Festus Wisenuts. Not,” he muttered, “that there isn’t a certain amount of wisdom in what you suggest. I’ve told the others again and again that Festus is a danger to us all; but what can we do? If we descend into the plain the Bishop will have us burnt.”
Turko continued along the track for some time with set brows, while Fursey trailed along behind him. When the crystallomancer spoke again, he prefaced his remarks with a gloomy shake of the head.
“The experiments of Festus,” he said, “have been playing havoc with the weather, too, during the past week. If you come out of your cave for a breath of air, and go for a ramble, you’re lucky if you succeed in covering a hundred paces without hearing an explosion, and before you can race back and gain the shelter of your cave you’re deluged by a shower of rain. God knows our caves are damp enough without the addition of artificially induced thunder showers. To tell you the honest truth, I’m sick and tired of living in this locality. Apart from the danger of having as neighbours a bunch of short-tempered wizards, my digestion is ruined by witch’s broth.”
“It does not appear to be a suitable locality in which to set up residence,” commented Fursey; “at least not for a man who hopes for quiet and longevity.”
Turko turned his head and stared at Fursey earnestly. “Life here,” he said, “is in the highest degree a hazardous business. I strongly advise you as long as you’re here to keep on the best of terms with everyone. That’s what I do, and in addition, just for safety, I keep in my cave a heated ploughshare, which is well-known to be a powerful antidote against the spells of wizards.”
“You don’t happen to have a second one to spare?” enquired Fursey.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t. If I had, you’d be welcome to it.”
They breasted the rise and paused for a moment to regain their breath. A narrow area of moorland stretched from where they stood to the base of a high cliff.
“You have uttered your mind to me very openly,” said Fursey with feeling, “and I want you to know that I’m grateful, and that I’ll respect your confidence. I hope that during my stay here we’ll be friends.”
The crystallomancer’s face softened suddenly and he flashed a smile at his companion.
“Of course we will,” he answered. “I’ve taken quite a fancy to you.”
They made their way across the broken ground towards the cliff. Fursey noted with a sinking heart the awful desolation of the place. The bracken through which they had to pass was nearly waist-high and the ground underfoot so broken and treacherous that he stumbled several times over rocks hidden in the waste of fern. When they emerged from the bracken and began to skirt the base of the cliff, Fursey glanced up at the soaring wall of fissured stone overhanging their path and hoped earnestly that nothing would fall on him. As they made their way around a giant boulder they came suddenly on an old man of venerable appearance sitting cross-legged on the ground in the lips of a narrow cleft. His nose was sunk in his extensive white beard, and he sat so motionless that at first Fursey thought that he was either asleep or dead.
“He’s a mathematician,” whispered Turko. “We mustn’t disturb him. He sits there all day, his daring spirit essaying untravelled realms of speculation.”
Fursey tiptoed past. A few moments later they passed the opening of a vast cavern.
“That’s where Festus Wisenut
s lives,” said Turko. “It’s too late in the evening to bring you in to introduce you. In any case he’s probably busy doing magic.”
Fursey was not sorry to defer his visit to the erratic Festus, especially as he noticed that there was a corporal’s guard of moles standing at the entrance to the cavern. Of the landlord himself he could see nothing: no doubt he was busy pondering magic in the dark depths within. As he hurried past, Fursey’s gaze made a quick circuit of the cave mouth, from the row of sentinel moles, over the jagged sides and ceiling. He shuddered: the opening was like a giant mouth yawning wide to snap and swallow him. He was glad when they left the cave behind. He was grateful, too, for Turko’s comforting presence.
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said the crystallomancer suddenly. “My cave is close at hand. We’ll go there, and I’ll let you search the future in my crystal. This is the very best hour for using the crystal, the hour of sunset.”
This suggestion was very agreeable to Fursey, who was by no means averse to deferring his visit to the sorcerer Cuthbert as long as possible. He quickened his pace instinctively, and Turko fell into step beside him, so that before long they arrived at the hollow cavity in which the crystallomancer dwelt. It was a pleasant, open place, with a neat bed of mugwort growing at the entrance. At the rear of the cave stood a small table. The crystallomancer lifted it and, bringing it towards the entrance, placed it before a low rock, on which he told Fursey to sit. Fursey seated himself and watched Turko’s further preparations with considerable interest. First, Turko covered the table with a white linen cloth. Then he took a black, ebony wand and traced on the ground a circle seven feet in diameter so as to include in its circumference the table and the rock on which Fursey was sitting. He placed a small brazier in the vicinity and drawing some handfuls of grains from a series of silken bags which hung on the wall, he cast them on to the glowing coals. A fine smoke arose, struck the rugged ceiling and spread throughout the cave. Fursey sneezed once or twice as the aromatic perfumes crept up his nostrils.
“You will soon accustom yourself to the vision-inducing incense,” said Turko, appearing suddenly through the smoke.
