by Mervyn Wall
Fursey wiped his streaming eyes and nodded his head bleakly.
Turko disappeared once more into the depths of the cave and emerged a moment later loaded down with the paraphernalia of his profession. Carefully he drew from its black cloth a crystal of pale, water-green beryl and placed it on the table. Then he added a sword, a length of twine, a new knife, a pair of scissors and a piece of stick.
“What’s that?” asked Fursey, alarmed at the production of lethal weapons.
“It’s a wand of hazelwood of twelve months’ growth and three feet in length,” explained Turko, “and this is a magic sword.”
“I see,” said Fursey. “What do we do next?”
Turko placed two tapers on the floor on either side of the circle. He lit the tapers before he replied.
“You mustn’t move,” he said. “You must keep your face towards the east and your eyes fixed upon the crystal. I am now about to charge the potent stone. When you observe a mist gathering in its depths, the interior faculties of your being will expand like a flower. Then when you are thoroughly entranced, the globe itself will vanish from your sight, the mist in its depths will part and you will be ravished by a vision of the radiant being who is the abiding spirit of the stone.”
“I see,” said Fursey nervously.
“I must warn you,” continued the crystallomancer, “that if your purpose is evil the crystal will avenge itself on you sooner or later with awful effect.”
“I have no purpose,” said Fursey hastily, “other than to learn what the future may hold for me.”
“That’s all right,” said Turko soothingly. “For your information, you may as well know that the basis of this operation is magnetism, which accumulates in the crystal by reason of the iron with which its constitution is infused. In the cerebellum,” he said, tapping Fursey on the back of the head, “there is a reservoir of magnetism, which streams forth from the eyes when the gaze is concentrated on the crystal. We must establish contact between the magnetism projected from your skull and the magnetism trembling in the stone. Now,” he added briskly, “do you wish to observe events taking place at a great distance in time or space, or do you prefer rather to be made aware of events which will occur in the near vicinity and before very long?”
Fursey thought of Maeve, who was no doubt resident at no great distance.
“Events near at hand,” he replied, “and which will happen soon.”
“Very good,” said Turko, and he began to make passes with his hands back and forward over the crystal.
“What are you doing?” asked Fursey.
“I’m magnetising the stone,” replied Turko shortly. “Don’t talk. Concentrate.”
Fursey found it hard to concentrate with the crystallomancer’s hands waving back and forward within two feet of his nose, but he continued to stare at the globe. At long last Turko, with a final languid wave of his hand, withdrew on tiptoe and cast another few handfuls of grains into the brazier. A cloud of white smoke billowed up and obliterated everything.
“What do you see?” hissed the crystallomancer in Fursey’s ear.
“Nothing,” said Fursey.
“It’s a good sign,” came the answer. “If the crystal at first is hazy, it means that one is likely to see an image.”
“But I can’t see the crystal,” said Fursey. “I can’t see anything with the smoke.”
“Keep looking at it,” came the angry reply. “The smoke will clear in a moment.”
As the smoke thinned, the crystal swam slowly into Fursey’s view.
“Do you see black clouds?” enquired the crystallomancer anxiously.
“No,” replied Fursey.
“Good thing,” muttered Turko. “Black clouds are inauspicious. By the way, I should have told you that anything you see on the right-hand side is merely symbolical. Keep concentrating.”
Fursey was becoming dizzy, but he continued to stare at the crystal for a seemingly interminable length of time. The veins stood out on his forehead.
“What do you see?” came the sibilant voice of the crystallomancer.
“Nothing,” gasped Fursey.
“Keep concentrating,” said Turko savagely.
Fursey’s two eyes protruded like bullets. Turko was making frantic passes over the crystal.
“The crystal is darkening,” cried Fursey suddenly.
“Good,” exulted the crystallomancer. The sweat ran down his forehead as his hands waved wildly back and forward over the stone.
“The crystal is becoming blindingly bright,” shouted Fursey. “It dazzles me.”
“The effulgence proceeds from its interior,” replied Turko. “Keep staring at it. Don’t mind your eyesight. Is a form or vision becoming manifest?”
“Something is becoming manifest,” said Fursey, lowering his voice suddenly.
“Do you see a radiant being, the abiding spirit of the stone?”
“No. I see a cow.”
“A what?”
“A cow’s head.”
“What’s she doing?”
“She’s looking at me.”
“What do you mean ‘looking at you’?”
“Just looking at me.”
“Well, you keep looking at her. Don’t let your gaze waver.”
Fursey and the cow continued to stare at one another for a long time without either party making a move.
“What’s happening now?” came the crystallomancer’s voice.
“She’s waggling her ears at me.”
“Remarkable,” muttered Turko.
“There are shadows beginning to move across the crystal from right to left,” announced Fursey. “The cow is fading.”
“The operation is at an end,” declared Turko. “You will see no more.”
Fursey rose to his feet and felt suddenly very tired. They walked together into the fresh air outside the cave.
“Remarkable,” repeated Turko. “Have you ever had dealings with a cow?”
Fursey thought for a moment. “No,” he answered.
“Then there’s a cow coming into your life,” declared Turko with finality. “We will try the experiment again before the moon becomes full. In the meantime you would be well advised to take an infusion of the herb mugwort from time to time during the moon’s increase. It has valuable anti-bilious properties and will aid your power of vision. I shall not charge you my usual fee for to-day’s session.”
“That’s very generous of you,” responded Fursey, “but you must at least let me stand you a drink. I’m sorely in need of one myself.”
Turko watched suspiciously as Fursey manipulated his rope and produced two flagons of ale.
“I had forgotten that you are something of a wizard,” he muttered as he took the proffered flagon gingerly. “I trust that I did not offend you earlier in the evening by my remarks about the profession.”
“Not at all,” replied Fursey. “You have earned my gratitude by being so frank. I’m glad to know the nature of the people amongst whom I must dwell.”
“Do you intend prolonged residence?” enquired the crystallomancer politely.
Fursey stirred uncomfortably. “Some weeks at least. I shall probably stay with Cuthbert or in his neighbourhood.”
“Is it long since you have seen Cuthbert?” asked Turko.
“About three months.”
“I’m afraid that you will find him sadly changed. The poor fellow has become a martyr to drink.”
“Indeed,” commented Fursey.
“He made his way here in a tattered and deplorable state. His cottage had been burnt by a furious mob during the witch hunt inspired by the Bishop, and Cuthbert barely escaped with his life. His sorrows are many, but most of all he deplores the loss of his store of magical books and his collection of horrible rarities, moles’ feet, murderers’ knucklebones and the like.”
“Yes,” said Fursey, “he had a considerable collection. I saw it once.”
“When he came here first,” continued Turko, “ther
e was no consoling him. ‘What use is a sorcerer to anyone without his stock-in-trade?’ was the burden of his complaint. Poor fellow, he’s scarcely to be blamed that he took to smothering his sorrows in alcohol. Like you, he has a rope, so that the means to intoxication are unfortunately always ready to hand. However, he keeps a plenteous board, due to that same rope, and he is able to produce the most delectable dishes, a fact which renders him highly popular in the community. I’m sure that you will be happy with him.”
“I hope so,” replied Fursey, without conviction.
“It grows late,” said Turko. “It is time for us to go. At least a mile of rough mountain country lies between us and the cave in which Cuthbert dwells.”
Fursey rose unwillingly to his feet and they set out across the soggy moorland.
“I’m still exercised about that cow,” remarked Turko. “Are you certain that your vision was not due to the delusions of a bewildered fancy?”
“I saw a cow,” replied Fursey obstinately.
Turko shook his head, and they continued the rest of their way in silence. From time to time Fursey glanced apprehensively at the black shadows oozing from the crevices of the awful heights which reared themselves above the stretch of bogland. In the twilight the outline of the hills was harsh and threatening, and their mass overwhelmed whatever little spirit he possessed. He felt against his face the small, damp wind which came across the moors. It stroked his face mockingly and slid away, smoothing a path for itself across the tips of the heather. In the failing light the entire upland had assumed an ominous character. The familiar material things, rock, bogland, shimmering pool and hill, seemed charged with malice. They seemed to Fursey to be watching him closely, waiting for the appropriate moment to rise up and destroy him. His fears were by no means diminished when there suddenly came to his ears from the heights above the lonely howling of some distant wizard chanting his way carefully through the intricacies of a conjuration. Fursey gasped and quickened his pace so as to keep abreast of his companion. At last they came to a tumble of great rocks sprawled in the shadow of the hill.
“This is the place,” whispered Turko. “I’ll leave you now. Unless I regain my cave before nightfall I’m likely to break a limb in crossing this unfriendly stretch of country.”
Without another word he turned and hurried back along the way they had come. It came into Fursey’s mind that the crystallomancer also was afraid of Cuthbert; then he forgot Turko and looked anxiously about him. He was at the entrance to a slender cleft in the rocks from which emerged a negligible trickle of water, formed probably by the continual gathering of moisture on the roof of the cave into which the crevice opened. As Fursey peered nervously into the orifice he became aware of a dim light in the interior. All at once it was obliterated. Someone had come between it and Fursey. He could see the outline of a human being standing before him.
“Who’s there?” asked a hollow voice.
Fursey mastered a sudden impulse to turn and take to his heels.
“Fursey,” he quavered, “your old friend, Fursey.”
A tall man with stooping shoulders emerged from the cave. He was clad in a tight-fitting suit of black, sadly dilapidated. He bent his wan face on his visitor and examined him with sharp, glittering eyes. He had a puckered, rabbit’s mouth and a long lock of black hair hung down over his forehead. His appearance was far from prepossessing. He was the sort of creature one might reasonably expect to meet about midnight on a lonely country road in the neighbourhood of a graveyard. Fursey shuddered under the steady gaze.
“I’m Fursey,” he squeaked. “Don’t you remember me?”
Cuthbert raised a meagre hand and rubbed his cheek. A sly and furtive look came into his eyes, but he said nothing.
“I met you last spring when you were sexton of Kilcock Churchyard,” continued Fursey. “I enjoyed for one night the hospitality of your cottage.”
“Yes,” answered Cuthbert at last, “I remember you. You’re the little laybrother whom they expelled from the monastery because the demons began to play tricks on him. I remember you well. Come in.”
He turned and re-entered the cave. Fursey with a quaking heart stumbled in after him. Inside it was more light. From a flat rock, which evidently served as a table, a long taper flickered oddly, casting shadows that advanced and retreated up and down the walls. On the floor at the back of the cave was spread a heap of rushes. There was a large number of empty flagons scattered here and there, but there were no furnishings. Cuthbert seated himself on a stone and motioned Fursey to a similar one where the taper light would play on his face. They looked across at one another in silence. In the half-light Cuthbert’s visage seemed demoniacal.
“Will you have a drink?” he asked suddenly.
Fursey was conscious of a sudden relaxation of tension.
“No, thank you,” he gasped, remembering even in his frightened state that he would be wise to keep his mind clear so as to be able to grapple with whatever might ensue.
Cuthbert raised a flagon from the ground at his feet and took a deep draught. Fursey realised suddenly that he was half drunk.
“You see before you,” declared Cuthbert, “the ruins of a great sorcerer.”
With a grandiose gesture he replaced the flagon on the floor at his feet. Fursey murmured deprecatingly, but Cuthbert raised a silencing hand.
“Yes,” he said, “I have lost everything. I have lost my magic books. I have lost my store of insidious poisons, powders and philtres, my menagerie of toads, moles, bats and vipers, my beautiful garden of noxious herbs and plants—the collection and care of a lifetime, all gone! Not even the marrows of a murderer or the thumb of a suicide is left.”
As he sank back, resting his spare frame against the wall of the cave, he presented a most rueful spectacle, a living example of the condition to which sorcery and alcohol can bring a respectable sexton.
“A man of your abilities——” began Fursey soothingly.
Cuthbert shook his head despondently. “How can I start again?” he asked. “A sorcerer without the tools of his trade is lamed and helpless. It would have been better if they had apprehended me and immolated me in the fire which consumed my possessions.”
“We must never lose heart,” muttered Fursey.
“Such an affliction as I have undergone,” answered Cuthbert, “undermines the spirit. There is no medicine for a cankered heart. I am an outlaw who may never abide for long in the one place. Soon the authorities will search out this refuge, and I shall have to take to the roads. I may make an ignoble living amongst sportsmen and peasants, charming cocks for cock fighting or the like. I have no other future.”
Listening to this dolorous discourse, Fursey began to wonder whether his long journey and the manifold dangers which he had encountered had all been to no purpose.
“But you still retain your knowledge,” he argued anxiously. “You know how to manufacture love philtres, for instance?”
Cuthbert appeared to observe the note of anxiety in Fursey’s voice. He raised his head suddenly. “What do you want of me?” he asked.
“I was advised by Satan to seek you out,” began Fursey.
“A very upstanding gentleman,” commented Cuthbert with a respectful bow of his head, “but one with whom I have only a slight acquaintance. How is His Highness keeping?”
“When I last saw him,” replied Fursey, “I regret to say that he was not in the best condition.”
“Indeed,” replied Cuthbert solicitously.
“He presented a very battered appearance,” replied Fursey. “He was generally soiled and seemed very rickety as to his legs. Moreover, he had lost the tip of an ear.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” commented Cuthbert. “Did he have the misfortune to meet with an accident?”
“He had the misfortune to meet with a gentleman of the anchorite class,” explained Fursey, “and the affair had an unfavourable outcome.”
“These religious have the country ruined,” remarked C
uthbert acidly. “Things have come to a nice pass when the Prince of Darkness himself is not safe from their depredations.”
“He advised me to apprentice myself to you.”
“With what object?”
“Well, chiefly so as to learn the manufacture and use of love philtres.”
Cuthbert turned on Fursey a disapproving eye.
“I’m surprised at you,” he said. “I would never have suspected you of gallantry. I hope that your ultimate intentions in the matter are honourable.”
“Most honourable,” Fursey hastened to assure him. “I merely wish to deprive an unpleasant fellow of his life and contract a union with his spouse.”
Cuthbert’s brow cleared. “That’s all right,” he said. “I feared at first that more than one female was involved and that the matter wasn’t respectable.”
He sat for some time in silent thought, staring at the floor of the cave. When he raised his head to look at Fursey once more there was a brittle glint in his eye.
“Am I to understand that you are fully resolved in your purpose?”
“Yes,” replied Fursey stoutly. “I’m ensnared in the love of a woman whose natural perfections are such that I’m determined to stop at nought to gain her regard. To begin with, I want to learn how best to murder an audacious villain named Magnus, against whom I am implacably incensed. My hatred of mankind is such that I shall stop at nothing. Already I have become a man of the most pernicious principles. I’ve sold my soul to the Devil, and my rogueries are being spoken of far and near. I’ve led a band of Viking pirates against Clonmacnoise and burnt the holy settlement to the ground. I’m determined to become a menace to humanity, and I beg of you to take me as your apprentice and use your utmost endeavour to instil into me all the wickedness you know.”
Fursey paused from lack of breath and anxiously studied Cuthbert’s face to ascertain if he could whether or not the sorcerer believed him. Cuthbert was leaning forward with his elbows on the table watching him closely. As Fursey finished his peroration, Cuthbert slapped one hand into the other enthusiastically.
“There’s a catching oratory in your words,” he declared. “I’m glad you came to me. Maybe your companionship will serve to free me from my present morbid melancholy. We’ll begin your instruction to-morrow. We’ll go down to the graveyard and raise a wraith or two, for there’s much to be learnt from the souls of the lost.”
