by Mervyn Wall
“The whole countryside thinks you’re dead,” he exclaimed. “On the day on which the Vikings sacked Clonmacnoise, a glorious apparition of you in shining armour was seen on the hillside giving warning of the impending danger to the holy settlement. The timely vision enabled the pious inmates to seek the shelter of the round towers, and thus they were preserved from slaughter.”
Fursey was too dumbfounded to reply.
“Why man,” continued Magnus, scarcely pausing for breath, “you have been publicly rehabilitated, an image of you has been erected in Clonmacnoise, and the cause for your canonisation is well under way.”
He seated himself on a stone and grinned at Fursey delightedly. Fursey stood opposite him, his mouth fallen open as he strove to collect his scattered wits.
“So you’re not dead?” said Magnus at last.
“No,” admitted Fursey, “I’m alive.”
“And what are you doing in this part of the country?”
“I was passing by,” stuttered Fursey, “and I thought it but courteous to call and pay my respects.”
“Maeve will be delighted to see you,” Magnus went on. “She told me all about you, what a harmless, poor fellow you are, and that you’re a man more to be pitied than blamed; so that the bad opinion I once had of you, is entirely dispelled.”
Fursey conjured up a polite smile, but from behind the smile he looked at Magnus with distaste. Magnus had become stout, his face was puffy from good cooking and a fond wife’s care, his stomach pressed hard against his breeches’ belt. Fursey fingered the bodkin in his pocket and thought how pleasant it would be to rip Magnus to the midriff and see his entrails fall out. But in the hard school of danger Fursey had learnt how to dissemble. Black as were his thoughts, they cast no shadow across his blandly smiling countenance.
“Do you ever do an odd bit of sorcery now?” enquired Magnus giving him a fat wink, “not that your powers in that regard were ever very formidable.”
“No,” replied Fursey, “I’m entirely cured. I’m glad to say that I’m a normal, decent Tipperaryman once more.”
“I suppose you’re going back to the monastery?”
Fursey looked at him in astonishment. “I never thought of that,” he said slowly.
“It can be easily arranged,” continued the soldier. “As a matter of fact I have a bit of influence with the abbot myself. We became great friends on the journey back from Britain. Come on down to the house, and we’ll talk it over with Maeve. You must stay to supper anyway.”
As Magnus strode ahead of him, Fursey stared at the ruddy bull-neck and broad shoulders of his host, and marvelled at the man’s self-confidence. Apparently the prime necessity for success in life was a firm foundation of insensitiveness mortared well in by stupidity. Magnus entered the cottage first and stridently announced Fursey’s arrival. She dropped her work at once and advanced to greet him with both hands extended.
“Is there something wrong with your eyes?” asked Magnus solicitously.
“The peat smoke affects them,” muttered Fursey, brushing away with the back of his hand the moisture which had gathered.
Maeve glanced away and dragged a stool from a corner. Fursey went stumblingly forward and seated himself. For a long time the cottage was loud with Magnus’ raucous joviality, Fursey’s timid replies and Maeve’s silence. Once or twice when Fursey ventured to look at her, he saw that she was observing him steadily; but when she met his eyes, she turned away her own and began to busy herself about her work. When they sat down to supper, Fursey gave a cautious account of his good fortune in encountering a man of great piety and being cured of sorcery by him. He admitted that he had been at Clonmacnoise in the flesh. He had disguised himself in a Viking’s helmet and armour, and had hurried ahead of the raiders to apprise the settlement of its danger. He said nought of his sojourn among the refugee wizards in the hills.
“And what have you been doing these last ten months since the affair at Clonmacnoise?”
“Working with a farmer here and there, making pilgrimages, and in general mending my soul.”
“You must have become a man of great piety,” exclaimed Magnus with admiration.
“Well, I’m better than I was,” admitted Fursey modestly.
“We must really get you back to the monastery,” declared Magnus.
“Yes,” put in Maeve. “It will be the best place for you.”
Fursey raised his eyes to her face.
“You will be happiest there,” she added quietly and turned away her head.
When the meal was over, Magnus drew two flagons of ale, and handing one to Fursey, led him out-of-doors into the mild evening sunlight. They sat down at the base of a tree. The dreaming hills which surrounded them, the drifting smoke from distant cottages and the muttering of a nearby stream among the stones induced in them a quiet in keeping with that breathless hour of evening. From time to time Magnus spoke, random and unfinished sentences; occasionally he sighed for no apparent reason. There was war in the north. It promised good and bloody fighting, and much booty. He would like to go. He felt that he was growing too comfortable and soft. Sitting at home watching a woman work and eating the food which she prepared, was no life for a man. He would like to go. When he was old he would have plenty of time to sit warming his knees before the fire. A homesickness came on him at times, a longing to face a fierce and bitter enemy, and to return blow for blow. But Maeve thought that he should stay at home. Warfare is all right for single men, she said; a married man has his responsibilities.
Magnus heaved great sighs and buried his face in his ale-mug. He spoke another few random words. Fursey scarcely listened. He was thinking of the strangeness of things, of his own hatred of adventure and his longing for the quiet and safety that went with marriage and a little piece of land. He sighed too, but more gently than the windy Magnus. Then he remembered that he had sat like this under a tree in Britain and looked about him at a scene in which everything was in harmony except himself. In those days he had possessed woman and house and land, and such share of wealth as he needed. Yet he had felt himself an outsider. He had not been content: he had been a man of property sitting under a tree aware of his possessions and of the beauty of the world in which he moved; but he had not been content. His friend the molecatcher was a philosopher and might have been able to explain these things; but they had taken the molecatcher and hanged him from his own roof-tree.
It waxed late. Magnus rose with a grunt and led the way back to the cottage. It seemed to be accepted that Fursey would remain in the hut for the night, and after a feeble protest he consented. A bed of rushes was spread for him on the floor, and he crawled on to it muttering his thanks. Magnus and Maeve stood in the doorway of the hut until a late hour conversing in undertones. Fursey, lying on the couch, wondered what they were whispering about. He suspected that it was about himself; and at first he strained his ears to hear, but their speech was too low, and he soon gave over the attempt. He stretched his neck on his soft pillow and reflected on the strange turn which matters had taken. Instead of quenching Magnus as he had intended, he had permitted lassitude to creep over him. His instinct now was to allow events to take whatever course they would. He told himself that he was indifferent.
He was awakened early on the following morning by a busy stir in the cottage. He was surprised that breakfast should be so early—it did not seem long after sunrise—but when the meal was finished, the reason became apparent.
“Maeve and I discussed your position last night,” began Magnus. “We think that we should let the Abbot Marcus know that you are alive and with us. I’m going to set out for Clonmacnoise this morning. I estimate that the journey there and back will take me three days. We think it right to inform you of what we are doing. You may remain here until I return. I expect that the Abbot will come back with me.”
Fursey looked at him dully, but said nothing.
“Don’t you agree that we are doing the right thing?” asked Maeve gently.
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Fursey laboriously gathered in his thoughts.
“I suppose so. Is there any danger that the abbot may have me arrested and put on trial for sorcery? My life has been of little value to anyone; still there are pleasanter ways of terminating it than on a funeral pyre.”
Maeve unaffectedly slid her hand across the table and laid it on his. A lightning thrill shot through Fursey so that he trembled all over. He looked up at her dumbly, and saw with emotion that her eyes were bright with tears.
“Dear, dear Fursey,” she said, “we don’t believe that you are in any danger. Ever since it was believed that your disembodied spirit manifested itself at Clonmacnoise eight months ago and saved the monks from destruction, your case has been examined and argued over, and the Abbot and community are convinced that a grievous wrong was done you in the first place in expelling you from the monastery. They are good men; and the fact that you are still in the flesh, is no reason for them to reverse their judgment. I’m sure that they’ll take you back. In any case Magnus promises that if treachery is contemplated, he will ride ahead and give you warning, so that you may escape to the hills.”
Fursey felt that there was nothing that he could say. He went out of the house with Magnus and helped him to saddle his horse. The soldier was gay and whistled as he went about his final preparations.
“I’m looking forward to this journey,” he confided. “It’s good for a man to feel a horse between his legs and a sword by his side, and to be riding out into the free air once again.”
He turned to wave his hand as he rode away. Fursey returned to the cottage marvelling that anyone should rejoice at being separated from Maeve for three long days. He sat in a corner of the hut surreptitiously watching her as she went about her work. Each time he looked at her he experienced a tiny shock of surprise. Her face as it had been when he first knew her, was indelibly engraved on his mind, the face of a girl with her hair blown back by the wind, a girl with lively eyes, and one who was always laughing. That had been only a year ago, yet there was considerable change already. Her hair was more neatly kept, her gaze, though still kind, was steadier; and there was a firm competence about her mouth which he had never noticed before. At last Maeve became embarrassed at so frequently encountering Fursey’s dog-like gaze, and she indicated to him ever so gently that in the hut he was in her way. She suggested that he should go for a little walk outside, but to be sure to be back in time for the midday meal.
He rambled disconsolately in the neighbouring fields and cursed his ill-luck that he was without the love philtre. He reflected darkly on the base ingratitude of the cow who had so ill repaid his kindness to her. This would have been a glorious opportunity for the use of the love potion, a shot of it in the porridge when Maeve wasn’t looking, and the woman was his. There was no doubt but that she had changed; yet steady eyes, well-kept hair and a competent mouth were attractive to him, and he still believed her to be without peer among womankind. When he reflected that she was married to an oaf like Magnus, entirely unappreciative of her excellences, he ground his teeth impotently. The fact that Magnus had left her unguarded for three days while Fursey was in the house, was an added injury. It meant that the hearty soldier did not consider him a serious rival.
He was sitting silently at the table after the midday meal when Maeve came from the door to tell him that the small boy Benignus was enquiring for him. Fursey immediately brightened.
“That youngster is not a relation of yours or of your husband’s?” he enquired.
“No,” she replied.
“Nor a friend?”
“No.”
“I formed the impression that he is a particularly offensive little brat,” said Fursey.
Maeve laughed. “I’m afraid that he is. He’s a neighbour’s child, and he’s rather spoilt.”
Fursey rose and left the hut, picking up a heavy stick which he had noticed behind the door. The boy was waiting outside.
“Eh, mister,” he said belligerently, “you promised me something for delivering your letter.”
“I have it for you here, my little man,” replied Fursey smiling benignantly. “Let’s walk up to the road, and I’ll give it to you there.”
They walked up the track, Fursey’s hand resting benevolently on the boy’s shoulder. When they reached the road, Fursey tightened his grip and gave the boy a couple of unmerciful skelps with the stick. The child fled down the road howling for its mother, while Fursey returned to the cottage in a state of great satisfaction. He remained in the best of good humour for the rest of the evening.
On the afternoon of the third day there was a clatter of hooves on the track outside: Fursey experienced a sudden fright, but he went to the door with Maeve. Magnus was outside helping the Abbot Marcus to alight from his horse. Fursey stood with a sad smile upon his face looking at the man whom he had once loved and respected so much.
“Ah, Fursey,” was all that the abbot said, but he laid his hand kindly on Fursey’s shoulder. They entered the cottage together. Some time passed in the usual commonplaces about the weather and the crops while the abbot sipped a bowl of milk which Maeve had placed before him. When courtesy had been satisfied, the Abbot rose and suggested that he and Fursey should take a little stroll. As they climbed the track to the road Fursey noticed with sorrow that the Abbot had become bowed and old. For an hour they paced the road together. The Abbot spoke of the sense of guilt which had lain so long upon his spirit.
“As long as I have known you,” he said, “I do not remember that you ever told me a lie. A year ago when you were being sorely tempted and harried by demons in your cell at Clonmacnoise, you told me of your experiences with no attempt at evasion or concealment. You did not pause to consider whether such admission on your part would perhaps prejudice me against you. When I consented to your expulsion from the monastery as a means of ridding the holy settlement of the demons which had attached themselves to your person, I did so with an uneasy conscience. We were clearly sacrificing you for the good of the community. You will appreciate how difficult it was to preserve order and good discipline while devils lurked in every dark corner saluting with cuffs and blows all who encountered them; and when even my oldest and trustiest monks were being subjected to temptations of the lewdest character imaginable by shameless female demons dancing in and out of their cells at all hours of the day and night.”
“It was hard on me all the same,” said Fursey quietly.
“It was hard,” admitted the Abbot, “but it was imperative to rid the settlement of its terrible visitants. And our judgment proved to be right: when you went, the demons went with you and troubled us no more. I said just now that I’ve never known you to tell me a lie. I’m therefore prepared to accept without further question your assurance that you have been completely cured of your sorcery. On my way hither I stopped at Cashel to inform the Bishop that you were still alive, and of your happy deliverance. He agreed, grudgingly I’ll admit, that no further action should be taken against you. I observe that you are unwilling to give me a detailed account of how you have spent the last ten months, but I shall not press you on that score. I’m sufficiently convinced of the worth of your character to be certain that those months have not been spent in evil-doing. In short, I’m prepared to take you back into the monastery. Your old position paring edible roots in the kitchen awaits you. In a year’s time if you continue to give satisfaction, I promise to consider seriously your possible promotion to the office of Lay brother in Charge of the Poultry.”
“What a little world he lives in,” thought Fursey, “yet it was once my universe.”
“Well, what do you say?” queried the Abbot. “Are you willing to return?”
“I appreciate your magnanimity,” replied Fursey, “but I can’t go.”
The Abbot did not speak for some minutes, but continued to pace the road. At last he halted and turned to look at his companion. Fursey was grieved at the unutterable sorrow in his eyes.
“Why?” he ask
ed.
“Things have changed,” muttered Fursey. “I’ve changed. I’ve seen the world, and bitter and cruel as it is, I belong there now. I cannot go back to the cloister.”
The Abbot said nothing more; but he looked very old and very bowed when they helped him on to his horse an hour later. He declined to permit anyone to accompany him, but walked his horse slowly up the track and disappeared around the bend without even once looking back.
Fursey sat in the darkest corner of the cottage, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees staring at the fire. He gazed at the playful flames, not because he was interested in them, but because he was afraid to encounter the eyes of the others. Magnus sat at the table with set brows oiling his leathern shield. When that operation was completed to his satisfaction, he began to polish his sword, grunting occasionally as he discovered a speck of rust. In the background Maeve clattered dishes very determinedly. She kept her back to Fursey. At last she approached the table with a platter in either hand.
“Move those things,” she said sharply to Magnus. “Do you expect us to eat our supper off the floor?”
Magnus raised his head and looked at her loweringly. Then with a sudden gesture of vexation he swept his armament from the table and stalked through the open doorway. He sat down on the ground outside and continued his work. Maeve, with heightened colour, began to lay the table. Fursey sat, his heart throbbing painfully, until she curtly summoned him to his meal. He shuffled over to the table and seated himself. Magnus came in a few moments later, lifted a chair and planting it very firmly, flung his huge frame on to it so that it creaked. He pushed a couple of plates aside and set his elbows firmly on the table as if to assert that he was the master of the house. The meal proceeded in silence. Fursey, who was normally a considerable trencherman, found difficulty in swallowing each mouthful. Magnus ate doggedly staring at a spot in the centre of the table. Maeve seemed to have little appetite. Fursey was afraid to lift his eyes, but her long, white hands were within his radius of vision, and he noticed that she toyed with each morsel and raised very little to her mouth. When at last she spoke, Fursey dropped his knife with the fright of suddenly hearing her voice cutting through the silence.
