by Mervyn Wall
Fursey made an attempt to speak, but no words came.
“I beg your pardon,” said Albert.
After a struggle Fursey managed to gasp out the words.
“Do you mean to say that I have become a sorcerer?”
“I do,” said Albert. “You are now a wizard and I’m your familiar, always at your service whenever you call upon me.”
“But I don’t want to be a wizard,” protested Fursey.
“I’m afraid you can’t help yourself,” said Albert. “You have inherited the old lady’s powers whether you like it or not. Of course you’ll require a good deal of practice before you acquire in the exercises of those powers a proficiency similar to hers.”
“What am I to do?” moaned the hapless Fursey.
“If you take my advice,” said Albert, “the first thing you’ll do is make friends with Cuthbert. It’s better to have him as a friend than as an enemy. The Gray Mare fell out with him, and you’ve seen what happened to her. Besides, he’s a man from whom you can learn a great deal, and if I may say so without offence, you have a great deal to learn. It’s not much use having the powers of a sorcerer unless you know how to use them.”
“And do I have to have you following me around everywhere?”
A look of surprise came into Albert’s red foggy eyes.
“Not at all,” he answered. “I’ll take shape when you call on me for advice or for the performance of some task. You have only to utter one word of dismissal, and I automatically disappear. While I am bound to carry out your commands to the best of my ability, I would, however, point out the advisability of your deferring, at least at first, to my judgment in matters affecting the exercise of your craft. After all, I am a familiar of considerable experience.”
Fursey passed his tongue over his parched lips and regarded his bestial companion with strong distaste.
“Furthermore,” continued the shaggy creature, “if you desire efficient service from me, it’s of the highest importance that you keep me well-fed and in good condition. I shall require, at least every second day, a feed of your blood.”
“What!” said Fursey, considerably startled.
“Somewhere about your person,” continued Albert smoothly, “you will find that you have acquired a supernumerary nipple. It may look like a wart or excrescence of some sort. That is the point at which you must suckle me with your blood.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” asserted Fursey.
“You will perhaps change your mind,” said Albert huffily, “when you discover the extent to which niggardliness in the matter affects my usefulness and efficiency. Lastly, it is my duty to inform you that if you have the misfortune to fall foul of the law, you will, while you’re in custody, be automatically bereft of my assistance and the solace of my companionship.”
“Why?” asked Fursey dully.
Albert looked surprised.
“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s the nature of familiars. That’s just the way things are.”
Deep in Fursey’s consciousness thoughts tumbled and elbowed one another, trying vainly to sort themselves out; but he was too tired, and he felt too broken and helpless to grapple with the situation. He realised that he was in a proper quagmire, but he had neither the heart nor the will to think about the matter further. He leaned against the table gazing dully before him.
“You ought to go down and make the sexton’s acquaintance,” suggested Albert.
“All right,” muttered Fursey, rousing himself.
Albert glanced around the kitchen.
“Bring the broom,” he said, “it may turn in useful. She anointed it and prepared it just before the end.”
Fursey put the broom under his arm and stood in a half-stupor while Albert’s red eye ran critically around the remaining poor possessions of the cottage.
“Nothing else of value,” he said. “Oh yes, put this in your pocket, if you have a pocket in that long skirt you’re wearing.”
“What is it?” asked Fursey, looking down at the small box which Albert had placed in his hand.
“It’s the ointment she prepared for anointing the broom,” replied the familiar. “Brooms need anointing from time to time or they lose their virtue. I won’t tell you what the ingredients are, as you seem as yet somewhat squeamish about these matters.”
As they left the cottage and walked slowly down the road towards the clump of trees where the sexton’s house stood buried in shadow, Fursey cast up his eyes to the wide star-shattered sky. The huge night was all about him. Houseless, friendless he knew himself to be; and nature, seen through the peculiar opalescent atmosphere of night, appeared not only indifferent, but harsh and estranged. Even the shred of moon that leaned drunkenly overhead seemed to him to be curved in a sneer. Was there anyone in the whole wide world who cared what became of Brother Fursey, late monk at Clonmacnoise? He told himself bitterly that there was not. He glanced at the ungainly monster shambling along by his side, grunting and belching in appreciation of the fine night air. There was no doubt about it, thought Fursey miserably, he was deeply in it: he had plumbed the lowest depths, and nothing worse could happen to him. He didn’t care, his heart was dead: let come what would.
As they passed along by the wall of the churchyard, Fursey glanced indifferently at the headstones among the weeds. If all the dead who had ever been buried there, were out in the moonlight playing leapfrog over the tombstones, Fursey felt that he wouldn’t have experienced either interest or alarm. He was past caring about anything.
They went on to where the shadows of the trees were deepest, and Fursey suddenly found that they were standing before a low thatched cottage. Albert rose on to his hindlegs and knocked discreetly at the door. Shuffling steps became audible within, and the door was opened by the lanky man in rusty black whom Fursey had seen gazing at him over the hedge earlier in the evening.
The sexton bowed, and with a graceful wave of his hand invited them to enter.
“Welcome to my house,” he said courteously as Fursey stepped into the kitchen. The sexton nodded familiarly to Albert as to an old acquaintance, and politely relieving Fursey of the broom, he propped it carefully in a corner.
“Pray, be seated,” he said.
Fursey sat down by the table and took a good look at the sexton. He was a lank, weedy man with sloping shoulders. His mouth was puckered, accentuating the general resemblance his countenance bore to that of a rabbit. A wipe of moist black hair hung down over his forehead. He wore rusty black clothes that had seen better days. He stood opposite Fursey cracking each of his fingers in turn, and regarding his visitor with a scarcely perceptible smile stirring the corners of his rabbit’s mouth. Fursey with an effort withdrew his eyes from those of his host and looked around the room. Hanging in a neat row from the wall were wheelbarrows, spades, lengths of rope and the varied paraphernalia of the sexton’s profession. There were shelves containing food and cooking utensils. A cheery fire blazed in one corner, and the smoke slithered gracefully up the wall and made its exit through an efficient smoke-hole in the roof. Everywhere was neatness and prosperity. The only evidence that the occupant was other than a highly respectable sexton was a manuscript with cabalistic signs which lay on the table between two rushlights, and a huge brindled cat sitting on the hearth who, when Fursey caught her eye, grinned at him furiously.
The sexton pulled a stool up to the table and seated himself opposite Fursey. He folded the manuscript carefully and put it aside.
“Very fine weather we’re having for this time of the year,” he remarked affably.
Fursey agreed that it was.
“Forgive me,” said the sexton, “I have neglected to make the usual introductions. This is Tibbikins, my familiar.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” muttered Fursey hoarsely.
The cat nodded cheerily and favoured Fursey with another grin. Albert lumbered over to the hearth, and the two familiars began a conversation in low tones.
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nbsp; “I judge from the fact that you have Albert attached to you, that you are now of the profession,” continued the sexton, “but I am unaware of the name by which you are called.”
“My name is Fursey.”
“You are a monk?”
“No. A widower.”
“Ah yes,” the sexton nodded sympathetically. “I watched the marriage ceremony on the road below this afternoon. Very unfortunate business, your wife’s demise; but, if I may say so, she had become a little high in herself recently. There was a goat also who, not content with eating a gatepost and a wire fence, consumed several of my trees and half the produce of my garden. I never knew an animal with such a prodigious appetite. No sooner had I some rare and valuable herbs planted, than they disappeared into her stomach. I’m fond of animals myself, but I do think that if one keeps livestock, one should keep them under control. Don’t you agree with me?”
Fursey nodded bleakly.
“Oh Tibbikins,” said the sexton turning towards the hearth, “perhaps you would like to take Albert into the other room and offer him a bowl of blood.”
Albert had no tail, but he wagged his hindquarters to show his appreciation as he shuffled out of the room in the wake of the brindled cat. Cuthbert leaned over towards Fursey and tapped him confidentially on the sleeve.
“You mustn’t think I’m a snob,” he said, “but I do believe in maintaining the distinctions of class. They are, after all, the chief bulwark of the social order. In any case, I should deem it a grave discourtesy to a fellow-human to discuss his private affairs in the presence of servants.”
He arose and put the manuscript carefully away on a shelf. Then he stood for a moment warming his back before the fire.
“The Gray Mare,” he said, “was a foolish woman. She had acquired a certain, I might even say, a considerable proficiency in the darker arts, but her over-weening confidence in herself betrayed her into the belief that she could match her powers with those of a master.”
His eyes glittered as he brushed back the long lock of hair from his forehead. It immediately fell down over his other eye. He came to the table and again seated himself opposite Fursey.
“I hope you bear me no ill-feeling,” he said anxiously. “I don’t know what you did to the old lady; but somehow, this afternoon I got the impression that it was what is called ‘a forced marriage’.”
“It was,” agreed Fursey. “I’m not conscious of personal loss.”
“Good,” said Cuthbert, rubbing his thin hands. “Then we can be friends. You now belong to the brotherhood, the oldest priesthood in the world, older than Christianity, druidism or any religion that man has ever thought up for himself.”
Fursey felt that he should contradict these sentiments; but deeming it wise to be discreet, he continued to stare emptily at the smiling sexton.
“But, my dear Fursey, why are you so enveloped in gloom on what should be the happiest day of your life? Think of it, think of the vast inheritance into which you have entered.”
“I’m rather tired,” said Fursey apologetically. “I have only had one night’s rest in several weeks; and I’ve had a rather trying time to-day.”
“Insomnia!” said the sexton. “And here I am chattering away and keeping you from your bed. We’ll have plenty of time to talk to-morrow. Come, my poor friend.”
The sexton picked up one of the rushlights from the table and led Fursey into the other room. The two familiars were sitting on the floor engaged in desultory conversation.
“That will be all for to-night, Tibbikins,” said the sorcerer. “You may disappear.”
The brindled cat slowly vanished, beginning with her ears and continuing the process until it reached the tip of her tail.
“I think you might do the same for Albert,” suggested the sexton. “You won’t require him again to-night.”
Albert looked up at Fursey, the light of expectancy in his smoky red eyes. As Fursey gazed at the rusty black coat and the bear’s paws, the creature seemed to him to typify all that had made his life a misery in the foregoing weeks.
“Go away,” he said with distaste.
Albert melted gracefully into the air with a final friendly waggle of his hindquarters.
“Now, lie down, my friend,” said the sexton.
Fursey took off his sandals and stretched himself on the bed. He drew his tattered monk’s robe about him and pulled up the blanket to his chin. He was conscious of the sexton’s hands making weird passes in the air above him as he felt himself drawn into a blissful sleep.
CHAPTER V
The cock is a sacred bird: no doubt that is why sorcerers seldom keep poultry. Cuthbert shared the prejudices of his class in this respect: his backyard was devoid of bird-life except for four sinister-looking ducks, who spent their day ambling back and forward from the withered hedge to a pool of the blackest and most revolting mud imaginable, where they disported themselves quacking hoarsely. So it came about that in the absence of a brazen-throated cock to awaken him, Fursey lay hour after hour in deep, hypnotic slumber long into the afternoon. When at last he awoke in the grey half-light of the inner room, he was reluctant to leave his bed, so appalled was he at the thought of having to face another day in the strange and terrible world beyond the blankets. His long sleep had rid him not only of bodily fatigue, but of the dumb, hopeless misery of the previous night, when indifferent to anything that might befall, he had allowed himself to be led into the house of a frantic and atrocious murderer, apparently competent in every kind of sorcery and enchantment. Fursey’s mental agony became acute as he let pass before his mind the happenings of the previous day. He did not doubt but that his immortal soul was lost: he could not believe that a wizard would ever be allowed to enter Heaven; and that he had become a wizard seemed beyond doubt. And, he reflected bitterly, even in this life he was fated to be dogged everywhere he went by a hideous creature with long, black, rusty hair, bear’s paws and smoky red eyes, clamouring for his blood and pestering him with offers of services of doubtful value in return. It was a black look-out.
Thought after thought turned painfully in Fursey’s head. The most urgent need, he told himself, was to escape from this house, which was a hotbed of magic and necromancy. Once away he would be beyond the power of Cuthbert; and could worry about his other troubles in his own good time. But as long as he was within Cuthbert’s reach anything might happen; and anything that did happen was sure to be unpleasant and deplorable. If only there was someone to advise him! A sudden thought struck him. There was one creature bound to his service, the hideous Albert. He shrunk from the thought of summoning the familiar, for to do so would be a positive exercise of the damnable powers with which he was vested, and he hoped that by neglecting to use those powers he might the more readily obtain divine forgiveness for possessing them. He even cherished a hope that it might be within the competence of skilful leeches and surgeons to cure him of being a wizard, though he had an uneasy feeling that the only way to cure a wizard is to burn him. He saw himself once more on his knees at the Abbot’s feet blurting out the whole pitiful story, and the Abbot Marcus, who had never been unkind to him, raising him up gently and telling him not to worry, that all would be well.
A sob shook him as he realised his predicament, and he buried his face in the pillow. He was convinced that his only chance of avoiding utter destruction at the hands of the sexton was to summon Albert to help him; yet by summoning Albert he would be accepting The Gray Mare’s hateful legacy and admitting himself a practising sorcerer. He tossed on his bed in a sweat of indecision, but the issue was not long in doubt, for his fear of Cuthbert outweighed all other considerations. “The end justifies the means,” he told himself. “Anyway, I can seek forgiveness afterwards.” Besides, in the back of his mind swayed the vague hope that some, at least, of yesterday’s happenings were just a bad dream or attributable to a heated and prepossessed imagination. Perhaps he wasn’t a sorcerer at all. If Albert failed to appear when summoned, that would prove i
t.
Fursey sat up in bed and peered into the half-darkness.
“Albert!” he called in a hoarse whisper, “Albert!”
For a moment nothing happened. Then Fursey discerned on the floor near the bed what appeared to be a small area of black mist. As he stared at it with peculiar foreboding, it quickly resolved itself into a shaggy hindquarters. Fursey groaned aloud as a pair of bear’s paws came into view, followed by the rest of Albert’s anatomy. The familiar fixed his red eyes on Fursey expectantly.
“Breakfast?” he asked hopefully. A broad pink tongue emerged from the creature’s mouth, made a circuit of his snout, and disappeared again from view.
“No,” replied Fursey with distaste. “Not yet.”
“I see,” said Albert, his voice betraying his disappointment.
“Tell me,” queried Fursey, “are you bound absolutely to my service?”
“Of course I am,” replied Albert. “That is the nature of familiars.”
“Even if what I command you to do seems to you absurd and unreasonable?”
“Even so,” answered Albert. “Your will is my will. Of course you would be wise to defer to my judgment, at least at first——”
“I know all that,” interrupted Fursey. “Tell me, is it possible for you to betray me to someone whom I deem an enemy, to Cuthbert, the sexton, for instance?”
Albert looked surprised. “It’s not possible,” he responded. “I’m bound by my nature to your service, save only if you fall into the hands of the law. But with regard to Cuthbert, I assure you that you’re mistaken in thinking him an enemy——”
“Stop talking,” commanded Fursey.
Albert immediately ceased to speak. Fursey was conscious of a pleasant sense of power. For the first time in his life he had given an order, and he had been obeyed. He regarded the shaggy creature benevolently and noticed the hurt in its eyes.
