by Mervyn Wall
Although it was still only July it was time to commence bringing in the winter’s supply of peat, and this onerous task was willingly accepted by Fursey. Late one evening as he came to the cottage sweating under the weight of the heavy creel on his back, he saw three horses tethered in the-yard. He at once swung the creel to the ground, but before he could properly grapple with his alarm, Declan came to the door and beckoned him reassuringly.
“We have three old friends paying us a visit,” said the old man, taking Fursey by the arm and conducting him into the kitchen. Maeve was clearing the table of the remnants of a meal, and Fursey glanced fearfully at the three strangers. One was a more than middle-aged woman with a gamey eye, who was introduced as ‘the Widow Dykes from beyond the mountain.’ The second was Phineas the Clerk, a rusty little fellow of indeterminate age, clad in a shabby, black cloak. From the inkhorn and bunch of quills which were slung from a cord over his shoulder, Fursey identified him at once as one of those men who could read and write and who made a living travelling around the country writing letters for people. But it was the third stranger who filled Fursey with instinctive dislike and dread. He was Magnus, a soldier, a big, lusty fellow, who rested his elbows on the table as if he owned it. He was sucking the last succulent morsel of marrow from a bone when Fursey entered, and he nodded contemptuously when the new farmboy, Flinthead, was introduced. The others smiled slightly as they glanced at Fursey’s cloak, which was so big for him that it had to be wrapped around him twice, and at his kilt, which was so long that it covered the calves of his legs. Fursey threw a quick glance towards the door to assure himself that his broom was in its accustomed place, before seating himself in the darkest corner of the room. Maeve handed him his bowl of stirabout, for he had not yet had his evening meal.
“Go on with your story, Phineas,” said Magnus, flinging the bone into the fire.
From his place beside the comfortable widow Declan bent towards Fursey.
“Phineas has been telling us,” he explained, “about the extraordinary happenings at Cashel. It seems that they captured the prince of all sorcerers, a man called Fursey; but he subsequently escaped.”
“Indeed,” replied Fursey, burying his head in the bowl of stirabout.
“There’s nothing much more to tell,” said Phineas. “As I have already related to you, he appeared in the guise of a woman in the Royal courtyard and tried to strangle good King Cormac. On the night on which he disappeared, he took with him by some magic art known only to himself, every bit of gold which the Byzantine prince had so generously bestowed on the clergy and citizens. Every gold bar vanished at the same instant as the monstrous Fursey himself. Chunks of gold disappeared from the soldiers’ pockets. They were there one moment, and they were gone the next. Even a valuable dog of superior pedigree, presented by Apollyon to Father Furiosus, disappeared without leaving a trace.”
“But was he not pursued?” asked Declan. “A sorcerer in woman’s clothing, loaded down with gold, and with a pedigree dog under his arm, should be easily identified.”
“No,” replied Phineas. “Those who were best qualified to direct the pursuit, the Bishop and Father Furiosus, were incapable of doing so. They were found in the early morning in a semi-frozen condition in a pond on the Bishop’s estate, having apparently been enmeshed in the spells of this malignant wizard. They were in bed for some days half paralysed and with violent colds in the head and chest; and when they became once more capable of movement, the scent had grown cold. Even yet, good Bishop Flanagan cannot be said to have fully recovered, for he is still much given to involuntary crying, shouting and barking, and other symptoms of hysteria.”
“How terrible,” murmured Maeve. “Did you see the wizard yourself?”
“Yes,” replied Phineas a trifle pompously. “I saw him.”
“Oh!” breathed Maeve. “How old was he? What did he look like?”
“I should say that he was very old,” answered Phineas judiciously, “perhaps eighty. His hair was snow-white, and he was much bowed both by his years and by the heavy weight of his iniquities.”
“I was told,” interrupted Magnus, who seemed restless because Phineas was monopolising the conversation, “that the fellow was entirely black in appearance.”
“I saw him myself,” answered Phineas testily. “It’s true that his face was black, as was appropriate considering that all his contrivings against mankind were of a black and deadly nature, but the rest of him was white, particularly his hair. It was snow-white like Flinthead’s over there.”
The company glanced involuntarily into the chimney corner from which Fursey’s moon-round visage stared back at them from behind his bowl of stirabout.
“He must have been a fearsome sight,” ejaculated Declan.
“He was,” replied Phineas. “He was a man of singularly evil countenance. His mouth was twisted towards his ear, and from him there came a cadaverous smell which was well-nigh insupportable. When he spoke it was in a muffled voice. You had but to look at him to realise that never was there in any character a more complete concentration of every quality that distinguishes a man of evil and pernicious principles. They say that he was the seventh son of a seventh son, which means that the Devil had marked him as his own from the very day of his birth.”
“He used to preside at cannibal feasts,” said Magnus, “and he put on Cuthbert the Sexton such a malignant spell that after violent retching the unfortunate man brought up pieces of coal, bodkins, stones, brass, eggshells and a variety of other objects.”
“I’ll be afraid to go to bed to-night,” shivered Maeve.
“But isn’t it a terrible thing,” interjected the widow, “that even godly men like Bishop Flanagan and Father Furiosus are not immune from his spells? I heard that his parting gift to them was a murrain, which still afflicts them sorely.”
“God save me and mine from all such legacies!” ejaculated Declan piously.
“It may well be,” replied Phineas. “It is certainly the case that he caused the unfortunate Cuthbert to vomit stones so big that it was incredible how they could come out of any Christian mouth.”
“What do you think of it, Flinthead?” asked Declan, turning to where Fursey sat quiet as a mouse in his corner. “Would you not be scared by such horrid manifestations?”
Fursey grinned feebly, but before he could think of an answer Magnus let out a great horse laugh.
“Why do you ask him?” he demanded roughly. “I wouldn’t set any great value on an opinion of his.”
“Oh,” rejoined the old man mildly, “Flinthead is very learned in the ways of witches and demons.”
Magnus leaned back in his chair and shifted his soldier’s belt as if to laugh more comfortably.
“My God!” he said, “you’re not serious. Why, one has only to look at him to see that his brain is naturally moist.”
For a moment the heart of Fursey burned within him at these contemptuous words, but the fire flickered and went out as Maeve leaned across and placed her hand comfortingly on his.
“Now, now,” she said, “I won’t have anyone making fun of Flinthead. He’s a friend of mine, and we all like him very much.”
The Widow and Phineas the Clerk smiled tolerantly. Old Declan seemed to be still worried about details of Phineas’ story, and he did not appear to notice that the Widow had quietly taken his hand into her plump paw and was gently squeezing his gnarled fingers.
“What about The Gray Mare?” he asked anxiously. “Was she a witch or not?”
“There are two schools of thought in the matter,” replied Phineas. “The Bishop and the King are believed to be of opinion that she was a witch; but Father Furiosus urges that she was undoubtedly innocent and was murdered by Fursey, whom he now believes to be possessed by a devil as well as being a sorcerer. Father Furiosus is a man of great force of character, and he has a considerable following among the clergy and the populace. He believes The Gray Mare to have been a martyr, and he has had her remains transla
ted to an expensive tomb in Kilpuggin Church, which has become a place of pilgrimage. Sundry cures have already been reported, and only for the outbreak of war with Thomond, the cause for her canonisation would have been by now well advanced.”
Fursey sat motionless in his corner, his countenance seemingly busied in unceasing converse with his heart. At first he had listened anxiously, but as he became convinced that there was little danger of being recognised, his attention wandered, and he reflected how little he knew of human nature and of the ways of the world. From time to time he gathered in his vagrant thoughts and told himself that he must listen because all this news was of the most immediate concern to him; but his eyes invariably returned to rest on the line of Maeve’s temple where the hair was brushed back, and he would feel for a moment as if he were falling into a lunacy, for ever since she had lain her comforting hand on his, his love was so hot that he wist not where he was. Once more he pulled himself together. They were talking of war. War had broken out between Cashel and Thomond. It was very difficult to grasp what it was all about, but it seemed that the King of Thomond was an idealist, who kept reiterating that “a principle is a principle.” In answer to King Cormac’s curt ultimatum, his reply had been: “Men and matters come and go, but a principle is eternal.” Thereupon the hounds of war had been unleashed, and the whole fighting forces of Cashel had been flung into Thomond territory. No engagement had ensued, for the reason that the army of the King of Thomond was not yet ready—the season had been late, and the hay had not yet been saved. Accordingly, the only casualties that had resulted were two Thomond hermits who, betrayed by wanton curiosity, had put their heads out of their caves to find out what all the noise was about, and had immediately had their heads struck off.
Magnus had now got control of the conversation.
“Cormac is a master strategist,” he said approvingly. “He is the only king in Ireland who maintains a standing army, and although the upkeep of those twenty-four men is a considerable burden on the State, they are well worth it. Other kings must wait until the agricultural work of the spring and early summer is over before their clansmen are free for warfare; and again and again it has happened that a king has been left alone in the field of battle by reason of his army going home to their farms to gather in the harvest. Cormac’s long-sighted policy has ensured that he is never wholly deserted in this fashion. Nine-tenths of his army may go home, but he has always the hard core of twenty-four men left to fight for him. His strategy consists then in this: that he keeps manœuvring his forces with consummate skill all during the summer; and with the coming of the harvest when the fighting men must go home, the opposing king finds that he and his sons have to face alone the full onset of the standing army of Cashel. Many and many a war has Cormac won by these methods. He is admitted all over the world to be the finest general in the history of warfare.”
“You won’t have to go to the war yet awhile?” asked Maeve.
“Well, I’ve been summoned,” replied Magnus, “but my hay isn’t quite in yet, and I’ve a cow with a swollen teat; I’ll have to fix that first. But in a week or so I expect to be in a position to answer the call.”
“Maybe the war will be over before you’re ready to go,” said Declan hopefully.
“I don’t think so,” replied Magnus. “It will be a long and bitter conflict. I estimate that in another week agricultural operations will be completed throughout the territory, and provided the weather remains good Cormac should be able to gather a sufficiency of men to form an army large enough to manœuvre.”
“It’s time for us to go,” announced Phineas, rising to his feet and moving his inkhorn and quills to a more comfortable position in the small of his back. “We’ve allowed the night to overtake us.”
There was a moving back of chairs and a stirring of feet as the guests were assisted into their cloaks. Fursey was sent to the yard to untie the horses and lead them around to the door. He stood back in the shadow of the cottage listening to the muffled wailing of the wind through the mountain gap as Phineas, Magnus and the Widow from their saddles bade farewell to Declan and Maeve. Magnus sat astride his horse like a king, his great bulk silhouetted against the night sky, while Maeve stood at the horse’s head talking to him. Fursey could hear his hearty laugh as he slapped his sword. Then in a chorus of farewells he rode off jingling, followed by the other two. None of them had remembered to say goodbye to Fursey.
On the following afternoon Fursey and Maeve sat by the edge of the lake breathing in the warm, sweet air. She was seated on a smooth rock while Fursey squatted on the ground facing her. There were clouds overhead and a breeze, and Fursey watched the shadows scampering across the flanks of the hills when he wasn’t engaged in watching her face. She seemed to him pensive and sad, and to have lost a little of the freshness of her youth.
“Flinthead,” she said suddenly, “I’m afraid my father is going to marry the Widow Dykes.”
Fursey grunted to show his astonishment.
“He has formed an unfortunate attachment to her,” continued Maeve sadly.
“But,” remarked Fursey diffidently, “she is no longer young.”
“Neither is my father,” replied the girl. “She is a scheming woman, and she wants the house and the little bit of land. She knows how to flatter him, and men are so vain. I fear that he is sore assotted on her.”
An image of Declan doddering around the house and the lake, came into Fursey’s mind, and he marvelled exceedingly.
“Well,” he answered at last. “After all, if your father is seriously and honourably attached to her—”
“Do you know anything about marriage,” interrupted Maeve, “the kinship of soul that is necessary—?”
“Yes,” replied Fursey with conviction. “I’m a widower myself.”
“I didn’t know you were ever married,” replied Maeve, surprised.
“My wife predeceased me,” explained Fursey.
“That’s too bad,” said Maeve, dropping her voice sympathetically. “How long were you married?”
“About six hours,” replied Fursey gloomily, “but I know all about marriage. Compatibility of temperament is of the first importance.”
A laugh bubbled up from Maeve’s heart. Fursey glanced up at the two rows of pearly teeth and smiled himself. He knew that she was laughing at him, but he did not mind. She arose and began to lead the way back to the house.
“I don’t think it will be a good thing,” she said, and Fursey wondered at her gravity. He did not venture to speak for a few moments, and when he did speak, he spoke unevenly with a little break in his voice.
“It may be,” he suggested, “that he loves her passing well. When I close my eyes, I can picture the two of them walking down the path from the house and around the borders of the lake, having goodly language and lovely behaviour together.”
Maeve seemed annoyed. “I tell you,” she said, “that she is after his house and land, and he is too blind and foolish and vain to realise it.”
“Maybe,” said Fursey miserably, “he so burns in love that he is past himself in his understanding.”
They had reached the door of the cottage. Maeve turned and faced him. “What you don’t appear to realise,” she said with a sudden sob, “is that there’s no room for two women in the one house,” and she turned and hurried into the cottage.
Several times during the ensuing week Phineas the Clerk came and went. He spread his parchments and quills on the table in the kitchen and seemed always on the point of indicting something important. There were conferences between him and Declan and Maeve, but nothing seemed ever to come of them. He would sigh and rolling up his parchments, address himself to the evening meal which they spread before him. He brought news from the great world beyond The Gap. There had been a fierce and bloody encounter at a ford in the Mulkeen River. From sunrise until sunset the conflicting armies had been in death grips. The countryside had echoed to the thunder of chariot wheels, and many a field of promisin
g corn had been trampled into the earth by the manœuvring legions. At sunset the King of Thomond had withdrawn his defeated forces leaving two men dead on the field. Cashel’s losses were a sergeant deprived of an eye by a well-aimed stone. “The battle was fiercely and evenly contested,” says the Annalist, “and to this day the place is known in the Gaelic language as ‘The Ford of Slaughter’.”
But later news was not so good. King Cormac, elated by his resounding victory, had withdrawn his army into the hills, where he had commenced manœuvring with consummate strategy. In his absence the armies of Thomond, swollen now by hundreds of troops released from their agricultural pursuits, had swept across the Tipperary plain, laying fire to the houses of the rich. A trail of flaming residences and billowing white smoke marked their passage. “Every gentleman’s seat in the country is aflame,” said Phineas vehemently to Fursey, who nodded sympathetically and continued for some hours to ponder on the meaning of the strange phrase. When news of these happenings had been conveyed to King Cormac in the hills, he was reported to have remarked philosophically, “The King of Thomond doesn’t understand the art of warfare,” and to have moved his army into the mountains nearer the Thomond border, where he recommenced manœuvring on a larger scale.
One evening ten days later while Fursey was milking the cow in the kitchen where he had brought her because of the rain, he was startled by the sudden clatter of a horse’s hooves on the cobbles of the yard outside. He went to the door and saw Magnus astride his steaming war-horse, looking very important and terrible with his sword and spear, and his leathern shield upon his arm. He dismounted and ignoring Fursey’s feeble welcome, pushed by him into the kitchen with a curt “Out of my way, farmboy.” Inside he shook the rainwater from his martial cloak.
