by Mervyn Wall
“When I was a wrestler at the Court of Thomond,” snarled Father Sampson, “no man, save only Father Furiosus, ever stood successfully against me. Why did God give me bodily strength, save only that I should use it in His service?”
“I must admire your manly and aggressive spirit,” replied the Novice Master, “but I should not wish you to lose your life.”
“Please,” begged Father Sampson. “I assure you that my many years’ experience as a wrestler has given me a suppleness of limb which almost places me in the contortionist class. I’m confident of my ability to apply as efficacious a stranglehold as in days gone by. All the more effective methods of choking an opponent are very well known to me.”
“Bravo!” shouted Brother Patrick, who loved the sight of blood, having been much addicted to attendance at cockfights in his youth.
The Novice Master hesitated. “Very well,” he said at last. “Our blessings will go with you. In the meantime we others will intone a hymn by way of encouraging you and confusing the demon.”
Brother Patrick gripped Father Sampson by the arm.
“Try and get him with a hammer-lock or a crutch-hold,” he advised, “and then when you have him, kick him in a vital spot.”
As Father Sampson, clad only in his singlet, moved down the road to meet the poltergeist, the monks under the direction of the Novice Master began a heartening hymn. All sang lustily, save only Brother Patrick, who was too excited to join in. The diminutive laybrother capered up and down wrestling with an imaginary opponent.
For some time the monk and the poltergeist circled one another warily. Then Father Sampson suddenly closed and attempted to trap the poltergeist’s torso between his legs in the scissors-hold, but the demon, gripping the monk’s foot, hugged the captured leg closely to his chest before passing it around the back of his neck and throwing Father Sampson heavily. Quick to seize advantage, the poltergeist tore a block of granite from the bed of the stream and flung it at his opponent, missing the latter by inches.
“Dirty foul!” screeched Brother Patrick. “Play the game, you filthy demon!”
Father Placidus shook his head despondently. “And there are some,” he remarked, “who impudently proclaim that it is folly and ridiculous beyond words to believe these marvellous happenings.”
Father Sampson was again on his feet and had delivered a couple of rabbit punches before the poltergeist realised what was happening. Then the monk essayed some of the traditional strangleholds and chokelocks, but the extreme pliability of his opponent’s body made it extremely difficult to keep him in a tight grip. Joe seemed to be able to slip out of everything. At one moment Father Sampson had the demon’s head trapped between his knees and was essaying a simultaneous three-quarter
nelson and a kidney-squeeze, but the poltergeist escaped by making a half-turn so that he rolled over the back of his opponent. While they faced each other again, the monks shouted the final verse of the hymn and began another without pausing for breath. Both adversaries were covered with sweat and breathing heavily. Father Sampson was apparently planning to cross-buttock the phantom with his left leg, but Joe rushed in first and succeeded in trapping the monk’s forearm under his left armpit. Father Sampson replied with a short-arm scissors followed by an ingenious toe-hold, and in a moment both of them had fallen and were involved in a struggle in the bed of the stream. At first Father Sampson was content to apply pressure with his thumb against a point immediately below the lobe of the demon’s ear, but then with a quick movement he succeeded in capturing his opponent’s right leg. For some minutes he worked on the leg to the extreme discomfort of the demon, who yelled hideously. The excitement was too great for Brother Patrick. He burst away from the band of monks and, running to the stream, gave the poltergeist a resounding kick in the ribs before scuttling back to safety.
It was obvious to the onlookers that the struggle was between the skill of the trained wrestler and the brute strength of the poltergeist. At one period things looked bad for Father Sampson. The demon sprang into the air and landed heavily seated astride the monk’s chest. With his foot on Father Sampson’s face he dug his thumbs into the monk’s windpipe as an additional means of persuasion. But Father Sampson escaped from his perilous situation by bending the demon’s arm back in a painful angle so that Joe had perforce to release him. When they faced one another again, the green sweat was running down the demon’s face. With a sudden forward movement Father Sampson gripped the poltergeist by the wrist and in a moment had flung him backwards over his head. The demon landed on his back with a sickening crash. It was the famous Irish Whip! A wild shout of applause arose from the watching monks, and they started to run down the road towards the stream. Joe the Poltergeist lay among the rocks totally uninterested in the subsequent proceedings. The monks under the direction of Father Sampson strained at a huge rock and strove to roll it over on top of the poltergeist so as to pin him down for all time; but before they could complete the operation, the demon struggled to his feet, and assuming the form of a water spaniel with the head of an ox, he ran limping down the road, pursued by the maledictions of the whole body of clergy.
* * * *
When Fursey arrived at the southern gate of Cashel, the guards on duty took to their heels. No attempt was made to oppose his entry into the settlement, nor was his progress through the streets impeded. The inhabitants fled before him, spreading on all sides the terrible news that the arch-sorcerer was once more in the city roaming about seeking whom he might devour. This dire intelligence caused a considerable exodus of citizens through the northern gate. Before taking to flight some hurried to their cabins to collect their few possessions. Aged parents were dragged from their inglenooks and flung across the broad shoulders of their sons. A stream of refugees, bowed beneath these burdens, poured through the northern gate, their eyes bloodshot, their only anxiety to put as great a distance as possible between themselves and the terrible Fursey.
The sorcerer himself plodded through the streets unaware of the commotion of which he was the cause. He observed that the settlement was singularly deserted, but he was too taken up with his own affairs to ponder overmuch on such matters. At the foot of the incline which led to the Bishop’s Palace, he hesitated, but it was only for a moment: then with a thumping heart he began to climb the hill. When he reached the head of the track, he knocked timidly on the Bishop’s door. The bronze panels opened before him, and it became immediately apparent that the news of his advent had preceded him. The hall was lined with armed men; in the centre stood Father Furiosus with Bishop Flanagan trembling behind him. Fursey observed that the friar was well-equipped with spiritual weapons. On his right was a cask of holy water, and half-a-dozen underlings stood by with buckets, ready at a moment’s notice to form a living chain so as to keep it replenished. On the friar’s left stood a table with an open book of exorcisms upon it. The table was piled also with crosses, handbells and other evidences of an extensive religious armoury. But most formidable of all was the red-faced friar himself as he stood in the centre gripping his blackthorn stick menacingly. For a moment no one spoke. Then Fursey stepped forward.
“I have come,” he said haltingly, “I have come to surrender myself to justice.”
As he spoke, he gazed anxiously at the friar’s hard, green eyes set deep beneath his ginger eyebrows, eyes that seemed to Fursey to resemble the points of two screws already in position to bore into his brain. Father Furiosus returned his gaze unwinkingly. Fursey’s eyes dropped, and he contemplated the blossoming, strawberry-like nose of the friar and the thin lips drawn tight across the determined jaw. The phrase “The Church Militant” came to his mind, and he shuddered.
“How are we to know?” said the friar at last, “that you have not been guided here by demons with the object of further wizardry and malice?”
“You have only my word,” replied Fursey, “that I’ve come here and placed myself in your power of my own free will. Witchcraft is as detestable to me as it is to
you.”
“Why have you come?” asked the friar.
“I’ve come that I may be released one way or another from my present unhappy state, the state of being a wizard.”
“So you admit that you’re a wizard?”
“Yes, I freely admit that I’m a wizard, an unwilling one, but nevertheless a wizard.”
“Come into the other room,” commanded Furiosus. “We will talk further.”
As they moved into the interior of the Palace, the Bishop plucked the friar’s sleeve nervously.
“If this goes on much longer,” he whispered, “we’ll all fall into a lunacy. Why not have him put to death forthwith?”
“I’m managing this,” replied the friar roughly. “It’s a most involved case. I must probe it to its depths.”
The Bishop’s Adam’s apple vibrated anxiously.
“But if we permit him to move about thus freely, how shall we escape his devilry? Let me have him well thrashed and pelted with stones while the fire is being prepared.”
“No,” said Furiosus shortly.
“Well, don’t blame me,” snarled the Bishop, “if he suddenly throws a bridle over your head and changes you into a horse. I observe that at the present moment he is mumbling something which may well be a spell.”
They had reached an inner room, and the three of them were now alone. Father Furiosus glanced sharply at Fursey.
“What are you saying?” he asked.
“A prayer to blessed Kieran for help in my affliction,” replied Fursey. “I hope you don’t mind.”
The friar motioned Fursey to a chair and then sat down himself. Bishop Flanagan declined to sit, but hovered in the neighbourhood of the door lest it should be necessary to summon help.
“I may as well tell you,” began the friar, “that his lordship and I have on many occasions during the past month discussed your case with Abbot Marcus of Clonmacnoise. The Abbot is fortunately in Cashel at present; and on receiving intelligence of your arrival, I sent a slave across to the library with a request that he should attend here as soon as his studies permit. So we may expect him at any moment.”
“I see,” said Fursey.
“It may interest you to know,” continued Father Furiosus, “that your case is bristling with difficulties. For instance, you told us just now that you have voluntarily surrendered yourself; but how am I to know whether that statement proceeds from Fursey, late monk at Clonmacnoise, or from the demon that possesses him?”
“But I assure you that I’m not possessed by a demon.”
“That’s all very well,” said the friar carefully, “but if you are possessed by a demon, I should expect him to deny his presence, for lies would come more naturally to his tongue than truth.”
“It’s a clear case of deadlock,” interjected the Bishop impatiently. “The truth in the matter is not obtainable. In the meantime we cannot have you moving around the countryside roaring after your prey, or at least inflicting an innocent peasantry with wasting diseases and fits.”
“I wish you wouldn’t interrupt,” said Father Furiosus.
“It’s all very well for you,” retorted the Bishop. “A roving friar has few responsibilities; but I’m bishop of this diocese, and I have responsibilities to the lambs of my flock. This man Fursey is a self-admitted sorcerer. His contention is that his dread powers were innocently acquired. Be that as it may, he has those powers, and he must be burned before he turns them to malefic ends.”
Father Furiosus seemed determined to ignore the Bishop. He turned his steady gaze on Fursey once more.
“How did you escape from your prison?” he asked. “By sorcery?”
“No,” replied Fursey. “Satan got me out.”
“Satan!” ejaculated the friar.
“Yes,” admitted Fursey. “I’ve always found him very helpful, though a little headstrong.”
The friar’s eyes widened, but he made no comment. Bishop Flanagan vented a horrified moan and edged nearer the door. The friar continued his examination.
“Is it the case that on departing from this city you stole all the gold so generously donated by Prince Apollyon of Byzantium, together with a high-stepping hound of superior pedigree which was my particular possession?”
“No,” replied Fursey. “The gold was spectral gold and vanished with Prince Apollyon, who was Satan himself. The hound to which you refer, was no doubt one of the lower orders of imps, and, I expect, followed his master, as is proper.”
Nothing was said for a few moments while the friar and the Bishop tried to grasp the implications of this alarming intelligence. They had the information only half-digested when there was a sudden stir at the door, and Abbot Marcus entered. He bowed gravely to Bishop Flanagan and Father Furiosus, and nodded kindly to Fursey. Fursey in his chair felt suddenly uncomfortable.
“This wretched man,” gasped Bishop Flanagan, “has just had the effrontery to inform us that the noble and generous Apollyon, Prince of Byzantium, is none other than the Archfiend Lucifer himself. Did you ever hear such nonsense?”
“I’m a man,” replied the Abbot, “from whom the years are creeping away faster and ever faster. What avails me my coming old age unless it finds me wise? A lifetime’s study and observance has convinced me that in the land of Ireland anything may happen to anyone anywhere and at any time, and that it usually does.”
“But such a preposterous suggestion!” exclaimed the Bishop. “Apollyon is a man of great wealth and influence, most solicitous for the well-being of the Church, and most generous in his contributions to the support of its pastors—”
“I suggest,” interrupted Marcus, “that we three seat ourselves here and listen carefully to Fursey’s story of all that has befallen him since he first made acquaintance with the forces of Evil in his cell at Clonmacnoise. Let him relate all, bringing his narration up to the present moment.”
Thus encouraged, Fursey related his strange story. Father Furiosus listened intently, nodding his head occasionally at some marvellous happening or impish trick which was borne out by his own experience of the world of shadows. The only time he manifested impatience was when Fursey recounted his experiences in the cottage of The Gray Mare. The friar’s impatience at this part of the story was understandable, for it was obvious to any man of sense that the martyred lady, at whose shrine so many miracles had recently taken place, could not possibly have been guilty of the unprincipled behaviour which Fursey attributed to her. Again the friar shook his head doubtfully when he heard Cuthbert accused of being a sorcerer of a hue deeper than is usual. Cuthbert was so obviously a man of sterling piety; and by private enquiry the friar had ascertained that Cuthbert performed the responsible duties of sexton with diligence and probity. It was hard to understand for so much of what Fursey related had the ring of truth. The friar began to wonder whether in these two matters of The Grey Mare and Cuthbert, Fursey was perhaps the victim of hallucination. When Albert came to be spoken of, the Abbot interrupted the flow of Fursey’s tale.
“So you govern and maintain a familiar?” he said with interest.
“I’ve attempted to govern him,” replied Fursey, “but unfortunately he’s not readily amenable to discipline. As for maintaining him, I fear that I have not. The poor fellow has shrunk to a mere shadow of his former self.”
Fursey continued the faithful relation of his experiences, save only that when he came to speak of the employment he had obtained in Declan’s cottage in The Gap, his heart failed him; and he forebore to mention that there had lived in the cottage as well as Declan a good-natured girl who was always laughing. He left Maeve out of his story altogether.
Bishop Flanagan evinced the greatest impatience during Fursey’s recital. He shifted constantly in his chair, his underlip twitched, and his Adam’s apple was in constant motion in his throat. It was obvious that he considered Fursey’s story to be no more than the recital of unnecessary and uninteresting detail. To his mind, the only important point was that Fursey was a sorcerer, and
as such should be burned. When Fursey brought the tale to a conclusion, the Bishop could no longer contain his impatience.
“How long must we listen to this creature’s maunderings?” he burst out. “Let us proceed at once to bring his wicked career to a conclusion before he has us all wasted and consumed.”
There was a moment’s silence, then the Abbot spoke.
“Strange and wonderful as is his story, I believe that Fursey is telling us the truth.”
Fursey threw a look of dumb gratitude at the Abbot, and his eyes brightened with tears. It was obvious that Father Furiosus respected Abbot Marcus’ opinion, for when he had contemplated the Abbot for a few moments, he too spoke, slowly and gently.
“I’m inclined to agree with you. I believe that while this unfortunate man is suffering from a moistening of the brain in regard to certain persons and incidents of which he has spoken, his intention is good, and he has striven to tell us the whole truth. He’s to be pitied, not condemned.”
The Bishop squinted from the Abbot to the friar, and then across at Fursey. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but he ran his tongue across his lips instead and said nothing. Father Furiosus sat for some moments in thought before turning again to Fursey.
“I’m convinced of your penitence,” he said, “and I’m sure that you are afire with anxiety to make amends to Heaven for your sins. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes,” replied Fursey carefully.
“Well, an opportunity for atonement is at hand. Abbot Marcus and I are practical men, and we have discussed at length measures whereby this land may be rid forever of the pestilential demons which everywhere infest it.”
“Are things as bad as that?” asked Fursey, hoping to gain time, for he had an uneasy feeling that he was cast for a leading part in the task of purging the land of its unwelcome visitors.
The friar’s brow furrowed.
“Things are very bad. Only yesterday a parish priest not two miles from here eloped with a visiting vampire. Great scandal has been caused, for he was much respected by his flock, being a man of outstanding piety and one of the largest bullock owners in the territory. The carcase of the unhappy man, sucked dry of blood, was found this morning in a ditch, where his phantom paramour had flung him. In the trading towns on the western seaboard there has been a deplorable outbreak of loose living, and I don’t doubt that it is Hell-inspired. The ‘bad disease’ is so rampant that if you enter a house in those territories and clap a citizen on the back, all his teeth fall out on the table.”
