by Mervyn Wall
“It seems a perilous thing to be alive at all,” murmured Fursey.
“The worst feature,” continued Furiosus, “is that the demons which lately infest the land, are all of foreign origin. It’s a well-authenticated fact that the native Irish demons, whether they be banshees, fairy pipers, leprechauns or pookas, are far superior to the foreign brands. Our demons may be mischievous, but they are admitted all the world over to be as upright and pure in their manner of living as demons can be. The chastity of the Irish demon is well-known and everywhere admitted.”
Fursey nodded patriotically.
“Unfortunately the same cannot be said of the foreign demons which are now rampant. They are not only clad in a manner offensive to decency, but they seem to specialise in inciting men to lechery. It is therefore,” continued the friar, “a national as well as a religious duty to rid the land of these pestilential hordes. That is where you can help.”
“Me?” said Fursey.
“Yes, you. From evil will come good. We must cash in on your friendship with Satan. It will be necessary for you to get in touch with him at once and persuade him to lead his entire forces to a lake in the north called Lough Derg. In that lake there’s a small island known as Saint Patrick’s Purgatory, on which you must persuade Satan to encamp with all his forces, two-legged, four-legged and those that crawl on their bellies. When you have done that, the clergy of Ireland who will be lying in ambush, will surround the lake and bless it, thus converting the entire lough into a vast stoup of holy water. The happy result will be that Satan and his angels will be imprisoned for all time on that island, and will therefore be no longer in a position to range abroad seducing the faithful from their allegiance.”
The sweat broke out on Fursey’s forehead.
“How am I to get them on to the island?” he squeaked.
“By the exercise of ingenuity. You can think up a plausible plan at your leisure. You might suggest, for instance, that it would be a safe base from which they could harry the surrounding monasteries and settlements.”
“I see,” said Fursey.
“If you do this,” put in the Abbot, “we can promise you your pardon and a safe berth in a monastery.”
“We might even be able to arrange a canonry in the Chapter,” said the Bishop eagerly. “Think of that, the best of feeding and drinking and no more work for the rest of your life.”
“It will be a resounding victory for the Irish Church,” concluded the friar, “and such a good act on your part will no doubt obtain for you divine forgiveness for your sins and sorceries.”
“Suppose,” said Fursey, “that before the operation is complete, they discover that I’m not playing straight with them?”
“Then you will die a blessed martyr. What more could any Christian ask for?”
“It’s a good plan,” commented Abbot Marcus. “We three have discussed it during the past month, but the difficulty was how to coax the demons on to the island. Your advent offers the ideal solution and seems to solve the problem.”
Fursey grew alternately hot and cold. It seemed to him that the ecclesiastics were underestimating the difficulties inherent in assembling some thousands of fearsome creatures and then persuading them to take up their abode on a minute island on a small lake; but the word “forgiveness” had been used, and Fursey’s heart bounded at the thought of escaping the funeral pyre, which certainly awaited him if he refused. Moreover, he was filled with a great exaltation at the thought of being once more on the side of Good in the battle with Evil. And even if he fell, wrestling manfully with a score of cacodemons and hippogriffs, it would be a glorious end and one befitting a Christian.
“I’ll do it,” he said sticking out his chin determinedly.
“Well said!” commented Abbot Marcus, smiling across at him.
“You won’t forget,” added Fursey anxiously, “to rescue me from the island before you pin the demons there forever?”
“That will be attended to,” answered the friar placing a friendly hand on Fursey’s shoulder.
At that moment a flourish of trumpets was heard and a sudden cheering. Before the ecclesiastics had time to enquire as to the cause of the commotion, an excited slave burst into the room.
“My lord Bishop,” he announced breathlessly, “the noble and most generous Prince of Byzantium has entered the city.”
With one accord the three ecclesiastics hurried to the door of the Palace. Fursey trailed along behind them, his heart thumping like a hammer. From their vantage point in the doorway they could see Prince Apollyon approaching down the street, gracefully casting handfuls of gold to the frantically excited populace. Now and again he paused to pat a child on the head or to enquire courteously as to the present state of some old gaffer’s rheumatism. Then he proceeded on his way bowing left and right to his frenzied admirers. Bishop Flanagan’s eyes nearly fell out of his head as the debonair figure began to ascend the incline towards the Palace.
“Such generosity!” he breathed. “Every inch a gentleman!”
“He can well afford it,” muttered Fursey. “They’d be well-advised to spend that gold quick before it disappears.”
This remark of Fursey’s jarred the ecclesiastics considerably, reminding them of Fursey’s assertion that the noble stranger was none other than the Prince of Darkness himself. Furiosus and the Bishop glanced doubtfully from Fursey to the approaching Prince. Fursey felt a slight pressure on his arm and, looking around, he saw that the Abbot Marcus was close beside him. The Abbot drew Fursey back a couple of paces from the others.
“Tell me the truth, Fursey. Is this gentleman really Lucifer, the terrible Emperor of Hell?”
“Yes,” replied Fursey; and for some reason the word seemed to stick in his throat.
The Abbot regarded him doubtfully.
“If that’s so, I wonder why he has come.”
“I know why he’s come,” ejaculated Fursey with a sudden sob. “He knows that I’m in danger, and he’s come to rescue me once more. He’s the only one who really cares what becomes of me; and I’ve repaid his kindness by undertaking to betray him.”
Slow horror crept across the Abbot’s face.
“Fursey, you owe allegiance to Heaven, not to Hell.”
The Devil would have been a fool indeed if he had failed to notice that his welcome was a lukewarm one. The Bishop shrunk back behind the door, and even Father Furiosus was pale as he took the demon’s proffered hand. The Abbot contented himself with a distant bow, and the face which Fursey turned to his old acquaintance, was streaming with tears.
“Let us go inside and talk,” said Apollyon quietly, and he led the way into the inner room. As the ecclesiastics followed, Father Furiosus dexterously hooked a stoup of holy water with his forefinger from the table in the hall, and carried it in concealed behind his back. The ecclesiastics seemed still doubtful of Apollyon’s real identity, but the first words which he spoke, confirmed their worst fears. Apollyon was the only one of the five who was wholly at his ease. He crossed the room and seated himself in the Bishop’s favourite chair.
“You’ve no occasion to weep, Fursey,” he said quietly. “I know that you’ve betrayed me, but you forget that I’m the Father of Lies, Deception and Double-dealing. Your conduct in that regard affords me the highest pleasure. I find myself in the debt of these gentlemen: they have thrown you and me closer together.”
Fursey’s mouth fell open, and he sat down suddenly in a chair. Father Furiosus produced the stoup of holy water from behind his back and began shakily to take aim.
“Please,” remonstrated the Archfiend. “Do not forget your country’s age-old reputation for hospitality. Oblige me by putting down that weapon. I’m not here as an enemy. I’ve come to make terms with the clergy of Ireland.”
Father Furiosus did as he was bid and sat down looking rather dazed.
“Abbot Marcus,” continued the Devil, “you seem to be the only one who is retaining his wits. Oblige me by summoning the canons of the
Chapter. I’m satisfied that they and you three gentlemen are sufficiently representative of the clergy of this country to ensure that any treaty I conclude with you, will be acceptable to the clergy as a whole. In the meantime, perhaps his lordship Bishop Flanagan will bestir himself and see that food and drink are provided for his guests.”
The Bishop staggered to the door and gave a few husky commands. When the ale and meats were borne in, the Bishop retained only enough presence of mind to see that Fursey got nothing except a plate of hard food. One would have imagined that natural curiosity would have constrained the canons of the Chapter to hurry over to the Palace to see such an important personage as the Archfiend, of whom they had read and heard so much; but a strange reluctance on their part manifested itself when they received Abbot Marcus’ message. It needed all the Abbot’s powers of persuasion and his insistence that perhaps the future of the Irish Church was at stake, before they climbed the hill to the Palace and came sidling round-eyed into the room in which the conference was to be held.
“My Lord Bishop and very reverend fathers,” began Satan. “I’m well aware that you regard me with a certain prejudice. Nay, do not, in the excess of your courtesy, shake your heads and strive to look as if it were otherwise. Let us be honest and face facts. You don’t approve of me. Isn’t that so, Canon Pomponius?”
The broad-bellied doyen of the Cathedral Chapter manifested considerable alarm at being thus singled out. He shifted jerkily from one expansive ham to the other.
“You must make allowances, sir, for our upbringing—the tales remembered from childhood—the effect—,” his voice trailed away into a whisper.
The Devil sighed understandingly.
“Let me explain myself,” he said. “I’m a person cursed with a sense of freakish humour. I’m well aware that it interferes seriously with my effectiveness as a demon. You may assert that my humour is depraved. I freely admit that it is. For centuries it has spoiled my best-laid plans. I cannot conquer this boyish desire of mine to see monks, anchorites and other holy men startled out of their wits by an apparition, preferably a female one. It affords me the keenest amusement, but it’s a vice which is rendering me more and more ineffective as a demon. While I’m splitting my sides laughing, the gentleman whom I’m tempting, has immediate recourse to prayer and other spiritual weapons, the very last thing which I wish him to do. The net result is that he always wins, and when I’ve recovered from my paroxysm of merriment, I find that there is nothing left for me to do but retire chagrined and baffled.”
The canons shifted uncomfortably, moistened their dry lips and wondered what was coming next.
“Father Furiosus,” said the Demon ingratiatingly, “answer me a question. Which is the greatest of all sins?”
The friar’s honest face betrayed his embarrassment.
“Everyone knows that,” he replied. “It’s not considered proper among decent people to put a name on it.”
The entire body of clergy nodded in agreement.
“We’re all adult men,” said the Demon persuasively. “We’re not likely to incur injury by mention of the mere name.”
The canons shook their heads doubtfully.
“Come now,” urged Apollyon. “Tell me which is the most grievous of all sins, so that the conference may proceed.”
The friar flushed slightly.
“The most heinous of all crimes,” he said, “are those which may be summed up by the word ‘sex’.”
The assembled clergy nodded in agreement, and then looked uncomfortably at the walls and ceiling.
“Exactly,” said the Archfiend with a sudden quick glint in his eye. “Well, I offer this country immunity from such temptation, if you on your part promise me something in return.”
The clergy sat up in their seats and for the first time looked really interested.
“What do you want in return?” asked Father Furiosus carefully.
“I should expect that the clergy in their teaching would not in future lay undue stress on the wickedness of simony, nepotism, drunkenness, perjury and murder.”
“These sins which you mention,” said the friar after a long, cautious pause, “are but minor offences when compared with the hideous sin of sex. What you somewhat exaggeratedly term drunkenness, perjury and murder are perhaps but the exuberance of a high-spirited and courageous people. Nepotism is, after all, merely an offshoot of the virtue of charity. As for simony, we know all about that. The cry of simony is usually raised by evil-minded persons who are unwilling to subscribe to the upkeep of their pastors.”
“You think then that we can perhaps do business on these lines?”
Before replying Father Furiosus glanced along the rows of eager ecclesiastical faces.
“I think we can,” he said at last.
The conference dragged on hour after hour. Fursey fell asleep and when he awoke, Apollyon was delivering his final oration.
“I promise the clergy of this country wealth and the respect of their people for all time. When a stranger enters a village, he will not have to ask which is the priest’s house. It will be easy of identification, for it will be the largest house there. I promise you that whenever priests are sought, it will not be in the houses of the poor that they will be found. And as a sign that I will keep my part of the bargain, I will stamp the foreheads of your priesthood with my own particular seal— the seal of pride.”
The Archfiend’s voice was lost in the tumult of applause, and the assembly broke up. The Canons of the Chapter left the building in small groups chattering excitedly to one another. Every face was aglow with animation save only that of Abbot Marcus, who sat crouched in his chair, his face shadowed with doubt and indecision.
“They have compromised with Evil,” Fursey heard him muttering. “They have compromised where there can be no compromise.”
Father Furiosus and the Bishop had walked out into the hall with the canons, and Fursey found himself alone with Apollyon, alone except for the motionless figure of the Abbot sunk in his chair in a far corner of the room. The Archfiend seemed tired as he moved towards the door with Fursey.
“Well,” he said pausing on the threshold, “it’s over now—a most satisfactory arrangement, in which both sides are convinced that they have gained substantial benefits. Do you realise what has happened, Fursey?”
“No, I was asleep.”
“Well,” said the Archfiend carefully, “unless my sense of humour has again betrayed me, I appear to have the souls of the Irish clergy in my bag for all time. It’ll give Hell a considerable Irish ecclesiastical character, and I suppose the other damned won’t like it. They’ll say that they’ve enough to put up with as it is.”
He sighed and seemed to become very depressed as he meditated on the future.
“Life will be very difficult in the coming centuries,” he said. “Before long Hell will hardly know itself. It will bear an extraordinary resemblance to an Annual General Meeting of the Catholic Truth Society. It’s a terrible prospect for a demon of sensitiveness and breeding like me.”
Fursey had not the slightest idea what the Archfiend was talking about; but as politeness demanded it, he made a sound indicative of his sympathy. The Devil started suddenly, possessed by a new idea.
“Fursey,” he said eagerly. “I’ve a proposition to make to you. I have the Irish Church in my bag for all time. I’ll exchange the souls of all of them, born and unborn, for your soul.”
“No,” retorted Fursey. “Certainly not.”
The Demon’s face fell. “I suppose you’re right,” he replied gloomily. “Your soul is the only thing which your country has left you, and I suppose you’re right to stick to it.”
Grimly he hummed one of the psalms backwards for a few moments. At last his face cleared, and he turned to Fursey once more.
“It’s unlikely that I’ll see you again. Before I go, I’d like to know how you’re placed for the future.”
“I don’t know. I expect they’ll let me back into Clon
macnoise.”
“I’d advise emigration,” said the Devil. “The future of the Irish race lies in emigration.”
“Ah, the country isn’t as bad as all that,” protested Fursey.
“The country is all right,” replied the Devil. “The only thing that’s wrong with it, is the people that are in it.”
“I don’t agree with you,” said Fursey patriotically.
“Maybe,” sighed the Devil, “maybe I should have said that the country and most of the people are all right; what’s wrong with this land is the hard-fisted few that have and hold it. Forgive me if I seem to be carping,” he continued, “but I’m rather out of patience with the Irish race. Your countrymen have no real sense of humour as the phrase is understood by other peoples. They never laugh at themselves.”
“Maybe,” replied Fursey.
“Goodbye now,” said the Devil, “and don’t get yourself into any further trouble.”
“I won’t,” said Fursey. “Are you not going out through the front door?”
“No. I’ll take my departure through the smoke-hole in the roof. I don’t want to have to shake hands with Bishop Flanagan. Damn it, I have my pride.”
The Archfiend waved his hand to Fursey in melancholy valediction, and streaking up to the ceiling, made a perfect exit through the smoke-hole, just as Father Furiosus and the Bishop re-entered the room rubbing their hands and evincing every sign of satisfaction.
“Is our friend gone?” asked the friar.
“Yes,” replied Fursey pointing to the ceiling. “He went that way.”
The Bishop laughed tolerantly as if the Devil’s choice of exit was an understandable boyish freak. He turned genially to Furiosus and the Abbot.
