The Unfortunate Fursey by Mervyn Wall

Author:Mervyn Wall
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Valancourt Books
Published: 2017-12-02T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER VII

It is usual to complete a day of arduous religious duties with a solemn banquet. When the foods and wines had been transferred from the sweating tables to the capacious ecclesiastical stomachs, and the guests were reclining on the rush-strewn floor about the great fire in the Bishop’s dining hall, Apollyon announced that it was incumbent on him to leave Cashel on the morrow and continue his journey. The other guests were too replete to argue with him, so they contented themselves with murmuring their regrets and continued dreamily cracking walnuts between their teeth. Apollyon obtained permission to pay a last visit to his client, and left the fire-lit room alone. When he reached the street, he summoned one of his veiled attendants, who was on duty at the ox-cart.

“Be prepared to vanish, ox-cart and all,” he told the rest of his entourage, “immediately on my return.”

He then made his way between the huts closely attended by his cloaked and veiled companion. When he reached the flight of steps that led underground to Fursey’s cell, the soldiers on guard, who had already experienced the foreign gentleman’s generosity, hurried forward to open the gates. Apollyon paused to congratulate them on the care they were taking of their prisoner, and distributed a few chunks of gold which he withdrew from the depths of his pocket. When he reached the noisome cell in which Fursey was confined, he found the demoniac sitting on the edge of his pallet dolefully examining the blackened skin and blisters on the soles of his feet. He greeted Fursey heartily.

“Well,” he said, “we can congratulate ourselves on our resounding victory.”

“Ay,” replied Fursey colourlessly.

“Why are you so morose?” asked the Devil warmly. “You’re alive, aren’t you, unburnt?”

“Yes,” replied Fursey, “but I think that most of my bones are broken.”

“Tut, tut,” said the Devil. “I never knew such a complaining fellow. It’s nothing to what they propose to do to you to-­morrow.”

Fursey looked at him, but said nothing.

“They’re determined to get that devil out of you. They’re going to break you on the wheel to begin with, and then they’ll proceed to tear you in all parts of your body with red-hot pincers. If the demon still obstinately refuses to quit your body in spite of the dire tortures to which he is subjected, they will have to dig for him.”

“What do you mean, ‘dig for him’?”

“Disembowelling,” replied the Devil.

“But can’t you explain to them,” suggested Fursey anxiously, “that all this vast expenditure of labour will avail them nought, as I haven’t got a devil.”

“If they can’t find a devil after thoroughly searching you, they’ll conclude that their first diagnosis must have been correct, and they’ll burn you as a wizard.”

“I see,” said Fursey.

“I’m told,” remarked the Devil, “that a sorcerer in the fire feels only the calm ecstacy of purification and deliverance as the flames devour his body.”

“I hope you’re right,” responded Fursey, without much conviction.

“Don’t worry,” declared the Devil. “I have a plan.”

“No, thank you,” rejoined Fursey. “I’d rather be disembowelled.

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