Tist the Devil

There was once a man from Nederbrakel who had sold his soul to the devil. No one knew exactly when or how it happened, but everyone felt it in their bones — the man was corrupted by drink and cursed by debt. The village pubs knew him all too well: Tist, they called him, though that was certainly not his real name. It was more a title, a warning. Tist the Drunkard. Tist the Accursed.

One Sunday evening he sat in a pub again, glassy-eyed and red-nosed. When his money ran out, he asked the innkeeper for another beer. ’Not without money,’ said the man behind the bar, who knew his face all too well. Tist began to curse, wild and blasphemously, with words no righteous Christian would utter. The innkeeper grabbed him by the collar and threw him out the door. Tist tumbled into the night, cursing and screaming.

He wandered from pub to pub, but got the same answer everywhere. No money, no beer. No money, no food. No money, no shelter. Desperate, Tist roamed the dark streets of the village back and forth, until he completely lost his mind and fled cursing, somewhere outside the village. It was his lifeline — or his ruin.

On the way he met a gentleman in black. This man had pitch-black eyes and a smile like a dagger. ’You look terrible, friend,’ said the gentleman in a tone that was both friendly and false. Tist growled something back. The gentleman laughed — a sound like breaking ice. ’I can help you,’ he said. ’All the money you could want. Forever. You shall never know poverty again.’

’What is the price?’ asked Tist, who despite his drunkenness was not entirely foolish.

’Only your obedience,’ said the gentleman. ’Obey me always, and you shall have everything your heart desires.’ Tist hesitated only seconds. He reached out his hand, and the hand of the gentleman felt cold, like frozen flesh. The pact was sealed.

The gentleman gave him four silver five-franc coins. ’When these are spent,’ he said, ’open this box. You will find more money within. As long as you remain faithful to me, the money will always replenish itself.’ Tist seized the box, felt its weight, and without another word hurried back to the pub.

What happened in the pub next, the villagers would have liked to call wondrous. In truth, it was frightening. Tist stumbled in, reeling and flushed. He slammed his fist on the bar with force enough to rattle the glasses. ’Give me beer!’ he bellowed. ’Now!’

The innkeeper hesitated. Tist threw a silver franc onto the bar. The coin gleamed in the lamplight. The man behind the counter picked it up hesitantly — it was warm, far too warm — and without another word he poured Tist a full glass. Tist drained it in one gulp and ordered more. All night he drank, cursing and talking to himself, until exhausted he fell asleep in a corner.

The next morning, frightened and bewildered, he put his hand into the box. To his great horror, there lay once more four five-franc coins, as if they had multiplied of themselves. Tist began to laugh — a sound that made everyone who heard it shudder.

From that moment on, Tist visited the pub every day. Every day the same scene: he tossed a coin onto the bar, drank himself into a stupor, cursed until his voice grew hoarse, and cursed everyone near him. And every day the box replenished itself. Money-lenders and creditors left him alone — what use was it to sue someone who had money? But no one wanted to see Tist. Women crossed themselves as he passed. Children ran away. Even his own family shut the door. In the village, the rumour spread that Tist was possessed by the devil himself.

At the same time, something worse began to happen. In the region around Nederbrakel and Vloesberg, a werewolf was reported. Nightly came screams and moans from between the trees. Livestock vanished from the pastures. Women no longer dared to go to the well alone. The priest prayed and blessed, but the werewolf returned again and again.

The villagers turned their gaze upon Tist. It could be no coincidence. The devil was sending his beasts. The devil was playing his game. If that accursed drunkard were gone, the werewolf would follow. And Tist, because he could find no work in his own region — what farmer would employ such a man — sought work in another village.

At the farm of farmer Van Den Bossche, at Hof Ten Bossche near Vloesberg, Tist knocked seeking work. The farmer, who either did not know who Tist was or pretended not to, hired him as a farmhand. ’You must make me a promise,’ said Van Den Bossche sternly. ’No more drink, no more cursing. This is a God-fearing household. Otherwise you cannot work here.’

Tist nodded, and for a few weeks it went well. The man worked hard, fetched water, fed the animals, spread manure. The farmer was content. But slowly, very slowly, Tist began to slip back into his old habits. A sip in the sleeping quarters. A curse when the horse resisted. And the more he drank, the tighter the devil’s grip became.

One day Tist had to haul a cart full of manure to a field near the forest. With farmer Van Den Bossche’s four strong horses, he dragged the cart to the field. But as he entered the field, the cart became stuck in a deep muddy pit. The farmer harnessed all four horses and pulled and pulled, but the cart did not move an inch. The farmer cursed half under his breath — then remembered his promise and stopped. ’Farmhand!’ he called out. ’Can you free this cart?’

Tist rose from the grass. He looked at the cart, at the animals, at the farmer. Then he stepped forward and began to shout at the horses — not words, but curses. His mouth foamed, his face turned purple. ’Forward, you damned beasts!’ And in one movement the cart broke free from the mud and rolled forward as though it bore no weight.

The farmer turned white with deadly fear. This could mean nothing else. The werewolf. Tist. Everything was connected.

Days later, someone found something dreadful on the farm: a bear skin, hidden in a woodpile. A bear skin. In Vloesberg, in a region where bears had not been seen for a hundred years. A bear skin, and with it the truth became clear: Tist and the werewolf were one.

On the first Monday of March, when the fair of Geraardsbergen took place, farmer Van Den Bossche said to Tist: ’There is a field that must be manured, near the forest. If you work hard, you can go to the fair around midday.’

Tist nodded and set off to the field with his dung fork. The farmer returned home, convinced that he would at last have the opportunity to rid himself of this devilish creature. If Tist went to the fair, he would have his chance.

Around eleven o’clock the farmer went to see how the work was progressing. What did he find? Tist, half-sweating and half-drunk, sleeping on a heap of manure. The farmer flushed with anger. He walked over to Tist and kicked him rudely awake. ’Lazy demon!’ he cried. ’You are not going anywhere to that fair until this field is properly manured!’

Tist looked up, his eyes misty with sleep and drink. He said nothing. He stood up, took his dung fork, thrust it into the nearest heap of manure, and said in a voice so low it was barely audible: ’Mine for me and each his own.’

And what happened? In the next instant all the heaps of manure flew open of themselves. The manure spread across the field as if by invisible hands. The cart rolled forward without a horse. The field, which would have taken hours of labour, was manured in seconds. It was complete.

Tist threw down his fork and said nothing more. Without looking back, he walked toward Geraardsbergen.

At home the farmer was torn by fear and rage. This was the proof. This had to be the end. Together with his wife, he stoked the oven until it glowed. ’We will burn that bear skin,’ he said. ’In burning it, we will burn the werewolf itself.’

But as he reached to take the skin from the woodpile and cast it into the fire, Tist stood suddenly in the kitchen doorway. Where had he come from? How had he returned? These were questions no one could answer. The farmer and his wife screamed with fear and fled the house. Tist, his face red in the firelight, seized the bear skin, tucked it under his arm, and left the farm cursing.

Years passed. Tist wandered through East Flanders, always living the same life: drinking, cursing, damned. But one day he entered a church. Perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps from despair. And there, before the altar, in the light of a thousand candles, he felt something he had not felt in long: a hand that was not cold. A hand that set him free. The priest saw an old man in rags kneeling and weeping, and he blessed him, freed from the devil.

It is said that Tist was never seen again in East Flanders after that day. Whether he saved his soul, no one knows. But the story of his pact with the devil, of the magic box and the dreadful words — ’Mine for me and each his own’ — was passed down from generation to generation, a warning that the devil always demands a price, and that price is always the soul.