The Rose Demon

He ran on, then stopped, searching the trackway carefully until he discovered the secret path the hermit had shown him. Matthias followed this carefully. The trees gave way and suddenly he was on the edge of Tenebral. Some of the houses still stood along the highroad, their plaster cracked, the rooms inside open to the sky. The wooden doors and windows, anything which could be salvaged, had been plundered a long time ago.

    Matthias crouched down like a little dog and stared around. The highroad was overgrown, ivy crept around the cottage walls. A silent place, a village where life had suddenly stopped. Even the birds seemed to avoid it. At the far end Matthias glimpsed the ruined steeple of the church. He hurried on but hesitated beneath the remains of the lych-gate, staring down at the main porch. The wooden doors had long gone; the church walls were covered in ivy and lichen. Matthias would go no further. He was proud of having come so far, but now he would wait.

    ‘Hermit!’ he called. ‘Hermit, it’s Matthias! You asked me to come!’

    Only a crow, circling solitary above the church, called raucously back. Matthias forgot his fears and ran up the path to the church porch. He stood within the entrance. To his left was the baptismal font. He glanced up. The roof had long gone, but the sanctuary at the far end was partially covered by bushes, both inside and outside the church, which had sprouted up to form their own canopy. The boy swallowed. The hermit should be here. He jumped as a rat scurried across the floor, then walked on. He was about to call the hermit again when a warm hand touched the side of his neck. He gasped and spun round. The hermit was there, crouching down, face wrinkled in amusement, eyes dancing, lips parted in a smile.

    ‘You scared me!’

    The hermit grasped him by the arms and squeezed gently.

    ‘You tricked me!’ Matthias accused.

    The hermit threw his head back and laughed. He drew Matthias close, putting his arms around him, gently crushing the boy against him. Matthias let his body slacken. His father never did this and the hermit was always so warm, smelling so fragrantly of rose-water.

    ‘I saw you come into the village,’ the hermit murmured. ‘I have been behind you all the time.’

    ‘I was frightened,’ Matthias confessed. ‘It’s so lonely.’

    The hermit gently stroked his hair.

    ‘ Creatura bona atque parva! ’ he murmured.

    ‘What does that mean?’

    The hermit held him away: he stared in mock seriousness. ‘It’s Latin, Matthias. It means you are my little and good creature.’

    ‘I am not your creature. You make me sound like a bat.’

    Again the hermit laughed, rocking gently backwards and forwards. Matthias watched him intently. If the truth be known, Matthias could sit and watch the hermit all day. He was tall and strong, his iron-grey hair carefully cut, like that of a monk, up around his ears. His face, burnt dark by the sun, was clean-shaven, open and fresh. He had a gentle smile and his eyes were always full of merriment. His hands, broad and brown, were warm and, whenever he touched Matthias, the boy felt soothed and calm.

    ‘How long have we known each other now, Matthias?’

    ‘You came here in March,’ Matthias replied slowly. ‘Just before the Feast of the Annunciation.’

    ‘So, you’ve known me two months,’ the hermit replied. ‘And when you come here you are still frightened. Never let fear rule you, Matthias. It is a dark worm inside your mind.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘And the more you feed it, the fatter it grows!’

    ‘Aren’t you afraid?’ Matthias accused.

    ‘Of some things, yes. Of people and creatures, never!’

    ‘But that’s because you are a soldier. You were a soldier, weren’t you?’

    ‘I was a soldier, Matthias. In the beginning I was a soldier.’

    His face, as it sometimes did, became not serious but sad. Matthias watched his mouth, lips half-parted.

    ‘Did you kill many men?’ Matthias asked.

    The hermit sighed and got to his feet. ‘Killing is part of nature, Matthias. The hawk kills the hen: the fox the rabbit, all things feed upon each other.’

    ‘If you are not frightened,’ Matthias continued, ‘why don’t you come into the village?’

    The hermit crouched down and touched the tip of Matthias’ nose with the point of his finger.

    ‘You tell me, Matthias Fitzosbert. Why don’t I go into the village?’

    ‘The people be frightened of you.’

    ‘Why?