The Rose Demon

perfume.

    ‘Do you like it, Creatura?’ the hermit asked.

    ‘It’s beautiful,’ the boy replied. ‘It’s so large.’

    ‘It’s the world,’ the hermit explained. ‘Each leaf, each petal closing in on itself. That’s why I paint it.’

    ‘But there are no thorns?’

    ‘The rose is the flower of Paradise,’ the hermit said. ‘When it grew in the meadows of Heaven it had no thorns. It only sprouted them when it fell into the hands of wicked men.’

    Matthias heard a tinder strike. He looked over his shoulder: the rabbit was skinned, gutted and pierced through by a small spit which the hermit now placed over a bed of glowing charcoal. Matthias blinked. He had seen his mother and father light a fire but never with such speed. The hermit could do everything so quickly, so skilfully. The hermit winked at him and began to turn the spit: as he did so, he sprinkled herbs and a little oil from a small jug along the rabbit’s flesh.

    ‘Look at the rose, Matthias. What do you feel?’

    ‘I feel as if I could smell it.’

    ‘Then do so . . . Go on!’ the hermit urged.

    Matthias, laughing, put his nose up against the wall.

    ‘I can smell the rabbit!’ he giggled, wrinkling his nose. ‘And the plaster’s damp.’

    ‘No, no, think about the rose, Matthias. Smell it now!’

    The boy did so and exclaimed in surprise: the sweetest, most fragrant of perfumes seeped from the painting. He clapped his hands. ‘I can smell it! I can smell it! It’s beautiful!’

    The hermit laughed and went back to turning the rabbit on the spit. Matthias, however, studied the wall. This time, at the hermit’s urging, he touched one of the petals and felt its soft wetness against his fingers.

    ‘It’s a trick, isn’t it?’ he exclaimed.

    ‘Yes, Creatura, it’s a trick!’

    The boy noticed a series of marks on the wall, strange carvings, like the letters of his hornbook, but jumbled up and broken.

    ‘What are these?’ he asked.

    ‘Runes,’ the hermit replied. ‘An ancient writing.’

    ‘And what do they mean?’

    ‘Too many questions, Creatura. In time, in time. Now,’ the hermit pointed across the sanctuary to a small pannier. ‘Enough questions, we must eat. Go over there and see what you can find.’

    Matthias opened it up and gasped in surprise: wrapped in a linen cloth were fresh manchet loaves, a small pot of butter and a jar of honey.

    ‘Where did you get these?’

    ‘In Tredington,’ the hermit replied. ‘I went across there.’

    ‘Do you know a boy there?’ Matthias asked.

    ‘I know no boy, Creatura, except you. Now, bring the food across.’

    ‘You shouldn’t go to Tredington,’ Matthias declared. ‘Father says they are our . . .’

    ‘Enemies?’

    Matthias shook his head.

    ‘Rivals?’

    ‘That’s it: rivals! We have disputes with them over the great meadow and pannage rights in the woods.’

    ‘And yet there’s enough for everyone,’ the hermit replied. ‘Do you love your father?’

    Matthias, crouching before the fire, nodded solemnly.

    ‘But he’s a priest,’ the hermit teased. ‘He has taken vows never to know a woman.’

    Matthias just blinked owlishly back.

    ‘Will you . . .’ the boy pointed further down the wall to the faded paintings of angels, ‘will you paint them as well?’

    The hermit, crouching, looked over his shoulder at the faded portraits: a group of angels each with a musical instrument: lute, flute, sackbut, shawm and rebec.

    ‘What are they supposed to be?’ he teased.

    ‘Angels, of course!’ Matthias replied.

    ‘Are they now?’ The hermit’s eyes looked sad. ‘I tell you this, Matthias, they look nothing like angels.’

    He took the rabbit off the spit, broke the flesh with his fingers, and handed over the most succulent pieces. Matthias gnawed the sweet, soft flesh.

    ‘Do you know about angels?’

    The hermit’s eyes were now very sad.

    ‘In the beginning,’ he replied, ‘before the Spirit moved over to the darkness, only the angels existed before the face of the Almighty. Think of them, Matthias, an army of brilliant lights, genius, pure will. However, in beauty and power, they were nothing compared to the great five.’ He put the piece of meat down and counted the names off on his fingers. ‘Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Lucifer . . .’

    ‘And?’ Matthias asked.

    The hermit was staring at the fire. Matthias shivered at the cold blast of wind which blew through the church.

    ‘And who?’ he