The Rose Demon

could hear her sobbing in the small solar so he quietly left the house. He slipped across the cemetery to his secret place, the small stone death house at the far side of the church. Matthias crept in. He crouched, thumb in mouth, trying to make sense of what was happening. He knew the hermit was strange. He said things which Matthias did not understand. But a murderer? A man violent like those soldiers? Matthias closed his eyes.

    ‘Remember this, my soul,’ he murmured, ‘and remember it well. The Lord thy God is One and He is holy.’ Then he finished the prayer. ‘And thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’

    Matthias’ eyes flew open. He should remember that. What would the hermit expect him to do? What would he want?

    Matthias heard his mother calling, her voice carrying faintly across the cemetery. He lay down on the bed of soft bracken he’d once made there, crossing his arms, bringing his knees up. He felt tired, a little cold. His eyes grew heavy and for a while he dozed. He woke with a start, some bird crashing in the bushes outside.

    The boy stole out of his secret place and stretched, enjoying the warm sunlight. He had made his mind up. He climbed the cemetery wall but, instead of taking the highroad, he took a narrow trackway which snaked behind the houses of the village. He ran furtively, pinching his nose now and again at the sour smell from the cesspits which stood at the bottom of each plot of land. When he approached the rear of the Hungry Man, he had to be more careful. Joscelyn and two of his sons were there, raising new casks from the cellar. Once they had gone Matthias continued on his way. Soon he was in the woods but this time he wasn’t afraid. He saw the guards the villagers had sent out. However, they had brought a small tun of ale with them and seemed more keen on emptying that, laughing and teasing each other. Matthias scrambled through the bushes, his hands and face stung by the nettles, and scratched by the prickly holly. At last he was past them and, forcing his way through the undergrowth, made his way back to the path which led to Tenebral.

    He approached the ruined church, calling his friend’s name but there was no reply. Matthias slipped in under the crumbling doorway and stared. The hermit was kneeling in the sanctuary, hands extended, before the rose painted on the wall. Matthias held his breath. A strong red light, like that of the sky just before the dawn, came from the painting and bathed the hermit in its mysterious glow. And the hermit? It seemed as if he were at least a good yard from the ground, kneeling in midair, hands extended. There was no sound. Nothing but this bright, rose-coloured light and the hermit embracing it. Matthias stepped back. His foot caught on some dry wood, it cracked, shattering the silence. Matthias stared down in horror. When he looked up again the light had gone, the hermit was just standing on the edge of the sanctuary, smiling down at him.

    ‘Matthias, I did not know you were coming. Creatura, you move so softly.’

    ‘What was that light?’ Matthias asked, coming forward.

    ‘What light?’ the hermit teased back. ‘Matthias, you’ll make a great poet or troubadour.’ He saw the puzzlement in the boy’s face. ‘A troubadour is a singer of songs,’ he explained. ‘A dreamer of dreams. A teller of tales.’

    ‘Are you a murderer?’ Matthias asked harshly.

    ‘Creatura!’

    The hermit sat down at the foot of a crumbling pillar, resting his head against the ivy which wound round it. He tilted up his face and, from under heavy-lidded eyes, studied the boy.

    ‘They say you are,’ Matthias blurted out, coming forward. ‘They say you killed Edith and others. Now and eight years ago.’

    ‘Who says that?’

    ‘The stranger, a preacher.’ Matthias now ran towards him. He tugged at the hermit’s robe. ‘They are going to come here tomorrow morning. They are going to arrest you. They call you a witch. They’ve put guards on the path through the woods.’

    ‘And you came to warn me?’ The hermit stretched out his legs and patted his lap. ‘Sit here, Matthias.’

    The boy did so. The hermit put his arms round him.

    ‘I’m not supposed to be here. My mother, she told me not to come.’

    ‘But you came, didn’t you, Matthias?’ The hermit was now whispering in his ear. ‘I can see the cuts on your hands and face. You came here to warn me, didn’t you?’ He stroked Matthias’ hair. ‘Oh Creatura,