The Rose Demon

She sat, legs out, her bare feet dirty, her hands crossed. Her head went slack, a trickle of saliva coming out of the corner of her mouth. She lifted her face, her eyes puffy with tears.

    ‘I am sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Matthias, I am very sorry.’ She held a hand out to her husband. ‘Take me back to my bed,’ she murmured. ‘Some food. Hear my confession.’

    Matthias, alarmed, swung his legs off the bed.

    ‘Stay there, Matthias!’ Osbert ordered. Picking his wife up, he stumbled out of the room and down the stairs.

    Matthias waited for a while, looking through the window. He had slept longer than he had thought. He felt hungry and went down to the kitchen. He ate some fruit and cheese, finished his father’s wine, then returned to his own room. The wine and the shock made Matthias feel depleted. He’d never felt such tiredness before. His legs and arms seemed to weigh like lead and, throwing himself on to the bed, he fell fast asleep.

    Matthias awoke cold and stiff just after dawn. He felt stronger, refreshed. He went downstairs. His father sat on his mother’s chair. Matthias’ heart lurched: Osbert had aged, his face was pale and drawn and he was rocking himself backwards and forwards, his hands pushed up the voluminous sleeves of his gown. Matthias became frightened. He didn’t want to be here any more. He just wanted to flee.

    ‘Your mother is dead.’ Osbert didn’t even turn his head. ‘I heard her confession last night. She died in the early hours!’ He drew his hands from his sleeves. ‘Gone!’ he added, fingers clawing the air. ‘Like a candle going out!’

    Matthias began to tremble. His world was falling apart. His mother was dead, his father was sitting there like a madcap, talking to himself.

    ‘Perhaps she’s just asleep.’

    Matthias couldn’t think of anything else to say. Osbert turned his head, lips curled in a sneer.

    ‘Asleep? You stupid little boy. She’s dead! My Christina is dead! Your mother is dead and all you can say is that she’s asleep!’ Osbert’s shoulders began to shake. He put his face in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

    Matthias backed towards the door. He couldn’t make sense of this. His mother would never die. He was in a dream.

    ‘Where are you going?’ The priest staggered from the chair and pounced threateningly on him. ‘Where are you going, brat? You little bastard!’

    ‘Father!’ Matthias screamed.

    The priest blinked.

    ‘Father, I don’t know!’

    The priest breathed in deeply, closing his eyes; he crossed himself three times.

    ‘This hermit of yours? This hermit of yours?’ he repeated.

    ‘He’s dead,’ Matthias whimpered.

    The priest muttered something to himself. Then: ‘I want to go there,’ he declared. ‘Go on, boy! Get your cloak, put your boots on and don’t run away!’

    Matthias hurried to obey. When he came downstairs his father was all ready; a water bottle filled with wine in one hand, a greasy leather bag in the other. ‘Food and drink,’ he explained.

    They went to the stable. Parson Osbert brought out the little palfrey he kept there. Matthias thought he’d lift him up into the saddle but the parson hung the leather bag on the saddle horn and mounted.

    ‘Run beside me, brat!’

    Along the high street Parson Osbert stopped, hammering at the door of Widow Blanche. He told her, in harsh, halting sentences, what had happened, and would she dress the corpse and watch the house until he returned? After that the parson rode on. He stopped at the gallows and stared at the Preacher’s body, now coated with pitch and tar. It hung, head askew, neck still clenched by the rough, thick hemp. Again Parson Osbert muttered something to himself and, with Matthias trotting beside him, entered the woods, following the path to Tenebral.

    Matthias did not know what kind of morning it was. He did not seem to be able to hear or see anything. His mother was dead. Christina would never talk to him again. Now his father rode like a madcap, while he himself scampered along like some mongrel dog.

    Matthias’ head and stomach pained him. He was aware that it had rained the night before. There were puddles on the trackway. The trees overhead still dripped water. He had to pause to catch his breath, to relieve the stitch in his side but his father rode on. Matthias, sobbing and gasping, followed. He didn’t bother to keep up but left the forest path, making his way along his secret trackway into Tenebral.