Paul Doherty: The Rose Demon

A bird stirred noisily in the branches above him. Matthias recalled other stories about the Strigoi, the ravenous birds with hooked feet, grasping talons, eyes which stared fixedly — fowls from hell who preyed on the young. Or the hag whose carcass was clothed in feathers and whose belly was swollen with the blood of her victims. Yet he had to go on! The hermit would be waiting for him and Matthias loved the hermit, with his magic and his stories, his merry mouth and laughing eyes. The boy took a deep breath, closed his eyes and, hands flapping by his side, ran into the shade of the trees. He tried to ignore the sounds from the undergrowth. He mustn’t think of Old Bogglebow, his name for Margot, the evil-eyed hag who lived in Baron Sanguis’ manor house and who, so the villagers whispered, practised the black arts on behalf of her master. Matthias did fear Old Bogglebow, with her sunken cheeks, twisted nose and sharp dog teeth scattered in rotting gums like tombs in a moon-lit churchyard.

Matthias opened his eyes and smiled. He had run so fast he was sure he was near the edge of the woods. He turned a corner and ran on, his eyes fixed on the trackway before him. He found breathing difficult, even more so when he tried to hum a song Christina had taught him. His fears only increased for, when the wood ended, he would be in Tenebral.

Once a village, its inhabitants had been wiped out by the Great Death, which had raged along the Severn valley a hundred years previously. The ancient ones still talked about it, of the dead lying in their beds, or at a table, or in the fields, their hands still fixed to the plough. Tenebral was a place for ghosts, haunted and eerie. Matthias paused and drew in his breath. Yet the hermit would be there: he would protect him. 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? How can they be frightened of something they don’t know?’

‘They said you had been here before,’ Matthias replied. ‘About eight years ago, before I was born.’

‘But I was kind to them. I tended some of their sick. Yet, when I asked them for food, they drove me away.’

‘So, why did you come back?’

In answer the hermit scooped Matthias up in his arms. ‘I came back because I came back,’ he announced. ‘Now, Matthias, I am going to show you something.’ He put the boy gently back on the ground.

‘A trick?’ Matthias asked, his eyes round in wonderment.

‘A trick? What kind of trick? That’s sorcery,’ the hermit replied. ‘As it is to have white doves in your ear!’

‘Don’t be-’

The hermit stretched his hand out. Matthias felt something feathery and warm against his ear. The hermit dramatically drew his hand back. Matthias stared in astonishment at the small white dove nestling in the palm of the hermit’s hand. The hermit stroked its down feathers gently with a finger. The bird quietly cooed.

‘Watch it fly, Matthias,’ he whispered.

He threw the bird up and, in a flash of white, the dove climbed, wings outstretched, speeding up against the sky. Matthias watched it go but screamed at the black shape which seemed to strike out of nowhere: white feathers floated gently back into the church followed by one, two drops of blood. When he looked up again, the hawk and its victim had vanished. The hermit, however, his face impassive, glared up at the sky. He said something in a language Matthias couldn’t understand and made a cutting move with his hand.