‘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.
‘Life preys upon life,’ he declared. ‘Come, Matthias, let me show you something else.’
He took the child by the hand and led him out of the ruined church along the old high street. With the hermit holding his hand, Matthias wasn’t at all frightened. Now and again they would stop and the hermit would crouch down and point out different flowers: lilies, cowslips, the deadly belladonna and the blue-belled monkshood.
‘Be careful of these latter two, Creatura. A deadly venom runs in their veins. But look!’ The hermit pointed towards a bush. ‘See, a goldfinch and, further down, a kingfisher rests before it returns to the mere. But, today, you must see this.’
He led Matthias into the ruined courtyard of what must have been Tenebral’s tavern. The hermit put a finger to his lips.
‘Shush now!’
They walked on tiptoe towards an outhouse. Matthias peered in: at first he could see nothing but then, against the far wall, in what must have been a recess for store jars, he glimpsed movement — small, reddish bundles of fur — and realised the hermit had brought him to a fox’s den. The vixen, apparently oblivious to these spectators, licked one of the cubs whilst they, full of mischief, pounced and darted upon each other. Matthias had seen many a fox. He had heard the villagers after Sunday Mass loudly moan that one had taken a cockerel or goose from their pen. This, however, was different. He had never seen baby foxes so close up, so full of life. He would have stepped forward but the hermit gripped his shoulder.
‘No, no, let it be.’
For a while they stood and watched. The vixen abruptly looked up, staring towards the door, and a look of pure fear crossed her face. She knocked her cubs back into the recess, then curled up at the entrance, head on her front paws, whimpering quietly. The hermit led Matthias away.
‘Come on, Creatura, it’s time we ate.’
On the way back to the church the hermit stopped to search amongst the bushes. He gave a cry of triumph and brought out a rabbit caught in his snare. He slung the carcass over his shoulder and, whistling softly, led Matthias by the hand, listening carefully to the boy’s chatter.
Once more in the church, he took Matthias into the old sanctuary. The boy stared round. There was no sign of any altar or any vestige of the sacred mysteries which had been celebrated there. In the corner was a bed of flock and a wooden peg stool. The floor was clean, though scattered around were pots of paint and, whilst the hermit gutted and skinned the rabbit, Matthias stared in awe at the huge rose his friend was painting on the wall. It was like no rose he had ever seen: the leaves were red-black, the heart was gold, the stem silver. The boy put his hand out. He was sure that if he touched the rose, he would feel its soft texture and catch its 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.
