by Peter Harris
5
Rosa’s Ruin
The valley of the Perfect Woman (whose name was Gwynneth) was on the far side of a great sweep of the mountains, and Calibur was footsore and homesick long before he saw the familiar folds of land opening before him and finally his home village, with his old smithy up a short path, and beyond it the path over gentle hills to the cottage and the gardens that Rosa had tended with such love. He looked down at his clothes, and was ashamed that they were ragged, and his beard and hair were matted.
But when he arrived at the cottage they had shared together in such bliss (as it now seemed to him) he had a terrible shock: nothing remained there but lines of fallen stones under rampant briars surrounded by unpruned trees.
He ran to the blackened ruin, and there on the remains of the chimney, he saw a cross chiselled into the stones and crudely painted in red. He cried aloud in anger and bewilderment, and wandered about the place, seeking some shred of the things he remembered that were in the cottage, or any further sign of what had happened. ‘I had no idea how important this place was to me — and my beloved who lived here — even though I had forsaken them and gone far away,’ he thought, bitterly.
At last, exhausted, he lay down against the ruined chimney and stared out at the view he once saw through his kitchen window. Suddenly he heard loud bleating and a flock of goats came running into the clearing that was once his cottage, and began eating the roses and tearing up the grass. He jumped up in anger, and as he looked about for a stick, a young man in green stepped over what remained of Calibur’s front doorstep, leaned on his shepherd’s crook and asked, ‘What are you doing here?’
Calibur was not a man of violence, but all his frustration came to a head and he challenged the goatherd: ‘Be off, you vagabond! This is my house!’ But the goatherd only laughed, and said, ‘Is that so?’ Calibur ran at him. They wrestled, and as the sun went down the goatherd was at last overcome, and he told Calibur, ‘I am persuaded! You are the owner of this house. No one else would fight so hard for a burnt-out patch of land and some old stones! Now, if you pay me, I will tell you what happened to the woman who lived here. What do you have that you can give me?’
‘Only this,’ said Calibur, letting go of the goatherd, and going to his pack, he took out the icon of the Perfect Woman.
‘She is beautiful,’ said the goatherd.
‘I know; and perilous. For this face I left my wife, and was ruined. Yet, this face also saved me.’
‘I will be careful then! Now I will tell you what I know. The woman of this house was reported to the church authorities as a witch. For — they said — she turns down all suitors and lives alone, and keeps a black cat, and gardens and grows herbs and mandrakes amidst the cabbages. And…’
Calibur interrupted, ‘What do you mean, “church authorities”?’
‘Do you not know? Missionaries came from far away, a place called Rome, and told the people of a God above heaven and earth, to whom all below is as dust and ashes. And they said, “If you believe in the new God you will be saved and rise up beyond the heavens when you die, but if you do not believe you will be damned to torments beneath the earth forever.” And the people were afraid, since there had just been a pestilence, and many had died, and the crops had rotted in the fields.’
Calibur gnashed his teeth. ‘This folly is worse than that of my brothers the hermits! Yet it leads on from it. Perhaps they will welcome the new teaching, and find many disciples!’
‘Now do you wish to hear what happened to the woman who lived here?’ said the goatherd impatiently.
‘Yes,’ said Calibur, but he was filled with foreboding.
‘One night there was a terrible wind and hail, which passed through the whole village, and not one house or garden was left undamaged, and what was left of the crops was destroyed. But Rosa’s garden was untouched. They came for her the next night, and set fire to her house. But she fled, and it is rumoured that she was last seen going west towards Land’s End, and that she has passed over to the Isle of Avalon, which the priests of Rome call accursed and an abode of witches. But of course it is more likely that she fell over some cliff into the sea, and perished.’
‘She was my wife,’ replied Calibur in anguish.
‘She may have been,’ said the goatherd. ‘But if she still lives, will she ever want to be again?’ Then he gave Calibur some goat’s milk and cheese, wished him luck, and disappeared into the twilight with his flock and the icon of the Perfect Woman.
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