The Rose Demon

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Oh Englishman!’ De Harana filled his wine cup and glanced bleary-eyed at Matthias. ‘We have food, we have water. The natives are amenable.’

  ‘We should send out scouts,’ Matthias replied.

  ‘Oh yes.’ De Harana slurped from the cup. ‘Your friends the Caniba. Pity about poor Baldini, eh?’ He lurched to his feet, breathing wine fumes into Matthias’ face. ‘You are our master-at-arms,’ he slurred. ‘You are a good runner. We saw that the day Baldini was killed.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault!’ Matthias snapped.

  ‘Well, it’s not mine either!’ de Harana jibed. ‘As I said, you are the master-at-arms and I’m your superior officer. Go out and scout!’

  Later that day Matthias took a water bottle, some food wrapped in a ragged cloth, a war belt, an arbalest and slipped out of the stockade. He kept to the coastline.

  Matthias was more pleased to be by himself than intent on spying out possible dangers. He sensed something was about to happen but accepted there was little he could do. He continued walking, keeping the sea to his right.

  When night fell he camped out in the open, finding a small cave on the edge of the trees overlooking the sea. Matthias collected some dried wood, struck a tinder and sat staring out into the darkness. That night he dreamt once more of Barn wick and, when he awoke, he felt stiff and slightly cold, for the fire had gone out. Matthias went to the cave mouth, stretched, then gasped. Last night the sea had been calm, the waves breaking like a dull thunder on the rocks of the coral reef below him. Now it shimmered in the early morning sun and seemed to be full of long, high-beached canoes streaming towards the shoreline. Matthias crouched, straining his eyes. He counted and reckoned there must be at least 60 canoes; each bore 20 to 3 °Caniba warriors, their gaudy headdresses flapping in the morning breeze. They were moving past him, turning in towards the shore somewhere to the north. Others followed and Matthias realised this was not some raid but a war horde on the move. He hurried back and reached Natividad late in the afternoon and demanded a meeting with de Harana and Guitirres. Both men listened contemptuously.

  ‘They know Columbus has left,’ Matthias concluded. ‘The ships have gone. I think they had been invited here. The men must be brought back, the fortress prepared. With a stout defence we could drive them off.’

  ‘A stout defence could drive them off,’ Guitirres slurred. ‘I agree, Englishman, there’s nothing the natives fear more than Spanish steel or a bombard stone tearing them limb from limb. I am taking a troop of men out of the stockade tomorrow morning. De Harana here agrees the men need to be kept busy. We need supplies and the natives have said there’s gold.’ His eyes gleamed in their creases of fat. ‘There are mines further inland. We’ll pile the treasure so high the Captain General will have no need for a beacon when he returns.’

  Matthias protested but de Harana and Guitirres were adamant. They were bored: it might be months before Columbus returned and, like their Captain General, the officers were determined to return to Spain as wealthy men.

  The following morning Guitirres led forty of the men out. Matthias was ordered to accompany him. The Englishman’s heart sank at the lack of organisation. The troops straggled out in a line. They were even allowed to bring their native women, and he strongly suspected that many of the water bottles contained wine. No scouts or flankers were sent out ahead. Guitirres left just after dawn. Matthias kept to the rear of the column. Now and again he would leave the track and go off into the jungle. He found nothing to confirm his fears that the Caniba were following them.

  Just before noon they stopped at the mouth of a small valley, a pleasant open space, the land cultivated by a nearby village whose smoke they could glimpse. While the men rested, Matthias went ahead, following the small brook which wound its way along the valley floor. The fields were deserted. Matthias stopped and studied the dark line of the jungle on either side. He could see nothing untoward. The march continued. Matthias expected to be greeted by some of the villagers but the valley remained silent. Even Guitirres became slightly suspicious.

  ‘For the love of God!’ Matthias snarled. ‘At least send scouts out ahead!’

  Guitirres shrugged, glanced bleary-eyed, turned his back and went after his men. Matthias stopped by the brook, opened his jerkin and began bathing his face and neck with cool water. He heard a cry and glanced up. The column had stopped. From the line of trees on their right had appeared a long column of Caniba. Silent, menacing, they advanced down the slope towards the valley floor. More of them followed. The Spaniards gazed in as tonishment as this phalanx of warriors, so unlike the natives they’d met, marched slowly towards them. Their chiefs preceded them; warriors armed with clubs and axes, their headdresses adorned by the brilliant plumage of parrots and other wild birds. Matthias stood up, slipping a bolt into the arbalest. Guitirres was shouting orders but the men appeared stunned. Some of the Indian women were screaming, tugging at their would-be protectors, pointing back down from where they had come.

  ‘Fall back!’ Matthias screamed.

  To his horror he heard a loud ululating war cry come from the trees behind him. He whirled round. A second horde of Caniba were now streaming from the jungle on their left. As they did so, the column of Caniba to Matthias’ right shouted their war cry and raced towards the small, chaotic Spanish force. All order and any hope of defence broke down. Guitirres tried to form his men into a circle but this proved fruitless, and the men streamed back towards Matthias. They pushed and shoved each other, splashing through the small brook, some even dropped swords and spears in their haste to get away. Matthias drew his sword and tried to stop the deserters but they pushed by him. The group which had stayed round Guitirres were soon overwhelmed. The Caniba burst amongst them, axe and club falling, their short stabbing spears thrusting in and out. Matthias watched in horror as a Caniba took one of the young Indian girls away from the group and, with one quick cut, slashed her throat and, kneeling down, burrowed his face into her bloody neck.

  Some of the Spaniards were also not being killed but were clubbed and pulled away, hands and feet tied. A few Spaniards broke through, fighting coolly with sword and spear whilst others kept firing their arbalests, yet the Caniba seemed to have no fear. These, too, were overwhelmed and already the Caniba were in hot pursuit of those who had fled. Matthias stood his ground. He loaded the arbalest and, taking shelter behind a palm tree, loosed whenever he could. A few Spaniards joined him in an attempt to protect their fleeing comrades, yet it was a desolate fight. Matthias looked to his left and right: the Caniba were now entering the jungle in an attempt to outflank and encircle him, whilst others pursued the rest of the small force back to the stockade which, Matthias knew, despite the bombard, would soon be overrun.

  The massacre in the middle of the valley now ended. The Caniba reorganised and streamed up to where Matthias and a few Spaniards still maintained their futile defence. Matthias kept loading and firing his arbalest. As he did so, Caniba broke out from the trees on the left and right, engulfing Matthias and his small party in a ferocious hand-to-hand fight. Matthias, his back to a tree, sword and dagger in his hand, cut and thrust. His body was soaked in sweat, his arms ached yet he felt cold and composed. The fight seemed to represent his entire life but now he could see his enemy and give blow for blow, thrust for thrust. The air rang with the screams and groans of his dying companions. They had seen what had happened to the rest; no man wished to be taken alive.

  Matthias noticed something extraordinary. The Caniba now surrounded him, a party of at least thirty, but he had received no wound, though they could have killed him easily. Time and again warriors came in, their fierce faces gaudily painted in red and white. They seemed more determined to disarm him than deliver any killing blow. Eventually, Matthias, by sheer power of numbers, was forced away from the tree. In one wild rush the Caniba surrounded him, catching at his arms and legs. Matthias lashed out. He felt a blow to his head: the branches of the palm tree above whirled and he lapsed into un
consciousness.

  When he awoke, Matthias was lying in a small glade. A Caniba, his ferocious face daubed in war paint, was bathing the wound on his head, talking to him softly, though the words were guttural and harsh. Matthias tried to rise but others appeared and pressed him gently back on to the ground. Matthias stared to the left and right. Through the trees he could just about glimpse the valley, and saw Caniba warriors dragging away the dead. He sniffed the breeze, his stomach curdled, he caught the smell of woodsmoke and, beneath that, burning flesh, a sickly sweet odour. He stared up at the warrior.

  ‘Kill me!’ he whispered.

  ‘Canabo! Canabo!’ he said and thrust a finger into Matthias’ stomach. ‘Cacique Canabo!’

  He narrowed his eyes and Matthias, despite the pain in his head, understood that he was to be taken to their chief, the cacique Canabo. The warrior allowed Matthias to drink from a calabash of water and threw the rest over his face. Matthias continued to lie there. Any attempt to turn over or get to his feet was gently but firmly repulsed. Looking around, Matthias saw the legs and feet of his captors. Now and again the Caniba came and stared down at him. Others arrived, chieftains by their gaudy, multicoloured headdresses and the necklaces of polished coral slung round their necks. Matthias was dragged to his feet and pushed back into the valley. He stopped in amazement: the valley floor was now thronged with the Caniba army. They were camped in small groups along the hillside. Of the Spaniards or their women, there was no sign. Every corpse had disappeared, all weapons had been collected. Only a splash of blood on the grass, a piece of clothing or scraps of armour bore witness to the desperate fight which had occurred there.

  Matthias, his arms held gently by the Indian chieftains, was pushed along the edge of the brook. They passed a group of Caniba who were busy raping one of the Indian women they had captured. The woman had been gagged, her body stretched out on the ground and her conquerors were taking it in turns to kneel down between her outstretched legs. Again Matthias smelt the stench of burning flesh. He saw at the far end of the valley long columns of smoke rising from cooking fires. He thought the chieftains would be taking him there but, pulling him by the sleeve, they led him up a gentle slope into the jungle, along a path which led into a glade. All the weapons of Guitirres’ column were piled here: crossbows, swords, daggers, spears, armour, clothing, boots and war belts. At the far end of the glade, beneath the outspread branches of a palm tree, sat the cacique Canabo enthroned on a small, wooden chair. On either side of him, sitting cross-legged, were his chieftains. Matthias was pushed across and made to kneel before the cacique. Canabo was a young, thickset warrior. His face was long, sharp-nosed, with black, unblinking eyes: unlike the rest, who sat in ominous silence, he wore no war paint, and only a single white plume adorned his headdress. The tooth of some animal hung on a piece of cord round his neck, and on either side of his nose was a small nugget of gold on a pin.

  ‘Where are my companions?’ Matthias spoke in Spanish. ‘Why were we attacked?’

  Canabo shifted in his seat. He stared at Matthias and smiled. The chieftain’s face relaxed, lips parted, his eyes, studying Matthias carefully, were now not so lifeless.

  ‘Are you really concerned about them, Creatura bona atque parva?’ The cacique spoke in Spanish. ‘What are they to you, Matthias?’ Now he spoke in English.

  Matthias heard gasps from the chieftains around him. They gazed in wonderment at their leader, who could not only defeat the ‘men from Heaven’ in open battle but even speak their tongue. Canabo got up. Like the rest, he was naked except for a loin cloth around his waist. He lowered his firm muscular body down, sitting cross-legged, indicating that Matthias do the same. The chieftains watched solemnly. They could not understand their cacique showing such honour to a defeated man but, over the past few weeks, they had been astonished by the transformation in their leader and if he wanted the life of this white man, then so be it. Matthias settled himself. Canabo issued an order. A small gourd was thrust into Matthias’ hand.

  ‘Drink, Matthias,’ Canabo ordered. ‘We took it from Guitirres’ body.’

  Matthias tasted the wine. It was delicious, cleaning his mouth and throat, warming his belly. Canabo accepted a similar gourd and sipped at it carefully, his eyes never leaving Matthias.

  ‘So, we have come to this, Matthias.’ He took the gourd from his lips. ‘You have come a long way.’

  ‘Why?’ Matthias asked. ‘Why have you pursued me? Who are you?’

  ‘I am the Rosifer,’ Canabo answered. ‘Pure spirit, intelligence and will.’ His eyes took on a faraway look, reminding Matthias of the hermit sitting in the church at Tenebral. ‘Before the world ever began, Matthias,’ Canabo continued, ‘before matter came into being, only the angels existed. Only they occupied Paradise and looked upon the face of God. That was in the beginning. Aye, Lucifer, Michael, Gabriel and Raphael, all of us archangels and leaders of the heavenly hosts. Then a new creation was planned.’ He paused and smiled. ‘I am going to use the language of your books because the human heart does not comprehend the beauty that once existed. God created His own image in flesh. We were to serve these and then the divine plan unfolded. God Himself intended to take flesh and become one of His creation. In Himself, all that was created, both visible and invisible, would become one. Lucifer and others rebelled at this, withdrew from Heaven and created their own.’

  ‘And you fell with him?’ Matthias asked.

  ‘What I did is not contained in your books.’ The answer was short and terse. ‘But I saw the divine plan: to create flesh and to love that flesh.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘To create another being, Matthias! To be like God, that was my dream!’ Canabo stopped and closed his eyes. ‘In Eve that dream became a hunger, a lasting ambition, to fall in love with this image of God in flesh, to beget through her other images of the divine.’ Canabo plucked a blade of grass and held it up between his fingers. ‘I, the Rosebearer, God’s own gardener, the keeper of Paradise. I took my ambition in the form of a rose and offered it to Eve, to seduce her, to give her powers so that she and I would be one.’ Canabo opened his eyes and stared up through the interlacing branches at the sky. ‘That was my sin,’ he declared. ‘Not one of rebellion but one of love as well as ambition. When Eve fell, I fell with her through time and space.’ He let the grass fall from his fingers. ‘God has offered me eternal pardon and I eternally refuse. I love the daughters of men and my desire to be with them, to be one, to create is an eternal hunger.’ Canabo paused and sipped from the wine gourd. ‘I wish to be like God,’ he whispered. ‘To become incarnate in flesh.’

  ‘And you can’t,’ Matthias replied bitterly. ‘You can only possess: the bodies of the Preacher, Rahere, Santerre and the rest. Empty houses!’

  ‘Empty houses,’ Canabo replied. ‘I could never have taken possession if they had not willed it.’ Canabo leant across and touched Matthias gently on the cheek. ‘I have to be close to you, Matthias, my beloved, my son.’

  Matthias felt his stomach clench. He gently removed Canabo’s hand from his cheek.

  ‘I am not your son,’ he replied. ‘I am the son of Parson Osbert and Christina.’

  ‘You are my son, the Beloved,’ Canabo retorted, his eyes hard and shining. ‘Christina was my second Eve. In her I found fulfilment, the conception of you. Love and will uniting in another being: that being, Matthias, is you. You are part of me.’

  Matthias stared back. ‘You really believe that, don’t you?’ He shook his head. ‘But it’s a lie! You cannot beget. You have no authority. You do not have the power to create souls.’

  Canabo breathed in, nostrils flaring.

  ‘And did you think I’d respond?’ Matthias declared. ‘Did you plot my life on the walls of Tenebral church?’

  ‘The future is like a river,’ Canabo replied. ‘You, Matthias, can only see either bank but I can see the way it flows.’

  ‘But why?’ Matthias asked. ‘Look at me! Exiled from my own home. Hunted, harried, threatened and pe
rsecuted!’

  ‘Is that my fault?’ Canabo replied. ‘Has it not been explained to you? How different is your life from millions of others? I had to let you go, Matthias. I had to let you feel and drink deeply from the cup. Yes,’ he leant forward, eyes gleaming, ‘reflect on your life, your world: what meaning does it have? The rich get richer, the fat gorge themselves, the hunter kills the hunted. Tell me, what does that have to do with the will of God and the law of Christ? I had to let you experience life, Matthias: to reflect, to bring you to a point where you could see the empty glories of the world, the power and pomp of princes, the hypocrisy of the Church, the greed of human kind.’

  ‘For what?’ Matthias asked.

  ‘To accept me, Creatura bona atque parva. To accept me for what I am.’ He stretched out a hand. ‘To love me for what I am.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘I am making the same offer to you,’ Canabo replied, ‘which the great Lucifer made to Christ at Gethsemane: to forsake the world of man, to leave them to their power struggles, to the darkness which they create. Just to leave. And yet I offer more,’ he added. ‘To come with me, Matthias, become part of me, to drink the blood, to live for ever, to travel the face of the earth. Never to know death, no more hardship, no more persecution, to live like kings and ride in glory.’ He paused and gestured around. ‘Soon we can leave here, travel south, Matthias, to great kingdoms you have never even thought of, to be accepted as gods: you and me, the Rosifer and his Beloved.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’ Matthias repeated.

  ‘There is a time, Matthias, when love will meet. As streets on a corner, there is an inevitability, a final decision has to be made. You have reached that, here, in what that fool Columbus thought Paradise, your decision must be made.’

  ‘You must know it,’ Matthias replied.

  Canabo shook his head. ‘I can see you walk. I can tell which direction you will take. I can guess the motives and thoughts of others, Matthias, but your mind, your will, they must always be yours. If they are not, how can your love be free?’