The grip on his shoulder loosened, and Tey heard a loud strangled cry and a sudden thud on the ground. His eyes flew open, and through his tears he could see the knight had dropped to his knees on the forest floor.
‘It is you!’ he gasped, his eyes shining. ‘You are the holy one.’ Ulrick dropped his head and tore at his cloak with his hands. ‘Oh forgive me,’ he cried, beating his chest. ‘I am such a fool.’
But Tey, not waiting for another chance, and not knowing why the knight was now on his knees crying like a madman, dropped his flute into his pocket and fled without a backward glance into the safety of the forest.
Wiping tears from his eyes, Ulrick stared in reverence after the small retreating figure. What a miracle, he thought, his heart bursting with pride. And he, Ulrick, the lesser son of a minor Lord had witnessed it. The knight struggled to his feet, his whole body trembling with joy and amazement. Who would have believed such a miracle had occurred on this day? What folly it was to seek after an old hermit when a Holy Child, blessed by the Creator himself, lived deep within the bounds of his father’s land.
‘Yes, a miracle,’ he whispered out loud. Ulrick crossed himself and lifted his face to the heavens, offering up a prayer of thanksgiving. Tomorrow he would tell his father, the abbot, and all the nobles of the town about this boy who dwelled in the forest, communing with the very angels.
ELEVEN
Blue Mountains, Australia, present day
The sky was as black as sin. A thin remnant of dust dulled the streetlights below and smothered the stars above. In the distance, over the sweeping depths of the valley, an edge of brightness shimmered faintly on the horizon, the new moon rising without fanfare through the darkness, its edge weak.
Inside no one turned to look. The night was warm, hugging the grand stone house close. The curtains were drawn and windows shut tight. Inside the smallest of the rooms on the top floor beneath the eaves, a fire burned in the wrought iron grate, and a lone shadow moved.
Grimly, Matthew loosened the rope cincture around his waist. He slipped off the darker, outer cassock, revealing the simple white tunic beneath, which he slipped over his head and laid neatly on the bed. The undergarment was heavy and coarse, reaching down over his torso and fitting tightly over the top of his bare legs.
As he moved, the hair shirt rubbed his skin raw - the thistle-like texture catching on the delicate area of his underarms and over his ribs. Matthew swallowed, welcoming the stinging pain as a friend, a faithful companion. He had been wearing it long enough to feel its rough hand, but not so long as to be inured to the discomfort. A few weeks of the year, that was enough, for a true penitent’s flesh must remain soft - soft enough to flinch at the garment’s bite.
Against the wall, thrown by the single wax candle on the bureau, his shadow rose, oversized and angular, following the line of the room’s sloping roof. The Reverend Matthew Hopkins reached for the thick gold chain coiled on the top of the opened desk. A figure swung from his hand, finely made, about an inch high, a female face atop feathered wings stretched wide.
Matthew studied the necklace, his finger hovering over its winged form, as though poised to touch. The amulet glowed, lit by the flickering flame, staring up with ancient calm eyes as though it saw everything, and judged nothing. He stroked its head as the shadows of the outstretched wings, thrown on the wall above, reached for the window as though merely waiting for the word to fly free.
Through the glass he could see clouds stretching out across the valley, great flourishes of them, streaming as the storm moved on across the valley. Matthew watched with his eyes narrowed; from this vantage point he could see deep into the forest itself.
Bowing his head, he listened intently making sure all was well in the house before he began his night-time ritual of prayer and mortification. The tool of flagellation waited patiently, hidden in a nook under the eaves. But still Matthew waited.
His daughter’s room was directly below and he could hear her moving quietly. Other nights, and at other times, she would be singing as she readied herself for sleep. But now her voice was silent, and her footsteps were slow and careful. All that sounded through the stone house was the scrape of her cupboard door and an occasional light cough.
✽✽✽
Rose, wearing a simple pair of grey gym pants and a light t-shirt, studied the neatly folded dress with a critical eye before adding it to the growing pile by her bed. She stifled a yawn. Her chest ached and a dull queasiness sat in the pit of her stomach, but she pushed the discomfort away.
Rose reached for another item of clothing - a light top, festooned with delicate flowers and laced in silk. Holding it up, she draped it against her body and turned to the full-length mirror now pushed to one side of the bed. Her face was pale with her hair pulled up into a demure bun, and her eyes were wary. Rose cocked her head. In the reflection she didn’t look too bad, she thought leaning forward, interesting maybe, and a little tortured. Pouting her lips a little, she turned back and laid the top out on the bed, ensuring that the sleeves lined up, and the embroidered tassels were each of the exact same length.
Rose didn’t want to go to bed and she didn’t want to think. But the image wouldn’t relent. A creature battling the storm, a thing, straight out of a nightmare… She closed her eyes. Why did he show it? Rose shook her head, anger battling with the horror of what she’d seen. Moving carefully, she placed the top on the pile of casuals before reaching for a pair of black cotton pants. She sighed; these were hopeless - a consequence of being strewn across the floor with everything else.
Rose glanced up, briefly wondering if she could be bothered to head downstairs to the kitchen and find an iron. But no, she didn't want to see her father, or leave the safe confines of her room. Snapping the fabric to ease the worst of the wrinkles, she set about folding the black trousers, keeping the seams straight and smoothing the rest out with her hand.
As Rose bent to her task, she winced and reached up to rub the line of muscle and tendons running across her shoulders. They ached, every morning when she woke, her shoulders, and the muscles running down her back and up along with her arms, ached, as though she’d been lifting weights in the gym, over and over.
She shook her head. The taffeta dress didn’t really need folding; it would be better to find a hanger and place it with the others in her cupboard. She thought for a moment but then reached for it, and carefully began folding the intricately pleated fabric.
From deep within the house, the hall clock began to chime. The full sound resonating up through the wood panelled rooms. Rose waited. Ten... eleven... She counted them out by habit.
The last chime was swallowed by a series of sharp, hard knocks.
She stared at her bedroom door. ‘What?’ she answered at last, and her voice bristled with irritation.
After a pause, it swung open, revealing her father dressed in a simple black dressing gown. His feet were bare and pale against the wooden flooring, and dangling from his hand was a fine chain with a simple golden crucifix.
At the threshold, Matthew hesitated. His daughter’s dark hair was pulled off her face, and behind her the bed was hidden beneath piles of neatly folded clothes. Like her mother, he thought. She looked so young, and so beautiful.
‘Rosalind,’ he cleared his throat, ‘why are you still awake at this hour?’
Rose didn’t reply. She glared at him.
For a moment neither of them spoke and Matthew could feel the heat of her eyes as they slid past him and stared pointedly back out into the hallway. Her meaning was clear. Go away.
Matthew held up his gift. ‘I thought you might find this of comfort.’ His words were careful. ‘I saw your light was on, and thought, perhaps, you may be having trouble sleeping.’
Rose hesitated; her anger at seeing him was softened by his feeble attempt at a peace offering. Sighing, she stepped towards the door and, turning around, allowed her father to place the chain around her neck. In the mirror, she could see how the gold
of the little cross glinted across her skin as it caught the light.
It was pretty, she would give him that, but what fat lot of good would it do to help her sleep?
‘Dad,’ she turned, her eyes downcast, and her voice was just a whisper. ‘Do you have any pills or anything?’
‘Are you sick?’ Matthew felt a snap of alarm.
‘No,’ Rose murmured, hiding a small yawn with her hand. ‘It’s nothing really.’ Her tone was quiet and she stood in an uncertain pose with her hands clasped together like a child’s. ‘It’s just that you’re right...’
Her hands shook.
‘If you don't have anything, it’s okay.’ She turned away. ‘But you know…. Can you help me, Dad?’
Suddenly Rose laughed, a strangled, uncomfortable sound. Her father was actually right... she wasn’t sleeping...
‘It’s so weird,’ she spoke softly more to herself, disregarding her father’s proffered hand. ‘I’m having dreams.’ She laughed again but the sound was tight, laced with suppressed hysteria. ‘It’s ridiculous, but I don’t know what’s going on. I’m dreaming and I don’t know where I am. I look down and my body is weird, like really wierd… and I hate it. I’m rushing through the night sky. And you know how I hate heights!’
Her laughter was harsh and grating.
‘It’s just a dream’, murmured Matthew, unsure if she would let him touch her.
‘I have them every night...’ her voice trailed away.
His daughter seemed so young, so fragile.
‘They can’t hurt you.’ Matthew whispered, fiercely. ‘Dreams are nothing. They’re not real, nothing can hurt you.’
Yet even as Matthew spoke, the lie of his words rose bitterly in his throat. Dreams had power, he knew, and some never let go. Once in, they could reach, twist, and consume one’s very soul…
‘Oh,’ sobbed Rose as he gathered her into his arms. ‘I’m just so scared.’ She leant into him, shaking like a lost child.
Matthew hugged her tighter. She’s so tiny, he thought. Her bones under his embrace felt so slight and fragile.
‘Don’t.’ She cried, and she pushed him away. ‘Please… be careful. My shoulders really hurt.’ She stretched out her narrow arms and shook them gently, almost like a bird cooling its flight worn feathers.
Matthew froze, as a click of warning became a deadening thud.
‘They feel really pathetic.’
Suddenly she tossed her head back and laughed, the sound bouncing painfully off the walls. Stretching out her arms again, she shook them fiercely not once but two, three times, laughing louder each time before raising them high above her head to the ceiling.
‘Enough,’ commanded Matthew.
Rose stopped at once, and stood posing with her hands outstretched, her fingers long and tapered. She regarded her father with a hard smile, her eyes older now, no longer a child’s bright tawny brown; now they seemed more knowing, and riven with a glowing, fierce gold.
‘No’, he whispered, ‘we still have time. She’s just a child…’
Abruptly Rose blinked, and yawning widely she lowered her arms. ‘Ah Daddy,’ she whispered, ‘please, do you have anything to help me sleep? I’m just so, so, very tired.’
TWELVE
The air felt soft and warm rushing over Ellie’s cheeks and hands as she freewheeled down the long winding back road into town. Gripping the handlebars, she leaned low, urging her bike on faster as the few squat houses secluded amongst the trees reduced to a mere blur. She grinned, breathing in the smoky, delicious scent of evening barbeques curled over a sharp hint of menthol.
Ellie half closed her eyes; the smell of the trees was always stronger in the late afternoon, bursts of scent, hanging in fat airy clouds. She had no idea why. Maybe it was the trees’ last long exhalation before they settled in for the night - like a yawn or something, released slowly into the sky.
Tightening her grip, Ellie dared herself to ride blind down the long hill. Breaking, the bike slowed and she sat up straighter in the saddle, feeling every bump and loose pebble scudding beneath the wheel.
‘Hello!’ Ellie shouted out loud and laughed again in exultation, as she sensed a cluster of small pointy faces laughing with her from within the blurred passing trees.
‘I’m talking to the trees!’
Grinning, Ellie pedalled faster, while the streetlights arced on as she passed, throwing a bright orange glow over the road ahead.
Moments later, Ellie arrived at Rose’s house, out of breath and with her heart pounding from the exertion of riding up the last tortuous hill. Jumping off, she lugged her bike up the last few steps of the gravel driveway, the white pebbling scrunching under the weight of the tires. Ignoring the front door - there was no point as Rose never answered it anyway, Ellie pushed round to the iron gate at the back.
‘Hey,’ she yelled, breathlessly. ‘I’m here!’
Ellie lifted open the latch and awkwardly shoved her bike through into the back garden.
At first Ellie didn't take too much notice of the quiet, she was too intent on propping her bike up against the side wall and wrangling with the buckle of her helmet. Gritting her teeth, she fought to unlatch the idiotic clasp, sure her friend would be flinging open the back door in welcome at any moment.
The grand stone residence loomed dark against the grey of the early evening sky. It appeared empty. Not a single glow of light shone from the arched windows and every curtain was drawn tightly shut against the gathering night.
Ellie hesitated, and then knocked on the door. Come on, hurry. She shuffled her feet impatiently as a long chiming reply echoed from within the house - the standing clock in the hallway marking the afternoon hour.
Ellie glanced back at her bike dropped against the gate. She loved that old thing, but its paint was chipped and scratched, and the stuffing in the saddle was coming out through the stitching.
‘Hey you.’
The voice rasped like sand against stone.
Ellie whirled. Rose stood against the edge of the open door. In the dimness of the hallway, her face appeared pale and her normally shiny hair hung dishevelled and twisted down her back.
For a moment she could only stare. ‘Rose,’ Ellie blurted out at last. ‘Are you okay?’
Her friend shrugged a curious, wincing movement. ‘Yeah, of course I am. Don't have a fit.’ Disregarding Ellie’s outstretched hand, she stepped back from the entrance and with a theatrical bow, gestured for Ellie to enter.
But Ellie didn't move. She hadn’t seen Rose for a couple of weeks, but her friend seemed smaller somehow, as though her normal, bright vitality had been diminished, turned down from its normal searing flame.
‘Are you coming in or what?’ Rose smiled, and a hint of light returned to her eyes. ‘God, you’re always so slow.’
Relieved, Ellie smiled back; perhaps she’d only imagined it? ‘Is your dad here?’ she asked as she stepped into the wide panelled emptiness of the hallway. She hoped he wasn’t.
Rose shrugged and without waiting for Ellie to reply she turned and hurried through the formal living area, heading for the hardwood staircase curving up to the second floor. Ellie followed along behind. The shrug could mean anything; no, her father was out, or yes, he was in. Or more likely that Rose couldn’t care less. Ellie knew better than to ask again. Rose and her father had a curious relationship, they lived in separate worlds, on separate floors, each one both placating and protecting the other.
The door to the bedroom was already open, and low sultry music streamed from a music system hidden under a pile of discarded clothes. Imperiously, Rose directed Ellie to the stand directly in front of the mirror.
‘Have I got a dress for you!’ She declared, sashaying over to the pile. With a teasing grin, Rose lifted up a long gown draped on top of the pile. Rich forest green, it was layered with silk and featured two delicate shoestring straps.
Ellie stared, dumbfounded. ‘But we’re just going to the movies.’ She blurted out at last. ‘I’
m okay in just these,’ she gestured at her jeans. They were her favourite, dark blue, almost black, and she’d added a silky silver blouse borrowed from her mother.
‘Oh…’ Rose smiled one of her deep, most effective smiles showing both her dimples. ‘I forgot to say that Ben’s coming too.’ She added, taking the dress and waltzing with it around the room with the length of the fabric flowing behind.
‘What?’
‘Oh don't be like that, it’s a Friday night,’ Rose pouted, dropping the garment in a heap to the floor. ‘And I’ve been feeling so tired and crappy I thought it would be fun, and when Ben phoned, asking me out, I thought of you first.
Ellie looked away, disappointment colouring her cheeks. But I’ve got so much to tell you! She wanted to shout. And besides, she especially didn’t want to hang in the background while her best mate canoodled in the back row with her older brother.
Rose took her hand. ‘Come on, Ellie, please, we can both dress up and look beautiful.’
All too aware of Rose’s powers of persuasion, Ellie closed her eyes and said nothing. A waft of a movement and a moment later her friend’s fine-boned hand clasped her own.
‘Open your eyes,’ Rose whispered, her voice quivering with excitement. ‘See what else I’ve got to show you.’
A loop of something cold and heavy dropped into her hand. At first Ellie thought it was just another show off bit of jewellery, then her heart skipped a beat as an unexpected longing began to course through her blood, doubling her heart rate, calling to every nerve and fibre. Opening her eyes, Ellie gasped out aloud.
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