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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!