Bedtime Story: Reflections Of The Past: Water: Chapter 29

REFLECTIONS OF THE PAST A STORY OF THE GUARDIANS OF THE WELL BY VANDER INMAN PART FOUR WATER VICTORIAN VALUES ST CLETHERS WELL THE HOLY WATERS AND THE RUINED CHAPEL THE WILD OR DOG ROSE The dog rose is often used in healing spells,

And a rosewater-saturated cloth laid to the temples will relieve headache pain.

In the past it was believed that fairies,

By eating a rosehip and then turning anticlockwise three times,

Could make themselves disappear.

To become visible once more,

The fairies had to eat another rosehip and turn clockwise three times.

ST CLETHERS WELL Through neglect,

This interesting and beautiful well,

In its wild and picturesque situation,

Is falling into ruin.

The water,

Not having a proper channel to run in,

Overflows all of the ground around,

And makes the spot almost unapproachable.

One wonders how the possessor of such an interesting antiquity can be so indifferent.

From Ancient and Holy Wells of Cornwall by M.

And L.

Quiller-Couch CHAPTER XXIX As Rose approached the site of the Holy Well,

An owl hooted in the distance across the valley,

Causing her to lose her footing and stumble slightly.

She paused,

Listening for the sound of footsteps behind her,

Or the telltale snap of a twig,

But all was silent,

Save for the rushing of the river below and the call of another owl above.

Rose continued onwards,

Her breath rasping,

But increasingly confident she would reach her destination.

Tonight the moon was full,

The herbs she needed at their most potent,

And it was imperative she collected them by moonlight,

Despite the trouble it would cause should Jory discover she had been abroad without his knowledge.

But why should she tell him,

When she knew so well his disapproval?

As the Holy Well came into sight,

Rose drew a sigh of relief.

As far as she knew,

No one had followed her,

And after picking her way through the boggy ground and over some fallen masonry,

She sat down beside the granite basin in which the holy waters gathered,

And uncorked the small bottle she had brought.

Having filled the bottle with spring water,

She set about finding her little knife with which to harvest the herbs she required,

Yarrow,

Comfrey,

Wild thyme,

Nettle-leaves and fennel-seeds.

Then she heard a slight rustle behind her,

And turned to see Davy,

Standing on a piece of fallen masonry,

Grinning in the moonlight.

"'I suppose you thought I hadn't noticed you following me,

' commented Rose tartly,

Although she was glad of his presence.

One could never be too sure who might be around on a night such as this,

Many a good deal more dangerous than the resident game-keeper.

' "'Need not,

I came over the fields,

Not in your footsteps.

' Davy jumped down beside her and settled himself cross-legged upon the granite altar,

The only part of the chapel which remained intact,

Save for a low piece of stone walling to one side.

He placed two dead rabbits beside him.

"'Tomorrow's supper,

' he commented,

"'a good night's work.

' "'And I have mine yet to do,

' replied Rose,

Gathering up her basket,

'I have a number of poultices and salves to concoct while the moon is full.

And also—' Davy nodded.

"'You need to work your magic,

' he stated simply.

Rose glanced at him sharply,

Unsure if he were poking fun at her,

But the expression in his dark brown eyes was,

As far as she could tell in the silvery light,

Perfectly serious.

"'I'll hang around if you like,

' he offered.

"'You never know who might be watching.

' "'Thank you.

' Rose felt a sense of relief at the knowledge he would be nearby.

Close enough,

But not spying or interfering,

Although she had on more than one occasion offered to include him in her magic.

But he always declined,

Preferring to remain in the shadows,

Watching and waiting.

She gathered her basket,

Knife and bottle.

"'I'll be back shortly,

' she whispered,

Before disappearing along the valley to where she knew the herbs could be found.

Davy nodded,

Settled himself more comfortably upon the granite altar stone,

And prepared to wait.

He was good at that.

As he sat,

Davy whittled away at a piece of wood.

He also whistled,

But softly,

Beneath his breath.

To anyone passing,

The sound might have been mistaken for the wind in the trees,

Or the soft flight of insects in the night air.

A movement in the undergrowth caught his attention,

And a brown stoat appeared,

Apparently unaware of,

Or perhaps familiar with,

His presence,

As it searched the overgrown debris of the masonry for a meal.

The water vole,

Which lived beneath the altar stone,

Would have to be careful.

An owl hooted,

And Davy knew the stoat would in turn need to be wary,

For the great white owl which frequented the valley,

And had been known to land silently,

And perch not far away,

Was more than capable of taking a stoat for its evening meal.

The Hunter and the Hunted The Cycle of Life Davy glanced at the pair of rabbits resting on the stone slab,

And thought of the meal they would make.

Every young gamekeeper had its advantages,

Especially with the hunting and the fishing which went with it.

The moon had risen higher now,

Her silvery beams illuminating the valley as brightly as day.

The sound of the rushing river seemed unaccountably loud,

The shadows a deep black in the silver of the night.

There was a scrabbling noise,

And Rose reappeared.

All done.

She arranged the herbs more carefully in her basket,

And pulled out a small stub of candle,

Which she placed upon the altar.

''What do you need that for?

Moon's bright enough,

'' commented Davy,

As he jumped down and retrieved the rabbits.

''Just go and mind your own business,

'' replied Rose shortly.

They repeated a similar conversation each time,

Davy finding some question to ask,

And Rose telling him to mind his own business.

Then she would perform her simple ritual in peace,

Knowing he was keeping a lookout for her.

When Davy had silently disappeared,

Rose set the remainder of her tools upon the altar.

Meadowsweet plucked from the marshes,

Its scent already filling the air,

A brown flint arrowhead,

A twisted stick of rowan,

And a small earthenware bowl filled with water from the well.

Even though the chapel had been allowed to fall into disrepair,

Its stones in a tumble around the altar,

And the arch which once surmounted the holy well broken upon the ground,

The well structure,

With its square basin of granite,

Remained,

Although the water puddled into a muddy bog all around.

It was,

Rose often thought,

As if the little chapel and well had been forgotten,

Becoming more inaccessible with every passing year.

Rose placed her hands upon the altar,

Mere feet from the holy well itself,

And felt once again the shimmering of power which flowed through it.

She closed her eyes,

Attuning herself to the energy.

There was much work to be done tonight,

A number of villagers had asked for help,

Ranging from lost animals to sick relatives to unrequited love,

And although much could be cured by potions and salves,

Focusing her energy and intent brought about the healing much more quickly.

By the silver light of the full moon,

Rose set to work.

Some time later,

Being careful to make as little noise as possible,

Rose slipped quietly through the back door of her cottage and stowed her basket in the cupboard beneath the stairs.

She hung her cloak,

Always good for moving around discreetly in the darkness,

On its peg,

And stood for a moment in the silence of the kitchen.

The moon was high,

Casting bright beams through the small square panes of the window,

Changing everyday colours to a monochrome of silver and black.

Rose eased her boots from her feet,

Feeling the chill of the slate floor,

Followed by the comfort of the rag rug which stood in front of the range.

Even from here,

Before climbing the narrow wooden staircase,

Could she hear Jory's snores rumbling in the bedroom above.

At least he was sound asleep,

And hopefully had not missed her at all.

Besides,

Jory disliked the full moon.

He believed it made people a little strange in the head,

And was something to do with the devil.

Better,

He had told her on more than one occasion,

For God-fearing people to remain in their beds on such nights.

Rose had shrugged,

And continued chopping vegetables for this stew she was preparing.

She was not a God-fearing woman,

So she assumed his words were not directed at her,

But she was never quite sure how much he knew concerning her thoughts of God,

And always found it prudent to keep her opinions to herself.

Now treading silently up the stairs,

And taking care to avoid the one which creaked,

She thought of Davy,

Stealthily making his way back to his cottage with his booty of rabbit.

With any luck he would appear tomorrow,

Handing a rabbit over the garden gate in return for a sow for a cut finger or bruised hand.

Rose and Davy shared an understanding.

They worked well together,

But above all viewed the world in the same way.

As she climbed into the bed beside Jory,

And pulled the bedclothes around her,

Rose wondered,

As she often did,

If she was married to the right brother,

But it was far too late now.

Her daughter was grown,

Her marriage to Jory had endured,

And she had witnessed a lot worse in her time.

Settling down into the comfort of her bed,

She was soon fast asleep.

When Davy arrived back at his gamekeeper's cottage,

The first pale light of dawn was streaking fingers of gold and pink across the sky.

It was going to be another fine day.

He stood for a moment and drew a deep breath,

Filling his lungs with clear,

Sweet-smelling air as he surveyed the countryside around him.

The year was turning,

There was no doubt about it.

The first sharp nip in the air,

And the slight darkening of the evenings,

Bore witness to the fact that autumn was on its way.

The crops of high summer had been harvested,

And the fruits of nature,

As he called them,

Were forming on the trees and in the hedgerows,

Blackberries ripening,

Sloughs beginning to turn colour,

Rosehips and crabapples aplenty.

This was Davy's favourite time of year,

The colourful splendour of autumn,

When the world was filled with abundance.

He laughed,

He was getting as bad as Drury,

Who would soon be holding forth about the harvest festival,

Ensuring he produced a good marrow or decent-sized potatoes,

So everyone would know what a good Christian he was.

Davy returned to his kitchen and surveyed the two rabbits lying on the table.

His view of what a good Christian man should be and Drury's were never quite the same,

And they rarely spoke,

Although Drury never objected to Davy appearing from time to time with a rabbit or a shining rainbow-coloured trout for Rose.

Davy sighed.

He often thought Rose had married the wrong brother,

But there was nothing to be done about it now.

Poking up the fire and pouring boiling water into the teapot,

He set about making his breakfast before facing the new day.