Bedtime Story: Reflections Of The Past: Spirit: Chapter 41

Relax into your evening, or fall asleep, to this recording of the forty-first chapter of the magical novel 'Reflections Of The Past,' by Vanda Inman. Set in a remote valley in Cornwall, England, 'Reflections Of The Past' tells the story of four characters whose lives intertwine through many incarnations, and of their special relationship with the valley's Sacred Spring and Holy Well.
Music by Serge Quadrado
Photo by Alina Vilchenko

Transcript

Chapter Forty-One Rowee, Rowee, Rowena, Where are you? The bracken swayed above my head, But was a safe haven, And I knew Cornelius would never find me. Our game of hide-and-seek along the valley had continued for much of the afternoon, And I knew he would soon tire of searching, And his attention be taken with something else—the raven's nest high up in the white rock, Or the dragonflies which danced over the surface of the river. I knew if I stayed still for long enough he would wander off, Leaving me free to visit the little chapel all by myself, Without interruption. Coming back I realised how patient Cornelius had been, For I was left in his care for much of the time, And he rarely tired of keeping me amused and answering my childish questions, Although by then he was a young man with better things to do. There was a long silence, And poking my head above my canopy of green I saw Cornelius's fair hair bobbing amongst the bracken on the way up to the high rocks which towered over the valley. This was a favourite place of his, Where he could watch the buzzards and ravens circling below, Or lie on his back gazing up at the blue sky, Trying to answer all the questions the world had to offer. I knew that for a short while, As Cornelius made his way towards the rocks, It would be safe for me to traverse the pathway and arrive at the little chapel unnoticed. The valley lay quiet and still in the heat of the late afternoon sunlight, Only the rushing river and the distant croak of the raven to be heard. It was as if all the world was asleep, And Cornelius and I the only two people alive. As always, I felt a surge of relief as I pushed open the rickety wooden gate into the enclosure. The chapel stood before me, Its granite walls warm in the sunlight, And the holy well peeped from behind, Built of the same stone, And housing the water which ran through the granite basin and underneath the altar, Before reappearing in the little well at the front. I sank down and plunged my hands into the water, Splashing my face and creating sparkles on the surface as the ripples subsided. Drawing a deep breath, I knew Meadowsweet must be growing nearby, For I was often aware of its heady perfume permeating the dusky summer air. Sometimes I imagined I saw faces in the water, And made up stories about the people I found there, People from long ago, Who led much more exciting lives than I ever would. I felt the pocket of my dress, And was reassured to feel the weight of the iron key there. The key to the chapel was always kept in the porch of the old vicarage, On the other side of the road from the church, And anyone wishing to enter simply took it from its nail and hung it back up on their rattan. Fitting it into the lock of the wooden door, And feeling the satisfying clunk as it turned, I pushed the door open and entered my sanctuary. It was cool, Always cool, Yet seldom cold, As if the ancient walls held some semblance of heat in winter, Yet kept the interior blessedly cool in summer. I had seen it a hundred times, But each visit felt like the first, As if I could never get enough of the sparkling granite altar and the way the shafts of sunlight slanted through the leaded windows. There was a second side door, Which I often pulled wide open to allow air to circulate through the building, And another tiny door above the second smaller well, Where, It was said, Offerings had once been left to the saint. There was also a visitor's book, In which I must have written my name a hundred times, Ever tiring of following the same ritual upon each visit, Pausing at the entrance, Touching the altar stone, Opening the doors, Looking through the book, And I must have spent hours gazing into the waters of the well, Weaving tales of long ago in my mind. Rowy, Rowena, Time to get back, Cornelius's voice drifted along the valley towards me, And looking upwards I saw him silhouetted against the skyline, Standing on the tallest rock. He waved his arms frantically, Then disappeared into the swaying bracken, Only to reappear shortly afterwards behind the holy well, Making his way through a gap in the rough hedge, And eventually appearing, Hot and breathless, At my side. Come on, We'll be late for tea. He draped himself over the stone arm of the well-house, And began to swirl the water with a stick, Withdrawing it quickly as a frog swam to the surface, Then disappeared into a clump of weed, Causing Cornelius to forget his words and lose himself in the moment of wondering and questioning. If ever there was a boy unsuited to a farming life it was Cornelius, Whose mind was always searching for the answers to a hundred questions, But never dwelling on the practicalities of life. I closed and locked the doors of the chapel, Wishing it a silent goodbye until next time, Peeping through the trefoil in the entrance which so perfectly framed the altar, And hurried back to Cornelius. Come on, I poked him with a finger, And he jumped good-naturedly to his feet. Why are some frogs brown and others green? He asked, And why the toads? Come on, I laughed, Happy at that moment in the warmth of the sun with Cornelius by my side, Teasing me as he always did, Feeling I had all I needed in the world. There was a spot on the slope further along the path, Perfect for rolling down through the bracken, And as we approached it we both knew from long experience what my next words would be. Let's have a game of roly-poly. He grinned. There isn't time. Only one, Please, I wheedled, Knowing I would get my own way in the end. He sighed theatrically, Aware he would inevitably be the loser, But nonetheless enjoying a few moments of childish pleasure which would keep me occupied for a little longer. Go on then, He bargained, But give me a head start. No, Don't be mean. Why should I? Because you're younger than me. And then we were off, And of course once led to twice, Which led to three times, And finally, Hot and happy, We pulled ourselves back to the path, Aware we were going to be so late for tea we would probably have missed it anyway. As we headed for home, My hand went to the pocket of my dress as it instinctively did when I was in charge of the key to the chapel. It was empty. My fingers scrabbled inside my pocket again and again as if the key might magically appear, But it was nowhere to be found. A coldness slowly spread its way around my heart. Come on Rowena. Cornelius was already some way along the path and he turned, A puzzled look on his face at seeing me standing, Stock still, Patting my pocket over and over, Looking wildly at the path around me. What's up? It's gone, The key, Missing, Lost. I looked at him, A feeling of dread settling into the middle of my chest. What are we going to do? It can't be lost, Things don't just disappear, It must be here somewhere. He surveyed the swathes of broken bracken where we had been rolling. Oh. What will we do? I felt panic rising, It was the most terrible thing which had ever happened to me. I thought of the little chapel, No one would ever be able to unlock the door and go inside again. It would be closed up forever, Abandoned, Would fall into ruins and all because I had lost the key. We frantically searched the path all the way back to the chapel, Knowing if it had been lost in the bracken there would never be any hope of finding it. I was close to tears, Although Cornelius did his best to assure me such things could be rectified, But his words were of no consolation and it was nowhere to be found. A fearful chill gripped my heart. Come on, One last roll. I was aware he was trying to cheer me up and we both knew he would never succeed, But just to humour him I agreed. We rolled down the slope for the last time, Both of us hoping we would miraculously find the key. Eventually we pulled ourselves up to the path and prepared to face the consequences. It was then I looked down and saw it, Lying on the grassy path, Exactly where we had been standing earlier. I bent down and scooped it up, Never having known such relief before, Nor having been so thankful to feel its cool weight in my hand. Cornelius and I exchanged glances but said not a word. It was only some time later I realised it had never occurred to either of us to pretend we had not taken the key. That was the first time I realised things which are lost can be found, Even if you have given up the search, And some things are not lost at all, Merely hidden. We were just looking in the wrong place, That's all, Said Cornelius, As we made our way home.