Bedtime Story: Reflections Of The Past: Water: Chapter 32

Relax into your evening, or fall asleep, to this recording of the thirty-second 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 Mikhail Nilov

Transcript

Chapter 32 I Need Your Help Davy stared at Rose in surprise.

It was not often she needed anything from him,

Let alone his help.

He even suspected she only allowed him to keep watch for her as she worked her magic at the Holy Well,

Because she had a kind heart.

She could manage perfectly well without him.

If anyone appeared,

She would have vanished into the shadows before they even knew she was there.

He had seen her do it before,

Once in broad daylight,

As she was hurrying along a country lane.

The vicar appeared from a cottage gateway,

And Rose was gone in a flash.

Davy never quite worked out where.

One moment she was there,

The next she was gone.

It was as if she simply faded into the hedgerow.

And,

Of course,

Then it was Davy who was compelled to stop and pass the time of day with the vicar,

All the while cursing Rose for disappearing.

Where were you?

Where did you go?

He asked afterwards.

Rose smiled.

I was there.

No,

You weren't,

He shook his head emphatically.

You completely disappeared.

You just didn't see me.

You weren't looking in the right place,

Was all she would say,

Until eventually she got tired of him asking.

Look,

Davy,

She said finally.

Some things are hidden,

But it doesn't necessarily mean they aren't there.

And then she looked sad,

And he wondered exactly what it was she was talking about,

And raised the subject no more.

Davy sighed,

Wondering why he was remembering that particular occasion.

What is it?

He asked,

Pulling himself back to the present.

How do you need my help?

Rose bent closer,

Glancing around to make sure no one was nearby.

They were standing at the gate to her cottage,

And Davy was handing her his usual illicit gift,

This time a shining rainbow trout from the river.

It was almost mid-September,

And the sun was pleasantly warm upon her bare arms.

The garden was beginning to fade after the glory of high summer,

But he held the air of a job well done.

Seeds had formed on the coriander,

Fennel and dill.

The rosemary hedge,

From which Rose always took a sprig to chew as she was passing,

Looked much the same as ever,

And would be a winter stalwart,

Along with this age and time.

The sweet perfumed wild rose which twined its way around her window already held Rose's hips as its petals faded in the late summer sunshine.

She noticed how brown Davy had become,

Following a summer working in the sun.

I need your help with a ritual.

Ah,

Davy nodded slowly,

Then jerked his head up.

A what?

A ritual,

She hissed.

You know,

When I go to the holy well and the granite altar and work my magic.

All right,

All right,

He glanced around uncertainly.

You know I don't have anything to do with that kind of thing.

Yes,

But I need another person,

And I need a man,

And,

Well,

I need you.

Can't you ask someone else?

Like who?

I don't know,

His lips twitched.

Jory,

He finished,

Unsuccessfully attempting not to laugh.

Rose gave him a withering look,

Although she was struggling not to smile,

And Davy knew he would never be able to refuse.

You know the ruined chapel?

Jory glanced up from the Bible he was studying,

His red hair glinting in the lamplight as he searched for a suitable reading for Sunday's service.

He frowned at Rose,

Sitting by the range sewing quietly.

What about it?

Does it belong to the church?

And if so,

Why has it been left to fall into ruins?

She lowered her sewing onto her lap.

Doesn't anyone care?

Jory shrugged.

What good is it?

He replied.

Nothing more than a pile of broken-down stones and a lot of bog and undergrowth.

No one's been there for years.

I expect it's all covered in brambles by now.

Rose remained silent,

Unwilling to admit to her regular visits,

Much as she longed to explain to Jory the special feeling of the place,

And the beauty of the granite altar,

Especially by moonlight.

She shrugged and picked up her sewing again.

Not sure,

Really,

Continued Jory a moment later.

Could be it belongs to the landowner,

Your Mr Charles.

He seems to own most of the parish,

And if that is the case,

Maybe how it came to fall down.

I'm sure,

He continued,

Turning the pages of his Bible importantly,

If it belonged to the church,

The right thing would have been done.

Rose nodded.

Have you found a suitable reading?

She asked.

Jory blinked.

Rose did not often show any interest in his church duties.

Perhaps things were changing.

As it happens,

He began,

I have.

Would you like to hear it?

Yes,

It would be lovely,

Murmured Rose,

Her attention once more on her sewing,

Allowing Jory's voice,

As he read the words of his Lord,

To fade into the background.

Under cover of semi-darkness,

Rose smiled.

She was beginning to find some answers,

And knew where to look next.

Charles lived in the old manor house,

Down the hill,

Around the bend,

And over the bridge from the village,

Setting it slightly apart from village life,

Yet near enough for his land to stretch all along each side of the valley,

Touching both the village,

The church,

And the ruined chapel.

The house was,

In fact,

Only a stone's throw from the chapel,

Should anyone care to cross a field and a river,

And it nestled in solitude,

Built of the same grey stone as the church,

Amid the tall trees of oak and elm which surrounded it.

When Rose arrived to carry out her housekeeping duties,

She invariably let herself in through a little gate,

Allowing her access into the cobbled courtyard,

And then through a door beside the small round tower,

Which housed nothing more than a staircase,

And into the kitchens.

The large,

Dark oak door,

Seldom unlocked and even less likely to be used,

Opened onto what was known as the Great Hall,

Which,

Although not so very great,

Boasted an enormous fireplace,

Which would have heated the entire room.

As it was,

No one could recall the fire being lit in living memory.

Charles,

And his predecessors before him,

Lived in one small wing of the house,

The remainder being left to dust,

Cobwebs,

And any mice who cared to make it their home.

Rose loved the house.

From the moment she first stepped inside,

It wrapped itself around her,

As if knowing someone finally loved it.

She loved to watch the dust motes dance in the beams of sunlight as they struggled through the leaded glass windows,

Set in granite frames,

And loved the feel of the wooden doors and stair rail,

Smooth beneath her fingers,

And most of all,

Relished the air of tranquillity which enveloped the rooms,

Content to be left to the lazy buzzing of a bee or the soft breeze through a partly opened window on a summer's day.

Rose was enchanted with it all,

And could think of no one more suited to live there than Charles,

Who seemed to have become a part of the fabric of the building itself,

With his piles of papers and books,

Clutter and bric-a-brac,

Each item important to him in its own way,

Although he often appeared in danger of disappearing beneath towers of paperwork.

For Charles,

Although the last of a family who had lived in the manor house and farmed the countryside for generations,

Held no interest in farming,

And was at heart a pure academic,

Content to spend his days wandering through the thoughts,

Ideas and conundrums of life,

The universe and himself.

And how are you today,

My Rose?

Charles's face lit up when Rose entered his tiny study.

He had,

Rose noticed,

Taken to calling her my Rose of late,

A term she rather liked and,

As he was a good twenty years older than herself,

Caused her no embarrassment at all.

I'm well,

Thank you.

She fidgeted with the curtains,

Arranging them as best she could to allow maximum sunlight into the cluttered room,

Relating the arrangements for the day concerning his meals and the organisation of his household.

Charles nodded thoughtfully,

Uncaring so long as something appeared at some point,

And taking absolutely no notice of her words,

But contemplating how lovely she looked in the morning sunlight.

Her manor did,

However,

Appear a trifle agitated,

As if she was working up to asking him something,

But could not quite bring herself to do it.

Is anything the matter?

He asked eventually.

Yes,

No,

I mean.

.

.

Rose trailed off and twitched the curtains once more,

Before lowering herself onto a chair opposite Charles.

Can I ask you something?

I hope you don't mind.

Please do,

Charles smiled.

As far as he was concerned,

Rose could have asked him anything in the entire world,

And if he knew the answer or could find it for her,

He would.

It's about the ruined chapel.

Yes,

Charles was surprised.

He had walked to it on a number of occasions,

But found no more than a tumble of fallen masonry and a muddy stream,

Which trickled down to the river.

What about it?

He asked.

Do you know who it belongs to?

I mean,

Does it belong to you or to the church?

Only no one seems to know,

And it's such a lovely spot and has a wonderful feeling.

I just think it's a shame no one has ever bothered to take any interest in it or rebuild it.

She finished lamely,

Feeling suddenly foolish in the light of Charles' interested yet puzzled gaze.

To tell the truth,

I'm not entirely sure.

Charles put his fingertips together and rested his elbows on his desk.

The land all around is mine,

But as to the ruined chapel,

I'd have to look at the deeds.

He smiled.

Next time I'm in Camelford at the solicitor's,

I'll take a look.

It would be interesting for me to know too.

You really are very kind.

Rose jumped to her feet,

Unsure what she would actually do once she discovered the true owner of the ruined chapel,

But feeling she had at least made some headway.

As he watched her leave,

Charles sighed.

There was more to Rose than met the eye.

He was well aware that,

Although married to the most zealously religious man in the parish,

She was held in some respect by the villagers for her salves,

Potions and general healing skills.

Charles wondered exactly what Rose did when she visited the ruined chapel,

As she obviously had on a number of occasions,

And decided maybe it was time he paid it another visit himself.