Return to the light

Return to the light

The sun was low in the sky, its rays slanting through the old oaks and
spreading across the neat rows of burial plots. The birds had gone
quiet, already settled for the night. At any moment the caretaker would
arrive to close the main gates, leaving the graveyard to the silence of
the dark.

Some might have found it eerie, this moment when silence fell after the
noise of the day, with the shadows of the crosses lengthening across
the grass. But he had always liked this time, when peace returned to
the graveyard. This was how it was meant to be, a place of peace, a
place of rest for the generations who had gone before.

He liked this twilight time because it meant the end of the day's
labours. But also because the cemetery was returning to its rightful
state. The people who visited were there on sufferance, he felt. Even
he himself was an outsider, tolerated because someone living had to
tend the verges. This was a place for the dead, and he felt the spirits
beneath move uneasily as he trod the paths.

They tolerated his presence during the day, but as dusk arrived the
whispering seemed to intensify, "Go, go". They were waiting for the
dark, waiting to reclaim what was rightfully theirs.

Even now, it still felt familiar. The grass had grown longer in places,
and of course there were more graves. But not much had changed in 27
years.

But there was not much time. Moving more surely now, he crossed to the
mouldering crypt at the north-east corner, to the place he was looking
for. The small plot of daffodils, now dying down, was still there up
against the stone wall. He unfolded the portable spade he had with him
and began to dig.

When the blade thunked against metal he breathed more easily. It was
still there, the cache he had buried all those years ago. Kneeling now,
he used his hands to pull away the soil around the small green box,
that he now eased out of the ground.

He pulled off the tape sealing the edges. It was difficult to see now;
the light was fading fast. A faint, musty smell emerged from the
inside. The contents were still there, still dry. They had survived the
years intact.

"John, john". He started. Someone was calling his name. It was the
caretaker, arriving to close the gates and get home to his tea. Quickly
he stuffed the package inside his jacket, folding the spade and sliding
it underneath the upturned wheelbarrow nearby.

In his day the graveyard had always been open. No-one had felt the need
for gates to close the place off from the outside world. But that was
27 years ago, before the murder.
Standing, he walked towards the front gate where the caretaker was
waiting. "Feel any different to what you remember?", came the
question.

He shook his head and grunted, "No". Things hadn't changed that much.
But now he wanted to be away from here. He wanted to check his treasure
in private.

Walking away, he turned the corner and quickly found his way back to
the tiny basement flat that was now home. Sitting at the worktop in the
kitchen, he retrieved the package from inside his jacket. Opening it
brought back the moist smell of the graveyard, the scent of soil and
ancient dust.

The face gazed up at him, serene, intact, and surrounded by the gleam
of gold. A beautiful thing. It had survived the centuries, endured the
Great People's War of 1941 to 1944, and even now was unaffected by 27
years of burial underground. So strange, that in the midst of death had
lain something that radiated so much life.

If the others, the men who'd come that day, had known that it was he
who had the icon, perhaps he'd be dead by now. But instead they'd
picked on the innocent girl. They'd killed her, and gone away
unsatisfied. They would never think to look for him now.

Now it was his, and his alone. No-one else would ever see that
exquisite face. No-one else would be able to gloat, in secret, over her
beauty. Now he had to find another place, another graveyard in which to
bury her.