Pilgrimage

The moon rode high in the sky, painting the treetops in silver. Tombstones highlighted in tones of silver-white cast long, dark shadows the moonlight could not reach. The figure, cloaked in darkness, made its way slowly, seeming to glide through the rows. In the dark spaces between the stones, the echo of dry leaves crunching underfoot lingered in the damp, chilly air.

An owl hooted somewhere nearby. The figure started, seeming unnerved. A long, trembling moment later, it continued on its way through a forest of cold marble and polished stone. Purposefully, it skirted a section of massive monuments and statues, and moved toward a group of smaller stones.

Opening the rusty gate, the figure slid through the opening and made its way through high grass. It slowed as the going became rougher, tree roots and fallen stones obscuring the path. Bare tree limbs, dark and gnarled with age, clawed at the spaces just above its head as it moved. One caught the hood of the cloak, drawing a soft gasp from the figure. Spidery fingers, pale as death against black wool, jerked upward to re-cover pale hair.

Cloaked in darkness again, the figure resumed its slow progress through long-forgotten gravestones. The trees were thicker here, the moonlight fighting through thick branches to paint the tall grass with wild spider web patterns. Tumbled stones caused the figure to stumble. Dying vines cascading from low-hanging branches grabbed at the cloak. The grass, rippled by a sudden breeze, tangled around feet unaccustomed to heavy walking. Struggling, the figure went on.

Closer now. The crunch of leaves echoed steadily as the cloaked figure made its way up the small hill. The land rose beneath it. Polished marble gleamed eerily in the half-light. More stones had fallen here. The path disappeared, swallowed by shin-high grass and dead branches. Skirting the worst of the ground clutter, the figure reached the top of the hill and turned, moving toward the old oak tree. It stopped beneath the tree, looking down into the valley.

Here. It was here, in this derelict graveyard far from notice, that they were buried. Head bent against the growing wind, the figure looked down. Two gravestones, two smooth-polished blocks of granite, strangely new, gleamed defiantly silver in the moonlight. Amid the desolation of overgrown weeds and time-worn stone, they were alone but together. Somehow eternal.

The figure stood there, cloak swirling in the strengthening wind. Two stones, standing together in the middle of chaos. In the middle of darkness. Each held a name, held dates, brought back memories. The hood of the cloak blew back in the wind, revealing moon-silvered hair and a face streaked with tears.

For fourteen years, without fail, on this night, the long trip to the cemetery had been made. Of necessity, the trip was made in secret, never mentioned, never even hinted at. Fourteen times, the cloaked figure had slipped through the old cemetery, making its way between the stones. Fourteen times, the power of the memories had been overwhelming. Fourteen times, tears had fallen as the pain returned. Fourteen times, the aching loss had been relived in detail, for this night was the only night the memories were permitted free rein.

Fourteen years ago, on this night, they had been lost forever.

As if the weight of its grief had suddenly become too much to bear, the figure fell to its knees before the gleaming stones, head bowed. Wind whistled through bare branches, covering the rending sobs that were permitted only here, in the darkness, surrounded by weathered stone and wild, overgrown grass. Long moments passed before the sobs began to subside. Clouds passed over the moon, leaving only the barest light to shine on the two unweathered stones.

"Lily." It was no more than a tortured whisper.

There was no answer. There never was.

Petunia Evans bowed her head again, and let her tears fall.