A scratched and weathered imp peers from beneath a tangle of etched vines on a celtic cross, whilst a magpie sits upon the rood, singing. Or perhaps it is a sparrow hawk hunting the goblin amongst the details? Or perhaps the little beast is hunting the bird, and the bird sacrifices itself as an image of Christ? Or perhaps...\n\n[[Return|dirt path]]\n

Along this path, the graves are far more numerous, sprouting in white groves across the grass. They are also depressingly small, their time spent on earth [[depressingly short]]. The sculptures around here are not of celestial beings or monsters, but of [[children]]. Forever captured in granite, they skip or sit amongst their peers as if ready to conduct another day's hard labour at being youthful. You hope it brings their friends some comfort.\n\nThe gardens here are particularly exquisite, though are purely white in colour, so as not to disturb the sombre tone of the environment. Near a beautiful lake of lilies, you spy a [[black shape]] leaning over the stalks - perhaps you are not so alone after all?\n\nYou hear the sound of [[the gate|gate open]] in the distance, whilst the smell of flowers and chipped wood pulls your eyes towards a [[small shed]]. A set of stairs leads to some more [[expensive tombs|civilised route]] further up the hill.

Bear salient on a per pale sanguine and vert.\n\n[[Return|silent streets]]\n

Near the western edge of the gravyard stands a great stone sarcophagus, as if wrought from the earth itself. Over the bier, [[a weeping angel]] has thrown herself prostrate in grief. [[The name]] is barely legible under the draped arms. The entire ensemble would seem gaudy, yet it carries a strange, holy weight, as if it were an altar rather than a coffin.\n\nFrom here, it is possible to turn up a [[dirt path]] up the hill, shrouded as it is in rustling leaves. There are also rows of mausoleums arrayed in [[silent streets]] beyond.

You stand at the gate, peering into the graveyard beyond. The afternoon is pleasant, but depressingly grey. The stones beyond seem flat without the highlights the sun can provide. Everything is unreal. You wonder if you should have brought flowers for once, if only for your own comfort in such a colourless place.\n\nYou push the [[gate open]]. It squeaks quietly, then disturbs you no more.

You've never actually seen the fellow at work. Perhaps he only comes out at night?\n\n[[Return|small shed]]\n

//Abigail Simmons\n30th July, 1934 - 12th June, 1940\n"Love unconquerable, unvanquishable, eternal."\n\nFrederick Harris\nNovember 4th, 1947 - August 17th, 1950\n"A treasured son whose time was done."//\n\nIn truth, we all get too short a window through which to view life. But at least some of us are afforded more than a glimpse.\n\n[[Return|right]]\n

One such boy sits on a white plinth, his feet on tiptoes to reach the earth. His expression is one of innocence and perhaps slightly shocked. It is as if he confronted his own death with surprise more than fear.\n\n[[Return|right]]\n

//... Harry Samson\nRobert Samuel\nLloyd Smith\nDaniel Smith\nKim Smith\nJeremy Stornway\nDominic Tanner\nSebastien Tanner\nWilliam Terrence\nDaniel Tully\nAlexander Turner\nJohnathan Turner\nHarris Vanderson\nRobert Wallis\nCharlie Wilks...//\n\n[[Return|Grand Memorial]]\n

//...Ronald Bentham\nIsaac Bentham\nSimon Bourne\nJames Carlbury\nThomas Charles\nSam Childern\nMatthew Cowley\nMatthew Dermot\nRonald Drummond\nHarry Drummond\nElijah Ellison\nGareth Ells\nJohn Farris\nJames Farley\nBenjamin Fox\nRobert Fox\nBilly Fox\nSimon Fisher...//\n\n[[Return|Grand Memorial]]\n

Chrysanthemums for truth, roses for innocence and carnations for a touch of wealth.\n\n[[Return|civilised route]]\n

The clearing before you is mostly empty. This part of the yard has been inaccessible to those who don't know where it is already - away from any main paths or plots. Most of the other graves around have toppled over, leaving puddles of stone in the grass. All except one, the one which you visit regularly, as you promised you would every month.\n\nThe markings on it are faded, the date and epitaph illegible, but you can just about read the scrawl of [[the name]].\n

//Mary Lyster\n3rd December, 1924 - 8th October, 1946\n\nAndrew Lyster\n8th October, 1946 - 9th October, 1946//\n\nThe lack of a third grave is poignant.\n\n[[Return|left]]\n

There are no names or dates on these mausoleums. Instead, the doors are inscribed with sigils that seem archaic in nature, despite the more recent contruction. Some are of a [[Godly nature]], others are altogether more [[bestial and wild]]. The door of one has become slightly ajar - it might inspire a brief shiver in the more superstitious of passers-by. Even the atmosphere feels dusty, and the smell of ancient air surrounds you on all sides.\n\nA [[strange tomb]] lies by where the path makes a sharp turn, whilst [[hawthorns|left]] stand watch the other way.

Here the graves are lain out flat amongst bushes of wild roses. The white of the marble slabs fuses with the white of the flowers until they appear to be at war with the grey, overcast clouds above you. The titles here are grand, and the inscriptions [[are long and dramatic]]. On one tomb is inscribed the image of a [[robed man]]; a bishop of some sort, maybe, or of such a level of bureaucracy as to appear like royalty. Even your sense of smell is stimulated by the [[flood of scents]] reaching up to you from the verdant grounds. This is one of the more sensory areas of the graveyard.\n\nThe path joins up with a [[set of stairs|Stairs]] ascending the hill, whilst another ste of stairs leads to a [[sea of small graves|right]] below you.\n\nThere is also another path, leading off into the garden itself. It seems... unofficial, unauthorised, but it could be [[worth a look]].\n

You don't know why you come here every month. This was an unlucky discovery made after wandering off at the funeral of a close friend. More of a casual acquaintance really. You fell from the beaten track, and found a lonely gravestone on which was bourne your name.\n\nIts ridiculous really. There are only so many first name and last name combinations in the world. It is almost certain that someone out there alive shares your exact moniker, nevermind someone who is dead. You just happened to find it here.\n\nThis is not your grave. But that name, inscribed in eternal stone, will always be there. When the memorial has collapsed face-first into the dirt, that name will still be there, inscribed into the memory of the rock itself. There will be a plot of moss-covered earth somewhere in the world that was marked out for you before you were born, and you felt that was deserving of your respect. So you come here, every month, to mourn your future self.\n\nPerhaps, some day, you'll find a flower resting here. It won't be for you.\n\n[[But it will be.]]

Memorium

There is no name. Perhaps you are meant to recognise him from his grand costume or stern countenance. You fear that will not be enough for the due course of time. But perhaps the name doesn't matter - the golden inlay is more than enough to shine through the ages.\n\n[[Return|civilised route]]\n

The black robed ministers of the graveyard proper. Though they nest everywhere, they rarely touch the stones themselves - clergy are very much aware of sacred ground.\n\n[[Return|dirt path]]\n

Quarterly azure and argent, in the first and third quarters a cross sable (Potent).\n\n[[silent streets]]

You shove your way through the bushes, thorns pricking at your sides. The graves fall away, becoming more and more sparse as you progress along the side of the hill. Even the path itself is becoming faded, worn only by steps who make this journey once a month at most...\n\nSomething returns to you. The smell of upturned moss, the overcast sky. The only feet who have worn this path are yours.\n\nYou may [[turn back|civilised route]] now if you wish, or continue [[onward]].

It was built as an obelisk, pointing accusations towards the heavens. On the front ledge stands a conquering angel of bronze, shaded with green and blue. He points his blade in triumph towards the sky - perhaps he expects the only way to enter the afterlife is blade first? The [[epitaph]] scored deep above his head emerges as violent as a silent war cry, and is just as useless.\n\nThe names continue in an endless litany, first on [[one side]], then [[the other]]. Were you to make a second circuit, you are sure more names would have materialised on the polished surface. There are no wreathes here today, so the uknown dead have only the company of a martial being for their personal eternity. You once again regret the decision not to bring any flowers.\n\n[[Stairs]] extend below you, back into the graveyard proper.

The gravel in your feet crunches softly. Everything is muted, but not oppressed. It is more as if the landscape itself maintains a quiet respect for those sleeping within.\n\nYou've forgotten where it is again, of course. You always do, if only for your own sanity. But the graveyard isn't busy, and there's no taste of rain in the air, despite the overcast sky. No reason you can't wander for a moment.\n\n[[Stairs]] climb slowly up the side of the hill, whilst the path around you splits away either side. To your [[left]] the path is protected by arching hawthorns, whilst the [[right]] is much clearer, leading to a congregation of smaller stones.

//Alfred Grangefield\nMarch 10th, 1872 - Febuary 3rd, 1957\n"We are not now that strength which in old days\nMoved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are-\nOne equal temper of heroic hearts,\nMade weak by time and fate, but strong in will\nTo strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."//\n\nYou can't help but feel some sentiment at the piece. You wonder, however, what the author might have felt about the quote had he remembered Ulysses abandoned his family for the thrill of the journey.\n\n[[Return|civilised route]]\n

''In Memoriam''\n\nA Twine Game by Michael Crowe\n\nInspired by the Protestant Cemetary in Rome.\n\nThanks for reading!\n

//Anne Clythedale\nJanuary 9th, 1824 - November 11th, 1888\nLoving Wife, Gracious Mother\n"And to you who are troubled rest with us, when the Lord Jesus shall be revealed from heaven with his mighty angels"\n2 Thessalonians 1:7//\n\nShe must have been a saint to earn such a prestigious mourner. Although who can say how much our tombs will truly describe us?\n\n[[Return|strange tomb]]\n

They seem to have been here for a long while. Wordsworth springs to mind;\n\n//"There is a Thorn—it looks so old,\nIn truth, you’d find it hard to say\nHow it could ever have been young,\nIt looks so old and grey."//\n\nYou hope you haven't embarrassed the dead around me with such a quote.\n\n[[Return|left]]\n

//Major Thomas Walsworth\n15th July, 1850 - 22nd January, 1911\n"Friend, tell Lacedaemon\nHere we lie\nObedient to our orders."//\n\nPowerful rhetoric to be sure. How he might wonder how close he came to appearing on an all-together different monument. Would he prefer it there?\n\n[[Return|left]]\n

//Pro Patria\n1914 - 1918\n1939 - 1945//\n\nNot the longest of remembrances, to be sure. But the registry of the dead is dirge enough.\n\n[[Return|Grand Memorial]]\n

Surrounded by leafy bushes lies the gardener's modest shack. Though it can hardly compare to the granite and marble constructions that surround it, its wooden frame has a solidity all of its own. It serves as a nice reminder that civilisation exists to make more than gravestones.\n\nYou are still unsure whether to refer to its inhabitant as a gardener, groundskeeper or [[gravedigger]], given that he seems to function as all three. Nor can you tell why he has preferences for some areas of the graveyard than others. Perhaps he has his own reasons to mourn? You could hardly imagine what living here must be like.\n\nThe path behind you leads back to the [[forest of graves|right]]. You have no choice but to take it.

A woman, dressed from head to toe in black lace, picks flowers and hums a mournful tune under her breath. You are reminded of stories of the Egyptian pharaohs, whose funerals were accompanied by legions of wailing women, paid to mourn the soul of their god-king as he made his journey into the underworld. The figure before you would have been a queen of such ceremonies, her own voice floating above the horrid keening.\n\nHer garb and song remind you of your own purpose here, and you decide not to disturb her.\n\n[[Return|right]]\n

The ascending path is familiar to you at least. Exploration is all well and good, but a well ordered and pre-prepared path ultimately leads to greater spiritual satisfaction. There is certainly a spiritual feeling to be had here.\n\nBelow you, [[the gate|gate open]] still seems to squeak mournfully, though the wind could just be up to its old tricks once more. From one side, a [[dirt path]] extends into a tempting wilderness, while from its other side, a far more [[civilised route]] extends into earthworks, where the graves lie lounging in great stone oblongs, amongst white blooms. Or you could continue to the crown of the hill, where the [[Grand Memorial]] awaits.

Every lock of hair, every feather, is exquisitely carved. The folds of her robe seem to crease with life. It is not the liveliness, but the stillness of the thing which feels uncanny - like a pinned butterfly. \n\nYou are greatly unnerved for some reason. You are glad the creature is unable to lift its head - what expression of pain might the sculptor have bestowed their grim creation?\n\n[[Return|strange tomb]]\n

One particular grave has become completely blank, little more than an upright slab. Only the word //"dust"// remains visible.\n\nDust to dust? A quintessence of dust? He knew his frame was dust? For something with which we apparently have so much in common, we have rarely allowed dust a chance at beauty.\n\n[[Return|dirt path]]\n

[[Your name.]]

Michael Crowe

The path across the hill is gentle, but grimy and overshadowed in trees. It feels untrodden, a descent or ascent to or from places unknown. The stones here are some of the oldest in the graveyard, their [[epitaphs all but gone]]. The decorations have faded from exposure to rain and time, giving them the appearance of archaic glyphs, waiting patiently for a scholar to [[interpret their meaning]].\n\nThough much of the graveyard here is quiet, the silence here falls much more heavily. Even the occasional cry of [[jackdaws perching overhead]] and rustling of leaves only serves to highlight the void of sound that is left afterward.\n\nA [[strange tomb]] is erected towards the wall of the graveyard further along the path, whilst the other end meets [[the stairs|Stairs]] that continue their solemn march up the hill to the great monument.

The fews stones here are overgrown and weathered. Ivy crawls over the face of a [[rearing lion]], still majestic for all its age. A [[quiet pair]] of memorials stands away from the path, enjoying their own company in a circle of hooded mushrooms. Here, nature has reclaimed the dead, taking them up into her damp, safe arms with her procession of [[hawthorns]] keeping watch.\n\nA few mausoleums form [[silent streets]] in one direction, whilst the comforting mewling of the rusty gate echoes [[from the other|gate open]].