It was
that time of year again: the High Street filled with fairy lights, brass instruments
blasting out Christmas carols (badly), and shoppers squandering the last of
the money provided by the friendly, neighbourhood loan shark.
Moon didn't mind the holly, ivy or mistletoe so much; it was the celebration
of a virgin birth, clergy in canonicals spouting the message of goodwill to
all men, which was promptly shelved for the rest of the year, that made his
soul sink. How did this absurdity start? Despite the best intentions of the
Church (which he also had no time for) to keep the season holy, Christmas now
started in September, cleared all sensible products from supermarket shelves,
and created such an anti-climax in January most people went into social hibernation
until it was time for Easter.
At a least the gaudy glitter and razzle-dazzle had not infiltrated the environs
of the ancient parish church. It was peaceful here, as it should be. This land
was sacred long before Christians arrived, and the building's foundations rested
in ground that had witnessed millennia of rites welcoming the sun and mourning
its loss at the onset of winter. The lives of whole communities had once depended
on the whim of the season that was now used as an excuse to drink, party, and
eat to excess.
The sky was filled with moonlight that cast a silver sheen on the ivy covered
tombstones. A blackbird chimed, almost in time to the bell calling the faithful
to six o'clock prayers, then fell silent at the warning hoot of an owl. A vixen,
having spent a fruitful evening fossicking in the neighbourhood's restaurant
bins, wended her way home to cubs that had long been weaned, yet were still
unable to rootle out their own half eaten hamburgers. Nettles rustled with beetle
devouring hedgehogs and Moon was just able to detect below the muffled cacophony
of the other wildlife the faint sound of snails munching through the petals
of an expensive annual wreath laid on the grave of a much loved grandmother.
The church bell ceased to peal.
Moon took a long hazel wand from his coat and started to circle the church,
stopping every now and then to tap its flint facade, the root of a tree or flagstone,
at irregular intervals. Visitors to the cemetery paid little heed to his monthly
ritual. It was a harmless, regular occurrence that had gone on for as long as
they could remember and, like the moss cladding the bell tower, added an odd,
pagan gravitas to the ancient stones.
As the overgrown path narrowed to accommodate the new community hall the brambles
somehow failed to snag Moon's ankle length coat as he walked through them. The
gaunt young man proceeded as though the overhanging branches and nettles were
not there, waving his long wand in the direction of the boundary they now concealed.
The blackbird sounded a brief alarm then, as though realising it was only a
friend, stopped. The hedgehogs did not fear his footfall either and continued
to snuffle through the rotting autumn leaves.
Moon at last stepped out of the unkept thicket between the new extension and
boundary to reach the north facing stones so covered with lichen his wand made
no sound. Then on to the flint facade of the vestry recently cleaned of ancient
encrustations where the tap, tap, tap could be clearly heard inside the Lady
Chapel.
The curate watched from a slightly ajar window, wishing the young man would
go and have a decent meal instead of circling the consecrated stones like the
mediaeval phantom that was rumoured to walk the cemetery. She was a modern woman
who did not believe in spectres from the past, let alone that they needed exorcising.
The only impulse she had was to invite the mysterious visitor with the wand
inside and fill him with communion wine and the sandwiches prepared for the
Sunday school party. Over the years Barbara had tried to inveigle the young
man inside and find out who he was, but he always seemed to disappear before
she could reach him. Moon certainly wasn't beating the bounds, or performing
any sort of pagan ritual she recognized. The mystery continued to gnaw away
at her until the excited chattering of children filled the community hall. Time
to pour lemonade and arrange the Nativity crib.
Tap: Mistress Chandler the candlemaker was laid to rest here, her bones now
intertwined with the roots of a yew. Tap: four daughters and a son of Master
Bridgforth, twice mayor and cloth merchant, lay together against the foundations
long sunken over the centuries. Tap: below the flagstones of the bridle path
rested five families, 32 souls in all, poor weavers starved during the harsh
winter of 1316. Tap: the sacrificed child under the first standing stone of
the original temple now lay deep beneath the crypt. Tap: here, under the oldest
remaining tombstone, lay the wealthy miller and his wife; once both so plump
and long-lived, but remembered all the same. All souls from a time the modern
world had forgotten, yet still lives punctuating a page of history that was
this parish. They could not pass into oblivion unremarked.
His ritual completed for another month, Moon replaced the wand in his long coat
and dissolved into the shadow of an ancient yew tree.