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The softest breath of wind whispers over a field covered in wildflowers. Bees hum sleepily in the summer air. Church bells toll calling the village to grieve. A funeral procession slowly makes its way through to the cemetery.

The priest makes his speech as the mourners gather to farewell the young man. As they lower the casket into the pit, the villagers throw flowers down with it. A crimson rose is cast in by the last of the bereaved. She stands for a moment before turning back to receive the condolences of friends and neighbours. The grave is left open for the night so they can say their last goodbyes.

When everyone has left, the young woman returns to see her husband one last time. At her request there is a ladder down to the bottom of the pit and the lid of the coffin has not been nailed shut.

She removes the lid to uncover the body of the man she fell in love with. Tears trickle down her cheeks and she touches his lips gently with the tip of her finger. Sobbing quietly, she carefully moves his body to one side of the coffin and climbs in next to him, pulling the lid shut over them.

The next morning the grave is filled in and a headstone erected in the memory of a loving brother and husband. A hushed whisper goes around the village regarding the whereabouts of his wife, but is soon forgotten as they return to daily life.

Down in the dark earth the bodies of two lovers are together, forever.

COMMENTS

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SuicideDoll
17:03 Jan 29 2009

Wonderful new stories - both are touching and painfully beautiful

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Like a ghost in a soft white gown, she stands at my door. Pale in the moonlight she gazes at me, turns and flits down the hallway, her bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor.

I follow her through my large, near-empty new house, out to the garden. Somehow the little girl has made it to the end of the cobblestone path and is standing next to the fishpond. She is staring at something in the water.

She glances up at me and wordlessly points down into the water at her feet. An alarmed expression comes into her eyes and she starts backing through the bushes, raising her hands to cover her face.

I race to where she was standing, but there is no trace of her, not even footprints in the damp soil by the pond. As I turn away a flutter of white in the reeds catches my eye. Half covered in dead leaves and water is a small, ragged night-gown; the frilly sort a sixteenth-century child might wear.

It tears as I try to prise it from the ground, the ancient threads giving out after years of damp and decay. Underneath is a scattered pile of bones.

Gently scraping around I manage to find the petite skull that must have belonged to the little ghost-girl in my house. What a sad way to go; dumped near a fishpond and covered by leaves, forever wandering, looking for a peaceful end.

I take the bones from their original resting place, lovingly bundle them up and give them the proper, respectful burial they should have had.

Now, under a beautiful white-blossomed rosebush, the bones of a young, sixteenth-century girl lie peacefully, forever watched over by the stone angels guarding her grave.