Stone Paths

A woman and a young girl, no more than eight, walked hand in hand across the edge of a vast cemetery. It was three hours past midnight, a time when darkness became so much more than just a lack of light, when shadows took on a life of their own, when the living slept and the dead rose from their slumber.

There was another with them, an elderly lady, though she was not so much with them as she was a perpetual five feet ahead of them. The chill ate into her old bones, yet the shadows urged her into a commendable, unfailing pace. The other, younger woman and the little girl trailed not far behind.

Gently, the woman nudged the girl, drawing her capricious attention to a narrow stone path, barely visible even in the light of the full moon. The path led towards the heart of the cemetery. The pair began walking the winding course; here and there, gravestones of every shape and size emerged like phantoms through the mist, greeting them stoically.

“Now, dear,” said the woman, her voice vapid and monotonous, yet strangely alluring. “Tell me again, what comes after death?”

The girl pursed her lips and stroked her chin with one free hand. It was a chilly night, and the wind was doing little to aid her concentration. She fumbled with her thoughts for several seconds while the woman, dressed in fine furs and adorned with jewels, waited with commendable patience.

“After death comes burial,” she said at last.

Ahead, the old lady coughed, as if unhappy with the answer.

The woman, on the other hand, smiled with thin, nearly non-existent lips. There was an unnatural beauty to her pale face that captivated the child, a blending of imperfect features that resulted in a visage that wasn’t just harmonious—it was a frightful masterpiece. There were a few more things that came between death and burial, but this answer was acceptable for now.

“Very good, darling,” she said, patting the young lass on her head.

Exuding self-satisfaction, the girl grinned. With quiet anticipation, she awaited the next question as the woman continued to lead her along the stone path.

“And what comes after burial?”

The girl halted in her tracks, and so did the woman. Their eyes—one pair deep blue, the other bright sapphire—met, and a knowing smile was shared between them. The elderly lady’s pace had slowed as well, though she showed no signs of stopping. It didn’t matter; they would catch up with her shortly and easily.

“Judgment,” whispered the girl. The word could nearly be mistaken for the wind.

A cold gale blew, and the trees danced indignantly. A rodent scurried along headstones. An owl hooted on a nearby tree, watching its dinner intently. A long moment passed. The woman’s features seemed to shift, though one would have had difficulty pointing out what exactly had changed.

There were many more questions the woman could have asked at that point. What came after judgment? What of Heaven and Hell? Who judged, and who is judged? But for now, the woman’s interests lay in but one particular query, one she had asked her little girl several times before.

“And what happens when a dead man escapes said judgment?”

She spoke the words as she would an incantation, a bewitching spell to enchant and ensnare. In a simple motion that seemed impossibly complicated, she lowered herself down so their eyes were levelled, and spoke the question once again.

The little girl shrank back slightly, as she would from a stranger. She feared the question almost as much as she failed to understand the extent of its meaning. Her eight-year-old mind, in all its grooming, could barely fathom the depths of such a topic. Yet the answer swam on the edge of her mind, an answer drilled into her since the beginnings of her obscure and unorthodox childhood.

“A man who escapes judgment,” she began, with the far-off tone of someone struggling to memorize a model answer from a textbook, “escapes Heaven and Hell. He wanders the world of the living, but is neither alive nor dead. He is no longer the man he was, and will never be the man he is promised to be.”

“Until…?” prompted the woman, kindly but eagerly. A sudden fervour was building up to a crescendo in her voice, displacing the monotony that had laced it.

“Until such time he surrenders himself to judgment,” recited the girl. “But by this time, judgment may no longer want anything to do with him. And if this should happen, a dead man would wander aimlessly forever as a wraith, without identity or purpose.”

The words were unnatural and disconnected, but sounded like the sweetest music to the woman’s fey ears. She placed a gloved hand on the girl’s cheek and purred, “That’s my girl.”

Having wandered quite a distance, the old lady turned back and stared at the pair irritably. She made a face and raised a spindly finger, beckoning with impatience.

The girl, beaming proudly, took the woman’s hand. They began down the path once again, and followed it in silence for several more minutes. The wind had ebbed, though the air could hardly be described as still. The owl, having consumed its prey, hooted contentedly while souls long forgotten whispered bitter nothings in the dark.

The path sloped upwards, taking the trio to a lone tombstone at the top of a small hill. The stone’s face was weathered and chipped, trialled and found guilty by the harsh elements. What were once flowers sat in disarray at the grave, the only proof that whoever lay therein had once been loved.

Suddenly, the old lady let out a piercing wail, ghostly and mournful. The little girl felt herself jerk a bit, and somewhere on another plane of existence, the spirits of the departed trembled. Had they their bodies, their blood would have curdled at the horrid sound.

But soon the repercussions of the old lady’s remorse died away, and she fell into a light slumber. The woman, though still awake, seemed equally far off. A low mist began to rise, and the little girl pulled her coat tighter around herself to beat the chill.

“Is Daddy…” she started to say, but shivered involuntarily instead. She tried again, “Is Daddy a wraith?”

The woman stared at the tombstone sombrely, absently stroking the girl’s hair. What little colour she possessed had gone from her face, stolen by the midnight air, leaving it an alabaster mask.

“No, darling,” she replied slowly. Her voice was miles away, and so lacklustre. “Daddy’s just fine…”

“I miss him.”

“I miss him too. Thank you; it helps to remember.”

The little girl nodded in agreement, though she was unsure of what she was agreeing to. They sat quietly by the grave for a long while, both lost in thought and memories. Finally, the coldness became too much to bear, and woman and girl stood to leave.

“Do wake your grandmother up.”

The eight-year-old girl looked up into the glistening, navy-blue eyes of the older woman and nodded again. “Thanks for bringing me here, Mommy.”

“Darling,” said the woman, a sad, wry smile creeping onto her porcelain face. “I’m not your mother.”

And the wraith faded away into the mist, the memory of her voice echoing through the night: “He is no longer the man he was, and will never be the man he is promised to be…”

She was gone, and the little girl stood quite alone in the cemetery, cold and heavy-hearted. Turning to her grandmother, she tugged at her sleeve, rousing the elderly woman. A canyon of two generations stood between them, but she was all the young lass had left.

Then, making the hand sign for ‘home’, the girl slipped her hand into the old woman’s, and together, they made their way down the narrow stone path.