I go to the moor to meditate. The invention of the modern church seems ironic (sacrilege, if you will). I can understand needing to express your gratitude to a higher power in the form of a mighty structure. Awe-inspiring cathedrals, with massive stone walls hiding secrets and relics from ancient societies, possibly key players from the good book, may prove to the world how dedicated one is. But it is in nature where I feel truly at peace. Where I know I’m a stitch, and there’s a seam holding us all together.
Invariably, I end up at the cemetery. It’s where we all end up, eventually. Reading the names, touching the cold, dead dirt; finding the oldest date calms me. The reticent audience beckons. Each passed individual calls, “Here I am, come see.” In their final resting place, they’re letting me know I got something right. Consoling me, as I once did them, though they were already gone. Everyone needs a little validation to remember their fortitude. To persevere.
One evening, in dire need of fresh air, I headed straight for the graveyard, not having time for both scenic ventures. Dry leaves on the ground rustled slowly; vibrant anomalies. Minuscule critters, imperceptible to the average onlooker, vacillated between scurrying and burrowing.
This is where I found him, haphazardly hopping over headstones with less than graceful determination. I thought it was a game at first; until I recognized him…Sherlock. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late.
“STOP!” Hot, acidic breath shattered my eardrum. My head snapped back, held in place by a grimy fist. The command jolted me, but was directed at him. A cursory glance through my lashes showed the sleuth landing on the near side of a marker and halting.
Black, twisted locks oozed between my captor’s fingers, roots of hair taut from his desperate grasp. “Ah, the great Sherlock Holmes.” The man behind me practically purred with anticipation. “Let’s play a game, shall we?”