The Witch Graveyard

When I was young, I was an adventurer, an explorer of exotic locales. My domain was in the woods, among the trees, where no one was watching and I could be whatever I wanted. When I was feeling happy, as children should, I played among the playful landscape of the woods along my street. The trees were excellent for climbing and the beaten paths were silent enough for hide and go seek. When I felt mysterious, I played among the rocks that were only a block away, where people could catch the slightest of glimpses at me as I watched them walk by from atop the biggest, tallest rock. But when I felt only all right, not happy, not fully sad, just in between, I went to the Witch Graveyard, a place I still visit from time to time.1

The Witch Graveyard is two streets and a long walk through the woods away from my house. The path to the Graveyard weaves its graceful way up an abandoned dirt road that is carpeted with warmly-coloured leaves in the fall, then around a broad grassy field that is almost always glistening with dew or rain. The path then turns away from civilization and heads straight into the woods, passing a shallow pond that sits patiently beneath a rocky drop off which seems a great cliff to a child, before winding around the trees and up to the precipice of a steep hill. No matter how much I tried, I could never slowly make my way down this lofty mesa. My feet would start out taking the smallest, most infinitesimal steps, and the angle would thrust me downwards, forcing me to run down, my feet soaring down to their next brief step. At the bottom, I would pause, turn around to face my adversary of a hill, and vow to someday make my way slowly down it.2

After that heart stopping descent, the earth is carpeted with green, leafy moss and the slender, curving needles of the pines that tower overhead. The sunlight filters in through these swaying monoliths, splaying its spotted rays over the ground, the trees, and me. I thought I would never tire of dancing among this angelic light, letting it dance over my skin and light my hair, my eyes with its fire. As I would walk over this carpet, soft enough for a queen, and let the sunlight create a tiara of light around my head, I always felt like a fairy, or a little sprite of nature. 3

Walking over the carpet, I always had to push the reaching arms of the salmonberry bushes that wanted so to embrace me. As I would pass them and the wind breezed through, I could hear them sigh at my ignorance of them. My feet carried me forward, ever closer to my peaceful destination, until I would reach the soft, wet soil beside the stream. Here, my feet would stop and my mind would search out the most exciting way to venture across the warm, cold mud and over the stream. I once laid a dead log across this troublesome puzzlement of a spot, and many a time I've used it to reach the other side, safely mud-free. I wonder if the cloth-saving bit of wood remains there today, or if the life of the woods has consumed it as is nature's way.4

Once across the stream, I would turn away from the graveyard for a few moments to observe the stream itself. I would carefully survey the banks of the little river for any insects or creatures that might've been waiting for me to come and visit. Often I'd find a snail or a beetle, sometimes having very one-sided conversations with them before letting them continue on their merry way. After visiting with the forest life, I would enjoy the sounds of the water, bubbling happily over the stones and through the earth, running its course down into the ditch by the edge of the woods, only a few minutes away. If the day was warm, I often let my fingers drift among the cooling liquid before drawing them across my forehead and the back of my neck. 5

Finally, after the stream's distraction holds me no more, I would turn my attentions to the actual Graveyard. To an adult, this place is not what a child would see. An adult would recognize the pillars, a foundation to a long-gone military base, standing perfectly in uniform, but to a child, what wonders this mystical place held. How could these colossal tombstones have come to such an isolated place? How could they stand in such lovely, perfect rows, covered in velvet moss, puddles of rainwater surrounding them, like mysterious islands among their own sea of rain and moss and earth. When I was young, I would wander amongst these behemoths, caressing each one like a baby would it's loving mother. To me, these were the pillars of creation. They had power, though how I could not know. Their power held me like a web and drew me back summer, fall, spring, and winter. 6

After I'd had my fill of their beauty, I would return to the stream, casting looks back to my very own peace, my Witch Graveyard. Finally, I'd tear my eyes from them and travel down alongside the rushing water, racing it, to the edge of the woods. Every time, I could not believe such a sanctuary existed so close to humanity. A road, its busy noises muted by the towering pines and the leaves of the loving salmonberry bushes, lay only metres from me, separated from me by a ditch and a sprinkling of grass before the concrete dominated over the green. I would leap the ditch, a magnificent act that brought me intense pride every time it was done, and calmly leave my sanctuary in a state of peace, restored to me in a way no technology of our age could have.7