THE BONEYARD LAY ABOUT a half mile from the village, down a narrow gravel track. Carved wooden posts covered with tendrils of ivy marked the trail on either side of us.
Burning tapers signified the entrance, and I shivered as we passed under them.
I wasn’t frightened of old spirits that might haunt this place. Those ghost tales were for kids. I knew that the dead had no power over the living, even here.
It was the living folk that concerned me.
One in particular.
A raised platform had been erected around a freshly dug patch of earth. At the graveside, Elder Mason stood with the dusty records book and an ancient looking carved staff. His face was solemn, but other than that, he betrayed no emotion.
There were a few scattered sobs from the people behind us, but the scene was eerily sil
