It was a cold, wet night as I pushed through the dense brush, not quite sure of where I was. The darkness was thick, and the thousand points of light in the sky seemed an eternity away. The old forest was quiet and did nothing to aid me. Eventually I stumbled across a path. It wasn't much of path, more of a rabbit trail really, rather overgrown with vegetation. It led off into the crowded foliage and, choking back nervous tension, I followed it.

The forest animals weren't much help to me either. They were there alright, I saw them. I saw their beady, red eyes as they watched from their hiding spots in the underbrush. I pushed on along the small rabbit trail, groping my way past towering elm trees who stood guard over the forest. It was their job to keep out the unwanted. I assumed by their silence that I had so far been accepted.

Eventually the trees thinned some and ahead of me was a rusted, iron gate hinged to a pair of hulking, stone pillars. The pillars were intricately carved with pictures of gods and men engaged in battle, in love, and in death. The bars of the gate were covered by a tangled mess of overgrown weeds. Through this gate was an immense clearing amidst the mighty forest. It was flooded with moonlight from a lunar body grown quite round and full. I could make out the many headstones which dotted the glade and marked it as a cemetery.

The grave stones rose and fell over gentle slopes, and at the far side of the field stood a small cottage. From where I stood, barred by the gate, I could see that the cottage was very old and at one time was quite pretty. At the windows were flower boxes, once brightly painted but now sadly hanging and conquered by weeds.

Gathering courage I pushed at the gate. It resisted me at first, struggling against me and eventually squealing in protest when I managed to force my way through. On the other side I found my feet swallowed up in a thick mist that seeped out of the earth and rolled across the yard. With each step it reeled away in violent undulation spreading ethereal ripples into the darkness. With a continued luck, which I hoped could be attributed to good spirits, I found an old oil lamp hung on a hook beside the gate. I lit it with matches from my pocket and set off across the boneyard.

The grave markers were many and of differing sorts. Some were average stones with loving epitaphs left in memory by family members, some were simple stone crosses of pauper's graves. One stone which caught my eye was large indeed, and very magnificent. It was cut from a deeply hued block of marble, almost blood red. It rose up taller than myself. The base was actually only three feet high, but atop it was a marble angel, frozen in place as she played, oddly enough, a violin. There was no epitaph on this marker, no memory, no poem, just one word which was perhaps a name.

Joquain.