The Telling

village church, at the end of the village street. From the church, it should be just a brisk walk up the street to the cottage, dry clothes, coffee. And it looked like the path was a back way to the church. I wiped the drizzle off my face and headed on into the woods.
    It was dark under the trees. The ground was thick with that broad-leafed glossy plant; again, the scent of garlic: I began to think it must be a wild variety. At first the path was wide and straight, but it was soon twisting between briars and fallen trees, heading away from the river and up the hill, which suited me fine. I was doing okay. Even though the light was fading, I felt confident, competent and in control. I was steaming up the flank of the hill, damp, breathless, beginning to sweat.
    I’d soon lost sight of the river; the trees grew thick; the undergrowth was a tangle of bare shrubs, briars and creepers. Heading uphill at an angle, my feet slithered out sideways from beneath me on the loose rich earth. I was no longer sure if I was on a path, or just following a coincidence of gaps between tree trunks, bushes, bramble patches. Now I was scrambling, pulling myself up by low-hanging branches, grabbing at roots, heaving myself over banks and landslips with my hands pressed into the crumbling earth; it smelt rich and dark and ripe. Birds were twittering and calling in the bare wicker of branches. I was hot with the climb and shivery with the soaking. My jacket was tight and awkward and wet, my jeans clinging. All notion of a path had gone and it was getting towards dark. I was conscious of my heartbeat. I should have turned back earlier, while it was still relatively easy to retrace my steps. The woods were quieter now; no birds, just my own huffing and scrabbling. Rain dripped in heavy clots from the branches above. It couldn’t be much further. I dragged myself up, grabbing at tree roots. I made my way around a holly bush, and up over a rise. At last I was on flat ground.
    There was a wall, and a narrow wrought-iron gate. Beyond, in the fading light, as if in a woodland clearing, stood the church. It was low and damp-streaked. It looked ancient. Gravestones leaned at angles. On the left of the church, there was some kind of earthwork, a grassy mound that looked far older even than the church. I came up to the gate; it was wired shut. I shivered. The damp pressed through my jacket to my skin.
    The rain had stopped. I leaned on the gate, let my head hang forwards. I was so out of shape; I took a minute there, just letting my heart slow, my breath calm.
    There was a smell; a sweet and warm and fetid smell. I felt the uneasy softness beneath my feet. I glanced down, saw the heap of browned grass-clippings, dead flowers; points and curls of funereal nylon ribbon stuck out between the layers of rot. I was standing on the lower slopes; towards the top of the heap lay a balding funeral wreath of moss and wire, with three creamy plastic roses still attached to it. Undegradable, too familiar, lying there for ever. A heave of panic: I had to get away. I hitched myself up on to a lower rung, swung myself over the gate.
    I dropped down into the graveyard. I felt something. A movement in the corner of my vision. I swung around.
    The worn faces of the gravestones stared back at me, blotched with damp. I could smell the earth on my clothes and hands, the rot, the wet wool of my jacket.
    No one there.
    Of course there was no one there.
    I glanced around again, unsure, my skin hard with goose pimples. There were just headstones, then the churchyard wall, with trees beyond. It was a bird, probably; the wind in the trees.

 
     
     
     
    COMING OUT FROM THE DIM CHURCH, INTO THE SUN, I felt changed. The breeze picked up my bonnet ribbons, stirred my shawl and skirts. After the torment and darkness of Good Friday, today was suddenly all light and life and air, the stone rolled from the tomb, the shroud shrugged aside. The yellow daffodils, the river silver in the valley below, the blackbird singing his heart out from the top of the Bowkers’ headstone, it all seemed new, as if I’d never seen any of it before, as if I too were born again, dragged out of bloody darkness into light. Agnes was safely delivered and getting stronger every day; I would have her back to me, churched and full of talk and laughing, before the daffodils had died.
    Sally shoved past me, her friend Ruth following tight after. The younger ones were pushing out of the congregation and