can these bones live? Part 3

If these bones could speak what would they tell me?

I wondered about the history of the skeletal remains I found on my land.

My neighbour, Lloyd Westminister, says archeologists have been nosing about the area like tracking dogs, hunting down any sniff of King Anna of Anglia's tomb—and now, I've uncovered an eighth century princely burial mound.

I've sent the thigh bone for a carbon dating analysis and now I've gotten it back with the results.

I'd say I've got their man, or rather, he's got me—but all this skulking around after dark. Why can't his spirit be laid to rest?

So, here I was, sitting out at night, enjoying a beer on my back stoop, when I saw him again—my figure in hiding—secluding himself behind the Beech.

A wild recklessness came over me and I got up and carefully picked my way across the field until I came within a few yards of the shadowy form.

“Who are you?” I called out, putting on a brave front, although inwardly I was shaking.

At first, the figure seemed startled and looked as if it would flee, but then it stopped and turned toward me.

Swa swa we forgyfað urum gyltendum.

It was a youthful, Germanic sounding voice—but I didn’t recognize the language.

I shook my head to signal I didn’t understand.

I think he perceived my meaning. He pointed to his right leg.

I thought he was asking me about my limp and my injured leg.

“It’s fine,” I said and patted it twice to show there was no pain.

The Moon waxed brighter and I saw his face. His eyes were profoundly sad. He shook his head and pointed back to his leg.

As soon as he made the gesture, I understood; but before I could respond, he vanished before my eyes.

I felt sick at heart. I returned to the house, took the thigh bone from its packaging and returned to the garden with a spade.

I carefully re-positioned the bone, and covered the grave.

The next day, using rocks from the field, I built a cairn of stones over the place.

When Jane came home she was delighted at the job. She was already mapping out the gardens, when she stopped and looked at the cairn.

“Was this here before, David?”

“Yes,” I said, for in a sense, it was.

“It looks like an ancient grave.”

“Does it?”

“Yes. I don’t want to risk disturbing it. Could we plant holly bushes in front of it?”

“I think that’d be appropriate.”

“It’s too bad though—we don’t have any stone ruins like the Westminster’s.”

“It is.”

“That’s okay. I like the feeling in this garden anyway. It still feels peaceful and ancient somehow.”

As I said at the beginning, on any given day I’m liable to be found in bogs or fields all over Britain, unearthing and analyzing skeletal remains.

It’s a rather grisly occupation, but sometimes, I give closure by identifying loved ones.

The spectre spoke to me in Old English, reciting a line from the Lord's prayer: ...as we forgive those who have sinned against us.

I sinned by disturbing his bones, but now I've repented.

I know where Anna of East Anglia is buried.

I also know where the secret of his burial will remain.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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