Land of the Silver Dragon Read Online Free PDF Page B

Leg bones, ribs arching up like a cage, a domed skull and blank, unseeing eye sockets. I stumbled on to the next grave. This one was worse, for it was more recent and, in places where the shroud had torn or been chewed by rodents, I could make out putrefying flesh. As if in a ghastly daze, I moved on to look at the rest.
    In all, seven graves had been violated. Seven of my fellow villagers lay exposed in death, and I had known every one. In age, they ranged from the very old to the newborn, and that grave – of a tiny boy who had come into the world too soon and survived only for three days – was the most poignant of all.
    I could not leave them like that. Wiping my hands over my face, wet with both rain and tears, I silently promised the dead that they would soon be decently buried once more and, at last tearing my eyes away and turning my back, I hurried off to find the priest.
    Father Augustine was in his little house, adjacent to the church. He was alone. The house smelled of onions and cabbage, and I guessed he had just eaten. I blurted out my news, and the expression in his face suggested he was as horrified as I was.
    â€˜How many graves?’ he demanded, grasping my arm in a tight grip.
    â€˜Seven, all quite recent.’
    â€˜The ones beneath the trees?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    Slowly he shook his head. ‘
Why?
’ he breathed.
    I had no answer. Belatedly he realized he was still clutching my arm and, abruptly letting go, he muttered an apology and stepped away.
    For a moment we both stood there, not moving, not speaking. It was as if we were frozen with shock. I studied his face, which had gone quite white. He’s always pale; he is tall and thin, and has one of those aesthetic faces that seem made for suffering. He is an intelligent man, learned and devoted to the minutiae of the Bible; there’s no doubting his faith or his devotion to his saviour. However, I think if Father Augustine’s heavenly lord were to be asked to judge the man’s performance, he might be inclined to say that our priest lacks the human touch. No matter how hard I try, I can’t really imagine Father Augustine consorting with and comforting beggars, cripples and lepers. He just doesn’t have the compassion.
    Father Augustine gave a deep sigh, as if coming out of a reverie, and said briskly, ‘I shall go straight to the graves. Fetch the sacristan, if you would, and bring him to me there.’
    I nodded. Hurrying out of the house, I ran down the track to the sacristan’s house and, dragging Old Will away from his hearth, took him to where the priest crouched by the spoiled graves.
    Father Augustine was beside the grave of the newborn baby. He had one long arm stretching down into the earth and he was stroking the tiny skull. He had tears in his eyes.
    I stepped away, embarrassed at having witnessed such emotion. I realized, as I stood there, that my assumptions on the nature of our priest were going to need urgent and fairly drastic revision.
    Presently Father Augustine stood up, brushing the dirt from his black robe. He nodded to Old Will, who spat on his hands, picked up his spade and began to repair the damage.
    Back at Edild’s house, I got straight down to helping her prepare the expectorant remedy, so relieved to be out of the rain and back in the warmth that I didn’t mind the minor inconvenience of my clothes steaming as they began to dry. I had told her as soon as I got in about the despoiled graves, and of my suspicion that somebody had been watching me. As we worked, we speculated on what could possibly be going on, and tried to decide whether my hidden watcher, and whoever had tampered with the graves, were somehow linked to Utta’s murder and the searching of Goda’s, Edild’s and our family’s dwellings. Was the same person responsible for everything that had happened? Had it been the red-bearded giant who’d been spying on me, and was it also he