And indeed the sky was black when I reached the cemetery gates and remembered the day Artemis had torn her dress and then had torn her way purposefully into the wide, wide world that I had always described to her, and yet had never thought to see for myself.
I cranked the cemetery gates open, unsure of my way. When I said I had never thought to see the world for myself, I included the cemetery, significant and small portion, of places Artemis and I had never gone together; except, I hadn’t envisioned that I’d be here to see Artemis, or that she’d be waiting for me here. I’d always been rooted in the same place, content to be: not wanting to go out into the unfamiliar where lack of knowledge had meant loss of power. It hadn’t crossed my mind that learning could be used to my advantage, or that I could experience things beyond my life at home. Instead, I had resolutely turned my head and tried to follow the light as the hours poured by; thinking night was a necessity for appreciation of the first rays of day. And in the cemetery, the true meaning of irony had revealed its stark form, not needing shadow to lean against the headstones or crouch between the trees. I started glancing around for a name I could recognise with a feeling of dread.