The child drew a circle. And soon a sprout sprung up from the dried peated bogged earth next to the TombStone. ‘Mother Crone sits here with Her Consort, still, in Death.’ She turned to the villagers. ‘She won’t like you lookin’ at her Grave.’ She said this in all seriousness, staring, eyes stilling each one of the villagers’ smirks. ‘This isn’t the place for gawking. Lay your tithes as a wreath upon Her Grave, or Leave. She follows you home until you do.’