My oldest memories were of Bernard. His large, calloused hands engulfing my small chubby fingers as he led me through the forest. There was a time when he would carry me, and I would stare over his shoulder, watching the small trail twist behind us. I was too young to take in the details and recognize the landmarks. But by the time I was four, Bernard decided that I was old enough to start learning. He pointed out specific plants, rocks, the little stream we had to cross, anything unusual or different that was easy to remember. And he would quiz me, ruthlessly on what order they went in. The path in question was one that we took every morning. It was an hour to get to our destination, and another back. We had to wake up early, before the sun even began to light the sky. Bernard would get out of bed and walk across the hall to my room. He would pat my shoulder, and say “let’s go,” before going to the front door to put on his jacket and boots. We didn’t eat breakfast before leaving. We simply woke up, and left.

“What’s next?” He would ask as we walked. He always held my hand when I was younger, fearful I would lose my footing and slip from the wet earth. It constantly rained where we lived. Making the path muddy and slick.

Depending where we were on the trail, my response could be “the twisty tree,” or “mossy rock,” or “the creek.” And so on. I could always tell when we were close to our destination because there was a series of tall stone slabs. They were slowly crumbling from ages of wind and rain, moss and lichen speckled their surfaces. And if you looked closely there were old designs carved by people long gone. I asked Bernard about them once. But he simply shrugged and replied “It’s something of the past.”

At the very end of the path, there’s a large hill. The mouth of a cave opened up before us, half covered by overgrown plants. Bernard brushed them aside, and waved me in first. The cave is damp closer to the entrance. But the farther we walked, the drier the stone around us became. A few feet inside, there was a sconce holding a torch. We paused for a few minutes to light it before continuing down a set of five wide steps. The ceiling in this part was always too low for Bernard. But at the age of four, I didn’t understand how abnormally tall he was.

At the base of the stairs a large circular room greeted us, with a high dome ceiling. There’s a hole in the center, where I could see the sky starting to lighten just the smallest amount. Directly beneath the sky light, in the middle of the room a lone pedestal stood, casting a long shadow, a circular lump resting on its surface. Bernard lit the braziers scattered through the room, revealing the hundreds of human skulls that lined the walls in rows. Though the passage to this room was rough and plain, the chamber itself was ornate with a marble floor and pillars. A compass rose pattern stretched across the ground. At its center, the lonely pedestal from before was now illuminated, with yet another skull, presented like a prize.

At the time this memory was taking place, I was too young to be afraid of bones. I didn’t know where they came from, or what they really meant. Though if I looked at them too long, a shiver would crawl up my spine as if those empty sockets were staring back.