You’re standing under the boughs of a great sprawling yew-tree, in a deep darkness that holds relatively little cold. Twigs crunch underfoot, and a slow wind stirs. There are patterns carved in the bark, arrows leading up and down, and a man hanging by the neck from a low sturdy branch. And for all that this place is frozen in time, you can’t quite tell--it might depend upon the angle you look at him--whether he is alive or dead. Freshly dead or rotted. Choking in pain or looking to the sky in blissful transcendance. You get the sense that reality gets a little blurry, under this tree.