Grave

By Borath

PG13

It really was crap earth.  Bad dirt.  Thick, sticky, clumping around the blade of the spade and making it difficult to drive the metal back into the ground over and over.  Of course the sodding rain wasn’t helping matters, but the clay soil was just shit for digging in the first place.  Heavy.  Resisting.  Unyielding. 

Pausing for a moment in his repetitive actions, he leant his weight against the splintering handle of the spade and rolled his shoulders.  It alleviated some of the knots in the muscles there, but made his soaked jacket chafe his skin further in an uncomfortable manner.

Dropping the tool with a satisfying sound to the damp ground, he struggled out of his sopping jacket and shirt.  Shivering with relish, he exhaled sharply when the rain finally hit bare skin, washing away sweat and soothing the fires in his arms and back a little so that the pains were more bearable. 

Lightening cracked and thunder rolled above him and he closed his eyes against the sounds.  He loved thunderstorms.  It was probably to do with the fact that he had only returned from five years in Egypt four months ago, the sheer energy, sounds in the air and the hammering rain in the storm treats in themselves.

But there was no time for indulgence now, not when there was work to be done.  Collecting the spade from the ground once again, he drove it back into the pile of soil, grunting with the effort the water in the dirt made the motion require.  Slinging it back into the deep ditch, he returned the blade to the pile and repeated the process, over and over again, ignoring the pangs in his palms as splinters were driven deeper and blood started to trickle.

Why had he made the hole so deep; a deep, bottomless pit of death that he had made and now had to fill?  Why was he out here, in the middle of the night, in the pouring rain and howling wind, digging a grave?

Oh yes.  Keato had asked it of him. 

A lamb had been injured out in the fields on their farm, taking staggering steps before slumping to the ground, lifeless and empty close to the house as if having sought them.  When his brother had seen it, true death for the first time, his overly-large heart had throbbed and he had asked imploringly for a burial for the poor beast, despite having seen sheep leave for the slaughter a week ago. 

No emotion had crossed his face when he had nodded sharply, merely wrapping an old blanket around the animal and carrying it around the back of the house.  He had then set it down and started digging at the end of the garden.  It was dark when the pit was finally ready, but he felt it appropriate to bury it under the cloak of darkness.  And so the hole was dug, the animal lowered and then he had started covering the grave. 

The task was oddly familiar to him, a little quirk of a feeling that tugged at the back of his mind and niggled at his heart as he methodically dumped more mud into the hole, filling it, hiding it. 

Removing a hand from the wooden handle, he rubbed at the muscles running through his arms, the whipcords lengths screaming at him, voicing their disapproval at the raw abuse he was ramming them through.  Mud smeared his form now as well as cool rain and hot sweat.  Why had he made this hole so damned deep?

At least the sticky clay was keeping the sides of the grave good and stiff, stopping the surrounding earth from caving in and creating more of a problem.  So much easier than sand which moves as if it has a sadistic mind of its own.  Sand graves were hard compared to this, with the blazing sun and the splintering wood.

He was on his knees before he realized his legs had given out, the spade falling abandoned to the puddle-laden ground as slender hands lost themselves in his sodden hair, fingers digging white into his skull, vainly willing the pain there to recede.  It ebbed a little but did not leave entirely, a dull ache sitting at the back of his head and flaring tendrils at his temples in time with his pulse.  Throat raw, he felt bile rise but willed it away forcefully.

Another peel of thunder and he closed his eyes, surprised and with the dawning sense of horror when he saw something playing beneath his lids, the pain flaring intensely as he witnessed the memory.  He knew what he was seeing instantly, his throat tightening and spine curling against it.

Sand.  Hot.  Creeping into his sandals and grinding into the soles of his feet.  Hands were hot and clammy, splinters embedded deep and sweat dripping onto them from his face.  Chest heaving, also slick, his breathing burning and freezing every time it entered him in pants.

Muscles burned, spine screamed and he wouldn’t be able to raise his head properly for a while.  Been toying with a gun in a quiet shady place.  Shot rang off.  A dead beggar.  Misfortune sending an impersonal bullet into his face.  His fault.  Had to hide it.

A mantra in his head.  A chant.  Keep it hidden.  No one could know.  He couldn’t shame his family.  Father was ill and he’d have to go back to the farm soon.  He couldn’t be caught.  No one saw the accident; he could make a hidden grave.  His guilt was enough for this man’s memory.  Enough for his soul.

Damn sand kept caving in though, made it hard to work.  The sun was starting to set and night’s chill was going to settle soon and freeze the sweat on his body into a tight shell, his joints seizing and his tears sticking to his cheeks.  A deep grave was what was needed but the sand kept caving in.  It was frustrating.  Anger was good though; gave strength to dig and strength for self-loathing, which was what he deserved.

As quickly as the memory came, it left.  Seemingly deeming his suffering to be enough, it left him alone and shivering in the wet and the mud, his eyes wide, muscles burning and hands bleeding. 

Bloody rain.  Made the mud sticky.  Clung to his knees like a hungry child when he tried to stand.  Almost liquid, it was creeping through his trousers now, but no matter; his chest and arms were already smothered.  Face was smeared too where he had wiped a muddy arm across his cheeks and forehead.  Rainwater creeping into his eyes, mingling with salty sweat and making them burn.  Corners were prickling with tears now.  Stupid memories.  Fucking grave.

Life, death, death, life.  Where was the difference?  No one understood either in its entirety and both were either blissful or torturous.  Life had love and hate.  Death had release and loss.  Both hurt someone else and both helped someone else.  Or yourself.  Depends on your religion.

Both hurt him right then.

Reminded that he was a murderer but now looked after a child, relationship hovering painfully between brother and son.  Burying an animal that wasn’t his concern but was bid of him by his charge.  Soon Keato would be all that was left.  Grandfather was dying so it would be him, Keato and the sheep.  Then sweat was trickling in again, mingling with tears and rain, burning, itching, an oddly delicious pain.  Welcomed.  Deserved.

He hadn’t realised that he was done until the blade met with flat ground, the mound of soil all relocated and serving it’s purpose; covering, disguising, keeping the facts of the universe hidden from the eyes of those who were too young to see it. 

Keato had seen death before.  Never sheep of lambs.  Someone always got there first.  Only small animals.  Hamsters.  Gerbils.  Little creatures.  Insignificant on one scale but enormous on another.  Cold, solid little things from where they were once warm and soft.  Death itself was one thing but hiding it away was another.  Watching dirt being dumped onto a bare body was something that few could watch or stand responsible for. 

A box or margarine tub made it easier; you could pretend that it was empty when you committed it to a soil prison.  Bury the box, not the creature that was once living and moving and eating and screwing to make other little living things.

He couldn’t tell if it was good or bad that he could do this; bury a body when he could see glassy eyes and bubbled wool.  Good that he had the stomach for it or bad that he had such a detachment.  Less human?  Less love for our friends of nature and all that save the whales crap?

Hidden now; helped by the rain, slicking the mud together, sealing joints and smiling soothingly at him that it was hiding it for him.  He didn’t have to worry about this one.  Didn’t have to work for hours into the night to hide the grave, hide the evidence that shit happened in the universe and that you dealt with it as you could.

Rain was letting up now, washing away the last of his tears and washing most of the sweat down to his hips.  The salty liquid sat at his belt and started struggling into his pants, coiling down his legs and making the hidden skin tingle. 

Mud stained, sweat slicked and generally a sopping mess.  Yes, Grandpa was sure going to be pissed at him.  It would turn to understanding when he learned that it was due to sticking an animal in the ground.  Making graves elicited compassion like that. 

Handy that when guilt was niggling: compassion.  Nice, fuzzy emotion that warmed the heart and told the soul little white lies that would let the body rest for at least a night before logic caught up and the mind actually realized.

Murderer.  Nice thing to remember when hiding death.

No one knew what he had done barely a year ago, and he was fine living in his own guilt.  However it had changed it.  Keato was surprised when he had agreed to service the lamb so easily.  Innocent boy.  Trusting.  Undecided whether that needed to be preserved or corrected in this world.

A shower, hot one, and some spicy smelling foam to rub into his tired muscles and mud slicked hair.  Wash away the pain and some of the memories but leave the spiritual ones alone.  He needed them; he would mould off of them.  It was important to do that; improved that way.  It bloody hurt like a bitch but it was better for you in the long run.  He’d grown cold burying a body he made to save himself, but gained some redemption today granting a sweet animal some dignity.  It was a reminder though; he was still being punished.

Grave was a complete secret now.  He would have no trouble finding it in the morning; he knew where it was.  Keato would know it was somewhere around but no one else would guess it was there. No one else would know what secrets that little patch of ground held within it.  More secrets now that he knew what he had done.  Could deal with that later though.  Shower first and then sleep.  Years ahead for further denial, self-pity, anger and eventual acceptance. 

Smooth ground.  No grass.  Burned up in the heat wave so the ground was naked.  Easier to hide this way.  Made even easier by wet mud and slithering rain.  Some mercy had been bestowed by the elements.

Maybe it wasn’t really crap earth after all.

End

Okay, here’s the deal.  This piece is a draft for a piece of coursework that I have to hand in fairly soon.  I desperately need some feedback so include in the project and to work off of, so comments about what you liked, what you didn’t, what worked and what didn’t would be greatly appreciated.  Thank you ;p