Fri Jun 25, 2004 8:45 pm
something should arise with the moon so vainglorious in her blackened sky.
the shovel extrudes from the earth, and the dirt follows, landing in a quiet clump nearby. wolves' eyes are fierce at the line of trees, shivering golden. the rain is a hazy mist, curtaining the clearing, and the small graveyard with three fresh graves. the man is deep within the fourth, toiling, sweating, grunting with every labored pull of muscle he can muster.
there is no joy in this task, only duty.
fascia muscles in the face pull tight against whining cicatrix, the uncomfortable scar lay lays like a faultline against his right cheek, tucking neatly beneath jawline like a sheet in a bed. he pauses for a moment, dirt speckling his skin, mottling it to the foul gray hue of a leper. the moon is low, simmering & sinking. he rubs at the scar, coaxing the faint twitch out of it like someone would comfort a newborn. he mutters something under his breath as thoughts wind around the maypole of his mind.
he drives the shovel's treacherous point into the soft dirt, and the glitter of something foreign catches his steadfast eye.
"wha's this now," the nameless man mutters, crouching down to dust away a bit of earth, uncovering it bit by bit. the shine, the sparkle, only grows brighter as the power of the moon wanes and the sun victorious again rises. he yanks it free and it dangles dutifully in his hands - a diamond necklace. his mind circles back to the news of the coach that had been robbed a fortnight earlier, and the blackmasked highwaymen that had raped & murdered the travelling duchess. her jewels, it was said, adorned the night sky like pretend stars before plummeting to earth and scattering. why here? why this far into the earth?
another pearly glimmer catches the man's eye and he drops the necklace, hurriedly scrambling out of the half-finished grave. the earth seems to belch at him, expelling his heavyset frame with expedience.
he swears, which is uncommon for him, and wipes his brow. a momentary desire passes his mind, to go back, to pick out the necklace. it's tantalizing, a group of tantalus' pale grapes on the floor of the grave.
some places in the earth are already graves, he muses silently, fleeing the scene slowly. it's best not to dig there. the tavern beckons. oh sacntified place of isolation & quiet. he has yet to be bothered.
the man given the name of gopher continues his walk, shovel dragged along beside him like a friend handcuffed by accident, the key lost. it seems to be even less happy with the deal than he is, and yet goes along with it, in tune with the muscles and ligaments, working with tendons in agreeable co-existance, always somewhat gruff as they rub against one another. his entire body is comprised of this sort of civility, a grudging praetorianship to encompass his being. it might be why he's so slow to respond, why his voice takes a moment to work itself out of a crankless case deep inside his chest. indeed, this man somehow - while also smelling of the freshly turned earth, he also stinks slightly of the grave. it is in this manner that he re-enters the tavern, out of the woods, every night, like clockwork, and sits at the same place at the bar.
everything has order, his obstinate mind rails. it must. it must.