Grave Matters
by Gulheru
First published
The Canterlot Cemetery caretaker would honestly prefer for the dead to stay dead!
Meet Ditch.
Ditch is the caretaker at the Canterlot Cemetery. He lives a calm life involving digging, burying, seldom... well, occasional... alright, habitual drinking, and generally managing the place and its residents to the best of his abilities.
Ditch enjoys his job. The salary is not enough to live, but sufficient not to die, the graveyard shifts are not graveyard shifts, and the clients are calm and docile, even if a little bit stiff. Canterlot ponies, right? But Ditch does not mind. They don’t complain and loyally catch some due rest.
Except for when they suddenly don’t.
Chapter I – Start Dead
Basking in the bright rays of the Sun setting behind the white city walls, the Canterlot Cemetery looked rather lively. The granite and usually gray tombstones and sepulchers came back to life with radiant, red and amber hues. The inlaid letters, often truly intricate, shined all around with golden, playful rays. Announcing to one and all who exactly had the unique pleasure of being past expiration date.
Among the tranquility natural to this place of final rest, a tune was weaving itself between stoic graves, distinguished tombs and solemn epitaphs.
“I’ve been working on the graveyard, all the live long day~”
The tempo of the song was regulated by the metronome of a shovel, digging into earth over and over again, in a merry, carefree rhythm.
“I’ve been working on the graveyard, just to pass the time away~”
Dig after dig, shove after shove. The newly occupied hole with a respectable-enough coffin was being filled with skill and practice. As per usual!
“Can’t you hear the bells are tolling? Rest, for it’s night’s brink~”
The joyous, taupe grey gravedigger spun the tool above his head like a drum major with the weirdest of batons.
“Sleep you soundly, and no snoring~”
He drove the shovel into the freshly formed mound as a percussive accent to his song, wiping the sweat that matted his clay-hued, disheveled mane. He produced a hip flask from his worn, leather garments with a smile of pure pleasure.
“While Ditch will have a dr—”
“Spadework!”
Oh, bury me sideways!
“Reverend!” the singing earth pony exclaimed in his gruff, hoarse tone of a blameless abstainer, quickly hiding the flask behind him. He brought forth a smile of the most sober pony ever to trot and work the soil of Equestria. “Fancy seeing you here!”
Last Rites, the unicorn minister of the Church of Whatever-Who-Cares, was leering back with his usual, golden gaze of a disappointed parent, neatly located under his violet, equally neat, fringe.
He surely had the look practiced!
“I happen to have conducted the funeral here about twenty minutes ago, if you still remember, Spadework, and—”
“And what a wingding it was! Really, that eulogy, it brought a tear to me eye!”
The cleric did not seem convinced by the mournful tone of the reply, nor by the trembling chin. No, as if out of spite, he was bound on trying to see what was being hidden by the emotional stallion! Like he could not respect the profound pain!
“Spadework, don’t—”
“ ‘Ditch’ is fine, padre, really... There’s no place for needless formalities when… when…” The stallion sniffed, drying his eyes. “When we face the passing of another poor bugger...”
And that still was not stopping that snooping swami!
The unicorn’s horn lit up, and Ditch felt the flask escaping his hold. “Hey!”
Last Rites uncorked the container and took a whiff of the contents. And he was impressed, one could tell! His eyes bulged and his muzzle lost color! Talk about excitement!
His words did not sound that enthusiastic, though. “C-caretaker Spadework, for shame!” He put the cap on in an instant, trying to get away from the smell. “This is a… a… this is foul moonshine!”
Ditch chuckled, clapping his hooves. “Wow, you’re on point, Reverend! This is Foul Moonshine, Well Oiled’s own brew! Best on the market of affordable liquors!” He gestured with encouragement. “We should always share what little we have with others, you say so yourself, padre! Take a swig, don’t be shy!”
The unicorn shuddered. He took a moment to compose himself, giving Ditch another one of his disapproving, and yet still worried glances.
“Sp… Ditch, child, I appreciate the attention you are giving to this serene place, but you cannot defile it with alcohol!” The cleric’s admonishment made Ditch calm his expression. “This habit is ruining you. And is most unbecoming of a pony taking care of our Cemetery!”
“But, Reverend!” the earth pony justifiably whined. “I wanted to drink to the health of our new resident!”
Last Rites blinked. “Child, he does not need such a toast.”
The outrage! “Padre, you want him to get sick?!”
“Ditch...” the unicorn tried to protest, but just shook his head instead. “What purpose does all this drinking serve you? Not a night goes by without you visiting a place of ill-repute, I’ve heard! Or you are wobbling around in a revolting, inebriated state.” He came closer, his tone growing calm and his eyes softening. “Escape into alcohol is not a solution to whatever your problems are, child. You should come to our chapel, I’m sure a pious visit would help you better than all of this liquor!”
Ditch shook his head, his tone matching that of the preacher. “No, Reverend, I’m sorry, I cannot betray what I believe in. And the consumption of alcohol is connected ‘inextricably’ to my religion.”
Last Rites arced an eyebrow. “… pardon? What ‘religion’, Ditch?”
“Boozeism,” the caretaker declared with a wide smile of an enthusiastic disciple.
Then, using the unicorn’s distraction, gently took back the flask from the magical grip. “I need this, thank you.” He stepped back, still grinning, stowing away the holy firewater. “The contents are necessary for me to achieve nirvana this evening.”
Last Rites raised his hoof to say something… but ultimately could not withstand Ditch’s devotion.
Praise the jewel in the bottle!
“Would you… please… at least not sing while you are performing your tasks?” the unicorn asked instead, almost pleadingly. “This is a place of mourning and contemplation of passing, not tavern songs…”
“Come on, Reverend, it’s not like I will wake anypony up!” Ditch looked around. He never had noise complaints from the clients! “And I have a good reason for celebrating too!”
He grabbed the shovel in his hooves, pulling it out of the new grave with finesse of a drunken master and fencer both, giving it a nice, fluid swing.
“I got this new shovel today and it is top-hole! The hilt is solid, dark oak, the leather wrapping gives a good grasp, the head is some sturdy, good ol’ steel, I tell you, Reverend!” he declared, throwing the tool up, much to Last Rite’s loud surprise. The shovel landed on the caretaker’s extended leg in perfect balance. “The earth parts like butter with this one! I can’t believe it’s not butter, almost! And that pony was so nice, he insisted I take this from him pronto! He knew I would have a good use for such a marvel! There is good in this world!”
“Well...” The cleric shrugged, recognizing the point. “There is, yes, and we should do good unto others... You did pay him for this... uhm... marvel, yes?”
“Oh, sure, padre! I’m a drunk, not a thief!” Ditch replied, grinning.
“I’m not sure if I should be relieved for you or not...” The minister looked around. “Speaking of thieves... Is everything at least alright with the Cemetery?”
“Oh, sure, Reverend!” the earth pony eagerly answered, taking the shovel and drawing a wide arc in the air, presenting proudly his scepter of office. “Look, padre,” he began, his tone that of a benevolent monarch, the shovel's head reflecting sunlight. “Everything the light touches is our kingdom.”
“Uhm...”
“A caretaker’s time as ruler rises and falls like the Sun! One day, padre, the Sun will set on my time here, and will rise with you as the new caretaker.”
Last Rites looked confused. “... that’s not your first flask today, Ditch, is it?”
“Oh, no, it is, that was just from a funny story!” Ditch planted the shovel down, with the gesture of the undisputed ruler of the graveyard. “Everything is fine, Reverend. I took care of the weeds by the southern gate, cleaned the unicorn mausoleum, as well as the columbarium over the past days. None of the residents lodged any complaints! We had mostly some spider webs and dust. No vermin. Although...”
“... yes?”
Ditch leaned back on the shovel, nonchalant. “I caught a robber trying to grab some wreaths and candles, but I have dealt with the situation. The tenants on Beggar’s Row, by the wall, got a new neighbor.”
Last Rites paled in an instant, but that only caused Ditch to burst into laughter. “Oh, oh-ho, padre, wow! I can’t believe you fell for that!” He approached the unicorn and tapped him on the shoulder, as the cleric let out a relieved breath. “I would not bury any robber there! The schmuck’s planted with the Unknown!”
“Enough, Caretaker Spadework!”
The unicorn almost literally exploded, his nostrils flaring, and Ditch stepped back immediately.
Reverend did not appreciated the joke! There was far less religious benevolence and mercy in him now.
“Listen, and listen well! I am tolerating all of your jests, songs and other... eccentricities, but just! Yet the families of the departed have expressed mounting concern whether the Cemetery should be left in your hooves and, frankly, I am done with your approach as well!”
Ditch held to the shovel in an attempt at a defiant stance. “I’m doing my job, Reverend.”
“You are. But you are doing it in a way that has been bothering others for some time now, and I expect you to reflect on that! If not for the sake of your health, due to your drinking problem—”
“I don’t have a drinking problem! I’m utterly proficient!”
Last Rites huffed. “That’s the problem! And I will not have that anymore. You either change your ways, or you can start looking for another job.”
... oh sweet mother of Grog.
“R-reverend, you can’t do this to me! Th... the place needs somepony that knows what they’re doing!” Ditch protested, his voice getting a little panicked. Fine, a lot panicked! “Like, they need to know to put earth ponies exactly nine hooves under, so that, so that when the coffin molders, they get to feed the soil nicely! And, and they need to know that unicorns should have three candles lit by their sarcophagi, aside from old miss Ashtray, as she likes a cigarette, and, and...!”
Last Rites raised his hoof, cutting the rant short. “Ditch, if you will be respectful to the place and do something about your addiction, your job is safe. But only then.”
“... I cannot even drink to anypony’s health...?” the earth pony asked in a tone of an innocent, addicted kindergartner.
“No, Ditch. They need a prayer of a different kind...” the cleric responded, his tone slowly returning to the usual, fatherly one. “And this one especially.”
He pointed at the headstone by the recently-filled grave. The letters on it said “Free Verse”, and accompanied a photo of a rather young and depressive-looking, powder blue pegasus with long, white mane. “Poetry Never Dies” claimed the epitaph.
Poets, on the other hoof... They were a rather dainty bunch, Ditch always thought.
“The funeral and the grave are thanks to an anonymous donor, but you must have seen that nopony was here for him, Ditch...”
The caretaker would think that this was more the reason to drink for the stallion, poet or not, but decided not to risk Judgment Day from the Reverend. Judgment Evening, rather.
“What did him in, padre?”
Last Rites sat down and joined his hooves in a short prayer. “Hearts and minds of artists are fragile... He folded his wings and fell from the window of his apartment down onto the pavement ...” He bowed his head. “Poor, troubled soul...”
“Poor, stained pavement too...”
The cleric stood up with a small grunt. “He deserves respect, like everypony else here... I want you to show this respect in a way that is socially acceptable, Ditch.”
The caretaker sighed. What was he to do? He would love to stay true to his... faith. But without money, he could not very well practice it!
And taking care of Canterlot Cemetery was, like, the only thing he knew how to do!
“I... will try my best, Reverend...”
Later that evening, after the Sun had left the skies, Ditch made sure that all of the Cemetery gates were closed shut and that no one remained around for the night, other than the less-than-animated denizens. Carrying the shovel on his back, the stallion was keen on getting to his little shack and finally engaging in some... meditating.
Experiencing religion was a private thing, no? And sometimes rather mystifying.
However, a nagging feeling did not let him rest. He always drank for the good health of the newcomers! It was a matter of principle. He was the caretaker! He needed to be in good relations with everypony around the place!
Given, they were not on speaking terms, but still!
His hooves lead him to the fresh grave of that one... What’s-His-Name poet, and one of those hooves did reach for the hip flask. Ditch could start being ‘socially acceptable’ tomorrow, as there were no funerals scheduled! Tonight, he had a pony to greet! A new addition to the dead poets society of Canterlot Cemetery.
Surprising amount of those. One was even a captain, or something...
To Ditch’s confusion, he was not the only pony to keep company to the arrival!
Right by the fresh grave sat a pegasus stallion of white coating and mane of similar, lengthy style as the unfortunate concrete diver. Nothing extraordinary during the day, but after dark? Befuddling. Ditch missed the pony during rounds? That never happened before!
“Sir? Sorry! Sir?” he shouted, closing in. “The Cemetery is closed for the night!”
He did not get a reaction, at first. Well, that happened with mourners sometimes. Heads full of memories, ears filled with sobs, that sort of thing.
From this distance, Ditch could already see the melancholic expression and closed eyes. As well as family resemblance. This must have been a relative, for sure. He was but whiter than the deceased.
Probably less flattened as well.
“Sir, sorry to bother you, but the place is closed...” the caretaker repeated himself, giving respectable space. He could wait for his turn at the grave. It’s not like the dearly departed was going anywhere.
The brother of the poet, for he wore his likeness like a twin, finally let out a long sigh that sounded like wind with chronic depression. He turned his head to glance at Ditch.
Huh... He lacked eyes.
Not like, those were blind, or anything, they just... weren’t there.
Poor family. One bloke’s eyeless, the other’s a poet. Hard to say what’s a bigger disability.
“Sir, you might have missed it, since...” Ditch gestured at the gaping sockets, but that was redundant. “Never mind. It’s nighttime already and you need to leave, the Cemetery's closed. You can come back in the morning to mourn.”
The pony just looked at him for a moment, tilting his head a bit.
Great, he was deaf too?!
Ditch took a step forward. “Sir, you can hear me, right? I guess you’re the family of... of...” Curses, what was the name? The stallion leaned in. Oh, good, he could still see the letters through the relative’s head. “... of Free Verse, but I cannot let you—”
Ditch stopped himself, hearing a rare, but not alien, sound in his head. Grinding gears.
He blinked. He looked again, squinting his eyes.
Yup. There the letters were. “Free Verse”. And the photo. All seen through the transparent head of...
“Sorry, could you, like, lean back a little?”
The relative did not say a word, his eyeless gaze fixated on Ditch in something that resembled confusion, but then serenely followed the command.
“A little to the right... Chin up, like one of them Prench girls...” the caretaker gave more suggestions, trying to get the correct perspective. “Yeah, that’s good. Now, pretend somepony stabbed your kitten in the gizzards.”
The mourner did as asked, producing a truly haunting and spooky image of depression. Ditch got the perfect comparison with the photo.
Either the white stallion was the worst case of the stereotypical evil, handicapped, malnourished, albino twin that everypony had, or...
Ditch took a deep breath.
He looked at the ghost. Then at the grave. Than back at the ghost again.
And he did the one thing that any reasonable pony would do in a situation like this.
“Wanna drink?”
Author's Notes:
... because sometimes, you have to write something weird.
Thank you for your time, and for digging through all the way to the bottom! Let me know what you think of a tale like this in the comments!
Chapter II – Dead Pony Walking
Ditch had seen a lot of things in his time. Flying pigs. Dancing elephants. Mice in all the colors of the rainbow. He had heard a great deal too! Like the sound of growing grass and the sunbeams banging mercilessly on his windows in the morning.
But those were the occurrences born out of his religious practices, especially the part about returning from the state of enlightenment back to the mundane and imperfect world, also known as the Path of Hangover.
An actual ghost, however, was definitely a novelty. One that was, surely, causing Ditch to consider rethinking his life.
Hmmm... he had not had the chance to drink yet, so that was not the reason for the apparition’s presence... So, a contrario, that meant that... oh, yes, the specter had had some liquor! Wait, wait, yes! Maybe it was the one having a moment of clearer, heightened perception? Maybe it was Ditch who was a part of a religious vision?!
... urgh, migraine, better forget all of that...
“So... wanna drink?” Ditch repeated himself, having sentenced all of this treasonous thinking to oblivion. Besides, the ghost was just staring at him with those empty eye sockets of his and it was rude to allow awkward silence to do its thing. “I know you can hear me, so, here! It’s good, it’s fresh and it’s on me.”
He presented the flask to the phantom, following the tenets of Boozeist generosity. But the wraith, who seemed to have been Free Verse indeed, did not react. Just kept staring. Almost as if confused by the offer, or even offended by it.
Oh, great, he was a poet and a teetotaler?! What a disgrace to the nation of Equestria!
Ditch put the cap on the flask for the moment, though with great disappointment and reluctance.
“Alright, so, you don’t want to drink... So, can you be, like... a bit more lively another way, rather than staring at me like this, cause this is just getting... weirderer... Can you talk?”
The ghost looked down and his transparent visage frowned. Its lips opened and it appeared as if it tried to take a breath, but Ditch could not hear even a gasp. Despite the continuous attempts, the wraith looked breathless and, curiously, consternation appeared on its face. Or, at least, a haunting image of one.
Ditch took a step forward, though the three remaining hooves were, for some reason, voting to get away, post-haste. Thankfully, his body never believed in democratic rule, rather having adopted Boozeist theocracy as its government.
It meant bonuses to Inebriation yields!
“Not to interrupt... but I think your breathing broke...” Ditch pointed out and the ghost looked up again, its phantasmal brows knitted. It opened its mouth and shook its head, forgetting the whole inhaling business, and yet let out a sigh.
Ditch felt a shiver down his spine. That was less of a groan of frustration and more a wail from the depths of... whatever it was that had depths. The tone itself was echoing, unnatural. Like when you reached nirvana far too quickly and decided that the epitome of enlightenment was serenading some random mare from underneath her window.
Well, at least until the Royal Guard showed up and... offered you critique. And they were a bunch of nitpickers!
“Wow, okay, look, I know you must be a bit upset, cause Canterlot air is just the bee’s knees, but could you take it down a notch? It’s the middle of the night!” Ditch protested, waving his hooves.
The wraith focused its attention on him and opened its mouth again. “I... am aware.”
Well, that was interesting! He could talk after all. Surprisingly, he sounded whispery and breathily and not like getting quartered, twice.
So... “octoered”? “Eightered”...?
Thankfully, the wraith’s voice wasn’t of such tone, so Ditch did not have to use up more of his valuable, for rather exclusive, brainpower to think of a neologism!
“Alright, you can talk, grand! So, uhm...” Ditch planted down the shovel and held the shaft like he was safeguarding a banner of sorts. “I guess I should start with this one matter. Like, its past bedtime, kinda in both senses, so shouldn’t you be, like... you know...?” he glanced at the grave. Glanced hard. “... asleep?”
The ghost stared at Ditch unblinkingly. It did not have much to blink for, to be fair. “I... am dead...” it stated, though it might have been a query as well.
“Well, yeah, rather spectacularly too, if the Reverend told the truth. Yet you’re still talking to me, so, you... failed at dying? Somehow?” Ditch asked, not sure how one could be such a klutz to be a poet, teetotal, and crap at shuffling off this mortal coil.
And then the grim realization came.
“Oh no!” Ditch slapped himself on the forehead and slid the hoof down, giving himself the stereotypical, long face indeed. He realized what this had to be about. The only reason why somepony around here would ever come back, even after being given the prim and proper burial by Ditch was...!
“You want to lodge a complaint, don’t you?!”
The ghost would have surely blinked, but, considering its predicament, only tilted its head. “... pardon?”
“A complaint! A remonstrance! A statement of dissatisfaction!” Ditch wailed with no less talent than the phantom. He trotted in place, wired. Now this, this could make him lose his job! If the Reverend would learn...! “Great! Fantastic! What’s the matter? I got the depth wrong? You don’t like the view? You wanted the columbarium after all?” he counted the possible reasons, then paled. “Oh, Ol’ Granny’s Cherry Hooch, is it Mr. Voyeur?!”
He pointed at the nearest other grave, with the photo of an older, stealthily-and-yet-obviously-perversely grinning gentlecolt.
“I tell him every night to leave other denizens alone, but you know how old ponies get!”
“... wait just a moment...”
“Ah, bunkum, no, were you one of those that wish for a flowerbed around their grave?! I have to let the soil rest for a moment, I will get to it as soon as possible!”
“... could you...?”
“... oh crabapples, did I get the coffin in upside down—”
“Wait.”
The ghost tried to put his hoof on Ditch’s lips, which only caused his phantasmal appendage to pass through the stallion’s jaw, leaving behind a feeling of cold paralysis.
Like after drinking chilled mimosa.
... if anypony would waste their throat for such a slop, of course!
Ditch was not certain what exactly stopped him from continuing his rant, the touch or the horrid thought of drinking mimosas, but he locked gazes with the apparition... even with it missing vital components for that to happen.
“Wait... Don’t be scared, I’m not here to... complain,” the phantom assured him, though also perturbed by having just trespassed through somepony’s muzzle. “I... am not sure why I am here and not... someplace else...” It looked confused for a moment. Well, more confused.
Ditch indeed calmed himself, though he fought an overwhelming urge to seek solace in his faith that instant. At least his employment was safe, for the ghost did not want to file any grievances.
... no, his employment wasn’t safe, he was talking with a ghost!
“Alright, alright, wait up...” Ditch sat down on the cold grass, holding his tool close. “You... are Free Verse, right?”
The phantom glanced at the grave, his expression no less melancholic than the one of the pony portrayed on the tombstone. “... yes, I am. Or was...? It’s... hard to tell?”
“I mean, you look like quite the dead ringer, yeah, but... can you double-check, somehow? Like, I don’t know, what do you remember about the way you splat—perished?” Ditch quickly revised his question.
The apparition pondered for a while and the anticipation was truly to die for. What a day! A test of faith, a threat of being sacked, now a spook. What was this, some sort of a comedy?!
The ghost finally stared up to the best of its eyeless abilities and spoke. Its tone was now distant and almost dreamy. Still anemic though. “Existence left its sense behind... Space was gone... and Reason and Logic followed right after, like fallen leaves that trace the gust of wind...”
“... oh, boy...”
“Time took its bow... and Death, of eyes sapphire, of curls like jonquils innocent, smiled...” it recited, looking blankly into the unspecified, grave distance, the tone of its declamation evocative and hauntingly beautiful.
Yes, Ditch could only groan at that. “Pshh, you’re Free Verse, alright...”
The ghost squinted his sockets at the tone. “Is that... disapproving I hear? I admit, this is all... eerie, and yet I have tried my best to describe what I recall in a more lyrical—”
“Listen, buddy...” The shovel tilted as Ditch stood up and leaned onto it. “Normally I don’t give a cocktail about poetry, because, honestly, who cares about either of these two, but I have to admit that my cemetery suddenly being haunted does sour the mood, so you’ll have to excuse me for being a little sulky!”
“It’s not by my choice that I am here!” Free Verse lively... well... “deadly” protested. “I have... jumped down,” he admitted with some reluctance indeed, “but the next thing I know is just... appearing by the grave! Mine!” Silence rang for a moment, as he pointed at his own visage on the tombstone. “It’s not like I am pleased with this scenario! I’m... not sure how and why I can even talk with you!”
“Whoever those ‘How' and 'Why’ are, how about you ask them nicely and get spirited away, or something?!” Ditch demanded. Really, was it so hard to think of?! Just forgetting this whole ghost business and leaving?! “Disperse. Vanish. Dematerialize. Go to the Happy Stampeding Grounds—”
“That’s a buffalo belief.”
“Convert if you like, Dances with Sonnets, just leave my graveyard be! I have its reputation to uphold!”
Free Verse huffed and gritted his ectoplasmic teeth at first. Yet then shook his head and closed his eyeholes. Ditch saw his expression tense up and it looked like... the edges of his form began to dissolve, indeed!
Wow, all of this completely unnecessary talking and all it took was some...!
A faint, turquoise light enveloped the ghost’s form and restored its incorporeal wholeness.
... bols.
“Why are you still here?!” Ditch asked, frustratingly grabbing his shovel. He was so irked up even its hilt felt warm through the leather wrappings, just great!
“I... I don’t know,” Free Verse replied, looking pained. And sounding panicked. “I’m... Something’s holding me here. I... I cannot leave. Something... something...” He trotted in place in consternation, his transparent hoof holding his temple. “But I cannot... I... I’m stuck. It’s stuck!”
“It’s stuck, it’s stuck!” Ditch parroted, wiping the sweat that had formed underneath his clay mane. “I don’t care about your... paranormal constipation, you’re not staying the night, chump!”
Free Verse glared at him and Ditch was forced to look into not one, but two abysses. And he refused to blink, though this was a rigged contest.
“Well, you might as well brew me some spectral tea to help me with it, you uncouth undertaker,” finally came the acerbic quip from the ghost.
“Suppositories work better for that, so how about I stick my shovel up your—!”
Ditch wanted to resort to profanities, but there were other residents present and the next thing he knew would be them ratting on him and his behavior to the Reverend.
He took a deep breath, produced his flask and took a big, refreshing and burning gulp of the alcohol. The heat spread through him quickly, extinguishing the rage for the moment with the honey, the nectar, the ambrosia of booze.
“Okay... okay...” Ditch spread his forelegs wide, sitting down again. “Let’s... go back a little...” he proposed, still crossing gaze with Free Verse’s not-gaze.
Even the wraith looked exasperated. “Yes, let’s...” it agreed, taking his place as well. Grass seemed positively happy that it was not getting smothered under two pair of buttocks.
Ditch, still less so about the matter.
“Alright...” he began, not knowing where to do so, actually. “You... are a ghost. Free Verse, can we agree on that?”
“Indeed...” the phantom replied, looking less angry, but still rather depressive. “Free Verse, born in Cloudsdale...”
“... and splattered in Canterlot.”
“How very respectful of you...” the apparition sneered. “You treat every one of your... clients that way?”
“They are slightly less talkative. Besides, are you an expert on etiquette when chatting up the dead?” Ditch pointed out, rolling his eyes.
“...touché,” Free Verse admitted, looking to the side. “Still it’s my death we’re talking about. Kind of... bizarre.”
“You can say that again... So...” Ditch tried to organize the random thoughts in his head. They were now moving in a bit more orderly fashion, thanks to the first signs of the upcoming alcoholic salvation. “I guess we’ll start this otherworldly relationship from scratch. I’m Spadework, but you can call me Ditch.”
“Ditch... How very... extraordinary to meet you, Ditch” the ghost admitted, shrugging and extending its hoof.
“Yeah, yeah, likewise...”
Nope, still no actual contact after trying to grab it, just more cold mimosas, causing Ditch to rub his hoof to fight the freezing feeling. Talk about a cold shoulder.
Hoof.
Whatever.
“I hope you will understand if I tell you, Free Verse, that I do not want you to get all friendly with me, right? The sooner you get your spectral rump out of here, the better.”
The phantom poet shrugged. “As I have told you, it was hardly my choice to just... appear here like this.” He glanced at his grave once more. “To be fair, I... actually wanted to... disappear. Cease. Utterly and finally... Like but a memory fleeting, like but a frail butterfly, th—”
“... that had a lil’ fling going and pregnant got a fly,” Ditch perfected the poem abruptly, then his muzzle scrunched. “Yuck... Okay, listen, why exactly did you want to paint the town red in such a camp fashion I don’t know and—”
“Let me guess: ‘and you don’t care.’ ”
“And I don’t care, exactly, you win a prize! One-way ticket to the Great Beyond, I’ve heard it is wonderful this time of the year, you just have to mind the gaps on your way there and avoid manifesting on a calm and neat cemetery!”
Free Verse said nothing, just kept glancing with a vexed expression as Ditch continued. The lack of eyes made it all the more convincing, too!
“So, I would like to get rid of you pronto, if that is not entirely inconvenient for you, right?”
“You have made your wishes abundantly clear...” the ghost pointed out sardonically.
“You know, this is supposed to be a respectable place of eternal rest, after all, not a motel for the stiffs in transit.”
Free Verse sighed. “I take it you are the main and only caretaker, then?” he asked and Ditch nodded his head fervently. “Well, the situation is both strange and rather simple... You don’t want me to be here, I don’t exactly want to be here either, so...”
“So let’s stop bickering for the moment and try to see what can be done about it?” Ditch took the only guess that was likely.
“Indeed...” Free Verse admitted, giving him a somber look. “Like the waters of two streams come together in a river, the paths of our Fate conv—”
“Urgh, shut up and go jump off a—oh, right, never mind...”
Chapter III – Dead Issue
Ditch didn’t much like apologizing. Like, at all. He was a good stallion, a decent stallion, an honest stallion. He was not malicious, not really causing any trouble. And even if he was causing trouble, well, it was just a part of exercising his religious beliefs, right? He did not have to apologize for those! Well-understood tolerance demanded that even if he were to decide to wobble across the Promenade and sing loudly, others should have accepted it with silent politeness.
Equestria was, after all, a land of wonder and Friendship! Which also meant using one’s wonderful singing voice, boasted by a healthy amount of booze, whenever one felt like it! With no regrets.
The Royal Guard thought differently, but they were the agents of oppression and poor taste!
Tonight, however, Ditch’s unwillingness to apologize was indulged yet again!
Driven by the force of habit, he closed the doors of his shack behind him with a firm buck, resulting in a rather loud slam and a surprised shout from them.
... huh, wait, no, his doors were not a sissy!
He turned around, witnessing the quite unnatural and unnerving sight of a pony cloven in two by the sturdy wood. Only vertically. And without lasting damage, other than an expression of shock.
No apologies yet again, hurrah!
Free Verse, for he was the unfortunate fatality in more ways than one, was looking back at half of his spectral body cut off from his eyeless view, most likely still enjoying the chilly night outside. “This... is singular...”
Ditch shrugged. He would not know, he never sliced anypony like that or in any other way. “You tell me... Or, better yet, don’t, cause it means you’re goin’ to try and make a poem out of it.” He took a moment, seeing the ghost still contemplating this sudden split. “... actually, could you even...? About... something like this?”
“Uhm...” Free Verse unglued his eye sockets from the door and bit his ectoplasmic lip, taking a moment. “My body, like my heart, by splinters torn in twain...”
Ditch slapped himself on the forehead healthily. “Urgh, of course you could... Alright...” He produced the hip flask, taking a hearty swig, which emptied it sadly.
However, if they were to find a solution for this problem which was haunting both of them, he needed his full strength. His final form.
By the power of cheap booze!
“Is... this all there is...?”
Ditch gave Free Verse a confused glance at the sudden question. “What do you mean?”
“Well...”
The ghost was examining the house and, from the looks of it, he seemed perplexed. For no reason! Oh, sure, this was not a “Villa del Ditch” or whatever, but it served its purpose! A hardy shack by the Cemetery’s side! True, the walls had seen better days, and the floor used to have more wood than dirt, but the rain kept outside and wind was not trespassing in here, even through the old, cracked window...
Yeah, there was just one of those, cause Ditch was no mogul and could not afford to look after two.
But he had a nice bed here, instead! A bit askew and missing a leg, but brave and proud, like the noble invalid he was. Mr Bed liked company, that old rascal, but Mrs Mattress was more than happy to keep close to him, even if she was d'un certain age as they did say in Fancy.
Ditch always believed that it was that one oil lamp burning inside which was making those two feel ever-amorous. He could not remember those two not together and cuddling.
... he dared to join them almost every night, even...
Now, now, it wasn’t yet time to think about obscenities like sleeping with these two, a guest was inspecting his house.
“Well, who needs more?” Ditch asked the phantom back finally, taking off his worn coat and folding it on the table, right next to some, blessed-for-still-not-entirely-empty bottles that were going to be most helpful tonight. “A place to rest your rump. Dry. Close to work... The perfect house!”
Free Verse examined the place some more, and Ditch felt grateful that his ghost-like hooves were not bringing in soil from the outside. Only he was allowed to do that.
“Any... appliances?” asked the apparition.
Ditch tilted his head, blinking. “... what are those?”
“I... guess you don’t know the word, rather than the concept, though... Actually, forget that, simpler question – do you even have a bath here?”
Ditch rolled his eyes, almost offended. “Who do you think I am, a vagrant?” Really, only because he was a boozeist would the ghost think that he did not know basic hygiene?! “The Canterlot Public Garden is two streets away.”
“... I beg your pardon?”
“We have a lake there, don’t we?”
For some strange, inexplicable reason, Free Verse’s expression looked very similar to Padre Last Rite’s usual look. It was hard to confuse that face of eternal disappointment with any other. “And... kitchen?”
Ditch just pointed at the bottles on the table. “Yeah, sorry, forgot to do the dishes,” he admitted with snark, trotting to the table. A surprise waited for him there too! “Hallelu! Still have some lunch!” he cheered, grabbing a piece of hayburger that tried to hide itself in the midst of alcohol. “Been searching for you for three days!”
“I... fear to continue asking,” Free Verse admitted, looking strangely at Ditch about to enjoy the meal.
Urgh, he must have preferred all of this snazzy food, like candy floss wrapped in fresh lettuce and sprinkled with orange juice. Ditch’s friend, Shaggy, told him that those posh ponies sometimes ate stuff like that. And one should always trust the words of a stallion with a talking dog.
“Hello? What’s this?”
Free Verse’s question brought Ditch back to the present, in mid-bite. The ghost’s void eyes looked widely surprised, staring towards the far corner.
“It’s a display rack,” Ditch replied calmly, finally biting into the sandwich. Mmmm... Delicious and spongy.
“I have to say, it’s quite solid and elegant... especially in comparison...”
Well, it was true that Ditch paid some additional attention to that piece of furniture. After all, it was destined to be the place of rest and relaxation for his most valuable tool.
The rest of them had their places in the smaller shed nearby, but the shovel, oh, the shovel was his favorite. His baton. His wand. His symbol and banner and violin and guitar and all the other instruments combined.
And so the rack, actually destined for an instrument like a cello or something, was made out of firm, laminated wood. Dark, refined and absolutely amazeballs.
Ditch had been saving for it for an entire year!
He put down the burger and grabbed the shovel which he had rested against the table for a moment. “A caretaker relies on his shovel and his shovel relies on him,” he declared solemnly. “I make my strength hers and she makes her strength mine. It is, as the wise ponies say,” he paused for dramatic effect, “syphilis.”
“I... think you mean ‘symbiosis’?” Free Verse suggested when Ditch, ritualistically, put his new, wondrous shovel in its rightful place. She remained there, powerful and stoic.
“Yeah, that too,” Ditch agreed with the ghost’s words, gently stroking the dark oak handle and leather wrappings. They felt warm.
He smiled amorously. He loved her very much too.
Free Verse appeared in the edge of Ditch’s vision as his stare lingered on the tool. “You... seem to truly care about it.”
A shrug and a bashful smile answered the phantom first. The bond between a caretaker and a shovel was a delicate one... almost intimate.
“Well, ya know, we all have our little affections and crushes and all that... I like my job, she is helping me with it, so we kinda... click.”
“Not... really what I had in mind...” Free Verse responded, flummoxed. His expression strangely fell for a second, only to return to genuine interest right after. “... but, I suppose it is deeply connected to you special talent, so I think I can comprehend that.”
“Damn right it is!” Ditch replied with a big, happy smile which invaded his muzzle. “Might be weird for a specter of a proper pony like you, but working here, at the Cemetery, is like a dream come true! Reasonable hours, docile clients...”
“I... could see the appeal,” the phantom poet agreed, giving the shovel another look, then approaching the table and giving the selection of bottles a glance too. “Leaves you with a lot of time to explore your... other passions as well, I guess.”
Ditch plopped down on the small stool by the table, which creaked invitingly. “Mhm! And I would ask you to indulge too,” he responded, grabbing one of the drinks lovingly, “but I have just mopped the floor and all.”
“Funny...” The ghost moved to pass through the table to take place on the opposite side.
Sudden and ingenious idea!
“Wait, wait!” Ditch stopped him with a frantic wave. He put the chose bottle back down on the wood. Right in Free Verse’s path. “Okay, continue like you wanted now!”
The wraith looked perplexed, but went on, his spectral form easily traversing through the wood and the glass.
And the liquor inside. And if Ditch’s calculations were correct...!
He quickly reacquainted himself with the bottle and took a big, eager swig. “Oh, praise the jewel in the bottle!”
“What? What happened?”
Ditch let out a long, uproarious laugh. Eureka! Huzzah! More fancy-shmancy expressions of joy!
The gloriously cold drink went past his throat and right into his waiting belly! And he could not be happier about this ghastly ice and alcoholic fire marriage.
“Oh, I like you, you can stay! You chilled my drink!”
Free Verse blinked, then groaned and slammed his muzzle down on the table... which would have worked better if he had not gone straight through the surface. “Great, fantastic and stupendous, but we were supposed to focus on actually discussing getting me out of here, not finding a use for my... predicament!”
Ditch just chuckled, taking another gulp. “Sure, Ice Chest, I know. That’ll still be thing, cause you are ruining the decor of the place even if you are useful! Though, when life gives you spectral lemons, you make a haunted lemonade!”
The ghost actually cracked a smile. “Alright, alright, I get it... so...”
“So...”
So... the silence decided to steal the spotlight for a moment. Ditch had to admit, he had no idea how to make ghosts go away. Usually his own, strange apparitions were leaving as soon as he sobered up. But this was another matter entirely.
“So...” With the word of the moment he took another swig, the heat nicely spreading all over him already. “You are here for a reason. And we don’t know what it is...”
Free Verse nodded, his eyeless gaze empty. Like usual. “Indeed. Which is most troubling.”
“What do we know? What do you remember?”
“About myself...? M... most things, I’d say. My name, my works, my flat... Though... the last year seems to be rather blurry...” Free Verse mused out loud.
“Yes, yes... I’d guess whatever caused you to stay here, might have happened then...” Ditch tried to make the miraculous, warm feeling gather in his brain through the power of slow intoxication. “I would go and bet that... if you have not just gone... you have something not finished, or a matter not resolved. Unless you just wanted to stay to be a jerk. A ghost-jerk.”
Free Verse huffed. “Never in my life tried to be an... inconvenience, especially to such a friendly pony like you, so that’s not it. And I actually wanted to cease, remember?”
“Ah, yeah, all the a... acrobatic diving into water without water...” Ditch agreed with another, wonderful gulp that truly went straight into his head. Extensive discipline and training on his part. “Mmmm... Did you at least do a fancy flip?”
“... excuse you?!”
“Well you know, you were goin’ down already, you’re a pegasus, I thought you would at least give a show. Or shtrike a funny pose on the pavement.”
Free Verse looked like he was ready to fancy flip the table, but that was beyond his reach for the moment, so he just let out a moan that made even the bottles nearby clink in fear.
“Contrary to your belief, when you are planning on killing yourself you don’t really pay attention to going out with a laugh!”
“Egoist,” Ditch replied, chuckling. The buzzing in his brain was nice and getting nicer. “You sh... should have gone for something like, I don’t know... this?”
He raised his hoof up, fully extending his foreleg. Eyes closed, face tensed up dramatically. Pose confident, like celebrating an extraordinary feat.
... for some reason, Ditch felt a sudden need of sprouting a mighty moustache too!
“You see?” he asked, letting out a small hic. “Show... show that you were under pressure but you were a champion, my friend. That you wanted to break free, but the show must go on, regardless!” he instructed with a wide, honest smile. “I know, I know, who wants to live forever, but your way, it was just... another one bites the dust and all...”
Free Verse grimaced, still not looking convinced. “Are you sure you getting drunk stupid will help us here?”
“It’s a... a crazy little thing called liquor! And, trusht me, it will help! Honeshtly, ponies would have paid more attention to your death with a h-hic-sterical chalk outline!”
The ghost was about to protest again, but suddenly shuddered and his outlines seemed to... crystallize. Clarify. “Paid... attention? Ponies...? Some... pony?” he muttered, his lips parting, his spectral brows knitted.
Hah, see, oh ye of little faith? Ditch did not even need the alcohol to spot that they were onto something now!
... he still drank more though! His enlightenment for tonight was for the good of another!
“Are we g... gettin’ there, bub?” he asked, blinking one eye, then the other. Because, come to think of it, blinking both at the same time was dangerous. Why would you blind yourself for a moment...? This way was way safer.
Pity those incredible thoughts and concepts were locked deep in Ditch’s brain until he reached for the Key of Spirits!
Speaking of spirits, Free Verse seemed to be awakening from the sudden stupor. “There... there is something there, I think, but... I...” he muttered, trying to focus.
“Sho... You wanted attention, huh...?” Another swig. Quick one, cause the bottle was starting to malfunction and grow empty. “From a shpeshific shomepony, may-per-be-probably-hapsh?”
“I... think?” The ghost tilted his head. “That... that makes sense, somehow, but...”
Ditch tilted his head more, resting it on the table. No phantom would out-tilt him in his own house! “Shee...? We will... get to the bottom of thish in no time! Just like one... one... getsh to the bottom... of the bottle!”
“I... still do not recall who, or why...” Free Verse admitted, blinking and paying full attention to matters around him again. “Are... you alright?”
Ditch nodded, which resembled rubbing his muzzle on the table, but worked just as fine. “Y... yeah... meditatin’.”
“That looks like... deep contemplation.”
“B... besht of the besht one! Worksh e... every night!” came a sloshed, but happy reply.
“Wait, you...” The wraith looked concerned, as much as an eyeless apparition could. “You drink like this every night...?”
“Yesh... Very yesh...” Ditch revealed, lifting his muzzle up, though it weighed a ton for no reason. He was not going to keep holding it up. “You... Look, shometimesh you wish to remember... shometimesh you want to forget... The circle of life!” he shouted, he sang with the full force of his lungs, causing even the phantom to wince.
Bleh, at least... at least the Royal Guard did not wince at him singing, all nice and professional! Him?! Pfah... ghost-jerk, indeed...
“Anything... specific you are trying to forget?” Free Verse seemed keen on pressing the topic out of a sudden.
Ditch waved his hoof. Bugger, it made the bottle malfunction a bit more, the liquor consecrating the table. “What... what is thish, an intervention?!”
“No, just... you are trying to help me... somewhat, so I thought that maybe I can help you out in return?”
“Oh... Sho kind! How about... you help by... by getting your transhparent rump out of my Shemetery!” Ditch moaned, resting his forehead on the table. It was soft and warm and all... However... “A shplattered poet triesh to help me out! Joy and... and...!”
With that fervent, though unfinished sentence, Ditch decided that the best thing to do was to rethink his life for a couple of hours, based on the solid foundation.
So, right there and then, on the floor.
Mr Bed and Mrs Mattress could have their very own tryst tonight... hah, and with a ghost watching!
“Pfft... ghost-jerk...” Ditch muttered, finding this funny for some reason, just before his vision went dark.
Chapter IV – Play Dead
Somepony was banging on the window.
Fiercely.
Mercilessly.
Head-poundinglissly.
Ditch grimaced and groaned, slowly coming to. This sound was... nauseating! It was piercing his brain with the strength of a thousand. Of a million! A million strong! What... what was the meaning of this?! His shack must have been under attack!
Man the harpoons! Repel the invaders! Huzzah—
Ditch hissed as a lightning bolt of a headache crossed from one of his temples to the other. His valiant thoughts were way too valiant.
Something had to be done about this intrusion, though. A daring nuisance coming from the outside? And at this hour?!
Sigh. Step by step, old chap, step by step. Thirst... no, “first” things first, second things second, and all that jazz...
Ditch focused all of his might and power. He needed to manage the impossible. He took a deep, fatigued breath of air and dust, he gathered the strength of ancient powers within him... And a one, and a two...!
... and he lifted one of his eyelids. He glanced left – floor. He glanced right – floor. He glanced up – brown mane... oh, and floor too.
Faced with such irrefutable evidence, he had to draw the logical conclusion.
He had become one with the floor.
... or he was just on it. That kinda made sense too.
He inhaled deeply, another breath of dust and dirt entering his lungs, causing him to cough heartily. His time of enlightenment and rest was over, it seemed. If he found himself back in the imperfect material world, more so resting on the wooden low point of it too, that meant he had entered the dreaded Path of Hangover. The dangers of this terrible journey back from spiritual and spirituous Nirvana were many and perilous, and Ditch had a feeling that the banging on the windows was but one of the obstacles that were waiting for him today.
Speaking of which... with a moan of protest coming from his body, soul and heart, he somehow managed to roll on his back fully and glance the way of the unbearable ruckus.
Oh, of course... Who else could it have been?
No, not good padre Last Rites telling Ditch that he was late for a funeral. First of all, that hadn’t happened yet and was never going to. Second, there were no funerals scheduled for today from what Ditch could somehow recall.
So, if it wasn’t everypony’s favorite sky pilot, it must have been... yes, of course.
Sunrays.
That banging on the glass was sunrays. Ramming themselves against the invisible target constantly, like a swarm of dumb flies. Even though the window was, in this instant, quite visible and distinctively brownish.
Ditch needed to do something about those pests one day... Maybe a net, or... oh, a sticky ribbon! Now that was an idea! Let them come in and glue themselves to it, he could then keep those little blighters and hang them up during the night to save some lamp oil!
He could write about that to Her Royal Majesty, Princess Dyslexia! Maybe she had recommendations for the type of sticky ribbons to use, her being responsible for this scourge and all...
Before any of that, as it had been established already, Ditch had to deal with his low position. He braced, his muscles as sluggish as his head. Something cracked in his spine, a sound that ripped his tender ears to pieces. He endured it, though, and managed to sit up.
Oh, great, now what?! Somepony grabbed his shack and started to spin it, huh?! Going round and round and... and...
Oh, Gravity, thou art a heartless b—
Ditch retched, almost falling back over, but kept the contents of his stomach in, somehow. He had to face the wrath of that particular harlot before the balance of the world could be restored.
She seemed particularly nasty today. Had he stood her up last night, or...?
Wait... wait, wait, wait.
Ditch scratched his head fiercely, hopefully slaying at least a louse. Something... something was off about his memories. They felt like they had been from a couple months back instead of yesterday, but... no, that was not it. No... he... he met somepony.
Oh, sweet, he must have had a date! How many years had it been?
... however, their face was all... transparent-like. And spooky. And...
... oh bols!
Using the fact that the shack was still slightly tilting, Ditch looked around trying to match its pace. He did not need another reminder of that hayburger. And yet, despite expecting to see the unwanted and transparent obvious, he found no trace of his ghastly companion.
Huh... well, maybe Free Verse actually managed to get his spectral rump out of the cemetery, figuring out his plights and all? That would have been nice. Not that Ditch hated company, since the place was rather populated at this point in its history, but there was a distinctive difference between the dead and the not-so-quite-dead-but-still-dead-and-yet-not-so-much-dead-although-dead...
... urgh, his brain was rolling no worse than his stomach.
And an idea bubbled up from that waxing and waning, actually. Maybe... maybe Ditch just had too much to drink and started seeing things? I mean, he saw things rather often, but they were busy with parades, hippety-hoppety, and not talking with him and criticizing his drinking!
Who could tell?
... wait, actually, there was somepony. Similarly disparaging to that apparition, but possibly appropriate.
Wasting little time to clean himself up, because, to be honest, who had time for this on a daily basis, Ditch draped himself in his fatigued, sturdy cloak. He took his shovel in his hooves, with veneration and adoration. She had quickly become dear to him, yet was perhaps even dearer today... She would make sure that a freshly-dug hole would not become Ditch’s destination in his, slightly wobbly trot.
Because it was one thing to take care of the inhabitants, but sharing their living space... “dying” space... “having-dying” space, rather, was uncouth.
Dauntlessly, for dealing with his disposition was a doughty deed, Ditch dived deep into his diurnal duties, digging, dusting and disinfecting his delightful domain of the departed.
... definitely departed!
Locked in his duties, he was actually hoping to stumble upon his local patron and plight. Not that he did not appreciate the good padre and his efforts to console the grieving and conduct ceremonies, but... religious differences and all of that.
They shared this land, holy for the both of them, peace should have been the top priority, right? Right?
Thankfully, whilst Ditch was taking care of some weeds that tried to sneak their way from underneath the gravel paths, the rather bright, immaculate mane of Last Rites definitely-not-sneaked its way from between the gravestones.
“Padre!” Ditch shouted quite eagerly... soon regretting it in his head.
“Ah, Spadework, good day,” the unicorn replied somewhat cautiously, giving him a once-over. “I see you are... eagerly back to your tasks, without much regard for your own well-being. Again.”
Ditch checked his cloak and his hooves. Some dust, an equal measure of dirt, a smidgen of a cobweb, a pinch of... whatever that one was. Fair wear and tear, what was so wrong about it?
“You know me, padre, giving my all for the community, right? I live by their silent appreciation!”
“Quite so,” Last Rites warily agreed, his gaze betraying his lack of understanding.
Huh, and here Ditch thought ponies of the cloth were supposed to be kind, helpful, open to others and providing all the succor. Not intolerant, condemnatory bigots...
Sigh. Maybe in other, distant realms and worlds they remembered their true mission.
“Well, yeah, anyway...” Ditch looked about for witnesses, but the closest mourner was nowhere to be found. “I... actually wanted to ask you something, padre. Or, I should say, ‘Reverend’, cause its sorta, kinda, your thing?”
To say that Last Rites’ eyes lit up was to be disrespectful to light and to eyes at the same time. The unicorn’s gaze could rival those swarms of sunlight from the morning, now far less loud, but far more hot.
“Oh? You wish spiritual guidance, Ditch? Maybe about what we covered yesterday?”
Ditch just planted his shovel down, leaning on it a little. Support of loved ones was paramount in strange moments of life.
“Well, not really, but... uhm...”
“Please, be plain, child!” Last Rites encouraged him with a gentle expression.
Hah! Now he was gentle! What a twist!
“I mean, I was... ah...”
Haunted by a ghost? No.
Visited by a spirit? No.
Drinking spirit? Well, yes, but that was not the topic.
“... I was wondering about the... the dead.”
The unicorn cocked his eyebrow. “That is understandable when being at any place of burial, child.”
“Yeah, I know, Reverend, I am not saying I forget about them, they are a very nice clientele,” Ditch admitted. They were, usually, really delightful... aside from his latest punter. “I just wondered, like... what happens then?”
Last Rites blinked. “When?”
“Then-then.”
“I... what ‘then-then’?”
Ditch wanted to answer.
His knees buckled.
He keeled over, holding his heart.
He heard Last Rites’ confused and scared shout, but he could only collapse on the gravel, harking and heaving. Tossing and turning.
“Spadework! What is the matter?!”
It was too late. Far too late.
With a cry no louder than a mouse’s squeal, Ditch lay spread on the pathway, his eyes bulging, his tongue hanging from his mouth.
“Ditch! Ditch!” Last Rites was shaking him fiercely, panicked out of his mind.
... no reason why, Ditch was just trying to give him a visual clue.
“Then-then-then,” he stated, calmly glancing at the unicorn, who exhaled in a yell, slumping down on the fine rocks and wiping his sweaty forehead.
“Ditch, you varmint, you scared me to death!”
“There we go, you got it, padre!” Ditch replied, smiling and getting up, healthy as could be. “I knew you just needed a hint!”
The unicorn was fanning himself with his hoof, shaking his head. “Good Harmony, for what misdeeds?!” he asked the sky, but it remained above the issue. Ditch patiently waited for the padre to regain composure and color to his muzzle. “Well...” He cleared his throat after checking the state of his robes. “If you are asking me about afterlife, Ditch, I could invite you to a catechesis and I could—”
Ditch took a step back and waved his forelegs, taking his turn in getting panicked. “Wow, wow, wow, padre, you are a fine stallion, but I’m not swinging that way!”
The nerve!
Last Rites took a while, but finally planted a hoof on his face. At his own shame, rightfully so! “I... I won’t even try to discern where your thoughts wandered, Spadework.”
“I will tell you exactly, padre,” Ditch replied, getting this conversation back on its respectable track! “I wondered if you could, like... come back?”
“From beyond?”
“Yeah! Like, a ghost, or phantom, or some other malarkey.” The matter was made clear and purified of strange suggestions!
The unicorn huffed, taking care of his fringe, which ended up quite disheveled in the last minute. “There have been many claims about apparitions coming to haunt places dear to them, or visiting their relatives, but as much as we believe that spirits of the departed persist after their bodies’ deaths and venture to the afterlife, we know that those tales are nothing short of folklore, child. For once you cross that point of no return, you find pleasure and satisfaction like no other and join with Harmony in perfect, profound unison.”
... what kind of a raunchy religion was that?! Ditch was not interested in... in “unisoning” of any sort right now! And especially not one like that! Everybody with this one mare?!
Perversion!
He got his answer in the middle of this obscenity, but still...!
Calm, calm... Praise the jewel in the bottle, praise the jewel in the bottle.
As Ditch was trying to find inner peace and avoid temptations of this most vile sort, Last Rites turned to him again.
“Why are you asking, exactly? I wouldn't think anything, let alone fables of ghosts, could spook a grown stallion like you.”
Was he still teasing?! “That’s not it! Actually, I don’t want to know anymore!”
The Reverend took a step back with indignation. “Control yourself, Caretaker Spadework! Have you enjoyed spirits already today?!”
“No, and I don’t plan to! No spirits of any sort!” Ditch stomped his massive hoof down, causing gravel to shoot out in all directions.
“Good! Good,” Last Rites first shouted and then... approved with some satisfaction, though still visibly shaken by the outbursts. “Go... sit down in the shade for a moment, take off that coat of yours, the Sun must be getting to you,” he advised, turning to leave. “And remember about the funeral tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah...” Ditch grumbled under his breath, grabbing the shovel and heading the other way, abashed by everything.
He spent the rest of the day trying to wrap his head around what he had heard. Not the saintly smut stuff, but the part about there being no ghosts of any sort... so, had happened yesterday, exactly? Some sort of a very, very complex hallucination? Maybe he needed to ask Well Oiled about any unsavory additions to his moonshine! Ditch expected reliability and trustworthiness!
Speaking of which, thanks to his unswerving tool, he had just finished preparing the new grave for tomorrow, the sun having set but a couple of minutes ago. He wiped the sweat of his brow, pushing aside the tangled bush of his mane. He spent the entire day so busy, he almost forgot about his own, proper rites and obligations! After such good work, he was going to calmly get to his shack and meditate and maybe forget all about this strange—
“... greetings, Ditch.”
... son of a chicha!