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!