Scorched Earth

Benjamin set his shovel down and sat upon what was left of the loose dirt pile which remained around the earthen hole. He wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm, trying desperately to keep the sweat out of his eyes. The tattered overalls lay soiled and ripped upon weathered skin on his broad shoulders. His exposed arms glistened in the afternoon sun. He pulled out the flask he kept in his back pocket and took a few gulps from it. The misshapen ‘B’ that was etched into the sterling silver hand-me-down rested calmly in his palm; the alcohol burned his throat as it passed into his soul.

The summer had been hotter than most he recalled. The area around him was arid and devoid of life. What little wind that sunk in the atmosphere blew scorching air that kissed his face offering no reprieve. A cruel temptress. Greenery had long since passed and the yearly harvest was light in the destitute town of Philomath. The barren earth made his work tougher as the ground was harder to penetrate, his spade working overtime to achieve the same outcome. To Benjamin however, business never stopped, regardless of the weather.

Gravedigging is not an easy profession. It demands long, solitary hours in the elements with nothing but your thoughts to keep you company. Benjamin, nonetheless, welcomed the seclusion. He started early in the morning in hopes to get the grave dug before the midday sun shone high in the sky. If he burrowed at a good pace, the priest at the local parish church, which sat on the hill behind the cemetery, would often allow him to rest there to cut down on time traveling back and forth to his homestead. He could relax for a few hours and recharge before the funeral processions and people flooded the area after which he would be left to refill the freshly exposed pit. The only thing known in the world is that all eventually expire and Benjamin will be here to ensure his clientele have a sufficient resting place when that time comes. 

He had taken up his vocation some years back during the war. He came from a family of farmers, so he was used to long, back breaking, work from an early age. However, when his father was forced to sell the farm to settle debts, Benjamin had to search for a new trade to fill the absence in order to care for the family. Being so close to the Northern and Southern divide meant he had a steady flow of business which kept him active for days, sometimes weeks. That time, unfortunately, had long passed. His intake had slowed in recent months and he only had to be on site for a few days a week, if that, suffocating his lifeblood.

Benjamin stood up, put the flask back into his pocket, took one last deep breath and continued to top off the void. The dirt crumbled as he rammed his shovel into the pile and thrust small clouds of dust into the air. He coughed as he inhaled the grime. He paused for a moment to clear his throat with a guttural heave and spit a glop of mud onto the ground at his feet. He could only imagine how decrepit the inside of his lungs looked. As he went back to the pile of soil in front of him, he noticed the woman still standing under the oak tree observing him as he worked.

He witnessed her when he was about halfway done digging the hole. She had wandered into the cemetery in the early morning light and stood rigid under the big oak tree that rested a few plots from his own. It was the only area that provided shade from the heat of the day in the entirety of the burial grounds. She wore a black dress with a ragged veil that was touched with morning dew. Her long, gloved hands rested in a solemn manner, crossed at her midsection. Her face gleaned through the veil and showed a glimpse of pain. She fought back the tears as he excavated the land below them.

Eying her at the funeral, he usually never noticed any of the processional patrons, but she was unique, he could not help but fixate on her. He felt himself noticing every inhale and exhale as he mirrored her labored breathing. Aside from the priest and the pallbearers, she was the only person in attendance. The forlorn woman still stood in place long after the casket had been placed in the earth, guarding the chasm he had created and watching sternly as he filled it back up. Tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped daintily onto her worn heels.

Benjamin was transfixed. Living in a small town, you get to know everyone. Even himself, someone who rarely went into town, knew most of the inhabitants of the area in some way or another. But she, she was someone he couldn’t quite place. There was something alluring about her, something that called him like a siren at sea. He wondered why she still stood there. The soul that once possessed the body at his feet must have meant a great deal to her. He had seen that look sprawled across the many widows he came across in his career, but her face was blinding. 

The cavity was nearly filled when he noticed the priest pacing towards the woman. There wasn’t a sound in the air except for the cross that hung chained across the cleric’s neck clanging with every step. His long, dark robes brushed against the dried-up landscape and painted the hem with dirt. As he approached the lady, he raised his hand and placed it on her thin shoulder. His grip startled her. She wiped what remained of the tears from her eyes.

“How are you, my child?” The priest spoke in a calm manner, voice creaking as he spoke.

She considered the question for a moment as if looking for the right words to say. “I’m getting better, father.” She sniffled.

Benjamin watched as the priest held her tighter to try and ease the pain. He sought not to eavesdrop but couldn’t occupy himself enough to not listen. Even the dirt fell silently as the two spoke. 

“I know he wasn’t the greatest man.” The pastor turned his focus to the darkened soil that rested on the casket, “but I am sure he loved you.”

A crooked smile etched jaggedly on her face. Somehow, Benjamin knew that this passing was more of a relief than torment for her. She took a deep lungful of oxygen as if she hadn’t been able to breathe for years. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a metallic object. She stared at it for a second. “He was a bastard,” she muttered.

“Now dear, you mustn’t let grief cloud your memories. Lashing out will not cure your sorrows.”

“Sorrows, father?” Her mouth tightened. Her body clenched at the idea of being sorrowful for the dead. “I waited years...I…I waited an eternity for freedom.” The pastor removed his hand from her shoulder and stepped back. 

“Miss, if you didn’t love him, why did you come today?” He quickly diverted his gaze from her to the horizon of tombstones that lay before them. “Why have you stood here all day?”

She exhaled. “I wanted to make sure that God-forsaken inebriate would stay there and not come back. I wanted to watch the nails clasp down on his cold body, trapping him. Each stroke of the hammer gave me momentary relief. I wanted to watch the dirt lay heavily on his motionless corpse. I wanted to make sure he was gone for good. I wanted to feel his soul leave this earth.”

The pastor gasped and redirected his attention back to her as if he had not heard a woman speak so bluntly before.

Benjamin, on the other hand, felt every word she spoke. They punctured his skin like red hot barbs. He winced at every sting. She gripped the silvery object and threw it with years of pain into the hole. Benjamin watched as the entity rolled to its final resting place on the soil. The reflection from the ‘B’ glimmered in his eyes as it caught the evening sun. 

“Are you sure you want to get rid of that, Mrs. Benjamin?” The pastor asked, motioning to the flask.

“Ms. Benjamin. And thankfully for not much longer.” The weight virtually lifted from her shoulders as she spoke.

Benjamin dropped to his knees.

In an instant, every memory bombarded his mind with verve; every feeling, emotion, conversation, his life of transgressions replayed in full painful detail. He remembered his drinking. He remembered burning every bridge around him and becoming the town pariah. He remembered how he treated his wife, despite his endless love for her. He remembered taking out the loneliness of his profession on her. He remembered their son and his youthful death and how that affected him even worse.

That hole was the largest he’d ever dug.

He remembered the pain he covered up with his father’s flask, the only thing he had left of him, his most cherished item; the man he swore he would never become. The reason he went by “Benjamin” instead of “Junior”. He remembered hiding in the church just to avoid his troubles despite losing God years ago. He remembered the drink killing him slowly and ending his life cold and alone, the oak branch slumped as his body enabled the fiber of the rope to wrench his neck. He felt.

Every.

Damned.

Memory.

The tears flowed from his eyes as he cowered and begged for forgiveness. The torture enflamed him and broke his spirit. He was paralyzed. His body lay in a hollow shell upon the scorched earth. The torture was unbearable. He rolled over to his back and stared at the auburn sky, body contorted and gasping for life. The dead world around him offered no support, his cries dissipated into the tepid ether. He writhed in his own hell.

  * * *

Benjamin awoke early in the morning as usual, shaking off the nightmares from the restlessness of the last few hours. If he started early enough, he could dig the hole before the midday sun radiated the area and made his labor that much more unbearable. He put on his frayed overalls and dusty boots, grabbed his lantern and shovel and exited the house walking toward the cemetery he had worked for years. The sun had yet to rise, but the air was still balmy from the day before. It wasn’t much, but it was painstakingly honest work. He enjoyed the solitude and it kept him occupied. Plus, it gave him a reason to drink unabated.

He paused above the empty plot, the freshly erected wooden cross weakly overshadowed the soil below his feet. Virgin earth stared back at him as he begun to shape the outline of the hole with his shovel. Six feet is a lot to dig and fill in a day, but he was used to it by now. His profession was formulaic and he had honed the process over the years to make it as smooth as possible. His vascular arms clenched the worn wooden shaft of the shovel as he carved out the first divot of the day.

He was well on his way to finishing the hole before he noticed the lady in black standing under the oak tree near him. The tears in her eyes hit him with a strange pain he had not felt before. He was left perplexed as he turned back to the pit. Luckily, this was the only one he had to dig today; the heat was more intense than usual. He grabbed the flask from his back pocket and took a swig to calm his nerves and refresh his body. The alcohol burned his throat as it passed into his soul.