There was drug from the depths a bloated thing -- a sack of spoilt remains that had been left to fester on the catacomb floors. Its impermeable stench caught the edges of his robes -- the soles of his shoes -- and seeped mercilessly into that fabric that belied little of its transgressions, fabric that smothered all its sin in darkness; but still, death clung close to the anointed, pairing withered lily with the scent of carnage.
Foolishly, he'd thought the dead flowers would help.
And now -- in the light of torches sputtering here and there he struggled, the weight of a man diminished little by missing flesh, and towards the stairs Claude staggered, his own wasting tissue straining against itself to persevere -- to tidy the shit-hole his cousin had made of the depths of his sanctuary. With a groan and an sigh born of irritation more than relief, he pressed forward --
footfall
by
falter, ascending to the heavens, to the smell of sweet and dirt.
The whole journey had taken quarter short of an hour, and as he breached the threshold of the landing before the outdoors, he withdrew from his pocket a key, knuckles slick with the fruits of his intensive labour. A mutter echoed down the depths from which he'd come, and when that cloudy sky appeared to him, he spoke barely above a whisper, certain the intended would not be far off.
"Gravedigger," a command, a beckon -- a man who could alleviate his burdens all bathed in blood.
"Father?" a reply in the form of a question, supplicant and ready, returned on the wind from whence it came. Odilon was in the midst of sneaking a sip of sacred solvent from a flask kept tucked close to his heart when he was interrupted.
He shuffled, quickly, and settled his minor start by stuffing his beloved back into the heavy cloak that covered his shoulders. With a turn, the aging man followed up in a stride that wove a jangled path through the traffic of scattered headstones, meeting his master before the breeze could deliver another missive.
Claude stared with a removed fascination, his fingers wound tightly around the neck of the sack beside him. It was always with a removed terror -- a refuted acknowledgement of the morbid and impermanent -- that he approached these hollow grounds, asking -- telling -- each time as though it was the first.
"Another," he conceded, allowing the drawstring to drop of its own accord. The bag was too heavy to toss forward in a dramatic gesture, so he maintained simplicity, allowing the pooling stench seeping through to speak for itself.
"I trust you have a partner with which to bed them." He grimaced. Empty graves were too precious to be wasted on such filth. He waited, he watched.
The gravedigger took another step forward to claim the broken and bitten treasure to be buried, tugging forward the sack to topple down the stoop with the descending chords of a rather disharmonious series of thuds and cracks that ended in a single squeamish squish. These were his least desired type of dead, for their pockets were as picked as the meat upon their bones, and it left a gruesome sort of waste to be discarded. For a man so self-centered, Odilon actually felt a little bad for these corpses.
It was when the seeping stench reached him, the man choked back a gag, though the displeasure of meeting the fragrance was well worn upon his wrinkled features.
"Right in the back," he said with a disgust that was easily discerned in his tone, "where the smell will waft elsewhere, and deep, so the animals do not pester. Why must they be left to rot for so long? It makes much more work for me to cover this all up." The double entendre was a rather mouthy way to express his growing frustration, but complaining was a large part of Odilon's blood.
"And perhaps you'd like to be the one following the entrails," Claude sniped with a cool precision. His fingers gleamed in the refractions of moonlight and stars -- sparked alight by their white chill and the radial warmth that sticky essence had once held. He could feel the blood and rot seeping past soft leathers to the wool of his socks, settling upon his ankles and between his toes. He grimaced, mouth taut with displeasure.
"Given my duties, as well as the nature of these consumptions, you'll find my timing quite generous." The High Priest's posture straightened -- demanded from it the respect and fear of the devout, though he was certain this catcher of vermin was far from such sorts of fear. He withdrew from a discreet breast pocket a kerchief, vainly wiping away the stains that had soiled their way onto everything.
"If it were to get them in the ground faster, then my opposition would be lessened. Better worms and roots than maggots and flies." Odilon spoke frankly, his face long with a bout morbid contemplation that was soon twisted into a facetious grin. "Though, I would truly hate to deprive you of a beloved holy task. I'm sure there's some sort of blessing to bestow upon these bodies before they're baptized in dirt. Nah, I guess I'll leave it to you, Father. Anything else before I take this away?" He nudged the sack with a leather bound toe while the pause betwixt question and answer settled between them.
"If you've a great reverence for the pile of rot before you, I urge you to dispense blessings in your own manner. I, for one, find that Turn often administers just punishment -- this is not a death fitting of eulogy and mourning, even in slightest of measure." His gaze maintained a startling avoidance of the bag following its change of hands. The man within had proved a fool -- offered no resistance until he'd been forced down a flight of stairs and broken a tibia in the struggle. The rest had been left to Claude's monster, the game diminished -- in this instance, at least.
"All the same, I'd like to accompany you." A grin in turn -- a burden for backlash. Fingers knit together at the crest of his sternum, tapping tersely against the flesh they laid to rest upon.
"Consider it curiosity."
"This way, then..." Odilon smiled (perhaps still a bit facetiously) and turned to again step foot upon the yard into which was sewn the physical remains of so many passed persons. His pace was slow and measured, accented only by the song of the hefty sack being drug against the dirt and grass of the cemetery lawn, filling the air where his conversation was nonexistent.
The path he walked, winding and jangled, took pause at the small tool shed that, while playing host to a few of his wife's fearsome devices of torturous intent, contained a well-used pair of spades. The older man relinquished his grip upon the bunched beginning of the bag he held, and instead procured a key from inside of his cape, unlocking the shed to remove the two items in addition to a hand lantern, which was forcibly passed to his guest.
What he hadn't expected was a shadowed rodent to jump forth at him, the surprise causing a contained chain reaction of dropping his tools, hopping backwards, and a small string of crude words uttered at the beast. When the thing reached the light cast by the lantern's meager flame, it was shown to be not more than his four-legged rat-catcher companion, and at that Odilon settled, but was still far from annoyed at the sudden appearance.
"Miserable mutt," he chided, "speak up next time that woman locks you in here. ... Wretched rat." The gravedigger mumbled to himself as he collected his dropped implements, speaking once again to Claude when he was shuffling away. "Hope you don't mind dogs."
The Priest followed dutifully, making of the pair a sombre procession through the funereal hollows below. It was only upon the arrival of the gravedigger's -- rather ironically -- rat-like companion that Claude broke his composure, falling two steps behind with a startling rapidity. He eyed the mutt, displeasure all too apparent on his face as he fell back to a more demure stature, knuckles white around the handle of the lantern so gracelessly shoved upon him. When he picked up pace once again there was a deliberateness to his step that had been previously lacking.
"They were an accoutrement not sorely missed," he conceded, watching the creature follow its master. It was far too reminiscent of his brother's dog -- that accursed little thing that was far too eager with people -- and of his father's bloodhounds, far too eager with animals. He swallowed hard, sour settling along his tongue.
"You keep him here?" There was an undertone of disbelief -- of disgust, of inferred desecration of graves and the peacefully-laid.
"Not in the shed, no," Odilon said as he walked toward the edge of the cemetery, "but my wife does think it a fun game to lock him up sometimes." It was all the answer he gave to a tone that was completely ignored. Perhaps he thought if he had to drag around bodies that had been gruesomely picked apart, then a crooked tit for tat would see Claude suffering through the added presence of his dog.
When he reached the spot in which he had intended to bury this particular corpse, the older man went straight to work. The ground had already been disturbed, grassless and packed with soil that was recently tilled, making the motions of his digging rather quick, even despite the depth he had to dig. The pointed spade made a slicing sound with each movement, a rhythmic reaper's song to serenade those already lain to rest.
In the piled of earth that was steadily growing beside the hole, Gristle dug with the excitement of finding any loose bones for keeping.
He watched the Gravedigger -- the beast beside him -- and with a hesitance born more of reticence than fear or uncertainty he placed the lantern alongside a headstone's jagged edge, stooping to join in the unearthing of this carnage's final resting place. The sack beside them seemed to groan as it collapsed further into place under its own weight, and it did little to alter the Priest's conscience as he resigned to sweat and labor -- two virtues he'd long done without.
"I hope," a pause, a breath rife with effort desperate to be concealed, "he doesn't desecrate those buried here in such a manner." A spadeful's fruits were flung haphazardly, coming a bit too close to the little mutt and its own efforts at unearthing great treasures.
"There is a high cost to be buried in the yard of this temple."
"He just likes to help." Odlion's answer was short, mainly from the surprise of the high priest picking up a shovel in the first place. His routine had him normally using one to dig, the other to cover, but it was not within his realm to feel regret for this non-clarification, nor was he one to further clarify and refuse help that would make the task easier on him. Instead, he added, "Like you."
Turning his head, the man whistled at his mutt, a cease and desist of the highest pitch. Gristle answered with a grumbly growl, moody and fowl in true Morot fashion. The dog sat, and Odilon turned back to his evening's assistant.
"Do you enjoy your work in the Church, Father? Excuse me if this is too rude, but why is it that you are priest and not Prince?" While he was completely lacking the skill set to mingle with the upper class, the gravedigger felt their solitude allowed him a moment candor.
"Why is it you are gravedigger and not inquirer?" He snapped back, the retort sharpened by the spade stabbing stark into the dirt beneath them. Sweat began to settle on his brow, and with a half-beat missed he continued with nary room for response.
"We don't all have temperaments suited to our lots in life," Claude explained, vaguely and without due explanation. "I found it more politically advantageous to be a man of the fold than one of the throne. My father forfeited strategy for the sympathy of the people; I do not wish to inherit a foolish war born of a foolish reign." He kept it at that, giving too much away. A hard swallow had him struggling for air, stopping with his spade pivoting in the dirt beside a bloodied boot.
A moment of contemplation settled over Odilon in the wake of words he shouldn't have heard, and would not hold tight to. His curiosity had been mostly sated, so he let the temptation of any further questions go, not wanting to push his luck past any other lines. Were he a more understanding man, he might've offered a personal tale of his past in return, but he didn't.
When Claude took a break the gravedigger did as well, reaching into his cloak to retrieve the previously tucked away flask - which was a hardly impressing item, not more than an old, small bottle of dubious origin. He lifted it to his ear, and after a few small shakes to be sure its rotgut contents had not dried up, the item was offered to the priest. That gesture was kinder than anything he could have said.
It was likely the more polite of possible gestures to decline, but between the men there lay a striking honesty, despite all reservation. Claude accepted -- not quite graciously -- partaking in the acrid sting that lay hidden in the vial born of false discretion, and with the screw of the cap filling the silence he returned the flask to Odilon, his thanks withheld. His robes took on a heavy discomfort in the dark, weighed by blood and sweat and -- now -- dirt steeped in the rotting of the dead, and that bloody kerchief surfaced once again to dab at a dampened brow, leaving remnants of its stains along that Holy flesh.
"Well," he offered curtly, a sour look on his face.
"I don't wish to be here all night."
Odilon agreed with a nod and the pair were soon back to work, digging until their shovels’ tips had not struck more ground, but rather the decaying remains of another, wrapped in a cocoon of cloth much like the fresher of their subjects. The body's collapse into the deep depths of the dug grave echoed into the surrounding darkness like a deflated eulogy of defeat at his funeral of night predators and night watchmen.
The first shovels full of dirt returned to the hole hit the pair of sacks with a pitter patter that sung the promise of slow re-growth, but even that quickly faded as the dirt line crept closer to the top of the tomb.
Graves were much easier to fill than they were to dig.