The Grave Digger’s spade bit deeper and deeper into the endless black earth, and the Bounty Hunter’s fingers drummed a brittle and skeletal tune on his thighs.
“Just a little bit more,” said the Digger, leaning against the handle of his shovel and wiping cold sweat from his brow.
“Ain’ goin’ nowhere,” the Hunter replied with the ghost of a shrug.
“No,” the Digger squinted at the Hunter. “I reckon you ain’t.”
The graveyard was silent but for the bell toll of the metal spade on unforgiving earth.
“Such a waste, dyin’ so young,” the Digger muttered. “Makes you wonder, what’s the point?”
“Too late to worry about that now. Either there’s no point, or the whole thing is the point. The length of the livin’ don’ enner into it.”
When he was done, the Digger threw aside the shovel, and hauled himself out, back out of the hungering hole, dusted the dirt from his palms and took off his hat. Held it nervously in both hands. “Anything to say before we do the necessaries?”
“Naw, no sense in gettin’ all loquacious now. Best say what you need to say when you’re still among the quick. Why waste words on the dead?”
The Digger shrugged. “Like what you said: Either words are their own point, or there ain’t none.”
The Hunter chuckled, and took off his own hat. Giving the Digger a good view of the shot that had killed the Hunter, a neat, round and brown hole just above the right eye. “Maybe put that on my tombstone,” he said, and stuck out his hand. “My thanks.”
“Safe travels,” said the Digger as they shook, and then watched as the Hunter lay down in the hole he’d prepared for him. Sighing, the Digger began to fill it again.
"That statement is either so deep it would take a lifetime to fully comprehend every particle of its meaning, or it is a load of absolute tosh."
ReplyDeleteI wrote it, so it's probably the latter. Terry the P, on point as usual.
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