The Haunting
Admiral Biscuit
For once, I didn’t need to be told what to do.
The shovel bit at the earth, cutting easily through the trampled sod as I worked my way around in a ring.
Once I had the border defined, I started digging down.
Milfoil carefully backed her wagon into position so I’d have somewhere to put the dirt. The wagon was tall enough that it cleared the tops of the plants.
I didn’t think, I just worked. I took occasional breaks when Milfoil hauled the wagon off to empty it, and when I started thinking again, I started digging again.
Six feet deep. I didn’t have a measuring tape, but when ground was about eye-level, that would be the right depth.
•••
One thing I didn’t have was a ladder, which was something I should have considered before digging a deep hole. I was contemplating jamming the shovel into the edge and using it as a makeshift step—I could drag myself out from there—when Milfoil dropped her singletree over the edge, attached to a length of chain.
She backed up slowly, lowering it until I could step on, and once I grabbed on, she slowly pulled me up until I could get purchase on the grass.
I was drenched with sweat and trembling from exertion and staggered clear of the garden so I could collapse on the lawn.
She nuzzled my cheek and sat down beside me, resting her head on my chest, and we waited for sunset.
•••
The old stallion arrived with a small coffin on his back. Undoubtedly, he’d turned heads around town, but ponies knew when it was a good time to ask questions and when it wasn’t. And if there was some busybody who’d gotten in his way, she’d probably have gotten a punch to the muzzle. I could attest to how effective a conversation-stopper that was.
There really wasn’t anything for us to say, so we set out into the woods. Milfoil and I were both carrying lanterns, and she also had her saddlebags on with a couple of trowels, just in case we had to do any digging.
The forest was alive with the sounds of creatures—birds trilling, calling for mates; insects humming, and new leaves rustling in the gentle breeze.
Her little glade was just as I’d last seen it, and as we got close, Windflower emerged from beneath the fallen log, glowing brightly.
It felt like it should be weird for her to be there, for her to see, but it was somehow right.
•••
I took the coffin off the stallion’s back and set it on the ground, and the three of us went to work, sorting through the forest debris for her bones. Each one was placed gently into the velvet-lined coffin, and I tried not to think too hard about the ones we found that were broken.
As long as I didn’t concentrate too hard, I could hear them calling out to us, singing their unfinished symphony, so different from the rest of the forest’s lively song.
Windflower stayed under her log, watching us as we shuffled through the leaves and dirt until we found a rib or a pastern bone and it was hard to see them with tears blurring my vision.
The change was subtle but it was there and I felt a pressure leave my chest as we put the last bone in the coffin, as we finally finished that which had been undone for far too long.
Windflower came out from her nest and circled the glade one time and we were about to close the coffin when she went back to her tree and brought out a tattered hair bow and placed it inside.
•••
The forest was silent as we walked out.
•••
We lowered her coffin into the grave and it was a lot easier to put all the dirt back in than it had been to take it out.
The first light of dawn was in the sky by the time we’d finished. I was beyond exhausted, both emotionally and physically.
•••
We were smoothing the earth over her grave when she came back, carrying a small wildflower in her mouth. She’d put it in the cracked teacup so she could carry it, and she’d stuck her trowel in with it.
She planted it right in the center of her grave, and then went and hugged us all in turn and the sun rose and she was gone.