As Ditch had mentioned not a long time ago at all – friendship was magic.
... and that was about it, some would say. But since when did “some” have any idea about what they were talking about? Because friendship was also, as it had just turned out, like, a healthy hit to the head.
For at least a certain, less-than-fresh type of a pony. For them, friendship was a mighty whomp, potent enough to send a ghost of a certain poet pirouetting in place like he had a ballerina’s career on the side.
Which Ditch knew was not the case. Ballerinas usually were too pretty, and trained, and light enough not to land ungracefully on pavements with enough “gusto” to end up at the cemetery.
Or, maybe they did, actually? But with far more style and substance, and to the thunderous applause to muffle the concrete cracking.
Free Verse, on the other hoof... nah, he wasn’t a dancer. He was more of the ‘I got hit and I have no idea what happened’ type of a stallion. Not much better than a hoofer, actually.
Still, even in Ditch’s rather overworked head, the fact that he had just managed to clobber a ghost on the head did not evaporate like a spirit from an open bottle. The regular spirit, not the Saddle Arabian thingamajig. Uhm... ‘thing-in-my-jug’? Thing-in-my-lamp, maybe.
Regardless, the damage was, apparently, done and the apparition was now clutching his muzzle, without a doubt immediately reminded that pain was real and painful.
And, which was rather hysterical, he wasn’t even angry. He was simply surprised, of all things!
“What... what just happened?”
Ditch rolled his eyes. “I think I’m more of a ‘show’ than ‘tell’ pony,” he pointed out, still holding his shovel right and tight. And he was about to actually do a proper demonstration if asked to, but the rest of the ghostly crowd must have heard the sound of the ectoplasmic bonk quite clearly, considering the racket.
“Whoa! Shonny, what are you doing?”
“W-what was that?”
“Hey, what gives?!”
“One question at a time, please,” Ditch protested aloud. Keeping close the tool of the crime... and its perpetrator all in one. But seeing the three other wraiths floating by, he planted the shovel down and leaned against her. Casually almost.
They were partners in this. All of this. They would watch each other’s backs.
And, well, the inquiry began once again. With Free Verse, still shocked about what had just hit him. Actually, more about the very fact that something hit him.
“... you’ve just hit me.”
... he wasn’t too grandiloquent in expressing it, was he? Wasn’t he supposed to be a poet? Or was he actually a very silly ballerina after all?
“Seems so,” Ditch still admitted, looking over the specter. No shiner, no bruise, no bump filled with whatever ghosts were made off on his forehead. Boring. “You don’t look too damaged though, you know?” He looked about the ground, just in case. “I see no little, transparent teeth among the grass neither... so it wasn’t that bad, right?”
The poet massaged his head. “Hurt a lot, actually,” he stated, moaned a little.
Sissy.
“Well, I warned you to step aside, didn’t I?” Ditch reminded him, hoping that the strike wasn’t one to jumble up his ephemeral brain there. “And you didn’t, so I thought – what the Tartarus, I might as well try. Surprised me too, you know!” he admitted with a smirk.
At this point, all the other ghosts had converged. With that Patisserie one turning out to be the fastest, actually. With the grace of a stallion twice her size and looking for a fight, she floated in between Ditch and the Free Verse. As if she wanted to shield him with her own, transparent body.
“Listen here, Mr. Ditch—!”
“... just Ditch.”
“Whatever,” she replied, rolling her no-eyes hard. “Why on Tartarus did you hit him?!”
“... seriously? I just explained that,” Ditch pointed out, hooves spread wide. “He was in my way, he didn’t move when I told him to do so, so I swung. And, lo and behold, home run!”
The mare huffed, indignant over Ditch scoring so many imaginary points with one hit. “And you’re, what, alright with that?!”
“Mostly amazed that it worked,” Ditch revealed, shrugging, just as Lucky Streak and the little Figurine came closer. The elderly mare leading the filly, though the little sprig would have made her way over way faster, were it not for the ghastly geriatric.
Who was also interested in what had just transparently transpired.
“Shonny? Why did you hit him?”
Ditch threw his forelegs up and sighed very loudly and very overtly. “Right, that’s it, I’m not explaining that again,” he protested, seriously tired with all of this... and he wouldn’t want to explain ‘why’, because it meant more explanations, and the very word began sounding terrible in his head! Which was self-explanatory. Gah! “The stallion’s alright, just a little bonked, that’s all.”
“Language!” Patisserie shouted, pointing at Figurine, peeking from behind Lucky Streak’s hind leg. “Dead foals are still foals.”
“... alright, that sounded far worse than what I have just said, you know?” Ditch pointed out. Then furrowed his brow. “Hold on, wait a minute, what did I say wrong?!”
The fiery mare-ghost was very happy to explain things to him in barely acceptable language, but Free Verse interjected. After he finally decided to stop fiercely massaging his own muzzle. No pun, innuendo, allegory or anything else intended.
But the poet stepped forth nonetheless, with conciliatory stance and voice alike.
“Right, everypony. That will be enough, before we cause more ruckus then necessary,” he pointed out. In a pacifying way that Ditch definitely agreed with, for he needed no notoriety for his workplace whatso-freaking-ever. “Tensions are high. We have just made our acquaintance, acquaintance rather unwanted by our host. Considering his, well, reputation. And that of the place.”
The ghostly crowd plus one living pony did look around themselves and, as Ditch had to conclude, for the moment remained uncharacteristically silent.
He could consider it out of place, cause usually he would be more than happy to comment, following on the poet’s many, doubtful ‘wisdoms’. But... it really felt better to have a breather. Especially since the oldest ghost of the place, although but a few days old, and by internship length rather than age before death, was trying to contain what was happening.
“I believe,” Free Verse continued, his gaze switching between all of the gathered, “that we have stumbled upon something big. Something that might have caused, well... us.” He stated. Firmly. Like not a poet. Like an actually stallion.
Ditch was surprised, to say the least, which allowed Free Verse to continue.
“Nopony here planned on being a ghost in the first place...” the spirit assumed further... and like that, it was proven true, cause nopony wanted to object. “But, since we are, we have to make do and figure out the ‘how’ and the ‘why’. And I think... here might actually be the ‘how’.”
That wasn’t a very artistic, especially when the poet very prosaically pointed at the shovel.
Which didn’t like being pointed at, so it hid even more behind her trusted partner! Or... maybe it was Ditch, after all, trying to instinctively hide her and protect her virtue. She was a tool to bury corpses, not invoke spirits! Who would have thought of such a silly thing?!
Well, apparently the poet just did. But these kind of perverted ponies were normally thinking of so many bizarre, lyrical, empirical, panegyrical shenanigans that it didn’t count, right?
“When did you get that shovel?” Free Verse pressed on, even though Ditch wouldn’t necessarily like to divulge such information in any set of circumstances...
And yet...
He straightened himself up and looked back. At the handle of his trusted tool. It looked a little... abashed, actually, as if hiding something underneath those wraps. Or maybe that was Ditch just completely losing it? After all, he had been talking with ghosts, hadn’t he lost it already? What was the point of being evasive?
“Not so long ago, actually, maybe a couple—”
“Was it before or after you buried me?” Free Verse insisted, interrupting.
He was going to get an earful in a moment. “That’s awfully intimate, ya know?” Ditch reminded him, with the whole gravitas of grave-digging. “One must have the right, discreet approach to these matters. You think everypony wants others to know what sort of body count they have?”
“Language!” Patisserie shouted again, floating into a crouch to put her hooves to Figurine’s little ears.
Ditch was confused. He meant what he meant, where was the problem? “Anyway, come to think of it, actually, I think you were the first stiff I serviced wi—”
“La—!”
“Lady, considering your name, I’d like to know what sort of a kooky bakery were you working at?! Your mind’s in the gutter!”
Lucky Streak blinked with nothing at all, then looked at the other female wraith. “I... also don’t get what you meant thish time, shweetie.”
“Ha!” Ditch whooped out loud, then slapped himself on the lips, because a cheerful celebration on the cemetery was even less appropriate than wailing of the damned and transparent. He continued with his normal volume, however triumphant. “If ol’ freak here doesn’t get it, it means it does not count!”
Patisserie was about to protest, but Free Verse shook his head.
“Ditch, focus. I was the first corpse you buried with this shovel on the cemetery?” he asked again.
“Well... yeah, I think so.” Ditch scratched his head, being rather certain that he just smeared some earth into his scalp. Which was fine, it helped with balding, he heard! No hair of one’s mane had any reason to fall out, glued firmly down with fresh soil! “I dug your grave, prepared everything, buried you after the funeral... Had a chat with the good reverend... You were the only stiff I s—”
He paused, looking at the feisty mare, who had just removed her hooves from Figurine’s head but was now ready to act once more, to the poor filly’s utter confusion.
“New resident I pleasured?” Ditch tried a better way of wording it, but that was only met with another angry huff. “Seriously, I’d like to meet your husband, lady. He’s got some explaining to do.”
Patisserie, making doubly sure that the small ghost could hear nothing, shook her head.
“Clodpoll.”
“The lady doth protest too much, methinks...” Ditch retorted, apparently in a way to make Free Verse almost drop dead of a heart attack.
... or would it be “rise alive” in this instance...?
... no, that actually sounded like a way worse scenario! Surcease!
“So… yeah, that would check out, at least,” Ditch admitted, with a shrug and another lean against the fateful shovel. “I then found you staring at your own grave like it was a piece of fresh sonnet, if you catch my drift. And then there was venerable Mrs. Lucky Streak next.”
“You make me shound sho old,” the lady did protest too much, shaking her head, though even Free Verse, being the polite pony he was, agreed with a glance of his not-eyes.
Patisserie, having calmed down enough not to smother poor Figurine’s ears anymore, and actually apologizing to the filly, did huff. At least it wasn’t an irritated huff, or an offended huff, or even one to blow one’s house in, but rather one of understanding the situation and accepting what was causing the plight…
Though phrasing it like that made it sound like the shovel was somehow responsible for the mess! Surely, whatever affliction it had wasn’t its fault!
The plump mare was ready to offer a good suggestion, it looked like. At least at first. “I guess it would be better then, Ditch, for you to abstain fr—”
“I’m about to say something really inappropriate for foals!” Ditch immediately interrupted, but that only caused her to shake her head.
“Not from booze.”
“Actually, maybe a little...?” Free Verse tried to suggest, but Ditch just pointed back at his shovel, then did a little, suggestive, striking motion which shut the poet up even better than an actual wallop.
Patisserie was on the verge of a nervous breakdown at this point, which could have been very detrimental to somepony having no body. There was one less of a medium to keep a pony going if something would go wrong, right?
“Anyway… It would be better for you to get another shovel for the sake of the upcoming funerals. You know, to stop more ghosts from happening?”
Ditch nodded, having to reluctantly agree, if the ghost-summoning tool theory was correct. “I think I might manage somehow… but, Harmony an’ Heering, this is a good shovel!” he admitted, turning to his trusty partner. “It’s not its fault it is different!”
“I think that’s a given in Equestria, honestly,” Free Verse commented, matter-of-factly.
“… sir?”
What a wonder! A small, unsure voice, coming from the youngest, age-wise in life and otherwise, of the phantoms did spawn everypony’s attention without an issue!
Ditch looked at the petite Figurine, now hiding even more against Lucky Streak’s hind legs, then knelt down. It didn’t feel right to tower over the unfortunate apparition.
“Yeah, darlin’? What’s the matter?”
“Is… I’m scared,” she admitted, creating quite the ironic situation, not that Ditch thought it right to point that out. “What... what are we going to do? I don’t... I mean...”
Well, other than having his heart crack just a little bit at the tone and those adorable, disconcerting holes for eyes, Ditch had absolutely no idea at the moment. Stopping more denizens of the cemetery from popping up from their graves in less-than-solid form was one thing, but getting rid of the present company? That was another conundrum entirely.
Ugh, Ditch needed that drink. The problem was that turning to meditative cadences and carafes with the ghosts simply about wouldn’t really cut it.
“I... don’t know yet, lil’ one. But we will figure something out, alright?” he tried to reassure the smallest of the phantoms, as much as he felt sorely unprepared for such a role. “Me and Free Verse, here, we have already discussed why would he come back, and why would he not just continue on his way.”
“A way... where, Mr. Ditch?”
... well, that was a question and a half! Unfortunately, fetching padre Last Rights to answer it would be at least a little problematic. The reverend surely could spit out a sermon... without even anypony wishing him to, on any topic, but he also couldn’t have had any experience, preaching to a less lively crowd than usually.
Although Ditch always thought that the chances of there being ponies dead of boredom by the end of his monologues steadily approached certainty alongside the orations’ length.
“Well, foal, a way to... well, wherever you might want to go,” Ditch answered, trying to sound as soft as he could, despite the lack of training.
Figurine looked down, then up at him, with an expression that would certainly be accompanied by innocent tears, were it not for the obvious.
“... I want to go home,” she spoke, and the entire crowd around her felt that sentence right in their hearts, surely. Still beating or not so much.
Ditch understood the tot. The drinking kind, as well, but that wasn’t on his mind. He really did feel for the filly, although it would be telling what allowed his suddenly to reach this level of empathy. He was always kind to newcomers, and they usually accepted the graveyard as their new residence... but nostalgia, and the natural promise of safety that came with one’s home was something else. Something wonderful.
“I know, and I get it. I cannot promise to you that we can get you home right now, but... I’ll do my best, okay?” Ditch swore, seeing that forlorn expression, haunting for all other reasons than the filly’s lack of life. “I’m a big colt, I’ll figure stuff out.”
He didn’t manage to get Figurine to smile, but he wasn’t going to blame himself. He was out of practice, and she also wasn’t going to be comforted by a few words. Especially since she had ended up expired, and at such early age, too.
Instead, Free Verse trotted closer, reading into Ditch’s body language apparently. Maybe his poetic disposition helped in this regard, finally being useful for something. The ghost sat down by the filly, looking at her with almost fatherly kindness.
“Would you... want a hug, Figurine? Would that help?”
The filly said nothing at first, looking down onto the ground. But then finally nodded. “Mhm.”
The stallion shifted closer and offered his embrace, which the foal gladly trotted into, burying her muzzle into the poet’s chest and shaking.
Ditch felt terrible her, but... well, he couldn’t offer that much, unless Figurine would like to hug the shovel, so he stepped away, instead...
... and was met with Patisserie and her stern expression. “As long as this,” she accentuated, pointing at herself, “is happening, we do need to work together. I’ll... do my best to hold my tongue, but I expect you to do the same, Ditch.”
Who was glad she explained, because for a moment he thought that she meant her general size. Not that she was that big, nor that he, himself, was... what was that term nowadays? ‘Fatphobic’, or something? First, who, the fernet, cared? Second, he wasn’t afraid of no fat ponies!
He still felt uncomfortable with mouthy ones, however, especially among the residents. “Great, the dead make demands now, instead of peacefully sleepin’, how woke,” he told Patisserie, planting his shovel next to him, even though he had just pulled her out of the ground. Both of them, to some extent. “Listen, I get it. I really do, I’m the sort of pony you hate. Reeking of booze, unkempt, rude without even tryin’ to, right? That’s fine,” he summed up, shrugging. “It just begs the question, some of them, actually. Ones that I would ask, if not for the fact that I have only a tool to hide behind, and not, like, another house. Or maybe a vault in a bank in Trottingham or some such. You look like the type of mare who could walk right through a door even before your death.”
Patisserie’s not-so-much-a-gaze hardened. “Is that a quip at my weight?”
... oh, great, was she one of those mares that actually sought every opportunity to get insulted? “Nah, skip that, a hole in the ground is a hole in the ground in the end. I meant the mouth on you more. And the attitude.”
There was a moment when Ditch thought that she was going to slap him.
... then she did, though her hoof passing right through his muzzle ruined the idea in its nature. It still wasn’t a pleasant thing, however, because the usual coldness of a ghost’s essence passing through Ditch combined in his mouth with all of his cavities reacting at once!
He shook his head violently. Thank grog that she didn’t aim higher and further, the brain freeze would have knocked him right out. Thankfully, he was also a gentlecolt that could take a hit.
“Better?” he asked after a moment, when his tongue actually could move again.
“... actually, yes,” Patisserie admitted, huffing, which was her favorite way of communicating, apparently, then shrugging. “You did deserve that.”
“I suppose,” Ditch replied, looking back at the other ghosts, but it looked like both Free Verse and Lucky Streak were too busy with Figurine to actually spot the spectral strike. “Doesn’t make a sound, does it? Neat.”
“No, not unlike the shovel,” the mare admitted, then looked at him with a little bit of shame. “Listen, Ditch, I...”
“Don’t fret, really, ma’am,” he told her, massaging his cheek, hoping that he could delay a visit to the dentist for a few years more. “If this means we can move on to actually getting you all out of my workplace, I can take it and a little more. So... parley?”
“We’re not pirates, Ditch.”
“Yeah, right, and they say that dead ponies tell no tales,” he protested. Almost leaning on his trusty shovel once more, but instead grasping it to feel her warm support. Especially since he had been done with this whole situation even before anypony figured out that one could belt a bodach. “But I think we all need to have a talk after all. Tomorrow night, maybe.”
Patisserie wanted to say something, but Ditch just quickly grabbed his tool, bowed like he was saying farewell to a noblemare, then trotted away, with but a short remark.
“Take care of the lil’ one.”
“Wait, and what are you going to do?”
“For now, lass, without drifting into anything I’d need to remove with a shovel,” Ditch explained, not even meaning it as a warning, just a fact, “I’ll just swim away. To sleep, think, meditate, depending on the port I reach first.”
Leaving the mare with that explanation, he trotted away, feeling absolutely through with it all for the night.
Actually, port sounded like a terrible idea. For, as the said instead, yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum!