Chapter VIII – Beat a Dead Pony
“I... I do not think I understood you right, Caretaker Spadework...” Last Rites said, his face a picture of said lack of understanding.
Ditch, for his part, wore a similarly sheepish expression. Though his motivation was a bit more, well, complicated. It was such, such a pity he could not reveal it. Mostly since causing himself one problem by looking a little unprofessional was still far better than causing himself another problem by looking, at least, absolutely bonkers by saying that he had a ghost issue at Canterlot’s very Cemetery.
Not to mention that his alleged madness would have... and had a real reason to be. Two of them, to be precise... and Ditch really wanted to avoid any more!
Which was why he was talking with the padre in the first place, for grog’s sake!
“... you want me to... postpone today’s funerals?” Last Rites asked, his tone already betraying, despite the sleepy look, what he thought about the suggestion.
The ridiculous, out of place suggestion.
True. It wasn’t the best of Ditch’s ideas. To rush to the padre’s simple dwelling, not far from the Cemetery itself. And to bang on his door even before Dyslexia’s very sun would appear above the horizon and bring with itself its own percussion. Beams just ramming themselves against the windows. And those, as Ditch could definitely testify, were loud. Loud-loud.
At least Last Rights was not chewing him too much about the time it was. Because, as far as the padre would be able to tell... and what was, abominably, true, Ditch was utterly and impossibly sober.
Which was... well... uncomfortable, to say the least. Not to follow the tenets of one’s faith, to hide one’s true beliefs due to expecting persecution... It was a dreadful experience altogether.
But, what was Ditch to do? He had to speak with the authorities, which happened to have been Harmonious...
... Harmonist? Harmonian?
Ditch wasn’t sure, not that he cared much. There were many heathens about, but Boozeism taught to be tolerant and offer them a drink if they would be parched.
If only it worked right the other way, Equestria would have been a far better place...
“Well, padre, uhm... the thing is,” Ditch finally said, still trying to figure out what to say, “I suddenly and recently and definitely heard that there’s going to be, like, a proper downpour. Like, like... like it’s going to rain cats and dogs! And our graveyard does not serve them... I mean, I could technically cover that! Less issues and a smaller hole, actually, but... I mean, this is a place of rest for ponies and not animals. Truth be told, actually, we’re all animals deep down, I mean, but that is—”
“Wait, Ditch, wait... You are meaning and liking a lot of things right now,” Last Rites made him aware, rubbing his eyes and trying to wake up entirely. “But... wait, you’ve never complained about weather before. I’ve seen you working tirelessly through the whole day in the rain and among the mud and you looked like the most satisfied pony ever to walk in Harmony’s light.”
Ditch bit his lip. Well... he had a card to play against that, but it was, again, connected to his beliefs. So... it might not have been the best of moves to make at the moment. Yes, he was able to dig all day... with the right help of his jewel in the bottle. But padre had requested of him to try and, well, be more presentable.
So... no, that wouldn’t work. Sigh.
“Ahm, padre... yeah, I know, just that the Weather Corps are not really payin’ attention to our work... though they freaking should cause—”
“Language, Spadework...”
... was that bad language for him? Wow, the good padre was the daintiest bloom in this whole mucky garden that Canterlot was. Ditch would bet that if he were to hear all the, far more, flowery language of the streets he’d just wilt straight away.
Huh... or maybe blossom like a lotus? He’d love to hear padre adding some nice, red, fragrant expressions to his sermons. Would fit the whole raunchy, eternal-unison-with-Harmony... thing.
“Sorry, padre, yeah... So, I think that, ah... yeah. Yeah, that I think.”
The priest just looked at him, no more recognition in his gaze than the absolute minimum needed to register that Ditch was suggesting something to him.
Religious insight and wisdom, pfah.
Last Rites finally shook his head and sighed to himself, embracing his ever-disappointed state of being. “Ditch, I’m not entirely sure what has come over you, but we cannot just halt the funerals. There are grieving ponies in need of closure. And those rites, aside from their religious significance, are an important step in achieving just that.”
Ditch had to grab his shovel a little firmer, because, first, of course he had taken it with him. And, second, he could really tell the good padre a thing or two about ponies in need of closure. Though one could bet that whilst Last Rites had the living in mind...
Urgh, this was just so frustrating! And Ditch couldn’t even take a swig right now!
“Yeah, I mean... I get what you’re sayin’, but, ah... don’t you think, Reverend, that they could get over it with the stiff still there? Like, prop him up for a day or two on some sticks and talk to the pony about... whatever else that’s left to talk about...?”
The unicorn blinked, his mouth opened and an expression of incredulity coming upon his muzzle. Honestly, if Ditch didn’t know better, he would bet that Last Rites was right there and then going through a pretty nasty hangover.
Unfortunately, the whole world bar Ditch knew otherwise.
“No, Spadework, that is not how it works around here,” came the priest’s words, laced with mounting displeasure at that point. “I’m not sure what has prompted you to suggest such silliness, you’ve read something about exotic practices, whatever... but I’m not certain if I am appreciating your antics in the slightest.”
Well, if a hunted cemetery was a “silly antic” for the padre, then pretty much no argument would work. And Ditch would sooner dig himself a hole, like the one he had dug for his screams last night, than use that revelation of revenants.
Last chance?
“I mean... uh... how many funerals is it today? Two? Isn’t it, like, bad luck?”
Last Rites inhaled, as if he wanted to comment on that after all...
But then just closed his eyes without bothering to close his mouth, shook his head, and with a slow, steady motion locked the door right in Ditch’s face.
... well, Sheridan’s.
Actually, there was no superstition over holding two funerals on the same day and it meaning misfortune... Come to think of it, it could have been that the grim occasions could cancel each other out and create good luck for the nearest future. Two obsequies making a plus, right...?
Sigh.
Misfortune was the word of the day anyway, moody mathematics aside. Ditch didn’t even want to watch the proceedings at that point, worried as he was about the aftermath. He just knew that the gatherings were about the same... though one turned out to be much, much more mournful.
He dreaded to acknowledge why, though he knew exactly. And, for once, his discomfort wasn’t due to the haunted happenings.
Still, he watched the Sun going down rather fearfully, himself having to brave the realization that soon...
... wait, wow, pause, hold! Cease and deceased! Was he actually afraid of greeting newcomers now?!
Great. Fantastic. This whole situation had turned him into an antisocial recluse! It’s not like living in a shack on the Cemetery meant that he had been that for a long time already!
Not to even mention that, due to this whole stress, he had even at some point through the day considered that writing to Princess Dyslexia and asking her to keep the Sun up for some time longer would actually be not the stupidest of ideas!
... maybe it would be just a tad manic, but that does not mean it wouldn’t be well-received in the madhouse that was the Royal Palace, right...?
Ditch sighed, sitting on the grass, his trusty shovel by his side. Watching the sunset, both of them.
The light which was bringing out of the grey monuments and granite tombstones the absolutely most lively aspect.
Mainly, the aspect of absolutely new nuisances, ready to star in the blockbuster story of “Night of the Lively Dead” happening right before Ditch’s scandalized sight!
“Hello, shonny,” came to his ears the haunting voice of Lucky Streak, arriving right as the Sun had left the sky and hid beyond the horizon.
Also not interested in Ditch’s plights, the unkind shrew.
“Hey, ma’am,” he automatically replied to the greeting.
“Your backshide is looking poshitively yummy thish evening.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I’m afraid the rest of me is a little too sour for your tastes right now,” he told the ghost. Not bothering to sound too nice. “Is Free Verse about?”
“I’m here,” the wraith of the poet manifested right nearby, floating without haste in their direction. “You do look rather discouraged, Ditch...”
Ditch pointed towards the nearby Cemetery section. Where two regular mounds of earth were covered by too irregular mounds of wreathes and flowers.
“Oh.”
Well, at least the phantom quickly caught on that there was a real reason for the irritation, not some sort of... a lyrical ennui or another, blasted thing.
Ditch decided to reinforce the truth of his vexation by taking a swig. Hoping his conviction and trust in his beliefs would see him through the night.
... somehow.
Lucky Streak tossed her spectral boa about with a smile. “Oh my! Meansh we will have new poniesh about, yesh? Who were they? Anypony cute?”
“Cute? In a way, I suppose so,” Ditch spoke from over his hip flask, grimly watching the new graves. “A little... little.”
Free Verse glanced at him, confused for a breath that he couldn’t take anymore. Then grasping the context, much to his own unease. And Lucky Streak’s, whose haunting expression manifested much concern a still heartbeat later.
And not a moment too soon.
Ditch felt small shiver pass through him at the sight, one that made even his shovel shudder and warm up.
Almost in tandem, two, faint flickers manifested themselves above the new graves. Hanging there, like little stars or some stray lights appearing over a swamp. Ditch once read that those had the capacity of leading ponies astray, into terrible dangers.
... great, his Cemetery was turning into a swamp. In that case... what were they doing in his swamp?!
Thankfully... or not, come to think of it, the manifestations did not remain as small spots. In a matter of a few breaths, the shimmering points expanded out and formed two shapes.
One of a middle-aged mare, a bit plump in all the right and wrong places, with a curly mane that could easily pass for a selection of Prench pastries tied together. And the other of... a small filly, old enough for primary school, but not much more, with straight, combed mane, lithe physique and those big, soft, doe lacks-of-eyes...
Ditch sighed, taking another swig. Yeah, he liked his job. It was his job, first and foremost. Somepony had to do it and he found himself to be relatively good at it. But sometimes... having less issue with digging a smaller hole was not exactly a reason to be merry.
He sighed, accepting the unfortunate state of the universe, because what else was there to do?
A moment later, the visages of the two ponies manifested fully, looking around in mounting confusion, suspended in the air. As Ditch could imagine, though he found it terrible that he even had to, appearing over one’s own grave could be pretty bamboozling.
... however, it looked like old Mrs. Lucky Streak was all ready and steady to help out with the conundrum of sudden unlife.
“Hello there, shweetiesh!” she greeted the new wraiths, floating their way with the speed of a snail on sedatives. “I undershtand you have no idea where you are, but we’ll tell you all about it.”
If she could only be a little quieter... but Ditch, at that point of the evening, felt the distinctive lack of care. This whole scenario was a nightmare. Maybe screaming loudly would cause it to stop.
Well, the most he got in that regard was a gasp and a squeak. Both of which made him grimace.
“Now, now, darlingsh, don’t worry, it’sh alright,” Lucky Streak continued in a tone of a grandma that had seen absolutely everything in her life already. Well, with her current predicament, maybe she had... and then took it beyond the regular span of things. “You two are now ghoshtsh.”
“Ghosh... oh, you mean ‘ghosts’!” the mare’s spirit replied finally, getting over the fact that she was floating, transparent and talking with another floating, transparent pony. “But how... I mean, have I...? I wasn’t planning on...”
“One hardly doesh,” Lucky Streak replied with a thoughtful nod. Looking the other way too. “Hey there, shweet thing. Could you come closher?”
The spirit of the filly looked far more spooked... and, Ditch had to say, for once he felt like he didn’t mind having—
No, ridiculous, of course he minded!
But... he felt like he could tolerate that particular wraith. She looked just so... confused and frightened.
And, honestly, he would suspect Free Verse of appearing here, at the Cemetery, with an evil intention... but not that filly, right?
Foals didn’t have such wanton malice in them. Not like adults.
Ditch took another swig at that thought. Then Free Verse’s voice reached him, as the spirit was clearly paying more attention to him than the ghastly exchange before his eyes... Holes for eyes.
“Hey, Ditch... are you alright?”
“Do I look like I’m alright?” was the only logical response here. “My precious workplace is being invaded by transparent trespassers...”
The poet sighed. “You know that this isn’t a ploy against you or the Cemetery, right? We don’t really know why we are back, we’ve been over this.”
“That does not necessarily put me in the good mood...” Ditch replied, feeling that even the blessed percentages might not have been enough to withstand that night. It didn’t stop him from trying, gulping down from his flask again, hoping for more warmth and less worry. “Ah... screw all of this...” he uttered, getting off his romp and grabbing his shovel. For additional balance and support, in more ways than one.
Just in time for Mrs. Lucky Streak to decide to return, the two other, female ghosts in tow.
“Sho, darlingsh,” she spoke, pointing at her companions. “Thish ish Patishsherie...”
“Uhm... ‘Patisserie’, actually, but I see where the problem is, so...” the bubbly mare corrected.
Earning a little, haughty snort from the elder.
“And thish little shweet thing ish ‘Figurine’. Did I get that right...?”
The filly’s ghost nodded, shying away a little, her head lowered. Her straight mane covering most of her muzzle.
She, ironically, looked more than horrified, the poor foal, even though her current appearance would easily cause even the Royal Guard to soil their pristine armors.
“Y-yes, it’s Figurine, Mrs. Lucky Streak...” the filly muttered in a high-pitched tone, which was at the same time sweet and absolutely terrifying, coming from such a wraith.
“Sho, yesh, here they are. Thish shtrapping shpirit ish Free Vershe.”
The poet nodded his head, trying to look as accommodating as he could, while not even being the Cemetery’s host. And almost dodging the non-existing spit.
“And thish ish the caretaker of thish here joint.”
“Ditch,” he greeted the ladies, holding his hip flask firmly in his hoof, lest he would do something unkind and rather regrettable in a second. “The ‘joint’ is very happy for new patrons, though would really prefer for them to be a little more grounded.”
Patisserie looked at him askance. “I... Well, greetings, Mr. Ditch—”
“Just Ditch.”
“... right. Again. Greetings, Ditch,” she tried once more, which was at least a somewhat positive sign. But then came the usual. “We... weren’t really planning on...”
“I know, I know,” he responded, rolling his eyes. Surprised the shovel didn’t sigh herself at the repeated explanation. She just shared her warmth with him, trying to support him to the best of her abilities, the trusty tool. “Nopony here tried to invade my Cemetery on purpose. Yet, here I am. With three and a half ghosts and no idea what I did to deserve this!”
He raised his voice only a little, though that was enough to have the little Figurine shuffle her transparent legs and float rather rapidly behind Patisserie’s back. For safety.
Well... that felt bad. And Ditch wasn’t a bad pony.
“Sorry, lil’ one. Didn’t mean that. I’m just... a bit confused myself.” He then thought for a second. “And, actually, getting more and more upset about all of this. So, not to look like a big jerk right off the bat... I’m going to come back later. After I first get absolutely hammered, plastered and lit up,” he explained to the filly.
“What... does that mean?” came the question from behind Patisserie.
Ditch considered his choice of words. “... apparently, that you can renovate a house by just binge drinking.”
Explanation done, he took a turn and just left the spectral council. Feeling the judging look of that chubby mare.
What, another bigot having an issue with his beliefs?! This kept getting better and better!
Sigh. Ditch couldn’t possibly stand more apparitions that night. Not to mention even think about what would continue to happen. Further specters popping up every night, like daisies after a particularly nice rain!
Ditch told padre that it was going to be bad weather! Was it his fault that he couldn’t be more specific?!
... alas, even his wishes for solace would not be followed and observed that night.
“Ditch! Ditch, wait!” he heard Free Verse’s voice behind him.
“Go away, I need to meditate.”
“No, wait, we can work this out,” the poet insisted, actually managing to float past Ditch and stand... float right in his way. “I know you’re upset, I get it, but getting drunk like that won’t help here!”
“Helped last time,” Ditch protested, remembering... somewhat, that his blessed state had already given him one idea about why the pansy rhymer was about the place.
“Maybe, but it’s not the answer here! Come back to us, let’s talk this out.”
“Listen, I’m a bit too pissed... and not pissed enough at the same time. I need to correct that first and foremost. You’re not cool with that, write me a strongly-worded poem,” came a clear warning. “Now get, I don’t feel like walking through a cold front.”
Free Verse levitated tall still. “Listen, Spadework, I don’t think you should keep drinking like that. Instead—”
Ditch learnt two interesting things that night.
First was that he really didn’t like the topic being touched upon. Especially when he was already upset. And particularly when his full name was being used.
Second was that, against all odds, his shovel connecting with the poet’s noggin did make for a pretty melodious bonk.
Huh!
He knew she would always support him in need! Friendship was magic and all that.
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Ha! I knew that his shovel was magical!
11059833
Who would have thought, right?
Dumb question, but why didn't Ditch just ask Last Rites to meet him at the graveyard at sunset? I'm sure seeing actual friggin' ghosts would persuade him to at least take Ditch a bit more seriously, right?
11060675
Ah, but in Ditch's mind, having ghosts plague the Cemetery is a mark of his bad job as a caretaker!
And those rays also sting like heck.
Every single morning.
What do you think would happen if he ever visits Manehattan Harbor after midnight and hears how the sailors are talking?
Heh.
Well, at least they value transparency.
Sounds like a plan.
Also, poor filly.
At last:
11063105
Glad to see some fun over the story.