The Canterlot Cemetery caretaker would honestly prefer for the dead to stay dead!
Meet Ditch.
Ditch is the caretaker at the Canterlot Cemetery. He lives a calm life involving digging, burying, seldom... well, occasional... alright, habitual drinking, and generally managing the place and its residents to the best of his abilities.
Ditch enjoys his job. The salary is not enough to live, but sufficient not to die, the graveyard shifts are not graveyard shifts, and the clients are calm and docile, even if a little bit stiff. Canterlot ponies, right? But Ditch does not mind. They don’t complain and loyally catch some due rest.
Basking in the bright rays of the Sun setting behind the white city walls, the Canterlot Cemetery looked rather lively. The granite and usually gray tombstones and sepulchers came back to life with radiant, red and amber hues. The inlaid letters, often truly intricate, shined all around with golden, playful rays. Announcing to one and all who exactly had the unique pleasure of being past expiration date.
Among the tranquility natural to this place of final rest, a tune was weaving itself between stoic graves, distinguished tombs and solemn epitaphs.
“I’ve been working on the graveyard, all the live long day~”
The tempo of the song was regulated by the metronome of a shovel, digging into earth over and over again, in a merry, carefree rhythm.
“I’ve been working on the graveyard, just to pass the time away~”
Dig after dig, shove after shove. The newly occupied hole with a respectable-enough coffin was being filled with skill and practice. As per usual!
“Can’t you hear the bells are tolling? Rest, for it’s night’s brink~”
The joyous, taupe grey gravedigger spun the tool above his head like a drum major with the weirdest of batons.
“Sleep you soundly, and no snoring~”
He drove the shovel into the freshly formed mound as a percussive accent to his song, wiping the sweat that matted his clay-hued, disheveled mane. He produced a hip flask from his worn, leather garments with a smile of pure pleasure.
“While Ditch will have a dr—”
“Spadework!”
Oh, bury me sideways!
“Reverend!” the singing earth pony exclaimed in his gruff, hoarse tone of a blameless abstainer, quickly hiding the flask behind him. He brought forth a smile of the most sober pony ever to trot and work the soil of Equestria. “Fancy seeing you here!”
Last Rites, the unicorn minister of the Church of Whatever-Who-Cares, was leering back with his usual, golden gaze of a disappointed parent, neatly located under his violet, equally neat, fringe.
He surely had the look practiced!
“I happen to have conducted the funeral here about twenty minutes ago, if you still remember, Spadework, and—”
“And what a wingding it was! Really, that eulogy, it brought a tear to me eye!”
The cleric did not seem convinced by the mournful tone of the reply, nor by the trembling chin. No, as if out of spite, he was bound on trying to see what was being hidden by the emotional stallion! Like he could not respect the profound pain!
“Spadework, don’t—”
“ ‘Ditch’ is fine, padre, really... There’s no place for needless formalities when… when…” The stallion sniffed, drying his eyes. “When we face the passing of another poor bugger...”
And that still was not stopping that snooping swami!
The unicorn’s horn lit up, and Ditch felt the flask escaping his hold. “Hey!”
Last Rites uncorked the container and took a whiff of the contents. And he was impressed, one could tell! His eyes bulged and his muzzle lost color! Talk about excitement!
His words did not sound that enthusiastic, though. “C-caretaker Spadework, for shame!” He put the cap on in an instant, trying to get away from the smell. “This is a… a… this is foul moonshine!”
Ditch chuckled, clapping his hooves. “Wow, you’re on point, Reverend! This is Foul Moonshine, Well Oiled’s own brew! Best on the market of affordable liquors!” He gestured with encouragement. “We should always share what little we have with others, you say so yourself, padre! Take a swig, don’t be shy!”
The unicorn shuddered. He took a moment to compose himself, giving Ditch another one of his disapproving, and yet still worried glances.
“Sp… Ditch, child, I appreciate the attention you are giving to this serene place, but you cannot defile it with alcohol!” The cleric’s admonishment made Ditch calm his expression. “This habit is ruining you. And is most unbecoming of a pony taking care of our Cemetery!”
“But, Reverend!” the earth pony justifiably whined. “I wanted to drink to the health of our new resident!”
Last Rites blinked. “Child, he does not need such a toast.”
The outrage! “Padre, you want him to get sick?!”
“Ditch...” the unicorn tried to protest, but just shook his head instead. “What purpose does all this drinking serve you? Not a night goes by without you visiting a place of ill-repute, I’ve heard! Or you are wobbling around in a revolting, inebriated state.” He came closer, his tone growing calm and his eyes softening. “Escape into alcohol is not a solution to whatever your problems are, child. You should come to our chapel, I’m sure a pious visit would help you better than all of this liquor!”
Ditch shook his head, his tone matching that of the preacher. “No, Reverend, I’m sorry, I cannot betray what I believe in. And the consumption of alcohol is connected ‘inextricably’ to my religion.”
Last Rites arced an eyebrow. “… pardon? What ‘religion’, Ditch?”
“Boozeism,” the caretaker declared with a wide smile of an enthusiastic disciple.
Then, using the unicorn’s distraction, gently took back the flask from the magical grip. “I need this, thank you.” He stepped back, still grinning, stowing away the holy firewater. “The contents are necessary for me to achieve nirvana this evening.”
Last Rites raised his hoof to say something… but ultimately could not withstand Ditch’s devotion.
Praise the jewel in the bottle!
“Would you… please… at least not sing while you are performing your tasks?” the unicorn asked instead, almost pleadingly. “This is a place of mourning and contemplation of passing, not tavern songs…”
“Come on, Reverend, it’s not like I will wake anypony up!” Ditch looked around. He never had noise complaints from the clients! “And I have a good reason for celebrating too!”
He grabbed the shovel in his hooves, pulling it out of the new grave with finesse of a drunken master and fencer both, giving it a nice, fluid swing.
“I got this new shovel today and it is top-hole! The hilt is solid, dark oak, the leather wrapping gives a good grasp, the head is some sturdy, good ol’ steel, I tell you, Reverend!” he declared, throwing the tool up, much to Last Rite’s loud surprise. The shovel landed on the caretaker’s extended leg in perfect balance. “The earth parts like butter with this one! I can’t believe it’s not butter, almost! And that pony was so nice, he insisted I take this from him pronto! He knew I would have a good use for such a marvel! There is good in this world!”
“Well...” The cleric shrugged, recognizing the point. “There is, yes, and we should do good unto others... You did pay him for this... uhm... marvel, yes?”
“Oh, sure, padre! I’m a drunk, not a thief!” Ditch replied, grinning.
“I’m not sure if I should be relieved for you or not...” The minister looked around. “Speaking of thieves... Is everything at least alright with the Cemetery?”
“Oh, sure, Reverend!” the earth pony eagerly answered, taking the shovel and drawing a wide arc in the air, presenting proudly his scepter of office. “Look, padre,” he began, his tone that of a benevolent monarch, the shovel's head reflecting sunlight. “Everything the light touches is our kingdom.”
“Uhm...”
“A caretaker’s time as ruler rises and falls like the Sun! One day, padre, the Sun will set on my time here, and will rise with you as the new caretaker.”
Last Rites looked confused. “... that’s not your first flask today, Ditch, is it?”
“Oh, no, it is, that was just from a funny story!” Ditch planted the shovel down, with the gesture of the undisputed ruler of the graveyard. “Everything is fine, Reverend. I took care of the weeds by the southern gate, cleaned the unicorn mausoleum, as well as the columbarium over the past days. None of the residents lodged any complaints! We had mostly some spider webs and dust. No vermin. Although...”
“... yes?”
Ditch leaned back on the shovel, nonchalant. “I caught a robber trying to grab some wreaths and candles, but I have dealt with the situation. The tenants on Beggar’s Row, by the wall, got a new neighbor.”
Last Rites paled in an instant, but that only caused Ditch to burst into laughter. “Oh, oh-ho, padre, wow! I can’t believe you fell for that!” He approached the unicorn and tapped him on the shoulder, as the cleric let out a relieved breath. “I would not bury any robber there! The schmuck’s planted with the Unknown!”
“Enough, Caretaker Spadework!”
The unicorn almost literally exploded, his nostrils flaring, and Ditch stepped back immediately.
Reverend did not appreciated the joke! There was far less religious benevolence and mercy in him now.
“Listen, and listen well! I am tolerating all of your jests, songs and other... eccentricities, but just! Yet the families of the departed have expressed mounting concern whether the Cemetery should be left in your hooves and, frankly, I am done with your approach as well!”
Ditch held to the shovel in an attempt at a defiant stance. “I’m doing my job, Reverend.”
“You are. But you are doing it in a way that has been bothering others for some time now, and I expect you to reflect on that! If not for the sake of your health, due to your drinking problem—”
“I don’t have a drinking problem! I’m utterly proficient!”
Last Rites huffed. “That’s the problem! And I will not have that anymore. You either change your ways, or you can start looking for another job.”
... oh sweet mother of Grog.
“R-reverend, you can’t do this to me! Th... the place needs somepony that knows what they’re doing!” Ditch protested, his voice getting a little panicked. Fine, a lot panicked! “Like, they need to know to put earth ponies exactly nine hooves under, so that, so that when the coffin molders, they get to feed the soil nicely! And, and they need to know that unicorns should have three candles lit by their sarcophagi, aside from old miss Ashtray, as she likes a cigarette, and, and...!”
Last Rites raised his hoof, cutting the rant short. “Ditch, if you will be respectful to the place and do something about your addiction, your job is safe. But only then.”
“... I cannot even drink to anypony’s health...?” the earth pony asked in a tone of an innocent, addicted kindergartner.
“No, Ditch. They need a prayer of a different kind...” the cleric responded, his tone slowly returning to the usual, fatherly one. “And this one especially.”
He pointed at the headstone by the recently-filled grave. The letters on it said “Free Verse”, and accompanied a photo of a rather young and depressive-looking, powder blue pegasus with long, white mane. “Poetry Never Dies” claimed the epitaph.
Poets, on the other hoof... They were a rather dainty bunch, Ditch always thought.
“The funeral and the grave are thanks to an anonymous donor, but you must have seen that nopony was here for him, Ditch...”
The caretaker would think that this was more the reason to drink for the stallion, poet or not, but decided not to risk Judgment Day from the Reverend. Judgment Evening, rather.
“What did him in, padre?”
Last Rites sat down and joined his hooves in a short prayer. “Hearts and minds of artists are fragile... He folded his wings and fell from the window of his apartment down onto the pavement ...” He bowed his head. “Poor, troubled soul...”
“Poor, stained pavement too...”
The cleric stood up with a small grunt. “He deserves respect, like everypony else here... I want you to show this respect in a way that is socially acceptable, Ditch.”
The caretaker sighed. What was he to do? He would love to stay true to his... faith. But without money, he could not very well practice it!
And taking care of Canterlot Cemetery was, like, the only thing he knew how to do!
“I... will try my best, Reverend...”
Later that evening, after the Sun had left the skies, Ditch made sure that all of the Cemetery gates were closed shut and that no one remained around for the night, other than the less-than-animated denizens. Carrying the shovel on his back, the stallion was keen on getting to his little shack and finally engaging in some... meditating.
Experiencing religion was a private thing, no? And sometimes rather mystifying.
However, a nagging feeling did not let him rest. He always drank for the good health of the newcomers! It was a matter of principle. He was the caretaker! He needed to be in good relations with everypony around the place!
Given, they were not on speaking terms, but still!
His hooves lead him to the fresh grave of that one... What’s-His-Name poet, and one of those hooves did reach for the hip flask. Ditch could start being ‘socially acceptable’ tomorrow, as there were no funerals scheduled! Tonight, he had a pony to greet! A new addition to the dead poets society of Canterlot Cemetery.
Surprising amount of those. One was even a captain, or something...
To Ditch’s confusion, he was not the only pony to keep company to the arrival!
Right by the fresh grave sat a pegasus stallion of white coating and mane of similar, lengthy style as the unfortunate concrete diver. Nothing extraordinary during the day, but after dark? Befuddling. Ditch missed the pony during rounds? That never happened before!
“Sir? Sorry! Sir?” he shouted, closing in. “The Cemetery is closed for the night!”
He did not get a reaction, at first. Well, that happened with mourners sometimes. Heads full of memories, ears filled with sobs, that sort of thing.
From this distance, Ditch could already see the melancholic expression and closed eyes. As well as family resemblance. This must have been a relative, for sure. He was but whiter than the deceased.
Probably less flattened as well.
“Sir, sorry to bother you, but the place is closed...” the caretaker repeated himself, giving respectable space. He could wait for his turn at the grave. It’s not like the dearly departed was going anywhere.
The brother of the poet, for he wore his likeness like a twin, finally let out a long sigh that sounded like wind with chronic depression. He turned his head to glance at Ditch.
Huh... He lacked eyes.
Not like, those were blind, or anything, they just... weren’t there.
Poor family. One bloke’s eyeless, the other’s a poet. Hard to say what’s a bigger disability.
“Sir, you might have missed it, since...” Ditch gestured at the gaping sockets, but that was redundant. “Never mind. It’s nighttime already and you need to leave, the Cemetery's closed. You can come back in the morning to mourn.”
The pony just looked at him for a moment, tilting his head a bit.
Great, he was deaf too?!
Ditch took a step forward. “Sir, you can hear me, right? I guess you’re the family of... of...” Curses, what was the name? The stallion leaned in. Oh, good, he could still see the letters through the relative’s head. “... of Free Verse, but I cannot let you—”
Ditch stopped himself, hearing a rare, but not alien, sound in his head. Grinding gears.
He blinked. He looked again, squinting his eyes.
Yup. There the letters were. “Free Verse”. And the photo. All seen through the transparent head of...
“Sorry, could you, like, lean back a little?”
The relative did not say a word, his eyeless gaze fixated on Ditch in something that resembled confusion, but then serenely followed the command.
“A little to the right... Chin up, like one of them Prench girls...” the caretaker gave more suggestions, trying to get the correct perspective. “Yeah, that’s good. Now, pretend somepony stabbed your kitten in the gizzards.”
The mourner did as asked, producing a truly haunting and spooky image of depression. Ditch got the perfect comparison with the photo.
Either the white stallion was the worst case of the stereotypical evil, handicapped, malnourished, albino twin that everypony had, or...
Ditch took a deep breath.
He looked at the ghost. Then at the grave. Than back at the ghost again.
And he did the one thing that any reasonable pony would do in a situation like this.
Ditch had seen a lot of things in his time. Flying pigs. Dancing elephants. Mice in all the colors of the rainbow. He had heard a great deal too! Like the sound of growing grass and the sunbeams banging mercilessly on his windows in the morning.
But those were the occurrences born out of his religious practices, especially the part about returning from the state of enlightenment back to the mundane and imperfect world, also known as the Path of Hangover.
An actual ghost, however, was definitely a novelty. One that was, surely, causing Ditch to consider rethinking his life.
Hmmm... he had not had the chance to drink yet, so that was not the reason for the apparition’s presence... So, a contrario, that meant that... oh, yes, the specter had had some liquor! Wait, wait, yes! Maybe it was the one having a moment of clearer, heightened perception? Maybe it was Ditch who was a part of a religious vision?!
... urgh, migraine, better forget all of that...
“So... wanna drink?” Ditch repeated himself, having sentenced all of this treasonous thinking to oblivion. Besides, the ghost was just staring at him with those empty eye sockets of his and it was rude to allow awkward silence to do its thing. “I know you can hear me, so, here! It’s good, it’s fresh and it’s on me.”
He presented the flask to the phantom, following the tenets of Boozeist generosity. But the wraith, who seemed to have been Free Verse indeed, did not react. Just kept staring. Almost as if confused by the offer, or even offended by it.
Oh, great, he was a poet and a teetotaler?! What a disgrace to the nation of Equestria!
Ditch put the cap on the flask for the moment, though with great disappointment and reluctance.
“Alright, so, you don’t want to drink... So, can you be, like... a bit more lively another way, rather than staring at me like this, cause this is just getting... weirderer... Can you talk?”
The ghost looked down and his transparent visage frowned. Its lips opened and it appeared as if it tried to take a breath, but Ditch could not hear even a gasp. Despite the continuous attempts, the wraith looked breathless and, curiously, consternation appeared on its face. Or, at least, a haunting image of one.
Ditch took a step forward, though the three remaining hooves were, for some reason, voting to get away, post-haste. Thankfully, his body never believed in democratic rule, rather having adopted Boozeist theocracy as its government.
It meant bonuses to Inebriation yields!
“Not to interrupt... but I think your breathing broke...” Ditch pointed out and the ghost looked up again, its phantasmal brows knitted. It opened its mouth and shook its head, forgetting the whole inhaling business, and yet let out a sigh.
Ditch felt a shiver down his spine. That was less of a groan of frustration and more a wail from the depths of... whatever it was that had depths. The tone itself was echoing, unnatural. Like when you reached nirvana far too quickly and decided that the epitome of enlightenment was serenading some random mare from underneath her window.
Well, at least until the Royal Guard showed up and... offered you critique. And they were a bunch of nitpickers!
“Wow, okay, look, I know you must be a bit upset, cause Canterlot air is just the bee’s knees, but could you take it down a notch? It’s the middle of the night!” Ditch protested, waving his hooves.
The wraith focused its attention on him and opened its mouth again. “I... am aware.”
Well, that was interesting! He could talk after all. Surprisingly, he sounded whispery and breathily and not like getting quartered, twice.
So... “octoered”? “Eightered”...?
Thankfully, the wraith’s voice wasn’t of such tone, so Ditch did not have to use up more of his valuable, for rather exclusive, brainpower to think of a neologism!
“Alright, you can talk, grand! So, uhm...” Ditch planted down the shovel and held the shaft like he was safeguarding a banner of sorts. “I guess I should start with this one matter. Like, its past bedtime, kinda in both senses, so shouldn’t you be, like... you know...?” he glanced at the grave. Glanced hard. “... asleep?”
The ghost stared at Ditch unblinkingly. It did not have much to blink for, to be fair. “I... am dead...” it stated, though it might have been a query as well.
“Well, yeah, rather spectacularly too, if the Reverend told the truth. Yet you’re still talking to me, so, you... failed at dying? Somehow?” Ditch asked, not sure how one could be such a klutz to be a poet, teetotal, and crap at shuffling off this mortal coil.
And then the grim realization came.
“Oh no!” Ditch slapped himself on the forehead and slid the hoof down, giving himself the stereotypical, long face indeed. He realized what this had to be about. The only reason why somepony around here would ever come back, even after being given the prim and proper burial by Ditch was...!
“You want to lodge a complaint, don’t you?!”
The ghost would have surely blinked, but, considering its predicament, only tilted its head. “... pardon?”
“A complaint! A remonstrance! A statement of dissatisfaction!” Ditch wailed with no less talent than the phantom. He trotted in place, wired. Now this, this could make him lose his job! If the Reverend would learn...! “Great! Fantastic! What’s the matter? I got the depth wrong? You don’t like the view? You wanted the columbarium after all?” he counted the possible reasons, then paled. “Oh, Ol’ Granny’s Cherry Hooch, is it Mr. Voyeur?!”
He pointed at the nearest other grave, with the photo of an older, stealthily-and-yet-obviously-perversely grinning gentlecolt.
“I tell him every night to leave other denizens alone, but you know how old ponies get!”
“... wait just a moment...”
“Ah, bunkum, no, were you one of those that wish for a flowerbed around their grave?! I have to let the soil rest for a moment, I will get to it as soon as possible!”
“... could you...?”
“... oh crabapples, did I get the coffin in upside down—”
“Wait.”
The ghost tried to put his hoof on Ditch’s lips, which only caused his phantasmal appendage to pass through the stallion’s jaw, leaving behind a feeling of cold paralysis.
Like after drinking chilled mimosa.
... if anypony would waste their throat for such a slop, of course!
Ditch was not certain what exactly stopped him from continuing his rant, the touch or the horrid thought of drinking mimosas, but he locked gazes with the apparition... even with it missing vital components for that to happen.
“Wait... Don’t be scared, I’m not here to... complain,” the phantom assured him, though also perturbed by having just trespassed through somepony’s muzzle. “I... am not sure why I am here and not... someplace else...” It looked confused for a moment. Well, more confused.
Ditch indeed calmed himself, though he fought an overwhelming urge to seek solace in his faith that instant. At least his employment was safe, for the ghost did not want to file any grievances.
... no, his employment wasn’t safe, he was talking with a ghost!
“Alright, alright, wait up...” Ditch sat down on the cold grass, holding his tool close. “You... are Free Verse, right?”
The phantom glanced at the grave, his expression no less melancholic than the one of the pony portrayed on the tombstone. “... yes, I am. Or was...? It’s... hard to tell?”
“I mean, you look like quite the dead ringer, yeah, but... can you double-check, somehow? Like, I don’t know, what do you remember about the way you splat—perished?” Ditch quickly revised his question.
The apparition pondered for a while and the anticipation was truly to die for. What a day! A test of faith, a threat of being sacked, now a spook. What was this, some sort of a comedy?!
The ghost finally stared up to the best of its eyeless abilities and spoke. Its tone was now distant and almost dreamy. Still anemic though. “Existence left its sense behind... Space was gone... and Reason and Logic followed right after, like fallen leaves that trace the gust of wind...”
“... oh, boy...”
“Time took its bow... and Death, of eyes sapphire, of curls like jonquils innocent, smiled...” it recited, looking blankly into the unspecified, grave distance, the tone of its declamation evocative and hauntingly beautiful.
Yes, Ditch could only groan at that. “Pshh, you’re Free Verse, alright...”
The ghost squinted his sockets at the tone. “Is that... disapproving I hear? I admit, this is all... eerie, and yet I have tried my best to describe what I recall in a more lyrical—”
“Listen, buddy...” The shovel tilted as Ditch stood up and leaned onto it. “Normally I don’t give a cocktail about poetry, because, honestly, who cares about either of these two, but I have to admit that my cemetery suddenly being haunted does sour the mood, so you’ll have to excuse me for being a little sulky!”
“It’s not by my choice that I am here!” Free Verse lively... well... “deadly” protested. “I have... jumped down,” he admitted with some reluctance indeed, “but the next thing I know is just... appearing by the grave! Mine!” Silence rang for a moment, as he pointed at his own visage on the tombstone. “It’s not like I am pleased with this scenario! I’m... not sure how and why I can even talk with you!”
“Whoever those ‘How' and 'Why’ are, how about you ask them nicely and get spirited away, or something?!” Ditch demanded. Really, was it so hard to think of?! Just forgetting this whole ghost business and leaving?! “Disperse. Vanish. Dematerialize. Go to the Happy Stampeding Grounds—”
“That’s a buffalo belief.”
“Convert if you like, Dances with Sonnets, just leave my graveyard be! I have its reputation to uphold!”
Free Verse huffed and gritted his ectoplasmic teeth at first. Yet then shook his head and closed his eyeholes. Ditch saw his expression tense up and it looked like... the edges of his form began to dissolve, indeed!
Wow, all of this completely unnecessary talking and all it took was some...!
A faint, turquoise light enveloped the ghost’s form and restored its incorporeal wholeness.
... bols.
“Why are you still here?!” Ditch asked, frustratingly grabbing his shovel. He was so irked up even its hilt felt warm through the leather wrappings, just great!
“I... I don’t know,” Free Verse replied, looking pained. And sounding panicked. “I’m... Something’s holding me here. I... I cannot leave. Something... something...” He trotted in place in consternation, his transparent hoof holding his temple. “But I cannot... I... I’m stuck. It’s stuck!”
“It’s stuck, it’s stuck!” Ditch parroted, wiping the sweat that had formed underneath his clay mane. “I don’t care about your... paranormal constipation, you’re not staying the night, chump!”
Free Verse glared at him and Ditch was forced to look into not one, but two abysses. And he refused to blink, though this was a rigged contest.
“Well, you might as well brew me some spectral tea to help me with it, you uncouth undertaker,” finally came the acerbic quip from the ghost.
“Suppositories work better for that, so how about I stick my shovel up your—!”
Ditch wanted to resort to profanities, but there were other residents present and the next thing he knew would be them ratting on him and his behavior to the Reverend.
He took a deep breath, produced his flask and took a big, refreshing and burning gulp of the alcohol. The heat spread through him quickly, extinguishing the rage for the moment with the honey, the nectar, the ambrosia of booze.
“Okay... okay...” Ditch spread his forelegs wide, sitting down again. “Let’s... go back a little...” he proposed, still crossing gaze with Free Verse’s not-gaze.
Even the wraith looked exasperated. “Yes, let’s...” it agreed, taking his place as well. Grass seemed positively happy that it was not getting smothered under two pair of buttocks.
Ditch, still less so about the matter.
“Alright...” he began, not knowing where to do so, actually. “You... are a ghost. Free Verse, can we agree on that?”
“Indeed...” the phantom replied, looking less angry, but still rather depressive. “Free Verse, born in Cloudsdale...”
“... and splattered in Canterlot.”
“How very respectful of you...” the apparition sneered. “You treat every one of your... clients that way?”
“They are slightly less talkative. Besides, are you an expert on etiquette when chatting up the dead?” Ditch pointed out, rolling his eyes.
“...touché,” Free Verse admitted, looking to the side. “Still it’s my death we’re talking about. Kind of... bizarre.”
“You can say that again... So...” Ditch tried to organize the random thoughts in his head. They were now moving in a bit more orderly fashion, thanks to the first signs of the upcoming alcoholic salvation. “I guess we’ll start this otherworldly relationship from scratch. I’m Spadework, but you can call me Ditch.”
“Ditch... How very... extraordinary to meet you, Ditch” the ghost admitted, shrugging and extending its hoof.
“Yeah, yeah, likewise...”
Nope, still no actual contact after trying to grab it, just more cold mimosas, causing Ditch to rub his hoof to fight the freezing feeling. Talk about a cold shoulder.
Hoof.
Whatever.
“I hope you will understand if I tell you, Free Verse, that I do not want you to get all friendly with me, right? The sooner you get your spectral rump out of here, the better.”
The phantom poet shrugged. “As I have told you, it was hardly my choice to just... appear here like this.” He glanced at his grave once more. “To be fair, I... actually wanted to... disappear. Cease. Utterly and finally... Like but a memory fleeting, like but a frail butterfly, th—”
“... that had a lil’ fling going and pregnant got a fly,” Ditch perfected the poem abruptly, then his muzzle scrunched. “Yuck... Okay, listen, why exactly did you want to paint the town red in such a camp fashion I don’t know and—”
“Let me guess: ‘and you don’t care.’ ”
“And I don’t care, exactly, you win a prize! One-way ticket to the Great Beyond, I’ve heard it is wonderful this time of the year, you just have to mind the gaps on your way there and avoid manifesting on a calm and neat cemetery!”
Free Verse said nothing, just kept glancing with a vexed expression as Ditch continued. The lack of eyes made it all the more convincing, too!
“So, I would like to get rid of you pronto, if that is not entirely inconvenient for you, right?”
“You have made your wishes abundantly clear...” the ghost pointed out sardonically.
“You know, this is supposed to be a respectable place of eternal rest, after all, not a motel for the stiffs in transit.”
Free Verse sighed. “I take it you are the main and only caretaker, then?” he asked and Ditch nodded his head fervently. “Well, the situation is both strange and rather simple... You don’t want me to be here, I don’t exactly want to be here either, so...”
“So let’s stop bickering for the moment and try to see what can be done about it?” Ditch took the only guess that was likely.
“Indeed...” Free Verse admitted, giving him a somber look. “Like the waters of two streams come together in a river, the paths of our Fate conv—”
“Urgh, shut up and go jump off a—oh, right, never mind...”
Ditch didn’t much like apologizing. Like, at all. He was a good stallion, a decent stallion, an honest stallion. He was not malicious, not really causing any trouble. And even if he was causing trouble, well, it was just a part of exercising his religious beliefs, right? He did not have to apologize for those! Well-understood tolerance demanded that even if he were to decide to wobble across the Promenade and sing loudly, others should have accepted it with silent politeness.
Equestria was, after all, a land of wonder and Friendship! Which also meant using one’s wonderful singing voice, boasted by a healthy amount of booze, whenever one felt like it! With no regrets.
The Royal Guard thought differently, but they were the agents of oppression and poor taste!
Tonight, however, Ditch’s unwillingness to apologize was indulged yet again!
Driven by the force of habit, he closed the doors of his shack behind him with a firm buck, resulting in a rather loud slam and a surprised shout from them.
... huh, wait, no, his doors were not a sissy!
He turned around, witnessing the quite unnatural and unnerving sight of a pony cloven in two by the sturdy wood. Only vertically. And without lasting damage, other than an expression of shock.
No apologies yet again, hurrah!
Free Verse, for he was the unfortunate fatality in more ways than one, was looking back at half of his spectral body cut off from his eyeless view, most likely still enjoying the chilly night outside. “This... is singular...”
Ditch shrugged. He would not know, he never sliced anypony like that or in any other way. “You tell me... Or, better yet, don’t, cause it means you’re goin’ to try and make a poem out of it.” He took a moment, seeing the ghost still contemplating this sudden split. “... actually, could you even...? About... something like this?”
“Uhm...” Free Verse unglued his eye sockets from the door and bit his ectoplasmic lip, taking a moment. “My body, like my heart, by splinters torn in twain...”
Ditch slapped himself on the forehead healthily. “Urgh, of course you could... Alright...” He produced the hip flask, taking a hearty swig, which emptied it sadly.
However, if they were to find a solution for this problem which was haunting both of them, he needed his full strength. His final form.
By the power of cheap booze!
“Is... this all there is...?”
Ditch gave Free Verse a confused glance at the sudden question. “What do you mean?”
“Well...”
The ghost was examining the house and, from the looks of it, he seemed perplexed. For no reason! Oh, sure, this was not a “Villa del Ditch” or whatever, but it served its purpose! A hardy shack by the Cemetery’s side! True, the walls had seen better days, and the floor used to have more wood than dirt, but the rain kept outside and wind was not trespassing in here, even through the old, cracked window...
Yeah, there was just one of those, cause Ditch was no mogul and could not afford to look after two.
But he had a nice bed here, instead! A bit askew and missing a leg, but brave and proud, like the noble invalid he was. Mr Bed liked company, that old rascal, but Mrs Mattress was more than happy to keep close to him, even if she was d'un certain age as they did say in Fancy.
Ditch always believed that it was that one oil lamp burning inside which was making those two feel ever-amorous. He could not remember those two not together and cuddling.
... he dared to join them almost every night, even...
Now, now, it wasn’t yet time to think about obscenities like sleeping with these two, a guest was inspecting his house.
“Well, who needs more?” Ditch asked the phantom back finally, taking off his worn coat and folding it on the table, right next to some, blessed-for-still-not-entirely-empty bottles that were going to be most helpful tonight. “A place to rest your rump. Dry. Close to work... The perfect house!”
Free Verse examined the place some more, and Ditch felt grateful that his ghost-like hooves were not bringing in soil from the outside. Only he was allowed to do that.
“Any... appliances?” asked the apparition.
Ditch tilted his head, blinking. “... what are those?”
“I... guess you don’t know the word, rather than the concept, though... Actually, forget that, simpler question – do you even have a bath here?”
Ditch rolled his eyes, almost offended. “Who do you think I am, a vagrant?” Really, only because he was a boozeist would the ghost think that he did not know basic hygiene?! “The Canterlot Public Garden is two streets away.”
“... I beg your pardon?”
“We have a lake there, don’t we?”
For some strange, inexplicable reason, Free Verse’s expression looked very similar to Padre Last Rite’s usual look. It was hard to confuse that face of eternal disappointment with any other. “And... kitchen?”
Ditch just pointed at the bottles on the table. “Yeah, sorry, forgot to do the dishes,” he admitted with snark, trotting to the table. A surprise waited for him there too! “Hallelu! Still have some lunch!” he cheered, grabbing a piece of hayburger that tried to hide itself in the midst of alcohol. “Been searching for you for three days!”
“I... fear to continue asking,” Free Verse admitted, looking strangely at Ditch about to enjoy the meal.
Urgh, he must have preferred all of this snazzy food, like candy floss wrapped in fresh lettuce and sprinkled with orange juice. Ditch’s friend, Shaggy, told him that those posh ponies sometimes ate stuff like that. And one should always trust the words of a stallion with a talking dog.
“Hello? What’s this?”
Free Verse’s question brought Ditch back to the present, in mid-bite. The ghost’s void eyes looked widely surprised, staring towards the far corner.
“It’s a display rack,” Ditch replied calmly, finally biting into the sandwich. Mmmm... Delicious and spongy.
“I have to say, it’s quite solid and elegant... especially in comparison...”
Well, it was true that Ditch paid some additional attention to that piece of furniture. After all, it was destined to be the place of rest and relaxation for his most valuable tool.
The rest of them had their places in the smaller shed nearby, but the shovel, oh, the shovel was his favorite. His baton. His wand. His symbol and banner and violin and guitar and all the other instruments combined.
And so the rack, actually destined for an instrument like a cello or something, was made out of firm, laminated wood. Dark, refined and absolutely amazeballs.
Ditch had been saving for it for an entire year!
He put down the burger and grabbed the shovel which he had rested against the table for a moment. “A caretaker relies on his shovel and his shovel relies on him,” he declared solemnly. “I make my strength hers and she makes her strength mine. It is, as the wise ponies say,” he paused for dramatic effect, “syphilis.”
“I... think you mean ‘symbiosis’?” Free Verse suggested when Ditch, ritualistically, put his new, wondrous shovel in its rightful place. She remained there, powerful and stoic.
“Yeah, that too,” Ditch agreed with the ghost’s words, gently stroking the dark oak handle and leather wrappings. They felt warm.
He smiled amorously. He loved her very much too.
Free Verse appeared in the edge of Ditch’s vision as his stare lingered on the tool. “You... seem to truly care about it.”
A shrug and a bashful smile answered the phantom first. The bond between a caretaker and a shovel was a delicate one... almost intimate.
“Well, ya know, we all have our little affections and crushes and all that... I like my job, she is helping me with it, so we kinda... click.”
“Not... really what I had in mind...” Free Verse responded, flummoxed. His expression strangely fell for a second, only to return to genuine interest right after. “... but, I suppose it is deeply connected to you special talent, so I think I can comprehend that.”
“Damn right it is!” Ditch replied with a big, happy smile which invaded his muzzle. “Might be weird for a specter of a proper pony like you, but working here, at the Cemetery, is like a dream come true! Reasonable hours, docile clients...”
“I... could see the appeal,” the phantom poet agreed, giving the shovel another look, then approaching the table and giving the selection of bottles a glance too. “Leaves you with a lot of time to explore your... other passions as well, I guess.”
Ditch plopped down on the small stool by the table, which creaked invitingly. “Mhm! And I would ask you to indulge too,” he responded, grabbing one of the drinks lovingly, “but I have just mopped the floor and all.”
“Funny...” The ghost moved to pass through the table to take place on the opposite side.
Sudden and ingenious idea!
“Wait, wait!” Ditch stopped him with a frantic wave. He put the chose bottle back down on the wood. Right in Free Verse’s path. “Okay, continue like you wanted now!”
The wraith looked perplexed, but went on, his spectral form easily traversing through the wood and the glass.
And the liquor inside. And if Ditch’s calculations were correct...!
He quickly reacquainted himself with the bottle and took a big, eager swig. “Oh, praise the jewel in the bottle!”
“What? What happened?”
Ditch let out a long, uproarious laugh. Eureka! Huzzah! More fancy-shmancy expressions of joy!
The gloriously cold drink went past his throat and right into his waiting belly! And he could not be happier about this ghastly ice and alcoholic fire marriage.
“Oh, I like you, you can stay! You chilled my drink!”
Free Verse blinked, then groaned and slammed his muzzle down on the table... which would have worked better if he had not gone straight through the surface. “Great, fantastic and stupendous, but we were supposed to focus on actually discussing getting me out of here, not finding a use for my... predicament!”
Ditch just chuckled, taking another gulp. “Sure, Ice Chest, I know. That’ll still be thing, cause you are ruining the decor of the place even if you are useful! Though, when life gives you spectral lemons, you make a haunted lemonade!”
The ghost actually cracked a smile. “Alright, alright, I get it... so...”
“So...”
So... the silence decided to steal the spotlight for a moment. Ditch had to admit, he had no idea how to make ghosts go away. Usually his own, strange apparitions were leaving as soon as he sobered up. But this was another matter entirely.
“So...” With the word of the moment he took another swig, the heat nicely spreading all over him already. “You are here for a reason. And we don’t know what it is...”
Free Verse nodded, his eyeless gaze empty. Like usual. “Indeed. Which is most troubling.”
“What do we know? What do you remember?”
“About myself...? M... most things, I’d say. My name, my works, my flat... Though... the last year seems to be rather blurry...” Free Verse mused out loud.
“Yes, yes... I’d guess whatever caused you to stay here, might have happened then...” Ditch tried to make the miraculous, warm feeling gather in his brain through the power of slow intoxication. “I would go and bet that... if you have not just gone... you have something not finished, or a matter not resolved. Unless you just wanted to stay to be a jerk. A ghost-jerk.”
Free Verse huffed. “Never in my life tried to be an... inconvenience, especially to such a friendly pony like you, so that’s not it. And I actually wanted to cease, remember?”
“Ah, yeah, all the a... acrobatic diving into water without water...” Ditch agreed with another, wonderful gulp that truly went straight into his head. Extensive discipline and training on his part. “Mmmm... Did you at least do a fancy flip?”
“... excuse you?!”
“Well you know, you were goin’ down already, you’re a pegasus, I thought you would at least give a show. Or shtrike a funny pose on the pavement.”
Free Verse looked like he was ready to fancy flip the table, but that was beyond his reach for the moment, so he just let out a moan that made even the bottles nearby clink in fear.
“Contrary to your belief, when you are planning on killing yourself you don’t really pay attention to going out with a laugh!”
“Egoist,” Ditch replied, chuckling. The buzzing in his brain was nice and getting nicer. “You sh... should have gone for something like, I don’t know... this?”
He raised his hoof up, fully extending his foreleg. Eyes closed, face tensed up dramatically. Pose confident, like celebrating an extraordinary feat.
... for some reason, Ditch felt a sudden need of sprouting a mighty moustache too!
“You see?” he asked, letting out a small hic. “Show... show that you were under pressure but you were a champion, my friend. That you wanted to break free, but the show must go on, regardless!” he instructed with a wide, honest smile. “I know, I know, who wants to live forever, but your way, it was just... another one bites the dust and all...”
Free Verse grimaced, still not looking convinced. “Are you sure you getting drunk stupid will help us here?”
“It’s a... a crazy little thing called liquor! And, trusht me, it will help! Honeshtly, ponies would have paid more attention to your death with a h-hic-sterical chalk outline!”
The ghost was about to protest again, but suddenly shuddered and his outlines seemed to... crystallize. Clarify. “Paid... attention? Ponies...? Some... pony?” he muttered, his lips parting, his spectral brows knitted.
Hah, see, oh ye of little faith? Ditch did not even need the alcohol to spot that they were onto something now!
... he still drank more though! His enlightenment for tonight was for the good of another!
“Are we g... gettin’ there, bub?” he asked, blinking one eye, then the other. Because, come to think of it, blinking both at the same time was dangerous. Why would you blind yourself for a moment...? This way was way safer.
Pity those incredible thoughts and concepts were locked deep in Ditch’s brain until he reached for the Key of Spirits!
Speaking of spirits, Free Verse seemed to be awakening from the sudden stupor. “There... there is something there, I think, but... I...” he muttered, trying to focus.
“Sho... You wanted attention, huh...?” Another swig. Quick one, cause the bottle was starting to malfunction and grow empty. “From a shpeshific shomepony, may-per-be-probably-hapsh?”
“I... think?” The ghost tilted his head. “That... that makes sense, somehow, but...”
Ditch tilted his head more, resting it on the table. No phantom would out-tilt him in his own house! “Shee...? We will... get to the bottom of thish in no time! Just like one... one... getsh to the bottom... of the bottle!”
“I... still do not recall who, or why...” Free Verse admitted, blinking and paying full attention to matters around him again. “Are... you alright?”
Ditch nodded, which resembled rubbing his muzzle on the table, but worked just as fine. “Y... yeah... meditatin’.”
“That looks like... deep contemplation.”
“B... besht of the besht one! Worksh e... every night!” came a sloshed, but happy reply.
“Wait, you...” The wraith looked concerned, as much as an eyeless apparition could. “You drink like this every night...?”
“Yesh... Very yesh...” Ditch revealed, lifting his muzzle up, though it weighed a ton for no reason. He was not going to keep holding it up. “You... Look, shometimesh you wish to remember... shometimesh you want to forget... The circle of life!” he shouted, he sang with the full force of his lungs, causing even the phantom to wince.
Bleh, at least... at least the Royal Guard did not wince at him singing, all nice and professional! Him?! Pfah... ghost-jerk, indeed...
“Anything... specific you are trying to forget?” Free Verse seemed keen on pressing the topic out of a sudden.
Ditch waved his hoof. Bugger, it made the bottle malfunction a bit more, the liquor consecrating the table. “What... what is thish, an intervention?!”
“No, just... you are trying to help me... somewhat, so I thought that maybe I can help you out in return?”
“Oh... Sho kind! How about... you help by... by getting your transhparent rump out of my Shemetery!” Ditch moaned, resting his forehead on the table. It was soft and warm and all... However... “A shplattered poet triesh to help me out! Joy and... and...!”
With that fervent, though unfinished sentence, Ditch decided that the best thing to do was to rethink his life for a couple of hours, based on the solid foundation.
So, right there and then, on the floor.
Mr Bed and Mrs Mattress could have their very own tryst tonight... hah, and with a ghost watching!
“Pfft... ghost-jerk...” Ditch muttered, finding this funny for some reason, just before his vision went dark.
Ditch grimaced and groaned, slowly coming to. This sound was... nauseating! It was piercing his brain with the strength of a thousand. Of a million! A million strong! What... what was the meaning of this?! His shack must have been under attack!
Man the harpoons! Repel the invaders! Huzzah—
Ditch hissed as a lightning bolt of a headache crossed from one of his temples to the other. His valiant thoughts were way too valiant.
Something had to be done about this intrusion, though. A daring nuisance coming from the outside? And at this hour?!
Sigh. Step by step, old chap, step by step. Thirst... no, “first” things first, second things second, and all that jazz...
Ditch focused all of his might and power. He needed to manage the impossible. He took a deep, fatigued breath of air and dust, he gathered the strength of ancient powers within him... And a one, and a two...!
... and he lifted one of his eyelids. He glanced left – floor. He glanced right – floor. He glanced up – brown mane... oh, and floor too.
Faced with such irrefutable evidence, he had to draw the logical conclusion.
He had become one with the floor.
... or he was just on it. That kinda made sense too.
He inhaled deeply, another breath of dust and dirt entering his lungs, causing him to cough heartily. His time of enlightenment and rest was over, it seemed. If he found himself back in the imperfect material world, more so resting on the wooden low point of it too, that meant he had entered the dreaded Path of Hangover. The dangers of this terrible journey back from spiritual and spirituous Nirvana were many and perilous, and Ditch had a feeling that the banging on the windows was but one of the obstacles that were waiting for him today.
Speaking of which... with a moan of protest coming from his body, soul and heart, he somehow managed to roll on his back fully and glance the way of the unbearable ruckus.
Oh, of course... Who else could it have been?
No, not good padre Last Rites telling Ditch that he was late for a funeral. First of all, that hadn’t happened yet and was never going to. Second, there were no funerals scheduled for today from what Ditch could somehow recall.
So, if it wasn’t everypony’s favorite sky pilot, it must have been... yes, of course.
Sunrays.
That banging on the glass was sunrays. Ramming themselves against the invisible target constantly, like a swarm of dumb flies. Even though the window was, in this instant, quite visible and distinctively brownish.
Ditch needed to do something about those pests one day... Maybe a net, or... oh, a sticky ribbon! Now that was an idea! Let them come in and glue themselves to it, he could then keep those little blighters and hang them up during the night to save some lamp oil!
He could write about that to Her Royal Majesty, Princess Dyslexia! Maybe she had recommendations for the type of sticky ribbons to use, her being responsible for this scourge and all...
Before any of that, as it had been established already, Ditch had to deal with his low position. He braced, his muscles as sluggish as his head. Something cracked in his spine, a sound that ripped his tender ears to pieces. He endured it, though, and managed to sit up.
Oh, great, now what?! Somepony grabbed his shack and started to spin it, huh?! Going round and round and... and...
Oh, Gravity, thou art a heartless b—
Ditch retched, almost falling back over, but kept the contents of his stomach in, somehow. He had to face the wrath of that particular harlot before the balance of the world could be restored.
She seemed particularly nasty today. Had he stood her up last night, or...?
Wait... wait, wait, wait.
Ditch scratched his head fiercely, hopefully slaying at least a louse. Something... something was off about his memories. They felt like they had been from a couple months back instead of yesterday, but... no, that was not it. No... he... he met somepony.
Oh, sweet, he must have had a date! How many years had it been?
... however, their face was all... transparent-like. And spooky. And...
... oh bols!
Using the fact that the shack was still slightly tilting, Ditch looked around trying to match its pace. He did not need another reminder of that hayburger. And yet, despite expecting to see the unwanted and transparent obvious, he found no trace of his ghastly companion.
Huh... well, maybe Free Verse actually managed to get his spectral rump out of the cemetery, figuring out his plights and all? That would have been nice. Not that Ditch hated company, since the place was rather populated at this point in its history, but there was a distinctive difference between the dead and the not-so-quite-dead-but-still-dead-and-yet-not-so-much-dead-although-dead...
... urgh, his brain was rolling no worse than his stomach.
And an idea bubbled up from that waxing and waning, actually. Maybe... maybe Ditch just had too much to drink and started seeing things? I mean, he saw things rather often, but they were busy with parades, hippety-hoppety, and not talking with him and criticizing his drinking!
Who could tell?
... wait, actually, there was somepony. Similarly disparaging to that apparition, but possibly appropriate.
Wasting little time to clean himself up, because, to be honest, who had time for this on a daily basis, Ditch draped himself in his fatigued, sturdy cloak. He took his shovel in his hooves, with veneration and adoration. She had quickly become dear to him, yet was perhaps even dearer today... She would make sure that a freshly-dug hole would not become Ditch’s destination in his, slightly wobbly trot.
Because it was one thing to take care of the inhabitants, but sharing their living space... “dying” space... “having-dying” space, rather, was uncouth.
Dauntlessly, for dealing with his disposition was a doughty deed, Ditch dived deep into his diurnal duties, digging, dusting and disinfecting his delightful domain of the departed.
... definitely departed!
Locked in his duties, he was actually hoping to stumble upon his local patron and plight. Not that he did not appreciate the good padre and his efforts to console the grieving and conduct ceremonies, but... religious differences and all of that.
They shared this land, holy for the both of them, peace should have been the top priority, right? Right?
Thankfully, whilst Ditch was taking care of some weeds that tried to sneak their way from underneath the gravel paths, the rather bright, immaculate mane of Last Rites definitely-not-sneaked its way from between the gravestones.
“Padre!” Ditch shouted quite eagerly... soon regretting it in his head.
“Ah, Spadework, good day,” the unicorn replied somewhat cautiously, giving him a once-over. “I see you are... eagerly back to your tasks, without much regard for your own well-being. Again.”
Ditch checked his cloak and his hooves. Some dust, an equal measure of dirt, a smidgen of a cobweb, a pinch of... whatever that one was. Fair wear and tear, what was so wrong about it?
“You know me, padre, giving my all for the community, right? I live by their silent appreciation!”
“Quite so,” Last Rites warily agreed, his gaze betraying his lack of understanding.
Huh, and here Ditch thought ponies of the cloth were supposed to be kind, helpful, open to others and providing all the succor. Not intolerant, condemnatory bigots...
Sigh. Maybe in other, distant realms and worlds they remembered their true mission.
“Well, yeah, anyway...” Ditch looked about for witnesses, but the closest mourner was nowhere to be found. “I... actually wanted to ask you something, padre. Or, I should say, ‘Reverend’, cause its sorta, kinda, your thing?”
To say that Last Rites’ eyes lit up was to be disrespectful to light and to eyes at the same time. The unicorn’s gaze could rival those swarms of sunlight from the morning, now far less loud, but far more hot.
“Oh? You wish spiritual guidance, Ditch? Maybe about what we covered yesterday?”
Ditch just planted his shovel down, leaning on it a little. Support of loved ones was paramount in strange moments of life.
“Well, not really, but... uhm...”
“Please, be plain, child!” Last Rites encouraged him with a gentle expression.
Hah! Now he was gentle! What a twist!
“I mean, I was... ah...”
Haunted by a ghost? No.
Visited by a spirit? No.
Drinking spirit? Well, yes, but that was not the topic.
“... I was wondering about the... the dead.”
The unicorn cocked his eyebrow. “That is understandable when being at any place of burial, child.”
“Yeah, I know, Reverend, I am not saying I forget about them, they are a very nice clientele,” Ditch admitted. They were, usually, really delightful... aside from his latest punter. “I just wondered, like... what happens then?”
Last Rites blinked. “When?”
“Then-then.”
“I... what ‘then-then’?”
Ditch wanted to answer.
His knees buckled.
He keeled over, holding his heart.
He heard Last Rites’ confused and scared shout, but he could only collapse on the gravel, harking and heaving. Tossing and turning.
“Spadework! What is the matter?!”
It was too late. Far too late.
With a cry no louder than a mouse’s squeal, Ditch lay spread on the pathway, his eyes bulging, his tongue hanging from his mouth.
“Ditch! Ditch!” Last Rites was shaking him fiercely, panicked out of his mind.
... no reason why, Ditch was just trying to give him a visual clue.
“Then-then-then,” he stated, calmly glancing at the unicorn, who exhaled in a yell, slumping down on the fine rocks and wiping his sweaty forehead.
“Ditch, you varmint, you scared me to death!”
“There we go, you got it, padre!” Ditch replied, smiling and getting up, healthy as could be. “I knew you just needed a hint!”
The unicorn was fanning himself with his hoof, shaking his head. “Good Harmony, for what misdeeds?!” he asked the sky, but it remained above the issue. Ditch patiently waited for the padre to regain composure and color to his muzzle. “Well...” He cleared his throat after checking the state of his robes. “If you are asking me about afterlife, Ditch, I could invite you to a catechesis and I could—”
Ditch took a step back and waved his forelegs, taking his turn in getting panicked. “Wow, wow, wow, padre, you are a fine stallion, but I’m not swinging that way!”
The nerve!
Last Rites took a while, but finally planted a hoof on his face. At his own shame, rightfully so! “I... I won’t even try to discern where your thoughts wandered, Spadework.”
“I will tell you exactly, padre,” Ditch replied, getting this conversation back on its respectable track! “I wondered if you could, like... come back?”
“From beyond?”
“Yeah! Like, a ghost, or phantom, or some other malarkey.” The matter was made clear and purified of strange suggestions!
The unicorn huffed, taking care of his fringe, which ended up quite disheveled in the last minute. “There have been many claims about apparitions coming to haunt places dear to them, or visiting their relatives, but as much as we believe that spirits of the departed persist after their bodies’ deaths and venture to the afterlife, we know that those tales are nothing short of folklore, child. For once you cross that point of no return, you find pleasure and satisfaction like no other and join with Harmony in perfect, profound unison.”
... what kind of a raunchy religion was that?! Ditch was not interested in... in “unisoning” of any sort right now! And especially not one like that! Everybody with this one mare?!
Perversion!
He got his answer in the middle of this obscenity, but still...!
Calm, calm... Praise the jewel in the bottle, praise the jewel in the bottle.
As Ditch was trying to find inner peace and avoid temptations of this most vile sort, Last Rites turned to him again.
“Why are you asking, exactly? I wouldn't think anything, let alone fables of ghosts, could spook a grown stallion like you.”
Was he still teasing?! “That’s not it! Actually, I don’t want to know anymore!”
The Reverend took a step back with indignation. “Control yourself, Caretaker Spadework! Have you enjoyed spirits already today?!”
“No, and I don’t plan to! No spirits of any sort!” Ditch stomped his massive hoof down, causing gravel to shoot out in all directions.
“Good! Good,” Last Rites first shouted and then... approved with some satisfaction, though still visibly shaken by the outbursts. “Go... sit down in the shade for a moment, take off that coat of yours, the Sun must be getting to you,” he advised, turning to leave. “And remember about the funeral tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah...” Ditch grumbled under his breath, grabbing the shovel and heading the other way, abashed by everything.
He spent the rest of the day trying to wrap his head around what he had heard. Not the saintly smut stuff, but the part about there being no ghosts of any sort... so, had happened yesterday, exactly? Some sort of a very, very complex hallucination? Maybe he needed to ask Well Oiled about any unsavory additions to his moonshine! Ditch expected reliability and trustworthiness!
Speaking of which, thanks to his unswerving tool, he had just finished preparing the new grave for tomorrow, the sun having set but a couple of minutes ago. He wiped the sweat of his brow, pushing aside the tangled bush of his mane. He spent the entire day so busy, he almost forgot about his own, proper rites and obligations! After such good work, he was going to calmly get to his shack and meditate and maybe forget all about this strange—
Well, sometimes words were just not enough to show irritation. In these few, desperate moments, such nonsense as grammar, sentence structure and logical expression evaporated like pure booze from a bottle left opened. Usually Ditch would be there to stop such a terrible fate and just chug the contents before even a whiff was lost, but at that moment? Oh, he was furious just enough for his thoughts not to even follow a metaphor and make a witty observation on life properly.
And he hadn’t even started meditating properly that evening!
“Neither am I overjoyed that I am back here! Again!” the newest Phantom of the Cemetery added his own complaint, following Ditch despite his non-grammatical protests.
“What do I care, just pass the point of no return! That’s all I ask of you!”
“Oh, are you convinced you were not wishing I was somehow here again?!” the ghost teased. Like, actually teased. And Ditch would even be appreciative of the banter, but not with a see-through specter!
And one insistent on following him, like a stalker too! Why oh why? Ditch was an innocent, uniquely shy pony, one that did nothing wrong, was a pillar of society and gave of the aura of a good heart and a soft soul! Why would a stalker ever be interested in somepony like th—
Actually. No, that made far too much sense.
Still an unpleasant fascination to be the receiving part of! And when your pursuer was supernatural, nonetheless. At least, as Ditch hoped, he would not be dead by daylight.
“Are you just going to keep running away?” Free Verse asked like the world’s most exasperated murderer, with his voice echoing all over the necropolis. “This gets us nowhere!”
“At least stop wailing, would you?! If I get a noise complaint, how am I going to explain it to the Royal Guard, huh?” Ditch declared, turning around with enough momentum to have gravel fly about like he was flaring a geomantic cape. Yes, he was good at earthbending, but not that good. He still needed the shovel, which he planted like a stop sign into the pathway. “ ‘Oh, excuse the spooky noises officer, I had a recently departed rhymer materialize out of nowhere and, for the love of Harmony, the schmuck could not shut the... schmuck up.”
Free Verse floated to a stop, obeying the recently implemented Law of Shovel... which all looked as ridiculous as it sounded in Ditch’s head. He then gently hovered a few trots away. His expression was definitely unpleasant, not that apparitions could look that alluring anyway.
“I’m sure they would write that off as your drunken imbecility,” he hissed through his see-through teeth, which strangely only made the words more biting.
“You...!”
Ditch paused and squinted one eye in thought... Ding-dang-do Don Q, that was not inaccurate. How did he know that the Royal Guard was so disinterested in listening the plights of Equestria’s inebriated citizens? It was borderline discrimination, it had to be said! Anypony from that special, temporary societal group approaching an officer of the law was treated as a second-grade national! The outrage! So what if they sometimes behaved like deviants, even?
Thankfully, like in Detrot, they started doing something about it! He had heard the campaign was called “Become Pony” or something. About damn time!
So, Free Verse was at least correct in his insult, Ditch had to admit. “You, as I already started saying, you are not wrong, no.” He then shook his head, his clay mane reaching a whole new level of unkempt and chaotic. And so perfectly reflecting the state of the thoughts buried deeply underneath it. “Alright, alright... praise the jewel in the bottle and all that jazz,” he uttered, trying his best to focus. “We had this talk before, it gets us nowhere, right?” He pointed before him, at the hauntingly obvious. “Chase in point.”
“It is ‘case in point’... but I respect the pun. No, not even that, but you’re right anyway,” the wraith agreed begrudgingly. Did he really have any choice, the spook? “I, myself, overreacted. So, for what it’s worth... I’m sorry I’m again bothering you.”
“Yeah, yeah, apology accepted,” Ditch waved his hoof around. Kind of hoping that he could shoo the haunt away like an annoying mosquito, but that was wishful thinking. At least this nuisance did not seem to be out for blood. “So, you’re really still here... Again. But where were you during the whole day? For a moment I did think I just went nuts yesterday night and, as you can imagine, it was like a dark night of the soul! ... only it was day. And it was quite bright actually, since, you know, sun and stuff.”
The dead poet furrowed his brow, thinking intently. “I’m... I don’t know. You weren’t much of a conversation partner after you passed out, so I just... stayed around at first...”
Ditch grimaced, rolling his eyes. “Do you like watching me sleep? Is it fascinating?”
And, hysterically, causing Free Verse to back away just like that. “N... no? Where did that come from?”
“Some silly book I’ve tried reading once. A poor filly stuck with just one facial expression in a strange romance triangle with a hot timberwolf and a cold, though somehow still hot, walking corpse. I think it was called... ‘Sparkle’? Like the Princess?”
“I think I heard of that one...? But I really don’t want to know,” the ghost protested, ironically frightened.
“Yeah, I was more than happy to toss whatever that one was into the supermassive black hole of the nearest sewer gate. Maybe a clown will find it there!” Ditch mused with intensity that seemed to have mentally scarred the wraith.
“At... any rate,” Free Verse continued, trying to materialize the correct topic once more. “The sun was rising and I just... I’m not sure. It felt like I was falling asleep against my will.”
“And not in the, how to put it, really-convenient-because-permanent-way-that-we-both-hope-for-but-me-even-more kind of way?”
The apparition took a moment to comprehend but finally did shrug. “Yes. Seems like that.”
“Shame, I’d say. Not only about you not resting in peace. I think you could really use some sunlight. Does wonders to the coat,” Ditch proclaimed, showing off the grey of his legs, tempered by work under Princess Dyslexia’s very sun. “You’re thinning out more than a Trottinghamian accountant.”
“Urgh, no. Those are usually a bit more monstrous than me, even in this state,” Free Verse pointed out, looking over himself. “I don’t have scales anywhere, do I?”
“At least that’s a transparent ‘no’,” Ditch replied, leaning against his shovel. “So, the light of day made you go ‘poof’ until the sunset? Oh!” He slammed his forehead. “No, I don’t mean it in the way they mean it there.”
“I sure hope not,” Free Verse shook his head. “It’s rather uncouth otherwise. But, yes, I suddenly opened my eyes—”
“You don’t have ‘em.”
“... fine. Opened my ‘eyeholes’ and I was next to my very own grave. So I thought I would go and find you for the lack of a better solution. Or a better thing to do.”
Ditch rubbed his chin. His tools warming presence definitely helped deal with this continuously bizarre stumper. “Right. Right... Riiiiight...”
“Are you thinking of something specific, or trying to remember what we have established last night about me appearing like that in your cemetery?”
“Riiiiiiiiight...”
Free Verse sighed, the sound of which could chill to the bone. “You don’t remember at all, do you?”
“What?! Nah, nah, I remember, it just feels like it has been two and a half years,” Ditch admitted. “But! I’m sure a swig or two of good ol’ hooch will freshen my memory!” he declared with the tone of an expert on the matter. One that he was, certainly. He got the flask out from his coat and was about to take a gulp... but stopped himself. This could have been better. “Mind being a refrigerator again?”
The ghost groaned with the accompaniment of sounds straight from the depths of Tartarus... but obliged and moved his foreleg forth. Ditch gently submerged the flask in the whatever substance Free Verse was currently made of and soon a deliciously chilled liquor was making its way down his parched throat.
Wasn’t that better than just wailing and whining? This at least affected drinks, not frame of mind!
“Not that I’m complaining... which I kind of am, but that’s beside the point – couldn’t you have haunted a restaurant? Oh, or an ice rink? They could have used a cold piece of work like you there!”
Free Verse tried rolling his eyes which did less than nothing. He really needed to pay more attention to his predicament!
“This wasn’t much by choice, I remind you. But, that... is a good question. Do you think I can just... leave from here? Float away freely?”
“That... is a very good question!” Ditch admitted, grabbing the shovel and putting it over his shoulder, like a soldier ready to march out pronto. “How about we test it? See if you can just mosey out of here! But! But! But!” he waved his hoof about, seeing Free Verse ready to follow. “Let’s... find the more secluded part of the cemetery wall, alright? Not that I would not want to see somepony outside suddenly being subjected to you, Macabre Manifestation, but... do we really need that kind of notoriety, M&M?”
“Well—”
“Wait! You were a poet, right? And you can tell me on the way – didn’t you have that already? The fame, the fanfare, other f-words?” Ditch asked aloud, pointing in the safest direction from prying eyes of the living. Well, living outside of here, not living in general.
He didn’t want to sound too inclusive, after all! He was happy, being tolerated by the local populace of dead and buried... and, as it happened, one reckless, buoyant malcontent, but he understood his position. He guided others to the leisure he could not possess.
“So?”
Free Verse diligently floated by, his expression as transparent as inscrutable... which would have been a delicious irony if it hadn’t been for the ghastly obvious.
“I... don’t think I gathered any of that in the last year which I cannot quite recall. Before that?” He clicked with his tongue, which was enough to make a nearby raven, that had nodded, nearly napping on a tombstone, panic and fly beak-first into another grave. “Poetry is... not really about gathering fame and a following. It’s more about expressing oneself, searching for, not even finding, one’s own truth. Life, a river that flows, untamed and free, knowing not where it is going, yet glad to just be...”
Ditch grimaced as if he had drunk herbal medicine through his ears. A non-alcohol based one, nonetheless. “Well... not to be unpleasant, but was the river hitting a concrete, Hoofer dam of a pavement an epitaphy you sought?”
“It’s ‘epiphany’.”
“Bless you.”
Free Verse groaned hauntingly. “And, again, I don’t know. Last year is all fogged up in my mind. I suppose I must have had a reason, but...”
“Would dying of no income be too mainstream for you?”
“I always had enough to get by,” the ghost shrugged. “Never cared for... for riches...”
He again stopped in midair, considering something.
Huh, maybe he did start caring! Ditch took that pause for a good sign, taking the chance to subject himself to another, rejuvenating swig. The power of powers would refresh his mind before clouding it wonderfully!
“Alright, looks to me like we just got another piece of your final swan dive puzzle. Something about money.”
Free Verse shook his head, awakening from the stupor. “Seems... so, yes. Though it’s perplexing. The allure of bits never really spoke to me.” He glanced at Ditch curiously. At the old coat. And the frazzled mane. And all. “I suppose you also don’t really care for that? With all due respect back.”
“Nah! Who cares? Enough to have over your head a roof and in your work a hoof!” Ditch announced, then blinked. “Oh, for Guinness’ sake, it’s contagious! In your hoof a work! Gah!”
He took the shovel and swirled it between the two of them like a baton. His orchestra played the overture of parting earth and the opera of shifting soil, but the music was beautiful nonetheless. And, hopefully, a salvation from Free Verse’s dreadful influence!
“One thing I don’t like,” Ditch tried to return to the question to dispel any bewitchment of balladry, “it’s them stuck-ups that see their only reason for living in bits. Let me tell you, their crypts might be fancy, but a rich stiff is still just a stiff. And I know a lot about stiffs! Of all kinds!” He accentuated with the final jingle of that most unique of instruments, the hip flask.
Free Verse nodded, keeping social distancing. Mostly due to the swinging shovel, but still! “We... are in a rare enough agreement, so I’d say I am quite happy about that...” he admitted and something of a smile danced on his lips.
“Hey, hey, I know we’re all buddy-buddy, but I’m still trying to get you going... or, to put it more elegantly, ‘help you out of the goodness of my heart to find blissful, eternal rest in the embrace of Harmony’. And it’s not poetry!” Ditch warned outright. “Just something that padre would say. Though I need to warn you, that is some depraved stuff!”
“I don’t know. I feel something lyrical in those words.”
“I rescind that fancy statement, you need to get going,” Ditch corrected himself. Such aberrant ideas as, like padre Last Rights put it, ‘joining with Harmony in perfect, profound unison’ were seriously offending his sensibility and putting his tolerance to the test. And poetry was permeating those?! Reprehensible!
Thankfully, he had a way out of that twisted topic! “Now’s as good time as ever to see just that! We’re here!”
Indeed. Their talk had lead them swiftly alongside a number of the cemetery quarters and they found themselves before the distant wall of the place. The very far end, quite away from the nearest city district. An old set of sturdy bricks covered with plaster and pampered to look presentable. A border between the final and the going-to-be-final eventually.
But Free Verse stopped for a moment, looking to the side and not precisely at his target. The orderly set of wooden boards, making their way from the old gravel path caught his fleeting-floating attention.
“What are those?”
“Those?” Ditch looked after the wraith’s non-existent gaze. “Ah, yes, this is the Beggar’s Row. Interesting crowd, you know? Origin-wise, character-wise, wisdom-wise,” he revealed... and something of a soft, peaceful smile danced on his lips, he felt. He wasn’t surprised.
He pointed at the first grave. “Here’s Mr. Milksop, first to start the brawl and first to get out. Then there’s Eight Ball. ‘Better living through chemistry’ kind a colt. And that’s Dust Bunny, she cleaned the streets for years, not a word of complaining. And Two Times, worst smuggler in Equestria, I heard. But he didn’t care, cause ‘glory to Equestria, the greatest country’.
“There, with that little pinwheel in the grass? That’s Humdinger, inventor. They called him ‘Trash Panda’. Lollygag ‘Lulu’ right after, heard she was a sweet, charming filly, even though she trotted the streets. Speaking of which - Hocus Pocus, performer, magician, lovable rogue. Then there’s Bushwhacker, he was a veteran, lost a wing. Rubber Stamp, clerk, had a thing for theater once. Carte Blanche, nopony knew what he was about other than that he was Prench... I could keep naming them.”
Free Verse listened with utmost care. Or at least it appeared so. “You... know all of them? And you said this is ‘Beggar’s Row’?”
Ditch chuckled a little, taking a hearty swig from the flask. To their health. “A little bit about everypony, you know? Poor chums, all of them. Either had no family left, or it couldn’t even spare the bits to afford a proper burial. Anypony like that ending up here is given a small, simple resting place thanks to city funding and yours truly,” he explained, though he didn’t fill his voice with pride. It was just a job. Important one, but... come on, how could he compete with a war veteran, an inventor... any of them, really. “You know, even the lowliest of the low should get due rest, right? Especially when their whole life was a struggle?”
Free Verse said nothing at first, simply nodded his spectral head in deep thought. “That... also sounds almost poe—”
Ditch chuckled lightly, his expression that of elation and deep satisfaction over his place in the world.
“I will slug you with this here shovel,” he proclaimed serenely. “I like this place, don’t you ruin it for me.”
Ditch actually liked this place a lot. And not only for the reasons of otherworldly fairness manifested in even the smallest burials. He honestly thought that all those residents got the best seats... well, beds in the house. A unique opportunity, being positioned as they were. For behind the concrete curtain, that frontier between life and expiration date, the slope of the Canterlot mountain did start. And the view, especially if one had the indecency to climb up a little and sit on the edge of the wall... Oh, it was to die for.
Quite literally, as it could have been foreseen that falling off this perch and rolling down the decline at high speed was not the most survivable of ideas. And yet, on the way down, one would have a most splendid view of the valleys surrounding the capital and its faithful mountain. At that time, the early moonlight was turning the landscape positively eerie, as Ditch imagined, recalling the sight quite vividly. The distant towns and villages with their lights illuminating the space. Just like clusters of lively, warm fireflies underneath clusters of starry, cold fireflies.
Ten million fireflies.
You’d think Ditch rude, but he would just stand and stare.
He’d like to make himself believe that Free Verse too would have the unique pleasure of witnessing the imagery as soon as he would get his see-through rump outside.
But he was rather keen on just standing nearby. Well, “remaining” nearby. Standing was for the living, definitely.
“Well?” Ditch spurred him on. “Go, try it. It’s just a wall.”
“I mean... I did not really try to fly in this... form,” Free Verse revealed, looking terribly uncertain. Kind of understandable, his last taking to the air went down rather clumsily. “I supposed I could get some height and go over, yes?”
“Yeah. Or you could stop over-thinking it and just drift on!”
As if nervous to meet a sweetheart, the expired poet looked at Ditch and then floated forth a little. He stopped an inch from the solid surface and tried to take a deep breath, despite his lungs not really being there to cooperate.
Ditch rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on! It cannot be hard. Both metaphorically and literally, I guess. I already cut you in half with my door once!”
“Y... yes, that is true, but it was sudden and now I...” Free Verse hesitated. Far too much for anypony’s taste. “It’s... it’s like I don’t want to, but... The more I... I think... This... is so bizarre.”
He even chuckled like a panicked colt.
Ditch rolled his eyes. What was about to happen was bound to definitely be bizarre.
He just hoped they were away enough from anypony awake. Awake and breathing. One exception to the general, existence’s Rule of Dead and Done was enough.
“Boo!”
Free Verse yelped aloud and sprang forward, urged so masterfully by Ditch’s best attempt at a switcheroo with the wraith. One that resulted, definitely, in merging the wallflower with the actual wall. Social engineering at its finest!
“Well, that was easy!” came to Ditch the natural conclusion, expertly followed by a victorious swig.
That is, until Free Verse’s form suddenly reappeared from the obstacle with quite the speed and the two of them collided hard. Or they would have so, if not for the issue in transparency. Both of intentions and the essence, as it happened.
It was like diving straight first into cold water. Dreadful. Shocking.
Sobering.
In protest over his values of Boozeism being so contemptuously challenged, Ditch decided to hold firmly to the truth by losing his grip on consciousness.
It was so unbelievably and unpleasantly cold Ditch simply had to do something about it! Outrage!
Outrage manifested in opening his eyes first. Not that it helped with temperature, but at least he could tell where this unbearable chill was coming from!
Firstly, a specter was watching over him. Visibly distraught over whether he hadn’t just died and joined him on the other side of the Great Unknown. Great Unknown Kinda Lately Known, actually.
Interesting, to say the least, a dead bloke not wanting another bloke dead. Endearing, even, Ditch would say.
Secondly, Free Verse not only looked worried, but was visibly preparing to do something that every reasonable pony would attempt in such a situation. For he leaned in, his eyeless voids warm, gentle. Intense. His expression was one of caring and his lips were closing in, in search of Ditch’s own. Ready to be joined in that most romantic way of resuscitation.
... nope!
With the proficiency of a Royal Guard in a muddy training camp, Ditch rolled to the side, skillfully dodging even this life-saving smooching.
“Oh!” Free Verse exclaimed in surprise. “Thank Harmony, you’re still alive!”
“Yes, but excuse me, honey, I have a headache!” an audible and clear protest was made.
“Huh?”
Ditch followed the rolling theme with his eyes, which was that much more convincing when it came to disinterest. Especially when conjoined with his sideways, defensive position on the ground.
He even quickly located his shovel and covered himself as much as possible with it and the coat. To make absolutely sure no consent was given.
“Look, I have my rugged charms but no, I don’t think so. I’m saying ‘no’.”
Free Verse stood there for a moment before something of a realization invaded the endless voids that he would call “eyes”.
“I wasn’t trying to kiss you! I was trying to revive you!”
“Yeah, right! It starts with reviving and ends in the morning with waking up to some very bad choices!” Ditch replied, getting up onto his hooves. “Besides – revive me with what lungs and what air?”
The specter hesitated. He was clearly caught red-hoofed, hah! “Well...! I...! I maybe didn’t think of those details, but I panicked! You fell to the ground right as I’ve thrust through you—”
“Oh, come on, without even a date first?!”
Ditch felt so disappointed. Honestly. He was a romantic stallion at heart. Yes, he really was!
True, right now his preferences lay in avoiding such matters in his life, for the sake of focusing on his career. He was a ground-breaker, after all, he needed that dedication and drive to really dig deep and entrench himself in the muck of his work to succeed!
He was not looking for romance. Additionally since, well, his shovel didn’t swing that way and he wanted to avoid causing a heartbreak. Even to a poet. Especially to a poet, poor bloke might have done something to himself if that hap—
“Eureka!” Ditch shouted aloud, which startled the spirit and possibly all other denizens of the cemetery with this declaration of support for the local chain of small drinking dens. Cute and always making ponies into philosophers sooner or later “I just had an idea!”
Free Verse managed to compose himself in record time for a wayward soul. Especially considering former bodies of those were usually doing completely the opposite.
“I’m still very confused to ask what it is, but would you... prefer to first get up from lying on the ground or...?”
“Nah, that is it!” Ditch pointed out.
“... ground?” the phantom asked, looking at him askance. Being eyeless added to the expression, actually, who knew? “Ditch, if this is yet another pun at my unfortunate death, then—”
“Oh, shush, stop thinking only about yourself! Or, actually...” Ditch paused, considering. “Actually, think a little bit about yourself. Like, about yourself before!”
“... before what?”
“The ground!”
“... I don’t follow.”
Of course he didn’t. Poets were too preoccupied with finding a rhyme to words like “ennui”, “demur”, “nevermore” and “what am I going to eat tomorrow, this is obviously not getting me enough bits to survive” to engage in logical thought!
So Ditch had to be more crass.
“Lying!”
Free Verse put a spectral hoof against his transparent chest. “Why, I’d never! I’m not lying, I don’t even know what you mean!”
“Lying!” Ditch repeated, tapping the ground.
Again, no reply to his revelation. Obviously. Sigh, alright, he had to take an even more risky and risqué approach.
So he tapped the ground more furiously. Suggestively. And when even that did not work... well, he had to use his hips in a steady, repeating motion.
Free Verse’s hollow eyes widened just enough to convince Ditch that he will actually spot irises in them... or something else that could spawn out of those dark pits.
Come to think of it... if you were gazing into the abyss and it was gazing into you and one of you winked...
“Have you gone completely nuts?!”
Well, there went Ditch’s concentration. Though the consolation price of the sentence having colloquial language did mean that some progress was made in the case.
Still not quickly enough, though.
“No, you schmuck, I got an idea about what might have happened before you smashed the ground!”
“Smash the gr—was that what this bogging charade was about?!” Free Verse moaned.
“Well, you got half the points so far,” Ditch pointed out, lifting himself with the help of his sturdy shovel and enjoying the comforting warmth of the handle. At least she was understanding!
Not like the poet. “What is the ‘other half’ about then, Ditch?!”
“Alright, calm down, calm down, you’re going to wake the dead! And, please, one is enough... Sheesh, to think one can be so transparent and dense at the same time...”
Free Verse tossed his hooves in the air and floated in a circle for a moment. Ditch, proficiently, used the same moment to take a revivifying swig before continuing with his obviously obvious idea that the ghost simply couldn’t grasp.
On the account of being a ghost, supposedly.
“Right, listen, before you get wraithin’ mad again, I think I got it. Thanks and no thanks to your attempts at kissing me.”
“I wasn’t trying to kiss you!”
“Sure, cause who can reject this?” Ditch said, striking a pose. A dirty coat, unkempt mane and bloodshot eyes pose. The best kind. “But, enough of that. I think I got it. There was somepony, wasn’t there?”
Free Verse was going to continue being mad, of course, but he suddenly stopped in place. Which looked particularly unsettling considering his was the choice to float about and all. And from that look that Ditch had already seen a couple of times, it seemed that he again hit the jackpot.
Might have been nice to do so actually, for once. But! He had a distinctive feeling that it would change him for the worse, to be affluent. Had seen it in ponies before.
The ghost remained in that suspended state for a while longer. Meant that the hit was hard, accurate and maybe, just maybe it would actually make him find a clue to his death and maybe, maybe, just maybe his currently immobile rump would phase itself right out of this here graveyard!
Ah, well, Ditch wasn’t hoping for much, right? And he wasn’t going to get it anyway, as Free Verse looked back at him finally, his face scrunched with focus.
“You... you might be onto something, Ditch.”
“I hope you don’t mean ‘boozed up’ by that, cause I barely had any.” He took a swig. “Yet. And the night is getting quite late and I still need to actually sleep, you know. Unlike you – very, very willingly!”
The ghost shook his head. “Yes, of course, it’s just... I think there must have been... somepony.”
“Yeah, exactly. Now, why would we start at somepony and end up on the pavement?” Ditch asked the obvious question... though obviously not that accurate of a question. “Wait, again – why would we start at somepony and end up down under after on the pavement?” No, still not right. “Why would we start at somepony and end up a few hooves over the ground after being down under after on the pavement?”
“I grasp what you are saying... somehow, but I don’t think I can grant you an answer yet,” the phantom replied, looking genuinely bothered by that fact.
Fantastic, maybe he was ultimately realizing that haunting a cemetery was not the nicest thing to do to a caretaker!
Unless, of course, local ponies would be alright with that. Ditch imagined that some crazy folk out there could actually entertain the possibility of having a phantom gallivanting around the graveyard, using his omnip... using his omn... using all the power of the fact that he was dead to liven up the place!
But not here! This was a cemetery in Canterlot, for Grog’s sake! And this was Ditch’s own turf. No messing around with it, especially not in the translucent and transparent fashion!
Sigh. Big sigh. And a big gulp, which always helped to forget about the melancholy.
“Well... at least we’re heading down the right road for you to hit the road,” Ditch pointed out then coughed heartily. The drink got a good kick and it was kicking the liver, alright. “Now, I don’t know about you, but this reliable shovel-driver needs to catch some sleep before tomorrow!”
“Yes, yes, I get it, but... what am I supposed to do?” the ghost asked.
“I dunno. How about some more meditating on the life’s futility and the like? Aren’t you, poets, all about that?” Ditch pointed out. “Of course, I would happily lend you some of my spiritual aids, but I’m thinking that you might not actually have the stomach for them. Metaphorically and metaphysically speaking and whatnot.”
Free Verse rolled his eyes, lamentably acknowledging the point with a skill he was getting progressively more and more proficient in. “Right. Glad I can gift you with some humor at my expense. After all, I always felt like I could just go appear on a graveyard and liven up the place.”
“Automatic no!” Ditch screamed in a volume that bothered him much, as it could bother the neighbors. “I’m not one of those crazed folk out there!”
“What are you on about now?”
“Harmony if I know!” he invoked the name of that strange, perverse goddess that the good padre worshiped. Out of sheer panic. His, not the padre’s. “No livin’ up no place! I’d very much like for this place to stay as dead as they go! With the dead being as dead as they go. Or as they ‘not-go’, cause the dead have no business going anywhere, that’s just pure trouble!”
The ghost sighed mournfully, staring up to the starlit heavens. The way only poets could. “I solemnly swear that I have nothing of the kind on my mind. I wouldn’t even know how would I do something like that... Waking other dead? That seems like a terrible idea, even to battle loneliness and existential pain...”
“Good!” Ditch celebrated, rising his shovel up towards the same sky, though his approach was far more prosaic. “Or I soberly swear that I will clonk you upside the transparent head.”
“Deal,” Free Verse agreed eagerly, shaking said head. “For what it is worth, Ditch... thank you for helping. I know you do it mostly to get rid of me... but that’s alright. I understand.”
Ditch put the shovel down, rubbing the warm shaft almost affectionately. For once... that sounded genuinely nice in a non-rhyming way.
“Ah, well, you know... I have nothing against you personally, but having a wraith around is a... you know, inconveniencable thing for a caretaker.”
“Bless you.”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind. Still, aside from our usual disposition of bickering, I am glad that you are investing your time and... specific effort nonetheless,” Free Verse added to the praises.
“Oh, shucks, come on. Don’t you get sweet on me, phantom,” Ditch warned him clearly once again. “I can summon headaches when I wish!”
“I can see you are trying hard already,” the poet pointed out, having in mind the blatantly obvious.
Ditch shrugged. “Just in case, you know... One never knows when an amorous apparition will pop up and try to wake you up, both outside and inside.”
“Wake you... no, no... wake me up inside...” Free Verse parroted strangely. The voids in his head squinted. “I think I’m onto something. I... might sit by my grave until the morn, I suppose, and see if I could occupy myself with some mental composing... even if I don’t have any ghostly ink and quill.”
“Whatever suits Your Evanescence,” Ditch responded, shaking his head. This lad had taken his craft to his grave and beyond. Talk about dedication. “In the meantime, my spirit... and I, actually, will go and sleep this cold off. It’s getting chilly.”
The ghost just continued mumbling, almost completely unaware that he was being left alone to his floating about. “Spirit... sleeping somewhere cold.”
“Save me...” Ditch asked of the jewel in the bottle, once again indulging. Just to keep himself nice and floating about, in a much more material way, back to his shack. “Night, Free Verse.”
“Good night wish to you, Ditch...” the phantom replied, then shook his head. “No, that doesn’t make sense...”
He was left behind to his confused craft. Soon enough, a whole field of calm and static stiffs, marked neatly with stones, were separating the two.
Ditch managed to stumble into his shed and close it up. He sighed. He felt older by four years and it wasn’t even two nights. At this rate, he would sooner join Free Verse on his side of things than make him leave!
He grasped the shovel tighter... but even she felt cold at the prospect.
Leaving her at her place of honor and granting her with a little, chaste and reassuring kiss that she definitely granted him full consent for, he lay on his trusted resting place. Mr Bed and Mrs Mattress both happy to see him.
He took a deep breath. He was far, far too rooted in reality and sobriety to fully enjoy a thoughtful, meditative rest that night...
At least tomorrow he had work to do. Maybe it would take his mind off of all those matters grave.
Nah... even Ditch knew that wasn’t something which was going to just die easily.
Ditch, despite everything happening lately, could still honestly say that he loved his job.
That much was as clear as day, even if the days were cloudy, rainy and appropriate for the regular occasions around the cemetery. But even during such gloomy moments he couldn’t help but feel satisfaction about yet another perfectly presentable hole in the ground, elegant placement of it, the proper care given to make sure a funeral was as smooth as possible. Especially considering all the emotions of the dearly beloved gathered around and the like.
And, at the same time, Ditch wouldn’t say that he was the most elegant and appropriate pony for a funeral proper. Which was, actually, absolutely fine. It was padre Last Rite’s time to shine, with his elegant robes and his theatrical voice and with his speeches and invocations and all that Harmony hoodoo. Ditch was content to stay at the right distance, on the sidelines... which in the case of the cemetery’s layout were literal side lines.
Yes, he preferred to observe things that way, supported on and by his trusty, tried tool. And only swoop in with all force when all the relatives were gone, usually. To close the grave, set the wreaths, have a sip and welcome the new resident.
Before tending to the other residents, of course, cause he really wasn’t one for favoring the blow-ins... or buried-ins.
That particular day Ditch had to wait quite a while to resume his duties, since whoever that old mare was, sweet bourbon, did she had a lot of agnates, cognates and other nates... uhm, mates.
For a brief moment he was actually worried that the lineup to say the last goodbyes to “Lucky Streak”, he believed the name was, would take far too long.
Especially when the matter of inheritance was suddenly brought up among the gathered and Ditch was almost called to, due to a little scuffle, pull a living pony out of the grave for once, rather than put a dead in.
But the falling night would bring with itself other topics of heated discussion, he could imagine. A wake was a part of tradition in Equestria, sometimes happening before, sometimes after the dear departed was down under, but the question of why was there a ghost “awake” was not really a part of it.
And Ditch would really, really want it to stay that way!
Thankfully, after the matter of provision pugilism had been concluded... alongside the established consensus that if the grandam hadn’t been so keen on stallions her whole life things would have been far easier... Ditch could say goodbye to padre and get to work.
Receiving a judging look over his state, unmistakably, but the judgment was postponed due to him being only marginally tipsy at that point, which was easy enough to hide with proper, Boozeist experience.
Ditch finished his tasks right with the setting sun, actually, planting the trusty shovel down by the grave as the last rays of day were disappearing behind the cemetery wall.
He sighed, enjoying the shades falling upon the tombstones. Ah, magic hour in the magical place of rest always cheered him up...
His work was a little temporary that time around as the mare was going to have a whole, nice, private mausoleum erected for her in the upcoming weeks... but for the moment, she was going to have a snug rest with the rest of the locals.
Helped acclimatize ponies, that.
Ditch moved aside his sweaty fringe. Another completed task and another satisfied customer. He took the hip flask out... making sure to check whether the good padre wasn’t lurking about, praying and preying, and was going to raise the toast high to the good health of Lucky Streak.
Well... he had to be less enthusiastic after all. When, instead of the quite fleshy bother of a priest, the incorporeal bother of a poet manifested himself from between the graves, floating in his direction.
Sigh. Praise the jewel in the bottle in any case and always...
Free Verse stopped by him, mid-air as was his perversion, and nodded when he managed to find the mare’s name among the true barrow of flowers and wreaths and expressions of profound, devastating sadness... some clearly disguising much joy over the incoming inheritance.
And the poet could confirm said fortune’s size.
“The Luckies... I remember them, they have a huge manor not far from the Royal Castle, actually,” he commented, reading some of the inscriptions on the sashes. “Had a busy day, Ditch?”
“Hey, not bad for small talk from a wraith, you know,” Ditch replied back, licking his lips of the last droplets of fire water, which had started to course through his veins nicely. Nothing like a bit of prior physical work to get the blood pumping and let the blessed percentage float about. “Old lady seems to have been the family’s head honcho, you know. You missed the snooty survivors almost adding a second funeral to today’s schedule...”
Free Verse shrugged with a little grimace. “I imagine bits had something to do with it, Luckies always had more of them than sense... but still less than their good fortune.” He looked away for a moment, in the direction of the city proper. “I feel like there was a little less greed in Cloudsdale, you know? Before I moved here I had no idea the capital is stained with it so much.”
“If you’re about the start the whole ‘money bein’ the root of all evil’ and the like shtick, I have two things to tell you. One – yeah, I already kinda agree, so I don’t need to hear it. Two - you’re about to sound like the good padre and this cemetery has reached the absolute maximum priest per square stiff amount when he got here...”
Ditch took another glance away at that point. Just on the off chance that Last Rites would, indeed, get here and manifest out of nowhere to check on him and his spirit addiction.
Bols, would he be in for a surprise, Ditch shuddered to think.
But not as enormously as when a voice sounded from behind him and the ghost.
“Well, well! Had I known I’ll meet shuch fine shtuds after my demishe I would have been looking forward to it much more!”
Ditch pretty much jumped right on the very top of his shovel’s handle, with feline grace he had no idea about, whilst Free Verse let out a small, but undeniably panicked wail, especially for an apparition.
Right over the mound of wreaths and saddened words floated the image of a more-than-venerable mare with a wide, toothless smile and noticeable flickers of interest even in her eyeless gaze. Which was both quite the achievement as well as a clear warning, truth be told. She was wearing a proper noblemare’s outfit, from the finest of fashion boutiques in the city, combined with a feather boa that, despite its transparent nature, was showing traces of a red and black checker pattern.
Ditch’s perch was, naturally, only temporal, as he quickly found himself back on the ground, though hiding a little behind his shovel’s trusty handle. Hoping for its warmth to grant him strength, for he desperately had to search for his hip flask in the grass, where it had been sent in his sheer panic.
Sacrilege!
“Mrs.... Mrs. Lucky Streak?” he somehow managed to ask, fumbling to find and then get the flask open again.
Which was a new one for him. Issues getting to the drink? That was exactly what he got for having disrespected his trusted flask and all it represented! He’d have to repent with more vigorous worship later on.
And, lamentably, for one more reason. As it appeared!
The said “appear”, in the meantime, only grinned wider, displaying a quite incredible lack of any teeth, in which stead a set of gums presented itself. Who knew one could get old enough for even them to get so wrinkly?
“I would shay Mrsh. Lucky Shtreak in the flesh, but that’sh not entirely accurate now, ish it, beefcake?”
Free Verse also managed to compose himself, with the grace of composing one of his poems no doubt. But even for a ghost he still looked quite spooked.
“What... why are you here?”
The mare chuckled, floating down from above the grave with the speed of a crone on crutches. Despite her new state that surely could speed things up a little bit.
“Well, shonny, if you mean – why am I dead, you should know never to ashk a mare about her age, which would, unfortunately, be the main reashon...” she replied, giving a poet a stare that had very, very little to do with her elderly state of former living. “Though if you are ashking why am I, ash it appearsh, a ghosht of shortsh, I shimply don’t shee the bashish for thish.”
Ditch wasn’t even that close and yet he felt the need to wipe the ectoplasmic spit off his muzzle, even if there was nothing really there.
Afterwards... well, he took a big swig, hid the flask and then decided to... well... do the one reasonable thing, perhaps?
“Could you wait just a moment, ma’am? I need to do something absolutely necessary,” he requested.
“Shure, shweetie, no problem.”
How nice of her.
Ditch grabbed the shovel... almost apologetically, as she was still warm from all the work and he hated to abuse her kindness and generosity. Still, what was necessary was necessary by the virtue of necessity. With one, simple and trained motion, he then made a really nice hole right next to himself in the worked ground. Not too big, not too small, just right.
Taking a deep, almost forlorn breath, Ditch shook his head and then plunged said overburdened noggin right into the opening, to the point where he almost tasted soil in his mouth. And then screamed aloud, hoping this shallow grave for his nerves would serve well enough as a muffler...
Six feet under nopony could hear one scream... which was why some ponies in olden times had installed little bells connected to their coffins through the earth, just on the terrible off chance. So maybe this, shallow hole was deep enough already. Ditch wouldn’t know. He never experimented with burrowing screaming ponies at differing depths...
Urgh, those thoughts could go right down under themselves.
At least the ghosts, one politely and one with surprise, had let him have his little moment of weakness and waited until he covered the scream with fresh dirt before speaking again.
Starting with Lucky Streak.
“Oh my, it hash been a while,” she fanned herself a little, not that it disturbed the air around. “I’m unushed to shtallionsh having a panic attack at my shight anymore, you charmer, you...”
Ditch just looked at her, quite hopeless and decidedly not interested in giving a cold, transparent mare the hots. Still, having cleansed his frustration, he had to deal with the present, as a self-respecting gravedigger.
“It is... uh... quite nice to meet you, Mrs. Lucky Streak, and I would like to welcome you to the Canterlot Cemetery. And, ah, I would really not want to be rude, because all are welcome here, it’s kinda the very theme and a nice thing to remember among the philosophies of life... and yet... and I am asking with the greatest of respects and all... don’t you have, I don’t know, other places to be? Afterlives to explore and the like?”
Before the mare could reply to this extreme example of politeness, Free Verse appeared in Ditch’s field of vision, looking a little irritated. Which wasn’t anything new, really.
“Just one moment, Ditch... You didn’t give me such a welcoming,” he remarked and it was not hard to get upset over how shallow it was.
Maybe Ditch should have buried him deeper after all... Surely ten feet under nopony could hear one complain!
“Read between the lines, schmuck. You’re the poet, you should be good at that,” he replied in theatrical more-than-whisper and a roll of his eyes worthy of the grandest of Neighponese performances. “Shouting and trying to shoo you obviously didn’t work, so I’m tryin’ to be polite this time.”
“Oh, so thaaaaaaah!”
The poet let out a quite strange and quite non-stallion yelp... and reaching a notably high pitch, which put him more in the basket of opera ponies, rather than theater enthusiasts. He then quickly turned around towards Lucky Streak, with protest firmly and clearly present in his voice.
“Did you just... grab my bottom?!”
“I’m a weak mare,” the elderly phantom admitted with a sheepish and definitely-not-innocent expression.
“Wow, wow, right! Everypony slow down!” Ditch protested, waving his hooves about. “No screaming like a sissy...”
“Hey!”
“... and no copping a feel in my graveyard!” he ordered, leaning against the shovel and crossing his forelegs, trying to look at least a little commanding and menacing, even next to a pair of supernatural apparitions. “It’s rather interesting that ghosts can do just that, but I’m not going to allow a study in specters getting touchy-feely around the place.”
Lucky Streak huffed in some indignation, tossing her feathered boa in a fashion that could kill lesser nobility during alfresco parties. Thankfully for Ditch, he was immune to that thanks to being a rough ruffian... but that didn’t stop the mare from letting him know that she didn’t appreciate a killjoy.
“Oh, he’sh not fun, ish he?”
Ditch wasn’t sure if she actually wanted Free Verse to confirm that, but the ghostly stallion was much more occupied with other matters of prudery, like hiding his tush behind the translucent strands of his tail... and showing it, in the other sense of the word.
Great. Way to be a cemetery crowd, Ditch thought.
“Fun, no fun, I’m the host of this haunting and I really just want to know what’s going on,” he reminded the wraiths. “Right, step by step. This is Free Verse, he was here first, he’s a poet, he arrived on a hearse...” he exclaimed... then spit the words out cause, ugh, rhyming. “What I am tryin’ to say, is that this is supposed to be a completely normal, calm and definitely ghost-free graveyard, Mrs. Lucky Streak! But now there’s you! And him!”
The spectral mare, despite her discontent over his previous comment, did focus on him. “I have absholutely nothing againsht that, shonny, I undershtand. And I wash, too, hoping for shome short of an afterlife, inshtead of thish... To whom should I lodge a complaint?”
... rut no!
“Whoa, ma’am, this is not my fault! We know as little about this as you do!” Ditch protested so fast his time would get him into the Wonderbolts, probably. Even if his wings were to only be pieces of cardboard glued to his back. “We’re figuring it our ourselves!”
And Free Verse, thankfully, got over his embarrassment and backed him up. “That’s correct, Mrs. Lucky Streak... I too don’t know what caused me to appear at my grave... Suffice to say we are trying to find a reason for this state. And that it might have something to do with, well, unfinished business. Though...” he admitted and quite wistfully, “I seem to have trouble remembering it. I’m not sure if it is the same way with you, ma’am.”
“Pleashe, shugar, you can call me Shstreak.”
Both Ditch and Free Verse shuddered for some reason.
In the meantime, the elderly mare squinted. Then rolled her eyeless holes about. Then inhaled... harrumphed... coughed...
Nothing of which helped. “Well... sheemsh to me like mosht thingsh I have dealt with prior to my death. It’sh not like I washn’t preparing for it.”
She could say that again.
“Yes, it’sh not like I washn’t preparing for it,” she did so. “Shtill... shucksh, there hash to be shomething wrong...”
Free Verse decided to take the shot in the dark. “Maybe about... who would get your inheritance? Ditch here did mention there being a little scuffle about it just your funeral.”
The mare bit her lip... which looked a little more disturbing considering her total lack of teeth. “Nah, didn’t really care, who could keep count of the shtuds I've enjoyed...” she revealed, proving definitely that living ponies could be much more scary than the dead and not-so-dead. Still she paused, grimacing in a way that added ten years’ worth of lines to her face. “I think I’ve... I’ve left a lasht requesht in the cashe of demishe, but I’m not shure what it wash...”
“Well, we have something now!” Ditch announced with just that little bit of happiness. At least things weren’t completely hopeless. “I suppose that it would only be the matter of... uhm... huh...” He paused, as the gears locked in place in his brain. “I mean, I’m a stallion and a half—”
“Yesh, you are,” the mare commented with a wide smile.
“... that’s very kind of you,” Ditch somehow managed to reply, fighting utter terror. “But... it might not be enough to just go to your relatives and ask for information on that sort of thing, right? Not to mention plain weird.”
“Darling, they would shic the Royal Guard on you,” Lucky Streak confirmed, with a knowledgeable nod. “I hope you don’t mind me shaying, but I would shic the Royal Guard on you right now. You look like a hunk and then shome, but you have sheen better daysh.”
Free Verse chose a strange look of worry to invade his muzzle, but, well... the mare wasn’t wrong.
“No offence taken,” Ditch told Lucky Streak in all honesty. “I’d be surprised about bein’ invited to a fancy residence. Hard to dig through the marble tiles, even with her.” He grasped his shovel a little firmer. “And any nobles doin’ grave work in a garden usually don’t want many ponies knowing about it.”
Lucky Streak shrugged. “You’re not wrong there, shonny.”
Well, that was reassuring.
Free Verse lifted his hoof to interject. “Yes, aside from the skeletons in the closet—”
“Garden,” Ditch corrected him.
“... garden, fine—”
“Actually, shometimesh it’sh both.”
“Really?” Ditch asked with genuine curiosity, but Free Verse groaned loudly and rudely.
“Skeletons wherever you want them!” He paused and waited for another interruption. Only when none happened did he continue. “I want to speak about us, instead. I mean, ghosts, not skeletons.” He looked about the place, as if looking for something. “My funeral was two days ago, right? Was there one the next day?”
Ditch scratched his head before reaching for the hip flask again. “N... nah, we actually had a day without newcomers.”
“Right. And now...” Free Verse pointed in Lucky Streak’s direction, earning a sultry look that he was doing his best to ignore. “That was today.”
“Yes,” Ditch confirmed and the poet bit his lip before speaking again, giving a chance for the wonderful liquid to be tasted.
“So... will this keep happening from now on?”
Speaking of things that should not have ever happened, Ditch actually choked. Choked hard. His eyes bulged and his throat clenched... but his lips were sealed even harder. He would not let even a droplet of the blessed spirit to escape, even if it meant snorting it back up his nose. as it sought a detour.
Only after a minute of both saving his Boozeist face and altogether making it turn blue from the effort, did Ditch declare with a strained voice.
“... I think... I need to do something... absolutely necessary again, one moment.”
He quickly turned, making sure he swallowed the alcohol properly. The he found the place he had just buried the last shriek in. After exhuming it and, to his surprise, finding it had already decomposed and was gone entirely, decided to reuse the small hole again.
“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.
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!
