Mother

James trudged down the street, glad to be away from the ghastly scene on the hill. Tears rolled down his cheeks in hot streaks, turning cold and then burning his face with salt. His teeth chattered and he shivered, grateful for Ronan's blanket. He was not yet old enough to envision a time where his life was his own, but on that day James had sworn an oath. His mother may keep him from a life at sea, but he would never be a gravedigger.

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Damn his mother to hell. She did not have to smell the putrefying stench of a man's flesh wrenched from everlasting slumber and laid black and rotting on a table. He had already walked about a mile, weeping softly, with still some distance remaining before he would have any relief from the brutally cold wind, much less the memory of the day.

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He reached the house and pushed on the heavy old door, which creaked but would not open. With an upward and inward heave, the ancient oak planks yielded into the small but warm room inside. The old hinges moaned as he placed the stubborn door back into position.

 

On the hearth in front of him bubbled a pot that smelled of turnips and chicken. Mother must have purchased a chicken carcass from the butcher and thrown the bones into a pot to make soup. James was tired of watery soup made from the bones of animals whose meat he would never taste, always bound for tables elsewhere, and even more tired of eating turnips.

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"Come here James, and tell me of your first day of labors!" sang his mother from the kitchen behind the hearth.

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"'Twas dreadful Mother, just dreadful," he replied, his voice breaking into a sob. He was still shivering as he crouched next to the fire. His mother came around from the kitchen, curiously eyeing the blanket wrapped around him.

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"There, there my son, do not be troubled," she said reassuringly, squatting down behind him, putting her arms around his shoulders and resting her chin on his head. "It could not have been that terrible. You are doing good work, helping people to get to the Lord and rest in peace."

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James spun around in her arms and looked up at her plaintively. "No Mother, we had to dig a man up, and then take him to a shed. His face was all black and broken, and the back of his head was crushed. He was staring at me!" Her son's weeping startled her. Surely her brother would have had the sense to not have the boy take part in this unholiness. He was but a boy. She silently cursed her brother and would have a word with him about this business.

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"Did Uncle say why this was necessary?" Mother asked. James did not answer and continued to sob. Then she remembered the talk around town about Caleb Eaton's murder. Yes, it must have been he that the boy was helping to retrieve from the earth. She was getting angrier, astounded that her brother would allow her son to be a part of this. James collected himself as he stared at the fire and the bubbling pot, realizing he needed to unburden his mind with all that had transpired.

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"'Twas terribly cold and windy," he began. "Uncle had me help move the chunks of snow off of the grave. I know not of how he knew where to dig. Then, he hit the ground many times with the pick until the soil was loose. I used my hands to move the frozen soil away, and he then pushed me aside and shoveled away the rest. He was cross with me, but I know not why. He dug down to the box, then shouted at me to jump down with him and dig around the box with my hands so he could put a rope 'round the box. Mother, 'twas so cold and I could not see well. My fingers ache so much from the digging, and I am so weary."

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His mother had come around to sit beside her son, staring at his face and the tears that shone bright in the firelight. She put her hand on his, but he pulled away.

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"We hoisted the box out of the ground and he pulled the cover off of it," he continued. "As long as I live, I will never forget that smell. It was death, Mother. It was death I was smelling, and it was death that stared at me," said the boy, weeping again, now sitting with his forearms resting on his knees and his head low between them.

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"My love, I am sorry for all of this," she said softly. "But Uncle never should have, or perhaps, I do not know, perhaps a burial is much easier than this?" she offered. James looked up at her, his expression full of disdain.

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"Mother, you do not understand. I am haunted. Haunted by that dead man!" he wailed. "I had to pick him up by his legs and he kept moving about. I can feel his bones in my hands. Why, why would you make me do these things?" 

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She slapped him across his face and stared at him, her eyes as hard as glass. "You are a foolish boy that thinks 'tis better to lay at the bottom of the sea like your father. I know what is good for you, James, not you."

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He gaped back at her, wide-eyed. He just wanted food, and sleep. But likely sleep would not be easy, so perhaps just some food. "I am sorry, Mother, let us eat."

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They rose and James went outside to fetch water. After hauling a bucket back into the house he poured the water into a large pot and hung it over the hearth. Once it had warmed, he poured it out into the iron wash basin, submerging his hands and closing his eyes, letting the warm water thaw away the cold.

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Taking some wood ash from the hearth, the boy began vigorously rubbing at his filthy hands, exposing a number of cuts and gashes sustained from the day's work. He did not like having dirty hands, or having a shabby coat that did not fit him, or constantly being hungry. Under his breath, he cursed his mother, then his uncle.

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"Come to the table, my love. Let us eat," said Mother from the kitchen. James came and sat at the small table. His mother ladled out the soup, which had sparingly few pieces of turnip, and even less chicken, into small pewter bowls. There were a few pieces of hard bread in a small basket that they dipped into their bowls, eating in silence. The room was dark, save for a stub of a tallow candle burning in the center of the table.

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After quite some time, the mother spoke. "Perhaps I can speak to your uncle," she offered reassuringly. "Surely the work can be made better. You are learning valuable lessons and you will always be able to earn your bread as the dead are ever-dying."

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He did not answer. No Mother, I am never going back to that cemetery, or any cemetery, until they put me in the ground. He looked out the window. At the cemetery, all of the men waited for the constable to speak. Perhaps someday James would wear a fine coat and chase murderers about, but he would not dig up the murdered. That much he knew. 

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"Mother, I am going to sleep," he said, rising from his chair. He put his arms around his mother, who was still seated. She clasped her hand around his skinny arm, so thin and small, still but a boy, and then she kissed him on the forehead.

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"Goodnight my love, my dear boy," she whispered. He was such a good boy, much like his father. Mother bit her lip and closed her eyes, thinking about her husband, lost at sea. She would keep young James safe. That much she knew.

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James lay silently in his bed, at first afraid to close his eyes. He began to weep again, and pulled the constable's blanket close around him. Thankfully, sleep took him quickly, and he did not dream of Caleb Eaton. At least not that night.

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