Trudging down the road, James was glad to be away from the ghastly scene. Tears rolled down his cheeks in hot streaks, turning cold, burning his face with salt. Shivering all over and unable to take command of his chattering teeth, the boy was grateful for Ronan's blanket, which provided some protection from the whipping wind. While he was not yet old enough to envision a time where his life was his own, 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.

​

Damn you, Mother. Damn you 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. After walking about a mile, weeping softly, he still had some distance remaining before there would be any relief from the brutally cold wind, much less the memory of the day.

​

Upon reaching the house, James 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 had purchased a chicken carcass from the butcher. James was tired of watery soup made from the bones of animals and tiny bits of meat missed by the butcher's blade. He was even more tired of eating turnips.

​

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

​

"'Twas dreadful, Mother, just dreadful," he replied, his voice breaking into a sob. Still shivering, he crouched next to the fire. Mother came around from the kitchen, eyeing the blanket wrapped around him with curiosity.

​

"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 get to the Lord and rest in peace."

​

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 brother would have had the sense not to have the boy take part in this unholiness, she thought. He was but a boy. Silently, she cursed her brother and would have a word with him about this business.

​

"Did Uncle say why this was necessary?" she 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. It astounded her that her brother would allow her son to be a part of this. He was always such a stupid fool.

 

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. "'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." After pausing to take in a long breath, the boy continued. "Then, he hit the ground many times with the pick until the soil was loose. I tried to use my hands to move the frozen soil away, but he pushed me aside. He was cross with me, but I know not why. Uncle dug down to the box, then shouted at me to jump down with him and dig around it with my hands so he could put a rope 'round the coffin. Mother, 'twas so cold and I could not see well. My fingers ache so much from the digging, and I am so weary."

​

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.

​

"We hoisted the box out of the ground and he pulled the cover off of it," he said, his voice shaking with emotion. "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, his head hung low between them.

​

"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 incredulous.

​

"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?" 

​

She slapped him hard across his face. "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."

​

He gaped back at her, wide-eyed. James considered bolting from the house, back into the cold, but he wanted only food and sleep. Likely sleep would not be easy, so perhaps just some food. "I am sorry, Mother," he said.

​

They rose, and James went outside to fetch water. The stubborn well pulley had frozen solid, and he had to pull on the rope with all his strength until the ice-clogged wheel finally yielded. James was glad he had not broken the rope again, as Mother would be quite cross. After hauling the wooden bucket of frigid water back into the house, he poured it into a large pot and hung it over the hearth. Once James had poured the warmed water into an iron wash basin, the boy submerged his hands and closed his eyes, letting the heat thaw away the cold, giving him a temporary respite from the memory of the day.

​

Taking some wood ash from the hearth, James vigorously rubbed 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.

​

"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 but a few pieces of turnip, and even less chicken, into small pewter bowls. Between them on the table was a small basket with some hard stale pieces of bread 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.

​

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."

​

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 that day, 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. 

​

"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.

​

"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. I will keep him safe and away from the sea. That much she knew.

​

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.