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GRAVEDIGGERS - THE GRAVES
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There are many Gravedigger villages. Sometimes called branches or settlements, they are named by the city or region they represent, followed by “Grave.” Raildusk Grave. Calhoun County Grave. West Ashfield Grave. They are most often colloquially referred to as “Graves.” All Graves report to the government under the one Gravedigger clan. The clan is regarded by law as a protected ethnic and cultural group, though they are widely discriminated against. They reside in government-protected areas across the country, most of them rural and rich with natural resources, all with a large, flat expanse in which to construct the region’s cemetery.

A handful of families, usually twenty to fifty, will live in the reserved areas and operate as a location-based branch of the clan. Gravediggers will travel to other Graves to trade, mingle, and marry within the clan.

A Grave may relocate when the cemetery has no more empty plots. A Grave may also relocate if resources become scarce or the safety of the people becomes threatened.

All relocation must be requested through the proper government channels. Thorough investigation, reporting, and negotiation must be completed before a request is approved. No requests have been submitted or approved for nearly a century. This is due to the fact that modern funerary customs in Society have trended toward cremation, so graveyards do not fill as quickly. It is also due to the fact that few Society-citizens view Gravedigger safety of any real concern.

—

***
SIX YEARS AGO
***

Gingerly, I creep forward to stare at the boy leaning over the fence. I can’t believe I’ve been caught watching. And from what it sounds like, twice. This close, I can see that his unkempt hair is a fiery red. He’s got freckles all over. It’s still too dark for me to make out what color his eyes are, but I know that mine must be glowing like a wildcat’s.

He’s definitely older than me, but not by much. He still has a youthful countenance and demeanor, but the soft cheeks of childhood are giving way to a crisp jawline, and his voice cracks sometimes when he picks up a rock that draws his strength. I can tell by the way he moves he’s still playful like a little kid, too. He must be silly and carefree, unlike myself; I have pride in my maturity and refinement.

His right hand twitches toward my face, before he jerks it back down to where it was resting atop the metal gate. His fingers are broad and stocky like the rest of him. Even the backs of his hands have freckles, too.

“What’s your name?” he asks. It strikes a wild fear in my heart. I’ve made a mistake.

“Gravedigger,” I say. I stand as straight as a soldier, trying to be imposing like Uncle taught me. It is wise to maintain the distrust Society-citizens harbor toward us, he says; they can bring us no harm so long as they wish to stay away from us.

The boy scoffs at me. “That’s every Gravedigger’s name! What’s your name? I’m Graham Torres.”

Oh, I think. This is why he flings his rocks by Auntie Torres’s grave.

“It’s stupid to give your name away like that,” I say. “What if I use it to curse you?” I flutter my cloak around me in what I hope is a mystical, menacing way.

“Will you? What would you curse me with?” he says with an expectant smile, and against my better judgment, I let out a choked laugh of surprise.

“I… Aren’t you afraid?” I draw my cloak around my shoulders. I cannot help but shiver at the fact I am doing something I really shouldn't be doing.

“I don’t believe any of the rumors about the Gravediggers.” He stands up from the gate, unlatches it, and swings it open. It opens toward himself, so he steps backwards. Before I know it, he’s taken the few steps past the gate into God’s Blind, and I am so shocked I trip backwards over my boots, sending a flurry of dirt up into the air and twisting my cloak askew.

I slam onto my bottom, only for a broad, pale hand to grab my flailing arm. His grip is exactly as strong as I should expect after watching him heave huge stones around in the middle of the night for weeks on end.

He yanks me back to standing with the ease of pulling weeds. It is an embarrassing number of moments before I realize how warm his hand is. He’s got no gloves on.

I’ve never felt the touch of hands without gloves. It’s a requirement. I will never tell, but when I am alone I do not wear my gloves, though I am quickly beginning to rethink that decision. My heart is hammering through my ribcage, and the wild, visceral fear I felt just moments ago begins swirling into a different kind of excitement.

I’ve been told that once upon a time, Gravediggers wore gloves so that they would not rub the messiness and impurities of life into the divine work of death. Now, we wear gloves all the time because Society has deemed our work unclean and disgusting. I, personally, believe that it is all one, a cycle of sorts - life, death, and anything outside or in-between - and we have no right to decide what should and shouldn’t touch.

Though I am already standing again, I tighten my fingers against Graham Torres’s thick, warm ones. I should not be here. A Society-citizen’s bare hand should not be grasping mine. It’s intoxicating in a way that I finally understand the warnings of the clan for once in my life. Do not dream of Society, son. Do not answer the call of the void; you will only live a life of longing and disappointment.

This right here, this inebriating feel of bare hands clasped, unleashes the fear that the echoing call of the void will turn into a grasping claw of the void, inescapable and iron-gripped.

Graham smiles at me, wiggles our clasped hands, and says to me, “See? What was so bad about that?”

He lets go, still grinning at me, and I know that this is it. The void has taken hold of me, and I am but clay in its deft fingers. Nothing is going to be the same. Oh no.

“I’m Miles,” I whisper. Oh no. “Gravedigger-Way.” I give him the power to curse me, and he doesn’t even believe in it.

Adding to this constant barrage of surprises, he laughs, bright and loud. I fear he will wake the other residents of his house.

He must see me glance wildly at it, because he says, “Oh, don’t worry, Miles Gravedigger-Way. My Grandpa sleeps like a rock. And I’ll let you in on a secret - my Grandmother was a proud Gravedigger. And Grandpa loved her to the moon and back. That’s like, two-hundred-fifty thousand miles - heh -” he chuckles at his pun “- away. Grandpa and Grandmother raised me. They’re good people. That’s why I don’t believe the rumors. I’m not afraid of you.”

I don’t think I have anything to say to that, so I gape at him instead.

He chuckles again, and his gummy smile stretches to reveal pearl-white, crooked teeth. “You know, I can’t believe your name is Miles. You’re so short! You know, if the moon’s two-hundred-fifty thousand miles from Earth, it’s probably like a gazillion Miles-es!” He punctuates my name with a shockingly gentle poke to my collarbone.

I frown, but I want to laugh. I cannot give him that satisfaction, not after giving him my name.

“You oughta be named Inch at a size like that.” He pantomimes the difference in height between us.

“That’s because you’re gigantic!” I say. “You look like you weigh more than every limb on every tree, you massive oaf! Kids shouldn’t be as big as you. Did you eat your siblings in the womb? And anyway, I’m still growing!”

His smile changes wickedly and he says, “Maybe not my siblings, but all the kids at school think I was a demon-baby who ate my way out of my mother’s belly!” He hooks his fat fingers in front of his canines like mock-fangs. His voice goes somber, “Really, she just had a weak body. She died during childbirth.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, because I don’t know how to respond. He oscillates between moods faster than I can keep up.

“She didn’t die because Grandmother was a Gravedigger, though,” he adds quickly. As if I didn’t know that.

I glance at the sky. The clouds are parting with the wind, and a solitary streak of moonlight beams down on us.

“It’s late,” I say.

“Indeed it is, little mister Inchworm,” Graham says.

“Why are you sneaking around at night, throwing rocks around?” I ask.

“I’m sneaking around at night because I’ll get in trouble for going to the cemetery - not by Grandpa, obviously - and I’m practicing weightlifting, not ‘throwing rocks around.’ Grandpa can’t pay for a gym membership or weights right now, but I’m going to become strong. I wanna be the strongest powerlifter.”

“I have to go back,” I whisper, and I cannot understand the strange disappointment that accompanies this sentence. “I’ll get in trouble if I’m late for my morning duties.”

“Well, Inchworm, I’ll be out ‘throwing rocks around’ again soon, I’m sure. Say hi instead of being a little creep. I’d love some company. Bet Grandmother would, too.”

With that, I tug my cloak back to its rightful place and walk as purposefully as I can without running back through the woods. I hear the gate creak closed behind me, but do not hear Graham reach his back door.