Dig
This story idea came to me for a contest about the Cerulean Legacy. A contest where the writer imagines the history/story about the item Chuck Palahniuk posts on his Substack. To see the Jewel, see, Try This: Runners, Take Your Mark... (substack.com).
The idea came to me but I was late for the contest. I wanted to write it anyway. Here’s Dig:
Speculation’s a funny thing.
When you’re paid to speculate, you’ll come up with anything to tell a story. When Francis Blake dug up the Tamuin Pendant, he didn’t know what to think. So he made a bunch of shit up.
He claimed the woman whose body it was buried with was a peasant, having an affair with a King. Or someone just below him. How else would such a beautiful piece of jewelry end up in a sacrificial tomb sixty feet below ground. It was weak, but it was something. And 1973 might as well have been 1912 without the internet. Who was gonna search it?
Francis got a big write up in National Geographic and Archaeologist Digest and even did a couple college campus tours. Years later some would say he was the inspiration for Indiana Jones. Yeah, he dug it up. But damn, they sure did run with that King/peasant affair story.
It was all wrong though and Francis knew it the day he drove to Georgia. His back was shot from all the years spent hunched over in the dirt and sand. The digging and the hunched over hope that barely comes. Monotonous toiling’s, weeks sometimes months with nothing to show for. The Doctor offered “good” pills and claimed less than one percent and the first script was 40 mg OxyContin. Said individualizing the dose was the way to go. 20’s wouldn’t cut it. And no man as distinguished as the Great Francis Blake would suffer under his care.
The 40’s cut it. But not for long. Doc refilled it to 80’s then gained a conscious. He said no more. Matter of fact it’s time to taper down. Francis’s eyes bugged out on the crinkly paper and he was sure the Doc knew what he was thinking.
You can’t! Don’t take them away!
No! You’re Francis Blake. You are not a drug addict. You’re a Gentleman. A Noble Gentleman. “Okay, Doc. Taper me down.”
He sweat and kicked his legs like riding a bicycle in bed. He howled and cursed and threatened to kill everyone and promised he would in due time. He wanted to suck the nurse’s dick even for half a 10. They had to strap him down, but they had to strap all of them down.
It was long and hard and it was a fight. The hardest fight of his life. Francis was doing good though, he thought. Yeah if someone broke one out he’d snort it like an allergy, but at least he wasn’t seeking them out.
Victor knew it too. Francis’s roommate. A speedball junkie lucky to be alive. Thirteen OD’s in six years. He could feel it. Dynamite with the fuse lit in the bed by the window. Left un-snuffed it’s gonna blow the whole place up.
He knew Francis really was hurting and he wanted to help.
She helped his parent’s neighbor with her breast cancer. Made it disappear. Her husband John was always talking about Becca. She lived in Georgia. The Golden Isles. Somewhere outside of Brunswick.
From Virginia it wasn’t a bad drive, but Francis was hurting and when he hurt he thought about the same thing. Always the same thing.
Gas pedal to Becca.
High hopes get you nowhere and he knew it now. A tiny white house on Randolph peeling and sagging. The neon sign in the south window flashing OPEN.
He walked in hunched over, pain down his leg, and barely shook her hand. She grabbed his arm and led him inside. Even slowed her pace to match his. She had the couch you’d expect in the corner with its dent. The floral thing. The skirt so you couldn’t see the feet. She motioned him to sit.
He sat twisted with his head cocked. Becca felt bad in that way you always feel bad for old people. But she knew something wasn’t good about this man on her couch. Knew he was a fraud. Knew he’d been lying a long time and that is why he’s so twisted. Don’t live that way and you won’t have to live that way.
“My back,” Francis grumbled impatiently, “can you help me?”
“I can do my best, Mr. Blake. I will try my best.”
“Good. I drove a long way. Heard you’ve healed lots of folks, folks worse off than me.”
“Well… Mr. Blake. In my experience, worse off is a hard measurement to make.”
His lip curled and his left eye twitched, “Let’s get to it.” he snapped.
“I have to tell you Mr. Blake, I’m a healer and a medium.”
“A medium what?”
“I connect with the other side, Mr. Blake.”
“What. Ahh who cares, why’s that matter?”
“Sometimes people come through me. When it happens it takes over me. You might hear things from the other side. Sometimes people don’t wanna hear those things. Sometimes they let it get in the way of their healing.”
He was silent for a moment, “Get to it.”
“Okay. I need you to lie back.”
He struggled, but got his legs up and stretched out.
“Just relax. Take a deep breath for me. Try your hardest to clear your mind.”
He took a labored breath barely above shallow. She always started with the hands. So much pain, tension. So much hate. Hate will cripple a body, it will suffocate it slowly. It will shrivel it up like a banana peel in gravel. Hate will stab every muscle like Manson’s family and write on the wall a reminder every morning.
She pulled her chair up to the couch and grabbed his left hand first. Then his right.
The room went a shade of dark it’s never went. Like sitting on the remote and all the sudden you can barely make out things and people on the TV. Everything a shade of black and now a jungle and everything’s as green as green can be. There’s a swaying like the best of days. The sky is clear and its humid and she can feel her clothes sticking to her body.
She looks around and knows she’s seen this place just never like this with people. And then theirs a large group shouting and pumping their fists and she strains to make out the name.
King Moctezuma!
King Moctezuma!
She gets closer and there it is on the pyramids third tier. A balcony of stone and drama but the actors aren’t acting. They’ve got a man at the edge of the rock and then they go to prayer. On knees rocking back and forth and really thanking the sky.
And then the man up front doesn’t have a head and it rolls down the smooth edge. A clump of people turn into a tornado til one raises holding the head. Proud with his arm outstretched. The eyes dirty and confused.
An intricate trench with a river of blood makes its way to Tlalli. And down on their knees once more. Silent.
Underground now. No natural light. There’s a man with a shovel. Digging. Dark and wiry and that hard earned muscle. He throws a shovel worth to the side and purple on dirt catches his eye. Pinky nail or even smaller. He licks his thumb and rubs it clean. Puts it in his pocket, it’s beautiful.
Underground still. But not near as deep. No thumping cheers above. Dead still and solemn. The wife of the Emperor’s brother. Adorned in rarity and fitted in the best. Before he puts her in the ground he slides her cover to the side. He always did, to “those” covers. His eyes widened. A bluish-purple gem the size of a quarter in the middle of the woman’s chest. No necklace that it was attached to. He thought twice but it didn’t matter. He grabbed it.
He took it home and put it with the others. He didn’t regret his stash. He must have had sixty of them. The small ones. He never knew why they made him dig. Why dig that deep? Sixty feet down and still dug a hole for every body. So many bodies. Some nights up to five and how would any God want that.
He earned every jewel on that Pendant. He earned it over fourteen years and it was all he ever gave her. It was their daughters twelfth birthday. His best friend’s brother shaped and polished every stone and put the piece together and did it for almost nothing. If they didn’t take care of each other, who would?
She sees him sit the box gently on her stomach before he grabs and squeezes her hand. She stirs and looks down. Shocked. Yawning and smiling. Don’t leave me hug. He kisses her and hopes she’s happy.
She sees maize and tortillas in a container. The entrance to the pyramid. The long steps down. She hears the crowd. She sees the fists. She feels the thump. She feels the thud of the first body coming down the chute. The clean slice.
The way he always pictures the head, by the body he buries. And most of the time, he feels he’s right. But heads are another department. He’ll never really know.
He’s barely started covering the second body when he hears the thud. He looks over, shovel in hand. And collapses. He doesn’t need to imagine a face. He knows that body so well. So well it might as well be his.
It’s just a joke. She found out where they put them. She found out where he works. What affords them such a great living. Why he never smiles. Why they never struggle. Like all the rest of them do. Why they always have what the others want. She finally found out. She always asked, but he never would tell.
He bent down to tell her he was busted. But there were no eyes to talk to. No hair to flip him in the face on the way out. A hole in his gut and barely working legs. He lifted her body to take her away. He felt something on her waistline and put her down on the ground. Folded her skirt down and there was the Pendant he’d given her just hours ago. He looked at it and took a deep breath, then kissed it. Followed by another, deeper breath. He put it back where it was. And started digging.
The end
CT