In order to discourage grave robbers, the grave diggers mixed straw in with the dirt, and each bite of the shovel’s blade seemed to uncover more and more of it. It was like digging into a rug, and I found it impossible to dig deeper without first removing the shafts of straw. Before long, Matilda joined in, plucking up the straw and piling it at her side. I told her more than once that I would rather she continued watching for the guard, but she would have none of it, insisting we would be here until morning light if we both did not help. So we continued, both stealing the occasional glance around the corner of the church ruins whenever we stopped to rest. More than an hour passed before I felt the blade of the shovel impact the lid of O’Cuiv’s coffin, and I thought of our driver—he easily had circled twice by now; this retrieval was taking much longer than expected.
The wood was rotten. The box was constructed of cheap knotted pine, and the earth had gone to work on the wood the moment the townsfolk lowered it into the ground. I had to forgo the shovel for fear of breaking through the lid of the coffin. Instead, I scooped away the dirt by hand and tossed it out of the hole, which had grown to nearly five feet deep.
When at last the coffin was uncovered, I ran my fingers along the edges in search of some kind of handle; I found none. The lid had been nailed shut from the top, six nails in all, one for each of the four corners and two midway down the side. The pine was swollen and brittle, so much so that I dared not stand upon it; instead, I placed one foot on either side and slid the blade of the shovel under the lid. I turned to my sister, silently offering a final opportunity for her to walk away from this terrible task and forget all about it, but she remained steadfast and granted me only a resolute nod.
I pressed down on the shovel’s wooden handle until the metal blade dug into the wood. Then I gave the handle a slight wiggle to force the blade deeper before pressing down again. This time the lid buckled slightly and the nails near the shovel’s blade groaned, pulling out enough for me to able to get my fingers beneath the wood. I set the shovel aside and gripped the lid. With all my strength, I pulled up and to the side, and the lid tore away with a ghastly squeal, each nail screeching in protest.
As the lid separated from the coffin, cockroaches poured out. Thousands of them. Moving so fast, their plump bodies scuttling up and over the sides. They ran over one another, each faster than the last, tiny black legs shuffling, sounding like sheets of paper rubbing together. The roaches covered my legs, my chest, my arms. I heard Matilda scream; then she began stomping on the bugs as they crawled from the grave and scattered amongst the leaves.
I climbed from the hole with haste and brushed them off. There were so many, I could feel them scurrying over every inch of my body. I dared not open my mouth to scream for fear one of the creatures might seize the opportunity to slip between my lips. Just the thought of one in my throat, my stomach, writhing about . . .
When at last the mass exodus of the cockroaches concluded, I realized I had shuffled nearly ten feet from the open grave. Matilda stood even farther away, near the front of the church ruins, stomping the ground with undeterred resolve until the last of the roaches were finally either dead or gone. I ran my hand through my hair, then turned my back to her. She brushed one more off my shoulder, crushing it with the toe of her shoe, before proclaiming me roach-free. I found none on her.
Together, we cautiously made our way back to the grave. The smell was horrible. I covered my mouth and nose with the collar of my coat and peered into the hole.
The corpse was wrapped in an orange shroud. At least the shroud appeared orange, most likely having earned that color after years of absorbing the remains