Chapter 1
The rhythmic clunk of spade on hard soil echoed through the mist clad graveyard, interspersed by Chauro’s loud gasp for air. The early morning chill hung heavy in the air, dampening the grass beneath his bare feet, yet the sweat beads dripped from his brow as he dug. With each spadeful of wet soil, soaked in the heady scent of fresh-turned soil, was witness to his efforts. The rich scent of the soil mixed with his own sweat, clinging to him. The cemetery, a city of crosses that spoke nothing, lay before him, the white markers visible through the swirling fog.
The cemetery was concealed well within the hill station. The church itself was ancient, its stone weathered and gray, a testament to its age. Patches of moss clung to the damp walls, and the huge rusty old iron gates, creaking slightly in the morning breeze. The tall, ancient trees that bordered the grounds loomed above him, their bare branches reaching up toward the heavens like supplicant hands making silent prayers. Not many priests were willing to serve here in this remote location.
A crunching of dry leaves underfoot broke the stillness. Chauro halted, spade lodged in the ground, and lifted his head. The fog was thick, swirling mist that hid the individual approaching.
Out of the swirling fog, a white figure emerged. He did not recognise who it was until the figure drew closer. Almost a couple of feet from him, Chauro recognised the new vicar.
“Ah, Father,” he greeted, a slight smile creasing his weathered face. “Good morning!”
“Good morning, Chauro,” replied the vicar, his breath clouding in the chill. “Just wanted to see how things were progressing.”
“The grave will be ready in an hour, Father”, Chauro panted.
“How did your first week go, Father?” asked Chauro. “Getting settled in, all right?”
The vicar paused, thinking. “It’s been… interesting,” he said. “It is different from my previous parish; which was in a city. Here the people are friendly enough. Though,” he went on, glancing at the church, “the church itself… it has had better days, hasn’t it?”
Chauro nodded. “It is an old one, Father… Very old!”.
“You’ve been here long, I assume?” the vicar asked.
“All my life, Father,” Chauro answered. “Born and raised here. My father lies here. I dug his grave, just as he dug my grandfather’s. My people have tilled this soil for generations, opened the earth for the dead.” He paused, a wistful note in his voice. “A line of descent…. Though it may end with me.”
The vicar looked at him with concern. “End? Why is that?”
Chauro sighed. “God hasn’t blessed Chinnamma and me with children. No one to inherit the tradition, to answer the gate when I am gone.”
“Gate?” the vicar echoed, curiosity in his voice.
“Yes,” Chauro replied, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze drifting towards the crosses shrouded in mist. “It’s what my family has always done. We dig the graves, bury the dead, we open the way… We are the gatekeepers, the guardians leading them to heaven. It’s a privilege, a sacred duty, passed down from generation to generation.”
He paused, gazing at the grave. “My forefathers believed that while we are alive, our deeds, our actions, they belong to our soul. And that soul… That belongs to God. Our bodies,” he continued, “they just tag along. And when the time comes… well, someone’s got to shut the gate behind them.” He looked up at the Father. “It’s my job to do it.”
Chauro pointed towards the freshly dug grave and continued. “This one…,” he said, “is for one of the most hated person in this village. He was a thorn in many people’s lives. But now… now he is God’s.” He paused, his eyes fixed on the grave.
The Father nodded slowly, his gaze falling on the freshly turned soil of the new grave for a moment before meeting Chauro’s eyes again. “That’s… a wonderful way to look at it,” he murmured. “A very… spiritual observation.”
His phone rang at that moment, cutting through the silence. He answered it, listened, and then hung up. Turning to Chauro, he said, “The funeral procession of this grave will be here at 9:30. I must go.”
“Of course, Father,” Chauro replied, picking up his shovel. As the Father walked away, the mist began swirling again, folding in on itself, swallowing the graveyard. Chauro resumed working, the thwack of the shovel echoing once more, a lonely sound in the quiet morning.
