Little Grave Robber

Well,

Stumpy Sheen sat barefooted and sun-kissed under the weeping willow in Tullamore cemetery for the 5th day in a row. The child had a novel in one hand, and a pink lady apple in the other, a lost look crossing her youthful features. Children walking by the cemetery grated sticks against the iron pickets that separated themselves from Stumpy and the land of the dead, rarely sparing a glance at the weird girl, alone, on the wrong side of the fence.

A small plump thing with red pigtails and a pink backpack called out to Stumpy and signalled for her to come over, but Stumpy only glanced the other way. She had done so every day for the last four days prior, ignoring her friends’ plea to join her on the walk to school.

Stumpy had other plans.

She waited for the students to drizzle past and finally leave her sight before she threw the book into her bag and the half-eaten apple among the gravestones, fleeing for a small grey shed behind prying eyes. Hidden in plain sight behind the tin shed sat an old wooden shovel and a small black notebook, worn and weather beaten. Stumpy - as she'd been titled during her 4th year in primary school by a group of boys that liked to chase the younger kids at lunch - grabbed the two items and fled, once again, deeper into the cemetery.

She was a reckless thing, skipping school and revelling in her new-found mischief. Her mother had always said "that child was born to run with the wolves. No man nor beast could tame her", and she'd struggled to accept her child’s detrimental behaviour. "Nonetheless", she thought, “she will be okay".

Stumpy brushed an arm across her mud-streaked face and stood back to admire her work. For five days of hard labour, she'd finally begun to unearth fragments of an old wooden box once devoured by the earth, and the dirt, and the bugs. She was not a frigid child by any means; with smears on her school dress and dirt in her shoes, she clawed at the remains. The quiet voices in her thoughts told her this was wrong, and what she'd find might scar her forever, but the little black book in her pocket told her otherwise. She dug her nails into the dirt and felt resistance. Fragments of fraying grey material rose from the depths before her, and soon she’d unearthed bone. She held in her small hands the very skull of her great great grandmother. Or maybe it was her great great great grandmother, she wasn’t really sure. She struggled at school to understand family relations and the different titles that followed them. After all, Stumpy was no older than 11 and none the wiser, she thought. It was at that moment she questioned if anyone ever visited the old graveyard she’d currently been occupying. She hadn’t seen anyone enter in the last five days, but the question was there. Surely someone visits the dead? She hoped in that moment, that if she ever settled six feet under, that someone would bother to visit her.

Stumpy returned her elders’ skull to the dirt and traced her bones down to where hands should be. There, on the spot where fingers once lay, was a tainted ring. To Stumpy, it didn’t look like much, but the little black book promised its’ fortune. She grabbed it, hid it in her pocket and scampered to the surface, happy to be back among the living and away from the stagnant smell of death.

She thought to herself that maybe the sight of an eleven-year-old knee-deep in a grave with mud streaked clothes and a shovel, could send any breathing man plummeting into the depths of a wooden box two rows over. She chuckled and brushed off the dirt. That didn’t matter. This was a mission; this was her family's salvation. And without this, they were as good as the dead around her.

Stumpy knew it was getting late now, but she couldn’t risk the thought of somebody finding out what she’d done. The guilt was weighing heavy on her shoulders and she was exhausted by the long day spent digging. She continued to fill the grave. Her tummy grumbled with unfed desire and her hands burned from the blisters.

It was time to go home.

The grave, although full, was still clearly soft and fresh. Stumpy hoped no one would be returning to visit anytime soon. She grabbed her bag and did a final shake and rub to remove the day's remnants. She smelt bad, she ached all over and she knew her parents would be mad for her late return home. She’d have to pin it on Abby again, maybe say she was doing homework and had forgotten to call. With one last glance at the mound of tossed dirt and the cracked tombstone, Stumpy went home.

Mr and Mrs Sheen weren’t home when Stumpy returned and neither were her siblings. The opportunity to shower and be rid of all the evidence before her parents entered the house had her relieved. So, she cleaned up, dressed in her polka dot pyjamas and filled her stomach with leftovers from the night before. It didn’t take long before she fell fast asleep in the old rocking chair that often sent her back to the unconscious.

Startled from her slumber, Stumpy came face to face with the burning stare of her mothers’ grey eyes. She was in a lot of trouble.

Her punishment was brutal, she thought. Four weeks grounding with no desert and no out-of-school activities. And that was just for not returning home before light. Thanks to the loyalty of her only friend Abby, Mr and Mrs Sheen had no idea Stumpy had been hiding out in the cemetery this whole week, and she knew if they found out she’d been skipping school she’d be as good as dead, but she doubted her parents would look that far into it. Her parents worked day and night and her four other siblings kept them beyond busy. The dark circles under Mrs Sheen’s eyes never seemed to fade and the sun never seemed to stay down long enough to let them.

Stumpy waited until Sunday evening to confront her parents.

It was late, close to midnight maybe, when the lamp by her eldest siblings’ bed was switched off and Mr and Mrs Sheen headed outside for a fag.

Stumpy followed them.

She stood between the two, bearing her tattered black book and her unearthed treasure. Mrs Sheen took; and opened the well-thumbed booked from her middle child. The front page read, The diary of Martha Gae Stewart, however the title itself proved somewhat deceiving upon looking further. The book contained instructions. Instructions on finding the hidden treasures and heirlooms of Martha Gae Stewart's parents and grandparents before them. Mrs Sheen was shocked her daughter had been able to comprehend the extravagant literature, but fearful of what may have been done.

It was a path to wealth, if it worked, and clearly from Stumpy's excavation, it had. Stumpy's parents sat silently for seconds, maybe minutes until Mr Sheen asked where she'd found the ring. Stumpy gave no answer to where, but explained it was an heirloom. That it belonged to the family, and therefore belonged to them. After all, she wasn't wrong; and for an eleven year old she had proved her courage and wit beyond most adults - knowing well the consequences that could arise.

The Sheen family discussed the jewel, and in further detail discussed their poverty. It was confirmed now that the Sheen's were in serious debt and their salvation couldn't have come at a more detrimental time, nonetheless, Mrs Sheen struggled to accept what she had not earnt to save them. She'd always been a victim to God and guilt.

The next day, Monday the 16th of March, Mr and Mrs Sheen took sick days from work and drove the Ruby heirloom to an antique shop two hours away. Mr Sheen almost had a stroke when the cashier quoted him $20000 for it's obtainment.

He had to leave the shop to catch his breath.

Later that day an exchange was made and the Sheen's became $20000 less in poverty. Dreams of wealth had blossomed in both their minds, and that afternoon they'd bought all five of their children a cone from the ice creamery in the centre of town. A treat. A moment of celebration.

But no less than a week later after word had gone around Tullamore that the Sheen family had heirlooms worth more than most of the town's prized possessions, the family home was robbed. They were left with nothing but their basic furniture and the clothes on their back. Items worth little-to-nothing were taken, and anything worth more than a $50 note was gone. Mrs Sheens childhood music box that held a few simple silver and gold jewels was stolen, and even the cuff links Mr Sheen had been given by his grandfather were taken from their pillow.

Stumpy didn't cry that day. Beyond her youth, she felt guilt. She decided that nothing acquired and not earnt was valid salvation. Anything stolen or forcefully accumulated would cause more trouble than good. Nothing hoped for, but not worked for, could be sustained. Luck was a word, hope was a dream and faith was a curse.

The little grave robber had had her fill of terror for now.