The Digger
I dredged the mud with my hands. Every day, I dug where the river had been flowing just hours before. Once the tides had dragged the crystal water away then just the mud, my dark mud, was left. Every day, I plunged my hands into the thick, brown goo. The cold oozed between my fingers. The space under my fingernails filled with grit, cutting at me. I imagined ants chewing me away, eating me alive-that was on the bad days. On the better days, I still felt the pain. I just dug on anyway.
In the winter months, the pain was not as bad. It only took two plunges until I could not feel my fingers any more.
When the temperature fell away to nothing, I would have to smash through the ice and frost layer that covered the surface with my heel just so I could dig that day. Once through, I would rake the worthless silt out of the way. Finally, the secretive mud was revealed. It was at my mercy. If there was moment that I enjoyed my digging (as opposed to feeling compelled to claw my way down through the dreadful stuff) then that would have been it. The moment that the virgin mud lay before me : exposed. My ripping hands would pull away layers of withered weed, ghostly crab shells and the curling, tattered skin of long dead fish. Then, I could get to the real stuff. Released from my cupped grasp, oozing walls of mud formed round today’s hole. They rose like mountains from my fevered scooping until their peaks melted as they reduced to nothing; they were too wet to hold their form. Most of my holes filled themselves back in before I managed to scramble my weary way back up the unhelpful bank. Sometimes, I imagined it was my sweat that left the mud so wet.
Every day was a disappointment. But every day, the urge to dig was like a sharp spear, poking me in the back of the head and forcing me to carry on.
If I got sick, I could not dig. When I could not dig, I lay in bed, moaning. If I slept at all, it was fitful. I would turn and turn again under my thin, brown blanket. My mind filled with the fear that someone else was digging and they would find it first. I am told that, in my feverish sleep, my fingers would scrabble at the stained and torn sheet. My arms would pull at the dream-mud, scraping it away from the river bed. My grunts of effort filled the air. Sleep left me exhausted.
I was ashamed of my habit. The whispers from the dark corners told me that others viewed me with contempt. I prayed. I wished. I sat in the weak dawn sunlight, peering at my ruined fingers, and told myself to stop. But I never did stop. By the time the sun had made it up high in the noon sky then I would be digging again.
There didn’t feel like there was anything different about that particular day. I escaped from a nightmare, in which someone else had found it, with a scream. I sat on the floor, just outside my door, looking at my ruined fingers. Clouds blocked the sunshine every now and again. I shivered. It was only just springtime and still the air was not too warm. I remembered the snowdrops that I had seen on the riverbank just a few weeks before. Perhaps that little white flower should be a signal of hope for me? Its bravery should inspire me. Just like the snowdrop, shoving itself through the frosty soil, I should take the first step. I took a sip of tea from my enamel mug and promised myself ‘No digging today!’.
My feet hit the exposed mud with a treacherous splash. The small boys, who had been fishing from a nearby broken down jetty, unleashed the usual catcalls. I bent to my task quickly. This was partly because I was desperate to dig but mostly to hide my embarrassment and shame. I was digging again after all.
My fingers cut through the pulling, chilling mud. It was like a mouth, a suckling baby, feeding on me as I dug. As usual, I pulled out a brown, black handful of mud and dumped it to one side. It let off an obnoxious smell but I hardly noticed that any more. My family, and my oh-so-few friends, would notice the stink and say “Oh, you have been digging again.” I could hear the kindness in their voices but I could see the disapproval in their eyes. Their noses would try to turn inside out, just to avoid the stench of river.
I dug on. My blood was mixing with river water, my sweat was dripping into the hole. It made a small, bitter smile slip across my face. Even my body was betraying me by trying to refill the hole.
Then, amongst the soft there was hard. Amongst the formless mess came forth shape. I was tentative at first. My fingers felt. At first painstakingly, then eagerly. The shape was right. Like a swarm of merciless serpents, my fingers curled round the object. Careful not to let it be sucked back in, I gently helped it to rise from the watery underworld and into daylight. I looked, desperate to know I had found it. The mud rose. It erupted from the hole. It spilled and ran away. Its work was done, its defeat was complete.
There! A glimmer. A soiled and muddy glint. My heart pounded. This was gold. I was looking for gold.
At last, with a final tearing noise, my whole hand and my prize emerged. It was! It was my ring. Back from the depths. Back from the river where it had been thrown in that terrible night. Back from where I had watched its winking fall into the river. With shaking hands, I pushed it back onto the very tip of my finger. That simple band of gold. The gold that said I was married. The gold that I still believed in, still respected. The gold that signified the vows only I had kept. The tremor in my hands made the ring rattle against my fingernails. I pushed it further on. The ring’s journey up my finger seemed the longest voyage that anything had ever been on. Finally, it slid into place, fitting as well as it had that first time.
And, at last, I could cry. So I howled. Sitting on the wet mud, all alone, my shiny ring on my finger once more, I wept until there were no more tears.
As I clambered up the bank, I realised for the first time that a new tide was lapping at my feet. It had already washed away any trace I had been there. I hoisted myself away from the river for one last time.
I was not going to be digging again.
