A gravedigger finishes his work in the dark of night, burying the same man the hundredth time. As the spade lie stuck in upturned earty, his eyes pull toward the heavens that burned in vast beauties of starlight and divine formation; but whatever language could be read among the shades of Pleiadian blue, or meaning discerned from its vast ambiguity, the gravedigger could not understand. His understanding of the world was dwarfed by his ignorance of cosmic threading.
A long time spent standing over the unmarked grave gave way to easy frustrations; no measure of lonely contemplation could tell how to interpret what he had took witness to. So, in his doubt, he took to divination:
”Widu, capricious lord!” The gravedigger called, his arms raised in ritual to the trees that stood before him and his work and the sky that stood above it all. ”Feed well upon black blood and waning marrow under which I have buried for thee; and in my dreams, whisper to me the meaning of this tapestry which I have witnessed!”
Though the silence of the woodland was his response, it seemed to satisfy; it was blessing enough that his friend was once more secure beneath the earth. His gaze turned toward where civilization shone in the distance, and so he walked toward the lay of the Descendants.
