“The sun is setting!” he screamed as he thundered past. “The beast is coming! Burrow down, the earth will save!”
We shrugged at each other and carried on discussing more important matters: the flavor of tomorrow’s feast, the optimal time to let the stew simmer. Some distance ahead, the local lunatic attacked the ground with a shovel.
“Is the man digging a grave?” we wondered.
“His own,” we decided.
He layered his face with soil before burrowing his arms under. He lay still, praying that the earth above his chest would not betray his hammering heart. He longed to be dirt. Dead.
Boots trampled over him, but he dared not breathe. He strained his ears to hear. Any second now.
The swooping of wings the size of the sky. The shrieks that followed as the villagers were swallowed.
He straightened up at sunrise to head home. He’d scarcely stepped away from the grave when the bones crashed down where he had lain. His stomach turned when