"An owl, you dunce."
"That's an omen," said Karl. "We shouldn't be here tonight."
"Take a swig of brandy to steady your nerves." Wulf handed
him a leather flask. Karl took a long draught and sighed. "If I dig
any deeper I'll hit China. I'm not lifting another spadeful of dirt."
"Ten diamond rings, one with the margrave's seal, six golden chains,
purses filled with gold coin stuffed in his pockets," Wulf enumerated
on his fingers. "Shoe buckles, sapphires embedded in gold. With that
kind of loot we can build castles of our own."
"You forget-- The riches get turned over to the widow. It's the
finder's fee for us."
"And I say finders keepers, if you catch my meaning."
"Then you be a finder for a while. My blisters need a rest."
Wulf grabbed the spade and jumped into the pit. The eerie sound of metal
against earth in the dead of night started up again.
"Wulf?" Karl's voice had a plaintive note to it.
"What is it now?"
"I figured out why the poor is so poor."
"Oh and how's that?"
"Well if all the gentry like our Margave here have been taking
their riches to the tomb, then it stands to reason there's less of it to
go around up here. So the poor stay poor."
"Unless they dig it up." Wulf stood up to straighten his back.
The thin pinched features reminded Karl of a cadaver drenched in sweat.
"So we're performing a vital public service here, liberating the loot
so it can circulate in needy hands."
"Well, the dead have no need of it," Karl surmised.
Wulf's head popped up again and smiled through gap teeth with wry amusement.
"Death is no more than an overblown upstart, if you ask me."
"Now, I wouldn't go about speaking ill of death," said Karl,
looking hurriedly around.
"Think on it, my friend," said Wulf, caught up in his theory.
"Death has got to wait on mischance in this world to collect the goods
he delivers up to the devil. He stands around wringing his hands until
sickness or famine give him a handout. Or desperation, in this instance,
seeing as the margrave blew out his brains."
"A pox on this business," said Karl ruefully. "It's the
undead I worry about. They say they wait about places like these, at crossroads,
waiting to be called."
"What's that, then? You've shoveled up enough bones to be wise.
The dead stay dead."
"On All Hallow Eve's they dance on their graves."
"And you'll be dancing at the end of this spade if you don't shut
up."
