Flash Fiction: Mastodon by Robert P. Kaye

Day 1: Approaching the end of his time on earth, Wayne wonders where he stands.

His best memories are from childhood with a posse of kids calling themselves The Terranauts. They burrowed under tree roots and around rocks, dug underground dens and secret passages, the further they dug, the hotter as they approached magma. They found rocks with fossil fish and plants, which explained a lot. One by one, the crew became distracted by D&D, computers, music, drugs, sex and the rest. They never reached the center of the earth.

Now Wayne has time, tools and a backyard. He begins digging.

In about an hour, back hurting, mouth parched, thumbs blistered, he pauses over the pickaxe to reconsider the absurdity of the quest. He touches tongue to forearm, plastered with grit and sweat. Tastes the salty blood of earth.

The lawn is already ruined. What the hell.

He finds gloves, a bandana and a water bottle. Works slow and steady til the sun goes down and the hole fills with dark. Clothes stiffen with mud, smelling of stale bait. Shower runs brown. Beer tastes great. The burger transcendent.

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Day 2: Sore as hell, ibuprofen, eggs, sausage, toast, coffee. Slow and steady to the rhythm of pick and shovel. Remember to hydrate. Pee in the hole to save time.

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Day 3: Rig a bucket and pulley under a tripod for debris removal. A ladder for steps. Anticipation mounting through layers of clay, sand, glacial till.

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Day 12: Shovel strikes the iron curve of ivory. The bulbous face of a massive skull emerges from the wall. Web says mastodon circa ice age. He winches up the swooping tusks to descend further.

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Day 13: Layer under the ribs stinks of peaty scotch. The tobacco-stained body of a man in mud-starched pelts, broad face and wire beard holding a broken spear with a knapped stone point. The Web mentions Bering Sea stepping stones way before Alaska or Russia. The DNA test Wayne’s daughter gave him for Christmas claims ancestors from that vicinity. Maybe a major discovery, but museums can wait. Hell, it could be family.

He descends the ladder after dinner to consider next steps. The man is sitting up, awake after a long nap. It seems normal.

Hey there. I’m Wayne.

Boris, the man says, or something grunt-like and similar.

Sorry about the tusks. I can bring them back down.

I speared the beast, Boris says. It crushed me.

Look, you were here first by a longshot, Wayne says. I didn’t know I was living on top of you. Should I call someone? It seemed pointless to start naming relations.

Snow fell, Boris says. They left me. I would have done the same.

Boris looks forlorn, like he wants to catch up to his people.

Wayne got laid off when he was sixty-two. He drives rideshare and food delivery to make ends meet. Knows plenty about getting left behind.

You want to come up to the house, have a beer and talk about it? he asks.

They both look up through the mouth of the vertical cave at a hole of sky. Cooler down here, but unseasonably hot above. The stars are bright for the city. A satellite glides past miles above. The brows of boulders stuck in the walls look down in judgment.

I like it here, Boris says. Good dirt.

Yeah, I hear you, Wayne says. Want me to put it back?

I would appreciate that, Boris says.

#

Day 14: Wayne lowers the tusks back down. According to Boris’s instructions, he lashes them into an arch. At end of day, Boris goes back to sleep under the pavilion. Another night before another journey.

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Day 15 – 30: It takes Wayne as long to fill in the hole as to dig it. He makes a cairn with the rocks he’s hoisted out to tamp down the earth. As the rocks settle into the hole, he covers them over. Which he will do until things are level again.

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Day 31 – ?: Wayne thinks about the cairn, the tusk pavilion and Boris on his journey. No doubt confusing the hell out of some future archeologist. He continues to enjoy the sweet smell of dirt after rain. The quiet comfort of knowing it’s bones all the way down. Kin above and below.

Robert P. Kaye’s (he/him) stories have appeared in New Letters, Prime Number, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, SmokeLong Quarterly and elsewhere, with details at www.RobertPKaye.com. He is an editor at Pacifica Literary Review.