The Divine Spark

By Lincoln Reed

Thomas snuck into the graveyard at midnight.

Carrying an oil lamp low in his left hand, he hoisted the shovel in his right and slinked among the tombstones until he located his prize—a mound of dirt, newly churned, resting at the foot of a humble marker. The lantern’s quivering flame danced across engraved letters. Benjamin Holden, 1800–1830. Loving husband.

Thomas extinguished the light, set it aside, and gripped the shovel handle with dwindling resolve. He exhaled slowly. Hoisted the tool. Paused. What am I do’n? An abomination!

He shook away the feeling. Think of yer boy.

The coughing fits. Hungry eyes. A chilled house.

This corpse would bring a price of at least sixteen pounds, maybe twenty at the medical college. Aspiring doctors needed fresh corpses for their studies. Such a payout would cover his son’s doctor bills—and squelch the landlord’s threats.

Thomas glanced to his left where the distant clip-clopping of a carriage horse echoed along the road hugging the cemetery’s perimeter. He ducked behind the headstone, heart punching against his ribcage, hand slipping toward the crowbar holstered in his belt. Did a night watchman lurk somewhere in the shadows? What if a constable heard his excavation?

No turning back.

Thomas stood again and scanned the cemetery until satisfied he was alone.

Shovel head stabbed loose dirt, scooped a cluster of earth, and tossed it aside.

Thunder bellowed.

He wiped his forehead with a sleeve and continued digging.

The clumping cadence of Thomas’s work harmonized with the storm’s rumbling advance. Lightning cut across the English countryside. The scent of imminent rain mixed with the aroma of upturned earth. A chilled wind carved through his thin jacket.

He rested against the shovel and caught his breath. Few feet left. Not much longer. Crowbar will do it, I’ll wager. Then it’s dragg’n the sorry bloke to the wagon and off we go.

Fresh blisters screamed across his palms as he grasped the shovel once more—

“Halt, you!”

Thomas’s chest clenched. He gripped the shovel, preparing to attack. He’d club the intruder, finish his work, vanish into the night.

The orange glow of a lantern danced in the corner of his eye. Thomas gritted his teeth.

One strike. Make it quick.

“Fiend!” the voice returned, gruff and biting in its condemning tone. “Leave him alone!”

Thomas turned to face the night watchman when his gaze settled on a short woman in a black dress. She carried an oil lamp and grasped a metallic pole.

Thomas dropped the shovel and removed his hat.

He hadn’t planned on a woman foiling his scheme. Clubbing a woman would be a cowardly thing to do.

But she had seen his face. Even if he did escape with the body, she would report him to the authorities.

“Not even in the ground ten hours.” Her eyes darkened. “What business of yours is my husband?”

Thomas’s throat tightened.

“Body snatcher. Resurrection man?” The woman frowned. “Selling him, are you? That’s your game?”

“Marm, I-I—”

“Digging him up, aren’t you?” she stepped closer. “Well?”

The woman lifted the lantern as Thomas met her stare. “You were right, Marm. My son’s sick, see, and we need the money. This body be’n fresh and all, yer husband, would give a good sum. Meant no disrespect. Was only fer my son. If you’d be kind, I’ll replace the dirt and be on my way.”

She hefted the pole like a staff and nodded toward the impending storm. “Was going to remove some dirt anyhow. Perhaps you being here means Providence is on my side.”

Confused, Thomas leaned toward the light. “What kind of pole that be, Marm?”

“Copper. From what I’ve read, it’s the right metal for the job.” Her eyes, red from tears, stung Thomas’s gaze. “Here’s what we’ll do. You help me, I don’t get the Bobbies and you can go home to your son. But… you cross me—”

“What be your purpose?”

She tossed the rod to Thomas and motioned toward the grave. “Stick it in the ground till it touches the casket. He’s buried in one of them metal boxes to keep blighters like you from stealing him. If God wills, He’ll send a lightning bolt to strike the copper and stir the metal coffin, rousing my husband. See the bell attached to the grave marker? If he lives, he’ll pull a cord and the bell will ring. Then, you’ll help me lift him out.”

Thomas balked. “That’s… It’s… sorcery!”

“Been tried before. Someone even wrote a novel about it. All it takes is the divine spark. Electricity.” She paused, voice cracking. “Well? What say you?”

Thomas’s heart ached for the woman’s loss. He weighed the copper rod in his hands as thunder boomed overhead. If his son passed, wouldn’t he do whatever necessary to bring him back?

Following the woman’s instructions, he hustled to insert the rod into the earth until it clanked against the coffin. Then he packed dirt around the pole until it stood on its own.

Lightning danced. Thunder roared.

Thomas stepped away from the burial pit as the woman knelt, hands folded, eyes turned toward heaven.

Rainfall descended in single drops at first, then increased into a full deluge.

The woman’s mumbled prayers turned to pleading shouts as the storm raged above. Thomas turned up his collar and pulled his jacket tight…

Lightning zigzagged in wicked fury. A violent flash erupted above the grave. Sparks flew. Thunder crashed. The copper pole glowed like a hot iron.

The woman stared at the grave for what seemed another hour as the storm abated. Thomas watched from the side as she at last buried her face in her hands and gave a wail of grief-stricken anguish.

He’d failed—as deeply as the old woman’s experiment. Thomas gathered his shovel and strode into the night. But as he reached the wagon, he heard the shrill cry of a ringing bell among the decaying tombstones.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a writer, filmmaker, and professor. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Miami University (OH). More than 50 of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies. The short film adaptation of his Havok story Tritanopia is currently in its film festival run.

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