“It is worthy of sorrow.”
Sniffs looked away from the scene in front of him. “Sorrow, honour, aw they things,” he said. “But ah’ll tell ye this for nothin’. Am no going tae greet again until am ready, and when ah greet again, in ah know ah will, it be tears ay healin’ and nuthin else. She widnae want me tae be mopin’ aboot wonderin’ whit am gone tae dae nixt. Ah might no ken much, but ah ken that.”
The Guardian looked again at the freshly filled graves in front of them. “You are a strange race of people and I don’t understand tears,” he said. “Seen from afar you are all so alike, so small, and so weak; but close up there is a strength I would not have imagined.”
Sniffs looked again at the wooden plank at the head of the nearest grave; the burnt-in letters read ‘Wee Shona’. The August rain started again, biting into the blasted earth with a million hammer blows.
“Aye, she wiz strong a’right,” he said turning around. “Stronger’n me, stronger’n you, an am no goin’ tae forget that.”
Sniffs paused for a second before looking at the Guardian. “Lits git back tae work,” he said. “This wisnae mah fight, but it is now.”
