It was a hobby like any other really, or at least it almost was. Every morning, Mr. Kallighan would cross the dry tomato fields behind his house and continue down the dusty road towards the rocky river. Considering himself a cursed man he had figured that he ought to spend every minute of every day doing something useful, and thus, his affinity for gold-digging began.
Digging for gold was no easy task, and especially not in a river as wide as Old Creek. Malicious in its intents, and wild as a buck in springtime, it had already taken more than a dozen men in violent landslides over the years.
Following a dreadful life full of wasted time and unfulfilled potential, he spent most of his god-damned time buried deep inside his own god-damned mind. In fact, Mr. Kallighan survived almost entirely on his fading recollection, dwelving in the memories of a life long-forgotten life. Subsequently, he had created a colourful cast of characters to keep herself company during the harsh months he spent underneath the crushing Colorado sun.
“It’s hiding by the delta, I’m telling you we are awful close now, but none of you fools are going to listen to me of course.” Hoffer exclaimed as he poured the liquor from the mysterious, dark bottle down he dry, Montana throat.
“Although none of you know it yet, gold cannot be found in a steady flowing creek. You see, gold is a smart metal, a metal that will not be fooled by the single turn of a foolish stream,” he had added in an ugly, toothless grin.
Despite the lack of immediate success, Mr. Kallighan was nevertheless determined to keep insanity at bay, and despite Hoffers constant biggering inside his head, Mr. Kallighan stepped out every morning with a smile.
This day however, he felt somewhat uneasy but nevertheless determined. The rope dragged long behind him as he walked around the slow flowing creek.
It had not always been like this for poor Mr. Kallighan. In fact, his affinity for gold was a rather recent discovery and his enthusiasm was thus not yet tainted by the glumness of defeat. Only after his wife had passed away from old age, he had taken up gold digging as a hobby in order to try and make some sense of his time, and more importantly of his loneliness.
Subsequently, as it often happens to people acquiring a hobby, he quickly found himself submerged in a group of people sharing a similar kind of passion for gold. But by the end of each season, they would gather to drink to all the god-damned gold they were never going to find and silently part ways until summer returned. The rest of the year, Mr Kallighan thus relied on the conversations of his many imaginary companions.
While moving the dirt below a stubborn group of rocks, along came the lovely Mrs. MaCallan; a Scottish midwife turned housewife, turned widow too soon in the outskirts of Somerset, and now entirely devoted to the care of town kittens. According to herself, Mrs. MaCallan was of great importance to many and subsequently, everyone was quite surprised when one sunny afternoon, Mrs. MaCallan had taken her good shoes and her shaded hat, and left the premises for good, leaving everyone she loved to their own devises. At least that was the story she told.
“And they deserved it alright, ungrateful bastards,” she reminded Mr. Kallighan in her typical southern accent. She had decided to do something about her misery.
“The endless stream of dirty socks, ungrateful children, a lazy husband, Mr. Kallighan you cannot imagine what I sacrificed! Had I been a man, nobody would have questioned my reasons for leaving of course, but as a woman. Gosh! My choices were harshly judged.”
That was how she felt, and nobody could tell her otherwise and Mr. Kallighan never argued.
While digging for gold that late autumn afternoon, another visitor came through to help Mr Kallighan. Old Man Scattlehoff; a former sailor, turned delinquent, now dealing questionable rum across the great pacific, a man of few words but with a considerable temper came through with his usual harsh gudgement of Mr. Kallighan endavour. There was something odd about the light of the late afternoon.
“You goddamn idiot! Always keeping up the hope, ay? Just get it over with alright,” his voice sounded inside Mr. Kallighans head as he once again found himself overlooking mountain range in the delicate light of the afternoon.
“What do you know about it, you old wanker?” Mr. Kallighan responded in thought, digging deep into the soil of the riverbed.
“Tsk! I’ve held grudges older than you,” the old man said and retrieved to the back of Mr. Kallighans mind. Mr Kallighan had quickly grown tired of his tedious, repetitive stories, most of which somehow always seemed to centre around the losses he had suffered as a child.
The dawn transformed from red to blue, and a subtile light started emerging from the east. From below the horizon, the sun rolled across the land, from the east towards the west, taking Mr. Kallighans breath away. He sure missed Aveline this time of day.
The light was crushing long, sharp shadows upon his modest house in the distance as he took the large piece of gold from his chest pocket and twisted it in his hand. The light reflecting its marvellous shine by the rays of the sun unto the bare red ground. Old Man Scattlehoff had turned silent, but Mrs. MaCallan tried one last time.
“Don’t do this Emmett,” Mrs. MaCallan whispered in a little voice, but Mr. Kallighan continued unabated. Determined, Mr Kallighan threw the piece of gold back into the ground and a blissful smile crossed his face as he leaped from the edge of the wooden log he had brough for the occasion and the rope snapped his neck with an loud, ugly smack.