To walk on soil is to walk on the dead. As February draws to a damp close, I take a wooden stake and a metal rasp from my father’s carpentry collection in the garage and head out into the valley. Our house, perched on the crest of a rolling hill, sports an acre of oak trees and fields of non-native grasses that die as soon as the California spring heat settles down into the dips and crevices of the larger valley. I walk a good two hundred feet to the far edge of the concrete walls defining the house’s side gardens and to my compost bin tucked away in a solitary corner.
Out here, any potential smell will be too far from the main gardens, and the overgrown oak tree sprawling over the top of the wall provides the shade needed for my own little graveyard. The bin itself feels like an empty tomb; I’ve set down the layers of grass clippings, shrub cuttings, and vegetable debris, but my graveyard keepers, my collaborators, are absent. Next to the compost bin is a latched wooden gate, which I unlock before walking out into rain-soaked woods.
I’ve buried dead remains at the bases of the oak trees before: the unfortunate bodies of mice and blue-bellied lizards that made their way into the lion’s den of my house and met an ignoble end at the paws of my cat, Lucy, as well as ground-up beef and chicken bones left over from meals. Oak trees aren’t carnivorous by nature, but their roots will happily absorb all nutrients and essential components they can. As organic material decomposes, it releases chemicals into its immediate surroundings.
Beneath the soil lies networks of organisms that will feed on everything a corpse can give. Certain fungal species will link root systems together in a common mycelial network of connected plants; these fungal partners will help break down remains and feed nutrients to the trees. My compost bin is still too small for meat and bone, so what doesn’t go in my green bin becomes scraps for the oaks.
The wet leaves squelch under my boots. The soil is sopping wet from the recent storm front, a few steps away from being churned to mud, and the whole woods smell of petrichor and wet, mossy bark. The dead oak leaves underfoot will one day be dragged below the soil by earthworms and digested into nutrient-rich leavings. The leavings fund more life, which will one day return to the soil. I’m walking on hundreds of years of collaboration between the products of the living and the contributions left by the dead.
Whether whole or ash, I’ll one day rest in those same layers. I pick a small clearing where the leaf litter isn’t too thick and where the chaparral scrubs don’t obscure my view of the forest floor. I kneel down, the soil soaking wet patches into the front of my jeans, and drive my wooden stake into the ground.
The art of worm charming centers around creating vibrations in the soil. Instead of digging down in damp soil and inspecting shovelfuls of dark soil, intrepid fishermen found better ways to find their live bait. The vibrations can be from dancing, from music, from taking a pitchfork (or the garden fork) and giving it a twang, but the most common way is with a wooden stake and a flat piece of metal. The vibrations in the soil encourage earthworms to come up to the surface, which makes them easier to collect. Researchers believe that the vibrations work because they feel similar to the digging patterns of moles, a constant predatory threat to worms, and drive them to flee. Several species of birds have also learned to drum their feet and dance until their chosen meal emerges from the safety of the soil.
I take my metal rasp and run it across the top of my wooden stake as though I was a musician and the stake was the world’s strangest violin. I feel the thrum in my hands as the rasp’s teeth dig into the wood, sending shivers running down the length of the wood. I hum as I get into the repetitive motion of rasping the stake and tap my rainboots in rhythm. I feel a bit like Orpheus, singing the dead back from the underworld. My knees are soaking wet and dirty, but after a few minutes pass and I creakily rise to my feet, I can already see the fruits of my labor.
The wriggling fleshy bodies of earthworms, skin-pink and moist from the wet soil, are easy to pick out amidst the dull browns and greens of the forest floor. In my desire, I forget a basket or bowl, so I cup my hands and scoop out the worms around me, one by one, in a loose semicircle away from the central stake. Unpleasantly slimy in texture, these worms are one of the most valued creatures in nature.
I hold the worms up to my eye, my own little psychopomps. I don’t need these earthworms for the compost bin to work, but I understand that they can help speed up decomposition. I don’t think they’ll be getting the bad end of the deal with an early relocation, not with the regular amount of detritus these creatures will get to break down. A very symbiotic relationship, I wager.
I leave the rasp and the stake and take my fistful of writhing trophies back to the wooden gate and my bin. I place them on top of my pile and watch as the clever coprophages push down amidst the debris and vanish from view, no doubt to get out of sight from potential predatory birds. I close the lid and walk back into the forest to retrieve my instruments.
Come late spring, in a few months, I’ll take my black gold, the rich brown compost, spread it amidst my mother’s prized tomato plants, and set it at the base of our Myer lemon tree. Whatever is left will aid my small raised planter full of wildflowers: California poppies, blazing stars, and bird’s eye gilia, a riot of color and scent that call bees to the garden and spring and whose dead blooms will go back into the compost bin once the flowers go to rest in the summer and autumn. I tend my graveyard and my garden in equal measure and am grateful for both. The worms will always remain well fed.
Emma (Emile) Brammer is a writer, artist, and nature appreciator working out of the Bay Area, California. As a newer voice in writing, their non-fiction work will be featured in the upcoming edition of Gargoyle Magazine.
