over the stunted, gnarled thorn brush clinging with exposed roots to the steepening hillside. Farther I ran, breathing labored, muscles burning in my calves and thighs, up the hill toward the hellish orange light of the smelt fires.
The stinking, gritty ash fell in damp raindrops on my face, burning my eyes and suffocating my lungs. The fires growled, low and ominous. I could feel the workings of the mine beneath my feet, tremors as if the earth would open and spiral me straight to hell.
What if she had fallen in one of their pits? The old shafts were long forgotten, their barricades rotten—she could have tumbled to her death some four hundred feet below.
What if what if what if…
I finally reached the craggy summit, pulled myself upright, and stared upon the belching inferno of the working mines and the men who moved like sooted wraiths in and out of the shaft openings.
As a lad, I had oft sneaked away from my grandmother’s protective eye and wandered up the deep grooves in the hillsides. Rushes, they were called, once produced by the damming of streams in order to reveal the dark gray veins of lead. I had sat with legs crossed, hidden within the wild gorse, and watched the troops of stoop-shouldered men move in and out of the shafts like armies of ants.
Oh, how I had envied them. Yes, envied. They were men of sweat and brawn—of immense courage. They were the true dragon slayers.
That was, of course, before my parents had died. Before the full weight of my lot in life had been scored into my mind—aye, and my heart. Before my soul had become as black as the horrid spume of poison smoke belching into the sky.
From the haze and light of the fire-cast smelter, I saw the silhouette of a man move toward me, his booted feet crashing upon the fractured sleeves of lead on the ground.
He carried Maria in his arms.
Frozen, speechless, I fixed my gaze on the man’s grooved and sooty face, which revealed no hint of her well-being. Wrapped in a tattered wool blanket, she was draped as lifeless as death itself across his massive arms, her weight of no more consequence than a wilted flower.
I slid and stumbled down the hill until I was forced to grab a thorny gorse for fear of tumbling heels over head.
He approached me, silent and grim, and upon reaching me, said, “Seems y’ve lost somaught, eh?”
“Is she dead?” I asked, still watching his eyes.
“Nay.”
“Where did you find her?”
“Yonder.” He motioned in no particular direction with a nod of his head. “Starin’ up at the light and callin’ out fer Paul. Are ya Paul?”
I shook my head.
“Who’s Paul?”
“Her brother.”
“Then best I give ’er over to ’er brother.”
“Her brother is dead.”
“Is she daft, then?”
“She’s…ill.”
“Who are ya, then?”
“Salterdon.”
He looked me up and down, at my muddy stockinged feet and grime-covered clothes, my hair rain-plastered to my head. “Right, then,” he said. “I reckon one nut deserves another.”
With that, he handed her over to me. “Best ya cum out t’rain for a bit. Yonder.” He pointed one big scarred finger toward a small cottage in the distance. “The woman’ll see to ’er, if she can.”
7
I HOISTED M ARIA THE BEST I COULD CLOSER against my body, feeling that I would never make it to the cottage. My legs felt as wobbly with relief as they did with fatigue. My feet had gone numb.
As if sensing my dilemma, the man gave a grunt and reached for Maria again, cradled her as gently as a babe, and covered her face with a corner of the blanket. Then he turned and made his way along the path as I followed.
The towering smelt chimney belched long tongues of fire and billows of black smoke. The cranking and rolling of the barrows in and out of the black shafts, pulled by laboring Shetlands along the iron tracks, made me cover my ears. Even as I watched, a small pony, weakened by its load, fell wheezing onto its front knees, its quivering nostrils causing
The stinking, gritty ash fell in damp raindrops on my face, burning my eyes and suffocating my lungs. The fires growled, low and ominous. I could feel the workings of the mine beneath my feet, tremors as if the earth would open and spiral me straight to hell.
What if she had fallen in one of their pits? The old shafts were long forgotten, their barricades rotten—she could have tumbled to her death some four hundred feet below.
What if what if what if…
I finally reached the craggy summit, pulled myself upright, and stared upon the belching inferno of the working mines and the men who moved like sooted wraiths in and out of the shaft openings.
As a lad, I had oft sneaked away from my grandmother’s protective eye and wandered up the deep grooves in the hillsides. Rushes, they were called, once produced by the damming of streams in order to reveal the dark gray veins of lead. I had sat with legs crossed, hidden within the wild gorse, and watched the troops of stoop-shouldered men move in and out of the shafts like armies of ants.
Oh, how I had envied them. Yes, envied. They were men of sweat and brawn—of immense courage. They were the true dragon slayers.
That was, of course, before my parents had died. Before the full weight of my lot in life had been scored into my mind—aye, and my heart. Before my soul had become as black as the horrid spume of poison smoke belching into the sky.
From the haze and light of the fire-cast smelter, I saw the silhouette of a man move toward me, his booted feet crashing upon the fractured sleeves of lead on the ground.
He carried Maria in his arms.
Frozen, speechless, I fixed my gaze on the man’s grooved and sooty face, which revealed no hint of her well-being. Wrapped in a tattered wool blanket, she was draped as lifeless as death itself across his massive arms, her weight of no more consequence than a wilted flower.
I slid and stumbled down the hill until I was forced to grab a thorny gorse for fear of tumbling heels over head.
He approached me, silent and grim, and upon reaching me, said, “Seems y’ve lost somaught, eh?”
“Is she dead?” I asked, still watching his eyes.
“Nay.”
“Where did you find her?”
“Yonder.” He motioned in no particular direction with a nod of his head. “Starin’ up at the light and callin’ out fer Paul. Are ya Paul?”
I shook my head.
“Who’s Paul?”
“Her brother.”
“Then best I give ’er over to ’er brother.”
“Her brother is dead.”
“Is she daft, then?”
“She’s…ill.”
“Who are ya, then?”
“Salterdon.”
He looked me up and down, at my muddy stockinged feet and grime-covered clothes, my hair rain-plastered to my head. “Right, then,” he said. “I reckon one nut deserves another.”
With that, he handed her over to me. “Best ya cum out t’rain for a bit. Yonder.” He pointed one big scarred finger toward a small cottage in the distance. “The woman’ll see to ’er, if she can.”
7
I HOISTED M ARIA THE BEST I COULD CLOSER against my body, feeling that I would never make it to the cottage. My legs felt as wobbly with relief as they did with fatigue. My feet had gone numb.
As if sensing my dilemma, the man gave a grunt and reached for Maria again, cradled her as gently as a babe, and covered her face with a corner of the blanket. Then he turned and made his way along the path as I followed.
The towering smelt chimney belched long tongues of fire and billows of black smoke. The cranking and rolling of the barrows in and out of the black shafts, pulled by laboring Shetlands along the iron tracks, made me cover my ears. Even as I watched, a small pony, weakened by its load, fell wheezing onto its front knees, its quivering nostrils causing
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