B00DW1DUQA EBOK (32 page)

‘Again!’

With a snarl, Finn attacked the wall, angling the end of his axe upwards at the unsupported, overhanging rock. He had learned, over the months, that this was the way to do it. Once you had the initial breakthrough at the foot, the rock above it came loose more easily. The risk was that it all came down at once and engulfed you. More than once he’d been set to work on a rock-fall like that, picking away at it until he found the soft body entombed within.

‘Faster. I want this trolley full when I return,’ the Ironclad said. He strode away down the line of diggers, following the chain that anchored them all together along the face. Sometimes the chain was the life-line they used to haul a digger out from a rock-fall. Sometimes they even came out alive.

Finn swung again, without the strength to angle his blade properly this time. He hit lucky; another flood of dust and rock crashed to the ground, engulfing him for a moment. He worked his way backwards, coughing, spluttering. With an effort he rose to his feet. The cavern lurched around him. He lifted a head-sized boulder and began to lurch towards the waiting trolley.

Half-way there he collapsed. He must have lost consciousness. One moment he teetered along, the next he lay in the dust, his forehead throbbing where he’d struck it. The boulder he’d dropped was sharp beneath his belly.

He felt someone reach under him to haul the rock out. It would be the Ironclad. This would be the end. He was too sick and too weak to care. They would whip him and whip him but there was nothing he could do but lie there and take it. He hoped it wouldn’t take long. Perhaps if he bashed his head against the stone floor some more he could knock himself out again and he wouldn’t know anything about it.

‘Finn, here, let me do it.’

But it wasn’t an Ironclad; the voice was soft, muffled, familiar. Finn felt the boulder being hauled out from beneath him.

‘No, Tom,’ Finn said, his voice a dried whisper. ‘No. You can’t do my work too. You have your own.’

‘My trolley’s full,’ said Tom. ‘Full enough, anyway. I’ll load what I can into yours, OK? You can’t work, Finn. You’re sick.’

Finn looked up to see Tom’s dusty boots walking away from him. The metal trolley boomed as he dropped the boulder into it. Finn crawled back towards the rock-face to collect more ore. Tom easily overtook him.

‘No, Finn. You’ll kill yourself. Look, keep watch. Rest and tell me when the Ironclad is returning.’

Finn looked up at Tom. The man was just walking bones himself. They all were. His face was dust and his clothes, rags. He smiled, briefly, down at Finn, wrinkles cracking the grime about his mouth.

Finn conceded defeat. He couldn’t make his limbs work however much he wanted to. He nodded but said nothing. He lay with one eye sighting along the chain, watching for the return of the Ironclad. He coughed constantly, just as they all did, each cough a sharp pain in his lungs. He forced himself to stay awake. He was just lucky that Tom had been next to him today. Usually when a digger collapsed or died, their companion took their ore and saved themselves a few hours labour. He’d done it himself. Anything to survive. He was just lucky it hadn’t been Graves next to him. Graves would have seen Finn struggling and taken advantage. Yanked the chain to trip him up or called the Ironclads. Life had been better, a little better, in the year before Graves had arrived. The worst of it was, the older boy blamed Finn for his ending up down there. It was Graves who’d eventually found Finn’s message scraped into the lead around the skylight. He made his way through the tunnels only to be caught by the Ironclads. Graves had been there a year now, himself, taking his anger out on Finn whenever he could. It was fortunate, in a way, that they were so exhausted all the time. Graves rarely had the strength to do him any real harm.

When their shift was finally over, Tom half-carried Finn away from the rock-face. Their two trolleys were piled high; somehow Tom had managed to fill them both. Finn just hoped he would have done the same had Tom been sick.

They trudged back out into the main cavern, passing the line of diggers coming in to replace them. No-one spoke. Boyle was among them, staring down at his feet as he shuffled along in the line. Strange, but you could never tell who would survive the mines and who wouldn’t. The ones who looked strong often died quickly while the stick-thin ones somehow struggled on. It was a constant surprise to Finn that
he
had survived. He’d been sure, in those first, gruelling days and weeks, that he would not. He wasn’t strong enough, he wasn’t cruel enough.

But he’d survived and Boyle had survived. So far. And the boy he knew only as
Beanpole
was somewhere about, too. Yet Bellow, for all his muscles and his malicious eyes, had lasted only a few weeks before a fall of rocks had crushed him. He’d been one that Finn had helped dig out. Finn had felt sure that Bellow was going to be alive under the rock. A part of Finn hadn’t wanted to rescue him, wanted to leave him safely entombed there. But, of course, the Ironclads had wanted the pile moving. The landslip got in the way and the rocks had to be lugged to the waiting trolleys. They’d dragged Bellow’s body, purple and bleeding, his chest clearly crushed, to one of the furnaces. His front teeth were crooked, broken that day on the Octagon. Croft, too, had come and gone. Beaten to the ground by the Ironclads for some offence. Beaten so badly he hadn’t got up again. It was just a shame Graves was too smart to do something similar.

Now, Finn and Tom fell to the ground, their tattered blankets laid out in rough rectangles on the hard floor in a corner of the main cavern. The great round lights, like trapped, constant suns, swayed to-and-fro far above them, giving everything multiple shadows.

Food and water had been wheeled out to them: a vat of porridge and a tank of gritty, metallic water. The diggers thronged around, fighting with their remaining strength for their share. Finn sat back and watched, too exhausted to join in. He’d seen many diggers die just because they were too ill, too injured, to fetch their own food and water. But he didn’t care. He just needed to sleep.

Tom emerged from the crowd, fighting through with two metal bowls and two metal cups in his hands. Finn nodded his head at the sight, grateful but too tired to say so. Tom kneeled and tipped water into Finn’s mouth from one of the cups, parting his sealed lips so none was wasted, before glugging back great gulps himself. Tom ate his gruel. Finn sipped at his but his stomach lurched at the taste of it and he handed it back to Tom to eat.

They’d known each other since the day Finn had landed in a broken huddle at the foot of the chute. Tom hadn’t recognized him, of course, but Finn immediately saw who he was, despite the grime and his thick, matted beard. Tall and slightly bent over, he had the same open, clever face, the same knowing expression in his eyes. Finn had called to him by name as they sat in the semi-dark a few nights later.

‘It’s Tom isn’t it? Rory’s brother.’

Tom had been eating then, too, sitting alone and shovelling gruel into his mouth with determined, machine-like motions. Finn’s words had stopped him dead.

‘You know Rory? Is he still alive?’

‘He is. At least, he was a few weeks ago. He helped me.’

‘Why? Why did he help you?’

His food forgotten, Tom had shuffled over to sit beside Finn. Finn hadn’t been sure Rory was still alive, of course. There was a good chance he’d been caught by the Ironclads. On the other hand, Finn hadn’t seen him down in the mines. Which didn’t mean he wasn’t there somewhere. The diggings were vast. Still, he liked to think Rory was free, somewhere up above them in the workings. He’d told Tom everything he could recall about his brother.

‘So you’ve seen my mother recently, too?’ Tom had asked.

‘She taught me how to operate the Switch House. We worked together. She was well, the last time I saw her.’ Once again, he didn’t mention his last sight of her. ‘She was well. Bossing me around as much as ever.’

Tom had grinned. ‘That’s good.’

Over the next weeks and months they’d slowly recounted their stories to each other. They were often too exhausted, too sick, so it took time. And they both rationed what they said, out of wariness at first, but then because neither wanted to use their memories up quickly. Each fresh episode, each tiny detail of life back in the valley, was a precious moment lighting up grim days. Finn looked forward to his conversations with Tom like nothing else. He’d been wary, at first, about discussing Connor, Diane, the wreckers. In the end it didn’t seem to matter. What more could the masters do to them? He and Tom shared all their secrets, huddling close to each other on the hard rock.

Most of Tom’s recollections were of life back home. He’d known Finn’s parents, of course. Finn loved to hear these stories. Tom’s time in Engn had been less dramatic than Finn’s. He’d told his story in just a few words, early on in their friendship.

‘Rory and I were separated when we got to Engn and I didn’t see him again. They put me to work in the line-of-sight tower. Because I used to help out my mother, I suppose. But they were obviously keeping a close eye on me. The first hint of something wrong, a message or two mistranscribed, and they pulled me away and brought me down here. Said I’d failed the tests. I’ve been here ever since. I suppose they have to be very careful with the messages.’

‘The line-of-sight tower? Where’s that?’

‘You can’t miss it; it’s one of the highest. It needs it for the range, you see.’

‘Your brother said they could intercept messages, somehow.’

‘Did he? Good. But I hope they’re careful. The masters are clever. You think you’ve got away with something and they really know all about it.’

‘Yes.’

Now, Finn opened his eyes to glance across at Tom. His friend was one of the longest survivors of the mines. His face had the sickly, green tinge they all had. Finn had never been able to decide whether this was because of the unnatural light, or the result of some disease.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You saved me.’ He began to cough. Tom shrugged, too busy eating to reply. Finn nodded his head as if everything now made sense and he turned back to gaze out over the cavern.

Some said it was a vast, natural cave that had been extended and deepened over the centuries by generations of diggers. Others said the whole thing had been dug out by axe and hand, countless thousands of people scraping and scraping away at it. Whatever the truth the underground space was huge: far, far greater than any hall or vault up in Engn, far greater than any room possibly could be. Pillars of rock had been left throughout to support the weight of the rock above. They looked delicate but if you walked up to one they were titanic, curved columns like stalactites and stalagmites that had met in the middle, far broader than any tree. Finn often wondered how many people on the ground above them knew that Engn was built on this great, yawning space, all the workings up there supported by these few pillars of rock. He thought, too, about how many trolley-loads of coal and ore had been cut from the rock to build the machinery. How many hands had worked away here over the centuries. It was impossible to calculate.

As he gazed out, the pillars of rock began to lurch around. It was only his exhausted mind playing tricks on him, but it looked like the whole place was coming crashing down. Just then he didn’t care. So long as he could sleep. He closed his eyes, still sitting upright, his last thought the vain hope that, tomorrow, he would have more strength. That, somehow, he’d be able to make it through one more day in the mines.

The next day passed in a blur of noise and pain for Finn. He awoke still exhausted, shivering and sweating at the same time. He was aware, distantly, of an Ironclad standing over him, a kick in his side, a voice bellowing at him to get up. He knew he could not and knew that meant he was no longer any use to them. Neither thing seemed terribly important.

Then he heard Tom speaking as a strong arm hauled him to his feet. ‘He’ll be fine. He’ll come round.’

‘He’d better.’

The Ironclad strode away. Finn tried to support himself with his own legs but they’d turned to grass. He lay back on the ground while Tom dribbled more water into his mouth. He felt it trickling down inside him, as if he was hollow.

‘Come on, Finn. You just need to get to the rock-face.’

Finn nodded, lacking the strength to reply. Tom pulled him back to his feet and, surrounded by the other diggers, they worked their way along the shaft to the seam of ore.

Kneeling, Finn tried to work the rock, swinging the axe he could barely lift. The walls lurched around in front of him. Sometimes a flurry of dust and rock came free. More often, he dropped the axe completely. He lost track of time. He’d been working there for moments and for years. He saw the rock face before him and also saw himself from above, looking down on his weak, useless swipes at the wall. He coughed and coughed, but the pain in his chest felt distant, as if it belonged to someone else.

Once, his father tapped him on the shoulder. ‘It’s alright, Finn. You’ve done very well. Let me dig for you now.’

Finn often imagined his parents coming for him, rescuing him, as they always had in the old days if he was in trouble. But when he looked around and up it wasn’t his father after all. It was someone he only vaguely recognized.

‘Let me cut into the wall, Finn. Then at least it will look like you’re working.’

Finn shook his head, refusing to let go of his axe. People would steal anything down here. Without an axe he was useless.

‘It’s OK, Finn,’ said the man. ‘It’s me, Tom. I’ll give it back to you once I’ve started the cut, OK? I promise.’

Finn nodded and let go of the axe, too exhausted to argue. He sat back, waiting for the next thing to happen. The man - Tom - hacked out an undercut in the rock-face, then handed the axe back to Finn. ‘Here. It won’t take much to make it fall, now.’ Finn tried to lift the axe and make it hit the wall in front of him. On his third attempt, a small rattle of rubble and dust fell to the ground in front of him.

Delirious dreams filled him all day, filled the cave around him. He saw familiar faces in the markings on the rocks. They called to him in voices that made him feel sick. Then he was back in the valley helping his father beat red-hot iron in the forge. He was on the swing in the forest, the tree-trunks lurching around him. He was inside the moving engine, lying on his back, jolted around as they lurched along the valley lane. He was in the mines with Tom shaking him as an Ironclad walking by, and this was the real world, not a nightmare.