Knockers by Amy Tryphena

William Wendron balanced on a wooden stool, wedged into the corner of the old pub, leaning upon the slate bar top. A crooked half smile fixed upon his face; old hands deformed with arthritis by years of toil in the damp with pick and axe. He grappled with his mug, draining the last of the sour gin down his throat. He welcomed the warmth spreading out from his gut, encompassing his wizened body; worn before its time, the pain of years of hard labour dulled under the gin’s spell. He knew he should not have another; he had promised the mine captain he would stop turning up in the morning stinking of gin with glazed eyes. Despite the ember of guilt in his conscience he shouted for the barmaid.

 “You’ll be rocking turning up for work tomorrow,” she said as she poured.

He knew his fellow miners were angered by his complacency. He knew he made life more precarious than it already was.

“How else is a broken miner supposed to keep going,” he thought.

His bones ground upon each other and his inflamed joints howled. His lungs were shot these days. Being down in the dark since a boy of eight and now in his thirtieth year; it was taking a vicious toll on his chest. The blasting. The drilling. The dust. All ruinous to the airways.

He sunk half the contents of the mug; the gin catching in his throat, sparking a deep wracking cough that tore through him like knives slicing through his chest wall. Little red specks caught on the glass. His bloodshot eyes peaked wide; fear crumpled his deeply lined face. He slammed his free hand down upon the cracked slate bar, growled, and threw the remaining drink down his throat.

It was a murky muggy morning. The mizzle rain hung as if suspended in the air instead of falling from the sky. Walking to work William wore a slight tell tale tremble.

After collecting his leather hat, brass lamp and pick, he lined up for the man engine.  The mighty steam powered beam engine; with its oscillating piston operated the mechanism of synchronised ladders and platforms to transport men up and down the vast hole.

 Starting his journey, 400 fathoms down into the mineshaft, William stepped out onto the first narrow wooden ledge to take him down to the next reciprocating platform. He sprung to the next as it rose up toward him.

However, this day the hubris of the well-rehearsed and the fog of the alcohol made him careless. Misjudging his step in one hideous, nauseating moment he was falling to meet his fate. The promise of death rose to meet him.

He plunged, winded, into the depths of glacial black water. Unharmed but with no way of knowing his location in the great underground web of passages; he was certain that death was still to be his fate.

The terrible darkness pressed upon him. He kicked and pulled his way through the water; until he felt a ledge up and out. Relieved but still desperately lost; he convulsed with cold and terror. No way to navigate centuries of old shafts that ran for miles under the earth; he was certain he was still a dead man.

He had no idea how long he lay there when he heard 3 loud knocks. Like splitting rock echoing around him. Three more knocks followed. The sound roused him from his despair.

He spotted three lights dancing in the black. He struggled to focus his eyes upon them, but he was reminded of miner’s lanterns.

“No this cannot be.”

He hauled himself to his feet. With nothing to lose he followed the lights through a crevice in the rock. He squeezed himself through the tunnel; stooping low so not to scalp himself. Water bled from the walls. The consummate dark lit only by the phantom lights ahead.

After what could have been hours the lights blinked out. A whimper of despair escaped his lips. Then he caught the faint taste of the open air. He pressed forward; clawing his way along the old shaft until he saw the sliver of daylight.

 He breached the ground and emerged into the world. His face screwed against the hostile sunlight he was bewildered with no sense of place or direction. Overcome with relief he stripped his wet garb from his body and lay prostrate upon a granite slab.

Two voices travelled up the valley, “Hell, I can’t rid myself of that sight of William falling like that.”

The older of the two replied, “A terrible death, but better him than us. At least he took none with him. Foolish drunkard of a man, we are better off without him.”

The two mine workers rounded the corner of the spoil tip and met the sight of a naked William face down in the dirt.

“What is this poor devil doing, with his bare cheeks to the heavens?” said the younger miner.

Rolling onto his back William hooted.

“You! William! For a man of no faith, you are a lucky bastard,” said the oldest.

“How… Why would God save you, of all the damned souls, why you?” He spat into the dirt. “Why you…” His voice caught on the words.

“It wasn’t God that saved me, we all know too well God’s angels don’t dwell under the ground with us men of the dark,” William said.

“Then how?”

“The knockers my friend. Ghosts, miner’s souls trapped forever in the mines. They must have taken pity on me. They led me to the light,” said William.

“You are no friend of ours. We lost so many, but you – you were saved. No – I don’t believe it.”

William sprawled out on his back, wearing nothing but a grin upon his face.

“I could do with a drink,” he thought.

Amy Tryphena

Image by Andrew from Pixabay – ruined head of a tin mine on the Cornish coast. Old stone building with a chimney against a backdrop of the sea and cliffs.