Flights of Fantasy - The Pub Fantasy Smackdowns

Whispers of Stone - Part 2

My brother and I had risen with the sun. We followed the trailing snake of cap clad men as they made their way from the canvas walls of our temporary home to the work face. As always, we carried pick, Davy lamp and a pack. Several of the men carried rifles in case of wolves, but I tended to rely on my pick and the handmade knife I carried in a sheath on one hip. I watched my younger brother as he picked his way over the loose stone of the spoil heaps and smiled. It was good to have him with me, and there were a few other local lads from Morvah who had made the journey with us.

The line halted as everyone made their way under the low oak lintel forming the entrance to the mine, ducking as they entered, already stripping off extra layers as the warmth from the earth shrugged off the winter chill of the hills. Once we got to work face, many of the miners worked naked due to the heat.

"You didn't touch the charm," whispered Tom as I ducked into the mine.

"Superstitious nonsense," I replied laughing off my own fears. "The knife you gave me is the only charm I need. My hand dropped involuntarily to grab the bone and wood handle. It had saved us in New York when we'd been attacked by a gang, it was all I needed.

"Don't you remember what Aunty Zena said about offering a Gift to the Knockers?"

"Aunty Zena was full of old rubbish about Small People and Piskies, and all sorts of other nonsense."

"You need to watch your mouth, boy," noted one of the older Cornishmen from behind me. "Words like that will get us killed."

"Rubbish," I said again, but foreswore saying any more in the light of glares from the other men around me.

Apart from crouse, there was little time for banter other than during the walk in or out each day. When working, you cannot hear much other than the harsh sound of metal on rock, the occasional granite clatter of rocks being thrown into the wagons or warning shouts when larger blocks were being taken down and many of the older miners were stone deaf. My brother and I would share a mouthful from a canteen occasionally, but other than that work consumed the silence and the hours. It was the break for lunch that always gave rise to the subtle comments and humour between the men. My brother in particular was a born storyteller and regaled us with old tales he’d learned from Aunty Zena or Grandma Penberthy. The men would listen with rapt attention as he spoke of the Small Folk, the Mermaid of Zennor, knockers and pixies, of sprites dancing amidst the sea campions, and devils footprints in the snow.

We never dreamed others would come to listen.

We only realised something was amiss when the Davy Lamps sputtered, all of them, all at once. Thomas was in the middle of a story about the Wreckers of the Village of Beer as the light dimmed. The friendly orange glow of the lamps took on a blue tinge, the temperature plummeted, and St Elmo’s fire swept like liquid ice over our picks and shovels, coating the walls of the chamber in which we sat as our breath plumed in the sudden cold.

tap, tap

tap, tap, tap

tap, tap, tap, tap

Knocks of stone on stone. Rhythmic, hollow, redolent of eons of darkness, laced with the patience of stone. Two slow, three fast, four long and descendant.

tap, tap

tap, tap, tap

tap, tap, tap, tap

As the last of the Davy lamps flickered to nothing, they attacked.

Thomas had been sat with his back against the wall, I next to him, my eyes closed and head resting against the stone as I listened. The other men were ranged in a loose semi-circle facing the teller of stories. It was that which saved us initially and doomed the rest. The knockers tore into the outer ring of men, a blue tinged maelstrom of flickering light and darkness. Screams punctuated the near darkness and the sound of weapon on flesh precluded the iron smell of blood and fear. I grabbed my pick and saw several others do the same, but our foes were ephemeral, shifting shadows of spirit and legend. Real, yet barely there. My pick was struck from my hand and instinctively I reached for my knife. As the blade struck the air, a white glow pierced the gloom and the blue retreated. We were the only two left standing.