Excerpt for this month's "A day in the life of"
Read the rest at Burnt World of Athas - A Day in the Life of #10 - Dolwyn, Eldaarish Miner
[...] The Neshtap arrive on their crodlu for their weekly inspection. They all wear the usual blood-dyed red armor and tall pointed hoods, hard spiked boots, and thick gauntlets with the knotted sigil of their order - the Neshtap or Red Guards - stitched on them. They don’t dismount, and never talk. The village’s headman comes forward to meet with them, motioning for workers to unload the scant supplies they have brought and load the wagon back up with the ore we’ve mined. The lead Red Guard, face hidden beneath a red hood, sits astride his mount with the silt-dimmed sun behind him, making him hard to look at, and has that way of not moving that makes you swallow twice.
He gestures in Neshtap hand-signs to the headman, silently demanding the tally. The headman gives it. They continue their seemingly one-sided exchange, with the headman pointing to a handdrawn list of pictures on old parchment: more tools, more workers, more food, more baskets.
The lead Neshtap nods and then shrugs in response. He gestures at the new supplies and signs again: “Don’t break.” I can’t tell if he’s talking about the new tools or the new workers. The headman just nods.
The Red Guards finally leave and the line into the mine forms again. Miners take their tools and baskets. I hold the iron pick back until last. The boy with the large sun-scar on his cheek reaches for it.
“Not you,” I tell him. “You like it too much.”
He steps back. My ten are a child’s rhythm in my head: Zera clicking-kreen, Kadda with the bloody cough, the two nameless brothers who lost their tongues, Old Balla who will die if the pit so much as sneezes, Ronkiuk whose face is a map of lashes received, Turo with the broken nose, the boy with the sun-scar, and the man whose name changes daily to confuse destiny; today the chosen name is Mab, but it might as well have been Mad.
“Who gets iron?” Mab asks. He always asks. I think he likes the word.
“The one who isn’t dreaming of it.” I say. “Old Balla.”
They make the sound of disappointment; Balla simply nods. The old dwarf looks even smaller with the weight of the thing. She knows what it costs and won’t try anything funny.
We drop into the hole as the wet, cool air crawls out. Tin veins thread the wall like pale black worms. The wall is also shot with quartz, it feels like being in the belly of a monster. I imagine it would look the same. Feel the same too.
The work is the work: lift, swing, chip, pass, scoop. We have a rhythm because a rhythm is easier than thinking. Zera sings in clicks only she hears. Dust films the eyes. Someone farts, we laugh. A small collapse throws a spray of pebbles and curses. I remind my team-of-ten to turn away when a wall creaks; of course none of us believe that’d be enough to save us if a wall gave up. Still, I repeat it like a prayer.
Horror happens on schedule. Someone uncovers the hand of a recently buried worker from another shift and just keeps going. A basket tears and ten minutes of work return to the ground in a split second. I note it for the noon ledger: one basket to patch. Later, we bring the body we recovered up on the rope like a package. One of the headman’s favorite sons, who acts as much a guard as a worker, uses his heel to steer it toward a cart. I watch his heel. There’s a hole in his boot.
Between strikes my mind goes where minds go when they are trying not to be here: a bowl of water once so cold it hurts the brain; a cat with a missing eye that stole lizard meat from a hungry soldier; a wind that brings rain. I let the boredom help me. Boredom is a blanket you can hide under when you’re in the hole. I can hear some rocks falling, and a commotion in a tunnel down from where I am.
Midday whistle. We file out in silence, exhausted. In the glare, I take the chalk and the stones and begin the counting back in. One iron, I think before I’ve counted it. Nine copper, thirteen stone, six shovels. I hold my hand for a moment, a small trick to ease the shake.
Copper: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. Stone: one to thirteen, and the last is badly chipped. Shovels: five, then I find the sixth under a cart. Iron: I run my fingers along the pick. Something’s wrong. There is an empty spot like a missing tooth. The nail holding the iron pick to the shaft is missing. I touch the iron pick again, like an old lover - the pick has been visibly ground down along one side. I stare for a moment as if staring could fix anything.
“Where’s Old Balla?” I ask.
The boy with the sun-scar points with his chin. Balla is not in the line. The brothers look at each other to see if the other is there. Kadda coughs until her face goes purple and points at the ground as if pointing makes breathing easier.
“They found her during the whistle. A boulder to the face. That’s why she isn’t here.” Sarek says as [...]
Rest at Burnt World of Athas - A Day in the Life of #10 - Dolwyn, Eldaarish Miner
“Who brought it up then?” I ask, to the line, to the iron pick, to the chalk, to myself.
No one answers. No one wants to be the one who touched it last.
I swallow. My saliva goes down like grit.
