Man Engine

Written by Amy Parkin

William Wendron balanced on a wooden stool with 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 drink’s spell. He knew he shouldn’t 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, 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.  

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 downed half the drink; the gin catching in his throat, sparking a deep wracking cough that tore through him like knives slicing through his chest. 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 remainder down his throat.

It was a murky, muggy morning, walking to work he had a slight tell tale tremble.

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

 Starting his journey down into the mineshaft William stepped out and onto the first narrow ledge to take him down to the next reciprocating platform; then sprung to the next as it rose up toward him.

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

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.

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 terror. No way to navigate centuries of old shafts that ran for miles under the earth; he was a dead man.

He had no idea how long he lay there when he heard three 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. It was a struggle to focus his eyes upon them, they appeared to be 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, squeezing through the tunnel and stooping low so not to scalp himself. Water bled from the walls, the 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 he stripped his wet garb from his body and lay prostrate on a granite slab.

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

The other replied, “Terrible.”

The two workers rounded the corner 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 grunted.

“William Wendron… for a man of no faith you are a lucky bastard,” said the older.

“How... Why would God save you, of all the damned souls, why you?” He spat into the dirt. “Why you...”  

“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. Ghosts. Miner’s souls trapped forever in the mines. They must have taken pity on me. Led me to the light,” said William.

“We lost so many, but you – you were saved. No - I don’t believe it.”

William sprawled out on his back, a full grin now upon his face.

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