Black Mountain

by Venero Armanno

  I felt around for the sack of provisions, unsure that I hadn’t dropped it somewhere along the way, but my fingers soon found its rough fabric. Very calmly I let one hand explore the contents inside. I prayed I’d had the presence of mind to bring the one with the sticks of pinewood matches in it, and the prayer was answered because I found the wide wooden carton. At Gozzi’s property they’d still used the old white phosphorus friction matches that spread sparks and that were dangerous to use, but most of the miners had these newer and more reliable types. When I struck a first safety match the fizzing blaze dazzled me, but then revealed exactly where I was. Some instinct for survival had led me all the way down to the very end of the mine, the last seam Giovanni had attempted to work, the place which had broken his spirit.

  Striking a new match, I saw all the items he’d left behind. The oil lamps on the wall were still almost completely full, waiting to be lit. A broken toolbox was on the ground, but best of all, his water barrel was elevated in the centre of the tunnel, sitting high on a pile of rocks. That was meant to keep it at its coolest. I lifted the wooden lid and, though the water was almost as hot as the walls, there was plenty of it. The lid prevented evaporation. When I had a little more strength I’d do the trick Giovanni and all the sulphur miners performed in these bleak winters: I’d take the hessian sack to the surface outside, fill it with snow, then pile that snow into the barrel to cool the water and create more.

  For now I slaked my thirst as best I could, and though I wasn’t hungry I forced myself to eat some of the more perishable items. The baking heat would spoil these quickly. The almonds and strips of bitter jerky were better saved for later.

  I felt as if I had everything I needed – in fact I possessed much more than I ever had in my life – even if I was going to be dead long before hunger became a problem. I tried to remember how quickly boys with tuberculosis or pneumonia had perished. It had always seemed to vary, depending on how strong they were in the body and in the heart.

  Better to enjoy the time I had. I staggered to my feet and went into another rock chamber and relieved myself. There was a certain luxury to such privacy. I can even say that I was happy. A thought struck me: if I ever found permanent freedom, I might want to live like this. In my own space, away from others, alone and only answerable to myself. That, to me, seemed to be the truest freedom of all.

  When I lay down to sleep I didn’t feel the need to maintain a light. Better to conserve the oil in the lamps. So far underground, no one was going to come sneaking up on me, and if they did, what could I do?

  The fevers came and went with the next days that passed. For hours and hours I’d feel perfectly well, then like a snap of the fingers I’d take a turn and collapse, hardly capable of movement. Whenever I felt well I went up and gathered mounds of snow for the barrel. The first time it was a night; for my next trip, daylight. I didn’t venture far from the opening, even though both times the snow was falling and I didn’t expect to meet anyone.

  Another journey to the surface, and it was just turning dawn, cold but without snow or sleet. I watched streaks of light spreading through a perfectly clear and clean sky. When I slept it was dreamlessly and without trouble. I would close my eyes expecting they wouldn’t open again, and when they did I felt well, though always parched by heat. Liberal intakes of water and snow soon fixed that. It was odd; in the winterland outside, even though the smelter kept on pouring its black smoke into the air and sky, the snow always tasted pure, the water it made becoming as clear as something from a forest stream.

  My little paradise couldn’t last much longer. I estimated that I’d already managed to live more than a week in that hole. The bread was finished. The hard cheeses and the dried meats had turned. The nuts were all right, and the dried fruit, but there weren’t enough of them. When a day came that I realised I was rested and strong, and that the sickness seemed to have sweated itself out of me, there was no more snow to find outside the hole and only tiny flakes sprinkled down. That meant no more water and no possibility of getting any more. Now I had to ration what was left, and when the barrel was close to empty I’d have to be on my way.

  Without the chance to haul down any more snow, I had to find another way to keep my remaining water cool. Very carefully I moved the barrel out of the deep pit and secreted it closer to the surface where the rocks weren’t even warm. The oil in the lamps had expired so I lived the next few days and nights in darkness, and whenever the blackness seemed too much to take I went up and sat near the entrance, near the light. Sometimes deep at night, I went out in Salvatore’s coat and boots and walked around the ruined world, but didn’t venture far, didn’t push my luck.

  How long now since I’d left him trussed in his cabin? How much time had it taken before someone had found him?

  There would have been an immediate manhunt, but it was impossible to know whether they’d travelled a long way and were still looking or if they’d already given up and returned to the mines. After all, for these men, every day away from their work was lost money; how dogged and determined would Salvatore and whatever group he put together really want to be?

  Five centimetres of water. It was stagnant and putrid too.

  During my time underground I’d hit on the idea of pressing hot rocks onto the aching, bad parts of my right leg, which gave comfort. Once I started trekking, I knew my step would suffer for these weeks spent in these tunnels without any real activity, but I wanted to give myself the best possible start.

  There wasn’t much left worth eating, and Giovanni’s old goatskin sack wouldn’t hold more than a day’s foul water – I had to hope for clear streams ahead. As for food, I wrapped up my remaining collection of almonds, cashews and other nuts, with no idea how long it would be before I’d find more to eat. Maybe I could have risked raiding a miner’s cabin before setting off, but the only time to do that was in daylight hours when they’d be underground; I had no stomach for pushing my luck any further than it had already gone.

  It was almost inconceivable to me that I was still alive. Now that I had my health back and was thoroughly rested, a renewed sense of hope made me wonder if somehow I might actually succeed in getting away from this hellhole and find a new life.

  My objective was the Italian mainland, about which I’d tried to glean as much information as I could. In his rare talkative moments, Giovanni had said that there they had prosperity, wealth and more food than could fill people’s bellies. True, he said, in Italian cities Sicilians are thought of as no better than Africans and no smarter than monkeys, and the mainland Italians speak a language that differentiated them completely from people like us, but he’d told me enough to make me think that, given the chance, I would find a way to get by. It was either hope for this or give up now.

  To me, my biggest hurdle seemed to be the ferry he’d described, the one that carries travellers across the Straits of Messina. How would I get on it? How would I pay for the trip?

  The night I set out I thought I knew the best direction to take and what I’d use as my beacon. It would be the volcano, Etna, almost exactly opposite to the direction in which I’d left tracks and clues for Salvatore’s hunting party.

  The snow hadn’t returned, and now even the flurries had disappeared, though the winter’s cold remained. I was dressed in Salvatore’s heavy gear again, but this time I wore it lightly – nothing seemed to weigh me down. I put the extra shirt and undershirt into my hessian sack. My plan was to travel by night all the way to Etna, and from there make my way down to a city called Catania, where I could lose myself in the crowds. Somehow I’d find my way to the port city of Messina. I thought that once I was far enough away from the sulphur fields I could risk finding day work, make just enough money to feed and clothe myself and buy tickets for buses and trains, and not have to hike cross-country in the most obvious manner possible. Of course, the thought of using my own money to buy something as simple as
a ticket filled me with trepidation. I’d never done such a thing in my life, but some of the older workers at Gozzi’s factory, and even Natale, had said it was easy as pie.

  Then I’d live in cheap rooms, and if people in bigger centres suspected I was some kind of a fugitive, what would they care? No one would know me. I’d be just another face and therefore invisible.

  The possibilities seemed endless. I was full of optimism. I believed that if I could make it to the environs at the base of the volcano without Salvatore finding me, then I’d be free. No matter how furious he was, it simply could not be worth his while to keep wasting time looking for me.

  It was a dark, clear night. I’d added my last remaining food and my stolen knife blade to the few things I would carry over my shoulder with me. In the snow’s absence the entire landscape had returned to its vista of destruction, as if a war’s monstrous weapons had been used to destroy everything resembling life. In the far distance were the pinpricks of light that signified miners’ cabins, but these soon disappeared behind me and even the smelter’s orange glow was fading. The next time I stopped and turned to look the pitted landscape was gone, a bad dream that, in the end, was easily left behind.

  After what could only have been two or three hours of my limp walking, I came to the first signs of nature and its renewal. There were shrubs, bushes, trees. These thickened until I was skirting a forest, and behind it were blue-edged mountain ranges. Off in the distance was a red glow in the clouds that could have been mistaken for dawn, but which I believed was Etna itself. This clear night was offering me every assistance, even immediately revealing my beacon.

  I kept on, comfortable enough in these boots made soft by several pairs of socks, and two layers of clothes protecting me from the whipping winds. Still, it was nowhere as cold as it had been the night I’d first escaped from Salvatore. I was happy breathing this chill air. I felt alive, and now it was good to be out of the tunnel, no matter how safe it had been there. I thought it might take me three or four nights’ good trek to get to the volcano – and from there I’d have to find a way to Catania. Others had told me that a city like that revealed itself; you didn’t have to go looking for it. You stood on a ridge and there it was, great and glowing like heaven and hell combined.

  That’s what I thought I’d do: climb the volcano’s slopes until I could see where I had to go next. Then a better idea grew on me. I’d been so secure in Giovanni’s abandoned mine, and the pitch-black and rock hadn’t bothered or frightened me, so if I made it safely to Etna mightn’t it be wiser to find another good hiding place and lay low many more days? Maybe even a week or two, whatever amount of time I could hold out? There had to be innumerable caves and caverns in a place like that. Wouldn’t it be safer to secure myself somewhere around there, rather than immediately entering more populated regions? The longer I held out the more certain it would be that Salvatore and whatever team or teams he’d put together had abandoned the hunt.

  It seemed a good thought. I’d mull it over while I walked.

  Gaining confidence, I was certain that even better ideas would soon come to me – and of course I had no idea that in setting out on my trek I’d already given myself away.

  By following the outskirts of the forest, I came to arable land and the first patchwork of fields were in view. Not even one full night’s journey and already the land had changed. Almost without noticing it my path had gone gradually uphill, and now, unexpectedly, I was on a hillside with the ground dropping away and a gorgeous valley of farmland and tiny villages spread out before me. I settled down on the grass and rested. My eyes were filled with the sort of beauty I’d only seen once before, on the hunt for the running boy Angelino.

  I reached for my hessian sack, wanting to chew the last of the almonds and nuts I’d brought with me, and discovered they weren’t there. Neither was the blade, the one I’d held to Salvatore’s eyes. In the sack was the shirt and undershirt the slight change in weather meant I no longer needed to wear – and nothing else.

  Breathing deeply, I investigated how this could be. There, a rent in the fabric. My things had worked themselves free.

  But where had they fallen – somewhere across the sulphur fields? Or somewhere in the plains or in the forest? If so, mightn’t they remain hidden forever?

  A simple tear – and from a simple tear, perhaps a simple death lay ahead.

  My thoughts raced. Eight or ten hours must have passed since I’d left the old mine. Maybe the wrapped almonds and nuts, plus the blade, had fallen out during my climb from the tunnels and were still underground. The fact of their disappearance didn’t necessarily mean this escape was doomed, did it? Perhaps no one would find them anyway, regardless of where they were. And even if someone did – what would they care? How would they know what they signified, how would they even know to go tell Salvatore?

  With a sinking feeling in my belly and head I watched the way the day was beginning to come to life. Nearby I could discern a creek or stream. That was a godsend. I set off again, but this time at a run, and by the time I’d found a route down to it and was near the running water, dawn had broken and there were spots of movement in the countryside: men on their own or leading livestock, a group of women moving toward a field, an immense black bull stomping in a spacious pen.

  I felt as if I was in a great glass bowl and anyone who wanted to find me had only to peer inside. I longed to be back in the tunnel, back to the safety of being buried deep among the sulphurous rocks and darkness. But there was no turning back. I had to go forward, and expect the worst. Plan for the worst. I couldn’t tell myself that by some providence I hadn’t already given myself away.

  Scuttling close to the ground like an animal, kneeling by the stream, I washed my face and hands, then drank the icy water. It bore no trace of sulphur or any other sort of contaminant. I closed my eyes at the wonder of it, of fresh running water and how good it could make me feel. But why had I allowed this dream of escape to turn sour so quickly? Why hadn’t I simply left everything behind in the tunnel and trusted in what the land and forests might provide me?

  Then I heard voices, but these came travelling along the surface of the stream, and so I still had time.

  When the three men walked past, I was well-hidden in the crowded dark of the trees. With relief I saw that there were two younger men and one older, and they were wearing the peasant attire of field workers. Boots, long trousers, checked shirts with buttoned vests, cloth caps on their heads. The young men carried picks and shovels over their shoulders. The older man had a water sack and a tied hamper of what must have been their food for the day. One was smoking and the crisp smell of the cigarette was very clear. They were heading away to some labour but were completely devoid of the bent frames and dead-eyed demeanour of everyone I was so used to. Instead, these men talked in strong voices. Even though their dialect seemed quite strange to me, stranger still was their laughter – which was happy, and something else, companionable.

  After they’d gone, I stole forward and doused my hair in the stream, washing my face and neck again, drinking more. To me the forest was as welcoming as this water, so I retreated far into it and found a spot where I thought no one and nothing would bother me. It was much colder in there, and I pulled my coat around me, then I tried to curl up on the bed of grass, my head cradled in my arms. There was no use trying to keep going in this broad daylight. Sooner or later someone was bound to see me. I would have to wait for the cover of darkness before setting off again. I didn’t like the idea of staying put, but far worse was the possibility of giving myself away.

  The forest ground cover wasn’t as luxurious as I thought it would be, but within minutes I’d slipped into a fitful, anxious sleep.

  The sound of a horse neighing woke me, then I could hear something coming through the undergrowth. My eyes were open, but I didn’t sit up. Instead I forced myself to remain as immobile as poss
ible. The horse was picking a careful way very close to me and I heard the rider giving encouragement with tongue clicks and soft whistles. When I thought it was safe I slithered slow and quiet behind the trunk of the tree that had sheltered me. I made sure that no fronds or bushes moved. Flat on my belly, brush and bushes covered me entirely.

  Horse and rider passed perhaps ten metres ahead, and I was able to get a good look at the man’s profile. Relief washed over me. He was a stranger. It wasn’t Salvatore nor any of the other miners I’d seen in the fields. In fact, I was certain that of the many things he might have been, one of them wasn’t a man who worked with sulphur and ore. His clothes were too tidy, his hair too neat, his skin too shiny. I didn’t relax, however, because of the pistol at his waist and the bolt-action carbine hanging from a leather scabbard buckled to the saddle.

  I didn’t know who he was or what sort of beast he was hunting, and I didn’t much care as long as it wasn’t me. For long moments I’d feared that Salvatore had already managed to track me. I lay where I was, and didn’t move until this man with his horse had gone and no more sounds disturbed the forest’s silence. Then I waited longer and even longer again, just to be certain he hadn’t dismounted and set up somewhere nearby.

  As far as I knew, no one had laid eyes on me since I’d left Salvatore tied up in his cabin. It was best to keep it this way. The longer I remained invisible, the further I travelled from the sulphur fields, the better my chances had to be. It was possible no one would ever find what had fallen out of the hessian sack. The way that rider or hunter or whatever he was had passed so startlingly close helped decide my next actions. There was no way I could use country roads and trails either by day or by night. And if someone really was coming after me, I had little choice about hiding and sleeping by day and running by night. I would simply have to move at every available opportunity, whenever I thought it was safe. What was paramount was distance. I would have to stay to the forest and undulating countryside, and find ways to get food and water by methods that wouldn’t reveal me. And my destination would certainly be the volcano and its peaks, where I was now determined to hole up for as long as was humanly possible.