Song of the Spirits (In the Land of the Long White Cloud saga)

by Lark, Sarah

  “Has no one seen to adequate ventilation?” Timothy grabbed a helmet that fit and a Davy lamp, which made him frown. More current models had been around for a while. Timothy preferred benzine lamps. Not only did they provide light, but their aureole also revealed the amount of methane gas in the air.

  The foreman noticed that Timothy seemed accustomed to being underground, and became somewhat less frosty. “We’re doing our best, sir. But air shafts don’t build themselves. To dig them, I’d have to reassign men, and then the shafts would have to be reinforced, running up material costs. Your father would give me hell for that.”

  It was plenty hot. Though the day outside was rather chilly, the temperature rose as they descended in the hoisting cage. When they reached the deepest level, Timothy noted the stale air and the stifling heat.

  “Dead air,” he remarked competently before greeting the men, who were pushing carts of coal to the hoisting cage in preparation for transport. “Something has to be done about that—and straightaway. It’s not even worth thinking about what would happen if gas started seeping in here.”

  “That’s what he’s here for.” The foreman pointed to a cage where a tiny bird hopped dismally from one bar to another. “If that bird falls down, that’s the signal to get going.”

  Timothy was horrified. “But that’s medieval! Birds are used all over the world because they can’t be beat as an early warning signal, but they’re not meant to be a replacement for adequate ventilation. I’ll speak with my father. The working conditions here have to be improved. The men will be able to dig more effectively then too.”

  The foreman shook his head. “Nobody could dig more effectively. But you could spread out the supports and do a better job reinforcing them.”

  “And we need to improve the spoils transportation,” Timothy said. “It can’t really be true that the men are hauling the debris away in baskets. And did I really see black powder outside? Please don’t tell me you’re not using safety explosives yet?”

  The foreman replied that they were not. “We don’t even have explosion barriers. If anything goes off, the whole mine will burn.”

  An hour later, Timothy had finished his inspection of the mine and had made a new friend in his foreman. Matt Gawain had attended a coal-mining academy in Wales, and his ideas about modern extraction techniques and mine safety had a lot in common with Timothy’s. With respect to the most current ventilation techniques and shaft construction, however, Timothy was quite a bit more knowledgeable. Matt had been working in New Zealand for three years, and coal-mining techniques were constantly evolving. They made plans to meet in the pub later to continue their conversation over a beer.

  “But don’t get your hopes up about making it all happen,” Matt said. “Your father is like most bosses, and only interested in fast money. Which is important, of course,” he rushed to add.

  Timothy waved that off. “Thinking about the future is just as important. It costs more money if a mine collapses because no one properly secured it than to renovate at appropriate intervals. Not even to mention the cost in human lives. Besides, the union movement is on the march. Eventually, people won’t be able to avoid creating better conditions for their workers.”

  Matt grinned. “At which time I have no fear that your family would be robbed of so much as a morsel of bread.”

  Timothy laughed. “You’ll have to ask my father about that. He won’t waste any time telling you that he’s already ruined, and that every day a miner takes off from work brings him closer to starvation.”

  He sighed with relief when the mine released him, and he saw the light of day again. His prayer of thanks to Saint Barbara had been sincere, even though he actually believed that preventing mining accidents was not the task of patron saints, but that of mining engineers.

  “Where we can we wash up?” he asked.

  Matt laughed. “Wash? You’ll have to go home to do that. You won’t find washrooms with ceilings or hot water around here.”

  Timothy decided not to go home. On the contrary. As grimy as he was, he intended to go to his father’s office to have a very serious talk with him.

  That afternoon, Timothy directed his horse toward the center of Greymouth. He wanted to order materials right away for the improvements to the mine he had wrested from his father. It was not much, however. Marvin Lambert had agreed only to the construction of a new air shaft, as well as a few explosion barriers, and he’d done even that much only to meet the minimum standards of the national mining authority. Timothy’s argument that his rival could discover and expose his safety violations—“He only needs to ask one of your miners, Father”—had convinced the old man. Timothy was determined to look over the regulations once more in detail over the next few days. Perhaps there was something else in there he could use for his purposes. But for the time being, he was enjoying the ride in the unusually pleasant spring weather. Though it had rained that morning, the sun was now shining through, and the meadows and fern forests glowed green in front of the mountain backdrop.

  At the entrance to town, he passed the Methodist church, an attractive wood building. He contemplated whether he should go in and say a few words to the priest. The man was charged with the spiritual well-being of his workers after all, even if many of them were Catholic and did not attend service there. But then he saw that the pastor already seemed to have a visitor. A short and stocky white mare was tied up in front, and a three-colored collie waited patiently nearby. Just then, the church door opened. Timothy watched as the priest stepped outside to see his guest off. He held the door open for a red-haired girl with a few songbooks under her arm. An exceptionally attractive girl in a worn-out gray riding dress. She wore her long, curly hair in a braid, but a few strands had freed themselves and played about her narrow face. The priest waved amiably to his visitor as she walked over to the white horse and packed the sheet music in a saddlebag. The little dog appeared beside itself with joy at the sight of her mistress.

  Timothy rode closer and greeted her. He had thought the girl had already spotted him as she left the church, but when she heard his voice, she started and spun around. For a moment, Timothy thought he detected something almost like panic in her eyes. The girl looked around hastily like an animal caught in a trap, only calming down when Timothy made no move to leap at her. She seemed to take comfort in the proximity of the church. She tentatively returned Timothy’s smile but lowered her eyes immediately, and then limited herself to casting a few suspicious glances at him.

  However, she returned his greeting in a quiet voice, climbing skillfully into the saddle as she did so. She looked like she was accustomed to mounting her horse without help.

  Timothy realized they were headed the same way when the girl turned her horse toward town.

  “You have a lovely horse, miss,” Timothy remarked after they had been riding beside each other for a little while. “It looks like the ponies I saw in Wales, but the bigger ones are rarely white.”

  The girl risked a somewhat longer glance in his direction. “Banshee has Welsh Mountain blood,” she explained, a little hesitantly. “Hence her white coloring. Otherwise, you’re right, it’s rare among cobs.”

  An astoundingly long speech for so obviously shy a creature. The subject of horses seemed to be right on the mark. And she clearly knew something about them.

  He continued his questions. “Welsh Mountains are the ponies, right? The ones that are also used in the mines?”

  The girl nodded. “But I don’t think they make good mining horses. They’re too willful. Banshee, at least, wouldn’t let herself be cooped up in a dark mine shaft.” She laughed nervously. “She would probably make plans the first night to build a ladder.”

  Timothy remained serious. “It would probably hold more weight than the hoisting cages in some of the local mines,” he said, thinking of the rickety elevator he had been in earlier that day. “But you’re right, the ponies used in the mines are normally from Dartmoor or New Forest. Fell po
nies are often used as well, though those tend to be a bit bigger.”

  The girl appeared to be overcoming her shyness. She looked him over for a while. Timothy was struck by her beautiful eyes and freckles.

  “Are you from Wales, miss?” he asked, though he doubted it. The girl did not speak with a Welsh accent.

  She shook her head but did not disclose any further information. “How about you, sir?” she asked instead. It did not sound as if she were genuinely interested though, rather that she simply wanted to keep the conversation casual.

  “I worked in a mine in Wales for a while,” he informed her. “But I’m from here, in Greymouth.”

  “So you’re a miner?” This question, too, came out casually, but as she asked it, she was eyeing his tidy clothing, his valuable saddlery, and his handsome horse. Miners could not usually afford such things and generally got around on foot.

  “Mining engineer,” he said. “I studied in Europe. Mining engineers concern themselves with the mining facilities and—”

  “And they make all that,” she said, indicating the headframe towers and spoil piles that disfigured the landscape around Greymouth with a wave of her hand, her facial expression reflecting her opinion of it.

  Timothy smiled at her. “They’re ugly things. You can go ahead and say it, miss. I don’t like them any better than you do, but we need the coal. It gives us warmth, makes steel production possible… No coal, no modern life. And it creates jobs. In Greymouth alone, it feeds a large portion of the population.”

  The girl could have said a thing or two to that. Furrows formed on her forehead, and her eyes flashed indignantly. If she had lived in the area for any length of time, she might be familiar with the miners’ slums. Timothy felt guilty. He was still fumbling for further explanations when they reached the first houses on the edge of town. He almost thought he could feel the girl next to him relax. She seemed considerably less anxious after receiving and returning the first greeting from a passerby. So she had felt uncomfortable alone with him despite their pleasant chat. Timothy wondered: since when had he become someone women felt they had reason to fear?

  The building materials trader was among the first shops they came upon, and Timothy explained to the girl that he was stopping there.

  He introduced himself quickly. “By the way, my name is Timothy Lambert.”

  He did not get a reaction.

  Timothy gave it another try.

  “It was nice chatting with you, Miss…”

  “Keefer,” the girl murmured.

  “Well, good-bye, then, Miss Keefer.”

  Timothy removed his hat and directed his horse into the trader’s yard.

  The girl did not reply.

  7

  Elaine could have slapped herself. It had not really been necessary to behave like that; the young man had only been trying to be polite. But there was nothing she could do about it: as soon as she found herself alone with a man, everything inside her closed up. She felt only hatred and fear. Most of the time, she couldn’t utter a word. This man had succeeded in luring her out of her reserve only by speaking so knowledgeably about horses. On the other hand, it could be dangerous to have him know Banshee’s breed. He may have heard of Kiward Station’s Welsh cobs and could make a connection between Elaine and them.

  She chided herself for her mistrust. The man was a mining engineer. He didn’t know any sheep farms in Canterbury. He probably couldn’t have cared less about Banshee. He had simply wanted to have a friendly conversation with her, and she had not even managed to say good-bye. This had to stop. She had been in Greymouth for almost a year, and no one had come after her.

  Not that she intended to fall in love again, of course, but she had to be capable of speaking with a man without completely seizing up. This Timothy Lambert fellow would have been a good start. He didn’t appear dangerous; in fact, he looked like a rather nice fellow. He had curly brown hair that he wore rather long, and he was slender and of average height. Neither as lanky as William nor as strapping as Thomas, he was not the sort of man who immediately caught one’s eye. But he sat comfortably on his horse and managed the reins with a light hand. He didn’t look like the type who spent all his waking hours in an office—but not underground either. His skin was sunbrowned and clean, not pale and grayed by coal dust like that of most miners. Elaine had avoided looking him in the eye, but she thought his eyes were green. An unimposing brownish green. His eyes didn’t shine like William’s, nor were they secretive like Thomas’s. They were the peaceful, friendly eyes of a completely normal man who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  But she had thought the same of William. And of Thomas.

  She vigorously chased away every thought of her recent companion. Upon reaching Madame Clarisse’s stables, she unsaddled Banshee and fed her. Callie followed her into their tiny room, which she had made more inviting with bright curtains and an attractive plaid bedspread. She had to change her clothes, as the pub would be opening in a half hour. It was a shame that she had not made it back sooner. She would have liked to try out the new music the priest had given her for the Sunday service. But Madame Clarisse did not like it when Elaine played church songs in the pub. In the mornings, it didn’t matter much, but by this time of day, most of the girls would be in the barroom having a bite to eat before work.

  “You’re not going to convert me,” Madame Clarisse had explained, shaking a finger at her.

  Elaine now laughed easily at such jokes. She had also grown accustomed to the girls’ talk and no longer blushed when they talked about their customers. Their stories, however, only confirmed her suspicion that she wasn’t missing anything by staying away from men. It was true that the girls who could be bought earned a great deal more than she did at the piano, but the life of a whore was not an enviable one, especially not to a married woman.

  Elaine selected a pale-blue dress that emphasized the color of her eyes, unraveled her braid, and combed her hair. She made it to her piano on time, followed, as always, by Callie. The little dog had long ago stopped barking just because her mistress was playing the piano. But she growled whenever a man came too close to Elaine. It made Elaine feel safe, and it did not seem to bother Madame Clarisse. Elaine wasn’t afraid of talking to the men in the pub. That was part of the job, and there was no danger, since the pub was often full. As a rule, she would have preferred to avoid any conversation there as well, but if she was too prickly, the men would not buy her drinks—and Elaine depended on the extra income. Her first “whiskey” arrived on the piano shortly after she had begun to play. Charlene, who had placed her drink there, nodded at her.

  “He’d like you to play ‘Paddy’s Green Shamrock Shore,’” she said.

  Elaine nodded. An evening like any other.

  After flipping through several catalogs and discussing the merits of various building materials, Timothy had managed to convince the salesman that the Lambert Mine wanted the best materials rather than the cheapest this time. The man was utterly astonished and offered to buy Tom a beer when they were done. Another new friend. Timothy was very satisfied with what he’d accomplished and quite happy to finish his evening at a pub. It was just a shame that his plans with Matt were so vague. He didn’t even know where the young foreman liked to go to drink his beer, but he suspected it was not any of the upscale hotels and restaurants along the quay. The first of the miner bars, the Wild Rover, did not look like a wholesome place. The customers already appeared to be drunk, and the atmosphere was tense. Timothy heard belligerent voices coming from inside. If Matt spent his free time there, Timothy would have had to be wrong about him. So he looked for the other pub, the Lucky Horse Inn; he knew that the local brothel was also located there, but bars and brothels often went hand in hand. That fact did not necessarily reflect on either the atmosphere in the barroom or the quality of the whiskey.

  Timothy was about to tie his horse in front of the inn when another rider who had just arrived informed him that there were stables.

&n
bsp; “Otherwise, that fine saddlery of yours’ll get soaked pretty quick,” he explained while visibly looking the horse over. The spring weather that afternoon had proved to be an unreliable ambassador for the summer, as it had begun to drizzle again. “And that’d be a shame. English work, right? Where’d you buy that? Christchurch?”

  The man turned out to be the local master saddler, and the stables were a small but clean and dry annex to the bar. A white mare whinnied. Timothy placed his horse next to the mare and stroked her nose. Wasn’t this the girl’s cob? His gelding seemed to recognize the mare too and made a few fainthearted advances. Banshee responded enthusiastically.

  The saddler, Ernie Gast, gave the horses some hay and tossed a few cents on a tray for the recently acquired stableboy. Timothy wanted to ask him about the mare, but he forgot about it when he entered the barroom.

  It was warm in Madame Clarisse’s, and it smelled like tobacco, fresh-tapped beer, and grilled fish. Timothy immediately felt better than he had at its competitor’s, though this place was rather noisy too. Here, however, people were singing rather than brawling; three Welshmen had formed a small chorus around the piano. At some of the tables, men were chatting with girls in low-cut dresses, others were playing cards, and a group of mine workers was competing at darts. In a corner, sitting somewhat apart from the general commotion, Matt Gawain waved cheerfully at the newcomers.

  “Over here, Mr. Lambert. It’s quieter. It’s better if the men don’t realize their foreman is here, let alone their boss. That’ll make a lot of them nervous. I don’t think they understand that our kind has a dry throat after a day in the mines too. They probably think I’m counting their drinks.”

  “They’d hardly be able to afford many during the week anyway,” Timothy said, sitting down. A barmaid approached, and he ordered a beer. Ernie Gast did likewise. Matt had offered him a seat as well, and the two of them seemed to know each other.