“Think you can carry him since you handled double water rations? Well, who is going to carry all the rock that isn’t chiseled? Are you suggesting that we leave good crystal here for the ritebald to take?”
“We can carry extra–” started a ridger, but the other Keeper’s finger moved across his ring, and beneath him the shale shattered as if smashed by a boulder. The ridgers jumped back as Oliver raised his voice, the other Keeper’s finger paused above the ring once more, the metal band already cracked.
“If you can carry extra, then you’re being lazy. Why couldn’t you carry extra last week, when we had to leave crystal at the top of the mountain?” he spat, and when the ridgers attempted to approach again, the ground concussed once more, throwing up dust and shale pulverized to sand. The other Keeper drew his sword and held it in both hands, the point toward the nearest ridger. “We are already behind on crystal for today. This ridger can wait. Since we don’t need an extra chiseler, then maybe he can be put to better use? Seems so eager to prove himself already, and it just so happens that we have an opening in the Grinder.”
Oliver reached down, pulling the harness from the injured man who didn’t even groan as it was removed, and thrust it toward Draysky. Burnsby spoke, his voice low.
“A dead man is better than a dead man and a dead boy. Day one on the mountain is no time for the Grinder.”
“When we have met quota, he can come out. Now strap up—in three minutes, we descend. And he is going down first, so you can fish him out if he falls. Are you ready, chiseler?”
Draysky worked his mouth, staring at the injured man, then down at his bloody hands, then at Oliver’s blazing eyes. If he could just return to the camp, he could find three more ridgers willing to take the place of their injured. With enough speed, they could have more crystal than expected.
But this wasn’t about crystal.
“Are you mute? Listen to me, chiseler, are you ready?” Oliver thrust a pickaxe into Draysky’s hands, the handle stained crimson, the tool even heavier in his hands after a half day of chiseling. Then Draysky met his eyes, his father’s voice repeating in his ears. They demand respect, but they do not earn it. Remember, Draysky—respect is an effect, not the cause, of a man’s ability. The kind of man who turns his cheek into the blow when life strikes him.
“Been waiting for this for years.” Draysky hefted his pickaxe, walking to the fallen ridger’s partner, who switched places with Burnsby.
“See? He likes it! We’ll see how long that lasts, won’t we? Might be a blessing you carried your chiseler’s water up, so he can have the strength to carry your crystal down. Now, rappelling in one minute!”
Draysky was no longer listening, Burnsby was in front of him, speaking rapidly.
“I’ve got more years ridging than you’ve been in this world, boy, so if there’s anyone who can keep you alive, it’s me. If you feel a tug, you take cover, you understand? Fingers in your ears, or you’ll go deaf if the bucket is struck, and make sure your head or back isn’t touching the metal. Now, crystal is all over down there, but it’s different from the normal shale. Look for rocks like the ones you chiseled, the bigger and the heavier the better. Crystal weighs more than normal shale, so you can tell it apart that way. Bring in too light rocks, and the Keepers will just dump them over the edge and send you back.”
Draysky nodded, and Burnsby’s fingers worked at his belt, threading the rope through.
“Now, when you fall backward, keep this hand behind your back. Run the rope through your glove—don’t let it touch your skin or it will burn you with the fury of the hells. To slow down, just pull the rope tight across your torso—the friction will do the rest. When you reach the bottom, you’ll snag on the endknot. Just let it rest there until we pull you back up. Don’t do anything too stupid: It’s better to be cautious down there than ambitious, especially for a first timer. And if you feel the rock start to give way at any moment, you push off hard. Slides can’t get you if you’re in the air. Any questions?”
“What’s the point of the pickaxe? Do I use it to split shale to check the insides?”
“Heavens and hells, not unless you’re trying to blow out your back. Use it like a sweep, side to side. You’re digging here, searching. Not smashing. Now, on your heels, and be ready to move.”
Draysky leaned back over the edge as the Keeper’s whistle blew once, signaling reformation. To his sides, the other ridgers settled into place, a few casting wary glances toward him. The other chiselers stared, their eyes wide, clutching their chisels tight as if they might be called upon next.
Then the whistle blew once more, and Burnsby pushed Draysky’s chest with a palm, sending him toppling back over the edge. For a moment his breath caught in his throat, and he panicked as the rope spooled out above him, but then the line turned taut, catching him and pulling him back toward the slope, his boots scratching against the shale.
“Looser! Slide, boy! No protection in the middle if the Grinder belches!” shouted Burnsby as the other ridgers gained speed around him, hurtling down toward the Grinder. Draysky coaxed his fingers to release their grip, the rope slithering around him, chunks of ice and snow flying off its braiding and his coat. Then he was moving steadily, a half controlled fall, like running backward faster than he could manage and only catching himself at the last instant on his heels. The rope spindled away as he accelerated, catching up to the other ridgers then hurtling past them in his descent, the gnashing growing louder with each passing second. He gripped the rope behind him, the heat permeating his gloves, his ripped open palm protesting the pressure and vibration. Then his hips bucked forward as the end knot reached his belt, his back snapping into an arch and breath whooshing out of him with the impact. A few moments later, another ridger arrived on his right, and Draysky followed his motions as he unstrapped his pickaxe and the collection bucket came rattling down the slope on its own cord.
“Bastard of a Keeper!” the ridger shouted. “Got a real thorn in his ass, don’t he? We’ll keep our eyes on you, boy, just do what we do. Ain’t much to shalin’ until the mountain spits. Don’t spend too much time in one spot, just clean off any crystal you find near the surface and keep moving.”
The bucket reached Draysky, and he scanned the rocks in front of him, the weight of the pickaxe throwing him off balance as the rope pulled at his left hip, the rocks underfoot sliding as his boots tried to find purchase.
“Keep your weight on the rope! Your legs are for moving left and right.” The ridger bent to pick up a sizable rock among the shale, tossing it into his bucket, where it clunked to the bottom. Draysky swept his pickaxe, nearly losing his hold on it as the momentum carried him to the left, dangling on the rope as his feet skidded across the shale. Below, among the beige of standard shale, he spotted something dark—a rock just barely peeking out, veins running along its surface, more concentrated than most he had chiseled earlier in the day.
Crystal.
The rope threw him off balance as he leaned over, his fingers outstretched and brushing the ground before his legs kicked out from under him. His shoulder met gravel first, followed by his cheek, the impact jarring his jaw as his teeth clicked together. He cursed, rolling and rocking back to his knees, then back to his feet, using the rope to stabilize his standing position. He clutched a single rock in his hand, and he brought it up to eye level, confirming he had snagged the right target before tossing it into the waiting bucket.
One.
He widened his stance and rolled his shoulders, swinging the pickaxe back and forth in shallow, chopping strokes to clear the uppermost layer of shale. Rocks bounded out and away, and within three minutes two more pieces of crystal made their way into the bucket, rattling around the bottom with each swing. Then his hole had become too deep, the sides spilling in after every swipe, and he jumped to the left, swinging six feet over before his pickaxe met rock again. Rock sprayed left and right, revealing a small cluster of crystal, far more rocks than earlier but each signific
antly smaller. These clattered into his bucket like coins, and he frowned as he searched, keeping his eyes on the ground until he heard the shout next to him.
“Hey chiseler! Eyes up!”
He turned to see the other ridger waving and pointing up the mountain, and Draysky followed his indication just in time to spot the sliding rocks racing at him from up the mountain. Too slow to move out of its way, he stumbled as the first wave crashed into his ankles and sent him sprawling onto his chest. Rocks rained down on him, showering his head and shoulders before he managed to fit his hands underneath him, thrusting off with a pushup that barely cleared him above the rubble. Twisting, he maneuvered his right leg on top of the moving shale, then he bounced out and away. After two more swings, the rocks quieted, but he’d watched the shale quality during the slide, spotting four pieces of crystal in the freshly upturned rock. Two a foot to his left and three feet up, and about double that much twice as far up but centered. Dropping to all fours, he scrabbled along the surface, picking up the first two and returning them to his bucket before climbing up to retrieve the others. The bucket remaining below him slowed him down, meaning that he had to return whenever his hands were too full.
Over an hour later, his quads groaned with each push off the mountain, a nerve in his back twitching with each swing of the pickaxe. The sun had slid lower in the sky, the temperature dropping just enough for the cold to start seeping under his coat. By now, his bucket was only halfway full, significantly behind the slowest of the other ridgers, who were placing the last few rocks that the metal could handle. The Keeper’s whistle screeched far overhead. A sharp signal tug accompanied it, and he gripped the rope with both hands as he clipped the full bucket to his waist. Then he began walking up the slope, pulling himself up, hand over hand, lurching forward every few feet as Burnsby started pulling on his end as well. By the time he reached the crest, his biceps burned, and frigid wind blasted over the top with enough force to nearly knock him back into the pit.
“For your first go, not bad. Not bad at all.” Burnsby nodded as he sifted through his bucket, before walking it over to the chiselers and dumping it onto their pile. “Now, as we switch, use this time to rest. Keep an eye on the center for belches, and if the Keeper blows out, pull the bucket up and drop it over there. Got any questions, ask the others. And don’t you drop me. Good?”
“Good,” said Draysky, his heart still thudding, grateful for his chance at rest. But as he started to remove his belt, Oliver approached, his eyes on the pile where the older ridger had dumped Draysky’s keep.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, looking Draysky over. “We don’t pay you for time in the pit, you understand? We pay you for crystal.”
“He brought some up. It’s time for us to switch,” said Burnsby, and the Keeper’s face soured as he looked at him.
“You think I can’t see? He brought up a half bucket of crystal. Fortunately, we still have one more run before the end of the day.” Oliver looked at Draysky, thrusting the pickaxe he had dropped on the ground back at him. “That still gives you a chance for a full bucket. We’ll call that a day’s work, or rather, a half day’s work considering your slow pace.”
“I can work faster than him,” Burnsby pulled the pickaxe back, but Oliver pushed his hand away.
“I thought you were interested in investing in the team’s future, Burnsby? What better way to accelerate his pace into a fully developed ridger than through practice?”
“He shouldn’t–” started Burnsby, but Oliver cut him off, standing between him and Draysky.
“You have more experience here than I do, you can read the mountain, and the men listen to you. But don’t believe for a second I’ll stand for you speaking against my orders. You understand? You’re old. Old men die in the pit all the time. All the time. All it takes is a knot or two to come undone, a stake to be slightly too shallowly pushed into the shale. You understand?”
Burnsby’s jaw clenched, but no more words escaped his mouth.
“Good.” Oliver put his hand on Draysky’s chest and shoved, throwing him back into the pit. Draysky yelped, his fall uncontrollable without the rope in his hands, tumbling twice, speeding up with each bounce. The knot at the end of the rope would be excruciatingly painful to hit at this speed, and he searched for the rope, the cord dancing away from his fingers. A loop caught around his leg, tangling him as he rolled, still sliding down as the strands bit into his ankle. His gloves found the rope as it slowed him down enough to grasp it, then he was in control again, gasping as he bounced against the mountainside.
Above, the older Keeper stared down on him, his eyes turned to fire, while Draysky slowly oriented himself. Then Oliver’s whistle blew, and the other ridgers were whizzing past him to the bottom. He collected himself to follow.
Fifteen minutes into the run, the sun dropped low enough to be eclipsed by the mountain rim, and the previously cold air now turned freezing. Shivers racked through Draysky, the rocks underneath him chattering in time with his teeth. By thirty minutes, he’d found a few lucky deposits, his bucket reaching nearly half full, for a moment overtaking the other ridgers. The next fifteen minutes were dry, as the shale blended in with crystal in the coming darkness, ending in a shout from high above, followed by a roar and a staccato tugging on his rope.
“Buckets up! Buckets up!” shouted the ridger next to him, and adrenaline ran through Draysky as a single word flashed through his mind. Shalestrike.
The other ridgers had already emptied their buckets and were starting to crouch underneath by the time Draysky started moving. His heart dropped as he upturned the bucket, shaking out each of the hard earned pieces of crystal into a small mound, then rushed under the protection of the metal. The dent from the shale that had struck the injured miner was still there, as well as the blood now frozen to the metal. The scent of iron filled his nostrils as he slammed the shell on top of himself, crouching low in the darkness, his breaths amplified in the small confine. Rocks slid underneath, pulling him against the rope, stretching it taut.
Then the rope caught under his left foot.
With the sliding rocks the rope jerked, yanking his legs out from under him as he shouted with surprise, fresh air blasting his face as the bucket flipped. Dangling upside down, his fingers scrabbled over the interior of the bucket, his eyes widening as he stared into the Grinder. Shale smashed about him, the slope spraying chips into the air that stung his face, his eyes narrowed to protect them from the debris. Then there was a looming dark spot that arced toward him, growing larger and larger faster than he could track, and he jerked instinctually as it filled his entire field of vision. The bucket beneath him rocked as he threw his head to the side, his ears ringing as the rock clipped the edge of his arm, ripping through the fabric and slamming into the metal behind. It rattled underneath like coins in a tin can, his ears ringing until it settled, and he arched his back as he pressed his shoulder blades against one end of the bucket and his heels against the other.
Oliver’s whistle blew, and Draysky relaxed his grip on the sides of the bucket, his fingers locked into place until he wiggled them loose. The Grinder growled but no longer spewed shale, and the buckets popped off the ridgers nearby.
“Oh ho, think you’ve got that backward there, boy. Lucky you’re not full of holes!” shouted one ridger, though he still peered over to check that Draysky moved, and bounced over to poke him with his boot. Draysky let himself fall back into the bucket, twisting his leg free from the rope, groaning as the rock that had nearly struck him dug into his spine. The ridger extended a hand, and Draysky pulled himself up as Oliver blew his whistle.
“Giving up for the day, looks like,” said the ridger. “Grab anything you can nearby, then rope up. Ho ho! What is that?”
Draysky followed the ridger’s gaze back to the bucket, clutching his arm and covering the ripped fabric. An enormous piece of shale waited there, nearly twice the size of his head, pinning the bucket to the slope.
&n
bsp; “Damn.” Draysky clutched harder at the tear in his coat as he inspected the dent the rock had left behind, then sighed as he bent over to lift the rock out and toss it back among the shale.
“What’re you doing boy? That’s the prettiest thing I’ve seen in years!”
Draysky stopped, inspecting the rock, realizing that its darkness was not due to the falling night or shadows within the bucket. It appeared as dark as a lump of coal, and too heavy when he tried to lift it, succeeding in only rocking it along the inside of the bucket.
Complete crystal, without a trace of shale.
The ridger released a low whistle, touching it with his palm.
“If I could lift it, you bet I would be stealing it. Keeper would let me off duty for a week with that.”
Then the rope tugged at Draysky’s waist, and Oliver’s whistle blew once again, and the ridgers began to ascend. Draysky tried pulling, but the bucket barely dragged, carving a rut into the shale. Even with Burnsby adding his strength, he only moved forward in short bursts, and it wasn’t until two others joined and another ridger rappelled down to help him pull that he started gaining speed. Oliver waited on top, his face furious at the delay, then eyebrows raising after spotting the contents of the bucket.
“Would you look at that? Looks like he is ready to be a ridger.” Oliver clapped Burnsby on the shoulder before turning to shout at the others. “Day one and look at that find! Already he’s earned more than most of you have in your lives. You, double water chiseler, you’re a full time ridger now! Turn in that chisel, and stop by the store after we return. You’ll be needing to buy your own pickaxe.”
But Oliver had been wrong.
For as they packed up and departed, and the ridgers improvised a sled to pull what they had christened The Falling Star, a single ridger did not walk back down the mountain. Instead, he had turned as cold as shale, draped across the Burnsby’s shoulders. The small puffs of fog escaping his lips dwindled to nothing by the time they had reached halfway down the mountain. And he no longer had any use for the pickaxe that Draysky gripped in his hand.
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