Canary in the Coal Mine

by Madelyn Rosenberg

  He spotted some shiny red berries and flew to them, wishing he’d paid closer attention when Jamie played science teacher. Were the white ones poison and you could often eat the red? Or was it the other way around?

  He moved on, scouring the ground until he found a dried-up husk of green tomato. It had probably been part of the stationmaster’s sandwich. With his beak, Bitty plucked out the four remaining tomato seeds. It wasn’t much of a lunch. It wasn’t even much of a snack. But it was something.

  Satisfied that he wasn’t going to starve, not this moment, at least, Bitty flew back to the depot roof. Back home, Jamie, with his sore hand, had probably gone to school, and the birds of the Big House had gone into the darkness of the mine. Bitty squinted in the sunshine. Already it seemed like another life.

  Chapter 8

  The thing about being bored when you’re free, Bitty learned, is that you can actually do something about it. When he tired of the depot, he explored the bushes, keeping low in case he needed to make a quick escape. So far he hadn’t seen Cipher or any of the hawk’s brothers and sisters, who he imagined must be watching from the trees. But near a tangle of thorns he saw two jays and a robin—wild birds. Up close, they didn’t look so different. The way Uncle Aubrey talked about them, Bitty had figured they’d be spitting and swearing.

  He waved. They waved back.

  He lifted his left foot. The robin lifted hers.

  He lifted his right foot. The robin did the same.

  The shorter of the two jays laughed. “Daft, ain’t he?” he said. “Blonds.”

  “He’s not daft, bub. You just scared him,” said the other jay. “It’s okay, bird, we ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

  “Nah, look at him. He’s slow. See how puny he is?”

  Slow? Bitty? The only one of Jamie’s birds who could spell ornithological without hesitating? Bitty tried to think of a snappy comeback, but saying he was “small-boned” didn’t seem to cut it. He flew away instead.

  “I’d really like to talk,” he yelled back at them, so the birds would know that he could talk. “But I have someplace important to be.”

  Crash.

  He hit an oak tree full-on and fell back into the soft moss that lay like a blanket beneath it.

  “See?” said the jay. “Daft.”

  “I think he’s hurt,” said the robin. “Are you hurt?”

  Bitty shook his head. The world steadied.

  A squirrel scampered past him, then dashed toward a hollow tree, making a chattering noise that sounded as if he were blowing a raspberry.

  That’s rude, Bitty thought. The robin and jays must have thought so, too, because they scattered. Then Bitty felt, rather than saw, a shadow.

  The hawk.

  He searched for a place to hide and found another pricker bush. The roots made a small cave, and he squeezed himself inside.

  Quiet as death, the hawk landed. There was no mistaking the wing. It was Cipher.

  “Fee, fi, fo, fum,” she said, tilting her head from one side to the other. “I can find you now or I can find you later. But I will find you. I’ve developed a taste for canary.”

  Bitty had never heard her speak so many words. Her voice was high and harsh. It seemed like hours before her wings lifted and she disappeared into a stand of virgin timber.

  It wasn’t until late afternoon, when Bitty heard the steam engine’s whistle, that he dared to leave his hiding place. He was cramped from the cold, but he flew quickly, looking behind him so often he might as well have been flying backward. The brakes of the train screamed at him as he arrived at the depot. Up close, the train was a monster: big and black and snorting smoke that mixed with the March air. Men appeared as if from nowhere to stoke the glowing fire that rumbled in the engine’s belly.

  Bitty flew above the cars, which were overflowing with coal, until he found one where the coal dipped low, leaving a nice little seat, protected from the wind. He settled in and the waiting began again, this time for the train to pull away. The coal was more comfortable than he’d thought it would be. Bitty allowed his body to relax. By the time the locomotive belched and hissed into motion, he had closed his eyes. In minutes, he was asleep.

  Toooooooooooooooooooooot.

  The whistle sounded like a grieving owl. Bitty opened his eyes, half expecting to see the wire bars of the Big House and the walls of Jamie’s bedroom. Instead, he saw a long streamer of smoke splitting the darkening sky.

  He stretched—he was becoming fond of stretching—and smoothed the feathers that had been ruffled by the wind. He listened to the chug of the locomotive. Then he heard another sound, squeaky and high.

  “You sure can sleep.”

  Bitty looked around the coal car. “Pardon?”

  “I said you sure can sleep,” the voice repeated. “Slumber. Drowse. You’ve been out for over an hour.”

  “When did you come on board?” Bitty asked the voice. There—that was the source: a small mouse, the light-gray color of morning. “And how did you learn to speak Bird?”

  “From a bird, of course,” the mouse said. He twitched his ears and sniffed. “A cardinal, actually. They’re capital birds. Capital as in first class, but also capital as in they are the official state bird of West Virginia. A double meaning, you see. I also speak fluent Cat. And Mouse, but that’s a given.”

  Bitty had never known any mice. There were a couple in the Campbells’ house, but they hid under the floorboards and rarely ventured out. Bitty had never thought about striking up a conversation with one of them.

  “Are you from Charleston?” he asked, assuming a mouse this cosmopolitan must be from a big city.

  “I’m going to Charleston,” said the mouse. “I’m originally from Red Springs, a small municipality but reputable nonetheless. My name is Eck, by the way. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Eck.” Considering the mouse’s sophisticated speech, Bitty had expected a high-society name, maybe something that ended with “the Third.”

  “It’s short for Esquire,” the mouse added.

  “I’m Bitty.”

  “Is that short for anything?” Eck asked.

  “No. It’s just my name.”

  “Are you headed for Charleston?”

  “You bet I am.” Bitty craned his neck see what sort of scenery they might be passing. “How much did I miss? Is Charleston the only stop left?”

  “It’s not the only stop left,” Eck said. “There are plenty of small towns, which are charming if you like that sort of thing. But Charleston is the only city worth stopping at. Or rather, the only city at which you should stop. For which you should stop? I need to study up on my Bird grammar. Of course, I’m better than I used to be. At first the only phrases I knew were ‘Those are lovely petunias’ and ‘I’m lost,’ which weren’t very useful. I hate petunias. And I’m never lost.”

  “Your Bird is better than my Mouse,” Bitty said. “I can’t even say hello.”

  “I spent years studying,” said Eck.

  Suddenly, the canary wasn’t sure he had all he needed to make it in the city.

  “Are you okay?” Eck asked him. “You seem a bit adrift.”

  “I guess I am,” Bitty admitted. “This is my first time on a train. This is my first time anywhere. Until this morning, I lived in a cage.”

  “A cage?” The mouse’s eyes, which until now had looked somewhat beady, opened wide. “Were you a pet?”

  “A coal miner,” Bitty said. “But in my off hours there was a boy—”

  “A miner?” Eck’s voice grew higher and squeakier. “Were you one of the famous mining canaries? If so, I’ve heard all about you.”

  Bitty’s beak opened. Living in a cage, he hadn’t heard much about anyone else in the animal world, save the occasional news story about a brave dog. “Famous?”

  “You risk your lives to save the lives of men,” Eck quoted, regaining control of his voice. “Am I right?” He looked at Bitty with new admiration. “I’m not sure I would have done it
.”

  Bitty shrugged. “It’s not like I had much choice. I was a prisoner.”

  “My third cousins were prisoners.” Eck leaned forward. “Snake food.”

  Bitty shuddered. “Was that in Charleston?”

  “No, it was much farther east. So you were the canary in the coal mine. We have mines near Charleston, but I don’t think they use canaries anymore. Mechanization, you know. Not that it made much difference. It’s the economy. No one’s working. No one’s eating. Is that why you’re here? Did your mine shut down, too?”

  “No,” Bitty said. “I left.”

  “I see.” Eck’s voice squeaked with something—not disappointment, exactly, but Bitty felt compelled to explain.

  “I’m here on a mission.”

  “Spy mission? Hush hush?”

  “It’s no secret,” Bitty said. “Canaries are dying at the mine where I work—worked. People are dying, and getting hurt. And there’s a lot more the company could be doing when things”—he swallowed and thought of Aunt Lou—”go wrong. Charleston is where they make laws, so I’m going to meet with the legislature. It’s time to save the lives of canaries as well as the lives of men.”

  There. That sounded worthy. And it had the added benefit of being true.

  “Have you gotten on their schedule yet?” Eck asked.

  “Not yet,” Bitty said. “I guess that’s what I have to do first.”

  No, first he had to find someone who could speak Human. Perhaps the mouse—

  “Do you speak Human?” Bitty asked, though he was sure Eck would have mentioned it if he did.

  “I understand it, but I don’t speak it, per se,” the mouse said. “Not in a way they’d understand. It takes a willful fancy for a human to listen to a mouse. Most humans lack willful fancy. Especially those in politics. But you’ve probably figured out a way to get around all that.”

  Bitty hadn’t figured out anything. But he would. He changed the subject. “What are you going to do in Charleston?” He’d never thought about mice going anywhere, besides back beneath the floorboards.

  “I work in the Gilmer Inn, one of Charleston’s finest hotels,” Eck said. “My family has been employed there for three generations. We get plenty of important visitors—some of your legislators, in fact. The service is unequaled.”

  “Mice work?”

  Eck stood up tall and let out an angry puff of breath. “Of course we work,” he said. “Well, not all of us; there are a few layabouts. But any mouse worth his cheese has a job. Did you think you were the only ones who performed a valuable service?”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” Bitty said. “I guess living in a cage, you don’t learn enough about the world. Except for newspapers and Jamie’s adventure stories, and those were mostly made up—”

  At the word cage, Eck calmed down again. “No,” he said. “I don’t suppose you would learn very much in a cage. I have approximately sixty-seven miles left to educate you, so we’d better begin. Let’s start with my family. Some of us are housekeepers. We keep the inn tidy, keep the crumbs off the floors. But I, personally, don’t do housekeeping.” He stood straight and tall again. “I,” he said, “am an animal trainer.”

  “Like in the circus?”

  “That would be show business,” Eck said. “I’m in charge of the Gilmer Inn House Cats. You’ve heard of them, of course.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Bitty found himself speaking more formally, to match the mouse’s tone.

  “Four cats reside at the Gilmer Inn,” Eck said. “A formidable bunch. I keep them on a strict regimen. If it weren’t for me, they’d spend their days just lying around, thinking. I usually work year-round, but I spent the winter down south. I hear the cats have grown rather rotund in my absence. Days in front of the fire. No pouncing. I’ll have my work cut out for me.”

  It seemed to Bitty that the mouse would have been pleased to be around cats that didn’t pounce, but a gleam in Eck’s eye said otherwise. “Is it dangerous, being an animal trainer?” Bitty asked. The Campbells didn’t have cats, but the Gap-Toothed Man and his wife did, a tigress named Kitty. She’d murdered the Gap-Toothed Man’s own canary, which was why he’d started renting birds from Jamie. That was a part of Bitty’s education that was already complete: he knew cats had claws; he knew what they ate for dinner.

  “I suppose it could be dangerous, if you got caught,” Eck said. “Nobody in my family has been caught for years. We do extensive physical training.”

  He made a mouse muscle, and the canary saw that he was in very good shape indeed. Bitty’s own muscles were still sore from the day’s flying. His head was clear, though. He felt as if he could see for miles. With a quick flutter, he reached the top of the coal car and stared into the distance, trying to keep his footing in the wind.

  “What do you see?” shouted Eck, who was still below the wind line.

  “Not much. It’s so dark. And . . .” Bitty’s voice left him. He had expected to be pressed on both sides by mountains, but instead, as his eyes adjusted, he saw that the landscape to the left of the train had fallen away, as if a monster had eaten a chunk of it.

  Eck scrambled up next to Bitty, holding tight to the top of the train car.

  “What is that?” Bitty whispered.

  “The New River,” Eck said reverently. “Soon it’ll turn into the Kanawha.”

  “The Kana—”

  “Ku-NAH-wuh. It’s an Indian name.” Eck’s voice had a smile in it. “I suppose it does look frightening in the dark.”

  “Kanawha,” Bitty echoed. In the moonlight, the water looked nearly black. The coal car—so much bigger than the bamboo carrier—rocked as they rounded a curve, but for once, his stomach didn’t rock with it. He inhaled. He didn’t have much of a sense of smell—few birds did—but even in the darkness he could tell that this part of West Virginia had a head start on spring. The trees seemed fuller here. Back home, the leaves were just beginning to unfurl. For once, Bitty felt he was a part of the world, even if he didn’t know so much about it.

  The train passed through woodland, other coal camps and a burning slag heap—the waste left after the coal had been mined and sorted. The houses seemed to get smaller and poorer until there were no houses at all, just a neighborhood of tents that made the Campbells look like millionaires. One family sat by a fire, but they weren’t cooking over it. A baby wailed, her voice so sharp that Bitty heard it over the chugging of the train.

  “Hard times,” Eck intoned. “Someone once said: ‘If you keep hope in your pocket you will lose it. It’s best to keep hope in your heart.’ ”

  “Who said that?”

  “Well,” Eck admitted, “I did. Cats are great philosophers, you know. Some of it was bound to rub off.”

  Bitty was about to ask Eck what philosophers said about hunger when he heard a noise that sounded like crunching.

  “Mmph u loch shma?” the mouse asked.

  “Hunh?” said Bitty, thinking it was another language.

  “Mmph . . . Pardon me. Would you care for some?” repeated Eck. “It’s peanut butter cracker. Not Gilmer Inn quality, but quite delicious. Ambrosial.”

  “Thank you,” Bitty said, and took a small piece. It stuck to his beak. “Ish brumph.” He swallowed. “Ambrosial.”

  It was a small cracker, as Eck was a small mouse. But the gnawing spot in Bitty’s stomach was filled. He was sure he had never tasted anything this good, and it was only the thought of the little family by the fire that kept him from enjoying it fully.

  Bitty and Eck chatted on as the mountains stood guard above them. Charleston lay ahead.

  “Montani Semper Liberi,” Eck quoted again. “That’s Latin. State motto. ‘Mountaineers Are Always Free.’ ”

  “Montani Semper Liberi,” Bitty repeated. He hadn’t always been free, but he was free now. Stars dotted the sky above him. They disappeared as the train went through a tunnel; then they appeared again, and winked at him. Soon, the train arrived in the capital.

/>   “That’s the passenger station over there,” Eck said as the train slowed just shy of a large two-story building with arched windows that glowed like the eyes of a jack-o’-lantern. “Neoclassical, very well designed. I get off at the freight station, but I think you’ll find this one more to your liking. You’ll find your legislators in the courthouse on my side of the river. Remember: it’s the Gilmer Inn in the East End if you get into any trouble. And even if you don’t.”

  The mouse gathered his belongings, which consisted of a second peanut butter cracker and a chunk of hard cheese. He stored them both in an empty tea bag. Then he strapped the bag over his shoulder like a satchel, and sat ready to disembark. Bitty had no belongings. He said his good-byes and was preparing to take flight when the mouse spoke again.

  “One of our frequent guests at the inn is an inventor. The last time he was here, he said something about coal. Of course, he could have said ‘bowl.’ I was chasing one of the cats so I didn’t hear it all, but I distinctly remember him saying his invention could send some canaries to the unemployment line. Or maybe he said ‘fairies.’ I was running at the time. At any rate, you should meet him.”

  The unemployment line sounded like a bad thing to the Campbells and to Uncle Aubrey, but to Bitty, it sounded like a solution.

  “I’ll come see him,” Bitty agreed as the train started speeding up again. “And you. Thanks again for the cracker.”

  “Stop by after you visit your legislators,” Eck called. “As a famous cat philosopher once said: ‘Keep your claws sharp and your wits sharper.’ And don’t take any wooden nickels.” He shook himself and his fur stood on end, as if he’d stuck his pink foot in an electrical socket, or had been frightened by the very cat he was quoting.

  Bitty wanted to ask if a wooden nickel was like miners’ scrip, but it was time to go. Ahead, the lights of the railway station glowed, and Bitty flew toward them. Late as it was, there were people everywhere. He had never felt so alone.