The trouble in Thor

by Armstrong Charlotte

  "Ah, I do," said Cyril with gallantry. "Don't think of it. Don't let it be on your mind for one moment. I would like to say this , . ."He paused to get it phrased properly.

  She stood looking into his face, a little woman not young any more, cruelly marked by the night behind her.

  "We've got to keep our courage up," said Cyril with that writhing smile, "and I don't want to discourage either of us. But I want to say this. If . . ."

  Her eyes kept on his. "Ah," she said, "yes? Wliat if he dies?"

  Cyril looked away. "Then," he said quickly, eyes down, "there is no debt. It would be canceled." Her hand lifted. "No, no," he said. "I mean it. I will never mention it again. The least," he muttered, "that I can do. The sum is not a great deal, you understand, to me. And I would wipe it out. Let it go with the—that is, forget it."

  "Thank you," said Eedie in a trembling voice. " 'Is pa is proud of the boy."

  "And you are, too, I'm sure," said Cyril smoothly to her bent head, to the little wisps of curls that lay on her neck. "So you see," he said, "you mustn't think of the debt at all. Not any more."

  She might have been weeping. He couldn't tell. But he felt satisfied.

  "I'll go along," he said softly. "Good day, Mrs. Trezona."

  She lifted her head and pierced him with a look of perfect gratitude.

  Cyril proceeded on his way which was level now along the edge of the woods. He felt braced. He knew that he had done the smart thing.

  He wouldn't risk dunning a martyred hero's family for usurious money. No, not he. Be the end of his fun all right, in the town of Thor.

  12

  Eedie turned her back to the gate and began to break some faded blossoms off a bush. Morning's heat pressed around her, but she shivered.

  She was grateful to the man Varker. He would give time. Ah, it would take time. She understood about the mterest. It would take a long, long time. But the man was kind and good, kind enough to say . . . She shivered.

  No, she could not have told how to save the good father from ever knowing that the boy had sinned. But in the vast sweep and flow of God's power, here was a way, then. Let Wesley die, and the debt died and would never be mentioned. Never need it be explained. Then the captain would grieve, but the grief, sweetened by his faith, would be a simple loss. A good boy gone from here to heaven.

  For a moment Eedie herself could see how simple it was. For just that moment she breathed without prayer.

  As Cyril jolted down the steep, crooked road between the mine buildings, he saw that his Ford (everybody had a Ford in those days, except the rich or the choosey) was parked below the hoisting house and Madeline was in it.

  "You fool!" he said to her.

  She didn't even look at him.

  He glanced around. People were assembled here. Not a great crowd but a gathering. Some stood, some sat in their cars, all kept carefully out of the way. It wasn't a mob. It had no will, no common purpose but to watch and wait and see. As he looked, one Ford came jolting back on the rough ground to park. A man and a woman and three children were in it. In a businesslike way the man took lollypops out of a paper bag and handed them behind him. The children began to lick. They all settled down.

  Well, this was the spot. The grandstand and the finish line for the drama of the race below. The entrance to West Thor Mine and the exit from it.

  Cyril divined a pattern among these waiting people. Of course it would have five points, like a star.

  Over there, sitting on some old timbers in the shade, was Mabel Marcom. She was sandwiched, protected, between

  her sister, Bess, and her niece, Milly. But the old lady herself had her jaw set, and she stared belligerently before her.

  Lower down, across the road, the Pilottis made a knot. There were a lot of them. The knot surged and moved within itself as if its elements were fluid but, as a whole, the group kept to one rough circle. The dust under their churning feet seemed to have shape in the air.

  Kate Worthington, mother of Alice Beard, sat in a car looking out and off, but the shallow sides of the little tin tonneau could not quite hide poor Alice Beard lying like a child across her mother's lap.

  Madeline made a point of the tragic star, of course, sitting still and composed in the little car. And he, standing with his hat off, the hot sun beating on his scalp, pertained to her.

  Five, though. Was there no fifth point? Trezona? Captain Trezona would be underground. Mrs. Trezona he had just seen at her gate. Cyril hunted with his eyes. He wanted the pattern perfect as long as Madeline had been reckless enough to come. With a certain pleasure he saw the little boy Dick sitting quietly on a pile of gravel, all alone.

  Well there it was. The onlookers, he teflected, not only saw this pattern, too, but partly created it. Their attention— whatever flavor it had, whether awe or respect, sympathy or curiosity—picked out the people who were related to the lost. In those the watchers saw and, at the same time, imagined the heroism of suspense, endured the dignity of grief, the halo of hope, and a fat part in the drama. Fact plus fiction. Everything the principals did was watched and magnified. Every expression examined and interpreted. Every emotion guessed at. All to be told some day.

  "Foolish," he murmured. "You shouldn't be here."

  She said, "Be quiet or go away." And her dark head tilted as her chm came up and the lovely line of her throat was lengthened.

  Cyril peered suspiciously across the car. Oh well, certainly. Here came Henry Duncane in his Steams-Knight, dashing up the hill. Oh yes, certainly, they'd want a word or a glance, the two of them. Want it like crazy. He twisted his face. "It's good I'm in time to play chaperone. You need one."

  "Be quiet," she said. "Don't snarl. It's not becoming." He said furiously, "You get that look off. Don't you realize? The whole town's watching this show. And you're on."

  In a little while Henry Duncane, sweltering under a miner's coat, walked back down the hill toward the shafthouse. Moving, he caught the eye. He was going somewhere to do something. The people watching felt more bogged down and stickier than ever with their helplessness as he moved in his decisive way and they watched him.

  Henry went directly to the boy on the mound of gravel.

  "Trezona?" Dickie scrambled up. "How are you?"

  "All right, Mr. Duncane." The boy stood like a little cock.

  "Is your mother here?"

  "Ma's waiting home," said the boy proudly. "Is there anything new?"

  "I'm going down now to find out," said Henry gravely. "I'll let you know."

  "Thanks."

  "Quite welcome."

  Henry smiled and swung away and the boy, with dignity, sat down. One word sang in his sore little heart. He felt a good deal bigger and less forlorn, he, Trezona.

  Henry stood before old Mrs. Marcom. "I'm going to try to talk to them. Can't promise but I might be able to get them a message."

  "No message," she said severely.

  "Ah, Aunt," moaned Milly.

  "You 'ush." Her eyes glinted at Henry. "Naught I be thinkin' that 'e don't know."

  "I guess not," agreed Henry respectfully.

  The old lady's face broke into a ragged grin. " 'E knows me. But thankee." She gave a crisp nod dismissing him.

  "Quite welcome."

  The pattern was set for Henry now. The people had caught on to the figure too and murmured and were pleased when he turned in the next expected direction.

  Cyril, who had seen him coming long since, moved

  nervously around the car. Now he stood on the driver's side while Madeline slid away from the wheel to the right. So Henry Duncane came to her on the right and Cyril studied the ground.

  His voice, for her, changed from crystal to something warmer. "Ah, I'm sorry about this. I wish I could tell you it'll be all right. I can tell you they're working. Doing their best."

  The impact of his sincerity, the warmth, the true wish surprised her. Her lips parted. Her eyes turned. She thought: But I've told him and told him—

&nb
sp; "Not much more I can say," murmured Henry. His eyes were intent and glowingly sad, and hers fled. She tore at her handkerchief. She snatched at the possibility of a double meaning. (Yes, everyone watched them, of course, and some could hear, and there was nothing he could say.) Dark head bent she mumbled mournfully the first thing that came into her head.

  "It's just ... I hope he isn't hurt. If only he isn't in pain ... all of this time . . ."

  She put the torn handkerchief to her mouth. "I can't bear to think of him suffering," she whimpered. "I'd rather . . ." Her head went lower.

  "He may not be in pain." Henry's voice was muted, as if he suffered.

  She raised her tearless eyes. "It's so terrible, waiting. Will it be much longer?"

  "Can't say." He shook his head. He took a step backwards.

  "Oh, thanks. Thank you," she blurted, "for all you are doing." And she put out her hand to him. It must be clasped. It hung for all to see. He could not spurn its invitation.

  So she tried to send, as their hands met, a tingling magnetism, a caress, a secret cry down through her fingers.

  "Nothing to thank me for. Not doing anything. Believe me, I wish ..." His hand was dry and firm and it pressed hers strongly and fell away and his face was darkened with something like anger. He swung away.

  Madeline covered her eyes.

  "Bad idea to wait here," growled Cyril abruptly. He

  started around the nose of the httle car. He and Duncane met shoulder to shoulder.

  "I'm tr}'ing to get her back down to the house." Cyril said confidentially, "She hardly knows where she is. The strain . . ."

  He looked up from under his skull but Duncane's eyes were focused far away. "Yes, tough."

  "Tough on us all. Well, good luck." And Cyril put out his hand to be clasped for all to see.

  Henry clasped it mechanically. Then he moved on in the pattern.

  The Pilottis surged around him with questions and cries and messages. All the messages were too long. He could never send them on that thin line, but Henry did not say so.

  "Ah, God bless you, Mr. Duncane," Luella Pilotti cried to him. She was a stocky little woman, dark eyed, volatile. Now, in her distress, she could still feel enthusiastic gratitude toward anyone who seemed to fight what she feared so much, for it lifted her quick heart.

  "Quite welcome," Henry said gravely.

  When he stepped toward the car where Mrs. Beard was, Kate Worthington lifted her hand and said "Sssh . . ." So he nodded and drew back. Poor Alice was asleep and the better for it.

  So Henry completed the figure and now went to the shaft to the cage to be lowered. He went in his purposeful way without looking behind him.

  The people sighed and like the wind the word blew. "Talk to them . . ." "No!" "Yes, he said . . ." "On the pipe, eh?" "Talk to them." "Joe told me he's the only one they can hear." "That so?"

  Henry Duncane was going to get into the legend.

  Cyril got in behind the wheel. "We're going home."

  She didn't raise her head. "No, don't try, unless you want to struggle with me in front of everyone."

  "Listen ..."

  "I'm not going home."

  "Oh, by God," raged her brother, "how can you make such a fool of yourself? Thought you were so pious. Butter

  wouldn't melt, but the truth came out of your mouth just the same. Dear Arthur, you'd prefer him dead. That's a thing for you to say."

  "i didn't."'

  "You did, though. And hell or high water, you had to touch Henry Duncane."

  "You touched him."

  "So it looks like a habit in our family to shake hands, I hope."

  She was crying. "I needed to touch him. You don't care what I'm feeling."

  "Not I," said Cyril, "but I know. Keep bawling. Looks fine. They'll make up a better reason than you've got."

  "Monster," she sobbed. "No heart."

  "Oh, cheer up," he said crossly. "You'll be irresistible in black. And let's not play it's your heart anv more."

  He thought to himself, maybe she's stupid after all.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  West Thor caved in at nine-twenty o'clock on Thursday night. Now, nearly twelve hours later, the rescuers changed shift for the fourth time. The narrow, timber-lined burrow-ing-in went slowly but it did progress and, so far, safely. Captain Jacka, a quick youngish man, was there now assisting Captain Trezona who remained in charge. For ten minutes out of each hour the older man now went apart to sit silently and rest. These rests he took in icy calculation of his own strength prevented anyone from saying that he ought to quit or be relieved. In fact not many even thought of it. For the sharp concentration of his mind did not diminish nor did his body falter. He was in charge and would be. There was really nothing else to imagine.

  In their dark place the men were talking and they had not noticed how the talk limped and dragged or what long pauses fell between their sentences. There was plenty of time to think well before speaking, and the slow sequence of remark and reply was a chain on which each man's private brooding hung, heavy as a nugget.

  "Not one of us with kids, but Pilotti," mused Arthur Cole. "Funny thing."

  They thought about it. In the soft buffeting silence the minds clung to any suggested idea.

  " 'E's got pretty near enough to go around," Marcom wheezed. (The man was only the thin thready wheezing sound.)

  "Only one of us got no wife," piped Wesley. His sound was young and unquenchably cheerful.

  "You?"

  "Me."

  "You're slow," said old Marcom. He meant to tease. Someone might smile.

  "But that's a funny thing," said Arthur whose sound was restless like the man and seemed to twist and yearn. "How many you got, eh, Benno?"

  "Four, 'e's got," Charley answered and fell into a fit of coughing.

  Wesley thought dreamily that there seemed to be something missing, but he could not think what it was. His head was heavy. Meantime, Charley seemed to be strangling and there was nothing anyone could do for him. Nobody spoke until the spell was over.

  "Pretty bad cold you got there, Charley," Elisha Marcom had said so four times, so far.

  " 'Ad it three weeks," said Charley, with the same small disgust he'd shown four times already.

  Arthur pursued his subject. "When is a woman really a woman though? She should have kids."

  Marcom said, "Mine 'ad a kid. But it never lived."

  "But she's a mother," Arthur said argumentatively. "I don't mean just because she has kids to raise. She doesn't even have to . . . Look it, you can kind of see it in them. For instance, take Duncane's wife. She's going to be a mother."

  "So I 'card," said Elisha minutes later.

  "No, what I mean . . . Now take May Nepper, works in the store," (May was a rosy red-head) . . . "So is she."

  " 'Go's the man?" Elisha was skeptical.

  "No man. I don't mean now. I mean someday."

  "What about Flossie Welch, then?"

  (Flossie worked in the store, too. She was a very frail and timid girl with tiny, brittle bones.)

  "Not her," said Arthur arbitrarily.

  They thought about it. Nobody disagreed. Not even Arthur quite understood the point he was himself making.

  But in W^esley's dream, scenes shifted. He saw it clear. Something to do with completion . . . with a woman who began as a girl, needing indulgence and protection, a kitten thing . . . but became a protector in her own right, sweet

  and strong as a woman ought to be. "My mother is a mother," he murmured and the brooding thought was so thick around the words, no one noticed how absurd they were.

  "That's so," said Arthur, excited. He could not express his own half-mystical notion. He could only pound away giving examples. ". . . and that little girl you went with," Arthur said, "that Rossi girl . . ."

  "Celestina?"

  "She'll be."

  The others were pleased to consider. It was pleasant to be saying the women's names, whether they understood or not.


  "Celestina," said Wesley, "Celestina."

  "Most of them Catholic girls, eh?" Elisha threshed in the dark.

  Charley coughed. He said, strangling, "Alice? My Alice?"

  They thought about Alice Beard.

  "She'll be," said Wesley suddenly when the silence seemed too doubtful and too long.

  "But my wife will never . . ." said Artliur pursuing his own subject. "Never," he said like doom.

  "Aw," said Charley returning a favor, "yuss, she will be."

  "Let her have six," gloomed Arthur, "she'll never be."

  They thought. He about Madeline Cole, the others vaguely about women.

  "My sister, Dorothy?" asked Wesley.

  "She'll be," they chorused.

  "How young can you tell?"

  "Prett}' young, pretty young."

  "Annie Dawe?"

  "No."

  "Yes."

  It wasn't a bad game. But something was missing.

  "Hey." Arthur seemed to call for silence and they were silent ... so long that this time they noticed it.

  Arthur said, "Benno?"

  There was no answer.

  "Pilottil Hey!" No reply. "Did he faint—or what?" Arthur

  .36

  was petulant as if this were a thoughtless thing for their companion to do to them.

  No one said anythmg.

  "Hey!" Arthur alone had the push and the urge to make suFw. "Trezona, Marcom, and you, Charley, and me. When I say three, hold your breaths."

  They were silent a long time before Arthur finally counted, "One, two, three."

  Now they could hear no breathing at all. Just the soft pressures, the tiny trickling of water remained.

  Elisha exhaled a long, gusty sigh. "Well."

  "I shrived 'im," said Charley, on a high, nervous note. "Bleeding all the while 'e was. I shrived 'im, long ago."

  "You can't do that." Arthur sounded shocked.

  "I did though. And 'e shrived me as well." There was fever in that high voice, something too shrill.

  "You can't do that." Arthur was going to argue. "Takes a priest."

  Wesley broke in. "That's it. Long time ago he stopped saying his prayers. I didn't know what it was . . . missing."