Where Darkness Dwells (15 page)

"Those men are off-shift. They're the old miners."

"Is that why they're not chained like us?"

"Sure, sure. Me, Benjamin, Edwina, we slaves. And you? They don't know what to do with the likes of you." The old man laughed weakly. "Here, we go off this way to where the work is."

"What is this place, Harold?" Jimmy whispered, trying not to draw any attention. The limestone had been carved away and wasn't a natural formation like the chamber where he and George had been fishing for White Bane. It didn't look smooth, aged by the elements; it was raw, a picked scab, gouged and irritated.

"This is just a small meetin' area. Like a social club. They drink an' tell bawdy stories, and well… you know…" They left the men behind, entering a corridor in which Jimmy had to turn sideways in order to walk. The candlelight didn't reach far into the cleft in the rock, and they walked for a short while in near-darkness.

"Who are they? Why are they underground?"

"I remember when underground was a good word for a Negro--"

"Harold, please. I've seen people I recognize from town."

"Mr. Jimmy, many of them been here long as me. There's others, newer ones trickle in here and there. Women, children, too. Miners, miners' families. See, it gets to be when you been here so long you can't never leave. But if you come here and stay, well, you come and stay long as you like."

They exited the narrow hall, Jimmy still not understanding this place. Sitting high on a boulder, Scully noted their arrival, returning to whittling a hunk of wood with a long blade. His axe handle rested against his thighs, within easy reach.

The room dwarfed the chamber they had just seen. Benjamin was at the opposite side of the room across a clear pond, so far distant his features were hard to see. He swung a pickaxe in a smooth, measured arc, carving chips from the limestone wall he faced. Every few swings, the axe spit a shower of sparks. A group of unchained white men worked the other side of the vast space, taking their time, drinking and talking as much as laboring.

"This is the new place. They call it 'Paradise.' It's gonna replace that ol' gathering spot."

"Jesus, Harold, how long have you been working on this?" It was as big as a football field, torches lining the walls. Between the stone support columns, bonfires dotted the ground, illuminating the sprawling dimensions. Carved stone seats and tables filled the room. A trio of men harnessed to a heavy wooden cart heaved by them, carrying away the waste rock. To his surprise, Jimmy saw Dewy Piersal, the owner of the last bar in town, pulling at the lead. Dewy used to give him penny candy for sweeping out the bar on Sunday mornings. After his business closed, he'd supposedly died, some said by his own hand. That must have been eight years ago. Dewy nodded to him in recognition, then looked ahead, focused at his task.

"How long? Can't say for certain, Mr. Jimmy."

"Why not?"

"Can't say 'cause I don't know what date it is."

"It's the end of June."

"June. June, what year?"

"1934."

Harold grunted as if struck in the stomach. He picked up a pickaxe for himself and handed Jimmy a shovel. "Come with me. I'll show you what's what." Harold lifted the chain to relieve the pressure, then began walking along the cable-lined wall.

Jimmy followed, holding the shovel in one hand while carrying his chain with the other. "So how long's it been?"

"Mr. Jimmy, my arithmetic ain't too good."

"Well, when did they take you and your family?"

"Oh… 1851. August 1851. I don't recall the 'xact date."

The shovel slipped Jimmy's grip, crashing to the floor. He couldn't believe his ears. When Scully shifted his weight in his perch, Jimmy quickly picked it up again.

Eighty-three years.

The methodical hammering of Benjamin's pickaxe echoed in Jimmy's head. They had imprisoned Harold and his family for eighty-three years. Looking at the hand-carved walls--unable to fathom the time and effort to do such work--he wondered if this really was hell.

Harold's words trundled through his head as steadily as the ringing clang of Benjamin's pickaxe:

You been here so long you can't never leave.

When you think you're gonna die, you only open your eyes again.

Open your eyes to forever…

Jimmy followed Harold's instructions, shoveling away the piles of chipped limestone, loading the waste rock into a wheeled cart. His back was hurting not even an hour later, adding to his miseries. Stretching out the kinks in his spine, his eyes rested on the cavern's ceiling. He imagined desperately clawing his fingers through the rock and clay and the layer of top soil above, imagined pushing back the earth, reaching the fields where he'd grown up, a land he thought he knew like the back of his hand. He wondered if his family was worried about him.

3.

A knowledgeable person could travel during daylight hours from one side of town to the other without once having sunlight touch their skin. Few people knew about the labyrinthine tunnels tying together certain of the town's buildings, and still fewer knew who first lent spade to earth to begin their construction. Some say Indians attuned to the functions of nature began digging with sticks and rough stone tools. In sparsely traveled tunnels the remains of ancient campfire could be found, if someone were inclined to search. In crannies of rock, sharp tools had been left where aboriginals once tread. Under layers of dust, broken bones and shattered skulls remained after a long ago hunt and feast. If someone were inclined to search--and no one in the know seemed to be the prying sort--the bones might be seen as human remains.

At the time of the town's charter, the people of Coal Hollow dedicated their lives to serve God. With their every word and action they devoted their energies to their savior. Coal Hollow soon became an abolitionist stronghold. In order to spread their word, local pamphleteers and newspapermen spun out essays to a national audience at a blurring rate. North to Chicago, east to Boston and New York, and south to whoever would listen. Their efforts fell on deaf ears. They soon found alternative methods to help those unfortunate souls forced into a servitude for someone other than their personal savior.

At the town's southernmost tip, the current owners of a deacon's former home, Mr. and Mrs. Wilbur Boynton, woke every morning at dawn and took to their beds nightly at eight o'clock sharp. They slept, ate their meals and read the Saturday Evening Post without realizing their home once served as an entryway to a secret world. The Boyntons would listen to the Amos 'n' Andy radio show at 7:15 p.m. before settling into bed, all the while ignorant their home once played a pivotal role in the local abolitionist movement. The Boyntons, residents of Coal Hollow for thirty odd years, and soon to retire to their son's home in Kentucky, didn't know people once secretly gathered in their dirt floor cellar. Or the deacon would lead these residents in quiet prayer, everyone with their hands enjoined, their eyes dewed with love for their God. Or a runaway slave would often cower inside these prayer circles, usually marred by a master's brand or raised whip scars. After the preliminaries of prayer and food, they would lead the runaway to the safety of the tunnels, where the Underground's healing touch could work its wonder, until the time was right to continue on, farther North, to safer lands.

Beneath the cellar (where Mr. Boynton currently kept his workbench for tinkering with engines and such) a trapdoor remained hidden. From the Boyntons' cellar, a narrow passage led five hundred yards northeast to the Cloutiers' home. The Cloutiers didn't know about the secret wooden panel in their basement, or the cramped, unlit room behind it that was only big enough for someone to hide within if fearful for their life. The room had been empty of all but spider webs long before the Cloutiers emigrated from France in '02.

The hidden room in the Cloutier basement connected with the tunnel system, and somewhere in Claude Cloutier's north forty, the tunnel split in two. One shaft had collapsed farther north where the overhead traffic on Teetering Road had pummeled it for fifty years. Some people wondered why the road was in constant need of repair. Others knew the reason. They knew and they meant to keep the secret within their tightly held circle.

The surviving tunnel snaked toward downtown. The most frequently trafficked section of the labyrinth, the downtown tunnel had a spur leading away from the main tunnel. The spur--so low to the tunnel floor that most people would have to belly-crawl to traverse it--terminated at a natural gap in a limestone wall. Once inside the gap, the air grew cold. Cold as winter, no matter what time of year.

This was where Thea Calder and Ethan Cartwright passed through to enter the Underground.

After confronting Ethan outside her house, the founder of the Southern Outfitters led her down the alleyway to the icehouse. Once inside, they passed the shelves of perishables, the chunks of ice awaiting Cooper's cutting, and finally, the workbench on the backmost wall where George Banyon's body lay in stasis before his burial.

Beneath the workbench, hidden behind sealed crates filled with rocks, the gap opened up to the spur leading to the downtown tunnel. Thea and Ethan had crawled through one after the other, carefully replacing the crates behind them.

When they left the tunnel system and entered a large cavern, a burly man in bib overalls greeted them. He held a sawed off shotgun at belt level, ready to fire on anyone not permitted in the Underground.

"Morning, Boss."

"Actually, it's much closer to night than morning, Daryl," Ethan said to the watchman.

"Well, it's morning to me. Just had my breakfast, matter of fact."

"Was it good?" Ethan asked. His decomposition had advanced to the point that his lips looked ready to fall from his face.

"Oh, sure was, Boss. The women put out a good spread."

"I'll have to agree with you there. I've never been disappointed. Good thing Miss Calder is exempt from domestic tasks, or my opinion might just change."

Thea clucked as if offended and slapped Ethan on the shoulder. He was always teasing her about her cooking; it had become a game of sorts.

Daryl, keeping his eyes to the floor, acknowledged Thea. "Miss Calder." His nod of greeting deepened to a bow. She smiled innocently, but in truth, she relished the man's subservience.

Ethan clapped the man on the back. "Keep up the good work, Daryl."

Ethan's decomposition began to heal as soon as they left the tunnel system and entered the cavern. The rotting stench of his flesh abated, and the lesions in his face were knitting themselves back to normal. His gray pallor warmed to flesh tones as sinews and muscles reformed and refitted themselves. Stark white epidermis stretched across his healing muscles.

The large cavern, which Ethan considered their town square, was lit with bonfires and oil lamps. Although on a smaller scale, the Underground resembled a town. People offered goods and services, albeit without a single token of currency exchanged. Money was useless in the Underground. Everyone shared in a communal subsistence. At the first hint of capitalistic behavior, Ethan would crush those individuals responsible.

Clusters of people, both men and women, were quietly talking or playing cards. The majority were imbibing from their network of hooch stills in order to maintain the steady drunk that allowed them to remain halfway sane in their claustrophobic existence.

"They've done it again." Thea pointed out the blood splatters along the floor leading to the pit.

"Something must bind everyone who comes here" he said, looking away from the splatters. Only Thea could illicit such a guilty look from him.

Thea stopped, crossing her arms. "Did you force me to fuck that poor girl?" She tapped her foot in the sticky redness for effect.

"No, of course not."

"Would you have thrown me into the pit when I refused?"

"Thea, please. Not now."

"It's disgusting."

"Humans
are
disgusting." Ethan tried to hold her hand, but she shrugged him away.

"You can stop this."

"I said,
not now
, Thea." The look in his eye made Thea relent. She didn't take his hand as he wanted, but continued to walk by his side.