The telegrapher had sent messages up the hill to Mort Lethe that the formidable man could hardly believe. His loans canceled, his railroad contract broken -- he was enraged, baffled, indignant. He was ruined. Up and down the room he paced, his face purple. Then another messenger came to say that the trickle of water that kept down the coal dust in the mine so that it wouldn’t explode had stopped. The spring that was its source had dried up. The man started to explain that cutting down the grove of trees was a mistake, but looked at Mort’s face, thought better of it and left in a hurry.
Down among the miners and their families, the realization was seeping through them that things had gone badly wrong -- the mine was somehow cursed. It was time to get out. Many of them had been through mine disasters before and had no desire to witness such a thing again. By daylight a steady stream of people wound down the road and out across the foothills.
Mort could see them from his study window. He stormed down the hill to the mine head, intending to tongue-lash his foremen and managers, but when he burst into their offices, they had already gone. Only the piles of ledgers leaned together on the cabinets and shelves. Papers had scattered across the desks and slipped to the floors, full of information that had seemed vital and significant only yesterday.
Mort slammed on through the offices to the mine entrance, where the rails for the coal cars wound their way into the darkness. No one was around. Grabbing a miner’s carbide-lamp helmet, he plunged down the tunnel.
In the mine Toby was not so much feeling sensory deprivation as a whole new set of unknown sounds and smells. In the darkness every hint of dim light took on significance and the gleaming of the shiny coal walls writhed across the rough surfaces like ghost masks. For a while there had been water moving on the floor, but now it was gone. The coal dust down there was still mushy, but some of it was drying and rising into the air. He had been cautioned to watch the little flame flare that would signal methane, natural gas, explosive, suffocating. “Fire-damp” they called it and it meant danger. But at Mort’s command, his captors had chained him to the coal cart.
Crossroads was not used to harness and she was having the same difficulties understanding her senses that made Toby struggle. Her gait was hesitant, which meant that she didn’t build up momentum for the long inclines that the mules took on the run. Most of all, she was tormented by her swollen hot udder. Toby’s chain, fastened to the side rails of the coal car, was not quite long enough for him to ease her by milking her.
Then it seemed to both of them that the mine became much quieter than usual -- no faraway voices, no soft thudding from the pickaxes, no vibration of the rails from other carts. They stopped and stood, wondering what it meant.
Being in the mine was usually soothing to Mort, but this time it didn’t work. He stormed along the rails, the light from his hat barely revealing the turns, and began to shout and roar, demanding satisfaction, boasting of past feats, and ignoring the flare of the little warning flame. In fact, though he knew better, as drunk on rage as other men became on alcohol, he lit a cigar. There was an explosion.
Toby and Crossroads felt the impact of the rushing air as the wrinkled black satin walls seemed to bulge with terrible noise. Inexperienced as they were, they knew they had to get out quickly. The little mare threw herself into the harness while Toby shouted encouragement. He climbed into the cart, throwing out chunks of coal to lighten the load, but now the ceiling was dropping debris on them and the rails twisted and humped. They came to where the mules were stabled in a room cut out of the coal and heard them screaming, trying to kick their stalls down, and Toby wanted to help them but his chain wasn’t long enough to get to their gates. Crossroads strained desperately to keep the coal car going, but she began to slow. Toby was feeling the effects of the gases in the mine, moving slower himself, losing his ability to reason. His only chance was riding that coal car out, but his weight was making the coal car heavy, maybe too heavy for Crossroads. Better that at least she should survive. He crawled forward and reached perilously close to her flying heels, trying to unhitch the harness and set her free.
There were more explosions and then fires. Falling rock pelted their backs. Then a rock as big as a footstool fell onto Toby’s head. As he lost consciousness, he was still feeling the movement along the passageway and the heat. Then it seemed to him that he was an eagle on a summer day, soaring high on a thermal updraft, his wings stretched out over the land as he rose above the mine, the village, the mountains, into a world of light and freedom. He wheeled and soared towards home.
A small cluster of people stood at the mouth of the mine. Demeter and Cate strained their eyes into the darkness, hearing the crashing roofs, the muffled explosions. It started to snow, making the darkness of the opening even more pronounced. Throughout the village no footprints marked the lanes because everyone who had stayed was huddled at the mine.
At long last a struggling figure appeared, hardly looking like a horse with her tail and mane burned off, still heroically pulling the coal cart which was now a hearse for Toby’s body. He himself was elsewhere. Hands from all sides reached out to the valiant mare, removing the harness, brushing the char from her coat, smearing the blood from many cuts and the blood and mucus that streamed from her nose. She stood with legs wide apart, shaking, barely able to stand, whickering in recognition when Demeter and Cate embraced her lowered head.
Pers’ bedroom was dark and cold, its heavy drapes closed. Demeter stood just inside the door, waiting for her eyes to adjust and trying to sense the locations of the big heavy furniture. Why had the servants let the stove go out? Of course, if she reflected, she knew.
She could hear breathing but it didn’t seem to come from the massive four-poster bed. In a few minutes she could see well enough to get to the window and sweep the drapes back. Sun bouncing off the snow filled the room with chilly light. Then she could see that a woman lay on a chaise longue under an eiderdown.
It was Pers, her dark hair streaked just a bit with silver. Her closed eyes looked bruised and as her mother looked down at her, the young woman threw an arm over her face. It was a thin arm, the wrist showing blue veins on the underside, but it was the left arm and her hand flashed fire from an ornate ring with six large garnets, red as pomegranate. Demeter looked for a long time at this daughter she had feared was dead, thinking of the little curly-headed toddler she had been and the slender woman who was just beginning to find a place in community when she was abducted.
“Pers, wake up!” The woman did not stir. Sharply, “PERS!” The breathing was deep and slow, to the point of being unnatural. The older woman turned to the polished table alongside the chaise. It held a carafe, half-full of water, a silver spoon, and a cobalt blue bottle. She picked it up and read the label. Laudanum. Drugged. Probably an addict. This was going to be hard.
In a surge of emotion and action, she went to the small stove, opened it to look for some small flicker of coals and, needing action, called to the servants to bring more wood, though there was still a supply in a box nearby. No feet sounded in the hall. Then Cate came in carrying a tray. Demeter, poking split wood into the stove, commanded, “Bring coffee!”
“That’s what this is.”
“If she won’t drink it, I will. This room is like ice.”
Cate went on building up the fire while Demeter chafed Pers’ hands and talked to her. It was hours before Pers began to stir and groan. By then Demeter had settled by the stove where she was mending her daughter’s underwear, bits that evidently hadn’t been sent for laundering. She had gone through her daughter’s drawers as though her daughter had nothing to say about it, which -- indeed! -- she didn’t. It was a way of asserting her motherhood. The wide closet had been reviewed as well. The clothes in it were luxurious, heavy, dark, but unworn. Evidently Pers had been living in a negligee for quite a while.
Cate had found a small trunk and was packing the most practical clothes. They would leave as soon as their drug addict could walk. Two train cars were already standing ready: a box-car deep with straw for the horse and Mort’s own private parlor car for the women. No one knew what had happened to Mort and no one cared.
So, years later, when Mort appeared in Boston, they were understandably surprised, having assumed -- hoped -- that he’d died down there in his imploding, collapsing mine. But here he sat, sipping tea, not allowed to smoke his cigar.
“You don’t seem to have prospered,” observed Demeter.
“No. No. It has been difficult. So many regulations. Too many politicians who keep office by pleasing the people.”
They sat in silence for a moment, hearing Cate moving around in the kitchen and some small sounds from upstairs, hard to identify. Finally Demeter asked politely, to break the silence since she had no real interest, “What has happened to your stallion?”
“Dead. Challenged a locomotive. What about that little mare of yours?”
“In the mews out back. Fully recovered.”
Suddenly Mort moved closer to what he wanted to know. “Do you hear from Cory?”
“She and Hop are in Mexico. There was trouble in the gold camps in California so they moved on.”
“And my granddaughter?” He looked away.
Demeter stared at him. She never thought of Cory as his daughter, but it was a fact. “Blossom is here with us so that she will get an education.”
Another silence.
“I heard about Pers, my wife.”
Demeter’s face hardened. “Yes. A suicide, though it was actually a murder, in my opinion. You infected her with death, poisoned her. Luckily, we saved the child.” She flinched, angry at herself. She hadn’t meant to mention the child. There was no need for Mort to know about this daughter, to even know that Pers had been pregnant when they brought her home.
He was sharply pierced, though this is what he wanted to know, and set down his clattering teacup too hard, then sat unmoving. “What is the child’s name?”
“We call her Persephone, just like her mother.” She was gritting her teeth with pain and resentment, but felt the justice of a man knowing his daughter’s name. “That reminds me.” She went to the fireplace where there was a small leather-covered box on the mantel. “You can have this back. No one here wants it.”
He looked and saw that it was Pers’ garnet ring. He put it in his pocket, briefly thinking -- only a flicker -- that he might use the stones to make a new stickpin since his diamond had long ago been sold. “May I see her?” he choked, knowing the answer.
“No. Nor Blossom either. That’s Cory’s daughter.”
He collapsed pitifully, the ebony shine of his hair now dull and grayed, the very bones of his face hinting at the skull underneath the skin. He shuddered and his shoulders curved forward.
“Don’t you DARE to die in my parlor, Mort Lethe.”
“I’ll go.” But he didn’t. He glanced sideways out of wet eyes, looking to judge his chances by reading Demeter’s face.
“You’re a wealthy woman. I just need a little grubstake to get a new start out West and then I’ll not bother you ever again. It’s copper, you see. A sure thing. Progress requires much wire for the new electricity. There is a nation to be wired. This is a service to the country, not just me.”
It seemed the best way to get him out of her house. In some tiny recess of her heart, she even felt a bit sorry for him. She walked to her desk and wrote a check. “Will this do?”
He looked at the gold scrap of paper. “Wheat Account,” he read. “Bank of the West.” There were ears of wheat embossed in gilt ink.
She remarked, “The coal will run out. The wheat never will.”
He bowed his head and left. When the door slammed, the two girls, Pers and Blossom, came pelting down the stairs, full of questions. Before Demeter could stop them, they ran to the window and pulled aside the lace curtain to see this ominous man whose voice had rumbled through the house. They were fascinated.
On the street Mort felt the piece of paper in his pocket and tried to remember where the bank was, whether it were in walking distance and whether it would be open right now. Then he looked up at the window, just as he had when he first came up the Beacon Hill. This time he didn’t see Demeter, but instead two girls, one older than the other, both dark-haired. Their faces glowed with life and curiosity but they soon turned away.
Crossroads had foaled a few days earlier and what obsessed the girls now was that clever, clumsy little gangler, a sorrel as red as Cate’s hair. They were trying to decide on a name: Peace? Freedom? Renewal? Maybe just “Birth.” They went out to the mews behind the row houses to embrace the baby again. He was so droll shaking his short mane and whisking his ridiculous curly-haired tail. Crossroads stood over her foal. The only signs of her ordeal were white spots in her hide where the harness had rubbed sores. She didn’t mind the little girls. They smelled like family.
Mort, briskly marching down the sidewalk, comforted himself, “I’ll get them all in the end.”
Standing in the kitchen, Cate heard him in her head. “Ah, yes. But only for a while. There is always new life.”
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