A Gift in the Dark

If I close my eyes, I can still hear the sounds that haunt my dreams. Not the booming whoosh of the steam powered pumps, or the clattering of the picks and shovels, but the quiet sounds that whispered from the darkness when the men were resting.

With the Davy Lamps turned low to preserve fuel, the flickering shadows breathed life into the darkness that surrounded us. The gentle drips of water and steady hiss of the lamps; the distant rumble of the surf above our heads, and the knocks of stone and echo. These are the sounds that fill my nights.

1.

I grew up on the wild north coast of Cornwall. An area guarded by sea and gorse: a steeply winding road to low grey slate houses that stared at the sea. It was just me and Nanny Jago for most of my life. My father had died in the Carn Galne collapse of 1910, and my mother had thrown herself from the cliffs at Zennor soon after. From then on Morvah became my home.

We Cornishmen had tunnelled deep. A honeycomb of adits and shafts produced the finest quality tin in the world, and it was a proud boast that at the bottom of any deep hole on Earth you would find a Cornishman. 'Tis a proud miner who stands with his pick on his shoulder, Davy Lamp in hand, and pasty cooling in pocket. I still have the photo on the mantel: I still bear the scars of the collapse which followed.

At 14, I joined the line of cap clad men as they wove their way across the gorse and heather, sheltering behind the stone walls and wind tortured hedges that marked the cliff edge. On my first day Nanny J had pressed a coin into my hand telling me to leave it as a gift to the knockers.

"They're fickle boy, but if you gift them they'll look after you. They're tricksy folk, so beware: be true to your heart."

Maybe I should have asked more, but she was always spinning tales of Knockers, the Small Folk, and the Pixies. So I did as I was bade rather than question the sense of her occasional ramblings.

Superstition was rife among the miners. The little sounds in the adits and the flickering darkness sometimes drove men mad, and they muttered and grumbled to themselves as they worked. Knocking sounds echoed endlessly around the adits and shafts, and if you listened they seemed to talk or reply in some sort of ancient signal, as if in mocking counterpoint to our own feeble efforts.

Every day we ate our crouse in the flickering darkness of the mine, listening to the pounding surf overhead, the steady drip of water, and the gentle hiss of the lamps that provided a barrier of light against the encroaching nothingness surrounding us. The crimp of the pasty was held to keep the filth off the rest of the oggy which contained the still warm potato, onion and beef: the remnant was gifted to the darkness. It was dark filthy work, but I was strong for my age, bred to dig, and soon earned the respect of my colleagues, some of whom remembered my father.

As the years passed, we had other boys who joined us in the mine. Some stayed, some went, occasionally one died.

One destroyed us.

A new lad called Wilf saw the small pile of offerings in the little pool inside the mine entrance on his first day, and temptation overcame superstition. This was seen by one of the other young lads who mentioned it to his older brother during crouse time. An argument flared, loud voices echoed through the mine. Then, for the first time, the Knockers joined in.

Tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

The argument stopped instantly. Other than the odd solitary arrhythmic knock of a stone falling, none of us had ever heard the insistent noises during break. All thoughts of food vanished. An older man who had been muttering for many years curled into a ball and started rocking to and fro, whimpering as the noises grew more insistent.

Wilf suddenly took off like a startled hare into the darkness. Through some odd instinct, I grabbed my lamp and sped after him trying to catch him and stop him running into an unbarred shaft or dropping into a pitfall. That action saved my life.

As we raced along the drainage adit, the noises of surf and men were drowned out by the ominous creaking of timbers, scared shouts behind me and the sudden boom of a rock fall. Lamp in hand, I ran for my life still trying to catch the vague figure of Wilf who was suddenly obscured by a cloud of dust and debris that picked me up and threw me unconscious into the dark.

I awoke to utter darkness, bruised and coughing up dust. The gentle dripping of water reminded me where I was, and I called out softly into the funereal night. 

Nothing. 

I started feeling my way carefully, painfully aware that every step could potentially be my last if I found a pitfall. Instead, I found a foot. I checked the body, finding a candle in a pocket which I lit with one of my few matches. A sense of enormous relief assailed me as the feeble flickering light lit the area showing an unconscious Wilf and a large section of collapsed roof. Going through the rest of his pockets as he lay there, I found a handful of coins and a ring he had pilfered from the gift pool. These I put in my own pocket, intending to replace them should I ever get out of the mine alive.

Wilf stirred and sat up, rubbing his eyes blearily and wincing in pain. He jumped when he saw me and shrank back against the wall of the cave, wild eyed.

"What?" he started but stopped when he saw the look on my face.

"Quiet," I whispered, "the whole area is unstable." He nodded, and furtively checked his pockets.

"I have what you stole. And this is the only candle we have unless you have one in your sock."

Wilf looked down, shamefaced, and that was the last time I ever saw him in normal light as with a dismal little flicker the candle guttered out.

He panicked in the sudden dark, scrabbling around and whimpering in the utter blackness. I grabbed his coat and bade him be quiet, but it was too late.

Tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

The sounds came closer and closer, getting louder and louder, each time an extra beat then a pause. We froze in the absolute dark, the knocking providing a steady but wholly un-reassuring counterpoint to the hammering beat of our own hearts.

Tap, tap.

The knocking ceased with two final beats which drove me to my knees. A faint blue glow lifted the veil of darkness and we could see again. I immediately wished we couldn't.

We were surrounded. A flickering mass of blue lit shadow swarmed around us, constantly changing and obscuring the rocks. One area appeared to pause and stabilise, and a large head with massive dark eyes moved away from the cloud. It hung in front of our eyes, glowing with the same faint blue as the remainder of his swarming kin.

Where is the gift?

Without a sound, the words whispered straight into my head. Looking at Wilf I could see he had heard it too. He started patting frantically at his pockets, forgetting in his panic I had relieved him of it. I reached into my pocket and mutely held out the small collection.

We need other things now to atone for the theft.

An arm flickered out from the blue swirling mass which provided the sickly light around us, a long multi-jointed finger extending as he pointed at Wilf.

You. Stand up.

Wilf stood, sweating and whey faced in the eerie blue light. Suddenly he bolted, breaking through the swirling mass of creatures. A group of indistinct glowing figures followed him, lighting the cave walls ahead of him as he ran. As he rounded a kink in the tunnel there was a sudden shrill scream which cut off with an audible thud. The distant blue glow winked out leaving me prone against the cave wall in my own private pool of fear.

That is one. Now you. Stand up.

I raised myself painfully to my feet and stood waiting. The impulse to run was high in me, but something made me stay where I was.

Run.

"No." I managed through dry lips. "I will not."

Then we will take something else.

"What can I offer?"

There was a pause. Tapping noises started in the depths of the cave, joining in rhythm and communication. The susurration increased, the movement around me intensifying. It stopped as a consensus was reached.

You will have children. You will bring us your first born child.

For some reason a vision of Nanny J rose in my mind and I laughed.

You laugh at us?

There was a palpable change in the environment of the cave. The blue glow increased in intensity and malevolence with the cloud closing the space around me until two large eyes were all I could see.

"No. Not at you; a memory. You will have no part of any child of mine. I have nothing to lose here at this moment other than my life. Why should I condemn an unknown, an innocent, to suffer an uncertain fate simply to save myself? I refuse."

The atmosphere changed again. There was a curious edge to it. Perhaps I had given them something to think about.

We have seen many of your line; Thomas, John, Alfred, Zena. Only one has passed alive before. Why should we not commit you back to the earth from whence you came?

"I'll get there one day" I replied.

One had survived! John and Alfred were my grandfather and father; both had died in the mines. Thomas? I had a distant memory of an Uncle Tom but didn't know what had happened to him. And Zena? Well Nanny J had a lot to answer for and would certainly be asked some questions when I returned home.

If I returned.

We will wait, but there is still a price.

They closed in, the black and swirling blue enveloping me. In an instant, I was bound and gagged. Panic set in, and I struggled as hard as I could, but could not get free. A stone knife was produced, blue-edged in the swarming darkness and I screamed in terror into the filth of the gag, screaming again and again as the knife gouged into me, searing with every cut until I once again fell into blessed unconsciousness.

I awoke in moonlight and fresh air. Something was tugging at my arm and I glanced over fearfully, only to see something run away on sturdy legs, something that looked a little like a child. The Small Folk? I lifted my arm to find it bandaged and clean. Definitely the Small Folk. Had it been the Piskeys I would have been stripped and roasted, probably with an apple in my mouth knowing their reputed brand of humour.

Standing carefully, and feeling weak, I surveyed the surrounding land by bright moonlight. My father's Davy lamp sat on the ground next to me and I picked it up and began walking west. An hour later I crested the rise above the village and made my way home to Nanny J.

2.

A roar sounded from the bar next door and brought me back to myself. I looked back into the deep brown of the beer in front of me; a new pint of ale in the local pub craftily called Cornish Knocker. As I'd sat down in the corner to await the arrival of my grandson, a crow had alighted on the windowsill and tap, tap, tapped on the window pane. Already thinking about Knockers, the sound had tipped me over into memory.

"Pint alright Charlie?" called Alan, the barman. "You'm takin' your time tonight."

Waving off his worries I resumed drinking, enjoying the traditional ale and slipped back into the past.

3.

Nanny J had been waiting for me when I returned from the hills. Tears had coursed down her cheeks as she embraced me and led me inside.

Over a steaming mug of tea, she told a tale of loss. Thomas, a great uncle, had been lost in the mines, as had my grandfather John. But when Alfred had gone missing following a collapse, a younger Zena Jago had left her grandson and daughter-in-law crying in the night, and had walked to the mine. Always considered an advocate of the white craft she'd managed to summon the Knockers with a gift of blood and something precious: a life. She'd intended for it to be hers, but the Knockers had misunderstood and had taken not only Alfred's but his wife's too. Be true to your heart she'd said all those years ago and I had, but some sort of deal had been done on the blood they'd taken from me.

In time I married a local lass and we had a daughter and two sons. The youngest died of measles but the other two survived and grew strong. I had long since apprenticed myself to a local carpenter and when he died childless of a heart attack, I took over the business and passed it on to my son in turn. My daughter married and had lovely twin girls. My son married and passed my name on to his only son.

My boy never had to go into the mines, and not long after they closed for good with the world demand for tin dropping through the floor.

4.

And so here I was, a maudlin old fool waiting for a grandson of the same name. An old man in a modern world with technology and widescreen TV blaring out the football in the next room. A world with no room for faerie and legends: a world with no place for Knockers and Small Folk unless they were a whimsically named pint of beer.

I was looking forward to seeing young Charlie again though. He'd mentioned a new job a few weeks ago and I was keen to see how he was getting on.

The door to the pub opened and Charlie walked into the snug. He didn't see me straight away as I was sitting in the corner opposite the bar. A big lad, he was well over 6ft tall with a rugby player's build and a shock of sandy surfers' hair which defied all efforts to keep it lying down.

"Evening Alan," he said, drawing the barman's attention from the still rowdy game next door. "Pint of Tinners please."

He carefully eased his jacket off his shoulders, showing one arm in a sling, and it was then that I saw it. Printed in large letters on an obviously new top were the proud words "Cornish Rescue". Not rugby. Something else, something far worse.

"You been in the wars boy?" asked Alan lifting a glass from the shelf.

"Sort of," replied Charlie. "We had a mine rescue out at St Just earlier in the week and it all got a bit rough down there."

Eerie light flared in my eyes, panic roared through my veins and blue-edged pain seared my nerves as Wilf ran away through my memory. There was a sudden disappointed group groan from next door as the opposing team scored a goal. In the few quiet moments that followed, I tapped a rhythm on the table in front of me.

Tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

And there was the answer to the question I dared not ask. Charlie wheeled around to face me, colour draining from his cheeks as his freshly lifted pint glass dropped clumsily from his uninjured hand.

I rose from my seat and led him to the table, offering an apology to the barman who stood open mouthed behind the bar. Leaving Charlie there I returned to the bar, bought another pint, and sat down next to my still shaking grandson, leaving Alan to turn his attention to the spillage.

"They've got a new beer in. It's called Knocker," I said as I placed his drink in front of him.

For a second I thought he was going to run, but instead he took a deep breath and reached for his drink. As he looked into his amber beer I rolled up my shirt sleeve exposing my left forearm and the crude stick man carved there so long ago by a sharp blade. Charlie put his drink down and looked at me, his eyes widening as he saw the scars. Involuntarily he touched his own tightly bound arm and shuddered.

"Did you make them any promises?"

After many long seconds, Charlie spoke. "No. They didn't want to talk. They just tied me down and cut me." He paused and looked me in the eye. "I don't suppose offering them my Kendal Mint Cake would've made any difference would it?"

There is a beauty in the human soul, something truly inspiring about seeing a spirit who has come up against the darkness and survived. There is also something more binding than love: shared laughter amidst common suffering.

No child of mine had gone to the Knockers, but it appeared that the blood of generations had been offered as a gift.

~~~ The End ~~~