In the cavern’s gloom, far below where the sun’s light ever shone, a lone figure hopped from a boulder to a crag, ducked around a rocky outcrop and strode across a crevice.
In one hand the figure held a metal-tipped stave which it used as a crutch as well as to tap and prod a way through the darkness.
Over the other shoulder, the figure hauled a sack of rocks, which swayed about and clattered with each movement. The figure grumbled a worker’s shanty under its breath as it went.
‘I am a jovial mining lad, and blithe as blithe can be,
For let the times be good or bad they're all the same to me’
The song’s tones were not delivered with any sense of blitheness.
The sack of rocks swung about, knocked a stalagmite and scuffed the figure’s leg. It drew muffled cursing. There was then a splash as the figure stepped in a puddle, which drew more cursing still.
Bracing itself, the figure scrambled up to the top of a loose pile of scree and looked about from the peak. From there, the cavern opened out to view. It was deep and wide enough to fit a cathedral inside. Pillars of stalagmites and stalactites that were majestic in their sheer size, reached from the cavern floor up into the impenetrable dark way above.
Water trickled down the cavern walls, gushed in underground streams and fell in a pattering, soft rain from high above. It ran around blooming patches of lichen, moss and fungus and the wiry, sprouting knots of plant life that made their home here, deep underground.
The cavern was illuminated by an ethereal band of light. It hung in the air and was a glacial blue, or white at its brightest parts. The band of light gave a gentle pulse as star-like particles flowed along it, as though they were borne along a current. It was wide as the breadth of a river and reached off into the cavern, both far and yonder; further than the eye could see.
The figure, illuminated by this spectral light, could now be seen to wear crude, ill-shaped plates of iron armour, over a ragged and altogether filthy layer of sacking cloth that covered all, from head to grime-blackened foot.
The figure walked to a wooden crane that reached up into the stream of light, then tied its sack on to a pulley-rope and began to haul it up.
The muttered lyrics of the song were continued as the figure toiled:
'Tis little of the world I know and care less for its ways,
For where the dog star never glows, I wear away my…’
The figure was evidently a male, judging by the gruff and toneless singing voice. He struggled and heaved until the sack was brought to rest in the ghostly, shimmering light before he tied off the rope to hold it in place.
He patted down his hands and looked up at the crane, the light and the gloom far above that hid the cavern ceiling. From inside the helmet could be heard a sigh. Perhaps his thoughts were with memories of the world above, or the sky with all its stars.
The figure gathered up its stave and made to leave. A distant sound echoed from high above on the cavern ceiling. A set of trap doors gave a metallic clash as they swung open, which was followed by the rattle of chains. The noise reverberated on the hard stone all around.
‘Is it that time again already?’ The figure’s voice was a hoarse whisper from inside his roughly-forged helmet.
Through a slit in the visor, all that could be seen of the face within was a damp gleam of eyes. A speck of orange light appeared far above and a brightly-lit personnel lift descended like a falling star in the blackness.
The figure slid down the scree pile and hastened to where the lift made its descent.
Leaning on the stave like a third leg, the figure lurched and hopped with motions that were awkward and uneven. The route he took led back to a crumbled, ivy-choked ruin of a chapel. Once inside, he tipped out a bubbling pot of turnip stew over the hearth fire that heated it, which snuffed out the coals.
Inside the personnel lift stood the six new employees of The Righteous Anglian Mining Company of Our Lady’s Hallowed Earth.
Judging by appearance, they were between the earlier to latter adolescence. They also appeared to be rather nervous, dumbstruck even, by how their first day of work was turning out. The employees huddled together, whispered prayers, and peered through the windows of the personnel lift at the rapid departure of light from above and felt an unending lurch down to seemingly bottomless depths below.
Accompanying them was the stout, baleful Sergeant. His eyes were barely visible beneath eyebrows of curious and disturbing bushiness in his furrowed, ale-reddened face.
Alongside the Sergeant was the sullen, weaselly Corporal who slouched and gave intermittent sniffs and scratches of his nose. Behind them, and most commanding of all, loomed the towering, formidable figure of the Duchess.
The Duchess’ powerful stature overshadowed both men even before the added height of her high-heeled leather boots and her wide-brimmed hat. She stood with hands planted on either side of her voluminous hips, and surveyed all with an air of unquestionable authority.
To the new employees, the exterior of the grandiose, wrought ironwork lift had appeared hellish. It was tarnished, soot-blackened and crafted as ornately as a cathedral. Inside, it was gilded and opulent, with red carpet on the floor and a gas-lit chandelier hanging from above.
Embroidered religious emblems and gold-framed pictures of influential figures from within the secret society of The Righteous Anglian Mining Company of Our Lady’s Hallowed Earth adorned the walls, along with symbolic trinkets of their order; a mining dial, plumb line, yard stick and a pickaxe.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
The Corporal turned the handle of a gramophone. The record ground out warbling, operatic singing accompanied by a wailing orchestra which made the lift windows rattle in their panes.
‘We now descend to the cavern floor,’ the Duchess trilled over this din.
‘Here you will work to meet your quotas as you have been trained; quotas which once met shall earn your release from being indentured labourers of…’ she paused to take a breath. ‘The Righteous Anglian Mining Company of Our Lady’s Hallowed Earth.’
The Duchess took a moment to perform one of the secret society’s secret hand gestures, by sweeping a closed hand in front of her with thumb and little finger outstretched, then closing the fist and holding it over her chest.
The gesture was mimicked by the Sergeant and Corporal with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
From down in the dark, the river of unearthly blue light came into view. The employees couldn’t help but peer down through the windows and remark among themselves about what it could be.
‘Pay attention and be quiet!’ The Duchess’ soprano voice rang out from the depths of her vast bosom.
‘You have been trained on what you must do. Nevertheless, I shall remind you,’ the Duchess went on.
‘Your centre of operations is the chapel constructed nearby. From there you will find the iron ore pits signposted clearly within our area of operations. You shall not stray from the paths. You shall not leave our area of operations.
‘The iron ore shall have excess rock chipped from it, and then it will be hoisted by crane into the light. The iron ore shall remain suspended in the light for a period of not shorter than eight hours.
‘The ore you shall produce will be weighed against your weekly quota when the goods lift shall be sent down for collection, and to resupply. You shall not hold back any iron ore for yourself as it is company property once mined.
‘The provisions with which you are provided are company property and shall be used for their intended purposes only. The chapel is company property and you are responsible for its upkeep.
‘As indentured labourers, you are company property until you have worked off your debt, to release you from the agreement which was signed.
‘The nature of the light is not to be speculated upon, nor shall the purpose of the iron ore which you produce be speculated upon. You shall not attempt to touch the light and any injury incurred directly or indirectly by contact with it is not the liability of the company.
‘Any rumours of things that go bump in the night are but rumours, and the company will not hear such nonsense otherwise. Such things shall not concern you anyhow, as long as you keep to the paths within our area. And as long as you can remember the Lord’s Prayer,’ the Duchess smirked. ‘Do you understand?’
There was a moment’s pause from the new workers, and a mumbled acknowledgement.
‘Doyouunderstand?’ the Sergeant bellowed.
‘Yes, we understand,’ the workers chorused.
The lift hit the cavern floor with a crash. The jolt made them all stagger and the record leap from the gramophone. The Corporal dived to catch it and went sprawling to the floor.
‘Sergeant! How many times must I tell you? You’re supposed to keep an eye on the depth counter as the lift descends!’ The Duchess roared as she stuffed her hat back on.
‘Corporal, I ordered you to keep an eye on the depth counter as the lift descends!’ the Sergeant yelled at the Corporal.
‘Well I was crankin’ the gramophone, ‘ow am I supposed to keep an eye on the depth counter and crank the gramophone at the same time?’ the Corporal whined.
‘Corporal, that’s enough from y-!’ the Duchess began.
‘Corporal, don’t you answer back to me!’ the Sergeant shouted.
‘Sergeant! Do not interrupt me!’ the Duchess screamed.
‘You shouldn’t interrupt her ladyship, Sergeant,’ the Corporal said in a snide tone.
‘Corporal!’ the Sergeant roared.
‘Sergeant!’ the Duchess screamed.
The Sergeant winced from the punishment upon his ringing eardrums. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,’ he mumbled.
‘We are trying to be- we are a professional organisation!’ the Duchess hissed with a seething rage. There was a moment of tense silence as the Duchess’ nostrils flared, and her fists were clenched as she struggled to control her temper.
‘Just get the workers and supplies out of the lift,’ the Duchess ordered, her face flushing crimson even under its layer of powder.
The Sergeant and Corporal heaved open the metal doors with a rusty screech and hustled out the workers and supplies. The Duchess produced a sheaf of paperwork from a bureau, along with a quill and ink, and then began to sign off the documents.
After a while, the supplies and tools were arranged outside the lift. Oil lamps were lit and the workers had lined up smartly.
The Duchess still signed off her papers. She ruffled the sheaf, turned a page with a lick of her finger, and emitted a hum of satisfaction as she did so. She was merely halfway through the stack.
With incredulity, the workers held their breath and watched as once more the Duchess turned a page, dipped her quill and began to sign anew. Each loop, floret and whorl of the Duchess’s signature was traced out with the same lavish depiction as the form she signed prior. Each squiggle and motif was drawn with such an expansive, lavish opulence that the workers could hold their breath no longer.
The Duchess gave one last score and a dot, admired her work of calligraphic art, whiffled it dry, and then turned the page to begin anew.
On the eventual completion of the last form, some mind-numbing time later, the Duchess shuffled through the papers with a frown.
‘Sergeant, I’m missing the L11 Perfectio Conclusio sign-off form for the signing of the assignment docket,’ the Duchess said.
‘Corporal, I ordered you to print an assigning form for the signing of… I ordered you to print an L11. Where is it?’ the Sergeant said.
‘I told the Private up there to do it,’ the Corporal sniffed and shuffled his feet in obvious discomfort.
‘And?’ the Sergeant demanded.
‘Well, how am I supposed to know, why don’t you ask the Private? I guess he forgot, or I forgot, or summat, I don’t know, I don’t handle documents and can’t do no document printin’ an’ gramophone crankin’ at the same time…’ the Corporal trailed off to a mumble as he cringed under the Duchess’s stare.
‘Without the sign-off form for the signing of the assignment docket I can’t have it co-signed that the assignment docket has been signed, as assurance that the workers and supplies have been consigned on the work floor to begin their assigned work.
‘To prove they are here, we need proof from the proving documents, because without signed proof we have no way to prove whether they are here, there, nor indeed anywhere. If they are not proven to be here then I can’t sign off a docket to resupply the supplies on the next supply consignment, so we won’t send any supplies and they’ll be left unassigned, where we can’t legally prove they are!’ the Duchess trilled, and took a deep breath.
‘But we can see they’re here. We delivered them,’ the Corporal ventured, trying to be helpful.
‘Corporal!’ the Sergeant roared.
‘Ma’am, if I may be so bold; you’re the only one who signs documents and you’re the only one who reads them. So what are we… signing them for?’ the Corporal muttered wretchedly, unable to stop himself.
‘Corp-!’ The Duchess began to yell, but then fell into a fit of coughing. ‘This is giving me a sore throat, and my head hurts. I can’t believe what amateurishness I have to put up with. The forms are for our licence, and our patrons, benefactors and investors. If only our stakeholders could see us now, without our forms and dockets! We shall have to sign it at the surface – this time. And I want a full report from you, Sergeant!’
‘As for you,’ the Duchess turned to the new miners. ‘We shall return in two days’ time to check things are in motion. You each owe us at least a sack of charged ore weighing no less than twenty-six pounds.’
The miners watched as the Sergeant closed the lift door with an echoing crash, and with a screech and grind of chains and gears, the lift began its ascent.