I’ve been walking these tunnels for too long. Captive in the embrace of the old stones, time seems to have become mineral as well. Have I been here for hours? Half a day? It becomes hard to tell. My headlamp flickers. The familiar pathways, the walls I’ve seen so many times, change as the weakened light huddles closer to me. Now short-sighted, I need to slow down my pace. The walk towards a destination turns into discovery, as if I were an explorer taking my first steps into the unknown. Enclosed within the ancient earth, the night at arm’s length, I feel small and young. My own worries feel insignificant compared to the countless lives these stones must have seen since the quarries exist. 

As I walk, I let my hand caress the walls, the rough limestone here, the traces of pickaxes there, the soft backfill of earth and pebbles gliding from the spaces between the boulders. I know which galleries served for mining and which ones for circulation; which side was the cutting face, and which one was built by the quarrymen to support the weight of the ceiling. The narrow, low tunnel I amble through opens up abruptly; the shadows above my head swallow my feeble light, and crawl upon me. I feel dizzy, as if staring into the abyss, and lean against the wall as my surroundings seem to dance.

I fish a candle out of my backpack and light it with trembling hands. The stone comes alive in its flickering flame, which kindles a blinding swarm of fireflies along the walls. A gasp, aghast: above me, the ceiling opens like a monstrous, hungry mouth. The bell-hole towers above me, its depths hidden to my light, and I feel like I’ve entered the burrow of some formidable sleeping beast, guarding the treasures of its shining walls. Numbed by the size of the yawning wound in the stone, I press myself against the wall, not daring to move. I breathe slowly and mousily as I sweep and take in the savage chamber that nature has hollowed out in its breast. The sparkling stones intrigue me, and curiosity slowly takes over the initial wave of primal fright. Is it quartz? Something else? On tiptoe, I reach out and touch a boulder with the tip of my fingers. Rubbing them together, I suddenly understand, and the explanation is so obvious that my burst of laughter echoes through the galleries: someone has covered the place in glitter. I laugh again at my own surprise when I’ve arrived, and the chamber flickers merrily as candle and headlamp are shaken. Even the bell-hole, despite its impressive depth, becomes less frightening: scintillating from the candlelight I raise above my head, it looks more like a pathway to heaven, and less like a threatening fiend. 

Light-hearted with relief, I plunge into the mouth of the gallery that mirrors the one I’ve come through. It, too, has traces of glitter, like tracks leading to some secret deeper into the earth. Once more, I’m an explorer of the underground, and I take my time to look around. Scribbled in charcoal, names, crude drawings, and dates punctuate the tunnel; the marks of the men, who, hundreds of years ago, worked and dug and ate and maybe slept here, providing the city with the limestone it needed to grow. 

Another shard of light, a brighter one, shines in the depths of the night. What is it, this time? With each careful step, climbing here and there over the boulders that have fallen from the fractured ceiling, my light falls on the peculiar beacon that calls me from the shadows. I reach it, and its radiance nearly blinds me. It’s a splinter from a mirror, half buried in the backfill, angled away from the gallery; when my headlamp hits it, it sends a beam through the darkness on my left. I follow it, and once more, the walls are alight. 

‘The Mirror Chamber’, I whisper to myself. Everyone has heard of it — rumours and stories about this nook hidden under the bell-holes, and protected by the never-ending threat of their collapse. The hand drawn maps that we exchange do not mention it; and who has cleared away the backfill, built the benches and the table out of rough stone, and placed the mirrors that give the place its name, we do not know. Or maybe, whoever knows keeps it to themselves. 

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Setting my backpack down, I prepare my stay here. A few candles are sufficient to illuminate the chamber: the glass shards generously reflect the weakest of lights. I settle in comfortably, taking a few moments to rest before eating; and, eyes closed, I follow the dance of the sparks on my eyelids. It is mesmerizing, luring me to sleep, as the tranquillity of the stone wall behind me seems to insinuate itself into my limbs and through my blood. Now and then, one of the sparks flares stronger than the others, like the burst of a flame, startling me awake. It comes from a mirror settled across me, on a ledge of rock jutting from the column supporting the ceiling. It is almost whole: the only one in the chamber. Fine cracks run through it like silver veins, and when I lean in, my reflection is delicately split. I look at my selves. Dark eyes gaze at me sadly; the shadows dig creases in my cheeks, and a sorrowful expression around my mouth. They, I, look tired and worn. I have come here, in the depths of the earth, to look for comfort, to forget. The stone has already started working its subtle magic, absorbing my troubles drop by drop with each step I took until now. Everything seems far, as if the metal hatch I’ve closed over my head was a barrier between me and the outside world. In this cocoon of stone, I am now at peace, but tired: that melancholic feeling after crying for too long. 

I keep staring in the mirror, scrutinizing my features in detail, until it seems like I’m looking at someone else. A stranger. Detached. Someone who is there, on the other side, simply existing, without emotions, like a statue just freed from the wall behind. I wish I could be this person, when I climb back to the surface; but I know what will wait for me when I push the hatch open again. The tranquillity I’ve found only lives underground, and cannot leave with me. I wish I could remain here. I wish someone else could replace me outside. 

My selves in the mirror flicker in the candlelight, and every shard around me comes alive. The cold has crept up along my spine, slithering up and down my muscles. Pressing my back to the wall, I give in to its embrace, trying to make one with it, breathing very slowly. My reflections keep trembling, dancing, coming alive while I turn to stone. I find that thought comforting, and a twin smile is mirrored in the glass. I’d be content here, my tendons and nerves and veins knitted among the rocks like ivy; and at the thought of returning to the surface, my whole body tenses with a refusal rooted deep in my guts. I shake my head violently: I don’t want to leave, I don’t. The reflections nod back. 

— Enough staring, then, a voice says. I lean in, gazing into the moving depths of the fissured mirror, where the lights and the shadows dance, making the chamber beyond the glass shift like a tide. As I come closer, the reflections come closer too, until there is only one face staring back at me, marred by the silver cracks. I trace its contour with my finger, the impression of otherness now acute. 

— You’re gawking, the reflection says, leaning in, until we’re nose to nose. I probably am; my thoughts become confuse, clinging to the mirror, pouring in. Moment after moment, feelings stir inside me, raise to the surface, troubling the surface of the glass with their flow. I’m swaying gently with the movement of these waves, letting go as my self is absorbed, and replaced by an overwhelming quietude. A smile slowly petrifies on my features as I fall back, unhurriedly. The wall embraces me, velvet earth pouring from its crevices, enveloping me. The mirror ripples, my reflection moving forward while I lean backwards, as if pulled by my movement. It smiles at me, slinking out of its glass womb, until it stands, whole, in front of me. 

I give in to the tranquil embrace of the stone. The other nods a farewell, and my gaze follows its silhouette as the shadows of the tunnel swallow it.