The Mine

They all used to look at the mountain and the mine carved into its belly as if it were a fat old man with money stashed all over the place. A greedy captain of industry who couldn't understand the value of sharing, of charity, of a helping hand. That was a long time ago. Before Linder and Hare and Bingham died. They went in, winking sunshine at their backs, and they never returned.

After four days, their absence had decayed, in everyone's mind, to death. Someone, probably Chasen, tied a black rag to the crossbeam at the gently sloping entrance. No one said a word. No one had to. And no one looked at the mountain the same way. This was no overstuffed baron of wealth, silver ballooning his pockets like sacks of apples. This mountain had to work for every penny, and so did they.

They stopped singing, when they went in and came out, also. Kirby stopped making up filthy words to go with the high-spirited songs of the day. With no "One-Way Mirror" or "The Lady in the Missing Dress" to shout into the darkness, the mine became smaller and pressing, a smothering blanket.

Mr. Field entertained absurd ideas that he couldn't reveal to anyone about Linder, Hare, and Bingham still alive. Maybe they swam in underground pools. Maybe they developed a keen sense of touch. Maybe they would live down there to the age of one hundred. He knew those things weren't true. He just feared the day one of the men came across them and had to drag them up. He didn't want to see their black faces and black mouths and imagine their gaping eyes, imagine their last furious breaths, their hands whittled into claws. So he tried harder to imagine them in their pools, feasting on fish, and making up songs that kept them laughing through their eternal night.