A Horse Called Hero (20 page)

‘See?’ said Jo, as Wolfie gawped at the strangeness and the wonder and the horror of such a thing, a stable full of horses, with straw, with oats and electric light, all here, here
beneath the surface of a sea.

‘Better fed than the men,’ Jo was saying. ‘The master can get a man for free, don’t need to buy ’im, but ’e ’as to buy an ’orse. An’
that’s a hefty thing today, the price of an ’orse.’

Wolfie, not listening, broke away, shooting forward, running from stall to stall, horse to horse.

‘Hero! Hero!’ he was calling.

He didn’t see Jo hold out a palm, turning his face towards the heading by which they’d come, didn’t hear him say, ‘It’s odd . . . ventilation’s changed . . .
air direction’s changed.’

Behind Jo, a lamplight was growing larger, picking its way through the gloom.

‘Get on out,’ the figure said to Jo, moving on quickly. ‘Not along out-by, but in-by.’

‘Hero! Hero!’ Wolfie was still calling, the name echoing down the stable, out into the long tunnel.

The figure with the lamp hurried on, the lamp dwindling away into the gloom.

‘Hero! Hero!’ Wolfie called again.

There was no answer.

A horse whinnied. Wolfie stopped. It whinnied again. Wolfie ran towards that voice but it was a tall dark bay horse who’d whinnied.

‘Hero!’ he called and he ran down the length of the stable like a man possessed, flinging himself from stall to stall, taking only the merest glance at each box. At the far end of
the stables, Wolfie turned and hurled himself at the other side, caught the post of the box opposite and ran on down.

‘No, no, no,’ he cried to himself as he reached the final box.

‘Hero! Hero!’ he cried softly into his hands.

He stood in silence, leaning against the wooden post, tears flooding down his cheeks, all hope gone.

There was a soft whinny. Wolfie covered his ears and buried his head in pain. Again a horse whinnied softly and there were soft hoof thuds on the sand floor. When Wolfie turned and looked up a
tall dark horse was being led down between the stalls towards him, his head high, almost to the ceiling, ears pricked and turning, the coat of him dark and black with dust, the mane shorn, forelock
shorn . . .

In flesh and blood before him . . .

‘
Hero! Hero! Hero . . .
’ he whispered.

The horse nickered softly. Slowly Wolfie moved towards him. Slowly he bent his face to the muzzle, smiling into the dusty velvet of it. He ran his hand up his head, along the shorn stubble of
his mane.

‘I’d know you . . . I’d know you . . . if you were covered in coal from head to toe, I’d know you.’

He moved his hands over the bulk, the vein and muscle and tendon of the horse . . . all there, under his fingertips, as they’d always been.

Somewhere there were voices, shouts, screams echoing.

‘Get out. Get out in-by!’

‘Get on – get on – get out!’

He rubbed at the broad bone of the temple, brushing at it till the white of it was like a moon, the sweet dapple shining. Wolfie pulled and tore at the blinkers and hurled them down, then he
smiled through his tears into the dark eyes.

‘I’d know you . . . anywhere . . .’

They stood, nose to nose, lost to the world.

‘Tie ’em up – help tie ’em all up – get the horses tied!’

Someone was running down the centre of the stalls, pushing Wolfie to one side, saying, ‘Get th’orse in a stall – quick – tie ’im up.’

Wolfie stood, detached from the commotion, fingering the dull coat, the muzzle and the dust-rimed eyes, the pitiful stubble of his forelock, whispering to Hero, ‘I let you down, betrayed
you . . . I didn’t save you from this –’

‘Get th’orse in the stall – tie ’im up I said!’

‘I promise you, Hero.’ Wolfie whispered, ‘I promise you green fields and tall grass. I promise you rivers and mist and stars . . .’

Hero nuzzled him, then tossed his head impatiently. Tears slid from Wolfie’s eyes. ‘Don’t you know me? Hero, Hero—’

Someone cussed at Wolfie, pushing him to one side, yanking at Hero’s collar, pulling him into a stall and tying him up.

‘Wolfie!’ Someone was calling from somewhere.

Wolfie followed Hero into the stall and stood by him, whispering, ‘I promise you bushes to scratch against and wind and . . .’

Hero tossed his head and pulled at his rope, eyes wild, swinging his head.

Jo was there suddenly, pulling Wolfie, yanking him, shaking him. ‘It’s running the wrong way – air’s reversed – we’ve got to get out.’ He dragged Wolfie
out. ‘Give ’im hay – tie ’im up.’

Jo ran into the next-door box, checking the rope, hobbling the animal. On the other side of the line, more men were doing the same, hurriedly working from stall to stall. Wolfie stood,
stock-still, dumb and uncomprehending.

‘TIE ’IM UP!’ Jo shouted. Wolfie did nothing.

‘You can’t have ’em racing through the tunnels in pitch black. Tie him up. Quick.’ He grabbed Wolfie by the hand. ‘We’ll get out down th’intake
airway.’

Wolfie stood his ground, shook his hand free.

At the far end, a flood of men poured down the passage that crossed the stables. Wolfie heard confused shouts, more men running, still more shouting.

‘To the pit bottom! Get to the bottom!’

‘By the haulage road of the second intake airway.’

‘Don’t stop. Keep moving. Keep moving.’

A door was jammed fast. Someone was forcing it with an iron bar.

‘Get to the junction and out-by,’ someone shouted, but Jo was arguing, urging, ‘No! Get along haulage road, into four-intake airway, to t’junction and out-by!’

Wolfie saw, as if in a dream, a train of lamps recede down the tunnel like a file of bobbins. Jo was running back to Wolfie. He grabbed Wolfie and shook him.

‘For the love o’ God, get out – there’ll be an explosion . . .’

Terrified, Wolfie did nothing. He heard the squealing and shrieking of the animals, he saw their rearing and striking at the air, he saw their bared teeth.

‘Get out – get out – I’ll not stay with yer if you don’t,’ Jo said.

Wolfie turned and calmly undid the knot that tethered Hero. Jo was pulling at him, Hero was squealing and tugging at his rope, sweating, trembling, shoulders and neck wet with lather. Wolfie had
the rope in his hand, was turning Hero round.

Jo was screaming at him to get out, to tie the horse up, to run to the far end, to follow the men, that he was mad, that no one would stay with him.

Wolfie’s world had slowed to a standstill, everyone grown swimming and dreamlike and otherworldly. He saw himself as if detached, from another place.

‘No. No,’ he said slowly. ‘I will never leave him again.’

Jo was suddenly at his side again, exasperated, yanking the rope from Wolfie’s hand, fury and fear in his eyes as he tied a knot in Hero’s rope and pushed Wolfie from the stall.

With immense and sudden force, Hero reared. The wooden bar of his stall cracked and splintered, whirling, dragging jagged wood in his rope, and he careered away, ears flat, the whites of his
eyes round and wild.

Wolfie and Jo ran after him to the far end of the stables, where the rough roof hung in a low dark curve. Jo was shouting that they’d be killed – that they’d all be killed by a
frightened horse in a dark tunnel – but Wolfie caught at his rope, and whispered to him, whispered and whispered, promising soft, sweet promises of grass and wind. Wolfie put an arm under
Hero’s neck, and looked into his eyes and made more promises he knew he could not keep.

‘Come, come, Hero, come with me . . .’

Hero’s eyes were large as night, the trust in them as stark, to Wolfie, as blood from a wound.

An almighty noise, like the sound of the sea, was gathering, a thundering like the roll of a wave. Then a blast of air, like an explosive force, broke and crashed through the chamber, rolling
and echoing in waves after it, like a monster.

Wolfie was hit by the blast, picked by it as if by a hurricane, and hurled down to the side of the tunnel. The drums of his ears were bursting, the air itself fluttering, his brain pounding with
blood, his nose stinging, his limbs paralysed.

He fell unconscious, a tremendous weight pinning him to the ground.

‘No, like this.’ Dodo took the charcoal. ‘Get the shape of her first.’ She sketched the head and neck, flank and quarters. ‘Afterwards you do the
detail . . .’ Lost in reverie, Dodo was drawing, not the horse that stood before her, but a different horse, dark-eyed, deep-necked, all white and grey and silver.

Meriel, fidgeting, held out her hand for the charcoal.

‘Steady, Shannon, steady . . . still, now,’ said Ryland.

The seventeen-hand chestnut, all lacework vein and shivery skin, tossed her slender head. The girls took up their charcoal again. Ryland held out a handful of hay.

‘Thank you, Ryland,’ said Dodo, checking the time. ‘And thank
you
, Shannon. Time to finish.’

There was a distant muffled burst. Ryland started, turning to the distant chimneys. Shannon tensed, ears pinned pack, pulling at her lead rope.

‘What’s that?’ asked Dodo, looking at Ryland.

Ryland’s eyes were fixed in horror on the distant horizon. A steam horn sounded a loud, long signal, six short bursts, a long signal, and six more short bursts.

‘What’s that?’ she asked again, taking up Cecily’s charcoal.

Meriel didn’t look up from her easel. ‘They sound that whenever there’s an explosion,’ she said.

Still the steam horn sounded, over and over.

‘What explosion? Where?’

‘In the pit,’ said Meriel, scrubbing out a mark with her forefinger. ‘Don’t worry, miss, it’s only in the pit.’

‘Oh, God . . .’ Ryland was saying, white faced, turning to Dodo.

‘Is he down there, Ryland?’ she said, going to him, taking his arm. ‘Is your Jo down there?’ She stretched out a hand to take Shannon’s rope. ‘Go, go, you
must go . . .’

‘No, miss,’ he whispered. ‘Yes – that is . . . Jo is, an’ your – your wee brother—’

‘Wolfie?’ breathed Dodo, aghast.

‘Go there, miss,’ said Ryland. ‘Run an’ I’ll follow.’

‘Wolfie?’ she whispered. ‘Wolfie?’ She clutched at Ryland’s collar. ‘Why . . . ?’ she whispered, then she was screaming. ‘Where – where is
he?’

Ryland had turned, was running towards the yard, Shannon trotting airily at his side, Ryland calling over his shoulder and pointing, ‘Two miles, miss, it’s two miles!’

Dodo picked up her skirts and ran.

Someone was pulling him to his feet. His head was going to burst, his tongue was a plank, he couldn’t swallow – there was no power in his lungs – he
couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe.

‘Not hurt, s’alright, you’re not hurt,’ a voice was saying.

The groaning and the roaring – was it the walls? Was it the very walls of this place? The floor of it beneath him, the whole workings – were they trembling and groaning? Was that Jo
that was dragging him somewhere?

The beam of a light darted and jumped over the ceiling. When Wolfie’s sight focused, he saw the quivering of a prop, a girder blown out and twisted, the gaping mouth of the roof, the stone
fall behind.

‘The haulage rope,’ Jo whispered. ‘It’s off the overhead pulleys . . . Stay where you are.’

Hero? Hero?
Wolfie was groping through the dark.

‘Hero! Hero!’ he yelled.

Jo put a strong hand on his shoulder. ‘He’s here, Wolfie. Behind you, right here. He wasn’t hit. Stay here a minute.’

Wolfie tried to breathe, slowly in and slowly out, in and out, deep and slow.

‘They’ll be trapped like rats down there,’ Jo said. ‘The old workings’ll be the only way to the mother gate – the old gate . . .’ He grabbed
Wolfie’s hand, swung him round. ‘Drag the horse. He won’t like it, but we’ve got to get in there.’

He pulled Wolfie through the dark to what Wolfie thought was the entrance by which they’d come. Wolfie was tugging at Hero, feeling the resistance and the fear in him. He heard the screams
of the tethered animals, hobbled and trapped and terrified. Jo had found a pick shaft, was telling Wolfie to take one from the rack by the door. He was bending and beginning to work at a closed
door on the left side of the entrance-way. Hero was whinnying and pawing the air.

‘Get yer jacket off, tie it round ’is eyes – it’s the shadows – ’e’ll be calmer maybe if ’e can’t see the shadows.’

‘The others, Jo – the other horses—’

‘Help me,’ was Jo’s answer. ‘Got to get to the escape shaft of the old section – to the old road network.’ He put his pick down. ‘OK,’ he said.
‘Keep the horse back an’ hold the light high.’

He prised the door open.

A rush of stale air hit them with a blast, solid and rancid as the breath of a tomb. They reeled in the force of it, recoiled, choking in the stench of it.

After a minute Jo uncovered his face and stepped gingerly into the opening.

‘Hold the light up,’ he said. ‘Shine it on to the roof.’

Wolfie ran his torch over the sagging ceiling, the twisted girders, a way away a pile of fallen rock.

‘It were bricked off, long ago . . . there was a fire – they bricked the face of it off to starve it an’ it burned itself out. Come on,’ Jo urged.

Wolfie hesitated, eyeing the entrance, measuring its height.

Jo saw him and pulled him on. ‘Aye, high enough . . . horses used to work this road.’

Wolfie stepped into the catacomb, retching almost with the stench. A sheen of moisture hung in front of his eyes. He pulled at Hero’s rope, and the horse followed him in quietly, bending
expertly beneath the entrance lintel.

‘Always had faults in its geology. Even afore the fire, men always hated it more than any other district . . . Roof was always falling. Go on,’ he added. ‘Move on so as I can
close the door.’ He took Wolfie’s light and checked the battery. ‘I’m leaving mine here on t’other side, so as they’ll see . . . anyone’ll see, if they
come, to follow this way.’

He dragged the door to behind them.

Other figures, white-faced and haggard, converged on the road to the top of the hill. Hundreds more were running up the brow towards the pit yard and winding gear.