Chapter 1
Cold panic hastened nervous fingers belonging to the hesitant creature
crouched aside a dark doorway. With so much riding on each moment’s fate, she
was terrified to remain, terrified to run and terrified her plans could
crumble. Should this escape fail, there was no hope.
Booted feet yearned to fly and leave a cruel man behind, but a locked
door was a proper door, and so she, ever so quiet thank you, turned the chilly
brass key until the tumbler clicked. Blue morning cloaked the oak door but did not
muffle the one soft groan the wood made before it came silent. In trepidation,
the girl gave away an anxious gulp of precious air, and watched as her breath
mist rose heavenward then disappeared without a trace. There is a good girl, she complimented herself then tested the door
with an open hand as one might thank an old horse. Her hand comforted the many
nicks and stains, but now was not the time for remorse, it was the time for
flight as the morning train would not wait at the station for one poor soul,
and the ocean ship would sail from that distant quay afore noon. Now was the
time for freedom.
Despite her urgent road to independence, the brave girl with the small
bundle wavered for half a breath to brood over the many company homes. Though some
with painted sills and here a potted plant and there a wheelbarrow, the
comparable house rows came out all much the same, and therefore incompatible
with her dream. After glancing again to be certain, she donned her bonnet,
wrapped her scarf and steeled her resolve. On trembling legs attached to wobbly
ankles, she turned to stroll as if to market, calm and pretty as you please.
But, fly she must, hard heels making naught but a tamp upon the damp cobbled
stone, and fly she did, but with a poise befitting Sunday stroll to chapel.
So dark, her road led up the tall hill past the black colliery where
filth belched to heaven every day before blanketing the ground with foul mood
at night. Now and then, late lanterns and early lamps shafted yellow pools. The
air filled constant with soot.
She cut her flight, placed her small fortune down beside and using
calloused fingers, more worn than the ancient lock she had just turned, the
strong girl tightened the lacing on her button-up boots, one pair for market
and for chapel, then tested the laces with both hands. Despite the dark of
night, the worn boots shone polished and neat, and she admired her work with
the aid of the night-sentinel light, which shown from atop the colliery while
deep below her booted feet men toiled at coal seams and dreamt of the light of
day. Nervous fingers tested stout lace a second time, lingering, hopeful that
the knots were good and willing to hold for miles. There and now, it was time
for the miles and many needed lest his cruelty find her. She hurried.
At the top of the hill, where three streets converged, she turned,
keeping to the shadows and out of the light and stopped then held her breath.
She was near to the entrance of the ugly colliery, close to the place where
above ground men ceased to be and became something else again down there in
those dark shafts. Such it was in many small villages across the valleys of
Wales, hers being not so much different from others. Yes, streams wended
different paths with roads leading in and out, some for the iron, some for the
coal, but each village as different as they were the same, all for the good of
England.
The now frightened girl heard voices. But with her heart pounding, please be soft and quiet, do not betray me,
she could not tell from which road the voices carried. These shadowed streets
held ghosts from those never recovered after the earth gave way but while the
coal-crushed bodies remained below the spirits rose to haunt above. She leaned
into a shadow and waited, afraid.
The voices became clear, not ghost voices thank you very much but human,
and she knew them both. The two boys were her age and worked clearing slag. With
her old wool coat hunched up around her vigilant ears, she held tight and
listened.
“The day will come and we will beat them, beat them at there own game.”
The voice carried trill in the early air and belonged Bevan Dawes. Bevan was an
undersized lad, but fleet afoot and taken with sudden bursts.
“One day,” said Awstin Jones. This was much more than Awstin would speak
in a week. He was the age of his companion with the thickness and width of a
coal pony and, despite his tender years, would soon be underground to work his
life away in the dark tunnels.
Bevan looked about then stared up at the sentinel light, which helped them
find their way to the tall hill and then down to the growing heap of slag. “One
day the waste will cover all those downhill homes, I’ll wager,” he said.
“Plenty of work for us.”
From Awstin there was no reply and the boys entered into the colliery
following the lighted path to their job beyond.
Later in the night than her preparation allowed, the soon to be missing
girl hurried from her shadow, swift and careful down the cobbled stone as a
hint of the approaching day began as a slight seam to the east. This coming day
held everything, all of it new, all of it exciting, but there was still the one
stop she had to make.
The cold wrought iron squeaked a complaint yet the graveyard gate yielded
to her careful open hand. All around were the sounds of an awakening: a cock
crowed, a maid emptied a bucket and as always, two rough men engaged in drunken
singing. Now she thought of her own duties left undone, who will care for my poor dishes, and despair nearly took her but
she glanced down to see dew form water droplets on her black boots, and the
sight of something new and clean appearing against something old and dark
encouraged her.
As the night turned morning from a blue hue to a white mist, she curved
into a familiar row and knelt between the familiar markers. On her left was her
father’s grave and on her right, the eternal resting place for her dear mother.
She placed her small tidy package, her fortune, upon the damp green grass and
opened the bundle with care then removed her bonnet and scarf and drew a cloth
napkin from her bundle. The napkin was white like a fresh spring cloud, and she
used it to wipe the coal soot from the grave markers. Even here, in this
special place, the effects of the discharge from the chimney that loomed above
like an evil tower in a witch’s tale ruined the hallowed ground. She wiped her
father’s marker first then her mothers and then tugged a bit of grass from the
border of her mother’s marker. Not knowing what to do with the greenery, she
placed it on her bundle.
From her folds, she produced two yellow roses. Unbeknownst to her master,
she had walked a long road to a distant village and back in one day just to
have these two fine roses for this special morn. Now, cold hands placed one
rose on each cold grave.
“I am sorry. I cannot tell when I might come again.”
Moisture welled in the corner of an eye.
“Oh, I miss you both so, it is terrible hard to be leaving you.”
A single tear dropped from a ruddy cheek and landed upon a button-up
boot.
“There will be none left to tend you.”
A sad breath escaped her thin lips.
“Mother, only your good sister, Meinwen, has answered my pleas. She
helped me fashion a plan to break from this place, this life. Oh, I do not wish
to leave you here unattended.”
The caring girl touched a drop of dew on one boot, studied the teardrop
on the other and moved to brush them away but thought better of it and then did
not.
“I am down to Cardiff and a meeting with Meinwen. With her help, I sail
for Y Wladfa, the colony in far Patagonia this very day. Meinwen and her
husband have been at Y Wladfa now these fifteen years, and she tells me I will
love it. I cannot stay a day longer in service with that man. I tried so very
hard, but master needs more than a housemaid and such duties are not for me. I
need my own life, and I shall not ever find it here.”
She sobbed.
“Oh, I wish I were as strong as you father.”
Her soft voice scattered across the solemn burial ground like dry leaves
influenced by an autumn breeze.
“This is so very bitter. I cannot stay and I cannot take you with me. I
will always love you both and promise to pray for you each Sunday at
chapel.”
Alarmed, the distressed girl stood and glanced about but there was no one
to hear. Just then, a dowdy crow winged to land at the wrought iron gate. Go away, she thought, and to her
surprise, the black crow flapped north toward the colliery.
After studying several neglected markers, tears flowed free from both
eyes.
“Weeds will creep in and I am sorry for this. With no one to mind the
keeper, his laziness will allow disarray. I wish it were not so, but what can I
do?”
She knelt again to her bundle, this time wrapping it tight and including
the bit of border grass. In a thought, using a finger, she brought up soil from
each grave and with a few blades of grass from her father’s resting place, she
added to her fortune. “There, I can take you with me,” she said to comfort
herself.
Sudden, she cocked her head, faithful
ears please be mistaken, I cannot be
found, but the rhythm came again and she admitted to the footfalls, someone
was coming and coming quick. She glanced about with haste and need; a short
distance was a larger marker and she dove for it. She cowered behind the slab
of etched granite that marked an unknown life and held her breath. She dropped
her head but her eyes spied her mistake. Oh,
no, I am lost. Between her parent’s markers were her belongings, her
fortune, and no one walking the graveyard could miss it and anyone questioning
the package would discover the run away owner. Now, the heavy footsteps came on
at good pace, turning from the road, straight through the iron gate and right
onto her hiding place.
