Trapper Boy

Holly Newstein and Rick Hautala

When the shouting started, John knew exactly what was going to happen next.

He crept down the hall and through the kitchen to the back door and let himself out. The rotting floorboard of the narrow porch creaked underfoot as he made his way down to the weed-choked backyard, where Mama’s chickens pecked in the grass.

Shep, John’s dog, was cowering in his doghouse. He also knew what was coming. He looked at John with a mournful expression in his dark, soft eyes.

The fighting happened whenever Da came home late from the saloon after a hard day’s work in the coal mine.

John leaned forward and slapped his thighs with both hands, clicking his tongue and whistling.

“C’mon, boy,” he called softly to Shep.

He unhooked the chain that tied Shep to his doghouse, and together they left the yard and started up the hill that rose behind the house. The hillside was so steep that even on summer days daylight didn’t hit the house until well after ten o’clock in the morning.

With Shep leading the way, John followed the well-trodden path up the slope. From time to time, he would pause while Shep bolted off into the brush after a rabbit or squirrel. John laughed at the old dog, but his laughter was thin and unconvincing because he was deep in thought . . . and worried about what might happen to Mama.

John took a deep breath of the cool afternoon air, trying to clear his mind as they pressed onward, up the hill until they reached the top. There, in a small clearing, a lone maple tree stood, taller than any of the other nearby trees. Its leaves were brilliant flames of gold and orange in the slanting September sunlight.

John shivered as he sat down under the tree in the shallow depression he had worn in the turf and picked up a twig. Without consciously thinking about it, he began to scratch pictures in the dirt. First, he did a quick sketch of Shep as the dog lay in the shade, panting heavily from the climb and the chases. His tongue lolled out onto the grass, and his eyes were shut. Then, almost absently, John began to sketch other animals, letting his hand—not his head—do the work.

“You know what they’re arguing about, right?” John said, addressing Shep.

The dog opened one eye and gazed at him.

“Da wants me to get a job in the mines, but Mama—she wants me to go to school.”

John paused and looked down into the valley squeezed on both sides by towering hills. A dark cloud of gray coal dust hung suspended in the air like a pall of smoke over Coalton, with its wooden company houses built along narrow streets, and the big brick company store in the center of town.

As if trying to read his thoughts, Shep made a huffing sound and rolled his eyes to look at John without raising his head.

“I don’t wanna go into the mines, that’s for sure,” he said, scraping the ground with his stick, “but Da says it’s about time I started earnin’ my keep.”

John kept staring at the town below, wishing there was some way he could escape from it all. The late-afternoon light did little to improve his view of his hometown. Far off down the valley, the hulking structure that was the J. C. Harris Mining Company was etched against the silver strip of the Susquehanna River, with the slag pile rising behind it. A train whistle wafted up from the valley, and John shifted his gaze to watch the locomotive pulling a mile-long line of cars filled with anthracite, heading to Pittsburgh or Philadelphia. A funnel of black smoke belched into the sky from the engine, looking like a lopsided tornado.

John sighed. He had never been anywhere outside of Coalton—not even to nearby Scranton, and as he often did, he wished he could hop a train, taking Shep with him, and make his way to the city.

I could be an artist in the Big City . . . Pittsburgh or Philadelphia . . . or maybe even New York, he thought. He had read something a while ago in one of Da’s newspapers about a man in Atlantic City who drew charcoal portraits for any passersby on the Boardwalk who had a few pennies to spare.

“I could do that . . . easy,” he whispered, staring blankly at the figures he had scratched in the hard-packed earth. Beside the profile of Shep, he had drawn a rabbit, its ears straight up as though hearing a warning, and a large rat. The rat was looking straight ahead, its eyes two deep holes John had drilled into the ground with the tip of the stick. The rat’s eyes looked bottomless . . . and evil.

Realizing what he had done, John was surprised. He had been so deep in thought and worry that he was barely conscious of drawing the figures—especially the nasty-looking rat. They all looked so lifelike.

Easing his back against the tree, John looked up at the fluttering leaves. As much as he wanted to, running away meant leaving Mama behind . . . alone . . . with Da. And that was something he could never do.

AS SHADOWS LENGTHENED, and the sky got dark, John and Shep started back down the scarred hillside toward home. In the yard, he chained the dog and then pumped a bowl of fresh water for him and put it next to the doghouse. John made his way as quietly as he could up the steps to the back porch and then slipped into the house. He listened for his parents.

His father was in the front room that Mama grandly called the “parlor,” passed out and snoring drunkenly. His mama was in the kitchen, her back to him as she busied herself putting away the dishes. She was obviously being as quiet as she could so as not to disturb Da and touch off another round.

John came up to her and slid his arms around her waist, burying his face in the soft folds of her dress. Mama flinched at his touch and gently moved away from the pressure of his arms. When she turned to face him, John saw the dark welt below her left eye. Her cheekbone was a small purple ridge with a sickly yellow center.

“Your supper’s on the stove,” she said. “I saved you some. ’N there are some scraps for Shep in the bucket by the door.”

She smiled bravely as she ruffled his thin hair, but he could see that her heart was breaking, if not already broken.

“You need to get to bed early tonight too. Da says he’s taking you to the mine tomorrow.”

Even though he had known it was inevitable, John was stunned. A cold, bottomless pit opened in his stomach, and his throat tightened.

Mama gazed at him, tears in her eyes as she stroked his hair harder, plastering it to his skull.

“It’s so dark and cold in the mine,” he said in a small voice. “All the time.”

“Yes, it is,” Mama replied, “but Da says it’s time you started to earn your keep.”

John wanted to protest that he had to go to school . . . that he didn’t know what, but he was positive there was something better for him outside of Coalton and the mine. His lower lip started to tremble, but he vowed to himself that he would not break down in front of Mama.

“Only nine years old,” Mama said softly to herself, and her voice broke into a wrenching sob that brought the tears to John’s eyes, too. He turned his back to her and covered his face with his hands so she wouldn’t see him cry.

THE NEXT MORNING, shortly before dawn, John and his da marched side by side up to the offices of the J. C. Harris Mining Company. Da was grimly silent, his head bowed, his hat in hand. He kept his other big hand clamped on John’s thin shoulder as if he expected that his son would bolt for the hills.

They entered the brick building that housed the offices. After clearing his throat, Da looked down at John and scowled. He licked the palm of his hand and flattened John’s hair before knocking on the superintendent’s door. The plaque on the door read: MR. HARRY COMSTOCK—MANAGER.

“What d’yah want?” a voice said within.

John shuddered, noticing that the voice was as rough and pitiless as his da’s was when he was in his cups.

“It’s Otto Schmitz, Mr. Comstock. My boy here wants work, so I brought him to see you.”

“Bring him on in, then,” said the voice.

Otto opened the door and pushed John in ahead of him, making him stumble. Once the boy caught his balance, he looked around in awe.

Behind a big desk strewn with papers sat a big man with impressive muttonchop whiskers. He was bald on the top of his head, but the hair along the sides was long, reaching to his collar. He was wearing a white shirt and a brocade waistcoat. The collar was greasy and gray, and the vest stained. The golden links of a pocket-watch chain stretched across his bulging belly.

The walls of the room were covered with maps and blueprints that made no sense to John. The air was filled with cigar smoke that hung in dense, blue rafters.

Mr. Comstock looked John up and down as if he were a small horse being put up for auction. His eyes were as blue and cold as chips of ice.

“What’s your name, son?” Mr. Comstock asked. His voice made a hollow booming sound that reminded John of thunder echoing off the high hills behind his house.

“John. John Schmitz, if you please. Sir.”

A trace of a smile lit the man’s face.

“ ‘If you please,’ now, is it?” he said, and he shot a curious look at John’s da.

John did his best to remain calm as he stared at Mr. Comstock.

The manager’s eyes narrowed.

“How old?” he said, addressing Da.

“Twelve, sir,” Da said, looking down as the floor as if he knew Mr. Comstock knew he was lying.

“A tad small for twelve, don’tcha think?” He moved closer to John and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it hard.

“Not much meat on him, I’d say.”

He looked down at John and smiled thinly.

“So, kiddo, you want to work in the mines like your papa, here. ’S’at it?”

“No, sir,” John said. “But my da says I must.”

Mr. Comstock guffawed at that.

“You’re honest, kid. I’ll grant you that.” Mr. Comstock laughed a loud, humorless laugh. “And how old did your father say you was? Twelve? Is that right?”

John’s gut tightened. He had no idea what to say, so for a moment or two, he said nothing.

“The man asked you a question,” his da said, prodding him with a sharp elbow to the shoulder.

“I’m nine, sir. Be ten in February.”

“That’s what I thought,” Mr. Comstock said, casting a sidelong glance at Da.

Satisfied, Mr. Comstock walked back around his desk and sat down, huffing as he did. He picked up the stogie that had been smoldering in the ashtray all this time and gave it a few vicious puffs. Blue clouds erupted, and the end glowed with a bright orange ring that reminded John of how at night a rat’s eye will catch the lantern light just right and look like that.

“We’re full up in the breakers right now,” Mr. Comstock said. John had a momentary flash of hope. Maybe they didn’t need him, and he’d go to school after all. “So we’ll start you as a trapper.” Mr. Comstock eyed him steadily. “Sixty cents a week. Be here tomorrow morning at five o’clock in the A.M. Not one minute late. You’ll work till five in the evening every day but Sunday. Got it?”

“Yes . . . Yes, sir,” John replied, trying as hard as he could to sound confident and grateful for the job. Sixty cents a week sounded like a lot of money.

“Thank you, Mr. Comstock . . . sir,” Da said, bowing so much it looked like he had a coiled spring in his back.

“Now you, Schmitz. Get to work,” Mr. Comstock said with a growl that sounded too much like the way his da spoke to Mama. “And you, boy. We’ll see you tomorrow morning, five o’clock sharp.”

“Yes, sir,” John said. “Thank you, sir.”

Da shoved John out the office door and cuffed him on the back of his head. John’s cheeks flushed with shame and rage.

“That’ll teach you to catch me out in a lie,” Da said.

John heard Mr. Comstock’s mirthless laugh from behind the closed door.

AT FIRST, JOHN had taken comfort that he was working as a trapper and not in the breakers. The boys working there sorted coal all day long under the thin light from the grimy windows, and they got whipped if they didn’t do their job fast enough to suit the foreman—and they were never fast enough. John had seen them coughing up thick gobs of coal dust that turned their spit as black as dried blood.

But it wasn’t long before he decided that being a trapper might be even worse.

His job was to sit or crouch in the dark for twelve hours straight, with only a small lamp and some candles in case of an emergency, with rats for company, waiting to open the mine shaft doors for the mules as they dragged heavy carts of coal up to the surface and back down again. Opening and shutting big heavy wooden doors. That was it for twelve hours a day, six days a week. John tried not to think about the reason for the doors in the first place—to contain an explosion, if one should happen.

Even on his first day, he was near to freezing in the cold mine shaft, and in twelve hours, he never caught a glimpse of daylight. At least there were windows in the breaker building, and the boys who worked there could go outside for their fifteen-minute lunch break or to take a piss.

John felt sorry for the poor mules that lived their entire lives deep within the mines and rarely saw daylight or took a breath of fresh air. Their eyes and nostrils were coated with a thick black paste of coal dust and mucus.

Within a week on the job, John’s pity for the beasts got him into trouble with one of the older boys, Rudy McIntyre. Rudy was a husky, heavy-browed boy who cracked his whip to make the mules move faster as they approached the doors, hoping to catch one of the trappers asleep on the job and make his mules crash through the door. One day, as the cart was passing through the door, Rudy caught John sneaking a bit of carrot from Mama’s garden to one of his mules.

“Hey there! You don’t touch my mules, boy-o” Rudy yelled.

Before John could back away, Rudy snapped his whip, catching John on the forearm. Even through John’s heavy coat, it stung like a wasp bite. John had one last piece of carrot in his pocket, and he shot Rudy a defiant glance before he gave it to the other mule. He enjoyed the soft, warm touch of the mule’s lips on his palm. Rudy shot a look of pure hatred at John and would have said—and done—more, but the mules kept trudging ahead and would have left him behind.

“I’ll git you, yer bugger,” Rudy roared.

After the shift was over, Rudy was good on his word. He waited outside the mine shaft entrance for John to appear.

“I been wantin’ to have a talk wi’ yer,” Rudy said.

Fearing what might come next, John kept walking until Rudy came up behind, grabbed him by the shoulder, and spun him around.

“If you feed my mules again, you little cockchafer, I’ll whip the bleedin’ daylights outa yer.”

John wasn’t big enough to fight back, but he didn’t have to stand here and take such abuse, either. He turned to go, but Rudy grabbed him by the shoulder again.

“I ain’t done talkin’ to yer, boy-o,” he said, and before John could react, Rudy swung one foot forward and hooked it around John’s ankle. Heaving forward, he shoved John backward. A grunt of surprise escaped John as he lost his balance, his arms pinwheeling until he landed in a puddle of mud and coal dust. Several other boys—even a few adults nearby—saw this and laughed. John splashed around, trying to get to his feet, but the ground was slippery. Rudy started for him again, but John somehow found his feet and ran away, weaving and dodging between men, animals, and coal carts. He never looked back to see if Rudy was chasing him until he arrived, breathless, on his own front porch.

When Mama saw what a mess he was, she told him to go take a bath in the rain barrel out back while she cleaned and dried his clothes. Later, before Da came home from the saloon, she mended the tear in the sleeve from the whip. John was both relieved and sad that she didn’t ask what had happened. He didn’t want to tell her, but he wanted her to hug him and tell him it would be all right. It was becoming obvious that it would never be all right . . . for either of them.

“Go on upstairs. Look on your bed,” Mama said when he came back inside, shivering and covered only by a rough towel. His skin was pink and raw from scrubbing, but somehow he still felt dirty and miserable, even as he did as he was told. Upstairs, he found a box of colored chalks resting on his pillow.

Mama had followed him upstairs and was standing in the doorway to his small bedroom.

“I noticed you haven’t been making any drawings lately. I thought this would help.”

John looked at her, his heart swelling with love and gratitude, but then a soul-crushing thought occurred to him.

“Where . . . where’d you get the money?” he asked.

His mama smiled and shook her head.

“Don’t you be asking as to where a gift comes from,” she said. “Just accept it with appreciation.”

John gazed at his mother with tears in his eyes.

“Thank you, Mama,” he said. He was trying not to think how his da would react if he knew she was spending money on something like this.

Even as he spoke, he barely stifled a yawn behind his hand. These days it was all he could do to stay awake long enough to eat his supper before tumbling into bed. There had even been a few nights during the first weeks at the mine that he had been sound asleep by the time Da came home. If his parents had argued and fought, he’d slept right through it.

On most Sundays after church, depending on the weather, he would take long walks up into the hills with Shep. Now that he was working, John felt sorry for Shep because he knew the dog was woefully neglected. Gone were the carefree days of running through the woods together or playing baseball with his friends on the empty lot behind the train yards. And it seemed as though fewer of his friends were around. Most of them had taken jobs at the mine, too. Only the lucky ones, the children of the foremen and shopkeepers, went to school. Unless John found a way out of the mine, his fate was sealed, and he would end up just like Da. The thought made his stomach churn.

“DO YOU REMEMBER when we would go to the library and look at the animal and bird pictures in those big books? Your favorites were Mr. Audubon’s. Remember?”

It was a rainy Sunday evening, and John was chafing because he had been stuck inside the house all day with nothing to do. His mama had another bruise on her forehead, but it was starting to fade. The purple edges were now a sickly yellow, and the crusty scab above her right eye made her eyebrow appear thicker than normal.

“Why, I remember how we’d come home, and all you’d ever want to do is make copies of the pictures you’d seen. ’Member?”

“Yes, Mama. I remember.”

He was looking forlornly out the window as rain pelted the panes. In the dark woods behind the house, thin streams of water gushed down the hillside, looking like shimmering, twisting silver ribbons. Through the rippled smears on the glass, he could see Shep’s dark form, huddled as far back in the doghouse as he could get away from the storm. Rainwater pelted the mud puddle in front of the doghouse. The water looked like thick chocolate milk. On days like this, John wished Da would let him bring Shep into the house, but he knew better than to ask.

“You haven’t used any of the chalk I gave you,” Mama said. “At least I haven’t seen any drawings.”

“I haven’t had time, Mama, with working so hard all day.”

“I know . . . I know,” she said, lowering her gaze.

Those trips to the library, and drawing birds and animals, now were like memories that belonged to someone else. John felt guilty for not wanting to draw anymore.

“Thanks for the chalk, Mama,” he said. “I promise I’ll start drawing again real soon.”

“I certainly hope so. Those pictures you drew for me back when . . . Why, they looked so real I thought they were ’bout to jump right off the page.”

John smiled at that. He’d thought the same thing, but that was when he was younger. Now he was a working man, and maybe he didn’t have time for such childish things.

“G’dnight, Mama,” he said. He felt exhaustion deep in his bones just thinking about going back to work in the mines in the morning.

“Good night, darlin’ boy. I’ll be up in a little while.”

After John had gone to work in the mine, Mama had taken to sleeping on a pallet in John’s little room, leaving Da to sleep in the big bedroom alone.

“Your da snores and keeps me awake,” she had said. That was true—Da did snore like a hog—but John suspected there was more to it. He had often heard different, frightening noises coming from the bedroom. He didn’t know what they were, but he was glad Mama felt safer in his room. Especially after she put a heavy lock on his door and secured it every night.

John trudged upstairs, put on his nightshirt, and got into bed. Rain pelted the tin roof of the house, but as he drifted off to sleep, an idea popped into his head that made him smile for what seemed like the first time in weeks.

AS HE HIKED up the steep hill to Tunnel Hill Mine Number Two, where he was stationed, John kept a tight grip on the chalk in his coat pocket. He was still smiling at the prospect of what he planned to do. First, though, he had to get past Rudy, who was sure to come at him if he saw him. He moved slowly among the men and machinery, picking his way carefully and keeping a wary eye out for the bully and any of his friends who might also turn on him.

“Get a move on, Schmitz!”

John jumped and, looking up, saw Mr. Kowalchuk, his foreman, glaring at him.

“Teams are already moving. You be late, and I’ll fire yer hide.”

John hurried into the mine opening and made his way as quickly as he could through the tunnels to his post at Trap Door Number Three. He had no idea how deep underground he was, and he didn’t want to think about how many tons of earth were above him and could come crashing down without warning. The surrounding darkness was lit only by the small kerosene lantern he carried. The air was powdery with coal dust that got into his nose and mouth. When he got to his post, he carefully placed his lantern on the hard-packed floor of the mine next to the rough wooden bench where he sat, waiting for the teams to come through.

He smiled when he took a piece of chalk from his pocket and began to draw. On the trapdoor itself, someone had scrawled in large letters: “SHUT THIS DOOR—THAT MEANS YOU,” but there was still plenty of flat space for him to draw.

And draw he did.

The first thing he drew was a portrait of Shep that perfectly caught his dog’s mournful but loving look. Then he started to create a fantastic menagerie drawn on the wooden planks of the door. His hand moved quickly, and he was barely conscious of looking at what he was drawing. His eyes were unfocused, and he was simply staring inward, into his mind, and tracing onto the wood what he saw there.

As he drew, he had no idea of time passing until from down deep in the tunnel, there came a grinding of cartwheels on the rails, the huffing and snorting of mules pulling the load, and the yipping and shouting as colliers cracked their whips to keep the animals moving.

As he waited for the team to arrive, John looked at what he had drawn on the door. Large areas of it were filled with detailed drawings of various animals. Nearest to the center of the door, where he had started working, was the portrait of Shep. Surrounding him were birds and deer, rabbits and butterflies. Closer to the edges, farthest away from the lantern light, he had drawn rats and wolves, spiders and tigers—vicious animals. He had no clear memory of drawing any of them.

“Open ’er up!” someone shouted from the darkness, and John snapped to. He slid the chalk into his coat pocket, grabbed the latch, and swung the heavy door outward. The creaking wheels and huffing animals drew closer, but John still could only see the glow of their lanterns far down in the dark.

His stomach clenched and his heart starting racing when the team of colliers came into view and he saw Rudy walking alongside the cart. They made eye contact, but neither said a word as the colliers and team pushed past. John’s insides felt like jelly as the team moved through the doorway. He thought he was free and clear, but just before the colliers and team disappeared into the darkness ahead, Rudy wheeled around and threw something at John. It missed, but only by inches. John heaved a sigh of relief. He was safe—until the next time.

Taking hold of the lantern, John raised it high so he could see his work. He smiled with satisfaction as he studied the fine detail of the animals and birds. In the dull glow of the lantern, the white chalk lines were stark and vibrant. The colors glowed like sunset. All of the figures stood out with shocking, unnerving dimensionality.

As he admired his work, he gradually became aware of a creepy feeling, like something cold and moist slithering up his back between his shirt and skin. He hunched his shoulders as if expecting to be attacked suddenly from behind. Sucking in and holding his breath, he turned around slowly to see numerous points of red light glowing in the darkness behind him.

Rats! John thought. Dozens of rats . . . all staring at him.

John glanced at his lunch pail, worried that the rodents were going to make off with his food, but they didn’t. Faint scuffing sounds filled the mine, and he realized it was the sound of their leathery tails, twitching and brushing across the mine floor.

John quickly realized that the rats were staring . . . not at him, but past him. He turned slowly and looked at his drawings on the wooden door, and then he understood.

The rats were mesmerized by his drawings.

Is this really happening? he wondered.

Feeling a bit self-conscious, he slid his hand into his jacket pocket, took out another piece of chalk, and started drawing again. Before long, he forgot all about his audience as he sketched even more figures of various beasts. He only stopped when other teams of colliers came up the track and needed him to open the door to let them out with the cartloads of coal.

IT BECAME A daily routine. Rudy would call John out. John would try to ignore him or escape. Then Rudy, followed by his gang of cronies, would catch up with him—unless John was able to outrun them—and taunt and slap John around until he tripped and fell or was pushed to the ground, sometimes into a mud puddle or a pile of horse dung. Only after he had gotten John to cry would Rudy appear to be satisfied. Once he had proven whatever point he was trying to make, he would smile like a moon-faced idiot through the coal dust that blackened his face and then walk away, strutting like he was cock of the walk.

One day after work, John saw his da up ahead, walking with three other men. They were no doubt heading to the saloon to, as Da said, “lay the dust.” After drying his eyes on his coat sleeve, he ran to catch up.

“Are you going home now, Da?” he asked, his voice reed-thin.

Da and his pals stopped, and they all turned to look at him. Their faces were covered by masks of black coal dust that made their eyes stand out, wide and bright. After a heartbeat or two, Da’s expression folded into a scowl.

“You been crying like a little baby again, ain’t yah?” he said.

John wiped his cheeks with the flats of his hands, smearing the coal dust across his face. He wanted to tell Da about Rudy, about how he was sick and tired of the bullying, but he saw clearly now that he wouldn’t get an ounce of sympathy.

“You gotta learn ta’ take it ’n not come running to your da for help,” Da said. “Stand up and fight back, if you be a man . . . or else take yer punishment like a man.”

With that, Da spit onto the ground and turned, walking away with his cohorts falling into step beside him. When they were about thirty feet away, Da said something that John couldn’t hear. All the men burst out laughing, and John had little doubt his da had insulted him. His face was burning with embarrassment as he turned and headed for home, knowing—at least—that he was safe from any more punishment for today . . . until later, when Da came home from the saloon.

Arriving home, John couldn’t help but notice how pale and fragile his mother had become. She was sad and preoccupied, and she flinched at every little sound. He was sure he was the source of her sorrow and worry. He wished he could talk to her about how bad things were getting, but somehow neither of them could bring it up. It seemed as though Da was drinking more every week. And if he didn’t drink enough to pass out the minute he got in the door, he would be in a towering rage. And he would hurt Mama.

Since John’s wages went to Da, John had no money. There was no way for him to escape with Mama and Shep.

Maybe we never talk about anything because there’s no way out, thought John.

ONE NIGHT IN late November, John woke up to the sound of Shep yelping and howling in the backyard. He tossed the bedcovers aside and ran downstairs, his heart racing as he flung open the back door and saw Da mercilessly kicking the dog. John leaped off the steps and started toward them, but before he got there, his father kicked Shep so hard the poor dog went flying in the air until he fetched up at the end of his tether. Shep howled once, sharply, in agony as he tried to crawl back to the protection of his doghouse, but there was something wrong with his back. His hind legs kept flopping about on the ground. After a few heartbreaking seconds, the only sounds the dog could make were soft grunting noises as though he was choking back his pain.

“No! . . . Da! . . . Please!” John shouted, tears blurring his vision as he ran over to Shep. He placed himself dangerously between Shep and Da. Tears streamed down his face as he shouted: “Stop it! . . . You’re killing him!”

Da swayed drunkenly as he regarded his son with a wild, unfocused glare. He reeked of whiskey fumes and rancid sweat.

“S’ already dead,” Da muttered thickly, and then he hawked up a ball of snot and spit it off into the darkness.

Sobbing so hard it hurt his chest, John gathered Shep up into his arms. The dog was shaking and breathing with a deep, watery rattle, but only for a few moments more. With a deep shudder, he let out a long sigh and then was still.

“Useless goddamned cur, if you ask me. You, boy. Get back in the house,” Da said, and then he lurched away, weaving from side to side as he tried to make it up the steps to the back door.

John buried his face in his dog’s fur and cried for a long time. Shep grew cold in his arms. Snow began to fall, sticking to his hair and Shep’s coat. The flakes felt like tiny hot pinpricks when they landed and melted on the back of John’s neck.

In the morning, before dawn, Mama made John a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast and slipped an extra potato into his pocket for lunch. Her face was downcast, but she said nothing about Shep, whose snow-covered body lay motionless in the backyard. Da came downstairs and, leaning over the slate sink, stared out the window. John couldn’t tell if he was looking at Shep or if he even saw him. Finally, Da hawked up and spit into the sink.

“Damned stupid dog,” he said, and then, with a strange, glazed look in his eyes, he turned to John and said, “Hurry up boy. We can’t be late.”

DAYS TURNED INTO weeks, and weeks turned into months. Toward January, John caught a cold, which settled into his lungs. His thin body was racked by coughing spasms that brought up mucus that was black with coal dust. His eyes glittered with fever. Mama made beef tea from marrow bones to help him regain his strength, but it didn’t seem to help much. He knew if he didn’t go to work for even one day he would lose his job. And then Da would beat him for the money he wasted on the new boots he got John for work.

His only comfort at work was that he kept drawing, and it wasn’t long before the door and walls of the mine were festooned with a wild menagerie of creatures. As the weeks and months passed, he would take handfuls of dirt and scrub some of the figures away, only to replace them with pictures of wilder, more vicious-looking beasts.

The only other constant was Rudy, who continued to torment him. John had long since stopped wondering why Rudy singled him out for such abuse. In a way, it was just like the way Da mistreated Mama, as if she were the cause of all his misery. It never failed that when Rudy passed by in the tunnel, he would shove John if he got close enough or throw something at him—usually a fist-sized lump of coal or a mule turd. Usually, Rudy missed, but the threat of being seriously injured was a daily torment—a torment even worse, John thought, than sitting alone in the mine with only rats for company.

But one day while John was still light-headed from his fever, Rudy hit him full in the face with a lump of mule dung, blinding him. Rudy’s laughter was so loud it echoed in the mine shaft while John shook his head wildly and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. The turd had been fresh and left behind a rancid stink than made him gag.

“Good fer yer, yer no good cock-knocker,” Rudy said as he hoisted his lamp up high to get a good look at John. And for the first time, Rudy saw—or noticed—the figures John had drawn on the trapdoor and mine walls. He stopped short and gaped at the drawings that seemed to surround him. Even as his mule team lumbered steadily ahead, Rudy looked at John, his eyes narrow with hate.

“Doodlin’ on th’ walls, eh?”

John was too scared to do anything more than nod.

“You know, I’m goin’ ta have ta report yer. Yer’ll catch hell for defacin’ company prop’ty.”

Filled with a sudden surge of rage, John bent down and picked up a jagged piece of coal.

“Yer in some deep shit now, boy-o. The boss finds out, he’ll be firin’ yer sorry ass.”

Without thinking, John cocked his arm back and flung the coal lump at Rudy, hitting him squarely on his cheek. The sharp edge tore a deep gash, and blood began to flow freely down Rudy’s face.

“Yer wee piece of shite!” Rudy roared, and he started toward John.

Trembling with fear and rage, John backed away, moving from the trapdoor, deeper into the depths of the mine.

“Get yer ass up here, McIntyre!” one of Rudy’s teammates shouted as the cart continued to rumble along the track, but Rudy ignored him. Sputtering like an enraged bull, he strode steadily toward John. His balled-up fists looked as big and hard as sledgehammer heads, swinging at his sides.

As John drew back farther into the tunnel, his pulse was racing so hard that his throat started to ache. His lantern was on the floor by the trapdoor. Its faint glow made Rudy’s approaching silhouette appear huge. The coal carts, still rumbling along the track, had long since passed through the door and were out of sight. John heard one of the miners shouting to Rudy, “Never mind the lad, you numb shit! Get back to yer carts!” as they were swallowed by the blackness.

Rudy ignored the warning and rapidly closed the distance between himself and John, who cowered back against the wall.

As Rudy cocked back his fist, a rat darted out of the darkness and ran straight toward him. John had an instant to wonder if his brain might be playing tricks on him because of his fear, but the rat didn’t look like any ordinary rat. It was the same shape . . . and the same size—maybe a bit bigger, but its body was outlined with a shimmering white glow that looked like thick chalk marks come to life.

Rudy stopped in his tracks, his eyes following the creature. He shuffled his feet a little, as if afraid the rat was going to crawl up his pants leg. Behind him, in the dim lantern light, shadows stirred and moved with the same eerie glow.

John gasped, noticing distantly that the air in the mine suddenly smelled . . . different . . . peculiar. John suddenly felt like a vise had encircled his chest and he wheezed, trying to draw in air that wasn’t there. Rudy apparently took these as whimpers of fear because he started to laugh a deep, cold laugh and moved close again, his fists clenched. John looked past Rudy and saw huge rats and fanged wolves stalking along the floor and eagles soaring through the dusty air. All of them were outlined with white light, and they glowed with bright, vibrant colors as they came swiftly up behind Rudy.

John was frozen with fear and disbelief. He barely noticed the deep, grinding rumble that had started to shake the walls of the mine. The support beams overhead shifted, and rock and grit began to sift down from the ceiling between the rafters. Within seconds, thick black coal dust filled the air, blotting out the faint glow of John’s lantern, which he’d left by the trapdoor.

It took John a moment or two to realize what was happening. His worst fears were confirmed seconds later when the deep concussion of an explosion shook the mine. More dirt and rocks fell, and from somewhere deep in the mine, a man’s voice shouted “Fire damp! Run for—”

And then the voice was silenced.

The ground kept shaking, knocking both John and Rudy down. As John scrambled to get to his feet, trying to orient himself, dense, choking vapors with a stench of rotten eggs filled the midnight-dark air. The walls closed in.

That was when the screaming began.

Loud and shrill . . . and so close.

At first, he saw nothing through the billow of dust.

And then he did see.

John watched in stunned silence as a wild assortment of creatures—his drawings—swarmed out of the darkness. Beady, wicked eyes glowed green and red in the darkness, and white teeth and claws flashed like lightning. Bright flashes of light hurt his eyes as he watched them swarm over Rudy, whose shrill screams rose high but were all but lost beneath the grumbling roar of the shaking earth.

The ceiling and walls all around John began to crumble. The air was a thick soup of coal dust and poison gases, too thick to breathe. John’s lungs felt like they were filled with fire. He had no breath to scream. He could only listen to the sound of tearing flesh.

There was no escape. No matter which direction he ran, John knew he was doomed. The melee of creatures he had drawn were a seething mass over Rudy’s still-writhing body, and they were between John and the trapdoor. He couldn’t go that way, and if he ran the other way, he’d go deeper into the mine where the damp had exploded. There were dead and dying men down there, he knew, and he was sure the explosion had caused a cave-in.

Rudy’s screams were now wet, choking gurgles, and it wasn’t long before there came one loud, strangled gargling sound . . . and then silence.

Now that they were done with Rudy, John was sure his creatures would turn on him . . . unless he found a way out of here.

Tears filled his eyes, and he tried to accept the stark truth that he was going to die down here . . . alone . . . and that his mama would find out soon enough that he and, for all he knew, his da had died.

A long, low howl that reminded John of the sound Shep had made the night Da kicked him to death filled the air. Then another flash of white light up ahead caught his attention. His vision blurred, his lungs burning. John wanted to move forward but couldn’t. With no strength left to stand, his knees buckled, and he dropped slowly to the floor.

Good-bye, Mama, he thought.

And then, a miracle.

A warm wet nose grazed his cheek. Through narrowed eyes, he looked up and saw that the portrait of Shep he had drawn, the first one he had ever done on the trapdoor and that he had never erased, had also come to life. A wild, flickering white light filled the darkness around him as Shep’s big, shaggy head leaned forward. And then jaws closed on John’s coat collar, tugging him forward, out of the mine.

“Shep . . . Shep, old fella,” John muttered like someone talking in his sleep.

He threw his arms around Shep, and he saw his horde of creatures retreating, their flickering, swirling outlines disappearing into the depths of the mine. A few moments later, distant screams rent the air as the creatures attacked the miners still trapped in the rubble of the cave-in.

Somehow, John fought back the urge to panic. He found a reserve of strength and stumbled to his feet, holding the thick scruff of Shep’s neck. Unable to see anything in the dense darkness, he let himself be led up the shaft. The ground was silent now—an eerie silence that John knew was the silence of death.

How many miners are dead down there? he wondered.

Is Da one of them?

He moved his feet mechanically as he walked side by side with Shep. Every now and then, his dog would turn and look at him, eyes glowing unnaturally bright and jowls rising into what John knew had to be a smile.

You came for me, he seemed to be saying with his smile. And I came for you.

The dog, his body outlined with vibrating white light, panted heavily as they got closer to the trapdoor. The coal dust had begun to ventilate, and John began to breathe a bit more easily. Blood flowed back into his limbs, but all the while, he was waiting to hear the sound of the other creatures, chasing after him and closing the gap . . . ready to rip him apart.

Up ahead, frantic voices shouted commands. He released his grip on Shep’s neck when they were less than fifty feet from the mine entrance. There were lights up ahead—glowing lanterns of the rescue workers charging into the bowels of the mine to try to find and save any survivors. As John and Shep got to the lantern light, Shep’s vibrant white evanescence became fainter and fainter until—finally—it winked out like a guttering candle. John realized with a heart-wrenching ache that he was alone.

He tried to run, but his legs were too weak, and he staggered toward the faint, gray glow of daylight and the crowd of men, moving toward him. One man raised his lantern and shone it full into John’s face.

“You aw’right, there, young Schmitz?” a voice asked.

John was dazed by the brightness of the lantern light.

“My dog . . . led me out,” he said in a choking voice.

“Sure he did, sonny. Get yerself up aboveground. The doc’s out there,” another voice said, and someone took John by the arm, gripping his arm above the elbow and leading him closer to the entrance. Once he was outside, John collapsed face-first into a snowdrift. The sudden dash of moist coldness was so intense that he almost passed out. Then strong hands picked him up. He took his first true breath of fresh air. When he opened his eyes to see who was carrying him, the brightness of the cloudless sky all but blinded him.

Then he knew no more.

FIFTY-SEVEN MEN HAD died. John was the only one who made it out of the Tunnel Hill Mine that day. Everyone told John how lucky he was to have survived. It all seemed like a nightmare now that he was safely home and in his own bed.

“You could have—you should have suffocated, bein’ so deep down in the mine like that,” the doctor tending him said.

“Or been blown to pieces wi’ the others,” Mama said.

“Strange thing about that. Some of them must have panicked and just gone crazy. They tore each other apart trying to get out. Never seen anything like it. Bite marks, scratches, limbs torn away . . .” The doctor’s voice trailed off, and he shuddered. Then he came back to himself and smiled a little too brightly at John’s mama.

“It’s a miracle this fella got out, at any rate,” said the doctor, and he was touched to see the expression of relief on John’s mother’s face. He was polite enough not to mention the fresh, swollen bruise that ran the length of her jaw.

Da had been in another part of the mine when the explosion happened, and he had escaped. Mama insisted that John stay home and rest in bed to clear his lungs and cure his fever, no matter how long it took. Da scowled at that and clenched his fists, insisting the boy had to get back to work right away or else lose his job. They needed the money, he insisted, but Mama countered by saying that if John died from pneumonia, it would do nobody any good. The doctor took Mama’s side, insisting that John would be permanently weakened and maybe even die if he didn’t take a week or more to recover properly. He guaranteed that he would speak to Mr. Comstock personally and make sure John would have his job when he returned, so Mama won that round.

Da went straight back to work the next day. Working day and night, the miners shored up the support beams and, once it was safe enough, started digging down to recover the bodies of the dead. It wasn’t long before that section of the mine reopened, and it was back to business as usual.

But not for John.

He was in bed for two days with a raging fever, fading in and out of consciousness, sometimes muttering, sometimes yelling about how “they” had come to life and killed Rudy and how Shep had shown up and saved his life. His thin body convulsed with sobs whenever he talked about Shep.

On the third day, the fever broke, and John lay quietly in his bed.

“You stay right there in bed and sleep for now,” Mama said, soothing his brow. She was obviously worried about his delirium. The bits and pieces she’d gathered from what he said terrified her. She feared he might be a bit tetched in the head from his fever.

“This afternoon,” she said, “perhaps, we’ll set you up on the couch in the parlor. Let you see some sunshine and get some fresh air. You’ll be happy to know that your da got a personal note from Mr. Comstock himself, telling him that not only will you have your job, but he’ll give you three days’ pay, too, for your suffering. So I’ll go ta the butcher’s ’n get you a nice roast for supper.”

John nestled down in his bed, pretending to go to sleep, but it wasn’t long after she was gone that he tossed the covers aside and got out of bed. He felt like he was walking on stilts as he crossed his bedroom floor, stepping over Mama’s pallet. His coat, still thickly stained with coal dust and mud, was hanging on a peg on the back of the door. He grimaced as he reached into his pocket and felt around until, to his great relief, he found that he had not lost his chalk.

In the miasma of the fever-dreams, he had had an idea. It might not work outside the mine, but he had to try. Otherwise, he and Mama were as doomed as poor Shep. Keeping one clear image in his mind—his da kicking the life out of his beloved dog—he took a piece of chalk and walked down the hallway to Da’s bedroom.

I have to make sure Mama locks the door to my room tonight when she comes in, he thought.

Squatting on the floor, his hands trembling with barely repressed rage, he began to draw on the back of the door. First, he drew a finely detailed picture of a bear with its arms raised, its claws exposed, and its jaws wide open. He stepped back to admire his work, and he began to laugh, a low gravelly laugh that racked his whole body. He laughed until the tears poured down his cheeks.

Finally he stopped. “Lion, next,” he said, and picked up the chalk.