My Baby is Home

by

Timothy Manley

Step, swing; the pick impacted the rock, sending shivers up the handle to their numb arms. The stench of tallow and black grimy sweat filled the air. Their heavy breaths came in gasps as the men worked with indifferent exhaustion. Forceful blows from hefty sledges drove spikes into solid stone, shattering fragments from their bed. Other miners scooped the broken shards up into carts while even more men dragged the carts out, pulled by thick, substantial ropes.

His name was Lethias and he was the largest man in the group, as strong as a horse, many said. He swung a pick too heavy for most to heft much less use, and could sheer stone with a single blow. He was the one to find it first. One of his blows broke through the rock too easily, and carved a hole through something, into an open darkness.

The men moved close, held their candles into the hole to see what was found. Flickering light danced across the broken shapes, summoning shadows of eerie form and figment. The light caught metal and the shine began to grow. The men’s eyes grew wide as they saw the room that began to be illumined before them. The walls were ceramic, covered with designs, and the glistening was given off by figures and statues made from solid gold and silver. Chests were everywhere. Glee began to fill the men, joy at the find, the possibility. Eager hands and tools dug with maniacal quickness and the men broke in.

Lethias was the first to rush and with a swift blow, crashed open the first chest. He stood dumb at what glittered inside: treasure the likes he had only heard about in fables. Frenzy engulfed the men. They fell upon the chests, tearing at them and ripping them open to find treasure, more amazing than the last; each laden with wealth beyond their dreams.

Then they came to the largest chest of them all: a massive box bound with iron chains across all sides. The men surrounded it, grinning at each other. Their lives had been made and they knew it. They were all rich.

“Equal shares,” Lethias said and held his hand out.

Each man nodded and clasped hands in the center above the giant chest. Then, with a nod, they fell to it, ripping at the chains with their tools. Certainly, the greatest treasure of all was inside. Grinning and giggling they lifted the lid.

#

Fog clung to everything. The road up to the mine vanished into a wall of fog, thicker than anyone could imagine. One man was chosen. He was in the lock-box for drunkenness but chosen for his gift of riding. It was known that he could ride like a man possessed and could get speed from a horse it didn’t even know it had.

The scraggly man was led to a fine horse, the best in town. He looked nervous. All the town’s leaders were there, except for Markil the Blacksmith. He had gone to the mine with his war-axe when the screams first were heard and the fog starting spewing from the gaping mine entrance. He never came back.

“You must travel as quickly as you can,” the mayor told the young man. He handed a scroll to him, placed it into his hands as if it were the most important thing in the entire village. “You must ride to the Seat of Tartaris and find help.” He looked away as his voice caught in his throat. “Please, before more be taken.”

The man nodded and climbed onto the horse. An elder woman handed him a wrapped parcel, kissed the fingers of her hand, then touched his stirrup.

The scraggly man’s face grew stern and filled with pride. “I will not fail you,” he said. He spun the horse, kicked its belly and galloped off.

“No time,” a grizzled old man said, watching the rider vanish into the forest as he sped out of town.

“We have time,” the mayor said sternly. “Tartarin watches over us, protecting us from evil.”

The old man turned and laughed, a low gravelly laugh filled with phlegm and knowing resignation, as he headed into the long-house.

The others followed; the old woman stayed alone whispering a prayer to Tartarin to speed the rider’s will and the horse’s hooves.

When she opened her eyes, she saw a figure in the fog. It had been standing there she knew not how long. Fear filled her only to be quickly replaced by joy. She recognized the figure. It was her son, Lethias, her baby boy. He hadn’t been lost in the mine afterall.

“My baby,” she said, and raised her arms to embrace him, her eyes filling with tears of joy and relief. The figure grinned, wicked jagged teeth glistening in the dim light, and rushed to her, its arms outstretched.

 

 

Timothy Manley is a writer of fiction, with four books and some short stories currently in print. Tim is what some call an ‘OG’, that’s ‘Old Geek’. He goes back in geekdom before the internet existed, which is what fed his early fascination in science fiction, fantasy, horror and the macabre. Tim currently lives at home with his wife and the youngest two (sometimes three) of his five kids as well as their dog and cat. If you want to see what Tim has in print feel free to check out his Amazon Author page (https://www.amazon.com/Timothy-Manley/e/B00MP5KEPY). If you’d like to keep tabs on Tim and find out when his next book is due to come out, feel free to like his Facebook Author’s page (https://www.facebook.com/SciFiWriterMan/). Here’s a hint, he often recruits BETA readers amongst those following him on his Facebook Author’s page.

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