Chapter 140: Speech

Description

The mine elevator descended slowly into the shaft.

The rock wall beyond the iron grate flickered in and out of the mine lamp’s glow, and wind and snow poured in from the mouth of the shaft, howling low against the top of the elevator.

Olivia stood beside Gorky, the hem of her coat swaying slightly in the draft created by the descending elevator.

She turned her head to look at the old man beside her—the cuffs of his gray shirt were pressed tight against his wrists by the wind, but his body remained perfectly still.

The elevator clanged to a stop at the bottom of the mine.

Gorky stepped out, his steps unhurried, and turned into a tunnel she had never walked before.

This tunnel was narrower than the previous one, with a lower ceiling and sparser lamps.

The air was thick with the smell of coal dust and sweat, along with something else—an indefinable warmth that only came from too many people gathered together.

At the end of the tunnel was a widened cavern.

Lamp light spilled out from the entrance, dim yellow and dense.

Olivia stood at the mouth of the cave and saw a scene she had never witnessed before.

Dozens of miners were packed into this cramped space.

Most were humans, a few were bear-kin, their work clothes stained with coal dust, faces blackened beyond recognition, only their eyes reflecting a dense glitter under the mine lamps.

Some sat on overturned ore carts, some squatted by the rock wall, some stood.

Their shoulders pressed together, their breathing merging into a dull, warm fog.

Then Gorky walked in.

“Old Gorky?”

The cave fell silent for a moment.

Then a voice came from the corner.

It had caught the familiar sound of footsteps, hoarse and uncertain, like someone trying to make out something through a blizzard.

“It’s Gorky! Old Gorky is back!”

Then another man stood up, the lamp light revealing the coal dust on his face.

The whole crowd was like a pool of water struck by a stone, ripples spreading outward from the center in rings.

People stood up, others set down their enamel cups, and someone shook awake a companion who had been dozing.

“Mr. Gorky!”

“We thought you were… dead?”

Gorky asked in return.

A young miner didn’t finish his sentence, scratching his head instead.

“Thought you were… Old Gorky, how did you get back?”

“Heh, weeds never die.”

Gorky walked to the innermost part of the cave and stepped up onto an overturned ore cart.

His gray shirt stood out starkly in that coal-dust-filled space, his bear ears pricking up from his hair, the tips almost brushing the cave ceiling.

“Comrades.”

“The blizzard has sealed the shaft entrance.”

“The overseers are huddled in the break room warming themselves by the fire.”

“No one will come to inspect down here.”

His voice echoed through the cave, every word crystal clear.

“So while we have this chance—let’s speak some truths.”

The miners fell silent, their enamel cups frozen mid-air.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“You want to ask—Old Gorky, you were wanted by the Tsar, you fled south into exile, why did you come back?”

He looked down at the coal-blackened faces before him, and an expression appeared on that weathered old face—not the fiery indignation of a speaker, but the look in an old man’s eyes when he sees family he has been parted from for a long time.

“Because I worked here for ten years.”

“Some of you dug mines alongside me, witnessed this land’s suffering with me.”

“Even after I later took a desk job, I never forgot.”

He paused, scanning the faces gazing up at him.

“So if I don’t come back here, where else would I go?”

The miners did not applaud, but some clutched their enamel cups a little tighter.

Someone wiped the corner of an eye with the back of a coal-dusted hand, a thin white streak cut through the grime by tears.

“For these ten years, I’ve been asking myself one question.”

He raised a finger, knuckles thick and broad, calluses layered deep on the pad.

“This mountain—Mount Sergei—the snow on it never melts year-round, and the lake at its peak can reflect the deepest fears in a man’s heart.”

“But why should we fear it?”

He paused.

“We’re the ones who cut into the mountain.”

“We’re the ones who carved out the tunnels.”

“We’re the ones who chiseled the iron ore out of the rock, piece by piece.”

“Without us, Mount Sergei would just be an ordinary mountain.”

“It took me ten years to figure out one thing—the gods never speak.”

“The ones who speak for the gods are them.”

“The ones who write the laws are them.”

“The ones who send armies to guard the mine are them.”

“The ones who chain us to the ore carts are also them.”

“But they say—this is the will of the gods.”

“They say the mountain spirit Sergei…”

His voice was forced up from deep in his chest, low and heavy, like a rumble rising from the frozen earth, every word hammered against an anvil—sparks flying in all directions.

“Have you seen the nobles in Froststone City?”

“Have you seen the chandeliers in the Tsar’s palace?”

“The crystals on those chandeliers—more than the ore you’ll touch in a lifetime.”

“They sit on gilded chairs, eat from silver platters, and throw their leftovers to the dogs—while our children pick coal scraps from the slag heaps, fingers frozen red, without even a decent pair of shoes.”

“This is not the will of the gods.”

“This is robbery.”

A sharp crack rang out against the rock wall.

“Last week, Old Kuzma broke his leg down in the shaft.”

“The overseer said he couldn’t work anymore, and threw him out of the mine that very day!”

“He crawled half a street through the blizzard.”

“If we hadn’t found him on our way off shift, he’d have frozen to death in the road!”

“He worked here for thirty-two years!”

“That’s right!”

The young miner shot to his feet, his enamel cup wobbling in his hand.

“Thirty-two years.”

Olivia’s fingers curled slightly tighter.

“I know.”

Gorky was silent for a moment, his voice growing heavier.

“I know Kuzma.”

“When he was digging here, the current overseer wasn’t even as tall as the shaft opening.”

“He broke his back, ruined his eyes, and in the end, he was tossed out like a piece of waste ore.”

His voice sank lower, then suddenly rose.

“How many more Kuzmas will there be?”

“How many more generations will be drained to the marrow and fed into this mountain?”

“Are you going to endure until the mountain spirit shows mercy, or until the mine throws you onto the slag heap to turn into bones?”

The air in the cave seemed to ignite.

“We can’t take it anymore!”

Someone slammed a fist against the rock wall, coal dust showering down from the ceiling.

“But the overseers have whips, guns, and soldiers.”

“There are armored vehicles outside the mine too.”

“What can we do?”

“Rely on ourselves.”

Gorky looked down at them, then slowly extended a finger, pointing toward the pitch-black tunnel beyond the cave.

“Not the Tsar.”

“Not the nobles.”

“Not the mountain spirit.”

“No one else.”

“However long the Urske winter lasts, there are always people who heat their own stoves.”

He drew his hand back and pressed it against his chest.

“Push that locked door open ourselves.”

“The Tsar won’t open it for you—they’d rather we worked ourselves to death without rest.”

“So we break it down ourselves.”

“The picks, the shovels, the crowbars in your hands—those are the keys.”

“During the day you’re locked in the tunnels, and at night you’re driven back to the shanties.”

“But open your eyes and look around: every road in this mine was dug by you, from the shaft entrance to the deepest face, from the ventilation shafts to the drainage ditches.”

“Which road in this mountain was built by the nobles?”

“Which rock was moved by the nobles?”

“None.”

“You’ve cut through an entire mountain—and you don’t know where to direct your own strength.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“The blizzard will last all night.”

“But tomorrow the snow will always stop—the overseers will crawl back to inspect, and the ore will have to be dug as usual.”

“But remember this—the Tsar and the nobles can take your labor, but they cannot take what you have created.”

He thrust that large-knuckled hand forward, fingers spread wide, as if grasping an invisible flagpole in the air.

“The future of Urske can only be built by ourselves, by every person on this frozen soil who refuses to bow their head.”

“So—push open that door.”

“Do it yourselves.”

The cave fell silent for a moment.

Then the young miner raised his enamel cup, cold water splashing out and spilling onto his work clothes.

“We’ll do it ourselves!”

He drained it in one gulp, then roared:

“Rise up!”

Another cup went up right after.

An old miner stood, his back slightly hunched, his fingers warped from years of gripping a pick.

A layer of glistening moisture gathered in his eyes.

“Gorky—old friend, it’s good that you’re back.”

“With you here, we know we’re not crazy.”

“Not a madman talking to himself.”

Gorky took his hand, rough knuckles interlocking with equally rough knuckles.

“Old Ivan.”

He looked at the miner who was even older than himself, and his voice suddenly softened.

“I remember you.”

“You remember.”

“Every word.”

“How we once left the age of innocence behind, and stepped into the era that belongs to us…”