Chapter 208: Streetscape
The Lord's command came down once more. It was simple and absolute: all miners
were forbidden from returning home until the new quotas were met.
Barlow had managed to send word to a neighbor to watch over Hilde, but it had
been days since he had seen her face. The deepest part of the mine had been
partitioned into a makeshift dormitory, a wretched space filled with rotting
straw and tattered rags. Dozens of miners were packed together; the air was
thick with the stench of sweat and unwashed feet.
Some snored with a sound like lowing oxen. Others talked in their sleep,
whispering the names of wives or children. Occasionally, someone would bolt
upright in the middle of the night, breathless, only to bury their face in their
knees—shoulders shaking in a silent, jagged rhythm.
Barlow could not sleep. He lay on his side in the straw, staring at a crack in
the ceiling where water seeped through the stone.
Drip.
Drip.
The droplets struck the floor with a rhythmic, irritating tap. He missed Hilde.
He wondered how she had spent these last few days. Was she eating enough? Was
she crying when no one was looking? She was always like that—pretending to be
iron-strong in front of him, even when her heart was breaking.
"Barlow, you still awake?" a voice whispered from the straw beside him.
Barlow turned to see Old Jack, a fellow miner, sitting up and gnawing on a piece
of bread he had saved from his midday ration.
"Yeah. Worried about home," Barlow replied.
"Who isn't?" Old Jack finished his bread, carefully pinching every stray crumb
from his shirt and popping them into his mouth. "My boy is only five. The
neighbors are watching him, but he's a handful. I just hope he hasn't caused too
much trouble."
The two men fell silent. In the darkness, there was only the chorus of snores
and the relentless dripping of water.
"Barlow... what are we even doing this for?" Old Jack asked suddenly. "Every day
we risk our lives in this hole, and every scrap of ore we dig belongs to the
Lord. The pittance we get back barely keeps our families from starving."
Barlow gave no answer. He didn't have one. Perhaps this was simply the weight of
their Fate.
Physical exhaustion was one thing, but the fog of uncertainty regarding the
future was what truly gnawed at Barlow's sanity.
At noon the next day, the foreman appeared at the mouth of the pit, blocking out
the only source of natural light. He held a tin megaphone and stood on a high
ledge, his voice raspy as he barked the announcement.
"Listen up! The Lord has shown mercy! You've got a day off tomorrow!"
The miners froze for a heartbeat before erupting into a ragged cheer. Men threw
their shirts into the air; others embraced their coworkers, shouting with
relief. But the foreman's next words turned their smiles to stone.
"And the day after that, you work! It'll be your last shift! Once the sun sets,
this mine is closed for good!"
Closed? Barlow was stunned.
The cheering died, replaced by a low, buzzing murmur of confusion.
"What do you mean 'closed'?" "Is the vein dry?" "What are we supposed to do
then? Where do we earn coin?!"
The foreman waved his hand impatiently, cutting through the chatter. "How should
I know?! Just finish the job the day after tomorrow, and then you can rot
wherever you like! It's no concern of mine! Your final wages will be paid in
full—not a copper short!"
With that, the foreman turned and vanished into the sunlight of the entrance,
leaving a crowd of bewildered men standing in the dark.
Barlow's head throbbed. If he wasn't a miner, what was he? He was thirty-five
years old. In this era, that was practically ancient. His stamina was flagging,
and his mind was no longer sharp enough to grasp new trades. Aside from swinging
a pickaxe, he was useless.
Dock work? That was for the youths; no overseer would hire a man of his age. An
apprenticeship? Don't make me laugh—what master would take a
thirty-five-year-old student? Farming? He hadn't touched a plow since he was a
boy, and he had no land to call his own.
A deep, suffocating sense of helplessness washed over him. He thought of Hilde.
She was twelve. In a few years, it would be time to arrange her marriage. There
would be dowries to pay, feasts to organize. Everything required gold. If he
were unemployed, how could he feed her? How could he provide her a future?
The anxiety turned into a sharp, jagged rage. That afternoon, every swing of his
pickaxe against the stone was delivered with a terrifying, desperate force.
"Barlow, easy now!" Old Jack warned. "Why kill yourself today? We're done in
forty-eight hours anyway!"
"Shut up! What do you know?!" Barlow snapped, his voice a snarl.
Old Jack flinched. He had known Barlow for years and had never seen him this
volatile. Seeing the look of shock on Jack's face, Barlow realized he had lost
control. He stopped, taking a jagged breath.
"Sorry, Jack. I'm just... I'm on edge."
Old Jack didn't push. He simply patted Barlow's shoulder. "I get it. We're all
walking the same plank."
That night, Barlow tossed and turned in the straw. His mind was a chaotic mess
of panic over unemployment, confusion about the future, and a crushing guilt
toward his daughter. He even began to regret—why had he brought Hilde into this
world? If he were alone, he could starve for a few days and it wouldn't matter.
But he had a child. He couldn't let her suffer for his failures.
Barlow covered his face, his shoulders trembling. He didn't cry aloud; he
wouldn't give his coworkers the satisfaction of seeing his weakness. But the
tears leaked through his fingers nonetheless, dampening his palms.
The next morning, his day off, Barlow didn't go straight home. He took the dozen
copper coins the foreman had handed out—calling it a "condolence payment." The
coins clinked in his pocket, a mocking sound. He couldn't face the house yet.
Driven by a strange impulse, he walked into a lively tavern in the city. It was
crowded and noisy; well-dressed mercenaries and adventurers were boasting about
their exploits over platters of roasted meat and brimming mugs of ale. Barlow
sat in a corner, the smell of mine-dust and sweat clinging to him, making him a
complete outsider in the festive atmosphere.
"Need something, friend?" the tavern-keeper called out, polishing a mug.
Barlow looked at the wooden price board on the wall. The cheapest mug of ale was
three copper coins. Three coppers was enough to buy two days' worth of black
bread for himself and Hilde. His hand tightened around the coins in his pocket.
"No. Just looking," Barlow muttered. He stood up and walked out under the
owner's puzzled gaze.
The sunlight outside was blinding. Barlow began to wander aimlessly through the
streets. He saw a man dressed as a merchant leading his daughter into a textile
shop. The girl wore a beautiful dress and clutched an exquisite silk doll. She
pointed at a bolt of pale purple silk, wheedling her father. The man smiled,
counted out several silver coins, and handed them to the shopkeeper.
Barlow thought of Hilde. Her dress was faded and covered in patches. She didn't
even know what a doll felt like.
He passed a weapons shop. A man his age was swinging a brand-new longsword in
front of the store. The man's leather armor was well-maintained, and the pouch
at his belt was bulging. He was a city guard—a steady job, a stable life.
Just then, a magnificent carriage swept past. The wheels splashed mud onto
Barlow's trousers. Through the window, a noble lady cradling a white lapdog
looked right through him as if he were part of the scenery. Barlow looked down
at his ruined pants, said nothing, and kept walking.
At the next corner, he saw a landlord screaming at a family.
"If you don't have the rent by tonight, get the hell out!"
The father of that family stood with his head bowed, apologizing over and over.
His wife and child cowered behind him, weeping in fear.
Barlow stopped, watching the scene. It was like looking into a mirror of his own
future. Every smile he saw on the street, every laugh he heard, felt like a
personal insult to his poverty and his impotence.
Only when the sky began to fade to gray did he remember: Hilde was still waiting
for him.
☆☆☆
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