Tomas Reed kicked open the bent wire gate of the hoisting cage. The hinges shrieked with metal fatigue, but the gate swung clear, resting against the heavy oak bumper doorstep of the Intermediate Drift.
“Move, Jem,” Tomas said gently, his right hand gripping the boy’s shoulder harness. “Step on the cross-timbers. Don’t look down.”
Fourteen-year-old Jem Vance crawled out onto the solid timber staging on his hands and knees, kissing the dusty oak planks as if they were holy ground. Behind him, the other five young splitters scrambled across the threshold. Their limbs shook with terror, tumbling into the dry stone nook of the old pump station.
Mara Flint dropped to her knees beside them, her bog-oak staff laid across the floor. She gathered the weeping boys against her rough wool cloak. “You’re on stone,” she murmured, her voice steady and low. “You’re on solid mountain. Breathe the dry air.”
Sile Rook stepped across the doorstep next. He carried the two padded canvas crates containing Dennis Cole’s twenty-two Welsh slate leaves. He set them down against the dry granite wall with respectful care. He tested the floorboards with a heavy stamp of his boot to ensure the old timbers were sound.
