Underground

Consciousness returned slowly.

It was the gentle shaking that woke him up. Well, okay, not so gentle. All right, the rattle rattle RATTLE CLANK woke him.

It was dark.

He remembered....fear.

Pain was making its own presence known rather insistently.

He moaned, and tried to roll over.

"Shhhhh!" His hearing must be getting clearer, because he could hear scuttling around him - as if a bunch of people pulled away from him.

His arms felt heavy. He stifled another groan, but rolled over carefully, and tried to sit up.

His head hurt. One hand reached up to touch his forehead, and came away sticky.

Ah. That would explain why his head hurt so much.

He heard a tiny whimper in the dark, that was as fiercely hushed as his own mouth noise had been.

"Why?" he asked very quietly into the expectant dark. "No one can hear us over those infernal noises."

A gasp, a gulp. A quiet plea for reassurance: "Are you sure?"

"That's a lot of noise," he whispered back. "To hear us over-" rattle RATTLE CLANK JANGLE "-they'd have to be right here, with us." Whoever "us" is, he thought to himself.

Shuffling, a press of bodies against him from all sides. Hands reached out to gently pat him. "We thought you were dead," one dared to murmur, "We thought we were all lost."

"Lost?" He looked around. Still dark. Was he blind? "Where are we?"

The patting stopped. Fear-stink battled with the scent of blood in his nostrils.

"You don't know? You don't remember?"

He thought. The fear-stink grew.

His quiet panic was evident: "I don't even remember who I am."

***************

"Then we are truly lost...." There were whimpers, quiet crying.

He could feel - something - a rebellious spirit? - in him, trying to beat back the darkness. All darkness, in any way he could. He didn't know who he was, but it was as if his brain remembered how to think, not what to think. "So. Tell me. Tell me what I need to know. Where are we? Where are we going? What do you know about me?"

A low voice gulped, and you could hear them put the fear aside to reply. "We're running away. You led us to the train, helped us hide, told us that you'd take us to freedom."

Another voice. "Some nosy guard came snooping when we were eating, when the train left the station. You fought. He hit you pretty bad, but you threw him off the train. Didn't know you were that strong. We pulled you back before you fell, hid in the crates, doused our lamps. And prayed."

"You said you had a plan, but now-"

"Hmm. Let me think." The silence was loud, though the rattling continued. "Let's have some light. We need to risk it, I think."

Some muttering, and a few boxes were shifted. Weak moonlight shone through slats in the sides of the wooden rail car. He held up the hand that was still sticky - dark, very dark skin, covered in blood. He wiped it on his pants. White eyes stared at him from the surrounding darkness. He counted pairs of eyes staring at him hopefully, hopelessly.

Twenty five souls. Looking at him for salvation. Which he didn't remember, couldn't possibly remember in time.

And things were still rattling ominously, like they were out of control.

"Did I say anything about my plan?"

"No, you didn't want to chance one of us being a tattler."

"But the guard found us anyway." Maybe I was right...

"No one's been back since. We're still going north, I think." A dark arm pointed at the moon shining on them, a crescent sailing above the blurred trees.

Follow the drinking gourd....

There was a ripping sound, and a blur crawled towards him. "It's not clean, but you can put this around your head." A strip of cloth was passed over, and his fingers at least remembered how to wrap it snug against his wound. The bleeding had stopped, though what had leaked didn't have time to dry.

The touch of cloth reminded him of something... He dug into his pocket, pulled out a rolled-up strip of tightly-woven wool. He was never taught to read, he vaguely remembered that, but other ways to talk existed. The cloth, when unrolled, had some markings on it. Embroidery, done by very clever fingers. He could see a face, a woman he loved, carefully stitching here, then there...

His fingers followed the marks. He knew. He remembered!

He clutched the lifeline to his chest, looked at them with shining eyes. "How long was I out, do you think?"

One huffed, squinted at the moon. "We could barely see when you got us on the train, moon's what, four fists high now?" Murmurs of agreement.

His thumb was already reading the embroidered knots at the right spot in the strip.

"Then we should be turning east very, very soon."

Sure enough, within moments, like a prophecy, they could feel the groan and shift of the train. Far ahead, the huff-huff-PUFF-huff cadence of the engine shifted, slowed, and they began to climb. And turn east.

His fingers found the next part. "There will be a stop soon. They need more coal. Get some rest, we'll need it."

What could they do? Boxes were shuffled back to hide their spot, and they slept fitfully.

His eyes gleamed in the darkness, wondering if they had a traitor.

************

Eventually the train slowed, stopped. Far away voices, banging, noises of cargo being added, cargo being removed. Donkeys braying. Closer voices shouting, the sounds of a hobo being evicted from another rail car. They huddled, and he watched closely for anyone who might try to betray them. No one came inside their car, though crunching steps walked past, slowed to check under the train for more vagrants.

No one moved. They barely breathed. Then, huff chuff creeeeak groan bang huff huff huff huff, and they continued east.

He remembered little things:

The rough feel of wooden crates against his hands as he loaded them. The harsh bite of cold iron in the winter when he'd drop the pin into the coupler. The gentle feel of raised embroidery, made by loving hands for a dangerous journey.

He stared at his hands. Dried blood made black crease lines against brown skin. He'd been ordered to hard work at the railroad yard, and the strength behind these hands made him a valuable commodity. But when other people got wages, he'd get lashings and poor food rations. All because of the color of his skin, somehow different from the others.

His hands could work while his mind roamed free. He figured out a way to take scraps, stolen nails, a hammer, and make some special crates. He could sneak his most precious cargo - his wife, his mother, his children - into those crates, and ship them north. He could wait for a message to say that they'd arrived safely, and received it in a little package of rolled cloth with embroidery in patterns that they'd agreed to as a signal years ago.

They were waiting. North.

Into the north, into the north, into the north, the train seemed to whisper. The song of the rails was loud, and very different when it was under you, surrounding you. Watching from the rail yard as the train left was one thing. It was another to feel it humming and rattling through you, taking your hopes and dreams with you into the night.

He'd built another crate, but by then, others had noticed. They'd begged to be taken along, had helped gather scraps and stolen nails. A few had turned into many more than he'd bargained for, and maybe they had been too loud, because his overseer had come looking-

He shut his eyes tight on that memory, but it didn't help. His head throbbed. There was no traitor in their midst, he'd been careless in his haste. He'd knocked out the overseer and brought him along to keep him from sounding the alarm. But when he'd woken up and broke free of the ropes, and they'd fought...

He shuddered.

Someone had handed him a piece of hard tack and a broken cup with some water in it. He chewed carefully, drank slowly.

He'd read the message many times with his fingers. If he'd been alone, like he had planned, he could follow the map as it was explained in careful stitching. But twenty-five people, plus himself? No.

He'd counted in his head, stared at the moon, watched the dark slowly become lighter. The sun hadn't risen yet, but it would soon.

They were still in danger.

Another stop, another coal load. Once more shifting of freight, in and out, while they huddled in the middle of the freight pile in their special crates...

***************

Now he remembered what the RATTLE RATTLE CLANK meant.

It should have been easier after the final stop. It should have been more of a relief to approach a particular state border, and the freedom promised on the other side of a slash of ink on a paper map, easily burnable, easily blurred.

As the RATTLE RATTLE CLANK got worse again, he remembered what it meant.

But before he could turn newly-recalled memory into action, the violent shaking turned to juddering, and BANG - and that sickening moment when everything stood still. And then they started moving again.

Slowly.

Backward.

Down a mountain.

He could imagine the rest of the train, suddenly lighter, lurching ahead and through the mountain pass.

They were picking up speed.

They couldn't all jump; he knew that already. There were babies and younglings in this group, and all of them showed evidence of their poor treatment in captivity. Even the hard tack they'd stolen and had been carefully gnawing on was better food than most had seen in months, as wormy as it was from towards the bottom of the barrel.

They couldn't just ride it out, either. Someone would come looking for the missing cars, and even if they were nearby, they'd leave a trail that the bloodhounds could and would follow.

He didn't want to think about the caboose, and if it was occupied.

The train was getting faster. The crates shifted and groaned.

His darting eyes fell on their crates, haven and cage for these few hours.

Crates. Wood. Brakes!

He looked at his hands.

"Hammer," he croaked. They stared at him, the wild hope changing him from despairing animal back to human. "My hammer. Is it still here?"

One young man nodded, dug it out of the hay he'd been sitting on. Handed it over.

It felt good to have it back in his hand. "All right. Young ones, grab all the hay we've been using inside the crates. Gather it, pack it into the other two. You and you, shift the crates so we can get out. You four, help them, and then shift things back to make it look as if we were never here. You three, make sure everyone's packs are ready to go. Babes in slings. Be ready to move as soon as I say we need to jump."

They moved fast. He flexed his arm a few times, feeling the weight and pull. When two crates were cleared, he swung - to rip them apart again. Others who had no other tasks helped as they could, pulling the boards apart. The other two crates were nailed up as if they'd never been opened.

Then he showed a few of the stronger ones what he'd planned: turn the planks into wood brakes, to help slow down the cars. They opened the far door, and holding on to each other, lowered the wood to jam it under the wheels.

He knew this car had no wood blocks to use as brakes. He'd packed it himself. There weren't many on the freight trains, and certainly not here in the back, with the least important cargo. But if they could slow it enough to jump safely, maybe they stood a small chance?

The first boards shattered under the wheels; he knew they would. He just kept the team at it, calmly telling them to try again, and again, and again, to slow it down as much as possible.

When they could feel the train slow, just a little, others who'd watched grabbed a few boards and ran to the other side, to do the same to the upper wheels.

Some of the wood was holding! More could be jammed under the wheel!

He could feel the screeching, the shaking. It could derail the cars if they were unlucky. The train slowed a little, then a little more-

"All right, we only have one chance! Weaker ones to the top, jump off the far side! Stronger ones down here, to help if we can! This is as slow as it gets, JUMP!"

And they did. Praying, gulping, gasping, they did it.

They ducked. They rolled.

He was the last to go with his group, praying that the others got off as well. He leaped into the air, cleared the rail, rolled when he hit, remembered to cover his head this time.

The train screeched down the tracks behind him, and he heard snap crack SNAP CRACK as the wood boards they used splintered under the weight and fell away. The cars picked up speed again, and rattled down the mountain. Out of sight.

He stood up. The others were too, checking bruises and cuts and scrapes. He worked his way up the line, gathering and counting.

No broken bones. No one left behind. Everyone could travel. Slowly.

A miracle? He wasn't sure. He could feel the roll of wool in his pocket, and the hammer still in his hand. He'd carried it with him when he jumped.

Babies and little were crying, but the older ones were already soothing them. He urged them all to the treeline, and the forest beyond.

Follow the drinking gourd...

She was waiting for him, north of here.

So. Follow the track, hide when they needed to. This mountain pass should be the state border, the line between north and south. If it was, then they could freely walk to the next town, or wherever they wanted. If south of that ambiguous line, then walk in fear and caution till they could walk free.

He slipped the hammer into his pack, settled it on his shoulders.

"Let's go," he said quietly, "We have a long ways to travel." They nodded, and followed their Moses into the wilderness.