Loathsome Hero - Conclusion

Before you read the conclusion, if you havent had a chance, below is the first part about our Loathsome Hero:

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I watched the creosote-stained wood begin to slide. Helplessly I watched as my sister was slowly being crushed to death.

Before anyone could react in time to save my sister from being squashed, Peter was already in motion. He worked at such a frantic pace. You would swear the devil himself was behind him.

When enough debris was cleared, Peter braced his back under the beam and nodded to me. He lifted and I dragged Anna out. The pile shifted but not enough to harm anyone. Her arm was broken, and she was cut up, but over all she was fine. She was alive.

Peter spoke up once more. “Only keep one light on at a time.”

Someone whined. “It will be dark if we do that.”

Peter nodded. “We may need light later, better not drain them all now.”

I pointed to Alex asking him to keep his on. Everyone else turned theirs off, it did indeed get dark. Even with the dim light, our eyes eventually adjusted, and we began to check on the condition of everyone. Yvonne and my sister appeared to be the worst off.

To his credit Mr. Kolcher began acting like an adult and checked to see who had water and food. We sat there for a long time. Every so often you could hear scraping on the other side of the pile. But no clear voices.

My sister and I found ourselves sitting next to Peter, while everyone else stayed towards the back of the tunnel. I am unsure as to how long we sat there with out saying a word.

In a soft voice I heard Anna say. “Thank you, Peter.”

I found the courage to whisper the same and sensed his bulbous head bobbing in acknowledgement. “No worries.”

A little while later he said softly. “The rumors aren’t true.”

Playing dumb I replied. “Rumors?”

In the shadows, his voice low and hollow reverberated like words flowing through a tuba. “Lily loved to climb, ever since she could walk. I ran to the barn when I heard her scream, but I was too late. I remember picking her up and holding her. They say I refused to let go of her and became hysterical. I didn’t hurt her. I would never hurt her.

Anna asked. “Is that why you’re here?”

Again, you could almost feel the air move as he nodded. “My parents thought it was best that I stay with my uncle. He needs my help.”

I didn’t catch on, but Anna did. “People were scared of you?” Reaching over with her good arm she patted his leg. “They’re wrong.”

With those few words of kindness, you could sense the burden he carried, vanish.

I wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion or stress from what happened but suddenly my eyes grew heavy. I fought to keep awake. In a haze I noticed more than one body hunched over. I was about to rest for a moment when I was startled awake by Peter moving fast. I watched as he scrambled up to the very top of the pile once more. And furiously began digging again. Rocks were tossed aside in a frenzy. People started calling out, asking him to stop, but he kept on going until the voices became nothing more than a jumble of sounds. Peter yanked and pounded on a large stone wedged into the ceiling until it popped loose and came sliding down.

It was instant, the fresh air flowed into our tomb, reviving us from certain death.

Through hooded lids I watched Peter slowly climb down, without saying a word he sat next to me once more. Time lost meaning, except for the odd whimper and cough, all was silent.

It was then we noticed water seeping into our grave. We started scrambling to higher ground, in a panicked haste, people were pushed as everyone tried to avoid the rising water. While I helped Anna, everyone forgot about Yvonne, except Peter. We watched as he effortlessly picked her up and handed her to the people higher up. Space was limited so Peter remained below, in silence.

I yelled for him to climb up, he knew with his size there was no room. I swear he smiled. Then he turned and faced the other sealed wall, as the water levels reached his knees. A steady drip echoed within our chamber, but it wasn’t from the rising water. It was blood from Peters raw fingers hitting the dark liquid.

Without warning we heard a voice call through the air hole, telling us to back up as far away as possible. Thankfully, we were on the opposite side. And just like that we were rescued. Thirty minutes later, our ordeal was over.

Technically it was only a rockfall within the tunnels and not classified as a mining disaster. It can only be called that if a death occurs during the cave in and rescue. We were all alive, thanks to one person, and it certainly wasn’t our teacher who was accepting praise, and unwarranted pats on the back from our parents.

Amidst the chaos of the rescue, while children and parents alike wept. Peter stood alone, no one came to see if he was safe, no one cared if he was alive, one foot bare, removing his remaining shoe he proceeded to walk through the crowd of people. I watched as they accusingly stared and whispered as he moved past.

Old lady McMillan wasn't as kind, she spoke so all could hear. "This was probably caused by that freaks oversized head bumping into a beam." Then she cackled.

Perhaps it was a release of tension, but more than a few chuckles joined in with the childish insult. I am considered a polite lad, kind and well liked. For some reason, most likely the stress of it all. I snapped.

Turning to her I screamed. "Shut up, hag."

Everyone froze, I never called anyone that in my life. I stared them all down, shaking myself free of my mothers embrace. Glaring at all the church going, god fearing folk I continued.

"If it wasn’t for Peter, you would be weeping, holding the limp bodies of your children in your arms wondering why god deserted you."

Emboldened by the silence I continued, this time in a quieter voice but making sure they all heard. "Peter was the one who dug the air hole, Peter was the one who pulled, Yvonne, Duggy and Anna out of the rubble, while we watched."

Making the statement clear, while I glared at Mr. Kolcher.

My heart pounded, and I began to shake, but couldn’t stop. "He's never done anything but be kind, but you holy christians treat him like a leper."

I said this in anger. Anger at them, anger towards God, angry with myself. "You’re all hypocrites, sending money all over the world for the unfortunate while he wears worn shoes that don’t fit, and clothes ...."

I could no longer speak, realizing I was no better than those I was chastising. A sudden awareness of who I really was, dictated by my past actions, overwhelmed me. I’ve never been more ashamed of myself than I was at that moment.

In the uncomfortable quietude, I felt a large hand squeeze my shoulder. Peter, with those too wide eyes stared at me with kindness. Shaking his head, he nodded towards the crowd, patted me on the back once. Then, carrying his remaining shoe in one hand he walked away, into the setting sun. Following the dirt road to the place where not even he called home, but it was the only place he had.

No one offered him a ride.

Peter Gringage saved lives that day, anyone else would have had a statue built in their honor or at least a plaque. His reward was people finally saying 'Hello' to him on the street.

He seemed ok with that.

Peter and I became best friends, I tried to convince him to move to the city with me after we graduated. He declined, opting to stay and work the farm with his uncle, who with Peters help was now sober. Having never been treated for gigantism, Peter lived to the ripe old age of thirty-six.

I haven’t been back to my hometown since my parents passed, dad in 2002, mom four years later. Fifty years after that fateful day, I return to do something I should have done earlier. Standing at the grave site of my friend, I whispered thank you, and placed a pair of size twenty bronzed boots upon his headstone, with the engraving---

Peter Gringage- Hero of Wellington, we pray you found the peace you deserve.

History Note:

Although the story is fictional the place is real:

In 1869, an independent miner named Robert Dunsmuir discovered the Wellington seam near Diver Lake. (Near what is now Nanaimo B.C. on Vancouver Island). Peak production of the Nanaimo coal fields was in 1922. Production declined steadily after that. The mine closed in 1968.

The Island is subjected to frequent, yet minor (so far) earthquakes.

An accident did occur at the former South Wellington Colliery. “A disaster that caused the loss of nineteen lives by drowning at the Wellington Reserve mine near Nanaimo on February 9th, 1915.”

I could not bring myself to write about those poor souls, they deserve more than a short story. Perhaps one day.

Thank you,

Jason