The Old Man's Mine

When he got out of his bed, the cold of the North Sea cottage invaded everything. When the wool was pulled off, the warm bed chilled, and he had to move fast. With the customary sigh he began his day covered from head to toe. Not just when he went to sleep, but all the time. Head with the ever-present beanie (even when sleeping), toes with a double pair of wool socks (also when sleeping), underclothes from the wool under-sweater to the wool over-sweater, and lastly his inside tweed jacket. And shoes, always shoes for the tamped earth below that reminded him he was alive.

The frigid ocean assaulted the rocks outside and instantly froze, and the sealed cottage just a stones-throw away puffed its first morning fire. Though outside was a salty wasteland, inside the old man stoked the life-giving peat in a giant stone chimney. Peat: shit. Shit: peat. He ignited the shit-fire and squatted over it for warmth. Coal was added carefully until a big piece could be tossed in. Ten minutes. Done. With little care a big lump would last all day. He lit his pipe, too. The nicotine helped a lot, as did the coffee, as did the soup and scones. He didn’t even hear the unexpected knock over his morning routine.

Nothing happened on the North Sea. That’s the way he liked it. The local Scots talked small and drank deep, and no one went out early if they could help it. Too cold. Too much to do just to keep warm. To be independent was in his nature, as was his neighbor far away, as was his, and so on. Every stone cottage ignited in the way they could afford, and everyone minded his business.

The cat jumped down from the pots and they all clattered down. Thump, thump. Knock. Smash. He fixed the mess and didn’t hear the knock yet again. His only roommate at least didn’t speak, and jumping off things was her only vice. He tolerated her need for warmth when she jumped into his lap. In his simple winged-back chair, on his simple well-used table, he spread his fodder and obliged his cat. He liked learning nothing in the newspaper, he liked his huge shelf of books, and he liked that no one important knew he was there; those people never appreciated him anyway. Silence. The wind and crashing waves outside was all he ever expected, and he liked it that way.

Knock. Knock. Thud. Persistent, yet distant. He gaped at his cat. Nothing. He looked around. The noise wasn’t normal. It couldn’t have been the door. It was never the door. The one-room stone cottage sometimes had mice. Yes. That was it. Mice.

He jumped when he heard it again. He whipped around. Even the cat was looking at the door. The ice seal on the oak door cracked open releasing all the heat in the room. He grabbed his stick.

After an hour he puffed the courage to take out his Rodney: the stout, reliable boat that handled the sea so well. He didn’t have to fish, but he did anyway. He brought a stash of money all those years ago to the cottage, so he never had to worry. Fishing bided time, and he had time. Maybe he would get lucky and capsize. Maybe he’d catch cold back on shore and die later. Maybe then he’d decide his time in the north was over. Maybe he’d go back to that ‘family’; that life. Maybe all that. Maybe not. Donning his canvas parka, he thought of those days in the green, temperate south. The few days that were good. No. Most were bad. They never appreciated him.

The fisherman’s boots ground the sand cautiously to the serf. The stick was tight in a burly hand that wasn’t used to surprises. Down to the gravel and bedrock he extended the stick and gave it a poke. In the presence of a predator, his eyes were wide. He had a visitor indeed.

It was a mine. Six feet around and wicked with spikes all over; it was huge mine! It must have washed up last night covered in seaweed and junk from the sea! Rolling with the serf, it knocked the bedrock when it moved, crawling closer to his home with each wave. Maybe he shouldn’t poke it again. No. He had to! He was all at once surprised and horrified, aghast and giddy. Giddy like a Christmas morning child. This is what God had planned all along. One of the mines they planted in World War Two would finally take the old man out. Of all things! Not the cold. Not the loneliness. Not the cat tripping him up to snap his neck. A mine!

He backed up to his beached Rodney and sat down. For an hour he watched it, lolling to a complete stop not a hundred yards from the house. It found the gravel and settled in for the long haul. A permanent guest.

He was wise enough to know that they were engineered to explode when a ship hit them. Those eight inch rigid spikes would have to be depressed hard to set it off. Only a ship could do that, but it was impossible to know really. There were spikes he could not see below it now, and he knew that bedrock was below that. It could go off at any time. Yes, it was probably thirty years old, but that wouldn’t stop it. Nothing could stop it.

That made him happy. He had a twisted fatalism about everything lately, and this was perfect. He probably got it in the Army way back; from fighting Nazis where every day he could have been killed. He coped with it like all the other guys did, laughing it off, accepting fate because there was nothing any of them could do about it anyway. Fate. This was going to be fun.

Immediately he scurried off to the pub, to the store, the church, the town square and became famous. The crowd he gathered was impressive, even for the small nowhere-town in Scotland. Yes, it was cold, but the people came out anyway. And kids! There were kids here?! They came to the beach like a family reunion to see the visitor. And there it was: big, ugly, ominous. Any fear of it quickly subsided, and even moms let the kids poke it. The adults circled it talking about the Nazis and poked it. Everyone did. And, before long, the weeds and trash were cleared. And, before long, the old man saw the visitors getting cold.

Now, the old man was not an entertainer, but his stone cottage was warm and big enough, so he invited them in. It would not do to let them all go home along the frozen beach without giving them a chance to warm up. The first in were the girls and boys. There were only a few, but they were intensely interested in all of it. Like stepping into another world, it was as if they never saw a tamped earth floor. Few in Scotland still lived in these old cottages, and it was like stepping back in time. The adults followed and he found, as best he could, places for them to sit. They were equally interested.

The old man was interesting indeed. As he went to the big soup pot that was always boiling, the adults tried to keep the kids in check, but they eventually gave up. The walls were covered in books. Planks of well-used books. The quaint table had his pipe, and the kids passed it around in fun. That pleased him. The cat took off when they came near, and that pleased him, too. He produced bowls for the mystery soup and made as much coffee as he could, and it didn’t take long for the moms to jump in. All of the sudden the place was warm like Christmas. Laughing, and the stories, oh the stories. One of the kids glided her hand along the old Nazi medals dangling, “where did you get these?” As soon as she asked, the whole room went quiet.

“I got those out of a tank thirty years ago.”

“You were in the war?”

A mom tried to stop her. “Honey, don’t be nosy.”

“Yes, I was.” He saw the kids, especially the girl, lock their attention upon the relics and he said, “They belonged to a German soldier. Now they are mine.”

There was a great appreciation for him that he could instantly feel, and it felt good. He never got this from those other people…that ‘family’; and here were strangers treating him better than the others ever did. The moms were washing up, some were even cleaning, much to his protest, and the dads found a new association in the old man they would have never have known otherwise. His eyes grew dim and he almost didn’t hear the questions, or his answers, when the kids and adults spoke. Yes, he was there, but he was not present. It was happiness for a precious hour, then a hint of sadness when the same girl asked if he had kids. She was nosy, but it was nothing.

“Here,” he pointed to a picture in a dark corner, and she squinted to see it. He went and took it down, and realizing the dust upon it, he wiped it with his sleeve. The kids and grown-ups took a look and remarked on the handsome one, and the redhead kids with him.

“They look nice,” the girl said.

Then, he became conscious of the people, the looks, the useless conversation. Even the last hour of great company was wearing on him. He saw some of the moms whispering and he didn’t like that. His perfect, secluded cottage was too full. It was too much. It was most welcome when they began to file out the door thanking him for his hospitality. Out past the mine they waved after him, and the girl left last.

“Thank you. Love you. Bye!”

And that was it. He sealed the door and put his head against it sighing. Kids. The cat was still hiding, and he was going to hide too. No fishing today. Too much for today. He shook his body in a fit, shivering off a chill, and for the first time he really noticed the room. The whole place was even cleaner than he normally kept it. It unhinged him. Moms. They had not only cleaned up the bowls, but dusted everything, centered the few carpets, and somehow got into his food stores and started making something in the fireplace. He approached the tin and saw fresh bread! He didn’t even know he had yeast to make bread!

The cat eventually came out and jumped up to the comfort of his lap. His shit-fire was warm and he smoked. He smoked and smoked. He drank and drank. The bread was wonderful. He calmed down with the toxins and eventually made it to bed.

The next morning he went back to his comfortable, unwavering routine: lit the peat and added the coal. The pipe was lit and the cat was practically attached to him. He felt good, and today he would fish. He made his way to Rodney and completely forgot his permanent guest. Large and unavoidable. “You going to kill me today?” No reply. “Coward.”

He shoved off in a sea that was perfect for fishing. Nice and calm. He went out until the mine was a speck and cast a line. It wasn’t long until he landed a whopper. With difficulty he pulled it over the side and clubbed it dead. What a catch! No more need to fish today. “Why kill yourself?” he said, “The mine will do that.” He laughed. When he landed, he kicked a spike real good and went in.

Then there was a knock. The cat looked up. This was a real knock. Wiping off the fish guts, he opened the door. It was the nosy girl and her mom.

“Hello. We are very sorry to bother you, but Claire left her gloves and hat yesterday.” It was the first time he really looked at the mom. She was fair. About ten years younger than the old man (who really wasn’t that old). She had both mittened hands on the girl’s tiny shoulders. Both were redheads, which didn’t help either. He noticed the girl was gaping at the blood on his bib.

“Oh, yes, come in. Hope you don’t mind fish.” He gave way into the cottage and quickly covered the mess. It must have smelled because Claire was holding her nose.

“My daddy was a fisherman,” said the mom. “It’s the best smell in the world.” That surprised him.

She sealed the door behind her automatically. The Scots in the north were used to conserving heat, and just like he did, she kicked the nearby rolled-up towel into place at the base. That surprised him too.

“It’s not the best smell.” Claire said.

“Honey, stop. I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself,” the mom said. The old man knew what was happening here. The hat and gloves probably didn’t exist. Or they were stashed in a tight corner. The moms were whispering last night. The bread. Oh no.

“Thomas.” I haven’t named the mine yet.

She was amused. “Kate.”

There was little silence when Claire went straight to the bookshelf and scared off the cat. It was an invasion.

“Did you make this?” He pointed to the half-eaten loaf. She seemed pleased seeing it half gone.

“You wouldn’t believe where I found the yeast.” That pleased him. She pleased him. Just taller than he was, the long straight red hair protruded from beneath a big beanie. She must have been almost forty. Hopefully she was not thirty. He couldn’t handle that. He could barely handle the bright green eyes.

“Mommy, he uses peat too!”

It took two hours before the ‘search’ was given up.

When the door was closed, he put his head against it and sighed. What the hell is going on? He looked out the frosty window past the mine to the two holding hands walking away. Tall and short; both hunched when the wind picked up. It seemed against his nature to just stare like an idiot.

On his way out, he whacked the mine with his stick. Nothing. And, with a brisk walk, caught up with the pair and saw them home. That took an hour as well. After being invited in so he could warm up, he made it a point not to linger. On his way back, the night was coming, and the moon reflected off the rusty surface of his guest. “Are you going to kill me now?” Nothing. “Coward.”

Three days later, just as he was returning to normal, a little knock came at the door. It was Claire. All alone.

“Hi, Mr. Thomas.” She was peering around him.

“What is it, Child? Where’s your mother?”

“I wanted to know if you like Christmas.”

What a question! “Do I like Christmas? Well, I suppose so.”

She lit right up. “We do too!” It was like a candle upon her soul. “We set up a tree and mommy tells me to go to bed, but I really don’t, and she stays up late, but I stay up later, and I know ALL about it.” The old man’s mouth was half-open reeling after her enthusiasm. Big eyes, big mouth, lots of words. Oh, lots of words. His ears could scarcely contain them all. “One year there was a light bulb that caught fire and it was bad but at least the presents were safe.” Safe indeed.

She detected the semblance of a smirk on his face and was happy for it. Before she could keep going, he put up a hand and asked again, “Where’s your mother?”

“Oh yeah.” She looked back in the direction of the house and got nervous.

“Tell your mother I like Christmas.”

“OK!!” She was so happy and took off.

A few days later, just before Christmas, there was another knock. “What the hell did you do old man?” There was another catch on the table and he again wiped the guts from his hands. Just as expected, it was Claire. This time she brought her mother. Kate looked good. She also looked embarrassed.

“Hello.” He noticed a small wagon with a bunch of stuff in it.

“Go ahead, honey,” Kate said.

“We, uh, I, wanted to know if you wanted to decorate.” The man was puzzled, and flattered. Kate was blushing.

“I don’t have a tree, child.” He was being truthful. Indeed, there were no trees around whatsoever.

“I know! I didn’t see any, but we do have that.” She pointed to the mine. He was shocked. What a strange child! Decorate a mine for Christmas? It was obvious she was serious, and mom was just trying to keep it together. He cracked a smile.

“Give me a minute.” And he closed the door. He put his head on the wood and let out a sigh. “Do this now and you’ll never go back, old man.” He banged his head a few times and agonized. He paced and the cat paced. He circled and thought of attractive Kate. The shit-fire was hot enough. The fish could wait. No. He smelled too bad. Had he even looked at the mirror today? “Oh, screw you old man!” He opened the door.

In no time the monstrosity of war was tinseled red. The wagon had it all: kid-stuff from school, bulbs, lights, and when it was all over, a plate of cookies at the bottom.

He looked at her sideways. “Did you make these?” She obviously did, with a ton of frosting. “My,” he smiled. A real smile. First real one in years. Kate caught it, and the old man caught her.

Inside, the fish was prepared and put away, and there was no small celebration. The girls didn’t mind and he didn’t mind, and when night came he took them home like a gentleman, with a lantern and everything. On the way back he met the pretty mine. “Are you going to kill me yet? No. Coward.” He gave it a whack and went in.

The only thing to do was smoke, drink, and pace. This wasn’t why he went up north. He was supposed to be alone, write his memoirs or something, and get away from that ‘family’ who hated him. He looked over to the picture and thought. He looked at the medals and thought. He was screwed up. He was a mess after the war, and after his wife left, and the kids were old enough to move out. Why did it make a difference if he stayed around? So he left. He was so used to mere survival, of being a ghost; he was certainly not worthy of being happy. Then he got angry.

It was probably the alcohol, but that didn’t matter because he was quite warm. He exploded out of his chair and the cat went flying. With rage he threw open the door and grabbed the sledge hammer from out back. Like he was going after God, or that Nazi that tried to kill him once, he shadowed the beach to the mine. It seemed larger, grotesque under the moon.

“Come on you coward! I’m right here!”

Nothing.

“You made me leave them, and you just think you’ll sit there until YOU decide to kill me!” It had been there for weeks, months; it didn’t matter. Every other day he saw the girls and loved them more, and every day he hit it with his stick. This time he would do it right.

“You going to kill me now?? Do it!” SLAM.

“DO IT!” THUD.

“God-dammit fight! God-dammit FIGHT!” SLAM. “God-dammit, take me out before I take them! Now FIGHT!” SLAM. “FIGHT! FIGHT!” He wound up and pitched the hammer off into the darkness and clenched his head in fists.

Then he saw it. Under a slice of moon, were the long lost hat and gloves shoved under it. He scrambled and brought them out of the spikes that hid them. They were smelly, they were nasty with seaweed, but it didn’t matter. He slumped down and collapsed next to his prize.

From a great way off, Kate and Claire heard a terrific blast. The whole town felt it. The pair had been fond of visiting Thomas for months, and when Kate gaped in the direction, she knew. Half of the town started running because they knew too. She was running and the tears started flying. Forward-thinking men brought axes, and the women swooned. Every face was wild and grey.

Nothing happened on the North Sea, and that’s why they liked it. Everyone had grown to live with the mine. Month after month it was there until it faded into the background. Everyone accepted it until it was part of life, even Thomas who hit it every day began to think nothing of it, and one spring morning, as he was tending the shit-fire, all went black.

Kate and Claire were the first to arrive, and the roof of the cottage was blown clear off. Dust and fire consumed the beams, and the stone was charred like death. The mine was gone, and in its place was a giant hole in the bedrock. Claire darted off in the direction of the cat and Kate charged in. Smoke and book leaf floated in the air, and the men behind began to frantically dig through the rubble. Everything but the stone walls was destroyed: the books, the table, the picture, his pipe. Everything. Kate was clawing and miserably dirty. It was over. Nothing was left.

Claire came up with the cat and mommy fell to her knees crying. There was nothing to do but leave.

Kate would never make that walk again. Once, a happy trail on the beach was now grey and depressing. He was gone. They were gone, too. All the way back to their house they were in quiet despair.

From far off Thomas saw it all. He whipped in the direction of the blast, and his solitary speck on shore was now a plume of black and smoke. He was especially far off, but he knew what happened. Rodney saved him. No, God saved him.

“Message received, Lord. It’s time.”

In minutes he pulled in his gear and headed in. From still far off he saw the commotion, and everyone was so worked up that they did not see him or the boat. The cat must be dead, so he decided in a moment that he would not go back there and headed instead straight to Kate’s house. He landed on her shore and took up his fish. And the people, just coming back, gasped and feinted at the sight of him. From all corners the town watched as he knocked on the door.

Kate did not want to answer. She did not want anything. But the knock came again, and again, un-mercilessly persistent. Finally she had had it. She stormed to the door, dirty and miserable and swung it open.

There he was. Wool, boots, fish; everything.

“There’re some people I want you to meet,” he said.

And she collapsed into his arms.

THE END.

This story was written based on true events. I visited Scotland in 2005 after returning from a tour in Iraq, and visited a sleepy little Scottish town. There, at the edge of the world, I came across a stone cottage that the locals told me about. Sometime years ago, a man lived in the cottage and a World War II depth charge had washed up in his front yard, which was the North Sea. Not knowing what to do with it, he went about his life for years until it literally exploded, blowing the tin roof off of his home. He decided to move away and did not return.

When I arrived, I made it a point to visit the cabin and take a picture of what was left of it. Indeed, it was just as it was then: roof in pieces, and everything destroyed inside. The picture I have included is the cottage: a typical empty stone dwelling that is all too common to see in Northern Scotland.