Who's Afraid of the Knockerman?

Written for the Writers Anonymous Comfort Zone Challenge. Discworld belongs to Terry Pratchett. Thanks to Finlay for beta reading.

The collapse came like an earthquake, rumbling, growling and making the mountain shudder. Rocks rained from the ceiling. Rocks crashed onto the tunnel floor. Rocks buried the dwarf who had walked in front of Cuddy. A rock bounced off his helmet and the impact flung him against the wall, stunned. He crouched down and raised his arms in an attempt to shield his face. Another rock shattered his lamp and just before the last flicker of light was extinguished, he saw that the entire tunnel ahead had caved in. In the darkness, the riot of the stones filled the universe.

By the time it occurred to Cuddy to touch his neck and count his heartbeats to get some idea of the rock fall's duration, it had already lasted longer than any such disaster he had ever experienced. He felt dust coating his face, felt the wall behind him trembling. A stone hit his shoulder and the pain was dull and throbbing, another impact, this time on his shin, sent a roaring pain surging up his leg. When he had counted nearly a hundred heartbeats, the noise eventually rumbled away into silence.

Suddenly aware that he had been holding his breath, Cuddy gulped in air and nearly choked. He held a hand over his nose so he wouldn't draw too much dust into his lungs. After his lamp had gone out, he had shut his eyes, and now he kept them closed, because whatever dust floated about in the tunnel would not do them any good. He remained in his crouched position and tried to assess the damage to himself. The shoulder was not too bad; it hurt, but he could move it and his exploring fingers found no tell-tale dampness from blood, so it might only be bruised. His leg, he feared, was broken. Gingerly, he reached out with his hand, prepared to feel a soggy mess of smashed flesh and fabric or, worse, a piece of bone sticking out through the trousers. There was, however, no blood here either and the line of his shin appeared straight to this touch all the way down to his foot. He tried to wriggle his toes. They pushed against the inside of his boot.

Not broken then. If he but waited a while, the pain would subside and he would be able to walk away, crawl away if need be, from the site of the accident.

The other dwarf was dead. Cuddy had seen the size of the rocks that had come tumbling down on the poor fellow. His name had been Ronny Ironshoe, a quiet, circumspect miner who always carried extra rations of food in his pack. Cuddy had not known Ronny well, and he thought more that he ought to feel distressed about his death than actually entertaining such feelings. It was probably the shock. Grief would come later.

Cuddy listened. The silence was unnerving. All the usual sounds of the mine, the hammering and scraping and clonking which carried up and down along the tunnels, were missing. He hardly paid attention to them in the normal course of a day, but now he became aware of their absence. And there were other sounds he strained to hear and didn't, the sound of calling voices, of running footsteps. The sound of rescuers. He was alone.

From his pack, he pulled the hand bell designed for such emergencies and began to ring it. He swung it with his right hand while his left continued to cover his nose. There was less dust hanging in the air now but still enough to irritate his throat.

He rung the bell until his arm began to cramp, half an hour, perhaps longer. No response came. Eventually, Cuddy put the bell away and decided to get up and rescue himself. He found that his injured leg hurt too much to walk on, so he crawled on his good leg and his hands, dragging the other leg behind. Slowly, he made his way along the tunnel, with one hand checking the wall beside him. This was a very deep level. If nobody else was around, it would be a long and lonely way up.

Or so he thought. What he found, though, only a few minutes after he'd set off, was a lot worse. He'd kept straight to the wall of the tunnel so he shouldn't have bumped into anything, but when he pushed his head forwards, his helmet hit something solid. He stretched out his hands. It was a boulder. And another next to it, and then another, and one on top, and more when he reached up, and then the icy certainly gripped him that there had been not one rock fall but two and that he was trapped between them.

No way out. Cuddy slumped against the wall to consider this. Sooner or later, they'd come for him. Or if not for him, then to restore the tunnel, which led to one of the most promising seams in the mine. Sooner or later, dwarves would clear away the rocks with their diligent pickaxes. Sooner would be good. It was the Later that worried him. How long could he last? He had a small metal flask of water in his pack and a couple of apples. And dwarf bread. There was always dwarf bread. Every miner carried it. His was a comely round loaf which his mother had forged for him when he had first started mining. It had raisins in it somewhere, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to get them out.

Cuddy had become a miner because he came from a mining family. It was What You Did. He'd never felt much enthusiasm for this way of life, but it was hard for a young dwarf to gainsay his parents. Sitting as he did in the pitch dark with a pile of rocks ahead and his colleague buried under rubble somewhere behind him, Cuddy began to feel that he should have been more assertive. Would he have wanted to disappoint his parents though? He was their only child.

In any case, there was nothing to be done about it. Nothing to be done at all, apart from wait. He decided it would be a waste of energy to ring the bell unless he heard some actual signs of working dwarves in the vicinity. Dwarves, with their iron shoes and booming voices, were not exactly famous for their stealth. If he couldn't hear them, they couldn't hear him.

The silence remained as pervasive as the darkness, or perhaps he had just gone deaf and blind. Either way, touch was his only source of information. Maybe the rocks didn't reach all the way to the ceiling. Maybe there was a gap at the top where he could squeeze through. He'd rest for a while and once he had his strength gathered, he would try to climb up and check. His leg didn't hurt so much anymore. It should be possible after a little rest. Sleep would be best. He rolled up his beard as a pillow, lay down on his side and, pointlessly perhaps, closed his eyes.

After a while, he sat up again and shook his head. It was ridiculous to be afraid of the dark. He was a dwarf. Darkness was in his very blood. And yet… Never had he seen darkness so complete, so all-encompassing. Lingering darkness, yes, darkness eased by a candle or a lamp, this he'd been used to all his life, but it was never fully dark in dwarven living quarters, at least some little shimmer of light always crept in under the door, and mining dwarves always carried their trusty lamps. Here and now, though, it was as if light has never existed.

And then he thought of the knockerman.

He wished he hadn't. His adult self knew, of course, that the knockermen were highly respected dwarfs doing the very perilous job of seeking out pockets of dangerous gases deep in the mines. His adult self knew that their garb of overlapping leather pieces that covered their whole bodies including the heads was for protection. But when he had first seen one as a child, he had screamed with terror at the dark figure without a face and it had haunted his nightmares for years to come. His parents had explained, had told him stories of brave knockermen, had pointed out what an honour it was to have a knockerman in the family and had tried to make him understand why they were grieving as cousin Luk set out for the first time, for a knockerman was to his family as one who was already dead.

All the talking had been in vain. Young Cuddy had continued to dream of the knockerman who was coming to get him. Only years later had he outgrown his fear. And now, in this black prison, he found himself thrown back to his childhood nightmares. The knockerman. What would he do if the knockerman came?

He punched his arm and told himself not to be such an idiot. If a knockerman came this way, it would be a good thing, because he would report the collapsed tunnel and then other dwarves would come to rescue Cuddy. There was no point in being afraid of the knockerman. Still, it seemed clear that he would get no rest at the moment. He probably wasn't tired enough. He might as well try to climb up the rocks straight away.

The tunnel, if he remembered rightly, was a little more than twice his height. Even in the darkness, it shouldn't be a difficult climb, not if the rocks were piled with a slope as they obviously were. Cuddy rubbed his hurt leg, bent and stretched it and found it reasonably usable. He stood up and explored the fallen stones with his hands. They seemed wedged together solid and he could feel several ledges where he'd be able to put his feet. Very carefully, he pulled himself up and began to climb, putting as little weight as possible on the sore leg. He flinched when a rock slid under his foot, but it must have been only a small one. Nothing else moved. A few more steps and his helmet clonked against the ceiling. He felt around. No gap here. Slowly, he moved over to the left, then to the right. Nothing. The rockslide filled the tunnel all the way to the top.

Cuddy sobbed. The sudden outburst surprised himself. He pressed a hand over his mouth, then he gingerly descended. He would wait. They would come. They would.

Meanwhile, he could try to find out if there was perhaps any other exit, some air shaft he'd not noticed as he walked past, or perhaps a tool store. If he had a pickaxe, he could try and free himself. Even a shovel would help.

He began to inch along the tunnel, moving his hand up and down as he went along to feel for anything that might be of use. On this side, there was nothing but the bare wall. After sixty-three paces, he arrived at the place where the rockslide had come down on Ronny.

How had Ronny died? Had a rock cracked his skull, snapped his spine, crushed his chest? Had he been lying under that pile of rubble broken, but still breathing? There hadn't been the slightest noise, not even a whimper, after the rock fall had stopped. He must have been instantly dead.

Cuddy lingered a while and recited in his mind some words of respect for Ronny. There was a myth sometimes told to dwarf children that dead miners returned to the stone from which all dwarves were made, but Cuddy knew all too well about the frailty of bodies. Only a year ago he had helped to pull the corpses of two miners from a collapsed tunnel where they had been trapped for a fortnight. Whenever he remembered the smell, he still felt like retching. He quickly moved on.

The other side of the tunnel was just as featureless. It didn't take long to return to the second rock pile. His prison was big enough so that he wouldn't have to worry about air, but it contained nothing useful at all, not even a dead rat. Waiting was all he could do. He pulled his flask out of his pack and took a sip of water. A desire seized him to gulp down the whole lot, but he forced his hand to lower the flask. It was only a small flask. He'd have to make it last. He wouldn't touch the apples yet, not until he felt desperate. There was no telling how long it would take them. But they would come. Surely they would come.

His straining ears still discerned no sound whatsoever. He peered into the solid darkness until his eyes hurt. How long was it since he and Ronny had set off? Even if the rockslide hadn't been noticed on the upper levels where most dwarves worked – but how could it not have been noticed? – they would come down to search if the two dwarves didn't report back from their shift.

After a while, he thought he heard voices. They were murmuring low, he couldn't make out what they were saying. Was that a light? Of course, yes, the whole tunnel was lit by torches that flickered orange against the walls. And there, at the far end of the tunnel, he saw a figure walking towards him, a big, conical figure with strange, swaggering walk. It was the knockerman! The knockerman was coming to get him!

Cuddy turned and ran. His pack beat against his back, thud, thud, thud. Behind him, he heard a terrifying laughter. The knockerman was mocking him. There was no escape from the knockerman. Cuddy felt his steps slow, his feet sticking to the ground. He could lift them only with incredible effort. Behind him, he heard the knockerman getting closer. The tunnel ahead split into three. Cuddy didn't know which way to take. His feet became unstuck and he sprinted towards the junction. Just follow your nose, he thought and plunged into the right hand tunnel. This was a mistake, though, as he found when he sank up to the knees into a greenish slime. The knockerman was getting closer. The knockerman was nearly upon him. The knockerman towered over him and –

Waking up was not much of an improvement. Once the initial relief had worn off, Cuddy remembered his predicament. Had he slept for hours or only a few minutes? Judging by his aching muscles, it must have been quite some time. He felt around until he found his pack and took another sip of water. His stomach growled. Should he eat one of the apples? No, better wait.

He leaned back against the wall. It was terribly hard not to think of the apples. When he eventually managed to urge his mind away from them, it turned to the mountain. How heavy it was, how, rigid, how silent. How he hated it. He tried to imagine how many feet he was below the inhabited levels. Way, way too many. The very air itself felt heavy down here. Silence and darkness merged into one, a clammy fist that held him with a merciless grip.

Doing nothing was almost as bad as seeing and hearing nothing. He took the bell and rang it again for as long as his arms held out. Then, worn out, he ate one of his apples. As soon as he had swallowed the last piece, he berated himself for his rashness. He should have kept them longer. He had no idea how long he had been down here, but even if he had slept for a good long while, it could hardly be more than half a day, probably less. They would come, very likely within the next few hours, because by now his absence would have been noted, but it could still take a long time to clear away the rubble. He'd be very hungry before this was over.

To reduce the temptation, he took his pack along to the other end, then he came back and took up his previous position.

He sat, and later he curled up and lay, thinking how strange it was that a mere absence of sound could be so terrifying. His mind drifted and he may or may not have slept, though he kept being aware of the stone floor beneath him. Even later, he was sure that he must have slept, because the knockerman had haunted him again, albeit only from afar. He rose and walked, a hundred paces, a thousand paces, four thousand, seven thousand, backwards and forwards between two walls of rubble that stood silent and unmovable like the foundations of the disc. Why had they not come yet? How could they have forgotten him? He kicked against the rock pile with his iron boot and jumped back startled when a stone came tumbling down. But seconds later, all was still again.

He wanted to reach for his pack, because after all that walking he felt he needed a drink of water, and then he realised that he'd lost track of where he was in the tunnel. A spell of frenzied groping left him panic-stricken; without his water flask he wouldn't be able to last. He crawled and patted the ground, searching, searching, where was the blooming thing? At last he put his hand on the pack and burst into tears. He drank, he slept, he paced again, hugging his pack.

By now, he had lost all sense of time. His flask was almost empty and he couldn't remember when he'd been drinking all that water. Sleeping and waking blurred into featureless mush. When he felt sure that at least another day had passed, he ate the other apple.

After that, he took to pacing again, and he kept it up until he collapsed with exhaustion. He sank into a deep sleep, dreamless at first, but after a while confused images began to form. There was a wooden toy rat his uncle had given him for his birthday, it lived in a basket in his uncle's workshop and polished hammers. Dwarves whose faces Cuddy could not see hopped along on one leg and sang a song about chalk rather than gold. Then the dream melted like a wax candle and left only one thought: the knockerman was coming, somewhere, though he couldn't be seen…

When he came to again and realised that they still hadn't come, the thoughts of death which he had been keeping at bay so far broke free and flooded Cuddy's head. He would die. He would die alone and uncomforted by any familiar voice. He would die without a child to carry on his name. He would die without ever having seen the surface of the world, the strange realm of sunshine and green things. Without having travelled, as he had always dreamt, to the big city where a dwarf, they said, could walk with his head held comparatively high and make a mint every day. The big city. Ankh-Morpork. Cuddy didn't know when the wish to go there had first taken hold of his heart, but it must have been long ago, because he couldn't remember a time before. He would never see it now. He would never see anything again.

He wondered what it would be like to die. What would kill him? Lack of water, most likely. What did it feel like to die from thirst? Would he grow weaker and slowly lose consciousness, never to awake again, or would his innards twist and cramp in agony until his mind was blotted out? Would they find him eventually and haul his lifeless body up to the inhabited levels?

Suddenly he could picture it. The ropes that would tie his body to a stretcher, the solemn demeanour of the dwarves that bore him. People would be coming out of their homes and their workshops, they would be bowing their head and mumbling words into their beards. And his mother would be crying and his father…

Knock.

…would be trying to look brave but would…

Knock.

…probably cry, too, later and alone in his room….

Knock, knock.

…and they would have a dwarven wake, the kind they had…

Knock, knock, knock.

…when there was no body to be found and then….

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

The knockerman. The knockerman was coming, thought Cuddy dizzily, and then he was wide awake. That was no knockerman. That was the knocking sound of dwarf axes on the far side of the rockslide. They had come at last.

He grabbed his bell and swung it with all the strength he had left. Immediately, another bell responded from the other side. They had found him indeed. Now it was only a question of time. He moved back from the rockslide, in case any stones became dislodged, and found himself a smooth patch of ground to lie down. It would take many hours, perhaps even a day or two, but that hardly mattered anymore. He still had a few drops of water and there was always the dwarf bread. Waiting would be easy. He could sleep, and when he awoke he might already see gleams of light through tiny cracks between the rocks. Yes, he could sleep in peace now. It was all over bar the hacking.

One thing however, Cuddy thought, was for sure. Never again. He wasn't going to die trapped deep underground. As soon as he was out, he would go to Ankh-Morpork and seek his fortune.