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Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Each swing of the pickaxe is a beat, their rhythms combining into a melody. Pauses are interwoven in the piece as the miner stops to light a torch and catch his breath. This isn’t light work for a man of his age.
But he never could bring himself to give this up. While the redstone he extracts may end up in the pockets of the council for who knows what reason, the branch mines themself are his to admire, and he thinks of them as his home.
Thunk. Thud thud. Thunk. Thud thud.
Another instrument adds its own harmonies to the song, as rapid footsteps approach, slowly increasing in volume.
The miner pauses his swinging as the footsteps stop close enough for him to hear ragged breaths. He turns, taking in the sorry sight before him. A young man stands hunched over, hands upon his knees, brown hair caked with dust, mouth hung open as he gasps for air and instead breathes mostly redstone. There is dirt beneath his fingernails, and what looks like a bit of blood too. Or maybe it’s just some redstone from the air.
“I need to get through,” The man states in a manner that could be mistaken for arrogance though is really desperation. After a second of no response, he snaps, “Now!”
“I’m afraid you can’t do that,” The miner calmly responds.
The man explodes at him, “What do you mean I blummin can’t?! They said you could help me!”
He hesitates, “...The council, you mean? I don’t exactly play by their rules, could you repeat what they told you?”
“Course I mean the blummin council,” The man coughs, body still clearly adapting to the dirty air of the mines, “I was given coordinates to the entrance of this mine, and was told you’d be able to get me out of the city.”
“I see,” The miner believes he understands what has happened here, “Well, by standing here with me you are outside of the city limits. Quite a distance outside, even. The problem is, this is where the tunnel stops, and it's the furthest one of all the branches. How did you manage to find me down here, by the way?”
“Followed the sound of your pickaxe,” He tells the miner, having thankfully mellowed out a little, “It’s surprising how far sound can travel in these mines. And I was thinking, as I ran, about the mundane part of my life. I used to play the drums quite a decent bit, and I guess your pickaxe hitting the stone sounded almost like a beat.”
The miner gives him a sympathetic look, “What’s your name, kid?”
“B-” He stops himself, blinks his eyes, and says, “Joel. What’s yours?”
He chuckles, “Why don’t you take a seat, Joel?”
“I can’t stay long, if there’s no way for me to escape through here,” Joel slumps slowly down the rough stone until he’s sitting.
“Well, stay as long as you need, and in the meantime I’ll be getting back to work.”
Joel stares at him through the slight reddish haze, “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m running from?”
The miner smiles, deep and thoughtful, “Do you even know the answer to that question?”
Fingers wrap around the sturdy handle of a pickaxe, and Joel responds to his question only with a grunt.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Thunk. Thud thud. Thunk. Thud thud.
Joel inhales sharply.