The Hermit's Story by Rick Bass (best motivational books of all time txt) 📗

of the way of the handle, and by pulling as hard as he could, he was able to slowly make the first downward stroke on the mechanism, breaking it free of years of rust and sleep. The tracks were rusted, as were the steel wheels and axles of the little flatcar itself; but once he got that first downward stroke, the second stroke came easier. The flatcar seemed to lift slightly, and tighten and tense—as did Russell, on the third stroke, down, and the fourth, up.

The boxcar began to inch along, moving no faster than an old man walking crookedly. Slivers and flakes of orange rust, unseen by them, but scented, began to fall from the flatcar.

A slight breeze stirred her hair and cooled her sweat-damp skin. A lone spark tumbled from the front wheels. Sissy could feel the radiant heat from Russell’s work—she sat on the other end of the flatcar across from him, so that it was as if she were on the bow of a ship—and slowly, the breeze increased. It swirled her hair in front of her face, and passed cool beneath her arms. She listened to the groaning resistance of the rusty tracks beneath them—a sound like a cat yowling—and wished that she could see him.

More sparks began to spill from the steel wheels, trickling but then pouring from the wheels, so that the lower half of the tunnel, as well as the lower half of each of their bodies, was periodically illuminated as if by orange firelight.

Their passage became easier, faster, and the shower of sparks increased proportionately, her hair swirling all around her and the rooster tail of sparks rising higher around them, revealing in flickering orange light the cave walls; up past their waists, and then past their chests, and then the orange pulses of spark-light rose higher still.

The spray of light rose above their shoulders and finally their faces, so that now all of them was illuminated, as if they had been painted or even created by that light, and by the thunderous noise. As the cave walls raced past, they caught occasional glimpses of old artifacts from the other world: busted out carbon lamps, and pickaxes leaning fifty years against the walls as if the miners had stepped away for only a moment.

They were traveling thirty, forty miles an hour. Sissy leaned forward, peered intently into the onrushing darkness, unable to see beyond the sparks. It was if they were surrounded by a cage of sparks, fire bouncing all around them and leaving glowing ingots in their wake.

Sissy looked back at him—in his feverish, nearly demonic pumping, he seemed to be orange-afire, and as he looked down at her watching him, she seemed calmly likewise—and now the flatcar, the mechanics of its gearings and the momentum of its mass, entered some kind of glide.

The tunnel reverberated and the mountain sang, glowing with traces and movements of life once more—such a roar that it was as if they were gnawing or carving or even blasting their way out of the mountain; and as they hurtled onward, fearless of unseen brick walls or plunge-caverns below, swept by reckless frenzy and daring, Sissy had the slightly troubling feeling (despite her grin, as she leaned out into that black wind) that she was leaving something behind.

Russell was finally beginning to tire. He was slowing down, pumping only three or four times a minute, letting the cart glide and then slowing it to a coast.

A button of light appeared before them. They were confused, not knowing whether the light was above them, or directly ahead of them, or even below: they could no longer be sure now, save for the faint tugging of gravity, which way was up and which down.

As Russell slowed the cart further, the fountain of sparks fell lower, the wall of light fading from their waists and their thighs, until finally the flatcar was drifting so slowly that only their feet were illuminated by occasional bouncing crumbs of orange light.

Russell’s body was lathered with sweat; the cart coasted to a complete stop. His heart pounding as wildly as if he had a badger trapped in his chest, he lay down, trembly-legged, on top of Sissy, nestled in to the fit of her, laying his big head on her stomach, and rested. He was so hot that it seemed he might burn her.

They lay there for a long time. Sissy had the thought that he might harden in his cooled position as he slept, like something molten cast from a forge. She licked the dried salt from the hollow of his neck, then licked his chest, to awaken him, fearful that the button of light would disappear, and that they would not be able to find it again.

He sat up, stiff, and spit out a little blood, which he could taste but not see. He coughed again—splashed another spray of it across the walls, unseen—the silicosis, the lung-lattice of scars, clenching within him as his body realized where he was once again, as if in an allergic reaction.

They rested a while longer and then climbed down from the flatcar and began walking toward the light, once more holding hands. It was all she could do to keep from dropping his hand and racing toward that light.

The wind coming from behind them grew stronger closer to the cave’s exit. Sissy leaned forward—the dull light bright enough now for them to see vaguely the pale dull outlines of each other’s bodies—the ball of light was the size of a melon, and so close; again, she wanted to drop his hand and run—but Russell wanted to make love again, there at the edge of light, and so with a strange reluctance she let him pull her down to where he was sitting on the tracks, on the bed of ore. She was too sore to take him so he worked between her legs, and around the shape of her; as he kissed her, she could