Go to sleep

Death of the sandman

“Where are we going?” Her sweet little voice so out of place, so lost in the mine, deep down in the darkness.
Father held a light and Mother followed it. Insomnia shuffled her feet and hung back. Mother clutched her hand and kept the same steady walking pace.
“I can’t keep cuddling you any more,” said Mother, a sadness to her words. “I can’t make you sleep by cradling you all day every day.” Then in a whisper. “And I can’t let you stay awake.”
“I want to go home,” said Insomnia. Fear shook her voice, or anger, or both and she continued until they were deep underground, until they walked away and her voice dwindled into the distance, until she was too far away to hear.
Water gushed in through the main tunnel, filled the twists and turns, the cavernous holes, the cracks, each nook and cranny, before turning to ice, as hard as iron and beyond freezing.
“You do know that she must never get out, don’t you, Slumber?”
Mother’s gaze stayed on the ice till the mine was full. Slumber held her hand, nodded in reluctant agreement and bid a silent goodbye to his sister.
**
The fog of early morning usually hides the abandoned mine, a thick misty blanket swirling over its faded signs and crumbling walls, crawling towards the entrance to the fjord…Usually. Today is different, the mine is already visible.
“Spring comes earlier each year, does it not?” says Sharp, looking to the fjord entrance, a broken maze of flat bergs and sloshing water. “The snow is normally solid still, for another month or more.” He perches his large frame on an ice-covered rock.
Slumber is more interested in seeing if the ice has melted around the mine’s entrance. He holds the spyglass against his left eye, a ring of cold against his skin and squints through the glass.
“It does,” he says. “As it has always done in the past, just a little quicker this time.”
“Can she get out do you think?” There is apprehension, a little fear in Sharpe’s voice. “Only, last time. I don’t know if we can all go through that again. We barely escaped …”
“I buried her deep this time.” Slumber removes the spyglass, a rush of cold breeze taking its place and he winces, smiles. “Very deep, and the water will keep her there, bar her way. She can’t get out.”
“But warmer winds thaw more of the ice each year. The tide knocks at the mine door now.”
“It will be fine,” says Slumber.
He hopes.
***
“I don’t want to go to bed,” says Mira, jumping up and down along the length of the settee, one small hand on top of the back for balance. “I’m staying up. All night, till morning.”
“We’ll see about that, young lady.” Mother’s voice isn’t too harsh, after all, she blames herself, three portions of chocolate pudding is enough for any five year old but Mira had smiled broadly, asked so sweetly. “Oh, go on then, just this once,” and Mother had given in.
Now Mira is bouncing, full of sugar and additives and too much energy for her own good.
“I am,” she insists. “All night.”
Mother tuts, raises her eyes. “Roll on Sandman time.”
“I’ll tell him to go, I will, I’ll tell the Sandyman that I’m staying awake forever.”
Mira’s giggle is infectious and Mother smiles, lifting the remnants of a half-drunk cup of cocoa, a fruitless attempt at wooing sleep with a warm milky drink, taking it into the kitchen. She rinses the dregs, stands the cup on the drainer and is drying her hands when Mira’s screams send a chill.
**
“What do you think it is, doctor?” Mother asks as the man winds bright white strips of sterile cloth around Mira’s head. The screaming had been replaced by crying then whining and now she whimpers, snuggled under a thick fleecy cover Mother had sewn for her last winter. It has taken more than a couple of hours but Mira has finally stopped clutching at her eyes.
“Will she be blind?” says Mother, hoping she wasn’t for the poor child’s sake but still noting what a handful Mira would be if she was. “Will she?”
“Tests.” The Doctor stands up straight, pushes thin wiry glasses to the top of his nose with one finger and pulls out his notebook. His face is aged, wrinkled and his voice has a wheeze to it. “We’ll need to do tests. Blood tests, xrays, urine sample, did I say blood tests?” He licks the end of a stubby pencil and begins to write.
“Blood tests?” says Mother. “But she has something in her eyes. Why does she need blood tests?”
“Are you a doctor?” he asks, tutting loudly and shaking his head. “Are you? Well are you?”
He walks through the door before Mother has chance to answer, leaving her gawking with her mouth open by Mira’s bedside.
“Blood tests,” he says before slamming the door behind him.
**
Sharp treads quietly along the snow-covered paths between houses, a lantern in his gloved hands casting its yellow glow through the night around him. He bends his head at doors and windows, noting the silence before moving on.
“All in the land of nod,” he says after he returns to the side off the fire he'd occupied earlier. “Safe and sounds, safe and sound. Think I’ll read my book a while.”
He leans his head against the fireplace and yawns before the book is even opened.
“Nothing out of the ordinary?” says Slumber.
“Like what?” Sharp watches the sandman clean his telescope. “Should there be something?”
“No, nothing,” says Slumber. “Just checking.”
“And is there a reason for suddenly checking when you never do normally?”
“None at all,” he says, pasting a smile.
He reaches into a small material bag attached to his belt, holds out a hand, turning it over, long fingers uncurling. He blows the dust from his palm Sharps way, watches his tired eyes slowly disappear below closed eyelids, the book slipping gently from his grip.
**
Sharp points to a whole fish laid out on its side on a tray of chopped ice, its beady eye as clear as it had been when it was still alive an hour earlier. He is part way through explaining that no, he doesn’t want it gutting as he can manage that when he notices other market goers looking his way, some pointing, shaking heads and wagging fingers.
“Is that it?” Mister Cole asks, his voice not as chirpy as usual, not as friendly.
“Have I done something?” Sharp asks, putting his fish away, ready to beat a hasty retreat if need be.
“Not you,” says Mister Cole. “But, now you mention it …”
**
Sharp half-says, half-whispers the words, as though it is some secret. “They were all saying it,” he says. “Not just the odd one, every one of the three Ashfield girls, all of them said the same.”
“All of them?” Slumber repeats, glancing sideways with a surprised look.
Sharp nods. “They all say it was you who blinded them, who threw something other than sand in their eyes. I know you didn’t, of course.”
“Of course,” says Slumber.
“Well, I told them all how wrong they were,” says Sharp, “but, if you didn’t … then … who did?”
**
Slumber walks along the icy ground of the tunnels, darkness surrounding him and the glow of the lantern he carries. Water, like countless dripping taps trickles down dank walls of leftover cryolite granules and grey rock. He’s walked these tunnels years before, his sister in front, Mother clutching her hand, the sobbing from both. She was never supposed to be able to get out. There’s no mistake though, the light from the lantern colours the empty cell walls a dull yellow.
“Empty,” says Slumber, as though it has come as a surprise.
“What else did you expect?”
A voice startles him and he turns, already knowing who it belongs to.
“You’re out,” he says and the woman laughs, no longer a child but no safer a person, dark eyes, dark soul.
“Well of course I’m out, well spotted little brother. I would say nice to see you again but it isn’t.”
“How?”
“It doesn’t really matter, does it. What matters is what happens next.”
“Which is what?” Slumber asks, a little wary.
“Surely you know the answer to that,” she says.
He does but stays quiet.
“I’ve been locked up for so long, now it’s your turn.”
She steps aside, waves a hand towards the cell’s door.
“No,” he says, shakes his head. “This is where you should be. I have work to do, people to get to sleep …”
“Don’t worry,” she says, twisting the key. “I’ll be taking care of them all for you.”
**
“What are you looking at old man?” Insomnia has a voice that’s low, deep, a voice that would comfort if it wasn’t so evil.
Sharp shakes his head, looks away.
“I’m talking to you,” she says, tossing Sharp’s beloved books onto the fire. “You’ve always helped my brother, have you not, a faithful servant so I gather. Well, far be it for me to stop your good deeds. Now you can help me.”
“Do what?” Sharp can’t keep the quiver from his voice.
“Why, keep all these people awake, of course.”
“Awake!” Sharp raises his voice. “No, no, not awake. The land of nod, they all need to go there. It’s sleep time.”
“When I’m here, it’s never sleep time,” says Insomnia.
**
Eva yawns.
“I’m so tired,” she says, back of her hand to her mouth.
She leans against the waist-high workbench, its top littered with broken rocks that glitter slightly when the light catches them.
“Back to work,” says a harsh voice, a dark shadow falling over her from one of the wide-awake people.
They patrol between the rows of benches piled with broken rocks, keep people working.
“But we’ve been breaking these into pieces all day,” she says.
Insomnia startles Eva by whipping the back of her legs with a swishstick. The girl howls in pain and clutches at the thin material of her dress. “And you’ll carry on. Get back on it.”
Insomnia’s flanked by two wide-awakers who tower menacingly above the workers.
A woman with a young child peering around her side takes a step forward. “This isn’t fair,” she says. “We can’t go on. Three days we’ve been cracking rocks so far, the mine is supposed to be closed. We were told all the crystals were gone.”
“Well, I’m telling you they’re not.”
Insomnia gives a quick flip of the swishstick in the air, making a cracking noise.
A man lays a hammer down on the workbench with a thud.
“All the good bits are,” he says. “We all worked on the mine when it was open and working. All that’s left are the tiny bits, not good for anything.”
“There is one thing,” says Eva. “Cleaning powder, they did make some towards the end, before the mine closed, when the big bits were gone but they stopped using it when they found out how dangerous it was.”
“Dangerous?” The woman pushed the child further behind her skirt as though it’s thin material somehow protected her. “How?”
“Poisonous,” says a small man, who points a finger at Insomnia. “And she knows it’s poisonous.”
“Of course I do.” Insomnia laughs. “What good is it to me otherwise.”
“You’re poisoning people?” They ask. One woman puts her hand to her mouth in shock. “Is it us, are you poisoning us?”
Sharp appears beside Insomnia, cheeks red from anger.
“She’s poisoning everyone,” he says. “And blinding them, throwing the dust in their eyes. Not just that, she’s blaming it on the sandman.”
Insomnia laughs. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
**
“Is there really nothing, like she says?” asks Sharp.
He swings a lantern in the gloom of the mine, casting a pale light over the sandman.
“We can always do something,” says Slumber, his voice soft, gentle. “It’s just a matter of figuring out what it is. She belongs in here, where she was put.”
Sharp pulled a face.
“But won’t she just get out again when spring comes each year and the entrance thaws?”
Slumber speaks slowly, as though thinking.
“Not if she’s sleeping.”
“But, but, I thought she couldn’t sleep.”
“There’s a way…”
**
Mira closes the window and fastens the catch.
“Why can’t I sleep with the window open, Mummy?” asks a sleepy five year old Rosy.
“You said Grandma used to leave it open every night for you when you were a little girl.”
“That was to let the Sandman in,” said Mira, a faint smile at the remembrance of it all.
“To get you to sleep.”
“Yes, that’s it.”
She’d told her daughter the story many times before.
“Why can’t I see the sandman?” says Rosy.
Mira swished the curtain shut.
“Because he doesn’t exist any more.”