The black mountain

The Black Mountain

 
As the rain poured down an hour before, it seemed as if the sky had split in two and the gods couldn't mend it. The heavy splashes fell on the roofs of houses, on trees powdered with blackness, and on grass covered with a thin layer of dust. Over the heads rushing to get to work. Over the dead leaves of late October. The rain was thirsty, furious, and swift, the drops hitting the ground with a resounding thud. The light was barely coming on; it was the sixth day in a row that the sky had cried in a dreary tone, adding to the gloom of the morning. The characters, yet to be introduced, felt a sense of melancholy as they prepared for the day. 
A few sleep-deprived mothers, their eyes heavy with fatigue, filled the stoves with coals. The cold, thundering chill had frozen the stones. The unhurried children, their small feet peeking out from under the warm duvet, hesitantly touched the cold floor. But the smell of eggs sizzling in the frying pan, tomatoes undercooked, bacon dipping in lard and mush helped get their blood going. They would sit at the table, eat heartily, as if for the first time or the last, then grab their bags and run out of the house, feeling warm and content. 
Two doors away were his dear friend Robert. He was the son of the local doctor, a small figure like most of the people who lived there. His coal hair was always slicked back on his head, and his short bangs were often cut by himself. For the past four autumns, he had worn the same grey-hooded-flannel jacket, a hood he rarely wore, his head covered by a cap pulled tight to his chin, from which a few hairs were saved. His gait was bouncy as if he used only his toes. Jeff and Robert, despite their differences, shared an unbreakable bond, a friendship that was a source of strength and joy in their lives. 
Jeff would always greet him with a new story, which made their journey somewhat shorter, and the stories were made up on the spot, based on his favourite book, Herge's Adventures of TinTin, based on Herge's popular comic books, in which a young reporter travels with his dog to different places in search of new stories. Jeff often imagines himself as the hero of the story, and on that day, more than ever. It was the last day of school, a day filled with anticipation and excitement, and a short but eventful vacation awaited him. They stopped at a boutique down the street, where they bought shrimp and sherbet, their beloved treats. They continued walking lazily to school, eating and stumbling, squishing bits of shrimp between their lips, their laughter echoing in the empty streets. 
Their cheeks were red, and the cold was down to their bones, but they didn't feel it, not when the joy in the eyes of two innocent children grew.
Thirty minutes before, near the school, they met the rest of their classmates. All friends. All neighbours. Many of them are heroic characters from Jeff's stories. Shortly after, they walked through the big door, waiting to close for a few days behind them. Yet, the kids didn’t know that this would be the last day they would cross the threshold of those memories. The last day of smiles, the last day of hugs, the last day they would see one of their favourite teachers: Mr Michael Davies. They left their clothes in their pegs, one after the other, and then went into the classroom for math, each going to his bench. 
Fifteen minutes before, the atmosphere was full of joy, good cheer and shyly thrown smiles. The teacher started mentioning their last names, and they promptly responded: here!
Five minutes before, Mr Davies turned his back to the already written blackboard. White notes were scrawled to start the class. 
Four minutes before, the bustle of notebooks removed from their cases and placed on the small individual wooden bench in front of them offered a feeling as lively as their innocent souls. 
Three minutes before, there was the first loud thundering sound, like a threat from above, like the sweet lure of a rescue, followed by a deep, shuddering, oppressive hoot. 
Two minutes before, everyone was staring out the small windows. Hearts began to beat without knowing why, beating for the last time with all their might, announcing to their hosts that they were there, in their chests, pumping blood into their veins, but for how long?
A minute before, the rain stopped. The gods had welded the scar, and no more tears flowed down the windows. Time stopped in that place, like a devil who delayed the moment of impact only to create more pain, more torment, to make everyone's hearts leap out of their chests, run detached, and hide somewhere in a corner where they would never be found. Then it sounded as if a huge plane was hovering right over the school, and its engine was in the classroom with them, propellers shattering the windows. They all heard it. Those close by. Those at a distance. Even God turned his head towards them, and the Gods were watching. They all put their hands to their mouths, making long, hoarse, unintelligible sounds. Tears streamed unceasingly down the faces of all who saw the demons running down the mountain. The children's screams were indistinguishable in the noise outside no matter how loud they were, and each one of them had a long, windswept robed figure shaped before his eyes, with a scythe on which he rested his palms, his face black and piercing, his nails long and sharp. 
Suddenly, nothing mattered. The mountain of coal raced like a madman towards all who watched, smashing windows with unreal speed, slamming into the bodies of children cowering beneath desks that, only minutes before, had their notebooks open, ready to close them and run out the school gates on an unforgettable holiday. But the demons had cornered them, swallowing several at once like fools with their big mouths. They split their bodies apart, the light faded, the noises grew muffled, the pain numbed then vanished utterly, and the memories all left them, going into the souls of the living, those who still breathed and wept for them. The village had been swallowed up, and all that was left behind was a thick, black smoke. It was the death. It was death. Shock rose in all who witnessed the horror paralysing them, gripping their legs tightly to keep them from going forward, breaking their vocal cords to keep them from crying out for help, leaving their hands bleary from gesticulating, and freezing their tears. 
‘Call for help!’ The voice of a short man came, still wearing his helmet with the light on. 
Like barely activated robots, the people came back to life. They were running in one place with one goal: rescue. In the first few minutes, which for many passed like hours, they began digging with bare hands into coal, rubble and gravel as they cried, screamed and shouted children's names where there was a school not long ago. 
‘My babies, where are you? I cannot find you!’
The headlights of several cars flashed in the soul-eating steam. The helpers were there. Everyone was digging with what they could and what strength they had left. Everyone's face was wet. They were all stained with fog. They all felt their hearts in their throats. 
Suddenly, a lost echo made itself heard. A child had been found in the sea of the dead. A child still breathing, barely breathing and lost, but breathing. Wounds had grown all over his body; his clothes were torn. On his left shoulder, a classmate's head had found its eternal sleep. Her eyes were wide open as if she was asking the boy: Why didn't you protect me? Why didn't you hug me? Why do I see only darkness?  Her hands and feet were pinned, trapped under the table, between the bars of the bench, and the girl's body was nowhere to be found. It took four firefighters to free him. Jeff had seen the light. Picked up to be carried to the ambulance, he managed to swallow, but his throat and mouth were so dry, smeared with coal mist, that when he spoke, pain shot through his entire body.
‘Have I gone to hell?’
He was patted on the crown of his head, then left in the hands of the doctors, but not before he was answered:
‘You have been, but I plucked you out.’
A few minutes later, three more children were found. Three survivors. The rest was just death everywhere you looked. Their parents were still calling their names. They fell to their knees in pain and continued digging into the coal mountain. Their fingertips bled, strips of skin peeled from their knees, tears continued to roll down their dirty cheeks, and they haven't stopped since. There was no reason for them to stay hidden in their lair. 
‘Take me, leave him! He's only six. God, have mercy!’ cried a mother with her arms open to the sky. 
But there was no one to listen. Aberfan had become nothing but a mine, with rotting smoke coming out of it. The planks were insufficient. Whole columns of corpses lay strewn, filthy and dressed in two colours: red and black. Blood and charcoal. Some still gazed at the sky, others refused, but all found their sleep in the sea of gravel. They all sleep in the foothills. Night fell, but the turmoil and torment continued for many more hours. 
​Parents, siblings, and relatives gathered with broken hearts in the morgue. Nurses searched through the pockets of the innocents to identify objects so that the parents could lead their infants to their final resting place. Dozens of tables full. Hundreds of broken hearts, cries for help, searing pain and frightened palms were fearfully touching the child that belonged to them for fear that it would hurt after death.
All that was left of Aberfan was a shadow, a rubbish dump where notebooks, books, benches, writing tablets, furniture and more were thrown. Nothing could be recovered. All those left behind yearned for one thing: to give back time.
​The day the village was dressed in black cut their souls in two. The main street was mired in shadows. Some leaned on sticks, others on their arms, and others could barely drag their feet. 
‘They just wanted to learn how to read,’ the choked voice of an old woman was heard. 
‘I lost my child and four grandchildren! I have no tears to weep for them all! I have no strength to say their names!’
They gathered together in the cemetery, where the graves of the dead held each other warm, forming a cross that even God could see. All around the boxes were laid flowers soaked with tears. Suddenly, the men took off their hats, bowed their heads and, in unison sang a farewell song:

"Jesus, lover of my soul

Let me fly to your bosom

As the waters close by roll away,

While the storm is still at sea.

I have no other refuge,

My helpless soul hangs on thee.

Please don't leave me! Please don't leave me alone!

Please support me and comfort me.

All my trust is in Thee.

All my help from You I have,

Cover my helpless head with the shadow of Thy wings."

​Days, weeks, years, Aberfan remained cloaked in mourning. In the stillness of the night, you can still hear the cries for help of the 166 victims, 144 of them children still crying out for their mother or father, distraught by the darkness around them, by the cold they felt more strongly than ever. 
‘Mommy, why don't you come?’ whispers can be heard from under the rubble engulfing the Pantglas Junior School and the children in nineteen houses.