My brother and I had risen with the sun. We followed the trailing snake of cap clad men as they made their way from the canvas walls of our temporary home to the work face. As always, we carried pick, Davy lamp and a pack. Several of the men carried rifles in case of wolves, but I tended to rely on my pick and the handmade knife I carried in a sheath on one hip. I watched my younger brother as he picked his way over the loose stone of the spoil heaps and smiled. It was good to have him with me, and there were a few other local lads from Morvah who had made the journey with us.

The line halted as everyone made their way under the low oak lintel forming the entrance to the mine, ducking as they entered, already stripping off extra layers as the warmth from the earth shrugged off the winter chill of the hills. Once we got to work face, many of the miners worked naked due to the heat.

"You didn't touch the charm," whispered Tom as I ducked into the mine.

"Superstitious nonsense," I replied laughing off my own fears. "The knife you gave me is the only charm I need. My hand dropped involuntarily to grab the bone and wood handle. It had saved us in New York when we'd been attacked by a gang, it was all I needed.

"Don't you remember what Aunty Zena said about offering a Gift to the Knockers?"

"Aunty Zena was full of old rubbish about Small People and Piskies, and all sorts of other nonsense."

"You need to watch your mouth, boy," noted one of the older Cornishmen from behind me. "Words like that will get us killed."

"Rubbish," I said again, but foreswore saying any more in the light of glares from the other men around me.

Apart from crouse, there was little time for banter other than during the walk in or out each day. When working, you cannot hear much other than the harsh sound of metal on rock, the occasional granite clatter of rocks being thrown into the wagons or warning shouts when larger blocks were being taken down and many of the older miners were stone deaf. My brother and I would share a mouthful from a canteen occasionally, but other than that work consumed the silence and the hours. It was the break for lunch that always gave rise to the subtle comments and humour between the men. My brother in particular was a born storyteller and regaled us with old tales he’d learned from Aunty Zena or Grandma Penberthy. The men would listen with rapt attention as he spoke of the Small Folk, the Mermaid of Zennor, knockers and pixies, of sprites dancing amidst the sea campions, and devils footprints in the snow.

We never dreamed others would come to listen.

We only realised something was amiss when the Davy Lamps sputtered, all of them, all at once. Thomas was in the middle of a story about the Wreckers of the Village of Beer as the light dimmed. The friendly orange glow of the lamps took on a blue tinge, the temperature plummeted, and St Elmo’s fire swept like liquid ice over our picks and shovels, coating the walls of the chamber in which we sat as our breath plumed in the sudden cold.

tap, tap

tap, tap, tap

tap, tap, tap, tap

Knocks of stone on stone. Rhythmic, hollow, redolent of eons of darkness, laced with the patience of stone. Two slow, three fast, four long and descendant.

tap, tap

tap, tap, tap

tap, tap, tap, tap

As the last of the Davy lamps flickered to nothing, they attacked.

Thomas had been sat with his back against the wall, I next to him, my eyes closed and head resting against the stone as I listened. The other men were ranged in a loose semi-circle facing the teller of stories. It was that which saved us initially and doomed the rest. The knockers tore into the outer ring of men, a blue tinged maelstrom of flickering light and darkness. Screams punctuated the near darkness and the sound of weapon on flesh precluded the iron smell of blood and fear. I grabbed my pick and saw several others do the same, but our foes were ephemeral, shifting shadows of spirit and legend. Real, yet barely there. My pick was struck from my hand and instinctively I reached for my knife. As the blade struck the air, a white glow pierced the gloom and the blue retreated. We were the only two left standing.

“What the hell is going on?” whispered Thomas hoarsely, his eyes wide with horror, his pick dripping black ichor, his face dripping blood. “Why is your knife shining?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care at the moment, they don’t like it, and that’s fine by me.”

“But what are they? Knockers?”

“They’re nothing but a legend. Whatever is there, we fight.”

- We may be legend little Cornish men, but legends are always based on truth, and belief will always engender reality -

A voice whispered into my head, seeming to come direct from the rocks themselves, and I turned to find a pair of glowing eyes a mere foot from my own. Shocked, I stumbled back into my brother who grabbed me by the arm in support, his mouth an open O of horror, face pale and sweating.

- You failed to offer a gift as you entered the mine. Your life and the lives of the others shall be gifted in forfeit -

I lifted the knife my brother had made, the light still shining like a beacon in the darkness.  

- You carry a gift. Give it to us -

I moved in front of my brother, holding the blade. "You can go to hell. Tom gave me this, made with his own hands."

- Made with love. The light of the gift of love is your only redeeming feature, men of Kernow.  Yet we still require payment;  blood will suffice... -

I had remained intent on the Knocker in front of me.  A muffled sound behind made me turn, only to find Thomas surrounded, an obsidian blade held at his throat, a buzzing cloud of indigo darkness hovering about him.

Holding my own shining knife by the blade, I offered the bone and wood hilt to the Knocker.  

You offer this as a gift?

"Take what you want, but don't kill my brother."

We will take a gift...

There was a rumble, rocks fell and I remember a shout of pain from Thomas.  Then everything went dark.

I awoke in utter darkness to find hands scrabbling at my clothing.  As I shied away, pain screamed through me and I groaned in agony.

"Oh, thank God. You're alive." The voice of my brother gave brief reassurance in the midnight dark of the mine, an assurance quickly stilled by the mind whisper of the knockers.

For now men of Kernow, for now.  Your family here, and in Cornwall has been marked.  We make no distinction between the past, the present and the future. Your gift is given, your family is known to us. We have seen your eyes through the generations and we will remember.  

tap, tap

tap, tap, tap

tap, tap, tap, tap

Your gift will show you home and one day another will come who knows us.

The silence and stone warmth of the mine returned, and brought with it a crushing despair.

"Thomas?"

“I’m here.”

“Are you able to stand.”

“I think so, but what do we do now?”

There was silence for a while, and after a few moments we both realised we could see.

“Why is your arm glowing?”

I looked down and saw a faint red glow in the dark, but it was only as I raised my arm that I realised what had been done to me. The knife, so carefully wrought by Thomas and given to me as a gift one Christmas, was embedded in my forearm, the blade casting a sickly blood red glow through the rent in my sleeve, the hilt standing vertical from my forearm. Thomas was holding a wound to his arm too, cradling one arm close to his chest.

It was light, we had to use it. There was no other source of illumination now the Davy lamps had been stilled. The blade slid free from the muscle and I clenched my teeth, hissing through the pain as the bright metal shone bloodily in the dark, our only talisman against the stygian gloom beyond.

~~

We were the only two to survive. A rockfall the mining company said, an unfortunate event brought on by the carelessness of the foreman who had died in the incident: a convenient fall guy who could no longer defend himself. Only the doctor who bound our wounds knew different, and he was so high on morphine I suspect he forgot about us within the hour. The knife in my arm had been the final stroke in a series of cuts. A crude stick man - or ‘stick knocker’ to be accurate - had been carved in my forearm using the gift of love given by Thomas.

He had been similarly marked. And as we sit here reminiscing, as we do from time to time, the last fifty years have not dulled the memory, the terror or the shadow holding us as a family. A cousin visited us last year from Cornwall: a youth last time we saw him, standing with his grandmother’s arm draped across his shoulders. He cried when he saw the scars mirroring his own, knew he wasn’t alone in the darkness any more. Yet how do you fight creatures which have no sense of time, or forgiveness?

The gift of blood has been given, and only the love of family and courage can provide some defence. Love is a light that can be used to fight the darkness.

New world. Old gods. Ancient fears. We have given the Gift, we continue to pay the price.

~~~ The End ~~~

Word Count 2500 ish - written for the second round of the Fantasy Smackdown, Nov 2013.

Author's Note

This one was a bit of a labour of love for me. One of the first stories I ever wrote, and the one that really got me thinking that I could actually 'do' writing was a short story called A Gift in the Dark (hit 'External Link' off on the right hand side if you're interested). It was centered around the Cornish tin mining industry and old legends of Knockers. Taking an idea from Neil Gaiman and his novel American Gods - what happens when old beliefs are transported to the New World, or New World as was in Victorian times? With the Knockers, who according to me, have little sense of time or position, you get darkness and a long memory.

The names Jago and Penberthy are very traditional Cornish names and I know several of each. Kernow is the old Celtic name for Cornwall and you still see it as you drive south into the County from Devon. I'm from Devon and I married a Cornish girl (who has a fair amount of Penberthy in her genes) so there's some good natured rivalry on occasions there. I'll happily admit that the Cornish do make the best pasties though =]

Smackdown Round 2 - Dark Fantasy Round - Rules Below
Briefly, dark fantasy combines fantasy with elements of horror. The term can be used broadly to refer to fantastical works that have a dark, gloomy atmosphere or a sense of horror and dread.

●Your entry must be written in the Fantasy subgenre Dark Fantasy.

●You must portray your main character's personality according to your given group

●Your story must be heavily influenced by your chosen setting and time period

●Your story must be between 2,000 and 6,000 words.

● Your group has no bearing on how you will be judged. The entries with the five lowest average scores will be eliminated at the end of this round.

This round ends at 23:59 GMT on November 17th, 2013

1. Group character personality/ego - Light must have a heroic main character.

2. Main setting - The place where it all happens.  Please select one setting where your story must be based. The picture are purely as a guide they don't need to be described.

city sewer,

Gold/silver mine,

castle,

snow-capped mountain range,

amazon forest,

ocean floor,

desert

3. Time period. please select one time period in which your story must be set

Viking Age,

Middle Ages,

Victorian Era,

Renaissance,

Ancient Greece

I was placed in the Light group and chose the mine and Victorian era.