Free Lumière (The Illumination Paradox) by Jacqueline E. Garlick

lab report. The officials in attendance ruled the Vapours had overcome him. But I never believed it to be so. Mother never believed it either, though she remained silent, I know she didn’t, I could see it in her eyes.
    I stare up at the Vapours pooling in the distance, over the top of the ridge. There was never any evidence found to suggest my father was asphyxiated. And he died in early spring, not late summer.
    “There we are.” Urlick’s voice breaks my train of thought, followed by a startling CLUNK. A clangor of gears churns inside the lock until the door finally pops open. A blinding ejection of steam gives way to a dimly lit corridor. Butane-dipped torches dot the sides of mud walls. Grease-lacquered puddles spot the floors.
    “This is it?”
    Urlick smiles, says nothing, and my heart jerks in my chest. I can’t see myself living in such a place, even if it is only temporary. I’m a girl, not a worm.
    Urlick reaches inside, plucks a torch from the wall, and with his other hand summons me to follow. I gulp down the clump of anxiety that’s just rushed to my throat, and reluctantly follow. I shiver, my pupils blooming as I step across the threshold into a puddle, cold water flooding through the stitches of my boot.
    Urlick sloshes his way gingerly up the dark corridor in front of me, his head wreathed in a halo of torchlight. I follow close behind, ducking and darting, hurdling new puddles, fending off spider webs. I know it sounds silly, but I long to take his hand, to feel the warmth of something familiar, though I barely know him.
    I don’t know what I find more disturbing, the cramped state of this chamber, its lack of light, or the abundance of millipedes dropping into my hair. Moments later we come to another door, and I can say I’ve never been so glad to see one. Hopefully it will lead somewhere more civilized than this. It’s round and made of metal like the one outside, only this one glows green and smells like aged copper.
    Urlick swings his torchlight past the cogs on the lock, revealing a thick coating of rust. “Hold this,” he says, passing me the torch. He peels off his coat, tossing it to me as well. I can’t help but notice his coat smells strangely like rosewood and cinnamon, though by the look of it, I’d expect it to smell more of tobacco and chimney soot.
    He rolls up his sleeves, sets his stocky legs shoulder-width apart, and throws his full weight onto the crank, biceps bulging, quads straining, ropes of muscle rippling beneath his forearm skin. His milky hands glow pink against the rusty crankshaft, his long dark locks dampening with sweat. At last the gear begins to creak, jittering slowly at first, then racing wildly around. Urlick falls forward, choking on the waft of steam that pours from the opening door. If getting in was this much trouble, I can’t imagine how much trouble it is to get out .
    Urlick pushes aside the door, his pink eyes shimmering in the tiny column of light which floods through the opening. “After you.” He motions for me to enter, backhanding the sweat from his brow.
    I bite my lip and peek around him into the stiflingly tiny room beyond. A sour taste invades my mouth. This room is in no way more civilized.
    “You all right?” he asks, his mouth pulled tight with concern.
    “Quite. Thank you,” I lie.
    Turning sideways, I thread past him, careful not to catch my drapery afire on the torch now burning again in his hand. Gooseflesh blossoms on the back of my neck as my shoulder blades brush across the front of him.
    The room is small all right, incredibly small; in fact, I could easily reach all four walls from where I stand. A scaffold of cedar braces and pillars supports the earth from collapsing in at the sides, held together by massive bolts. It appears to be an elevator shaft, if I’m not mistaken, much like that found in old abandoned coalmines. Above my head, the ceiling climbs endlessly. Below, a plank platform masks a bottomless pit.
    Urlick