Chapters It was in the early hours of the morning that Spark, after giving a secret knock, was admitted into a house near on the south-east side of the Horseshoe River estuary.
“I have a bicycle,” he whispered when the door opened.
“I thought you only found ‘em in museums,” murmured a voice in the darkness.
“Our ancestors must have been tough to ride such a machine,” responded Spark.
“Bring it in,” whispered the householder. “We often have Griffons sneaking through the garden to see what they can confiscate.” Spark lifted the bike over the threshold. The other stallion shut the door and bolted it. They had not met before. Spark knew that his name was Hooves, and that up to the time of the Griffon invasion he had been one of the engineers responsible for working the Horseshoe Tunnel pumps. He noticed a slight Appleachian intonation in the voice of Hooves. “I’ll turn on a light,” the engineer said. “There are no cracks in my shutters.”
He used a lighter and put the flame to the wick of a lamp that in Spark’s eyes, had a very old-fashioned appearance. Electricity was switched on only during working hours. “It’s an old railroad lamp,” said Hooves. “It burns oil. I have plenty of them hidden away.”
Up to the time of the invasion, Equestria’s railroad traffic was mostly confined to freight trains working on the main line. All the routes had been electrified, power being supplied from nuclear power stations. Air travel had assumed such proportions that passenger trains were few. Hooves was a man of middle-age. He looked at the bike with interest. They had not been seen on Equestrian roads for years. Their substitute was the scooter, powered by a long-service battery and completely enclosed in a cover of a transparent plastic.
“I’m sorry to wake you up,” Sparks said. “I’m on my way to Appleachia, and we have your name as a transit agent. Will I be able to get across the bridge?” He spoke about the great Horseshoe Bay Bridge that had been opened in 1980.
“I wouldn’t risk it myself,” said Hooves. “Your way across is through the Big Hole.”
“The Big Hole?” echoed Spark.
“The Tunnel,” Hooves replied. “It has always been called the Big Hole by railwaymen.”
Spark knew only a few facts about the Horseshoe Tunnel, which took fourteen years to construct, and was completed in 1886. It had a total length of four and a half miles of which nearly three miles ran under water. Because, near the east bank, there was a depression in the river called the Shoots, where the water was fifty feet deeper than anywhere else, the bore had to descend a hundred and forty feet so as to pass under it without danger of flooding.
Because of this the tunnel was steeply graded. There were long approaches to the portals through deep cuts. In normal times continuous pumping was required to keep the tunnel dry. “The Griffons think the Big Hole is completely flooded,” Hooves added. “but it’s possible to get through. We’d better wait until tomorrow night. I'll come with you.”
“I’m ready to sleep,” Spark replied.
“You must have something to eat before going to bed!” exclaimed Hooves. He moved across the kitchen towards the cupboard. It had a glass door. The cupboard looked bare. Empty shelves could be seen. But Hooves opened the glass door and Spark got a surprise. There was a deep recess in the wall, well stocked with food.
“It’s done with mirrors,” Hooves chuckled. “Plenty of Griffons have peered through the door and gone away thinking the cupboard was empty.”
“You've got plenty of food!” exclaimed Spark.
Hooves winked. “The Griffons had a bit of bad luck,” he said. “One of their barges happened to spring a leak and sink not far away.”
While they were eating, Spark asked Hooves what his job was.
Author's Note
What do you think?
Two afternoons later, after covering long distances on foot, Spark crouched in the shadow of a crumbling wall on hearing the muffled purring of an aircraft motor. He had just climbed a steep, bare slope and reached the ruins of a row of miners’ houses built on a terrace when the sound reached his ears.
Far below, in a valley bottom, was a pit head and the roofs of a small town. South Wales was unknown country to him. He knew Herdiff, Swansea and some of the coastal towns, but the rugged inland was unknown and surprising. From the time he had approached the heads of the valleys he had entered a region that seemed remote and cut off from the world. In the valleys, separated by the mountains, were the mines, the quarries and the steel mills.
On the lower slopes the ponies had lived in their terraced houses clinging to the hillsides. Then the bare slopes rose to the distant ridges. He caught sight of a large helicopter. It was hovering about a mile away over the valley. The sky was grey. The helicopter moved. Its rotors whirled. It climbed and drew nearer. Then it hovered again. It was painted red. The emblem of the Yellow Sword showed on the fuselage. Spark had very keen sight. He was able to read an inscription on the aircraft. The words were sinister. "Punishment Machine Number 7.”
The helicopter was actually below Spark’s observation post and the valley floor was six or seven hundred feet under the aircraft. A door in the fuselage opened and he saw figures in Griffon uniform pushing out a plank. He bit his lip hard. He could scarcely bear to watch.
A prisoner, with his hands bound, was lifted out of the helicopter on to the plank. He teetered a few inches. A Griffon jabbed at him with a long lance. The victim yelled something in Appleachian and then fell off the plank. He spun over and over in space and then his figure dwindled to a dot as he plunged towards the valley floor. A younger stallion was lifted on to the plank. He turned. With a sudden kick he lashed his foot into the face of a Griffon in the doorway and then toppled backwards into space.
Six prisoners in all were dropped from the Punishment Machine before the door was closed. The helicopter started to move in forward flight. The pilot kept close to the slope. It was going to pass fifty feet or so below Spark. It was more than likely that the Griffons were on the look out for people like himself who were in a “Forbidden Region.”
His eyes became calculating. He picked up four bricks that had fallen from the wall and were still held together by the crumbling mortar. He stood up straight. He carried the brick over his head almost like a quarterback about to throw a football. With a massive heave he, hurled the bricks into the air. Simultaneously he was seen.
He had a glimpse of the helicopter’s pilot pointing up at him. Then with a loud crash, the bricks fell among the spinning blades of the main rotor. The helicopter dropped on to the hillside with a huge crunch and, breaking up as it moved, rolled over and over down the slope, making scars in the thin turf.
“That’s put an end to some of the vermin, but there’s plenty more!” Spark muttered. Up to the time of the invasion some of the most modern coal mines had been working. Now, except for two or three to the west, all were shut down.
The Griffon High Command had decided that, as the valleys and the mountains of South Appleachia were too wild and lonely for easy control, the entire area should be evacuated. The people had been driven from their homes like cattle and since then it was forbidden for anyone to enter the region, the penalty being death.
Spark was about to move when he had a feeling he was not alone. He whipped around. Two ponies, one with a shotgun under his arm, rose from behind a wall of a partly demolished house. He had nothing to fear. There were smiles on their gaunt faces as they emerged from the house.
“We couldn’t at first make our minds up about you, friend,” said the stallion with the gun. “The Griffons have been known to use ponies as spies. But we made our minds up quickly when we saw you throw that brick at the chopper!
"Yes we did!” exclaimed the younger one. They shook hands. Introductions were made. The man with the gun was Big Macintosh, a former farmer, and his companion was Greasy Wrench, who had been a mechanic in the Royal Equestrian Air Force.
“I belong to the New Resistance Movement,” Spark confided in them. “I'm trying to make contact with the Appleachian leader who is known as Will o’ the Whistle.”
“We're also on our way to join him,” answered Macintosh “We know nothing about him but we have been told to go to the former railway station at Marefod and wait there.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Spark. “Is it far?” Macintosh pointed to a ridge. “It’s on the other side of the mountain,” he replied.
Author's Note
The technology that strips the Pegasi of flight also strips the Griffon's of their ability to fly.
From about 1850 there had been a tremendous boom in South Appleachian industry. The world wanted Appleachain anthracite. Mine shaft after mine shaft was sunk in the valleys.
To get the coal down to the ports, railroads were constructed up the valleys. The railroads had names like Taff Valley, the Mare Valley Railroad and the Berry Railway. They were shortlines, but were extremely busy. At Fillydelphia, at the height of the coal boom, the Taff Valley had five hundred trains daily.
But, in addition to the lines that ran up the valleys from the sea, there were railroads built roughly east-south-west across the heads of the valleys, astonishing railroads that jumped the valleys, tunneled the ridges and skirted the mountain slopes. Typical of these were the lines from Ponypool Road to Neigth, and from Applegavenny to Marethyr.
The railroad on which Marefod station stood had been abandoned with others before the Griffon invasion because the mines it had served had been closed with the development of nuclear power. It had been known in the old days as the West Junction Railroad, the W.J.R.
The clouds were low over the mountain tops and the drizzle was seeping down as Spark, Macintosh and Wrench plodded along a cut by the side of the old track. The rusty rails were for the most part buried in thistles and tall grass.
“How long has it been since a train came through here?” Spark asked.
The platform sign had become almost unreadable, but they made out the letters M and D.
“This is it, this is Marefod,” said Macintosh wearily.
Spark spotted a small round object. He stooped and picked it up. It was a button embossed with the emblem of the Yellow Sword! “The Griffons have been here,” he said grimly.
Spark peered towards the signal, just visible through the mist, and saw that the arm had dropped. “It must have dropped on its own,” he said harshly. “Maybe the wire broke—” Then he corrected himself. “No, if the wire broke the signal would go up!” He stopped abruptly. With tense, wondering faces the three men listened.
The eerie sound of a whistle reached them faintly through the mist.
“A train’s coming!” whispered Macintosh.
“Get back!” ordered Spark. “It will maybe be a Griffon patrol!” They ran into the gaping doorway of the building and peered out. Out of the mist loomed a locomotive, not an electric locomotive or a diesel, but a steam locomotive, the first Spark had ever seen in his life! With a wisp of steam blowing off from the safety valve, it came slowly into the station. The paint was smothered in grime, and yet the engine had an air of dignity and power. As it passed the doorway, Spark saw it had a name.
It was “The City of Ponyville.” He had read about it. This was a historic engine. Long ago, in 1904, while running the Ocean Mail between Canterlot and Manehattan on the Great Western Railway, it had sped down the Stallion Mountain Grade at one hundred and two miles an hour.
Behind the engine was a single passenger car and two boxcars. The engineer looked out of the cab and he was not a Griffon, but a wrinkled veteran, wearing a cap with a leather peak and a reefer jacket. Old as he was, his eyes were clear and piercing.
Spark and his companions stumbled back on to the platform. “We were told to wait here,” Macintosh blurted out, and then pointed at Spark. “This stallion is not a spy, because we saw him bring down the Punishment Machine by—”
“We know what he did, and I’ve been told to say he’s welcome to the hills,” said the engineer gruffly.
“Are you Will o’ the Whistle?” Spark asked.
"That’s what some call me, though I was known long enough as Regulator Trotterson,” responded the engineer. “Hurry up now, and get into the train!” Spark, still in a whirl of amazement at what had happened, glanced down the station platform, and saw that a man with a green lantern had opened a door for them to get in.
Author's Note
Anthracite is a very clean burning coal with a carbon content from around 92% to 98%.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anthracite
The firepony of the City of Ponyville crossed to the right side of the cab and looked down on the station platform. He was a grizzled pony of about thirty years old with white fur, a blue tail, and a scar on her cheek. His eyes were a piercing blue, but Spark sensed an inner kindness to him. His cutie mark was a shield with a purple star in the center and three stars arranged in a pyramid above it. In his beret he wore the badge of a regiment in the Royal Guards. He looked at Spark, who had the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineer's badge in his beret, and at his uniform, which was wet and smeared with grime.
In that moment when their eyes met, Spark correctly guessed that this was the real leader, and that Will o' the Whistle, the engineer's nickname, was a useful code sign.
"Come on up and ride the locomotive," he said. "I'm Shining Armor, and I've been expecting you ever since you came through the Big Hole. By Big Hole, he meant the Horseshoe Tunnel.
Spark climbed up into the cab and exchanged a handshake with Shining. He guessed that his guide through the tunnel, an engineer named Hooves, had flashed the news of his journey ahead. A great deal was going on behind the backs of the Griffon invaders.
Big Macintosh and Wrench climbed into the passenger car, and the conductor, a tall pony with broad shoulders, raised his arms in the signal that everypony as aboard.
Shining, who had observed Spark's amazement, pointed down the line to a rusty semaphore that was down.
"If there were Griffons around, the signal would be at danger," he said. "There's no risk of a wreck because this is the only train running, but we use the signals as a warning if there are Griffons nearby."
Regulator Trotterson, a wrinkled engineer with more than thirty years experience, pulled the cord that blew the whistle.
Spark jumped. "Surely that's dangerous! You're going to draw attention to yourselves!"
"The first time a Griffon battalion heard the whistle through the fog, they broke in panic," Shining chuckled grimly. "Apparently, it reminds them of the "Demon Owl" that haunts their sacred mountain at home. Later, we heard that when the battalion was recalled to Herdiff, General Fang, their leader, gave them permission to commit suicide, while the non-commissioned officers and the men were marched into Hardiff Arms Park and put to death."
Spark could believe this tale, because the Griffon society was one of ruthlessness, to themselves as well as the societies that they enslaved.
But for the moment, he became engrossed in watching Trotterson. Spark knew a great deal about electronics, but nothing about steam. It belonged in the past.
Armor also appeared to notice, because Trotterson was lecturing him gruffly on what he was doing.
"We've been standing on the grade, so I take the brake off, see?" he said gruffly, as he moved a small handle. A hiss of air accompanied this action. "Now, I'm going to move the Johnson bar into the forward notch, to set the valves in the piston to route the steam for forward motion. Think of it as shifting gears on a car." He moved a lever that was sticking up from the floor. "Now, I'm opening the throttle, which allows steam into the cylinders." As he said this, he moved a long, horizontal lever set high in the boiler, and, with a soft chuff from the stack, the locomotive started to move. "You can be starting the injector as I showed you before."
"What does the injector do?" Spark inquired.
"It feeds water into the boiler," Trotterson answered. "See that glass? That's the water gauge. That shows how much water is in the boiler."
The train moved slowly along a mist filled cut. As Spark stared ahead into the haze, his feeling of surprise at finding any railroad still running, let alone a steam railroad, did not lessen.
Shining opened the firebox door, and, as the blast of heat hit his face, he moved back a step. He watched as Shining dug a shovel into the coal and stoked the fire. "Hot work!" he exclaimed when Armor closed the firebox. Shining nodded.
Trotterson let out a laugh. "You young 'uns don't know what hard work is!" he scoffed. "When I was a firepony working on the South Whales Expresses, I'd shovel three tons of coal into the firebox between Herdiff and Canterlot and think nothing of it, my goodness, no!"
Spark turned to Shining. "Can I ask where you're going?" he inquired.
Shining nodded and stood close to him as the engine jolted along. He explained that, as punishment for some small breach of the regulations, General Fang had ordered that the ponies of Abermare should receive no rations for two weeks.
"There are large food and munition dumps hidden in the hills, Spark," Shining went on. "And our railroad runs close to them. We have filled two forty foot boxcars with food for Abermare, and if things run smoothly, it will be smuggled into town."
Another signal loomed out of the mist. "Good, the line ahead is clear of Griffons!" Trotterson exclaimed. "Now we can make a run at the hill. The exhaust changed from a slow, steady beat to a harsh bark as he pushed the Johnson Bar forward and opened the throttle wider.
There were many steep grades on the WJR, and were typical of the railroad lines that were built across the mountains. The grade City of Ponyville was tackling was three miles long and full of steep climbs and tight curves. When coal drags of twenty hoppers filled with fifty five tons of coal used the line, it was not uncommon for three locomotives to be needed, with one in front, one in the middle of the train, and one pushing behind the caboose.
On one side of the tracks, a cliff soared into the mist. On the other, there was a sheer drop to the valley floor, two hundred feet below. On clear days, one could see the rusty carcasses of ancient locomotives and cars strewn about the valley floor.
"We seem to be making an awful noise," Spark noted after Shining had fed the locomotive more coal.
"You'd be surprised at how well the hill muffle it," Shining stated. "and it's a risk we have to take. We can't use the roads because they are watched and patrolled regularly. Our only way of moving things in bulk is the railroad, which the Griffon's think is abandoned."
The train entered a tunnel, and soon the cab was filled with choking clouds of smoke and steam. Trotterson didn't seem to be affected, but Spark and Shining had red eyes and were coughing when the train exited the tunnel.
To give Shining a break, because he continued to cough in an alarming manner, Spark opened the firebox doors and shoved the scoop under the coal. As he turned to deposit the load of coal in the firebox, the cab lurched and threw him off balance. The coal scoop hit the corner of the opening, and the coal scattered all over the cab floor. As he swept the coal into the fire, Trotterson chuckled.
"You were standing flat-footed," he said through the din. "You have to balance yourself of the balls of your feet." Spark nodded and tried again, this time doing as advised. He found that not only was he able to keep his balance, but that he was able to control the swing of the shovel. Trotterson nodded his approval. "We'll make a railroader out of you in no time!"
A few minutes later, the train passed through a shorter tunnel that marked the summit. Trotterson closed the throttle and stopped the train in a cut.
Spark recieved a tap on the shoulder from Shining. "This is where we have to close a gap in the bridge before we can get across," the stallion explained.
Author's Note
I've taken a little liberty with the cab of the locomotive, giving it more american features, because that is what I'm familiar with. Here is a picture of the cab of a steam locomotive, showing the what the engineer and fireman would see on a daily basis.
Electric Spark, who had been a Major in the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers until the fall of Equestria, got off his bicycle and listened intently. He was on a small, country road. Apple orchards stretched as far as the eye could see. It was a very dark night but he was not, of course, using a light.
If he were found outside after the hour of curfew he would be immediately executed. A Griffon sword would decapitate him and his head would then be placed on a stake at the scene of his “criminal act of disobedience.” During his secret journey to the west he had passed a dozen such heads. Among them were the heads of children. Age was not considered when there was a breach of the laws imposed by the conquerors. Spark decided he had been unnecessarily alarmed and mounted his bicycle again.
He rode awkwardly. Only recently, after finding a machine among a heap of junk in a shed on his father’s premises near Trottingham, had Spark taught himself to ride as a means of getting about. He had been a child at the time of the first Griffon conquest of the Western World. He could just remember how the bells rang when Equestria rose and defeated the Griffons.
Twenty-five years later the second Griffon War had ended in a week. The invaders had smothered Equestria in “sleeping gas,” and when people awoke after two days, the Griffons had occupied the land. Their emblem, which appeared on all their banners, was a Yellow Sword. Their leader in Equestria was General Claw. Equestrians were their slaves. All this happened in the year 1993. Spark saw a flicker of light through the hedge. He dropped on to the verge. He rolled into a ditch, pulling the bike after him. A great mass of weeds engulfed him and the machine. A few moments afterwards, the strip lighting on the front of the vehicle illuminated the lane.
It was a Griffon patrol car, and, except for the swish of the wheels, made no sound. Batteries had been evolved that would provide tremendous power without running down. When less than fifty yards from Spark, the vehicle stopped. Troopers dropped off and appeared in the light. They were small creatures with flat noses, big nostrils and thick feathers, and their eyes were like slits. The troopers wore little round helmets, emblazoned with the emblem of the Yellow Sword, and drab uniforms of a shoddy, cotton material.
Their weapons were automatic carbines, to which long bayonets were fixed. There was an officer with them, a Lieutenant Fang. His uniform had yellow facings. A sword hung from his belt. Bradshaw thought that the Griffons were on to him, that they knew he was somewhere about, but they jumped a broken gate and ran into a field. A harsh shout rang out. The troopers came back.
They had a prisoner, a gaunt, country pony. He was carrying a hare. The troopers kept him within a ring of bayonets, and brought him to Fang. The stallion’s eyes were staring, pleading, as he confronted the officer. “We have no food in the house!” he said hoarsely. “My children are starving, so I set out to catch a hare.”
A soldier jerked the hare out of his grasp and put it in the car. He fetched out a notebook and then a pair of spectacles that he put on. “It is necessary that I take down your particulars,” he said in a thin, sing-song voice. “The last name should be stated first and followed by your other names.”
“My name’s Apple,” the prisoner blurted out. “Braeburn Apple.” Lieutenant Fang wrote very slowly. “
I wish to know your place of residence,” he said.
“I lives at Yew Cottage, Appleoosa,” Braeburn replied. He watched Fang writing and, appearing to think that the situation was more favorable for him, tried to be helpful. “You spells it Y-e-w, not Y-o-u,” he said.
Fang frowned. “The manner in which I spell it is the correct manner,” he said.
He closed the notebook and placed it in his pocket. He pointed to the ground. “Pick that up,” he said in sing-song tones. Braeburn stooped and peered down. Fang whipped out his sword. The blade hummed as he struck, and the stallion’s headless body thudded to the ground. Fang replaced the sword in its scabbard, and took off his spectacles. Troopers fetched a stake from the car and hammered it into the verge. Upon it they put Braeburn’s head. There was a nail in the stake. On this a sign was hung:— “Contrary to Order No. 12, Sub-Section 2. He Was Out Late.” At a bored gesture from Fang, the troopers threw the corpse into the ditch.
They returned to the car. It glided forward. The Lieutenant sat by the driver, and used a toothpick. Spark crawled from the ditch. He had witnessed similar incidents previously, and had one determination, that he would not rest until Equestria had been cleansed of the yellow fiends. Spark was twenty-eight years of age, and as hard as nails. Electronics were his field and, as an engineer, he was offended by any machine that did not work. That was why he had always kept himself supremely fit. To him, the body was an intricate machine that should be maintained in perfect working order. The Griffons had been in Equestria for six months.
For five months Spark had been a member of the Nucleus—as the secret inner-council of the New Resistance Movement against the invaders in the Southern Equestria was called. He was on a special mission. Spark pushed his bike along until he reached the staked head. He leaned the machine on the verge and he took out a small flashlight and a pen. He wrote on the sign: “The murder of this pony has been noted, and will be included in the final reckoning.” Below his writing he sketched a roughly-drawn ant. It was the symbol of the Resistance Movement and the Griffons hated it. They understood its significance because they came from a country where the white ant was plentiful and destructive.
Spark took a deep breath as he stepped back. Braeburn would be avenged. It might take years, but the resistance to the Griffons would in time reach its climax in victory. He remounted and pedaled away. He was heading for South Appleachia. Rumors had reached the Nucleus that an Appleachian resistance group, had been formed and was operating in the remote country at the heads of the valleys. Spark had been ordered to find out if this was true, and to make contact with the leader. This leader had a strange name. The only name by which he was known was Will o’ the Whistle.
Author's Note
Sorry for the awkward names. I have no idea what to name some original characters. I modeled the appearance of the land on Great Britain. Please, read and review!
An hour after sunset on the following night, Sparks and Hooves stood in a field at Redmane, not far from the Horseshoe Tunnel. It seemed to Spark that there were railroad lines all around them. To the south was Ponyville. To the north, across the Horseshoe River, was Baltimare.
“Where do we go from here?” asked Spark. Hooves pointed down a railroad track. “That’s the way,” he replied. “The tricky part will be going under the road bridge. The Griffons have sentries there.” He moved on at the side of the railroad, which plunged into a cut and descended quite steeply. Spark had been surprised to hear from his companion that the old steam trains of former years used to dash down into the tunnel at seventy miles an hour. Both of them had blacked their faces. Bradshaw had a small, automatic pistol. Soon they were deep inside the cut. Moving with extreme caution, Spark and Hooves neared the bridge. The tunnel portal was only a short distance away. Spark and his comrade crept under the bridge. They kept moving till they approached the portal of the Big Hole.
Hooves grabbed half a dozen detonators from his pocket. He clipped them on a rail by bending the soft, lead strips attached to each disc. No explanation was necessary. He had previously told Spark that the Griffons ran patrol cars along the line, and that he had seen one enter the tunnel. However, his general impression was that the average Griffon Trooper, whose intelligence by Equestrian standards was low, was scared by the Big Hole.
Water dripped from the top of the tunnel. The sides were running with damp. They walked on the sleepers because there was slush between the ballast and the walls. Spark caught his foot and stumbled.
“It’s too soon to use our flashlights,” said Hooves. “We can put ‘em on when we’re farther down the line.” Spark whipped his head round. Far away, outside the tunnel, there was a flicker of light.
“There’s something coming!” he exclaimed tensely. Hooves looked back. The flicker became a steady beam. It was cast by a powerful headlight on a track speeder carrying six or eight Griffon troopers.
“This is where we get our feet wet!” growled Hooves. Spark put a hand on his companion’s shoulder. They stepped off the track and stepped into the slush filling the narrow gap between the ballast and the wall. It came halfway up their shins. They squelched along till they found a shallow manhole in the wall, an opening into which workers could step back when trains came along. The headlight from the speeder threw its beam into the tunnel. It was still a question as to whether the Griffons would run on down the Big Hole or not.
The glare lit up the walls. The clatter of the wheels became louder as the trolley entered the portal.
BANG! BANG, BANG!
With a series of bangs, the detonators that Hooves had put on the track exploded. Shrill yells of alarm were uttered by the Griffons. The driver brought the speeder to a jerky stop. The troops leaped off and fired wildly down the tunnel. The driver got into reverse and the Griffons ran with it. The speeder was well clear outside the tunnel again before it stopped.
“They were scared as rabbits,” said Hooves with a chuckle.
“I expect it seemed as if they’d run into an ambush,” Spark answered, “the detonators made a lot of noise. I think we should push on. When an officer arrives he’ll force them down the tunnel again.”
The two stallions left their niche and stumbled on along the bore. The track rose steeply. “We can use our lights now,” Hooves said. “They won’t be seen from the outside.”
There was a click as he turned on his flashlight. They passed through a stretch where water was dripping like heavy rain. The rails were rusted from disuse. The air was cold and damp. It seemed an endless walk into the utter darkness. As they trudged along, a continuous hissing sound developed ahead.
“Water?” Spark muttered.
“It must be water,” answered Hooves tensely. “It’s started since I came through last time."
Jets as thick as a stallion's arm shot across the tunnel and formed clouds of spray as they broke against the opposite wall. The water trickled away down the grade.
“Come on,” urged Hooves. “I’m hoping the tunnel hasn't filled to the top.”
They were doused with spray as they passed under the jets. Bricks that the water had dislodged littered the track. After they had advanced perhaps a third of a mile, the light of Hooves’ flashlight was reflected by tongue of inky black water lapping between the rails.
Hooves splashed into it, and they were soon knee-deep. Spark had a clear idea in his mind now of how the water filled the tunnel at its lowest point between the east and west cuts.
“Where’s the canoe?” he asked.
“I’m hoping we’re nearly there,” Hooves answered harshly. “The water has risen a lot.” Soon, the icy-cold water was up to their waists. Hooves kept turning his flashlight to the side and, after they had splashed along a bit further, fixed his aim on a recess. The canoe was there all right. It had been left standing vertically in the niche, but the water had slanted it.
They untied the cord that held the canoe, drew it out and tipped it to empty it of water. Spark held it while Hooves scrambled in. Then, expertly, he slid in himself.
“You light the way,” Spark said. “I’ll do the paddling.” He dug the paddle into the water and the canoe glided ahead. The light showed the water level rising towards the rounded roof.
“The question seems to be whether we’ll need a submarine or not,” Spark grimly remarked. Hooves ducked lower to avoid striking his head on the roof.
“We’ll know in a minute,” he said hoarsely. The water rose until it was within eighteen inches of the top of the arch.
“It’s impossible to use the paddle now,” Spark exclaimed. “We'll have to use our hands.”
That was how they got through, stretched out flat with the roof pressing down on them and paddling the canoe along with their hands. The bow scraped the brickwork of the roof. They worked their hands frantically and barely kept the canoe moving.
“I think we’re going to do it!” Hooves panted. “This must be the bottom of the dip. If we can keep moving we’ll get through.”
“We’ll keep moving,” replied Spark, and when, after another minute, the bow no longer grazed the roof, they knew they had succeeded. The water level dropped and they were able to straighten their backs, Spark used the paddle again until they reached the spot where the bore rose towards the western portal near Horseshoe Tunnel Junction. That was how Spark used the Big Hole to get to the other side of the Horsehoe Bay.
Author's Note
Detonators let an engineer know when there is trouble ahead.