u/Quota-motaforU

At long last, the hike up mount Wilton is complete. Reunited childhood friends Sam and Mark had spent the whole afternoon climbing it. Their feet throbbed as they made the final steps, and their legs felt numb as they sat down on the grass. Their reward stands in front of them, mount Walton, the twin mountain of Wilton. It's the same height as Wilton only if you take away the giant metal pole that sticks out in the middle. Mark slings his bag over his side and brings out a pack of four beers, he keeps one for himself and hands one over to Sam, the other two are for the way down to soothe jelly legs.

On the way there, they talked about old memories. Unrequited childhood crushes, forgotten school teachers remembered only by a rhyme or scent, the unforgettable time they found shit smeared all over the toilet seat and a rugby match that ended in tragedy though they didn't touch on that for too long. Silly stuff, really. But it was only until this moment that they began to speak of the present. Sam is the first one to speak after a few silent gulps of beer between the both of them.

"What have you been up to? We haven't talked about the now. All this way, we've not even mentioned it."

"Really? Wow, I guess we haven't. I must be a bad father." Sam's face takes no time in realising what it's just heard. Though his eyes take a little bit longer to catch up as they squint a little, flinching almost.

"No way. Mark, a father!" Mark laughs "and bad husband too." Sam's smile grows wider in the surprise, his eyes flinch again.

"Fucking hell, where was my invitation?" A short silence grows between them only to be interrupted with a faint laugh from Sam. "I'm only joking. That's incredible man, shit congrats. How are they?" Mark takes another gulp of beer, dispelling the nervous uprising of his nerves.

"They're good, too good. Matty my youngest is just getting used to school. Mandy my oldest is getting good grades and finding friends. Claire. my wife, she's the glue. Without her this family wouldn't get anything done, in the house, outside the house. She's so good and she never complains, never. You can't crack a complaint out of that woman I'm telling ya." Mark smiles at the thought. "What about you?"

Sam looks forward to the pole. "A teacher. The past 20 years I've been teaching and helping as many people throughout the country reach their way to God. I'm kinda like a travelling priest."

"You a Christian? Since when?"

"Hard times led me to him. I won't go into the gritty detail but for years I felt like I was missing something. Overtime God helped me realise I needed to guide others out of the same pit I was in"

Sam points to the pole on mount Walton. "Signs like that make me realise my duty."

Mark lets out a small childish chuckle "The raging mountain boner" Sam quickly turns his head to Mark as if he'd just heard the most damning insult of his life. He fires back "It's a signal not a boner. Saying that is like shitting on the Mona Lisa to me."

"Sorry. Go on."

"It means connection... throughout history poles are known to lead you to places far out of reach. That pole is one of many."

"So that pole leads them to god?"

"I sincerely hope so."

"Is this your own thing? Because this isn't common in Christianity"

Sam gently places his arm over Mark's shoulder "Oh no, Mark. Many others share this with me. I just help them reach their destination."

Mark nods understandingly "I know where this is going" Sam answers back "Do you?" Silence falls on the two of them again. This time though it's longer, more drawn out.

"Earlier, I brought up the school rugby match you and I attended when we were younger. The topic was short but I feel that it's an important one to cover as you're so interested." Sam waits for the green light to continue. Mark nods the signal.

"I remember the anticipation leading into the finals match. For a small venue it was so chatty and lively, lively especially for the star player Tom Connors. All fifteen come on to the pitch and the games got going and going pretty well at that too. By halftime the score was about five to three and Tom scored most of them. When he came back he scored his sixth and then things began to change in Tom. He became slower, breathless and noticeably clumsy by every failure to capture the ball. His spirit gave up and eventually, his heart gave up too. As you remember, we were silenced, the game stopped, and Tom was dying. It was a tragedy, but there was one blessing just as everyone huddled around him." Sam's hand tightens around Marks shoulder, his eyes grow more intense. A crazed glimmer of belief lies in them.

"The boy went to heaven, and I saw it. His body let out an energy so full of white life, so clear that I could see it travel into the rugby pole behind him in beats. Little by little, as he began to fade, the pole would start to smoke at the top and become too full with life. And at the exact moment of Tom's death, the life would then travel from the pole and up into the sky."

Silence slams the both of them. Mark thinks back to the moment. He remembers how fixated Sam was by the pole. How his body and eyes stuck to it for the twenty minutes resuscitation was being performed. It was only a month later that they stopped truly hanging out. Mark remembers hearing speculation on Sam's whereabouts by other classmates. Something involving his parents and goodbye note. Could he have prevented the present?

Sam thinks of what he came here to do. A rational thought. One he's had for quite some time.

"Sam, you were a kid that was a very traumatic event to witness -"

"No. You still don't understand... Heaven. I help them go to heaven, Mark. Look, I'm worried about you and I'm worried about your family. They're so good. You're so good. You can't continue into nothing."

Mark begins to slowly brush the heavy arm off of him as Sam reaches into his side pocket.

A light faintly flickers overhead. Jagged wooden planks hold the ceiling together and rocks begin to form the deeper this coal miner goes. As he walks the smell of oil sits around him and his beard, always on the cusp of his nose and lips. Seeping down into his throat. Laying dormant. His beard is a youthful brown. Not too big and not too small either just somewhere in the middle. His skin is clear and his eyes contain life. A needed necessity for the job. His hair is short and only slicked back when working. His outfit consists of a denim blue overall over a fresh white T-shirt and the regular safety kit for his head, hands and feet.

He continues striving forward. Past the smell, past the ever worsening posture and ever weakening legs until he stops and reaches his destination. He's faced with three compulsions upon arriving. The fact that he has to pick up from another miners work, he's facing a rock wall and the rusted pickaxe that waits for him on the floor. He effortlessly wipes the sweat from his brow and gets on with it. He grasps the handle of the pickaxe, aligns his feet and posture correctly and swings it above his head to hear the familiar sound of metal. It hits the wall like thunder. The clanging doesn't stop from the friction to the sound as it booms throughout the tunnels. In his final strifes he thinks of the next worker who will continue after him, of the people closest to him and contemplates over the word, why?

The last hit felt orgasmic. For a brief second his mind thinks thats the why. He watches the rocks fall slowly. He expects something different than the regular rocky canvas he always finds. Maybe a diamond ore could lay behind the wall, even bronze would make his day. So it was shocking that when the rocks fell he found blue sky's, green lawn and the sun all together by a house. His gaze felt fixated and altogether nostalgic. He had never seen this house before but knew who would be inside it. He wanted it, he wanted the air and he wanted the life. He yearned to be out of the mines. His right foot takes a step forward before his body does. His foot glides inches over the grass before he feels a familiar pain in his back and then his legs. His skin grows wrinkled with age. The grime of charcoal seeps between his fingernails and face. His now greying hair grows past his safety helmet and his beard only gets longer. The eyes lose their spark and sink deeper into the fantasy in front of him. An drill alarm blares out and he is awake. Old, wrinkled and almost ready for work.