Like the "Dawn" in Dawn Tavern or the "Wine" in Wine Lady's name, An'nan had thought "haunted" was merely a prefix to the gold mine's name.
He hadn't expected "haunted" to be a verb.
When An'nan came to his senses, the ghost had vanished, and Martin was nowhere to be found.
Picking up Martin's abandoned pickaxe, An'nan retreated with the oil lamp, eventually finding Martin frantically chipping at the rock wall in the darkness with a broken pickaxe.
The scene looked as if he were possessed by an evil spirit.
"What are you doing?"
"Mining."
"Was that really a ghost earlier?"
Martin answered smoothly: "The ghosts are just spirits of dead miners. They've lost their minds and wander the tunnels day after day. Nothing to be frightened of."
"Then where's your pickaxe?" An'nan asked, leaning against both pickaxes.
"Right here." Martin lifted the broken pickaxe, then exclaimed in surprise: "How did it break!"
Handing the proper pickaxe to Martin, An'nan recalled that the ghost's reaction had been similar to Martin's. Perhaps ghosts weren't as frightening as imagined?
To be safe, An'nan led Martin back to the shallower tunnels, choosing one where other miners were working to continue their digging.
The echoing clinks and clanks from deeper in gradually brought a sense of security.
Minutes later, muscles aching, An'nan crawled out of the low tunnel previous miners had carved. He rested beside the oil lamp, watching Martin continue swinging his pickaxe in the cramped tunnel.
Of their daily wage of 60 copper coins from Old Pete, Martin was surely earning 55 of them.
After a brief rest, An'nan noticed the echoing strikes becoming oddly monotonous. Soon, accompanied by the rattling of iron chains, a pair of bare feet stepped through the gravel, appearing at the edge of the lamplight.
Dark brown skin barely covered by tattered linen, the pickaxe that was slightly too large for An'nan looked like a child's toy in its hands.
The shadow shrouding its head shifted as it bowed, revealing horns on its forehead.
"We meet again."
"It's you?"
An'nan remembered this minotaur clearly.
"Stay away from my cousin!"
A sudden shout came from the low tunnel as Martin, remembering Aunt Susan's instructions, rushed out wielding his pickaxe. But he'd forgotten about the tunnel's height and knocked himself unconscious against the rock ceiling.
An'nan silently watched Martin, who never failed to disappoint when it came to being disappointing.
The minotaur glanced at the unconscious Martin: "Don't be nervous, lad. I won't harm you."
"I know."
Which was why An'nan hadn't even stood up—no one would be harmed, except Martin.
"You two don't look like family."
Martin's hair was brownish-yellow, while An'nan's dust-covered hair appeared grey, though the minotaur had seen his natural black hair before.
"Just adopted..." An'nan dismissed the question, then asked, "Are you free now?"
Clank—
The minotaur stepped from the darkness, revealing the heavy iron shackles on its ankles.
It had been sold to the mine after all.
"I'm curious..." the minotaur's deep, heavy voice inquired, "Why would you show sympathy to a mongrel with tainted blood?"
An'nan took some time to understand the formal phrasing, then replied: "I've seen the most virtuous succubus, and the most hideous Lightchurch priest."
He'd stolen this line from the bard, who'd stolen it from somewhere else.
In the bard's tales, there were chaste succubi and lustful elves alike.
"Have you encountered the ghosts too?"
An'nan asked the minotaur who had returned from the depths. It replied: "It's not surprising. Gold mines are places where the wrongfully dead best display humanity's brutal nature."
An'nan didn't fully understand but felt it made sense.
"Until next time."
The minotaur bid An'nan farewell, departing with the rattling of chains. An'nan watched its figure merge into the darkness, wondering if his whispered words back then had prompted it to come say hello.
"Ugh..."
A groan came as Martin sat up clutching his forehead, "Where's the monster..."
"Gone."
"Did you see how it knocked me out?" Martin grabbed his pickaxe as he stood, "I didn't even have time to react."
An'nan thought to himself that neither Martin nor the minotaur had time to react.
With Martin's head still fuzzy, he couldn't continue mining, and An'nan only managed another fifteen minutes before his arms gave out. When Old Pete came to check on them, his expression wasn't pleased—or perhaps it was just the poor air quality.
Considering the injury, he let Martin and An'nan finish for the day.
He wasn't afraid of Holin, but he feared Susan breaking his other leg.
An'nan picked up the basket containing possible ore and followed him out of the stuffy tunnel.
The fresh air and warm sunlight had never seemed so wonderful. Back at the shack, Old Zoren took the basket. When he returned shortly after with the empty basket, his good leg was trembling—An'nan guessed there had been no findings today either.
"One more day tomorrow."
He set down a basket containing some black bread and a bowl of salted peas.
The peas were sour, but not bad with the cold, hard bread.
Old Zoren wasn't a bad sort, just impatient, given he was paying their 60 copper coins daily wage. Though one fist-sized gold nugget would bring him a hefty profit.
As An'nan and Martin ate outside their shack, commotion suddenly erupted from the mine entrance.
A group of miners fled the tunnel amid squeaking bats, shouting about ghosts and spirits.
Apparently, they'd encountered the spirits too.
More miners escaped, refusing to return underground. The foremen gathered to discuss solutions, with Old Zoren looking out of place among them.
An'nan spotted the minotaur again. It sat before its door, holding a worn, yellowed book, looking like a scholar in the sunlight.
The foremen quickly decided on a plan, summoning an apprentice mage from somewhere and gathering a group of miners who could somewhat fight. An'nan noticed the minotaur among them.
When the miners emerged from the haunted mine as sunlight dappled the distant forest, they declared they'd banished the undead.
An'nan wasn't sure whether to believe them but resolved to stay near the tunnel entrance tomorrow, regardless of Old Zoren's pleading.
In the fading twilight, An'nan whittled a charcoal pencil and, recalling the bard's ghost stories, carefully wrote on papyrus after much thought:
[To the Loveliest Ghost:
I know of your presence and that you don't welcome us. We only wish to mine, and hope you'll give us a chance. We won't disturb you again in future.]
"To the most frightful ghost, I know of your presence..."
An'nan briefly reviewed the crooked letters and smudges—not bad for someone who'd only been literate for a week.
Ideally, someone would keep watch, but no one would be so selfless.
Just then, An'nan's stomach cramped severely. He'd planned to post the papyrus on the door himself but delegated the task to the idle Martin, taking the remaining papyrus as he headed for the woods.
The peas hadn't just been sour.
When a weakened An'nan returned some time later, he glanced at the papyrus on the door before pushing it open.
He didn't notice the poorly-stuck papyrus falling as the door opened, sticking to his foot as he stepped on it, and following him up to bed.