Januariad

‘Well I suppose this just isn’t your lucky day, is it?’

‘It’s nothing to do with luck. You’re the one deciding it.’

‘Well what do you think luck is?’

‘When things just happen to you. Not when someone is doing something mean to you just for the sake of it.’

‘Nothing just happens, boy. Nothing just happens just like that. Did I ever tell you about the mine mule?’

‘Mule?’

‘There was this mule working down the mines in your grandfather’s time. These mules had a hard time of it. Most of them brought underground as young foals, stabled underground. Pulled mine carts from a dawn they couldn’t see to a dusk they never knew of. Coal dust and lamplight and the whip was all they knew.’

‘Well, they were only mules. Granddad did it too.’

‘He did, but he got to go home to his family at the end of the shift. He got a day off every month to feel the sun on his back. The mules spent every waking moment of their lives in the dark.’

‘Unlucky.’

‘Well, let me tell you. This particular mule was towing three carts deep underground one summer’s afternoon (although I doubt he knew it was summer) when there was a huge cave-in.’

‘The mine collapsed?’

‘Fourteen men were killed, and likely a few mules as well, but those weren’t recorded.’

‘Unlucky.’

‘Well this mule, the mule of this story, was not killed. After all the rockfall and commotion he was left standing in his drift with his ropes severed and not a scratch on him. He was alone, his handler had disappeared, and there was light at the end of the tunnel in front of him.

‘Towards the light he went. Mules are fearless and inquisitive creatures, make no mistake. At the end of the tunnel the light is brighter, but the path is filled in with broken rock. Our mule clambers up the rubble until he hits another tunnel (the gallery above) — which is similarly empty — and he keeps going and next thing you know he’s standing on the grass in the middle of a valley.’

‘He made it all the way up to the surface?’

‘He did. It probably took half a day for his eyes to adjust to the light. I’m speculating here, I don’t know much about the eyes of mules. It’s possible he was grand after ten minutes.

‘He drank from the river and ate the rich clover (having discovered it was summer). After a few days he managed to scrape his panniers off against a tree and was unburdened for the first time in his life.

‘Men came to fix the mine tunnels alright, but it was a big valley and they never spotted that mule. He lived for twenty years in that perfect place. Mules don’t get lonely. Eventually a herdsman discovered him and he was identified by his tag. Lived another three years on that herdsman’s farm afterwards, where he was retired due to his exceptional story.’

‘Lucky.’

‘That’s the point of the story, boy. Why is he lucky?’

‘Because a random event gave him a great life of freedom and clover.’

‘Right. And what causes random events?’

‘… other events. They’re random.’

‘God! Nothing is random! God controls the events we cannot understand. He is the architect of existence. The mule’s freedom was down to him.’

‘God didn’t control you deciding to forbid me cycling to John Gallagher’s party.’

‘I do not mean God made this decision. I use him as an analogy. I submit to you that what we think of as luck is merely the outcome of decisions made by a being in total control of our universe. A being whose reasoning we are not capable of understanding.’

‘Are you saying you’re my God?’

‘I’m saying I’m your father. Go to bed.’