Chapter Thirteen
Thanksgiving

The frenzied dancing that once filled Union Hall is a distant 
memory. The town of Lafayette gathers again in the hall for 
Thanksgiving. The room is hushed as plates of turkey, cranberry, 
and yam are passed around. 

Along the banquet table, six chairs are empty. An empty chair sits 
to the left of old Mrs. Jacques. It seemed like all of Louisville 
came out to her boy's funeral; the newspapers counted 1,500.

At Jacques' funeral, the priest had quoted John, Chapter 14: *Let 
not your heart be troubled... if I go and prepare a place for you, 
I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, 
there ye may be also.* Mrs. Jacques imagines her firstborn son, 
Frank, preparing a place for her little Rene: the pitiless abyss 
where Frank had been bludgeoned by the mule's hooves. Now they had 
both been cast into the frigid November earth.

Another empty chair sits next to Bertha and her children. Dorothy 
Eastenes wears the dress her father had bought her. The room is 
quiet for a long time, save for the passing of plates and the 
clatter of silverware. Beranek looks up from her plate at Dorothy, 
who pokes at a wad of cranberry with her fork.

"That's a lovely dress, Dorothy."

Bertha puts an arm around her daughter. "Thank you," says Dorothy. 
"I was saving it for when I would sing at Christmas mass."

"Your daddy always loved your singing," says Bertha.

Ortega sits a few chairs away with his family. His lips mouth at 
voiceless words, none of which seem to fit, until he peeks down 
the line of guests to Dorothy.

"Dorothy, I don't know if your *papa* ever told you about the time 
he taught me to sing."

"He did what?" asks Dorothy.

"*Si*, he said it was a song he'd taught you. *Lead, Kindly 
Light*. *Usted sabe?*"

Dorothy thinks for a second, and closes her eyes. Her soft voice 
fills the hall, and as she sings in the candlelight, Ortega 
remembers that long walk home.

  *"Lead, kindly light, amidst the encircling gloom,*
  *The night is dark, I'm far from home,*
  *Keep thou my feet, I do not ask to see*
  *The distant scene, one step enough for me."*

Dorothy draws in her breath, and with the next verse, finds John 
Ortega singing with her. Then Mary Ortega joins, and then Mrs. 
Beranek, and Bertha, and Mrs. Jacques, and her mother and brothers 
and sisters:

  *"So long thy power hath blest me, lead me on,*
  *O'er moor and fen, 'til night is gone,*
  *And with the morn, those angel faces smile*
  *Which I have loved long since and lost a while..."*

The men and women in the Union Hall find themselves surrounded in 
each other's voices. They recognize the same feeling they felt 
when they danced in the hall a week ago, united by Flaming Mamie's 
call for freedom. It was the feeling from that night when, under 
the first snowfall, the miners listened to that song about the boy 
on the lake shore, and their choice to act in the face of a 
hopeless future. It was the same feeling the miners knew deep in 
the coal tunnels, where old mules and falling rocks were faced 
together, with faith in your fellow man.

Later that day, the families begin to clear the table. In the back 
of Union Hall, a vampire and two boys step out of the shadows, 
invisible to the families as they go about their work.

Gerry looks around the scene and whispers, "Wow... this all really 
happened, right in our back yard."

Sean watches the Ortegas, Beraneks, and Easteneses carry food back 
to the kitchen. "I guess this town isn't so boring after all... 
but all this pain and suffering, it's horrible."

Glava nods. "Yes, this story is a painful one, but look at these 
people. I see a city united as one. This tragedy has bound them 
together in ways we can never imagine."

"What happened to the miners?" asks Gerry.

"One year later," says Glava, "the Columbine Mine became the first 
in Colorado to sign a union agreement. The new owner, Josephine 
Roche, even chose a survivor of Ludlow, John Lawson, as her vice-
president. She went on to Washington to work for President 
Roosevelt, and in 1933, the right to unionize became national law. 
After all the years of strikes and bloodshed, the voice of the 
Colorado coal miner had been heard at last.

"They had so little, but were thankful for so much. In the deepest 
mine shafts, the coldest winters, or the hungriest strikes, they 
found comfort in friends and loved ones. Their lives were filled 
with music and dance, with laughter and love. Like the first 
Pilgrims to America, they left behind a life in the old world for 
a chance to build a new one, if not for themselves, then for their 
children."

Glava takes a candle off the banquet table, looking into the 
flame. All around, the spirits of the cemetery begin blowing the 
candles out, the room darkening with each extinguished flame.  

Glava looks up from the candle. "This story is finished. Whatever 
power it has is up to you. We are only spirits. Our presence is as 
permanent as ripples on a lake, as enduring as footprints in a 
snowstorm. We can only as you to remember. Remember that in the 
rolling hills east of the Rockies, a group of brave men and women 
risked everything to stand up for what was right."

The vampire cups his hands around the candle and puffs it out. 
There is darkness in the Union Hall, but a new light has been lit, 
leading them forward one step at a time.