Pretending encouragement to cover his own fear, “Let’s make for it!”  the man said, slapping the eight year old boy on the rump.

Standing directly beneath the imposing chimney, looking upward, squinting against the rain, sleet and falling soot, the structure looking far taller than its twenty visible feet, Zachariah gloomily nodded his head and, reaching upward, took hold of the first iron rung, then -- the boy first, the man following -- both began to climb.

Hand over hand.

One small, filthy, chafed fist closing around one wet, cold, rusted rung... one after another.

Hand over hand.

Higher. Higher.

A strong gust of wind...

Never admitting to having a God. Never calling on his God except when His name was used as an expletive, or, most usually, when in terror, "Christ! Oh, Christ!" hanging on tightly, the man screwed his eyes shut as...

Never in a church. Other than a quick, "Godly" lecture by a well-meaning household servant, not aware that one as lowly as himself could ever have a God, but wishing he had a God, "Oh, Lordy, Lordy!" His eyes wide open, the boy hung on tightly as...

...The structure swayed.

Their arms held through the steel rungs directly opposite their faces, they held on by their crooked elbows till...

Till, finally, after an hour that lasted no more than seven seconds, the wind abated, and...

The fear no more on this day than on the two previous days when they’d begun this job, breathing deeply, blinking a number of times to bring moisture back into his eyes, his blood appearing redder than normal against the black of his skin, three knuckles on one hand and two from the other bleeding from where they’d scraped on rungs, I must, I must, I must!  Hating having to, his mind repeating, I must, I must, must! Zachariah started up again.