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Over Black Water

It's a long way to the other side.

By Bryn T.Published 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 7 min read
2

A steam train glides through the endless night, beneath a moon that hangs full and solemn in the sky above. It moves on silver tracks that cut across water, dark water that stretches in every direction, deep and cold and smooth as glass.

A six-year-old boy sleeps in the train’s only carriage, his cheek pressed to the window, his breathing slow and measured.

He sprawls across the cushioned bench, and when he wakes he finds himself alone.

Almost alone.

There is a teddy bear beside him, a brown corduroy bear with button eyes and a button nose, and a mouth like a W stitched with thread.

The bear's name is Brownie, and the boy holds it close. It is familiar to him, and comforting, and it smells of home.

"Hello?" His voice wavers in the silence.

There is no reply.

He eases down from the bench and peers into the aisle, and wonders why he is here. Wonders where he is. When did he get on a train? Just moments ago he was in the hospital bed, wrapped in soft blankets. Now the blankets are gone, and the fluorescent lights are gone, and the smell of antiseptic no longer stings his nose. The boy wonders if his Papa carried him on the train while he slept.

"Papa," he calls, but only the silence answers. The boy steps between the benches, counting twelve in all, each one looming cold and empty. It is quiet in the carriage, and the boy feels uneasy as the silence pushes in around him. His heart thumps against the cage of his chest, and he can feel salty tears gathering in his eyes, ready to spill down his cheeks, but no, don't cry yet, he thinks. Maybe he hasn't looked hard enough.

A gas lamp sways from the ceiling, and in its light he can see a door at the end of the aisle. Tall and gleaming and heavy looking, but he's strong. That's what his Papa always said.

You are so strong.

Even as the boy lay sweaty and trembling in the hospital bed.

You are so strong, his Papa would say.

The boy approaches the door, dragging his teddy bear behind him, and he reaches up and turns the brass handle. A whine as it swings open, and then he is hit with a blast of freezing air. Damp air. He stumbles backward, falls on his bottom, sits there for a moment with the door banging against the side of the wall, the wind hissing into the carriage.

He manages to stand up, thin arms braced against the tumult, and he stumbles toward the doorway. The boy peers into the night, hands gripping the frame, and there is another car clacking in front of him, a great square car that smells of smoke.

Of burning.

Coal, he thinks. Steam trains use coal. He remembers his model train at home, his red one with the five carriages, and the coal-car, and the engine with the gold trim and the black smokestack.

The engine.

Perhaps the train driver would know where his Papa is.

The boy yells into the night, to where he imagines the driver is cranking levers up ahead, adjusting valves, guiding the train through the damp and the cold. But his voice is caught by the wind and pulled from his lips, and tossed into the darkness.

So he tries again.

“Hello?”

And again his voice is ripped away. He yells until his throat is ragged and sore, and then he crumples on the ground, silent tears spilling down his cheeks.

He is hugging his bear when he hears a voice from outside.

"Hello," it says.

The boy stops crying and squints out the door. There is a man crouched above him, in the coal-car, looking down. A big bearded man with a hard face and hooded eyes and a black cloak that billows in the wind.

Slowly, carefully, the man eases onto his stomach, and stretches a hand out, reaching across the space between them. "Jump," he says, "I'll pull you up."

The boy steps backward, into the safety of the empty carriage, away from the cloaked man and the night and the wind. This man looks scary. This man is not his Papa.

Remember, you are brave.

A voice in the back of his mind. His Papa's voice.

"I know you have questions," calls the man, "and I will answer them as best I can." He gestures behind him. "But right now I have a train to run. You just have to jump, and I’ll catch you."

The boy is silent as he thinks, and then he comes to a decision. "Do you know where my Papa is?"

The man looks up and around, sniffs the air, licks a finger and feels the wind. "Yes," he says.

"Okay." The boy nods. "I'll jump."

A pause.

"But take Brownie too." And he holds up his bear.

"Of course."

The man smiles a tired smile, a sad smile, a kind smile, and for a moment the sharp edges of his face soften. "On three, alright?"

"Okay."

His Papa’s voice sounds in his mind. You are so brave.

"One," says the man.

Now breathe.

"Two."

In and out.

"Three."

The boy jumps into the night. His limbs outstretched and flailing. The wind whistling in his ears. A strong hand wraps around his arm, the arm that holds Brownie, pulling both of them up and into the car. "Brave kid," grunts the man, and suddenly the boy finds coal under his hands, under his knees. Crumbly, loose, ashy and dry. The man rises to his feet and steps smoothly forward, gliding almost, calling over his shoulder. "This way."

The boy crawls after him, pausing halfway to peer up at the sky. The moon gazes back, full and pale in the black expanse.

How strange, thinks the boy, that there should be a moon and no stars.

He looks around him, and all he can see is glittering water. Black water.

"What is this place?" he asks.

But the man has already crossed the coal-car and is climbing down the far side, and then he is gone.

The boy looks back at the carriage one last time. At the empty benches, and the lamp swinging from the ceiling, and the absence of his Papa. Then he turns away.

It is hot inside the cab. The change in temperature makes the boy feel dizzy. The man wipes sweat from his face and grabs a shovel, a big steel-headed shovel, and he begins dumping coal into the firebox.

"Please, sit." The man gestures to a wooden stool across from him, among the copper pipes and protruding valves and glass dials. The space is filled with sound: hissing steam and grinding metal, and beneath it all, the engine’s bestial roar.

The man slides the firebox closed and cranks down a lever. The wind whistles louder beyond the window. The train charges faster through the night.

“My name is Charon,” says the man, brushing soot from his cloak. "Do you know where we are?"

The boy shakes his head.

“We’re on a river. A great big river, called the Styx.”

The boy says he’s never heard of it. "I just want to find my Papa."

A shadow crosses Charon's face, and he looks down at his hands. His coal-stained fingers are laced together. Slender, delicate fingers. "Your father is far from here," he says at last. "You tread a different path than him now."

But this explains nothing to the boy. "Why do we take a train?" he says.

At this the man smiles, a sad smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Because trains are faster than boats." He crouches down and lifts Brownie from the boy's limp grasp, cradling the bear in gentle hands. "Let me explain."

He holds up the stuffed animal. "This is your Token. Your anchor to the world above. Everyone has one when they first come to me, whether it’s a cherished toy, or a special photograph, or a pack of cigarettes." The bear is passed back to the boy.

"It will stay with you until you fully pass on. Until we reach the Other Side. And then it will vanish. It is your payment for passage on this train."

The boy looks dazed, and the man sighs and squats down, his cloak spread across the ground.

"I forget you're so young. Far too young."

He sits on the floor across from the boy, as the train hurtles over the river and through the night, and he begins to speak in a low, measured voice. A calming voice.

The best kind of voice to explain death.

Short Story
2

About the Creator

Bryn T.

21 year old creative from Vancouver.

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Outstanding

Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

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  1. Easy to read and follow

    Well-structured & engaging content

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    Original narrative & well developed characters

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