THE VISITORS

Dan R. Fowler

The Visitors

An Introductory Poem

THE VISITOR

by

Debbie Nofsinger

The deep corridors of the mind, hold many specters

And places to hide.

Rooms to be opened and those left inside.

A wind blew across the valley which chilled me to the bone.

Made me want to run inside the nearest house and close the door behind.

Since the night of the Blue moon, nothing has been the same.

And all in the valley realized a Visitor came.

A specter, a ghost, a haunting to be played out,

We know not what to think, nor what to speak.

Who is this visitor who comes and goes,

Who shape shifts like the wind that blows.

A mortal?, I say not, an apparition?

A messenger sent?

In the valley, we wonder, what your presence meant.

The unknown is the greatest fear, how can we know for sure,

If the visitor who arrived is friend or foe.

How can he know more about us than we even know?

Oh apparition, visitor from beyond,

Reveal who you are

Or leave this place.

Chapter One

In retrospect

A long time ago, in valleys squeezed between mountains that reached into the heavens, the workers of the mines in a place named Sorrows pushed through the snow and rain to provide for the needs of their families. They descended into the depths of the earth, a place where many wouldn't dare go, to dig out a living in a dark dimly lit place where some never returned. Paid pennies for their back-breaking work, they often supplemented the needs of their families by growing gardens and raising livestock. It was a common sight in the valleys along a lazy river that snaked through the mountainsides. Whatever it took to make it through to the next year was the motto of the valley people of Sorrows.

With this backdrop of honest, dedicated people as the environment, I was born in nineteen forty-eight. My name is Samuel McDuff, a direct descendant of the McDuff clan or at least that was what my grandparents told all of us grandchildren when we were youngsters gathered on the back porches where Grandma snapped green beans. She called it snapping and stringing. I guess she called it that because after she snapped all the beans or broke them apart into smaller pieces, she strung them on threads and hung them from the top of the porch boards to dry.

My father, Wallace McDuff, was a quiet man of short stature. I often asked him if I’d be taller than he was and he replied that it ain’t how tall a man is that makes him a man. He said it’s what’s inside the man that makes him a man. I eventually stopped asking him that question and took lessons from how he lived. He eked out a marginal living alongside the other men in the area in the mines owned by men who wouldn’t come to visit their investment or dare allow themselves to be lowered into the depths that were darker than pitch black where black gold waited to be harvested.

In these mining coal camps where we lived as children, my imagination came to life. I dreamed of writing stories or telling stories like the ones my Mama read to us children every evening to keep us quiet. Having loved the idea of stories since an early age, I found them thought-provoking, I found them astonishing, and I found some of them scary. Many of the stories kept me and my siblings up at night. Many of the stories kept me pulling at my covers to protect me from the demons, the spirits that swirled around in the rooms of my imagination. But, I and my siblings loved listening to our mama read stories to us from a particularly large scary book that spoke of spooky things that went bump in the night and scallywags who wouldn't behave. It was a tradition, a particularly strange tradition that kept us huddled together in a tight circle on the floor right after dinner until the midnight hour.

I remember the moment when my imagination sparked to life envisioning those creepy crawly things moving through the rooms of our not-so-stylish shanty. I remember the sensation that crept up my legs as I listened to the tales of ghosts, nightly visitors, and unwelcomed hands that pulled at the covers on my bed. And, I remember the first time my mama told us about the ‘visitor’ that came sometimes to see folks.

Perhaps it was my personal struggle to overcome my dread of the night’s darkness that kept me listening, kept me seeing swirling fog or steam floating in the hallways and hearing footsteps on the stairs. I just wanted to understand. I wanted to believe that the stories were just stories, nothing more. I wanted to believe that the ‘Visitors’ were nothing more than some ole wives’ tale that the women of the valleys told their children to keep them from misbehaving.

In the soft evening light as the day was dying and before it gave up its last breath, Mama took the old book from the shelf, and held it up so we could see. The stories filled the silence with the sounds of our heartbeats in expectation as to which story Mama was going to read to us. Like many of the characters in the large scary book who were travelers, I too wanted to see beyond the tall mountains that stood as sentinels that kept all of the residents of Sorrows captive. I too wanted to walk a different road than those dirt roads that led to my house, but there were unseen hands that held all of us there in the coal mining camps where ‘black gold’ was ripped from the earth and shipped out on coal trains. We weren’t aware of the ‘Visitors’ all the time, but in the evening’s dim light, near the edges of the muddy dirt roads, we were able to catch a glimpse of them or that’s what we told ourselves they were. As far as us children were concerned, the Visitors were ghosts, plain and simple.

As the stories were told about the ‘Visitors’ and their antics, I too wanted to see those star-lit cities that touched the heavens that the story’s characters talked about. But that wasn’t to happen for me or the other children for some time. Many years later in a different place, a different world, perhaps everyone would know the truth about a place named Sorrows, maybe not. There would be a time when the stories of the holler people would be known if not to everyone on Earth, but at least to the new generation growing up in Sorrows’ coal camps.

As a child, I wanted to see around the next bend in the road or look behind billowing clouds that piled high in the sky overhead to see if I’d ever become free, but the hidden secret agenda of the ‘visitor’ kept all of us sequestered behind lush foliage deep within the valleys. Whatever pushed me forward, whether personal aspiration or childhood fantasy or innate curiosity to know what might have been lurking in the trees and bushes that surrounded our shanty-like dwellings, I'm grateful because there came a time when I was no longer a child, but a man who would uncover the truth told to me and my cousins by my Grandma one evening while storms raged above us as we sit on what we thought was a magic patchwork quilt.

The large scary book, even though engendering fear and suspension as to who it was looking through the windows or walking up the dirt walkway leading to the front door, opened up an unseen world of curiosity to know more, to experience more, to understand more of the things that went bump in the night. And, unknown to us, it opened up a lot more.

Curiosity, that inner desire to know, drove me, drove all of us, to experience life in different ways as best that we could in a place locked away from the rest of the world. We only needed to look within ourselves to find unbelievable answers, that would free all of us from what came to visit us in a place known as Sorrows.

Chapter Two

In Dreams

Rata tat tat upon my door awakened me during the night. Who could possibly be standing at our door at three O’clock in the morning? Was it a neighbor or some acquaintance, one might assume, or an unrecognizable figure standing alone on my front porch bearing some message yet untold. We were told to expect visits, but I wasn’t ready for this first one so early in my life.

I pulled back the faded, thread-bare lace curtains to see if I could recognize a face, but the figure turned away and looked out beyond the door stoop into the yard. As I watched it through the bedroom window, a bedroom that I shared with my younger brothers, there was no sign of unfamiliarity, no physical features that would distinguish them or identify them as a neighbor seeking help. It was as if they'd stood there in the exact same spot on many occasions awaiting an entrance into our anointed fortress, our castle, as our mama called it. She was sure that the anointed olive oil would keep anything that was evil or bad away from our doors, away from our house, but as children, we didn’t really understand what she was trying to tell us. We didn’t understand what anointed meant or even why we needed to put the Olive oil around the door facing. It was a strange custom that all of the families did in Sorrow’s to ward off things that came in the night, uninvited things.

It's not the first time some wayward vagabond has mistakenly assumed that our house was a placed they would be allowed entrance and, as my mama would say, she’d be sure it wouldn’t be the last time things came knocking. Peering through the barrier separating me from them, I felt some sense of a sinister nature, but nothing diabolical, nothing that would cause me apprehension at the first sight of the being standing and waiting, but yet within me I recoiled at the thought of answering the door, facing the faceless specter, embracing the unknown. I remained still.

Extremely reticent about my feelings, I gripped the curtain's fitfully realizing that if the stranger wanted to gain entrance, they could easily break the glass at which I stood. Warily, I slowly opened the thin, imaginary barrier a little wider so as to get a better view of the uninvited guest standing at our door in the wee hours of the morning. Unexpectedly, I watched as the vapor lifted one of its hands and with a shadowy knuckle rapped against the faded wood siding that was filled with termites and held little protection should the visit push against it.

I writhed in pain as my heart leapt within me having been startled by the sound of the rapping reverberating in the hallway outside my bedroom. Then, as before, I remembered the visitor standing on my doorstep, one of many visitors who've made their way into our world only to stand waiting for a welcoming gesture that would allow them access, not only into our house, but anyone’s house who would invite them to enter. I realized where I was, what was happening and shook myself from this reoccurring event that left me sweating and my heart palpitating. It wasn’t a dream this time. For dreams have a fascinating way of allowing our mind to be free. Dreams aren’t real. Dreams are figments of imagination that coalescence with life’s experiences. Thankfully, this particular visitation by the visitor seemed more like I was sleeping in the dream state.

It stood for a few moments longer, then turned, and disappeared into the mist that crept up our dirt walkway leading from the dirt road. I watched it as it moved effortlessly through the condensation, but lost sight of it as it approached the edge of the road just beyond the property line.

This intrusion into our world wasn’t an invitation for further visits, but I felt as though there would be more throughout the valley, perhaps at other people’s houses, I just didn’t know when.

Chapter Three

Snapping and Stringing

Sitting on the wooden-planked porch’s overhang and not in the sun so that our pale skin wouldn’t get burnt, we watched in amazement as our Grandma worked her magic with the first of many buckets of green beans. We children all waited for Grandma to call us near and for us to take our seats by her, then she picked up her bucket full of green beans and began the instructions as to how we should be snapping and stringing. It wasn’t as we’d all imagined or hoped to spend our lazy afternoon, we all wanted to sleep or go swimming down at the watering hole, but that wasn’t going to happen, at least not for a while.

As our Grandma explained that this particular harvesting job that she did was a process, one that she’d done for over fifty years. And, laughing, she said that after a few sessions, we’d be trained and ready to help her at the end of the next harvest time.

Trying to remained seated on the rounded stool was not as easy as it might appear to be, but it was our goal to do as she asked and remain balanced as we snapped and strung green beans in the later after noon sun. We needed to learn this skill and it was good for our soul or that’s what Grandma said. We didn’t think it was a spiritual thing, I mean, like going to church or something like that, but according to our Grandma, it would help us get closer to the creator.

That’s what she told us no matter how young we started, that in other places, snapping and stringing wasn’t as important to the grown folks. She said that there were many places outside of our valleys where green been snapping and stringing had been abandoned for canned beans in tin cans.

It didn’t take long to snap a whole bucket of beans, but the stringing, well, that was the hard part. Before long, all of us children got the hang of the needle and thread, some of us bled after being stuck a couple of times, but we had to keep going. Grandma insisted. Minutes ticked away into hours as each one was filled with talking and laughing, and plenty of smiles all around. It’s good for the children to learn a skill that would keep the alive if they raised a garden, my Grandma said.

Grandma hurried us along and watched us with the needle, but didn’t say a word even if the stringing wasn’t all that great. The lesson she was teaching us wasn’t about green beans or string or anything like that, it was a life skill to keep us alive should things turn down hill and no one had jobs.

“Hurry up now let’s finish”, she told one grandchild as we all got to the last of the baskets of green beans. As we listened to her voice echo around the porch talking about snapping and stringing, we all were less than excited until someone brought up the topic of the ‘visitor’ in the middle of all of our laughing and smiling. Within moments, silence fell across the group causing each one’s smile to disappear being replaced with grimaces and burrowed brows. It wasn’t what some wanted to hear, but as we sit with Grandma, she sit up straight, waved some flies away, cleared her throat, and began to tell us her understanding as to who the ‘visitor’ was and why they came to see us.

Grandma looked around at those of us seated near her and let out a sigh that spoke of things she’d rather not talk about. She wanted to ease the feelings and spirits of her grandchildren, but the things she needed to tell them might only get them more upset. But, she also knew that if she didn’t tell them the truth, that someone in their parts would tell them a lie and make things much worse. She wanted them to know the truth or at least what she’d been told years ago when she was a child sitting on her Grandma’s porch snapping and stringing.

“Children, gather ‘round and I’ll tell you what I was told many years ago about the ‘visitors’. I’m not sure if it was true when I was told the story, but my mama was sure it was what her mama had told her back in the hollers there there ain’t much to do other than storytelling. It was a long time ago when there weren’t any of these no fangled things and contraptions traveling up and down the road that we see today,” admitted Grandma as she huddled us closer to her as if one of the ‘visitors’ was going to snatch one of us away even before the story got started.

“But, Grandma, ain’t we not supposed to talk about the ‘visitors’? I mean, ain’t they always listening?” asked one of my cousins who was always a scaredy-cat no matter what was goin’ on or which story was bein’ told to us when we visited Grandma’s house. When we visited Grandma’s house, there was no tellin’ what stories would be cooked up to tell us children to keep them busy or keep them still. But one thing was for sure, there wasn’t ever a time when Grandma talked about the ‘visitors’ comin’ down in the hollers to Rata ta ta upon someone’s door up until now. I wasn’t sure why it seemed like the right time to go spreading some long tale that would keep the children up and their minds a quaking long into the late night hours.

“Okay, children, here’s what my mama told me that she said her mama told her about those ghosts or that’s what she told me they were called way back when she was younger before she had all her children. It’s only during this generation that the name ‘visitors’ has been used to describe them, before that they were just called ghosts. The truth is that there are ghosts walking among us and we don’t even know it,” granny said and looked away from the gathered children out into the far distance as if she was searching for one of those ghosts.

“We didn’t have a lot of time to dilly dally around when we were children. When we were told we were going to my Grandma’s house for the night, we knew that she would have a special treat for us all baked up and ‘waitin’ for each of us. See, those times were hard times, not like right now when you find mostly what ya want. It was during one of those stay-overs, like y’all call it, that Grandma came out with a story that, well, a story that I can’t hardly understand even to this day. It went somethin’ like this,” started Grandma as she straightened her apron, waved away a few flies or gnats, and fixed her sun hat so it kept the remainder of the sun out of her eyes. Once the sun was behind the tall mountain to the right of the valley, she’d put the sunhat on a knob near the back door where she kept it all the time.

“It’s about a special kind of train,” she whispered. “Y’all know what a train is, right?” she asked and waited for the younger kids to nod their heads that they understood what she was talking about.

“But, Grandma, that was a long time ago when your mama lived. Did they have trains here in the valley? I don’t remember ever seeing any type of railroad tracks or tunnels where the trains run up and down the valleys,” said Alvery, the next oldest in the group.

He’d asked a good question because as far as any of us knew, no trains traveled up and down the holler except coal trains. None of us remember seeing any other type of trains when were been growing up in the hollers. The coal trains that puffed cinder and belched smoke came up the holler about one time every other week. It clicky-clacked up from the main interchange, that’s what our mama told us it was called, that was located down in the main city of Gary. In Gary, the Smokey-Joe, that’s what me and my brothers called it, would push the coal cars together that it had pushed from other hollers, get them all lined up to go, and push it into a place where a bigger engine was waiting to latch on to them and pull them out of the hollers to another place. We didn’t know where that other place was, but mama said it wasn’t important that we knew. She said all we needed to know was that our daddy worked hard to fill the coal cars that would go off to another placed where it would be used to keep other people’s lights on.

“But Grandma, my mommy told us that there were trains here, still are, that pull the coal out in big dump-truck-looking containers,” said Seth who was the only one in the group that had a biblical name. He thought that his name was special and for him, it was. According to our mommy, he name Seth an Irish both are Scotch name and it means ‘wolf’ that’s what she told me anyways,” I said as I stood while I was telling Grandma in an attempt to show her how proud I was that I remembered all that stuff about Seth’s name.

“Well, well, I’m so proud of you that you remembered that kind of stuff about our family and where we came from. Maybe when you get older you can take over the story-telling and us old folks can sit down and listen to you for a spell,” Grandma said as she smiled and waved for me to take my seat before she started the tale that her mama told her way back when.

“Now, children, this is a story that has been told by many Grandmas around here in these parts. I dare think that some city folk would be telling this tale. It’s said that the ‘visitors’ only come ‘round in places where there’s a lot of spirit in the people, a lot of faith, and a lot of praying. I’m not so sure if that’s the truth, but during my years when I growing up, we went to church all the time. It seemed like the ‘visitors’ were trying to tell us something but nobody knew exactly what message they were bringing ‘round to us. It was many times that the groups of children that I sat with during that time seemed to be more scared of the ‘visitor’s that they were of the mommies or daddies. Truth be known, some of the older folks knew more than they were saying. Anyways, that was a long time ago, children when I was the same age as most of you are now. Yes, it was a time of storytelling in the evening hours just like it is today her on my porch,” said Grandma as her mood changed to one less jovial, one less full of smiles, one that we seldom saw when we came to Grandma’s house for the snapping and stringing lessons.

“Here’s what my mama told me about the visitors,” she said, leaned back to take in a breath of air, exhaled, and began her story.

...

“Roger P. Barton slumped in the passenger seat aboard a speeding train on its continuing trip between the realms of truth and fantasy. He will awaken, like many others, without a pass, without any knowledge as to how he arrived in the seat across the aisle from an elderly couple dressed in gray attire. But during his time on this train, he’ll come to understand a mystery few have ever known.

These are the travelers sequestered away from what was their world, who now find themselves languishing between this world and the next. The fast-moving passenger train with connections both physically and spiritually to all things, hasn’t stopped since it left the station hundreds of years ago. Some call it the Lightening Train, some call it the Silver Bullet because it travels so fast that no one has ever been able to read the writing on the sides of the numerous passenger compartments.

Within each small cubicle, conversations of times past, memories of almost forgotten experiences, and roles played filled the lackluster dimly lit dining facility where glasses are raised, and toasts are made.

Roger P. Barton, a thirty-five-year-old industrial worker who lived in one of the cities frequented by the mysterious train, has now joined the travelers aboard a train that never stops. The train passed through his town many times before, unable to stop, ever increasing in speed, have no conscience, without reasoning except to get to the next city or town or village on its never-ending trek to be filled with those characters who must make the transition from that world to this train. Those who have spun their tale, played their roles now share a common bond. Roger was one of those the train needed to retrieve.

Aboard the train, Roger sits asleep, but within moments, he too will sluggishly awaken up join those sitting aboard a rather unpredictable train traveling westward into the setting sun’s dimming rays.

...

“Okay, children, that’s all I got time for this evening. I got to git up and go git dinner started. Y’all want to eat, right?” she asked as she stood up from the porch steps on which she had sat to tell us the first part of the story. She usually sit on the porch floor, gathered all of us ‘round her like a hen would her chicks when it was story time.

She loved telling us stories. As long as I can remember, Grandma told us stories ‘bout a lot of things and places. There was not tellin’ which story she’d tell us each time we all got to go visit with her. We usually visited on Sundays after Sunday morning services. And, like most Sundays morning services, the preacher would talk about everything from his sermon to the up and coming church charity giveaway to keep the church folks at the church for as long as he could. I’m not so sure all the talking was preaching a sermon, but I was glad once it was all done ‘cause we got to go to Grandma’s house for story-time.

“But, Grandma, what happened to that man, that Roger person?” asked one of my cousins who had a hard time following the stories that my Grandma told us. She loved the stories, but Grandma had to do a lot of stopping to explain to her what was going on. For me, it made me tired just listening to the questions asked over and over again until one time, I just told my cousin to stop asking questions, let our Grandma finish the story, and I’d explain it all once Grandma was done. That seemed to work for the most part. But today, this particular story was one that even I had a lot of questions about. It was different somehow from the others that we heard Grandma tell many times before. This story, this train story, gave me a feeling that it was a true story and not a made-up story like all the rest of the others.

“Now, children, Grandma McDuff has a lot of fixin’ to do. You can either come inside with me into the kitchen and give me a hand or you can go into the front room and sit together until your mom and dad comes to git you,” she said as she opened up the screen door, one just like the one we had at our house, held it open for all of us to get through, then closed it slowly as to not bang the door like I did at our house.

“But Grandma, when are we going to git to hear the rest of the story?” asked one of my other cousins, the brother of the girl who also asked a lot of questions.

“Babies, it won’t be long, I promise all of you,” answered Grandma as she started pulling out pots and pans and lard as she always did when we came over for dinner with her. There wasn’t a time when she didn’t fix homemade fried chicken and gravy with homemade buttermilk biscuits.

It was my favorite dinner when visited at Grandma’s house. At our house, we had the same thing just not as often. Mama told us that Grandma raised her own chickens and killed them during the week so she could fix dinner for all of us grand kids when we were dropped off. Grandma said she ‘plucked’ the chickens right after she beheaded them. I didn’t want her to talk about that when we had dinner cause I could see the dead chicken bleeding all over the backyard. It wasn’t a good thing to see and some of the younger girls ran screaming back into the house when Grandma went out with a hatchet in her hand. We all knew what was going to happen.

“Now, you children do as I told ya and go into the front room or stay in here with me. If you stay in here with me, you’ll have to help me with the fixins,” she said and pulled out a large bowl, held it under this thing on the large cabinet that looked like a bowl turned upside down, cranked a crank attached to the upside down bowl, and flour came out. I didn’t know what that was, but the flour was fluffy and fine and didn’t have any lumps.

“Okay, I’m counting to ten, if you’re going into the front room, you better be in there by the time I count to ten!” explained Grandma as she started her usual chanting of one, two, three, all the way up to ten. By the time she was at ten, there wasn’t no children in the kitchen except me. I stayed to watch Grandma fix her food because, unlike those in the front room, I got to taste the food as it was being put together. That’s what Grandma called it, putting the food together.

“Grandma, it looks like it’s just you and me again,” I said as I looked off into the front room where the other kids were sitting in a big circle playing some type of game to keep themselves busy until it was dinner time.

“Sam, fetch me a small bucket of water from the spring out back. I need some more water to do all the dishes that will need to be done after everyone eats.

“Okay, Grandma,” I replied as I picked up the empty water bucket, removed the ladle, placed it on the wooden table near the drainboard, and began the walked through the house to fetch Grandma the water she needed.

For years, the people of in the hollers carried water from spring boxes or hand-dug wells in their backyards. There were any water lines or fancy indoor plumbing that some many got later on after the mines began to really deliver on the investors bets. And, like at Grandma’s house, we also had to fetch water at our house. It was just the way things were back in the hollers when coal mining was just getting started. Even though it was well into the early 1930s and 1940s, that didn’t mean that the mining camps had running water. And, it would be some time before all of the shanty houses had running water. Up until that time, buckets were used to fetch water at the wells.

“What y’all doin’?” I asked as I walked through the house going to the back door.

“We ain’t doin’ nothin’. ‘Sides, what is there to do?” asked one of the older boys who was noticeably bored.

“Well, you can go fetch this bucket of water for Grandma if you’re that bored!” I said immediately as I watched his expression frown up.

“Ain’t doin’ that. You done got yourself caught up in a mess of work in there Sam. It’s your own fault. You always stay in the kitchen with Grandma! Why is that?” asked Stanley as he twisted up his face in a questioning expression.

“Well, for one thing, I ain’t caught out here with all you little children with nothing to do but fuss. And, if you had any sense, you’d know that Grandma offers tastings as she cooks. There, I said it, I get to taste what’s being cooked while all you children sit in the floor and do nothing,” I said as I laughed and walked out the back door towards the well in the back yard.

I really didn’t mind fetchin’ water for Grandma. She’d been good to us over the years and good to my mama and dad. All of the holler folks loved my Grandma for her kindness. But, there was something that didn’t quite set right with me about the whole thing. If she knew so much about the ‘visitors’, why has she taken so long to tell us about them?

Walking out into the back yard filled with a chicken house and fencing to keep the chickens in, I could hear them as they made their way into the small doors at the bottom of the chicken houses. It was time for them to go to roost, as my Grandma told us. She said people should be more like chickens and go to be earlier to get their rest. I’m not so sure that would help many of us thought. The stories about the ‘visitors’ kept a lot of us children us late and well into the early morning hours. We wanted to see them or catch a glimpse of them, but we didn’t want them to come into our house.

One thing I didn’t have to do at Grandma’s house was prime the pump at the well. I’m not even sure exactly what that means, but some folks done told me that it takes time and some time it don’t work. So, when I got to the well, I reached for the metal handle, lifted it as high as I could, and water just spilled out like a water fall. Filling the bucket to the brim, I pulled the handle back down causing the water to stop. I was all done.

I stood at the well for a few minutes more as I surveyed the fence line between Grandma’s yard and the huge trees that bordered her property. The trees were very high like the ones in our back yard where we as children tried to climb them. Our mama told us many times to not be climbing trees, but one day, just for the heck of it, one of my brothers did just that regardless whether mama approved or not. I remembered that tree climbing as I stood there looking at the trees. The memory was clear and funny…

...It's funny how some things stick in our minds and never go away, while others only visit for a minute then they're gone. Such is one of many experiences from back in the late 1950's. There wasn't a lot for us to do on the 'hill' at O'Toole during the summer months. No televisions or radios or any fancy things like the kids have nowadays. School summer vacation was a time dreamed of while attending school, but once it was in our possession, we couldn't really find much to do to keep us business. The spring pigs were growing quickly, the chicken coup was filled with clucks and cheeps and 'cock-a-doodle-doos, hen's nests filled with eggs, and the crops were springing up knee high showing signs that there would be fresh corn, green beans, and cucumbers. There weren't any summer water parks or carnivals or vacations away from the house. The money was always tight. Pinching pennies was not a past-time practice, but an essential activity to make ends meet. But, somehow, the pantries were filled, there was food on the table, and even extra for the lady down the hill who helped Mom out with the ironing. It was on one of these 'nothing to do days' that my older brother discovered the largest tree at the back of our house. They could grow to a mature height of up to 60 feet, spreading around 12 feet. My oldest brother made it his goal to climb the huge tree no matter what. So, one lazy summer day, he ascended almost to the top of the tree, almost out of sight, or so I thought. The leaves and branches hid him from sight making it appear that he'd climbed into the heavens. Thankfully, he didn't fall out of the tree and break his neck. We'd been warned about such antics when Mom wasn't around. Once back on the ground, he turned and said, "I told you I could do it!" And so he had. It was a proud moment for the kids on the 'hill' with little to nothing to do. There's little left of those childhood places. Nothing more than rotting timbers, over-grown dirt roads, and memories that linger there calling me back to a simpler time filled with all we needed.

...That was some memory and it wasn’t all that long ago when that big ole tree was climbed and my brother boasted how great he was or how proud he was that he finally climbed to the top.

Standing at the well and waiting on the water bucket to get full, I glanced out over the big backyard and spotted what I thought was a person standing near the edge of the property line. It would be extremely surprising to all of us if there was to be company at this hour of the evening. There was barely enough light for me to see my way back to the back porch, much less for someone to see the path from the edge of the forest to the porch. Grandma didn’t like unannounced or prearranged company just showing up for no reason. She’d said it at least I know a hundred times. If someone just shows up without telling you they were coming, well, that was considered rude here in our neck of the woods.

As I watched the figure as it stood still in front of the gigantic Elm tree, I felt as though maybe I should run back to the house as fast as I could and tell my Grandma what I saw. Yet, as I watched the figure as it stood there, it didn’t move or take any steps as if it was coming to get me. I was still afraid, but I dare not run. So, whether I wanted to or not, I was stuck there by the well until the spirit or whatever it was disappeared.

“Okay now Sam, let’s not get ourselves all worked up about something that we don’t even know what it is,” I whispered to myself as I lifted the water bucket up, held it knee-high, and turned to walk back to the house.

Out across the yard, the vapor shimmered in the moonlight that was beginning to capture the landscape. As night ran its fingers across the grass and up over the shrubs, the image of what appeared to be a man wobbled from side to side. If it was a man, he seemed to be drunk by the way he was weaving back and forth. It was strange but I was too afraid to do anything other than get back to the back porch and get myself back into the house.

Watching over my shoulder as I walked briskly back to the house, I was almost out of breath as I pulled the screen door open and hurried inside. I set the water bucket on the side cupboard and turned back to be sure the door closed behind me. Panting as if I’d run a race, I went over to my Grandma who was busy answering the other children’s questions, and tugged on her apron.

“Yes, Samuel, what is it, my child? Why are you sweating?” she asked me as she turned to look at my face. Leaning toward the sideboard, she picked up clean clothes and wiped the sweat from my forehead.

“I asked you a question, child. Why are you sweating?” she asked.

Not wanting to get the other children upset or afraid, I leaned over and whispered in my Grandma’s ear. “Grandma, there was something or someone standing at the edge of the forest out by the chicken coup. I didn’t see exactly what it was, but it stood there looking at me until I left the well and walked back to the house. I’m not sure if it was a man or not, but it looked like a person,” I admitted.

Studying my face’s expressions and seeing my body trembling, my Grandma felt like I was telling the truth, but she didn’t go out into the yard to find out if it was a man or some other type of creature. No, she simply walked over to the pantry door, opened it, reached in, and pulled out the rifle. She loaded it and set it near the drainboard.

“Now, if it’s somebody that wants to start some trouble, my daddy always told all of his children to be ready and don’t back down.”

The evening passed without incident, dinner and dishes were finished up, pajamas were put on, and around ten o’clock, all of us children were tucked in by our Grandma. She checked all the doors and pulled all the drapes together to keep out the moonlight that would keep us awake. The nights were long at Grandma’s house, but each room, each dinner, and every thing that she tried to teach us would remain within us for years to come.

I waited for her to finish up the tucking in before I mentioned the story she was telling us. I really wanted to hear more about the ‘visitors’ story, but seeing that we’re all put to bed, there was no use of bring it us for her to tell us a little more.

“Ah, Grandma, the story…” I said as she walked over to the bedroom door, placed her hands on the light switch, and turned to see what the question was that was burning on my tongue, as she use to say.

“Now, Samuel, we’ll get to when we get to it. Now, stop fretting and get on to sleep. We got some things out there in the garden that need pickin’ tomorrow. You, children, will need your rest,” she insisted as she switched the light off and pulled the door together.

There wasn’t must use in trying to get her to stop once she got her mind set on something. Grandma was just that way. Say what you need to say and move along. That was her motto. She’d never change, not at this age, not at this time in her life.

I listened to her walked down the hallway before I decided to throw back the quilt and ease out of the bed. I was on a mission that I didn’t want her to know about. I wasn’t goin’ outside or anything like that, not at this time of the night, but I did want to pull back the curtains to see if I could tell if that ghost or man or spirit was still standing out there at the edge of the yard. It scared me but I wanted to know before I closed my eyes. If something was out there in the yard, I wasn’t going to get any sleep until it disappeared.

Pushing the quilt off of me and sliding my legs off of the bed, I waited a few seconds before I stood up. My brother in the other small bed in the room was about to go to sleep but was started by me moving around.

“What are you doin’ Sammy?” he asked in a low whisper.

“I gotta know, so I’m takin’ a look,” I answered as I walked slowly and quietly toward the window.

“Grandma’s goin’ have your hide!” he said in a slightly louder tone hoping that I’d heed his warning and git back into bed.

“You better leave well enough alone, Sammy, I’m telling you. Ain’t no good come from somebody stickin’ their nose into things where they ain’t got no business. Leave it alone and git back in bed,” he instructed as he watched me getting closer to the window.

Once I’d finished the short walk from the bed to the window, I stood that building up my courage to pull the curtain back and take a look. If the person or spirit was there, I’d be able to see it by the light of the moon. If it wasn’t there, then no harm done.

“Sammy, what you goin’ do if there is someone out there? Grandma’s done told you to leave it alone, but if she finds out you’re doin’ somethin’ she told you to not do, she’ll tan you behind,” said my brother who was less curious and less ambitious to see the spirit out in the yard.

“Go on back to sleep, scaredy cat, I’ll be alright. I’ll be done takin’ my look and gettin’ back into bed before Grandma finds out unless you squeal on me. Now, mind your own business and I let you know what I see since you ain’t coming to look with me,” I told my brother who wouldn’t get up or even turn to look toward the window where I was standing.

There was no denying that I was scared. My hands were sweating, my knees were shaking, and my heart was racing, but I intended to see for myself if that man or thing was lookin’ at the window. With a little courage, I took hold of the edge of the curtain and slowly pulled it back just far enough for me to see out to the edge of the yard. There was a second that my eyes needed to adjust for the distance from the window to the edge of the yard, but as the seconds ticked by, slowly a faint image came into view. It only lasted a second, maybe two, but sure enough, and to my surprise, the ghost was still standing at the edge of the yard and forest. For a second longer, I stood trembling, but before I could get my brother to come look at what I was seeing, the figure turned sideways and stepped out of sight into the trees. It was gone.

“Now, what do I do?” I asked myself as I searched the edges of the trees to see if the spirit was lurking behind another tree or bush. There wasn’t more to see, but tomorrow I was going go out there where the thing was standing and see if it left any tracks like footprints.

“Well, Mr. Nosey, did you see what you wanted to see?” asked my brother as he pushed the quilt off of his head and looked over at me.

Rather than start a whole conversation about seeing the person or ghost or spirit without proof that I saw it, I simply turned and shook my head. It was easier for me that way, ‘sides, my brother would never have let me live it down since I didn’t have anything to show him to prove I saw what I thought was a ghost.

“Ah, well, I guess I need to git on to sleep,” I said as I walked back over to the bed, pulled the quilt down, and slid under it.

“Good night,” I said.

“Good night,” my brother replied. “You are crazy!” he added to make matters worse.

The night was long and dark and I wasn’t sleeping at all. The whole event had shattered my faith a little about there not being ghosts or stuff like that. Mama taught us that there wasn’t no such stuff as ghosts. She said it was told to children to scare them into going to bed or doing their chores. But, after the last evening and the sighting, I wasn’t so sure.

The next morning was filled with sunshine so bright that it hurt my eyes. After dressing and straightening up the bed, I and my other cousins walked out of the bedrooms and closed the door behind us. I left the story of what I saw in the bedroom and had planned to let it die there, but I knew it was just a matter of time before my brother opened his mouth and told my Grandma. It was just a matter of time.

…

Breakfast was almost done when suddenly a strange thing happened that none of us expect. Outside and moving in from the West was a cloud bank that was bringing a storm unlike any that we’d seen in a while. True enough, we needed rain for the crops. The ground was dry and parched, my Grandma said and needed a big drink of water.

Stepping out onto the back porch and looking out into the Western sky, my Grandma, being the local weather predictor for the local camp, assessed the sky, the dark clouds, and the upturned leaves on the trees and bushes. Once finished with her analysis outside, she came back in the door with her prediction.

“Children, we’re goin’ have a major storm. Go now and close all the windows and pull the curtains before it all gets started.

About that time, there was a clap of thunder that shook the house like nothing I’d ever heard before. Several of the grandchildren ran and held onto each other just in case there was another thunderclap on the way.

Seeing that the children were afraid of the approaching storm, Grandma asked all of us to gather in the large living room and she’d entertain us with a short, but true story she’d remembered about her little town way off in another part of the world where she grew up. It rained a lot there in the town where houses were built so close together that no one could squeeze between them. The streets were made of cobblestone, and the drains were used to catch the water and carry it away from the streets. It was a different world and a different life than Grandma lived before coming to America with my grandpa. She missed it, she often said with a sad expression.

“Don't get me wrong, I like a sunny day as well as the next person, but for me, the sound of the rain, the drizzle in my face, the heavy wind pushing up against my windows engender specters, ghosts, and tales that I can tell you, grandchildren. It's this type of day wherein my thoughts are drawn to other locations, times past, where, as a child, I grew up in another place around the world in a neighborhood that I would no longer be able to see but to know more about after I got older and married your grandpa.

The children where I used to live would set sail their small folded paper boats onto the swollen streams or branches or curb's gutters only to see them laying on their sides or consumed by the darkness waiting to envelop them, concealing them from sight. It was those moments that the youthful nautical spirit within all of us children in other parts of the world that you grandkids know nothing about, those gallant sailors, they use to call themselves, clamored to hoist the sail or drop an anchor. Far be it from me to assume that this was foreshadowing or a prediction or proof of manifest destiny, but in time, and with God's grace, I’d see those other people from different parts of the world in my dreams and resurrect them in my stories that I tell you all,” said Grandma as she tried her hardest to keep out minds off of the storm that was building outside. It was nearly upon us as she finished up her short, but enjoyable story about the child she use to be and her friend in another country far from the coal mines where my grandpa worked.

She turned to all of us and picked up the story where she’d left it off. “I laughed as I remember my Grandma offering nautical advice as to how to keep the paper boats afloat, but in the end, it was the rain that had the last word. In the end, the night's lingering elongated fingers pulled the folded waxed edges apart, flattening the regatta into nothing more than plain white sheets of paper slightly retaining a fold here and there that floated upon the surface of the water surging into the drains. Those were the days,” she said and chuckled slightly.

“Now, decades later after I can still see all those children back in my own country before coming to America with my husband to work the mines,” she added.

She told all of us children about the little boats that disappeared, drowned by the rain. She called them flotillas or something like that. I didn’t know what that meant, but she simply smiled and took a deep breath as if she was reliving the whole thing again in a coal camp far from her childhood days.

Once she was finished with her story about the boats, she lifted the corner of her kitchen apron, wiped a small, almost unnoticed tear from her eye, and let the corner drop back down. The story must have meant more to her than it did to us children because it looked like she wanted to cry more but didn’t want us to see.

One after another, the thunderclaps appeared to be getting closer and the lightning was so bright that it lit up the front yard. I’d swear that it struck some trees out in the backyard, but there wasn’t any sound of trees falling. Then, unexpectedly, there was a moment of complete silence. A moment when there wasn’t any thunder or lightning, but silence. It was a strange event that I’ll never forget.

“Now what’s that all about?” I asked my Grandma as she too noticed that the silence was deafening.

“Children, y’all all come and gather in tight with me here on the floor. We need to be still until this storm passes,” she instructed as all of us children huddled together with her on the floor waiting to see what was about to happen.

Without notice, there was a slight breeze that made its way through the house bringing with it a sense of the mysterious. No one moved as the breeze fluttered the curtains, pushed up against the sides of the tablecloth causing it to wave back and forth. Then, it moved through the opening leading into the kitchen and rushed over to the kitchen windows where it caused the kitchen cafe curtains to flap back and forth more violently than any of the other curtains in the house. Strangely, the breeze brought with it an odor, an odor of something that smelled like a man’s cologne or a woman’s perfume.

“Now that’s strange,” whispered Grandma as she held all of us tighter together as if she expected someone to try to snatch one of us away out of her arms.

As quickly as the breeze entered the house, and made its rounds, it exited out the back door that Grandma had left open. She’d told us several times that if a spirit was coming into a person’s house, there had to be an outlet, an exit for them as well. This moment was one of those times that she’d warned us about. Granted, my Grandma wasn’t some kind of witch or spiritualist, but she knew a thing or two about the unseen world that our mama didn’t want her to tell us. It was a secret, or so we were told that needed to remain a secret.

We waited a few minutes longer before we pulled away from my Grandma who was in the middle of all of us grandchildren. I could hardly breathe and pulled away first, stood up, and waited to see what was going to happen. The longer I stood there waiting, the less I expected anything else would occur.

“Now, children, let’s take a seat and remain silent until I check through the house. I want to be sure nothing is broken or blown off into the floor,” she said.

The rain and wind-tossed several yard ornaments from their locations and rolled them around in the yard. They weren’t broken, but if they had been made of chalk, they might have been. I rushed to the window without permission and stared out into the yard fully expecting to see the man or spirit or ghost to be walking away from our Grandma’s house, but there was nothing there.

Torrents of rain collapsed onto the roof of the house’s tin roof making it sound as if the roof was going to cave in on top of us. Wind, the rain's fellow companion, and traveler, pushed the tree branches, forcefully sometimes, unsettling and flushing out the hidden occupants that had sought refuge there. The moist air laden with yet more rain, swirled overhead in anticipation, in the expectation that the remainder being held high above our area would be released at the given moment. Swollen clouds hovered silently overhead waiting for the conductor to cue them. Then, without warning, another onslaught began over my Grandma’s house which was suffering from not only wind and rain, but a few drops appeared from the ceiling above us telling us that the tin roof was leaking.

All at once, all of us children got up and walked over toward the room where our Grandma was standing taking a look at the ceiling. “Don’t look good children. We’ll have to get the roof fixed after all this rain has passed by,” she admitted and rolled her eyes heavenward as if she were whispering a short, but sincere prayer that the roof would hold together until the storm was over.

After a once-through of the house accessing every ceiling for leaks, Grandma went out to the back porch to see if the chicken coup was okay, that the chickens were all inside the chicken house. All seemed to be in a good shop, just flooding and muddy. Taking a plastic head wrap and putting it on her head, she walked down the back steps and out into the yard to take a look at the tree line fencing that separated her property from the county’s trees. There weren’t any fallen trees or downed bushes that she could see. Walking along the fence line, she came upon something completely unexpected, a footprint in the mud. Someone or something left a footprint in the mud just inside her property line. She didn’t dare share the information with the child because they would in turn share it with their parents. That was the last thing she needed to happen. She wasn’t in any mood to explain or be questioned about anything unless she told it herself.

Making her way through the wind and rain, Grandma came back to the back porch, walked up the steps, and across the porch. She pulled the screen door open and let it close behind her alerting the children who weren’t paying attention that she’d finished her look-see outside.

“Children, the storm is going to take a while longer. Go sit in the front room and keep quiet. It needs to hear everything that’s going on and hopefully, there won’t be any more leaks in the house,” she instructed.

Without a word, all of the children moved to the front room, seated themselves without a word, and sit in silence knowing that when Grandma told them to do something, they better do it.

“Now, let me check out my bedroom,” Grandma whispered as she walked passed the children, turned the corner, and walked the full length of the hallway leading to the largest bedroom in the house. She’d shared it with her husband, Otis, but he’d passed away a few years earlier leaving the small farm and all his earthly things to her.

Pushing the door open and entering the bedroom, she got a whiff of the same perfume or cologne that all of them smelled just as the storm began. When the slight breeze moved through the house, that same perfume or cologne could be smelled. It wasn’t any that she had because she didn’t believe in wearing all that kind of stuff not now after her husband of forty-five years had passed on. While he was living, he liked for her to gussy herself up a little for him when they went out to the church socials or the local food markets. He felt that if he was taking care of his wife like he was supposed to, she would look the part and wear the nicest clothes she had and maybe a little perfume to smell good for her.

There wasn’t any perfume in her bedroom any longer. After Otis died, she threw all of that stuff away and resigned herself to a more natural look. She was happier that way or that’s what she told herself. Simply put, she wasn’t that much into that kind of stuff anyways.

Moving slowly through the room, Grandma McDuff looked around for drips from the ceiling, but she found something much more interesting. She found a muddy footprint, just one, under the large open window next to her nightstand. The oddest thing she thought was that there was only one footprint, just one.

Back in the living room with the kids, Sammy was pondering as to whether he needed to talk to his Grandma about what he saw late last night. He wanted to tell her, but if she was going to tan his hide for not doing what she’d told him to do, then he’d hold off until another time. It was clear that with the storm hovering overhead, the leaks in the ceiling throughout the house, and the strange odor that lingered for a few minutes in the kitchen, his simple rebellious moment of looking out the bedroom window wasn’t all that important. It was obvious that there wouldn’t be any more time for storytelling until perhaps the next time the children came to spend the night. And for Sammy, that was just fine.

Chapter Four

Crawdads

I remember the late sunny afternoons up the hollers where we lived when we were children and the emptiness we all shared from time to time. The places where we lived were called hollers or valleys, but mostly just shanty shacks that jutted out on the hillside where families struggled from one day to the next to make ends me. But the memory that flooded over me caused me to have a chuckle that pushed its way from deep within my soul and spilled over into my conscious mind. I had to laugh, almost uncontrollably, as I remembered one of many tales of discovery that my brothers and I lived through during that time of our lives. There were 6 houses spread spaciously apart along the dirt road cut into the mountainside. None of the houses would meet the standards of today's affluent more architecturally correct structures, but they were home to a group of good neighbors. The dirt road that led to the houses was only wide enough for one vehicle, but seldom did that present a problem for the trapped families living there. I remember when riding in our old used truck, the times when my dad could afford a vehicle, my brothers and I bobbed up and down like popcorn in a popcorn popper as we rode in the seat that didn't have seat belts. Seat belts weren't required, perhaps not even thought of, at that time in the late 1930s and early 1940s.

My brothers and I and my sister, Amber Ann, spent all of our time at home with Mom who would do her best to inspire us with her storytelling just like our Grandma does when we go over to visit her and help with the snapping and stringing. Mom attempted to stir our imaginations as best she could as she issued challenges for us to undertake there on the dirt roads up from the railroad tracks. Even with her best efforts, there wasn't much to do on the hill where we lived.

With a little more of her encouragement to get out and find something to do, we exited the house that was built directly beside the dirt road filled with deep ruts left from the last hard rain we had. We began our adventure making our way out of the yard and down to the rocky, pitted serpentine lane. Unlike some children, we didn't have any bikes at that time, only red or blue canvas-topped sneakers found at the church giveaways held to help those in need or to help out the church’s coffers. We called them tennis shoes at the time. The canvas-topped tennis shoes were stylish at the time and a necessity for growing boys who would go through shoes faster than anything else.

We started off down the sloping road to a familiar turn in the road that would put us out of Mom's sight and allow us to visit a place that always delivered some excitement. I can still feel the afternoon's sun against my neck and see the billowing clouds in the distance as we three sojourners turned and eventually stopped at the small, inhabited mountain stream that puddled beside the road. It ran down to one side of the road, then disappeared under the roadway only to reappear further down the mountainside. In this trickle of a stream, we plundered the "Crawdad's" domain.

Reaching our hands into the small pool of water and turning one rock over after another, eventually we discovered the prizes, several small, but vicious defenders lurking in the shadows of plant’s leaves or under small rocks. Each crawdad turned and backed away with pincers upturned ready to deliver a fatal pinch if we dared to come closer. Thankfully, my older brother was aware of these deadly creatures and offered his instruction as to how we should handle them.

"Pick them up from behind the head." he'd told me and my sister.

His warning was noted, but the creature immediately latched onto one of my fingers even after exercising the greatest caution. It was nothing short of terrifying. With the claw's death grip firmly attached to my finger, I slung my hand back and forth until I was rid of the dreadful demon.

In my mind, I still see the small, helpless defender of its home swaying back and forth latched onto the end of my finger. Luckily, it loosened its claw's grip and fell back into the shallow stream's puddle never to be seen again! Having endured the pain of the claw, an attack of one of the vilest creatures I'd encountered up until that point, the heat of the sun, and escaped with our very lives, we brothers trudged back up the dirt road to our house on the hill to regale our mama with the encounter with the claws of death. With another adventure etched upon our minds, we were sure there would be others that would match the thrill of crawdad hunting in the latter days of July, in a holler in coal country.

“You three staying out of trouble?” asked Mama as we entered the back screen door, let it go with a bang, and walked into the kitchen where Mama was puttin’ the last touches on some apple pies she’d been making while we were out up to our antics with the crawdads.

“Mama, we went down to the watering puddle near that big curve in the road, you know the one where the ruts in the road are so deep that then the daddy’s truck runs over it, we bounce around in the back seat. You know that one I’m talkin’ ‘bout?” I asked as I watched to see if Mama knew the one I was trying to describe to her.

For a second, she looked a little perplexed, but then, as if a light came one over her head, she smiled and said she knew which one I was talking about. “So, what’s got all of you so stirred up?” she asked as she trimmed the top crust off around the top of the pie pan to make it look real nice.

We children didn’t go into all the story ‘bout what went on, but we told her that I got pinched by this huge crawdad who was mad that I messed with his house under the water near a big flat rock.

“Yeah, you should’ve seen it, mama. Sammy was screaming louder than I would’ve been if the creature latched onto my finger,” said Amber as she laughed and fell down onto the sofa.

“I keep telling you three, don’t mess with those crawdads. I told you that you’d get pinched, didn’t I?” she asked as she fought back a smile, then gave into it unable to hold it back any longer.

“We know mama, but what else is there to do here? You want us to find something to do and we want to go outside, but here in this place, what’s there to do? ‘Sides, when are we goin’ back to Grandma’s house? She was telling us a story, but had to stop to get dinner ready,” I said as I walked around the table eyeing the pies that hadn’t been put into the small oven that Mama used in the old cook stove that her mama gave her when she was married.

“Mama, when are we going back over to Grandma’s house? We always love goin’ over there. ‘Sides, she was tellin’ us a story that she said, her mama told her and the other children ‘bout something she called the visitors. Mama, what is that?” asked Amber Ann.

At first, mama didn’t say anything, but it looked as if all the blood ran out of her face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mama so pale. Even when there was a snake in our house, a copperhead, they called it, had I ever seen my mama so scared.

“Who told you that, Amber Ann? Who told you that my mama was talking about a story or tale that called it the visitors?” she asked as her voice turned from a questioning one to one that sound like it was full of fear.

“Amber Ann, you answer me girl!” shouted my mama in a voice I had never heard before in all my years.

“Who told you my mama was talkin’ ‘bout some ole story, some ole wives’ tale that was conjured up by some of the ole foolish women in the coal camps round about in hope of scaring the children and keeping them in the house in the late evening hours. Now, for the last time, who told you ‘bout those old stories that ain’t nothin’,” Mama said.

Chapter Five

Story Time

A couple of weeks had gone by since our last trip to Grandma’s house to spend the night. The storm, as Sammy remembered it, was one for the record books. Staying at Grandma’s house was a tradition or else it was just something to do or it was a time that our parents needed away from the kids. Me and my siblings spent many nights at my Grandma’s house where things were darker and scarier, and it seemed that in every room there was something that was different than what we were used to at our house.

The nights and early mornings had turned out to be cooler than expected earlier in the fall season. The storm that blew through brought with it cooler weather, Grandma said it smelled like it was going to snow. I didn’t know what that meant.

The 'Warm Morning’ coal stove in the kitchen was fired up and hot as blue blazes before Grandma would call us to get up and prepare for the day when all of us grandchildren would spend the night up her holler. The house was big and spacious, unlike the ones where all of us children lived with our parents. One family house was built by the coal companies that owned the land and built the towns in the nearby area named many different names, some of them echoed names from towns across the oceans where many of the immigrants came from to mine the coal. The houses were exactly alike, cookie-cutter style, that housed the coal miner's families during the early 1900s and up until the coal corporations sold the houses to the occupants, but many of the houses were already torn down due to the decaying wood, and some from terrible storms that swept through from time to time. Our house, unlike Grandma’s, had a front porch that stretched the entire front from side to side. And, in our little place where we lived, privacy wasn’t much to speak of. Everyone knew everyone's business at the end of the day.

Upstairs in the bedroom, my older brother and I in one room and Amber Ann in another, clutched at the home-make quilt and pulled its edging up around our faces. One could almost see their breath in the early morning hours before the coal stove warmed the house. It took some time for the heat to make its way around the door, through the living room, and up the stairs to the bedroom. But, before it had made its way around the kitchen door, through the living room, and up the stairs, Mom called us to breakfast. Scrambling from the beds, pajamas flapping, we rushed down the stairs and into the kitchen. All three of us huddled up near the coal 'Warm Morning' stove, and held out our hands out to warm them while Mom set the food on the red table with chrome legs.

That was generally how the morning went for us back at our house, but at Grandma’s, there wasn’t any running down to the kitchen. Grandma’s house was a one-story house, but it had all kinds of rooms.

“You children, help me clear the table and get these dishes cleaned up, come on now!” insisted Grandma as we looked on as two of my cousins were still stuffing cornpone bread and gravy into their mouths.

“This has been one of the best breakfasts, Grandma, really!” called out another one from the other side of the table while holding a fork full of fatback bacon that had been cured after last year’s hog harvest.

“That’s a really nice thing to say. But I suspect that any breakfast would be to all of y’all’s liking if the truth be known,” said Grandma as she tried hard to hold back the smile. Breakfast at Grandma’s house was always special for all of us kids.

“Sides, you children don’t know anything about hog killin’ time here in the hollers. I know you know what it is, but there’s a tale to tell about what happens. Now that the weather is turning cooler, it’s almost time for some of the folks to harvest their stock,” she said and looked at each of us to see if we had a clue as to what she was talkin’ ‘bout.

“Survival in the coal camps took on many forms for me and my late husband during the time we moved here from the old country and settled in the coal fields. There were times when there weren't any butterflies or unicorns or magical flying horses that swept us away into the world of our imaginations but the curtain was pulled back on the stage of life for us to see what was needed to live during coal miner's strikes or production was shut down. It's during those times that we came face-to-face with the stark reality of life and survival in the coal camps where life was not easy,” said Grandma as she started the evening’s story for all of her grandchildren.

“Now, gather ‘round and let me explain to you all what me and your grand-daddy had to do to survive not long after we settled her on this little piece of property that I call my home. It’s important that you children understand what it takes to make ends meet, to put food on the table,” stated Grandma in such a way that we all thought that we were in for some kind of teachin’ or preachin’ like down at the school or church house.

“She settled herself in front of all of us, crossed her arms and lowered them onto her lap like she always did when it came to story time. There was a signal, at least to me, that this wasn’t goin’ to be about the ‘visitors’, at least not at first. That was fine, sometimes Grandma just had to get something off of her chest. This was one of those times.”

She began, “At first, it was difficult for me to understand why my husband had invited all my brother-in-laws to visit us on those cold frosty November days when trees had shed their leaves and winter's bite could be felt in the crisp autumn air. At first it wasn't clear to me exactly what was going on when my uncles and my husband Otis huddled around the bonfire across the dirt road from our house. Together, they placed a 55-gallon metal barrel on top the blazing fire, filled it with water, and waited for the water to begin to boil. Once ready, Otis and my brothers-in-laws began the hog slaughtering that took place every year about the same time. The harvesting of livestock was considered commonplace for the coal camps and the people of that era. If it hadn't been for this seasonal necessity; many families would've gone without food. We didn't have the luxury of "going shopping" at the supermarkets that people in the cities do. It was a matter of survival in the hollers when work wasn't available. In almost any community along the roads snaking through the countryside, there would be smoke from the bonfires that provided food for families during winter. No, I don't have to build bonfires or invite family over to help or hang my livestock up to be butchered, but I haven't forgotten how it's done. Nor have I forgotten the time when reality took the stage at least for a couple of days to provide me and my husband and our children what they needed to get through the harshest of winters.

Chapter Six

The Request

It had been about a month since our last gathering at Grandma’s house, and it was all we could do to keep focused on the school stuff. All of us, my siblings and my cousins, wanted nothing more than to get back to our Grandma’s house, have a great dinner, and listen to the story where she’d left off prior to the rain storm. She’d stopped at a very interesting point, a scary point, and we wanted to know what happened to the characters she was telling us about. Regardless of the sincerity of the story, some of my cousins couldn’t help but laugh and giggle when they saw some of us tense up when Grandma talked about the visitors and their impact in our region.

School’s fall session had started and things were getting into the routine of books and homework and exhaustion from walking from the bus stop.

There were two particular times that I recall that stayed with me about trying to get to school. One involved the rain we endured one morning and the other time was the snowy part of winter time.

... I couldn't help but be reminded of the mornings I stood in the drizzling mist waiting for the school bus just a few months ago. That was when me and my brother were waiting for the bus and Amber Ann wasn’t in school yet. It wasn't just us, but a group of youngsters, some I knew, some I didn't, who'd walked up the small hill to the bus stop at the top of the road overlooking the valley and the railroad tracks. Further down the valley, one could see the railroad tracks setting empty of trains, a post office, and a church nestled on the bottom of the valley's floor.

Soft whispers rushed through the crowd as some of the kids clustered in groups to share, what to them were monumental events from the evening before, but as I stood there watching, I often questioned what could have been so important. Our little community wasn't unlike the others that dotted the valleys pinched between high mountains of blazing trees set afire by Autumn's colorful paintbrush. Most of the valleys in our area looked exactly alike.

Standing by the rock wall and gazing down the valley past the obvious coal camp houses all in a row, the landscape behind the houses appeared to be a hand-sewn patchwork quilt tossed across the ridges and peaks of an ever-changing picture from spring to late winter. It was a dynamic sight, one that drew the attention of those driving through.

Our family moved again to another location in the region. We moved a lot because my dad changed positions that required him to move closer to the mines where he would be working. During winter at our new location, my siblings and I fell so many times trying to get over to the bus stop across the valley that it was almost impossible to count. The journey from our modest house to the road across the valley leads us first down a usually muddy dirt road, especially in the winter time, to a separation in the fence of our neighbor’s pasture land. It wasn't level by any means, therefore; it was treacherous conditions as we made our way down the hillside, slipping and sliding and falling all the way down the hillside to the railroad tracks. The railroad tracks served the mining camps and many loads of ore were carried one after another out of the hollers and valleys during those days. A train using a coal engine that belched smoke and ash as it traveled in both directions twice a week was a common sight. After completing the slalom from our front door all the way to the valley's floor, I and my brothers fought the remaining way across the frozen valley road and up an embankment to the two-lane road where we'd stand in the snow and ice until the bus arrived. It was something I didn't consider too difficult or unusual at that time. All the kids walked or slid or fell on their way to the bus stop, but as I look back at those days that happened last school year, it was a memory in the making and a lesson learned.

At the school where we attended, several of the older teachers retired and new ones took their place. Regrettably, some of the retirees were some of the better teachers who left leaving us with the new ones out to make a mark for themselves as my dad would say. It wasn’t easy sailing the first couple of weeks and there was no letting up on homework. Ticonderoga pencils and narrow-lined paper filled my notebooks in preparation of the coming assignments. There would be many, always some that were harder than others, but all of us coal camp children had no way out of getting all the work done. For our parents, our performance in school wasn’t just a great achievement for us as children, but it gave the parents bragging rights, we called it chest-thumping. When the children do well, the parents become stars.

“So, what was so important today that you’ve come home with all smiles,” asked Samuel's mother. There wasn’t much different today that the days before, except that there were plans in the works for special events at the school and special small tokens that would be given out to the children during the fall session.

“Well, I'm sitting in Mrs. Santi's classroom and we were given instructions as to what we’d be doing during the day. We finished saying the pledge of alliance and sang ‘America the Beauty’ as we do each morning,” I stated and fumbled for the rest of the things I wanted to share.

What I was trying to tell my mama was that the things I was telling her were our routine every morning that was intended to endear the respect and loyalty for a nation filled with all kinds of people seeking basically the same thing. Mrs. Santi took it upon herself to fill the classroom with decorations of events that would be observed during the months ahead.

I wasn't the only one that noticed a strange smell coming from the hallways. Many of my classmates turned to see what possibly could be creating such a stench. We waited at our desks as our teacher explained that someone, an art teacher was cutting out Styrofoam decorations and related shapes to celebrate the different observed holidays throughout the remaining months of the year. The cutouts were to be given out to the children. As the week passed, then another, I became anxious to see those shapes and see the handiwork of the Art teacher who finished preparing the handouts for the students. Then within a day to two of each holiday, cutouts were passed out to the students in each of the classes. Everyone received only one. I remember holding the cutout and deciding that I’d take it to my room and hide it away to keep it from being broken.

“What are you saying, Sammy?” mama asked me as she reached over and touched me on the sleeve.

“Oh, nothing, mama, nothing,” I finally said recognizing that the things that I found exciting or different or something to look forward to weren’t regarded as such by other members of my family. Mostly my siblings stood over by the door leading into the living room and snickered. I really took offense to the way they acted about the things I wanted to share with my mama, but, like any family, not everyone appreciated everything the same way.

“So, mama, I been thinkin’ ‘bout when we can go back over to Grandma’s house to spend the night. You know that we have a good time with Grandma and we love her very much. She tries to teach all of us how to cook a little like baking bread or snapping and stringing green beans. And, I got to say there are a lot of beans over there that she was showing us what to do with. I bet we strung up at least fifteen bunches of beans the last time you and daddy let us go over there for the night,” I stated as I bragged about my mama’s mama and the work she was havin’ us do.

It was a moment or two before Mama said anything. It was like she had to think about the staying overnight stuff this time. Was it because her and Daddy had something to do? I wasn’t sure, but I bet it had to do with the story-telling that Grandma did that had my mama all riled up. I guess I had no one to blame but myself for that ‘cause I mentioned to her about the last time we went over there. I guess I should’ve not told her at all. And, if she’s goin’ to stop us from goin’ over there to visit because of the stories about the ‘visitors’ then I ain’t goin’ to say anything anymore ‘bout it.

“I’ll have to talk to your daddy when he gits home about that, Sammy. You know you’re daddy looks at stuff differently than I do. He’ll probably say it’s okay, but I like to take time to talk to him about where you kids go to spend the night. You know we don’t let you go many places other than Grandma’s house mostly,” admitted mama as she turned away from us children and walked into the kitchen to tend to the dinner cookin’ for daddy before he got home from work.

Chapter Seven

Going To Grandma’s

It wasn’t for a few days before Mama came to tell us that Daddy agreed that we could go over and spend some time with Grandma again. There were a few things that Mama said she needed to talk to Grandma about if we were going to spend the night. I imagine that it had to do with the story-telling and that concerned me a lot. One of the main reasons that all of us kids liked going to spend the night with Grandma was not only her cookin’ but especially the stories she told us. She wanted us to know that some of them were true while others were made up stuff that she’d been told when she was a child and the visitors came to see her grand-daddy. She doesn’t say too much about her grand-daddy during the conversations with all of us children. It seems that he came up missing while out in the fields one day. Grandma said it was one of the strangest things that she’d ever been told. That story is a special one, she told us, and one day she said she’d tell it to us. As far as I was concerned, I wanted to hear it sooner. It seemed like one that would go right along with the story she was telling us now. We only got bits and pieces of the story as it was because Grandma had to take breaks. I guess she did that to keep us interested. I didn’t know about that either, but I was anxious to find out the end of the story. Grandma told me once that I shouldn’t be in such a hurry to get things over with in life. She looked off as if she was in a daze or something when she told me that causing me to become concerned that she was sick with some kind of bad thing. She once told me that the whole point of being in the place where we are is to fulfill our purpose, know our parts, and enjoy the others around us who were doing the same thing. I guess that makes sense, but I was a little younger then and I didn’t quite get the point she was trying to make. As I pinched my forehead together, she reached over and touched me on my shoulder to comfort me. I wasn’t sick or anything, just confused. I didn’t know what ‘knowing our parts’ meant. I suspect that it meant to be the person we are, like being a kid or being a Grandma. Nevertheless, I intended on asking her again about what that meant. It has become a bit more important to me since the ‘sighting’ from the bedroom window the last time I went over to spend the night with her and my cousins.

“Your daddy said it would be okay to spend the night, but he insisted that all of you be on your best behavior. He admitted that he’d stopped by my mama’s house just yesterday to be sure it was okay for all of y’all to go over. So, y’all git y’all’s things together and put them in a bag. You don’t need much just toothbrushes, pajamas, and underclothing for a change,” she stated as she held back a small grin that was held in the corners of her mouth. She knew that we wanted to go, especially on Fridays after school. We were allowed to stay until Sunday during the weekends. It was during the longer stays that Grandma had the time to tell us more about the ‘visitors’ even though one or two of my cousins would rather play outside or toss the ball.

With lightning speed, all of us rushed into the bedrooms, pulled out the few things that we would take with us for the sleepover, put them in a small plastic bag, and were back in the living room before Mama could get the keys to Daddy’s old truck. Daddy was in bed asleep having come in from work in the early morning hours. His job required him to work all night and sleep during the next day. He didn’t particularly like the ‘shift’ he called it, but he told us that he worked for someone else and he had to do what he was told to do. He said that was the way it was down at the mines.

“Y’all all ready that fast?” asked my mama as she walked around the corner of the doorway leading into the living room.

We were all sittin’ on the couch waiting for her to get her stuff together. She didn’t have to tell us twice to be ready. ‘Sides, we were on our way, or at least I was on my way, to Grandma’s to catch up on the ghost story. I wasn’t going tell Mama that’s the reason I loved goin’ there, but it was the best part.

“Y’all come on now before the late afternoon gets any darker. The rain outside with its clouds makes it seem like it’s a lot later in the day than it really is,” commented Mama as she held the living room door for all of us to get out of the house.

We walked down the long dirt path across the yard that led from the small back porch to the stairs that were being fixed by my daddy. He told us that it would allow us an easier way to get from the yard down to where he parked his truck. Pouring concrete wasn’t something he had intended on doing, but it was just too hard to use the dirt steps to get up and down into the yard from the parking place beside the dirt road. After every hard rain, he’d have to take a shovel and fix the dirt steps so that they were flat instead of slippery.

When plastic bags in hand, the three of us with our mama climbed into the truck and shut the doors. The truck my dad could afford wasn’t fancy like some of those in the area. No, it was simple, easy to drive, and easy to repair. Our daddy wasn’t one for fancy or showy vehicles or so he told us every time he was up under the hood of the old truck trying to change the spark plugs or some type of hose. It wasn’t very funny when his finger slipped and something pinched his finger. A few unusual words flew out of his mouth and were followed by his saying how sorry he

was that we heard them.

“Alright children, y’all hold on to each other as we go down the hill. You know how bumpy it can be. I don’t want to lose anyone out the window,” she laughed as she turned the key to start the truck.

Several minutes passed before she pulled out of the muddy parking spot and headed down the sloping road toward the curve where we found the crawdads. That whole experience was funny and each of us giggled when my older brother pointed at the puddle of water beside the road.

Mama held her foot on the brake as we bumped up and down, in and out of the mud holes created by the heavy rains earlier in the morning. It seemed as though there were always big mud puddles in the road that led to our houses no matter where we lived. If we ever lived in a place that didn’t have mud holes, I couldn’t think of one.

Mama stayed quiet most of the way to Grandma’s house except for one short conversation about the ‘visitors’ that I had expected her to bring up. She wasn’t warning us, but it sure sounded like it as she began to clear his voice.

“Ah, kids, there is one thing that I’d like to take about with you before you git to Grandma’s house,” she said and slowed the truck a little before resuming her discussion.

“Now, all of you know that Grandma is old. She’s very old, much older than me or your daddy. And, since she is old, sometimes she might talk about things that may not be exactly the way she says it. There are times when we get old that things, our memories, fade a little causing us to make up stuff to fill in the memory that we’ve forgotten. It happens to all of us when we git older. And, before you ask, yes, someday when I’m very old, I might be the same way. And, when I git that way, you children will have to understand that it’s normal for all humans to git that way. Most all of us do,” she concluded hoping that we understood what she was talking about. Me for one, I knew exactly what she was trying to say, but I’m not so sure the others did.

“Okay, mama, okay,” repeated my brother and sister as they nodded their heads as if they were in complete agreement with her.

“So, mama, what you’re trying to tell us is that your mama, our Grandma, is not right in her head?” I asked as I looked around my sister who was seated next to Mama.

“Now, Samuel, I didn’t say that. I said older people, people around your Grandma’s age sometimes have lapses in memory or they forget altogether something they try to talk about,” she said.

I laughed and sit back against the back of the seat. It sounded like she was saying her mama was short of a whole box of nuts and bolts. That’s a comment my daddy would’ve made. I’ve heard him say that more times than I can count. And, whether I wanted to believe it or not, most of the time he was right on the money.

The route to Grandma’s house was not that far but the trip took us over several mountainous two-lane roads. From our house to Grandma’s house was about ten miles, I thought. But due to the road’s conditions, it took us about forty-five minutes.

“Okay, let’s git on with this,” Mama said as she pressed the gas peddle down about halfway and accelerated to a legal speed for the curvy roads.

After about thirty minutes, we came to a fork in the road at the very bottom of a long curvy mountain road, mama turned right, sped up, and merged into traffic for about one-quarter mile. Then she took a left turn into a deep valley, crossed a bridge at the bottom of a hill, and turned onto Grandma’s property. We all sit up in the truck seat and leaned forward to see if the other grandchildren were already at Grandma’s house.

Chapter Eight

Story-Seeing

“Okay, Mama, we’ll behave. We’ll see you on Sunday evening around seven in the evening,” I shouted from the front porch where I stood with my brother and sister. It was finally time to see if Grandma was going to continue the story or if this whole ruse to have Mama and daddy agree to allow us to come was all a waste of time.

“Oh, I’m going to have a word with your Grandma, then I’ll leave all of you with her for a couple of days,” Mama said as she walked passed us, climbed up the aged wooden steps, and toward the screen door. As she approached the screen door, Grandma pushed it open and stepped out onto the porch to greet her.

“Hi, honey! It’s always a blessing to see you. And, I really love that the children are here! They add so much to my days. Love them staying over. It gives me a lot of time to share what my mama use to share with me, my stories,” admitted Grandma as she stood toe to toe with my mama.

“And, mama, that’s what I want to speak to you about,” said Mama.

“Oh, and why is that?” asked Grandma as she stood up a little taller as if she was about to encounter someone who would pose a challenger.

“Well, mama, as you know, not all of us believe some of the tales we use to be told way back when we were children sittin’ at great-Grandma’s feet. The stories were entertaining, but we really didn’t believe all that hogwash about ‘visitors’ or ghosts or vapors. We all grew up and left those childhood stories behind. It’s safer for all of us if we simply just keep our stories simple and not exaggerate about things that we make up,” Mama said as she looked down at us standing on the porch beside her.

“It’s just safer, that’s all,” she repeated.

“Oh, I see. And what was it about the stories that have you all worked up, honey? It’s been thirty years ago and you’re just now telling me about something that you found upsetting about my Mama’s stories. That happened a long time ago in another world. Now, now Abigail, let’s not go off half-cocked about things that were as real as life itself at that time. You know as well as I do that my Mama was a God-fearing woman, else she’d never had told the stories that I now want to share with my grandchildren, to share a part of myself with them. And, you, you stand here trying to persuade me to do something that’s against our family tradition simply because you feel it’s not true. And, if that’s the case, explain to me why you’ve waited your entire life to come to me with this now, now in front of your children, my grandchildren?” Grandma asked in a stern voice that I’d never heard before.

“Mama, I didn’t come here to git you upset, I just wanted to…”

“To what, Abigail, to tell me how to act or speak or comment or keep my tongue simply because you think I’m spreading untruths? Is that it?” asked Grandma as she moved closer to Mama on the wooden porch.

The other grandchildren walked into the house and took a seat in the living room to wait until Grandma and my mama was done. There was tension in the air, but it wasn’t the first time that my mama and Grandma exchanged words. But today, this was somewhat different. This time Grandma was taking the upper hand and my mama was going to have to back down.

“All I’m asking mama is that if you tell the children the stories we’ve all heard, tell them all of the story not just parts of it. If the whole story is known, then our ancestors will be honored. That’s all I’m sayin’ mama,” insisted my mama as she turned to walk away.

Reaching out and grasping my mama’s arm, my Grandma whispered something in Mama’s ear that I wasn’t able to hear. It must’ve been something that my mama needed to hear or expected to hear because she nodded her head that it was okay with her whatever it was.

“Love you Abby!” shouted Grandma as she waved at our mama getting into the truck.

Mama closed the truck door, stuck her hand out the window, and waved goodbye. A little smoke came out of the tailpipe as Mama started the truck. Seeing the black smoke shoot out of the tailpipe could mbethe engine needed looking at. I decided that I needed to tell daddy about that when they picked us up on Sunday. Daddy didn’t like his truck to smoke. He said it meant the truck was burning oil or something like that.

Waving as if we were in a parade, my brother and sister who was standing on the Grandma’s porch held their arms up as high as they could get them. I too continued with my arm held up high until Mama drove out off the property and disappeared around the bend that led to the blacktop highway.

“Okay, children, let’s get inside and see what goodies I’ve got in store for all of us to make this evening,” said Grandma as she herded us like a mother hen would her chicks with her apron held out on either side. She herded us through the screen door and into the kitchen which was already full of aroma of apples, cinnamon, and maple syrup.

The evening went about as expected once Mama was gone out of sight and we heard the sound of the truck’s mufflers echoing up the mountainsides as Mama took the mountain road back home. It was to be one of the most eerie evenings that all of us grandchildren ever experienced, and it would be a defining moment for all of us in some way.

Excited to see what was baking, I walked over to the old iron kitchen stove, pulled the oven door open, and took a peek. It was what I thought it was, but I wanted to be sure.

“Now, Samuel, you can’t be opening my oven door like that,” stated Grandma as she walked the full length of the kitchen and pushed the door back together so as to not let the heat out into the kitchen and change the baking temperature in the oven.

“If I’d had a cake in the oven instead of an apple pie, the cake would’ve fallen in the middle. You ever seen a fallen cake?” she asked and set about telling him what it looked like. Okay, now that we’ve got that straightened out, we need to prepare dinner,” stated Grandma as she turned to look at all of her grandchildren who were waiting to see what tasks each of them would be assigned to do.

Dinner at Grandma’s house was not necessarily a lavish event. It didn’t include burning candles or fancy flower arrangements, or the placement of the silverware like those in some far-off fine dining restaurant. The setting was much like those of every home in the clannish coal mining region where the people just made enough, some called it pauper’s wages, to keep the flesh on the bones, some have said. And, like every other dinner setting, there would be plenty of vegetables for the growing kids. That’s what Grandma always said as she passed each bowl around the table for us to take out our share before giving the bowl to the next grandchild. Not every one of my cousins liked green beans and pork shanks. Yet, there was enough variety for the abstainers to find something else to eat.

Dinner didn’t take as long as it usually did because, according to some of the other children, Grandma was going to start the story-telling a little earlier so as to not keep every one of us so late like the last time we all stayed over. I was thrilled to hear the news but was careful not to speak a word of it to anyone. Grandma liked her little surprises even though by the time she announced them, most of us already knew what they were all about. Tonight would be a continuation of the tale about some folks Grandma called the ‘train people’ who boarded a train sometime way back when her great-great Grandma was just a little girl. That was my understanding as to what was going to happen as Grandma called all of us into the living room where she had spread a large handmade patchwork quilt out on the floor for all of us to sit on while she told the story. She’d warned us that she wouldn’t be able to finish all of it this time either, but she would try.

“Now, children, gather round me in a tight circle. Y’all all know what that is, right?” she asked as she moved her hands in the shape of a circle.

Unbeknownst to us, Grandma decided that maybe during the first part of the story-telling, we better all join hands. She’d mentioned that the last time she started the story because some of the younger children appeared to be afraid. Holding hands, as she put it, would keep everyone connected as she told the story that would, at least for some of us older grandchildren, change the way we thought and the way we would see the world from this evening forward. The younger children, those younger than six, may not be as aware as to what was going to take place. The story Grandma was telling us was about to become more than just a story.

Sitting down on an old stool Grandma used during the storytelling, she prepared herself for the story to take shape within her mind. I could always tell when that was happening because she became silent before she, as she said, envisioned the story within her head.

“What’s she doing?” asked my older brother as he nudged me on my left arm.

“How am I supposed to know,” I whispered. “This is the first time she’s ever acted this way before telling us a story. But, as you already know, she told us that this story was different from all the others,” I added and pushed my brother’s hand away.

“Now, children, all of you can help me as I prepare,” she finally said as she opened her eyes.

There before me, I could see a difference in my Grandma’s eyes even if the others couldn’t. They weren’t a dim bluish gray that they had always been, but a bright glowing blue, crystal clear, as others might say. Her face, one that was usually wrinkled with tear tracks, that’s what she called them, wasn’t there anymore. Her face was smooth and looked a lot like my mama’s face. But, since it seemed as though I was the only one who could see her change right in front of us, I didn’t say a word so I didn’t scare the others. If I scared them, they would go running into the bedrooms to hide and we’d never get a chance to hear the story we’d all come to hear.

“Now, I’m ready,” she whispered in such a voice that it scared me.

Sitting in front of all of the grandchildren, was someone who resembled their Grandma, but in many ways wasn’t their Grandma. She was the same size, and her hair was the same length, but in many ways she was different. This is the first time I’d seen my Grandma looking like this, looking like someone I didn’t know, but the voice was the same. I waited for her to give us instructions or tell us what to do before she uttered the first words of the story. Outside the wind was picking up and there was a rain squall coming in that was already crying tears of rain against the window panes.

“Children, this evening, Grandma has decided to not only tell you the stories that my great-great Grandma told me, but I’m going to ‘show’ you the stories. I know some of you won’t understand what that means, but it is something my mama allowed me to see when I was a child. Not only did she allow me to see the stories, but she taught me how to watch it as it took place. The only thing is that I wasn’t allowed to touch anything or speak to anyone, only watch through the windows, she called it. Now, I don’t want any of you to be afraid. I will be with you during the storytelling and I’ll hold each of your hands because all of you will be holding hands. It’s a family circle that can’t be broken when we are watching the story. No one is to let go of the other person’s hand. Is this clear?” asked Grandma as she was preparing us for one of the most exciting, but terrifying times of our young life. None of us understood what she was saying. None of us was even sure we wanted to go on this story-seeing trip she was trying to explain to us. Yet, instinctively, every grandchild sitting on the quilt was excited to see what she was talking about.

“We need to make sure we all have our hands together. So lift your hands where I can see them. We much keep them all joined for everything to work like it’s supposed to. The family that’s joined together by love is allowed to see what the rest of the world can not. It’s a special revelation, something that only a few have ever seen, but I’ve been allowed to show you. Your parents have spoken to me, each of them, and said if I was going to tell the stories of our people, then I need to tell the whole story and not to leave anything out. Your mamas and daddies know the story too, but they aren’t the ones who carry the responsibility of telling the story. That is left up to the oldest of the family member, which is me. All over the region, there are family members, distant cousins, family members by marriage, and others who came from our original place to settle in this area. I know all of you feel like you are part of a community, and you are. You're a part of a community that has long been part of a story centuries old.

By this time, I was almost ready to rub my head or raise my hand to ask her what in the world was she talking about. I didn’t do either because she had warned us to keep our hands joined to the people on either side of us or the story-seeing wouldn’t work. And, I for one, wanted to what she was talking about since she’d undergone some type of change. I knew there had to be some truth to what she was telling all of us children, but she would have to show us that truth.

“Before any of you go thinking this is something like one of those spiritual things you might’ve heard your parents talking about, it’s not. It has nothing to do with some Ouija board or spiritual chant so don’t go off thinkin’ that your Grandma has lost her mind and is taking all of you with her. It’s not that way at all. This story-seeing time was taught to me a long time ago and now I have the opportunity to show it to you. As we watch, you’ll see many things that will leave you with questions. There will be other things that will be strange, even weird to you, but if you keep the circle closed, the story will continue until the end. If you break the circle, we will not be able to see all of the story. Is this clear?” asked Grandma as she looked at each one of the children.

“Yes, Grandma, we understand!” called out all of the children.

“If everyone is ready, let’s begin!” said Grandma as she slipped off the small stool and joined the children all holding hands. She reached out, took hold of the two closest children’s hands, and lifted her head up for all of them to see her face. Her face began to glow, even becoming translucent to the point where Sam couldn’t tell if she was going to disappear or simply become clear. But, as quickly as it had begun, her face shimmered and became steady.

“Let’s enter the realm of the real world!”

Chapter Nine

Train People

Once all the children were in agreement and Grandma settled on the floor with them, there was complete silence for the space of five minutes. Outside, rain tapped against the windows like someone standing at the door. The wind pushed against the house so hard sometimes it seemed as though the doors would be blown open allowing the unseen forces of nature to enter the house, surrounding each of them sitting on the patchwork quilt in the middle of the floor. Overhead, the roar of thunder shook the valley from one end to the other until the children looked at Grandma for reassurance that everything would be alright. The trees along the fence line swayed back and forth as they were tossed by the wind as the storm approached that would create the atmosphere where Grandma would be able to begin the journey with the children of her heritage, her blood, and her people who knew the truth about the visitors. By story-seeing, the truth would be made known to another generation of McDuffs and their relatives.

“Grandma!” called out Amber as the crack of thunder shook the room.

“You’re okay, my child. What you’re hearing is the beginning of our travels. It has to be this way to conceal from the world around us what I’m about to show you.

It didn’t take long until the storm had the house and its occupants completely surrounded. Rain fell from gargantuan clouds overhead as if there had been a cloud bust. Lightning appeared like spider webs stretched across the valley from the top of the house, up hollers, and burst into shards of light at the tops of the mountains. It was almost time for the ‘falling away’ that would allow the small group to see not only things that were beyond the valley, but it would allow them to see where the stories originate and those fulfilling their part who are called the ‘visitors’.

“This is a special time for all of you, my children, as I bring to you one of the secrets of our people, but before we can go into the place to be allowed to see, there’s a poem I have to recite just like the one my great-great Grandma recited when she was showing my mama what I’m about to show you.

And with that comment, Grandma looked away from all of us and leaned her head backward. Her face was smooth, her wrinkles all gone, and the tears she might have shed were no longer on the brink of falling onto the floor. It was as if our Grandma had become someone else, at least for this, this story-seeing, as she called it. I didn’t know what that meant, but I felt sure within a few moments, all of our doubts would be pushed aside as Grandma pulled the curtain of reality open for all of us to see.

“Now, the poem and then we be going,” Grandma whispered.

I’ve walked many roads that others have shunned,

I’ve gathered insight that few have done.

Into scary shadows, life’s mysteries I trekked,

And billowing fog and clouds I tend to inspect.

In those moments that others can’t see,

The world of illusion becomes real to me.

I pen the unseen, worlds filled with ghosts,

And I’m allowed to create both inhabitants and hosts.

Those specters, those characters that linger near,

They speak of lives, of dreams, pictures clear.

Yet, for me, those characters and their roles,

Hold more meaning, more importance as I grow old.

With fascination uncanny to some,

I seek them out, I allow them to become.

Splashing their images upon vacant stock,

They become within me, a story, a plot.

Therefore, I spin my tales, those secrets to dispel,

Of mystery and suspense and many more genres to tell.

Sitting alone in night’s cloak of darkness without fear,

I urge them, beckon them to all come near.

After having communed, escaped from the mundane,

I remember them, from whence they came.

I bid them farewell and goodbye for a time.

As I pause between lifetimes, story-seeing sublime.

There are stories yet to tell and so I will,

Bring back those characters who wait speechless and still.

If not penned their lives or their doom,

Then they’ll remain gathered within the train’s room.

Untold they’ll remain,

Unfulfilled they’ll proclaim.

You have left us here all alone,

We could have become known.

To tell a story, a poem, a script,

Opens one up to an eternity no one should skip.

Be all, see all, and imagine all as well,

Place hands together, release your story to tell.

With the last word spoken, there was a slow but obvious shaking. It was like a tornado or some hurricane, but the house was moving or at least that’s what I thought. I peer out the window on the West side of the house to see if I could see anything that might be approaching that would cause such a steering. But, as I looked, I noticed that it wasn’t the house that was moving or shaking, but it was the space around us that was taking on a different appearance. For all of us, the world as we knew it was changing and causing us to be encapsulated in a safe sphere of some type, like a ball. On the other side of the ‘ball’, the reality that we knew was now beginning to look like a watercolor painting where all the colors washed together and the lines between the things on the canvas smudged. Within the house, everything appeared to be okay, except for the fact that the walls were shimmering and appeared to be become transparent. It wasn’t a trick or something that some magician would be able to do. This was real and everyone was reminded to keep their hands together or all that they were seeing would vanish away.

“Grandma, what’s happening?” asked one of my cousins who was scared and needed reassurance that everything would be okay.

“Quiet my child, trust me! I would never put you in harm's way. I would never cause anything to hurt you. And, it is for this reason, that we must now see what the story was trying to tell all of us. We now must see!” called out Grandma as we all watched the reality that we knew fall away from the house and we sat together upon the quilt outside watching scenes develop, then disappear, then reappear time and time again. Out in front of us was a long train but unlike any train I’d ever seen It was moving along tracks into the darkness of the night leaving daylight far behind it. In the distance, there were many different kinds of small buildings stretched out along the railroad tracks where we could see people standing as if they were waiting to board.

“Don’t be afraid!” exclaimed our Grandma as she held onto the hands of the children sitting closest to her.

“Now, keep still, keep your hands together, and watch and listen to what our family heritage is all about. Keep your eyes open and see what I saw when I was a child your age wanting to know the truth about my life, about our family. This isn’t a story or some tale to entertain you. It is the truth. And, for each of you, it will, in time, come about,” said Grandma as the children turned to watch and to listen to the people on the train as they all drew near the patchwork quilt. As the children watched, the quilt slowed alongside the train, slow enough so that the children were able to see and hear the passengers headed into the darkness of their future.

Inside the train:

“Look! He’s comin’ ‘round.” stated the elderly woman sitting across the aisle.

His hands were sweating and his shirt was wet with perspiration. He was in the same condition that others on the train had found themselves in as the “awakening” began.

“You reckon he’ll be any more aware of us as we were of the others after he finishes his transition from that world into the “awakening” reality?” asked the man sitting beside the woman who had to have been his wife.

Their wedding bands matched, they were sitting closer than acquaintances would in public, but not as closely as new lovers sit. New lovers seek to be entwined at all times. No, the two weren’t lovers, hadn’t been for some time.

“Hard to say, but there’s one thing for sure Rachel, he’s in for a big surprise!” admitted the woman’s husband as the two of them looked at one another.

“You suppose he’ll figure it out? You know it took us some time to get it all together for ourselves. It seems the "visitors”, you know that’s what the world outside calls us when we’re in their world, as of late, take a bit longer to come around. And, most of them don’t have passes any longer and are confused by those who do?” said the older lady who was more concerned that the ‘visitor’ across the aisle was still lingering between the place humans call reality and the train.

The older couple smiled at one another as if the secret they possessed singled them out for some special anointed task. It was true that the older couple had been on the train for what seemed decades, but the time passed differently on the train than it did in the world into which they were sent carrying their pass. The pass was the only thing that allowed them to transition from the train to the world of dreams and back into the train for their next experience in a world built within people’s dreams.

For the old couple, the journey was just that, a journey. For them, their time on the train was one of observation at this point, nothing more. Their times of transitioning were now only a memory for them. No longer were they able to appear or disappear from the world of dreams like they use to when they still possessed their passes. No, the time was over for them. Yet, this man across the aisle may perhaps find a way to help them. It was highly unlikely that that would be the case even if the older couple wanted help. The conductor told all of those on the train that there weren’t any duplicates or copies of the passes given out at the beginning of the journey through eternity. But the couple knew their spirit wasn’t attuned to wrestling with the other "visitor” with whom they were now sharing the train car. Was there a reason that this "visitor" was awakening right in front of them? Up until now, the older couple were the only passengers in this particular train car. It had been comfortable, but it had also been lonely. The only dreams the two were able to share with one another were the ones they were a part of, but that had been many years ago.

Behind them, as the train sped forward into darkness, the dream world’s lights collapsed never to glow again for some sleeping ‘visitors’. Ahead, the train’s predetermined destiny was laid out before it in an unbreakable fashion, an unbreakable bond between reality and the dreams of mankind, predestined to replay over and over if one possessed a pass allowing the transition to occur, predestined to board all who transitioned from that world of illusion outside the train only to find themselves sleeping in a compartment seat soon to awaken from their experience within a dream world that humans called life.

With the children outside:

“But Grandma, how can this be? This train, these tracks, that darkness that lies ahead of all of us. How can this be, this place that you’ve brought us to,” asked one of the older grandchildren as he sit holding the hands of his cousin as tightly as possible.

“How can this be?” he repeated.

For a moment, all of the children’s eyes were on their grandam. They were afraid, some were almost in tears but feared that they might have to break the circle if they wiped tears from their faces. Some were not as afraid and watched with great curiosity as the truth about the people on the train was soon to be unraveled. Some were trying to connect the ‘visitors’ with those people on the train as Grandma had suggested, but up until now, they weren’t having much luck. Some of the children wanted to go back to the coal mining house and the safety found in ignorance, the security found in not knowing the truth. Some of the children simply wanted all the others to remain quiet and hopefully, the journey with Grandma as their guide would all be over with and they would wake up in Grandma’s feather beds with only a simple memory of this dream they were all a part of.

Was it only the McDuff clan who knew this secret? Was the clan’s history filled with visitors passing from one world, from one life to the next? Was it right for the children to see the mysteries that only the elderly knew back in their home country before coming to America’s coal mining camps that were steeped in mystery themselves? Was it right to open the portals, the passages between reality and the dream world? Would the children be able to understand and process the information at their age? Whether there were answers to all of these questions or not, in the old country, the McDuffs were proud of their abilities and passed them along to their children at an early age. Grandma didn’t find any problem revealing the truth to the newer generation. The sooner they understood, the more they could enjoy their lives in the dream world where they and all of the other people had been allowed to come.

From the outside looking in, the children could see many people who looked as if they were enjoying the ride, but they were able to see some of the passengers who weren’t as happy sitting alone in several of the darkened passenger cars. Why were they unhappy? What was causing them to sit alone rather than walk about or got to the other groups of passengers in the other cars of the train?

There were many questions that the children held within them but were afraid to ask. Perhaps they could as the questions once they return to the coal mining camp house where Grandma made apple pies and fried chicken. None of the children dare say anything during the first initial stages of the story-seeing. Grandma laid out the rules before she began the story time and she expected all of the children to follow the rules. It wasn’t her intention to leave any of the children on the train that was speeding along the tracks beside them. It wasn’t time for that.

“Now, children, you do exactly like I told you and you’ll be safe. Do not under any circumstances let go of the person’s hand beside you. You must keep the circle formed until I tell you it’s okay to let go. The story will unfold a little at a time for all of you to see,” said Grandma as she smiled and watched the fabric of eternity slowly unravel one of the greatest mysteries of all time.

There had been many episodes where the train came through her village back in her old country. She’d witnessed it herself but drew back into her house until it had passed. There were times when some of her relatives stood waiting for the train to slow to a stop where they could board being instructed that their pass time was up for that time. Many of them held their passes high in the air as they slowly disappeared from the dream world and reappeared in one of the seats aboard the train. There they were fast asleep waiting for the essence or sedation, some called it, to wear off allowing them to wake up.

For all of the McDuff clan for many generations, the train meant release, it meant freedom to become more. They called the ones who traveled without becoming a part of a lifetime, Visitors for they simply moved in and out of reality and dreams without any real purpose. Many of them hoped to latch onto somebody in the dream world and live out a portion of that life, yet, most times it didn’t happen leaving the “visitor” to meander through the dream world like some vagabond.

“Grandma, please, I’m scared,” shouted Amber as she released her hand from one of her cousins who was sitting next to her.

Instantly, all of the children were back in the coal mining house sitting on the floor with Grandma sitting on her stool. It was as if nothing had happened at all. It was as if the train was all an illusion, the vision of some type created by their Grandma to show the children the truth. Once aware that she was in the living room adjacent to the kitchen where Grandma’s apple pies were cooling, Amber wasn’t afraid anymore. She smiled.

“Dear child, I wasn’t going to allow things to hurt you,” stated Grandma as she stood up, walked over to Amber, and lifted her from the patchwork quilt. “You and all of the other grandchildren are my life. Nothing will ever come between us, ever!” stated Grandma as she hugged Amber again then let her slip back down onto the floor with the other children.

“For now, we’ll take a break from the story, have a slice of that nice apple pie, then, once we’re all settled back down, I’ll explain what’s happening so none of you will be afraid when we begin again.

After all the children gathered in the kitchen for pie and a glass of milk, Sammy felt he needed to speak with Grandma alone. He finished up his slice of pie, placed the small dessert plate on the drainboard, and walked back into the living room where Grandma was sitting waiting for the others to join her. She wasn’t really allowing them to come to harm and nothing would touch them while she told the story, but the truth was that the house didn’t dissolve into nothingness nor did the patchwork quilt float high above the train. Yes, there was a train and yes there were people aboard the train, but the entire story was generated by Grandma herself. If the children knew that she was making it all happen, they might not have been afraid.

“Grandma, I have to ask you something,” said Sammy as he approached his Grandma who was already getting ready to return to the story-seeing.

“Yes, Sam. What is it precious child?” she asked and turned to find him almost upon her.

“Well, Grandma, seein’ that Amber Ann is afraid of the story and the likes that we’re seein’, would it be okay with you if she just fell asleep on the quilt and not participate like the rest of us older kids?” asked Sammy as he looked up at his Grandma who had already decided to allow Amber to skip this year’s story-seeing. Perhaps next year, she’d be mature enough to partake.

The story-seeing has never changed in all the years it had been done. Tonight wouldn’t be any different. Grandma would continue the story for those who needed to see it. If Amber Ann was too afraid to watch from the outer part of the circle, she’d be allowed to go to sleep inside the circle on the quilt.

As each of the children scrapped off the few remaining pie crumbs into the trash can that sat in the corner of the kitchen sitting near the back door, they walked back into the living room and rejoined the others who were already assembled with hands extended for the initiation of the second part of the story-seeing to begin. None of them were as young as Amber, therefore, they would be able to understand that Grandma was there to protect them from any danger. And, if the truth be known, they were older enough to understand the truth about Grandma if she decided to divulge the fact that she herself was the center of the story-seeing and storytelling. Yet, in some way, not knowing how things work sometimes is best for all of those involved. Sometimes it’s better not to know, not question. Tonight, as the children reassembled on the quilt in front of their Grandma, it was one of those times when not knowing how things worked to get them to the train was better for all of them.

“Come sit with me for a while for a while longer. I have found that being a Grandma responsible for this truth to be passed on to you all children is one of the highest honors I could ever have bestowed upon me. It isn't a part of me that I can lay down when I want to or pick it back up on a whim. The storyteller within me is ever vigilant, always gathering scenes and conversations being observed around me, well, I’ve done that all of my life. I've experienced life somewhat differently since I've been led to tell the story of the ‘visitors’ who appear as some people’s imaginary friends. Come sit with me... the spirit inside me whispers in my ear as I sit alone in some darkened corner listening more to them than those around me. In this world that I’ve lived in for oh, some seventy years now, the ‘visitors’ are as real to me as you are real to each other. Most of the voices within me call me a recluse, a vagabond, a wayward traveler who, for reasons unknown, still clutch youthful ambitions, middle-aged dreams, and old-aged revelations so that I can pass them on to all of you as my final tasking here on this side. Come sit with me. Those voices chant as they point to a vacant chair opposite another where they will, as demonstrated time and time again, "soliloquize at length" as to how I can once again become part of their reality simply by passing through the veil of space and time and rejoin them in the train. Even though they resound of untold merriment or unbearable sorrow, they are much more a part of my life than those around me who cloak themselves in illusions of truth much like the others in the world who remain shrouded in the darkness of misconception,” stated Grandma as she slowly and cautiously took her seat as she had before. First, on the small stool to oversee the preparation of all of the children and then, slipping off of the stool onto the quilt once the hands had been extended for her to clamp on to.

“Let’s begin where we left off,” she said in a voice that was as smooth as the first snowfall on the first day of Winter.

Outside, mystical spirits hover just above ground level giving the surroundings a surrealistic appearance, like a morning mirage covering reality. It invites us to walk there through our imaginations, our inner person absorbs the views, the feelings, and the uncertainties that stretch forth from the coal camp house that began the first time, to shimmer like the purest glass.

“Now, children, I've been to this place before pushed by life's events, escorted by sorrows, but never with those who are my grandchildren. Once in the unpredictable passages between this place and reality, I experience whatever it is that hides beneath the floating pillows of billowing time and behind the enchanted fencing on either side of the expanse on which we shall see. Heretofore, knowing that you children haven't walked in this direction before now, but only in what is called the dream world as it lays before us. Now, on this predestined trek directed by some unseen hand perhaps assigned to me from beyond time, I'll simply walk toward the only source of light, the only source of life, the only force that draws me to it so that I may present to you the underlying truth of us all. On previous ventures to an obscure place similar to this one where some ‘visitors’ have trod, I walked with those who shared with me a simple life, a single purpose, a simplistic anticipation of things that we might see or things we might accomplish beyond the coal camps built in the valleys and upon the hillsides of the coal country in which we lived suspended in time and space. Now, in this singularity, this paradox, I am still able to walk with them in my spirit journeying to yet another untold mystery, undiscovered horizons obscured by life's complexities. And, now I too am called back into the epoch that is called the “visitor’s” train. I must go for they summon me forward to hold their hand, to heed their call. My ancestors beseech me to come and I can no longer resist the need to show all of you, my descendants, this secret held behind the division of night and day. And, for that reason, I have lived my life with all fullness awaiting this transition for all of you,” stated Grandma as the children all looked at her with confused looks and questioning hearts.

“Grandma, what exactly does that mean?” asked one of Sammy’s cousins.

“My child, it means that all that I am, all that I have ever been, and all that I shall ever be is locked away in this story that I will finish telling all of you tonight,” she explained as simply as she could. Even though there was more that could’ve been said, the simple short explanation was best for the children.

“Now, each of you take hold of each person’s hand on either side of you and, like before, do not let it go. Amber is allowed to sleep this time and has already fallen asleep. Do not disturb her during our time together,” ordered Grandma as she took several deep breaths in preparation for their departure.

Chapter Ten

Time and Space

Each day, in a very dramatic dialogue with ourselves, a decision is made as to where we should travel during the approaching hours that will make up our day, that make up our allotted time here on this side. We’re given the choice as to where we should go, what we should say, what we should think during this journey laid out before all of us by those who control the overall creation. Mostly, we work with free will, but there are a few things that we have no say so in and must comply with the wishes of those who watch.

With gratitude, we ponder each outcome, each minute’s detail surrounding this fork in the road, this turn from the ordinary. Even so, we reflect on yesterday's march into the present, its resolve to finish a task or jot down a longing, a dream, a word here and there for posterity for those who may never transition from this world of illusion to reality beyond the darkness. Following each day's collapse into the next, we’ve come to realize it's not so much the quantity of tasking as it is the quality of the product shared with those around us, one thought or deed perhaps later shoved into our mind after mulling it over time and time again, dissecting it, weighing its relevance, its impact on the tomorrows yet to be encountered. Like so many before us, we've learned to walk in solitude beyond the train, savoring the uniqueness of every single blessing afforded us by invisible hands who move behind the curtains of time and space, behind flutters of angels' wings, and words whispered through eternity's veil. It is in this singleness of purpose, this oneness with time and space that we find the reason for our being, the reason for our journey on a vacant road on which we were deposited leading us to some unknown destiny.

In this moment of enlightenment, we realize that our life isn't our own, our purpose is multi-fold, and the result of all that we have been or am or shall ever be is to fulfill the jobs we’ve been given. Therefore, as we fulfill the part that has been given to us to complete, we must be mindful that those around us can’t see what we see or understand what we understand, but for some, there is a story-seer who shares the truth of the passes some possess.

Some are sojourners on dirt roads in some backwoods world, who’ve been shown the meaning of life, its overall purpose, and its triumphant ending, that being one of immeasurable victory. With this snippet of our morning resting before us, we save it for not only our posterity but others who, in time, will understand the message and seek out their own solitary purpose holding the pass that allows entrance into this world of dreams. Unknown author, Journal of Ascension

At this moment in time, this moment that was capturing and holding the group of children on the quilt and the old story-seer, Grandma began a chant never before heard by any of the children. As the chanting was being recited, an unseen force peeled away the visible walls of the coal camp house as one would peel away the outer crust of an orange. Then she spoke another word, an unearthly word, causing the gathering of children sitting on the homemade patchwork quilt to move through the veil of time until all of them, herself included, were no longer in her living room but hovering near the train as it sped through the night towards the dawning of another day in some distant horizon. The train, not much unlike those of the era, wasn’t going to reveal itself for anyone no matter who was boarding or departing. It looked like a passenger train but was something much more. There were times when it showed its true self, but not at this time, not in this place, not yet. The conductor, the man gathering the passes throughout the train, was also something more than just the conductor. There were several times during its continuing trek from horizon to horizon that the train slowed enough for those inside to understand what it was and why it was carrying such a vast array of travelers from all walks of life, all ages, all cultures. There was a time during its journey when the travelers were able to show themselves for what they were, but not now, not until the close of the evening as the train sped ahead to keep itself in the darkness away from the dawn that pursued it.

As Grandma finished the last of her chants, the ones she’d learned from her great-Grandma, there was a hush that fell over the children creating the sense that they too would perhaps be ushered into the sleep that Amber Ann was in lying in the center of the quilt. But, within moments of feeling as she would fall asleep, one of the children spoke up.

“Grandma, why does the train shimmer as if it is covered in silver? Why does it seem to float above the trains rather than ride the rails like those choo-choo trains that come up and down our hollers?” he asked as all of the children turned to look at the sight that was underway just ahead of them.

“Children, now isn’t the time for me to explain why that looks the way it does, but I promise I will tell you before the story is over, I promise,” stated Grandma in hopes of putting the question to bed at least until the story was almost over.

...

In the adjourning cars, both fore and aft, those who’d begun as strangers in the speeding train that traveled along the invisible track, raised their glasses time and time effortlessly acknowledging their imprisonment within the train that shimmered. They too, like the younger man sitting with the older couple, were without passes, but unlike Roger, the Conductor had already enlightened them about the train’s secret sometime after their awakening. For them, drinks were a final salute to the state in which they’d found themselves.

Cloaked in uncertainty, Roger, the "visitor" slid back into his seat, lifted his head, and looked around. Unable to determine where he was or how he got there, he remained seated. All he remembered was that he was at home preparing to retire for the evening. The kids were safely tucked in bed and were asleep. The furry family member having finished up outside, loomed in front of the glass door waiting to be let back in. His wife, Carolann, waved her familiar “Go let the dog in” wave and returned to her favorite television program without missing a second of the show that she watched every evening at about the same time.

Within his mind, Roger played the evening’s scenes over and over but failed to find any divergence, any fracture in the family routine that would account for his appearance in the train seat across the aisle from a couple twice his age.

He chastised his soul as he ripped open each memory, each archived thought that might have some meaning, some explanation as to where he was, how he arrived there, and what it was all about. This retrospective approach, this self-examination wasn’t new to him. He often replayed his life’s events, retold its tales, and recited his memories not only for himself but those around him. This moment, this obscure moment in time, he needed to exorcise the appropriate experience or memory to dissect it and establish some perspective on this turn of events he now found himself in.

He closed his eyes, leaned back into his mind, and extracted one of his most recent memorials. He needed to find the tether that anchored him to the life that he knew, his life before awakening on the train. His mind gave him a memory of who he was, what was important to him that might reattach him to his life outside the speeding train. He didn’t have anything of his life but his memories. He retrieved his latest one in hopes of regaining some clarity of the world, the dream world the older couple called it, from whence he’d just arrived…

… I stand on the placid sea of time where tears have fallen, hearts have been broken, and silence awaits me. It's a familiar place that I've visited before, a place of reflection, a place without solace. In the past, as I remember it, the sea was filled with laughter, love, and life so much so that there wasn't much room for sorrow. At this time, in the aftermath of my family members’ passing, the absence of laughter, love, and life, the silence is deafening. Within me I hold a remnant of their smile, I hold a portion of their love, and within me, there is the spark of life they all gave me. These three things keep all of them alive within me. These three things beckon unto me each day to commune with them, to sit down by the river of mercy upon the banks of peace. Within me, there's a melody like none other. It sings to me of what is to come. Within me, there are words I can't speak nor dare to think. Within me, there are images of all of them that will remain a part of me until we see each other beyond this sea of time, this curtain of uncertainty. The world taught me to say goodbye, but The Word within convinces me to say, "Yet in a little while then I too will accompany you all into our promise. But until then, I ask each of them to watch and wait for me. Wait for me by the portal, I will come to be with you…

As quickly as it came, the memory dissolved into the air and swirled above him. Like a dust devil, it spun faster and faster until it ascended out of his reach. It wasn’t the solace he sought, but unbeknownst to him, he’d shared the memory with the two across the aisle. They listened intently, absorbed by the words of promise, the words of peace, but knowing full well that the train they traveled upon wasn’t going to the "visitor’s” preconceived destination.

…

“Grandma, why was that man trying to remember a dream? Was the dream something he needed to understand?” asked Sammy as he, along with the other grandchildren, waited for an answer.

Needed to shed some light on the event that had just taken place, Grandma leaned back, took a shallow breath as if she was sighing, and pulled the answer from deep within her. She hadn’t expected the children to be so inquisitive, so questioning about the revealing, but seeing that they wouldn’t be satisfied unless she answered the question, she began to reveal a piece of the puzzle that even she, as a child, made her feel uneasy.

“My dear children, there are many things in heaven and earth that we can’t explain. There are people who seem to be people who are really something much more. There are times even in my house in which we now sit, but you can’t see it, that holds secrets of not only about the man you see on the train, but secrets about me, your Grandma. Is it right to hold secrets within us from those we love? Some people say no, while others restrain from opening up to the innocence of childhood that may not understand. That man, that person, that traveler is carrying with him a lifetime of memories of his life outside the train. He wishes to find his way back into the world where his family and friends now look for him. He has disappeared from their sight even as we have disappeared from my property. His man that you see wants to remember some thread that could be attached to the life he once knew, but he won’t be able to find it. Yet, within him, he cries for reattachment to a life he can’t be a part of any longer,” admitted Grandma as she looked at the children for some sense of them grasping the information.

“Grandma, the older couple seated across the aisle of the train, why are they asking the younger man all of those questions?” asked another of the grandchildren.

“The revelation of a life spent is of the utmost importance to those who no longer have a life to experience. The older couple have been aboard the train for a long time. They no longer are vibrant with the color of life, but they want to speak with someone who still glowed with the gift. Aboard the train, there were many who were reverting to their original state. They were the grays.

...

“Sir, Sir, might I trouble you for a moment, for a brief word?” asked the older man as he leaned toward the newly awakened traveler shaken by his discovery of being aboard a speeding train, a mysterious train bound for no distinct destination.

“My wife and I couldn’t help but hear you recite some memory, a collection of lines, a short act or play, some soliloquy or tale heretofore known only to you. We too, like you, have had many of those reenactments, those rehearsals, those lucid moments of yesterday’s lines now forever lost in time beyond the windows of this train. We too have awakened here among the many that you see around you. If there be an explanation, some reasoning that can justify us being here, then tell us so that we too might be lifted to your level of faith that what we see is only temporary.

Roger listened to the simple request but needed to know something more of the two travelers who shared his train car but looked as if they weren’t form his time or space or even shared his life in any way.

“Why, might I ask, is it that you desire my explanation of my life, my dreams, my lines, my time with its challenges?” asked Roger as he turned to face off with the two who sought to understand who this "visitor" might be. They wanted to know what this man who’d awakened beside them brought with him, a pass perhaps, even though he knew nothing of the gift he no longer held in his possession.

The three in the train car weren’t going to divulge their personal secrets unless they felt it was necessary or helpful for them to understand one another. The three weren’t from the same time or place in space but were of common ancestry. It wasn’t their time to uncover the facts that bound them, the threads that had been sewn to draw them together. The three, even though experiencing different eras were, unbeknownst to them, a part of a greater puzzle. The train and its continuing trek between the dark and the light was part of a far greater plan not just for those aboard the train, but for humanity itself. The ‘visitors’ as they called themselves, were as timeless as eternity itself.

Chapter Eleven

The Sleepers

What's a life without dreams? That's a good question, one that we should ask ourselves every day. As a child, lullabies soft and low told us about wishing upon stars, looking for the twinkles that lured us from the world of reality into a timeless expanse where what we saw might possibly come true. What we wished for was created by warm words, mellow melodies humming from someone's heart. In our youth, we're shown enchanted pathways to those stars, accessible one rung at a time upon life's ladder. During our mid-life, our dreams are swallowed up by responsibilities to a point where we can't seem to fulfill them leaving us with little else than memories. But, with age comes the ability to resurrect those memories of the times when we once had a dream created from the unseen worlds within our own imaginations. And for some, those who've lost the ability to dream, this enchantment is called foolishness, its images called illusions. Those dreamless travelers condemn the bravado some exhibit that anchors those dreams within the dreamers. Reflecting upon our lives, we should resolve to live it in a dream world splashed upon the pages of someone’s book. Having made this decision long ago, perhaps there are some who still hesitate between two conclusions. It is those who hesitate to take the plunge into the world of dreams that will encourage others to try once more to dream their dreams. To make their choice before all that they see fades away leaving nothing but whispers of what might have been. Journal for Ascension, Unknown Author

“Now, children, remain calm and let me explain some of what we see before us,” began Grandma as she turned away from the transformations that all of them were watching taking place in and around the rocket train that seemed to be increasing in speed.

Each child turned to look at Grandma as she took on a different appearance, a glow that none of the children remember ever seeing on her face. She was becoming an angel or anything like that, that would’ve been impossible because angels live in Heaven or that’s what the local preacher man told all of the children at church. We’d asked him several times about angels because we’d seen the ‘Visitors’ lurking around our coal camps from time to time. So, in an attempt to suppress the youth’s imaginations, we were told it was only something that looked like a person. Maybe a shadow or the way the sun was shining or a reflection in a puddle of water. We were told any number of things that it might have been but never what it really was.

“Grandma, are you alright?” asked one of my cousins as he too took on a different appearance, a worried one that showed he cared about Grandma. If she was getting sick, we needed to stop the story time and have her tell us what to do. Were there pills or something that she took to help her when she began to look the way she does now? We didn’t know but it was a little scary.

“Now, children, don’t make a fuss about me. I’m okay and I’m not sick at all. It’s the glowing that happens when we come in contact with one of the many ‘trains’ that travel throughout the world. This particular ‘train’ is a very important one. We must be mindful of what we see and what I’m about to tell you all,” she said as she continued to glow as if the sun was shining directly on her face like it did when we sit with her on the back porch snappin’ and stringin’.

“Okay!” we all echoed as we felt our Grandma wouldn’t lead us astray or tell us anything that wasn’t true.

“Now, let’s move a little closer to the train’s windows so we can hear and see better,” stated Grandma as she lowered her head slightly as if she were submitting to some order or direction given to her by some unseen force.

Within seconds of her last word, the quilt moved down to the side of the rails and over beside the windows of the car where there were three people sitting, an older couple and a younger man. The older couple’s skin tone was less vibrant that the younger man’s thus leading the children to believe that they were dying. They looked gray as opposed to a soft pinkish skin color that some humans have.

“Grandma, what’s wrong with the old couple?” asked one of children as they gestured toward the man and woman sitting across the aisle from the young man.

Grandma looked and smiled and turned to us with an explanation that was something that would keep all of us wondering for a long time. Her willingness to tell us the truth was weighing heavy upon her. She knew that if she’d gone this far with the story-seeing, she must continue to tell us everything that we saw before us pertaining to the ‘Visitors’ and the train that we could plainly see before us. But what was the secret that held her back from telling us all of these years? Was it the fact that our parents didn’t think we were ready to hear the truth? Was it because this truth flew in the face of all that we’d been taught all of our lives? Was it because our Grandma was afraid of how we would react to the truth that caused us to think for ourselves as opposed to believing everything that we’d been told? We weren’t sure, but many of us shared our concerns several times about the truth behind Grandma’s story-seeing. We were concerned.

“Let’s listen now, Children. There’s a lot to learn from listening,” said Grandma as she drew our attention to the three in the train car.

.. Without hesitation, the older gentleman blurted out the obvious. “Young man, I see you have no pass for the conductor to retrieve. My wife and I watched you for some time as you delayed your coming, you're awakening here on this train reserved for those who dream of lives beyond the windows, beyond the walls, beyond the time that we all occupy. We noticed you, like many aboard this train, that you are without a pass,” repeated the old man as he watched Roger from across the aisle.

“It’s not unusual for some of those of us who travel on this train to find ourselves without a pass. In fact, my wife and I both are now without a pass. It took us a long time to finalize our journeys or outings as some call them, but we enjoyed those times, those visits to places that few have been allowed to go. We ventured into many isolated areas, forgotten lifetimes, but were only allowed a short visit more often than not. Yet, we both have learned so much that we now take with us and recall what we can to fill our remaining years aboard this train that some have called “timelessness”.

The three were strangers. Neither of them knew each other, neither of them had anything in common with the other except for the train in which they rode. Yet, in this train car, in this passenger car, these three would venture to assume many things about their trip, their understanding of where they were, their prediction as to where they were going, and their revelations that would surely define all three of them once the Conductor made his debut.

“It’s not common for me to speak with strangers, but in this situation, seeing that I have no idea as to how I arrived here, perhaps it’s to my advantage to remain less sociable, at least for now,” responded Roger as he allowed his eyes to disconnect from the two across the aisle.

“But I do know this.” he added as he turned his head to the side, “I know that I was about to retire for the evening when my eyelids fluttered most unexpectedly as if being touched by some unseen fingers, as though some person was purposefully pressing them shut to hold them together so I could sleep,” Roger confessed.

Roger had no idea what the experience meant, but the old couple did. The old couple, after being on the train for what seemed to be a substantial amount of time, understood what the closure of his eyes meant.

The older couple turned to face each other, and smiled, but failed to respond to the comment but suggested that the same action had occurred to them at a place they once called their home, but unlike Roger, it happened to them at a much earlier time in their past or what seemed to be the past. It was an event, a passage, an experience all of them aboard the train would go through if they hadn’t already done so.

Reluctant to appear to be pushy, the older couple waited innocently until the "visitor" decided to return to the conversation with some choice piece of information, some clarity to his last comment. The older couple saw many of them during their time on the train who came and went, but eventually found themselves uncertain as to where their pass went or where they had lost it as they awakened for the last time aboard the train filled with others who were still asleep.

“There were a few moments earlier this evening or perhaps it was later in the night, now that I think about it, that I experienced some peculiar occurrence at my home. It was after I’d checked my house, all the doors and windows, the children’s rooms, and the back door, and after that, I kissed my wife goodnight and fell asleep. Then, as it had happened before, I remembered a person or at least I thought it was a person, standing in my room, one of many who've made their way into my world only to be captured and archived away by some unseen hand of light passing by at the most opportune moment to save me from the specters. And as before, I realized where I was, and what was happening, and awakened myself from this reoccurring dream, this nightmare that left me sweating, and my heart palpitating, if it was a nightmare, one of which I prayed would never happen again. For me, dreams have a fascinating way of allowing my mind to be free. Thankfully, this particular dream, or what I thought was a dream, only allowed a few imaginary creatures into my sleeping moments, my world outside this train.” confessed Roger as he lifted his head to see the expressions on the faces of the two across the aisle.

…

Turning to look at Grandma, one of my older cousins of mine asked her a simple question that all of us wanted to know the answer to about the man and his experience of someone holding his eyes together. What did that mean? Was it someone fighting with him? Was it someone trying to keep the man from seeing something he wasn’t supposed to see?

“Grandma, did the man, that man on the train, the younger man, did he die? You know that people have to close their eyes to a person at the time of their death, their passing. Their eyes are open when they take their last breath,” said the boy with the red hair sitting next to Joshua McDuff.

“Reluctantly, Joshua, the young man did die, but he doesn’t know that he has passed into the next stage of his existence, that of traveling on this train that we see before us until the next phase of their lives begins,” stated Grandma as profoundly as possible so as to remove all doubt as to what happened to the man.

“And, the older couple?” asked Joshua. “Are they dead as well?” he added.

“My dear Grandchildren, this train isn’t just any train. It travels all the time and never stops. It moves from place to place loading and unloading people as long as they have a pass. Roger and the older couple are without a pass, therefore, they will remain in this train until the train has completed its journey, its mission that it was sent here to do,” Grandma explained and looked away from Joshua who was seeing the point of the passes for the riders.

“So, Grandma, the pass allows the creatures, these people that we’re seeing on this train, to come and go into what they think is realty or our world? Is that what happens? Is that what Sammy saw standing at the edge of the forest near your house the other week?” asked Joshua as he turned to look at Sammy.

“My child, there are many ‘visitors’ in the coal mining camps where we live and call our home. Many of them aren’t aware that they are living in a dream world, but that truth isn’t for them to know. The ‘visitors’ are experiencing life and the associated duties, like families and school and church and growing old. Those things are what make the human race special. They don’t know that the world is all a dream created by the one who owns the train, the ‘visitors’ and all of us who are called humans,” answered Grandma as she took a moment to allay the concerns and worries of the children who wanted to know the truth.

“Let’s turn our attention back to the train so that we can see what is about to happen, shall we,” stated Grandma as she motioned for her grandchildren to look and listen to the conversation between Roger and the others on the train.

Chapter Twelve

Someone Knocking

Floating across the winds of time and space came a knocking sound. A sound that Grandma recognized as her front door vibrating with each rap upon the decaying wood. There was someone standing at her front door in the late evening hours. Who could be knocking?

“Children, close your eyes. Do it now!” demanded our Grandma as she pulled the edges of the quilt up enough to change the reality in which we were sailing. Immediately, the quilt reappeared on the living room floor where we’d all gathered seemingly just moments before.

“Now, don’t none of you move!” she commanded in such a voice that none of the children would’ve even thought about getting up or following her to see who was knocking at her door at this hour in the late evening.

Walking briskly through the house, Grandma slowed only for a moment to pick up a butcher’s knife she had laying on her kitchen drainboard. She’d used the knife many times for many reasons like carving turkeys or hams for the festive holidays that were held for family gatherings. But, as far as the children knew, she’d never used it as something to defend herself with up until now. Why was she afraid? Was she afraid or was the knife just to be used in case there was an aggressive stranger lurking on the other side of the back door?

Having made the trip from the living room all the way through the house to the back door, armed and ready, Grandma placed her hand upon the doorknob and called out to the person or persons on the other side of the door.

“Who’s there?” she asked.

For a few moments, no one answered, then a voice that was strangely odd echoed around the cracks in the door and fell upon her ears.

“Grandma McDuff, we were wondering if we might have a word with you. We know it’s late, but this is of the utmost importance. So, if you will, may we come in?” asked the voice.

“Who are you?” she asked.

There wasn’t an answer right away to her request as to who was knocking at her door, but Grandma had her suspicions that it was one of the members of the local congregations, a newly formed religious group that was doing their best to recruit new members. Grandma wasn’t inclined to entertain such groups. She and her family had long made up their own minds as to what they believed or disbelieved. It was a matter of personal choice, she’d told many of the other persons who came knocking. She and her family, seriously committed to their faith, left the solicitors with little to questions as to whether they were to come knocking again at the McDuff family’s elder’s home again.

“Mrs. McDuff, it’s Willard Pritchard and Shane Wilson. We’d like to have a few words with you if you’ll allow us to share with you,” came the request wrapped in a soft cordial tone.

“And why would I allow you in my home at this time of the evening? It passed the acceptable hour for visitations! Now, be off with you and please remember the appropriate hours to call upon your neighbors!” called out Grandma from behind the door as she held the knife up to her chest should the two visitors attempt to enter without her authorization.

“Now, be off with you!” she shouted.

As Grandma stood at the door ready for a battle if there was to be one, she heard the two individuals hissing and walking off her porch and down the steps into her yard. At that point, she moved from the back of the door and into her kitchen. Sliding her hand across the wall, she located the light switch, pressed it down, and turned the light off. Then, without hesitation, she pulled the homemade kitchen curtains back to see if she could make out who the two men were who’d come knocking at her door in the middle of a story-seeing time with her grandchildren.

As she watched the two men, they walked down the dirt patch and out the front gate. But strangely, they disappeared into the darkness of the evening as if they were ‘visitors’ themselves having been sent to her house for some reason she wasn’t aware of. Why would ‘visitors appear at her door? There had been one the other day standing at the edge of the yard near the fence line. Sammy saw them and told her about it. But, why were they coming up onto her porch, and why at this hour of the evening?

Chapter Thirteen

Calling for Passes

“Dreaming has always been part of my life. Whether it's fanciful or whimsical or nightmarish or nautical or anything dealing with flying, dreams fill my night space more so than that of the natural world, the world aboard this train. For many who dream, dreams can be a resource filled with unlimited creativity, unlimited abilities, and unlimited truth. Each time that I sit here in my seat here, I find myself standing on the banks of a small, but deep pond at the foot of a huge waterfall. As I stand facing the waterfall, small stepping stones surface allowing me to walk across the pond toward the waterfall. Once at the face of the waterfall, I pause long enough to stretch my arms out in both directions to touch the falling water, to feel its intensity. In this picture, there appears to be a person standing opposite already in the waterfall. A shadow one might guess, but it isn’t a copy of my face that I see.

Much to my surprise, it isn't a waterfall at all, but a passageway between reality and the dream world that I had been taught about many years earlier before we came to this place, this place riding this train. After a brief moment, I take one step through the waterfall and immediately I'm seeing worlds that I have visited, people I might have seen before, and challenges waiting for me to attempt and hopefully come out the victor.

Lucid dreams, knowing that I'm dreaming and making decisions as I dream as to whether I'll stay in a dream or not is often the case, but up until recently, I didn’t know that the decision wasn’t really mine to make after all but the conductor’s. If the dream, the newly found world of illusion, is agreeable, I'll stay a while. If there's an adversary in the dream, I always seek a way of escape. It's strange and exciting, but always leaves me exhausted when I awaken aboard this train many times past,” said Roger as he reminisced about his travels, his dreams, the lives he lived beyond the darkness that lay outside the train as it slipped through time and space.

After listening to the young man’s words, his confession regarding his nocturnal experiences, the old couple simply smiled at one another reluctant to offer their interpretation of his nightly ventures, his recognition of those beyond the train, his time spent back and forth into the world, as he stated, the world beyond the darkness that surrounded the train.

His arrival this time back into the train, unlike all of the others before him and unlike those yet to come, was one with no return because, unbeknownst to him, his pass had expired, his work had been completed, this trips beyond the doors of the train were now over. Once the “awakening” occurs and one finds oneself without a pass, there is no going back, no matter how hard one may try to regain that which was lost. Those who’ve awakened without a pass never return to the dream world from which they spent many lifetimes, sometimes one right after another. The people they encountered on the other side will never see them again even for a short glimpse. The time spent in the dream world was forever taken from them leaving them only the memory of the events that happened. It wasn’t fair some might say, but to have been allowed to experience, to observe, to enter into conversations with those within their dream world, that in itself was special. No one or nothing would ever take that away from those who were chosen for this expedition beyond their own world.

“Sir, it appears to me that you and your wife have been traveling on this train for quite some time. I mean your clothes are, well, not of this era, not of this time, not of my time. Your clothes have no color remaining and even your skin tone is less vibrant than what I had expected it to be.” Roger remarked in a respectful tone.

As soon as he had brought the loss of color to the attention of the older couple, there was a rumbling, a rush of air through the train signaling that someone or something was in the proximity of the train. It must have been something that was powerful or large to create such a rush of wind.

Outside in the darkness, Grandma and the children slid back into place near the side of the train and near the car where Roger and old couple were sitting. The three inside the car couldn’t see them, but they could sense that something was out in the darkness.

“Now, let’s get to the bottom of the story that I have wanted to share with you all of my life,” said Grandma as the edges of the patchwork quilt fluttered in the darkness.

“But Grandma, don’t the people in the train car know that we’re here? I mean, can’t they see us? We can see them,” stated Joshua as he looked through the windows of the train car carrying the visitors.

“No, my child, the visitors, that’s what they’re called, can’t see outside into the darkness. This is the cover that protects us from them and from the conductor. No one on the train can see us. This protection is provided by the poems I quoted prior to us leaving my house. Don’t you remember?” she asked as she looked at each of the children in such a manner they knew she was telling them the truth.

Grandma was their protector and had been all of their lives. From the time they appeared in the dream world up until the very moment that they saw the train for the first time, she kept them from seeing the reality that she saw when her grandma showed her the train and told her the secret.

The children, although young in human years, were much, much older, and the conductor chose to allow them to start their observations in the body of a child. And with the agreement between the conductor and the visitors, they weren’t to know the truth until their Grandma felt it was time. From that time, the children, their parents, and many of the coal camp residents were under the illusion that they were humans in a natural world filled with work and home and visits to Grandma’s house. Contrary to their perception of time and space, they were about to be discovered as Grandma worked her plan.

On the patchwork quilt that floated alongside the train filled with sleepers and those who would remain awake, she was going to show them the truth about their lives.

“Now, let’s listen in on the conversations and watch the responses between those three there through the window,” stated Grandma a she held the quilt in place alongside the speeding train.

Grandma resumed the story...

...

Neither of the two visitors, the old man and old woman, across the aisle from Roger wanted to divulge the secret of the train. Neither wanted to toss the young man into a chaotic state that would precipitate an avalanche of questions. It wasn’t their job to sound the alarms. If that was to occur too soon, if the truth be made known to one who had just awakened out of the dream, there would be uncontrollable chaos. Once arriving back on the train without a pass for release, no pass back to those who appear as vapors or spirits, then Roger himself would find out the truth. The truth was that people’s color begin to fade away from the faces and hands of those without passes as the years pass away to the point where they become what they were before, an illusion created by the conductor that made them appear to be human. The reality was that they aren’t human at all, but explorers from some other time and place.

Roger’s dream, the one he shared with the older married couple, was not a dream at all. It was his reality that was shared by each of the sleepers who became the “awakened” who now ride the train. Those that slept shared in Roger’s dreams before they awakened on the train in some form or another.

… “Let’s watch the couple and the younger man for a few minutes to see if there are any secrets we need to know that I don’t already know,” said Grandma as she looked out over the faces of the children who were clearly at a loss as to what she meant.

“You see those who sleep in the other cars, those who haven’t been awakened?” asked Grandma as she moved closer to the train.

“Yes,” stated all of the children who were awake. Amber Ann was still asleep and would remain asleep until the end of the story-seeing. It was for her own good that she remain asleep and did not see all that the other children were being allowed to see. During the visit to the train, there was something more that would be told that would open the eyes of the children.

Chapter Fourteen

Telling the Truth

From the time Abigail dropped the children off at her mom’s house, she had a feeling that maybe she shouldn’t be done it this early in the children’s lives. Maybe it wasn’t their time to know or see what she and her sibling had been shown many years earlier.

Her mother was passionate about telling the children the truth, but Abigail wasn’t so sure it was the best thing for her youngest child, Amber Ann. The other two boys, well, she thought they’d be able to understand and accept the truth, return from the story-seeing with a new insight into their lives. It was a part of her own life that she loved knowing about. It was important to her that she live the ‘dream world’ life in such a way that all of the human experiences and feelings and emotions were recorded deep within her and would be of some benefit to her people once her dream was over.

Her husband, Wallace McDuff, was not as so inclined to open the children’s eyes this early in their lives when they were still maturing and grasping for their own meanings to the things that they were seeing and doing. Their lives and the experiences they were collecting as children would only add to the records of their kind once things were finished.

“Abby, you know your mom is really a precious person, but do you think it’s okay for her to have opened the passage this early for the children? I spoke with the other parents about the story-seeing that was going on over there at her house this evening. A few of them were concerned but felt the trusted ole Grandma McDuff to do the right thing,” stated Wallace as he turned to look at his wife.

Abby was now in her late thirties and was the mother to three children in this world that the humans called Earth. The overall experience she had lived wasn’t all perfect, but it was rewarding. There was nothing like this time of life or children or maturing in the time and space from which all of the ‘Visitors’ traveled. Earth was a unique place with special people all living in a dream created by the conductor. This dream, this life was going to be used to create a place like Earth where the ‘Visitors’ could assume the roles of people like those they met during their dreams.

“Mama wouldn’t let any harm come to the children, Wallace. You don’t have to worry about that. She assured me that she would be careful and that the experiences would be like those that my Grandma showed me.

“The pastor stopped by later this afternoon to pay us a visit. He said he was unaware that your mama was so deep into the storytelling world. He felt that maybe she would help him our at the congregation one Wednesdays and share some of her stories with the little ones in the classroom. I told him that perhaps she might consider it, but her stories weren’t the usual type and might not fit in with the conservative group that attend at his church. But, I did agree to tell your mama that he was interested in knowing more about the stories and she could make up her own mind as to what would be the better thing to do,” added Wallace as he pulled out the kitchen chair, took his seat, and laid his napkin next to his plate.

“I wonder why the Pastor would be interested in some old woman’s stories. She’s never been asked to come and share her stories before, so why now?” asked Abby as she placed the bowl of mashed potatoes on the table alongside the rolls and butter.

“I’m not sure, but one of the other members told me the day I was working on my truck, you know the smoking out the tailpipes, well, he said the people in town were also talkin’ ‘bout your mama’s stories like they knew something that no one else did. I wonder what that might be, Abby?” asked her husband as he reached for his cup of coffee, took a sip, and placed it back on the saucer.

“That is strange, ain’t it? My mama ain’t one for talkin up some gossip or spreading anything like that. You know her, Wallace, so don’t go pretending that she would even think about doing something like that here where we live,” said Abby as she pulled out her chair, took her seat, and placed her napkin alongside her plate.

The two sit in silence for a minute before either of them spoke. It wasn’t that they didn’t know what old Grandma McDuff could do, it was more the question of whether she would want to do it or not. Her being the oldest McDuff in the coal camps, there wasn’t anyone who knew what she knew about the shadow people called Visitors. No one was with her during her early years after coming from the old country to the mining regions of Appalachia. No one understood what it took to make it through each day when the well was low on water, crops didn’t seem to ripen as they should’ve, and there wasn’t meat on the table. No one but ole Grandma McDuff has the ability to make things come together for the other residents of the region. She never told them that she was able to make things work with no one else could. They accepted her generosity and didn’t question where the bounty came from. Ole Grandma McDuff was way more than what she appeared to be, but not one knew how much more.

She held the valley’s secrets, that if told, would uproot all of the people’s lives and through everything into chaos. She just wasn’t the type to stir chaos. But she was also strong enough to hold her own if she needed to. Her strength take kept her from being eaten alive by some of the more arrogant people, and came from deep within her, deep within her stories of what life was and what it was not.

Chapter Fifteen

The Becoming

“I’ve noticed that many haven’t made it through with smiles or hugs or even a grateful heart. I've noticed some weren't experiencing any of these. Some were complaining, some were bitter that life had, in their opinion, dealt them a poor hand. But you know what, most of us hear aboard this train are regular folk and we’ve all felt that way some time in the past. The difference is we didn't wallow in the ditch or accept the fact that there wasn't any way out of the valley of dry bones where we'd placed ourselves. We looked at ourselves in the mirror and said, "Okay, I made the decisions that have got me in this mess. I must make better choices and turn my own life around," said Wallace McDuff as he spoke with one of the other men from the mines. You know what, it is we ourselves who fumble and lose the ball at times, but many don’t want to accept the responsibility and admit when they’re wrong,” Wallace said as he looked at the fellow miner who was covered in coal dirt from head to toe.

“So what your sayin’, McDuff, is that we shouldn’t depend on others to rescue us when it's the decisions we made that have put us where we are today. No, it's not meant to tell the truth, I suppose. I have made some really stupid decisions, but you know what, I made the wrong choice, not my friends or family. During my 'valley of dry bones' experience here in these here coal mines, I lifted my head, my heart, and my spirit and made a different decision about how my life was going to go. Sink or swim I resolved that I wouldn't stay in that valley any longer than I had to, but my life and the lives of my family members depend on me to make the right decisions from here on out. And with some faith, I will recover,” said the miner who wanted something different but didn’t have any idea where that ‘different’ would be found. He wasn’t aware, like all the others in the valley, that Grandma held their answers to the questions that were tormenting them.

“I had the pastor make a comment to me just yesterday ‘bout having my mama go down to the church, gather all the children up, and tell them some of her stories. I didn’t agree with him on that ‘cause my mama ain’t like no other woman in the hollers here. She’s different somehow. You know, like maybe a little scary at times. I don’t really understand her at times, but she hasn’t given me any reason to doubt her abilities. And, as you know, she’s great with all the children in the hollers all around. What makes her so different? I just haven’t found what that is yet,” commented Wallace as he smiled a shallow smile, turned and looked off into the distance toward his wife’s mama’s holler where her house was sitting.

Getting off of their shift at the mines, the two men made their way down the dirt roads that led from the mines to the intersection of the highway that crisscrossed all of the region. There they would wait for the other miners to make their way to where Wallace has his old truck. The miners would climb in the back, and Wallace and his friend would ride in the front. It was customary for Wallace to give his fellow miners a lift home. Besides, they lived all along the two-lane road and it was an inconvenience for him. His house, the one that jutted out of the hillside, was the last house on the trip home. By the time he arrived at the turnoff to his house, everyone would be dropped off and walking to their houses. It was like all of them were a family somehow. All of them were tied together in such a way that none of them could be left behind. Brother taking care of brother or so it seemed.

“Thanks for the ride, Wallace,” said the last miner who was exiting the back of the truck with a dinner bucket in hand.

“No problem,” replied Wallace as he waited for the man to cross the road before he pulled out into the empty road and headed on up the road for another four miles. Once at his cut-off, it was only a matter of getting up the dirt road filled with potholes, parking his truck, and walking up the steps to his own house. It was almost an automatic thing by now for him and all of his fellow workers, yet in the back of his mind, he felt as though it wasn’t going to last his whole life. A tingle, a ting of ‘something this way comes’ always greeted him at the end of the work day.

Chapter Sixteen

The Acceptance

Roger wasn’t ready for that revelation. He wasn’t ready to accept the fact that all of the train’s occupants were sharing the same experience but in different forms of human interactions with an illusion, an illusion that, unbeknownst to them, that their lives weren’t real, but mere lines upon a page of time written by those from another time and place aboard another vessel that remains out of sight to allow them to fulfill their missions.

The ‘Train’ or their earthly vessel was a scout ship sent to investigate the possibility of transdimensional projections in an attempt to create a world of illusions for their own kind to come and partake in much like a movie or show or a real-life series as seen on television or some alternate reality.

He was under the impression, as well as all of the other riders on the train, that his life, the dream from which he’d awakened, was real. He assumed the house he’d called home was real. He took for granted the fact that his children playing around his feet, running in the backyard, laughing together as all children do were his, but it was all just a dream, a dream called life shared by all of the people aboard the train who went to visit those on the other side.

Many of the passengers were still living in the dream, many were now called the ‘Visitors’ by those who pressed their faces against the train’s windows trying to see who was there, but unable to see beyond the veil of time and space. Yet, there was a time for the ‘visitors’ when they too would awaken back into their own reality but find themselves without a pass to return to a dreamworld specifically for the purpose of the ‘Visitor’s observation and assessment.

For the older couple, the time on the train span many decades of human history. Their arrival, like that of the young man across the aisle, was unexpected and disturbing. Yet, since their awakening, the two became aware that only a few on this train had a pass from the Conductor should he venture from the office in the next car to collect them. The conductor’s arrival and his questioning of the whereabouts of everyone’s pass would create yet another ambiguity for all of the riders who were newly awake.

Roger had no pass, no memory of his arrival or transit from the world he thought was real to the train seat in which he found himself. He had no retention of what might have happened to him other than a faint image of a young boy standing in a window looking out into the darkness that surrounded him. That he remembered very well. Once the moment was over, Roger found himself back in his bedroom standing at the window looking out at the person standing on his porch. It was shortly after that that he felt someone or something pressing on his eyelids to keep them closed, then there was complete darkness.

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but how long have you two been traveling?” asked Roger as he shifted slightly in the seat to get a better view of the couple who’d shown so much interest in his story, his dream, as he called it.

For a moment, the couple looked around him at the other ‘visitors’ beyond the windows that separated each compartment on the train. And for the moment, they were reticent to answer for fear of giving the train’s secret away. There were others who’d asked the same question over the time they had been traveling, but those individuals, those visitors, suddenly disappeared, vanished into thin air with passes being held tightly in their hands. Some awakened and disappeared in a matter of weeks or even days, but not them, the two older visitors. They were “antique” travelers, as they liked to say.

Having awakened many decades before Roger’s arrival, they had seen many visitors come and go. They had heard many ask the same questions as those now being asked by the "visitor" who sit across the aisle from them. Over their time in the awakened state, the couple would venture to tally their visitations with those who had awakened then disappeared in the hundreds, perhaps maybe more. But who’s to say, who’s accountable for the “awakenings” and “disappearances” aboard the mysterious train that never stops?

“Perhaps it’s better that you ask the Conductor these questions, young man. The Conductor should be along shortly. If there’s anyone aboard this train that can allay your concerns as to why you’re here, how you got here, and why you have no pass, well, the Conductor would be the one to ask.” stated the older gentleman as he caressed his wife’s hand.

“He’ll not understand, honey,” she whispered.

“He’ll not understand until, well, until it’s too late,” she added.

“The train with all of its uncertainty, all of its peculiarity, all of its mystical twists and turns along the rails on which it has become destined to ride for eons, will never release those who wake up in its clutches without some spiritual, some mystical intervention, some act of contrition and a pass that gains them access back into the dreamworld from which they came.” offered the old woman as she leaned around her husband who was reluctant to reveal even the smallest of details.

“It’s the way things are done here aboard this train or that’s what we’ve been told, been instructed to believe.”

“And what exactly does that mean?” asked Roger as he lifted his head to look at the older couple. I mean, you just stated that you’ve been instructed to believe something about this time on this train. What were you instructed or told to believe? Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked with a perplexed look on his face?

Once she’d made the statement and offered some insight into what was happening aboard the “mysterious train”, the old woman leaned back out of sight as if she were trying to hide behind her husband, a more formidable opponent aboard the train than he was in their dream world from which they too had awakened out of decades ago.

“And what exactly does that mean?” asked the “visitor" as he blinked his eyes to clear the mist of reality that was settling all around him.

“What does that mean?” he echoed.

“It’s referred to as the ‘becoming’ for those of us who have expired passes and have been instructed by the Conductor that we are to remain in our train car unless told to move to another section of the train. It’s difficult for all of us, young man, to understand everything that the Conductor says or does, but we are under the orders of the Conductor of this train and there’s little we can do about it,” stated the older gentleman with such resolve that Roger knew there was not rebuttal.

In the other compartments, both fore and aft, one could see glasses being filled, raised high, and salutations lauded for all to hear. There must’ve been some reason that only a few of the compartments were embroiled in merriment while others were filled with passengers weeping, lamenting, eyes swelling, faces flushed with fear. No, it wasn’t the same for some of the others. In some of the compartments, the harsh reality was more than some could bear. Their “dream” worlds, now forever lost in time, at least to them on this trip on the train, were mere illusions of those who walk upright, those who laugh, those who love, and those who grow old without ever coming to the train or reappearing in a compartment seat. The ‘visitors’ now had to contend with the reality that they would never leave the train as some have before them to take part in any further observations or assessments of the dreamworld known as humanity. For them, the train had become just another nightmare filled with nightmarish people locked away from salvation, locked away by their minds, their deeds heretofore committed in the dreamworld they had called “life” filled with others who too were only ‘visitors’ for a time.

“So, is there something more to this that you’re not telling me? Is there some secret locked away in all of our minds that will be revealed at the end of our journey?” asked Roger as he turned away from the two who were less than revealing, but knew more than they were telling.

Chapter Seventeen

Through The Veil

Floating beside the speeding train, the patchwork quilt holding the children and Grandma, matched the speed and direction as if it was connected to the train itself. There wasn’t any flopping or flipping of the children sitting on the quilt because Grandma had created a safety bubble to surround them as they traveled into the world of those about the train.

“Now, children, I know I’ve told each of you to hold hands, I want you to continue to do that and be very strong for me. I’m going to bring us in a little closer because I need you to hear what’s being said, the conversation that is being carried on between the older couple and the young man seated across the aisle from them. Now, hold on tighter, and let’s get into a better spot,” announced Grandma as she simply turned her head ever so slightly towards the train car. And, having done so, the quilt with its passengers moved within inches of the window.

With a slight nod, the quilt stopped and hung in the air next to the train car. The position allowed all of them to hear the conversation with greater clarity. As they all watched and listened, they could hear Roger speaking to the older couple who was continuously losing their color from not only they’re clothing, but their complexions as well. It was a little scary for the younger grandchildren, but Grandma had explained to them that this was normal for those aboard the train who’ve fulfilled their duty, their mission into the dream world called the human experience. Simultaneously, the children all turned to listen to the conversation between the passengers.

...

“So, what I’m hearing from you two is that you have been here for a long time. You boarded the train at some distant time in the past and have been riding this train ever since. Does that about cover it?” Roger asked urgently seeking an acceptable answer, one that would make sense. Yet, he could tell that the couple wasn’t ready to divulge the truth, not just yet.

As he waited for the couple to respond, there was some kind of commotion that caught his attention in the adjoining forward car. Someone was yelling something that didn’t make any more sense than the conversation that he was having with the old married couple.

Outside the train car, Grandma was reassuring some of the children that things would be okay and for them not to worry. She was in complete control and wouldn’t let anything harm them. The children loved and trusted their Grandma and settled down to listen.

“I want all of you to pay attention to this conversation. It holds many answers to the questions that many of you have at this point in the story. Therefore, pay close attention to what is going to happen here and we’ll discuss it once the conversation is over,” stated Grandma as she too turned to listen.

...

“I don’t have a pass!” someone shouted.

“Why wasn’t I given my pass back?”

“That’s not my concern. That’s not my responsibility, that was someone else’s responsibility. Now, since you don’t have a pass, you’ll have to be moved to a different compartment here aboard the train, one that’s further back toward the end of the train. All of you are only here for a short time. All of those aboard this train will eventually end up without a pass. That’s the way it works, that’s the way it was intended to happen when the initiation of this project. Nothing here is permanent and once all of you have completed this tasking, you’ll revert back to your original condition and on our main vessel that awaits our completion of this assignment. You should know that by now. You’ve been aboard long enough to understand how this works, but yet, you fumble with the facts that were clearly explained to all of us before we arrived here on this ship, this train, the connection between reality and the dream world that each of you has experienced, recorded, and will, in time have to give a briefing, an extraction of the memory that you’ve experienced to those in charge of this expedition. This isn’t your first outing! All of us are temporarily assigned this task. Some have a little more information about it than others, but we all knew it was only temporary!” stated the Conductor as they ordered the ‘visitor’ to get up and go to the next compartment, the compartment occupied by Roger and the older couple, and take a seat.

… “But, Grandma, what are they talking about, the assignment, the tasking,” asked one of the older boys in the group sitting on the patchwork quilt.

There was a short wait before Grandma could give the boy an answer that would be understandable but correct. And, for the sake of the children, Grandma didn’t use words like ghosts or specters or aliens or anything that she thought would scare the other children. The word alien especially was avoided because it was later in the nineteen forties and things like that were just beginning. Some of it was talked about at the five and dime stores, while other times it was mentioned by the only person who owned a small little contraption called a television. It allowed the ‘holler’ people to see beyond the hills and valleys into a world they knew little about. Often while the customers shopped at the Five and Dime, the owner left the little black box on for them to listen about a world they’d never seen. Grandma knew that the box existed because she had seen it herself on her last trip to the store some weeks ago. She laughed at the expressions on the faces of the people who watched and listened to the announcer. They were perplexed to see things and hear things from another part of their illusion that no one ever spoke or knew about until now. It was in itself a revelation.

Even though Grandma was, well, more aware of her surroundings than the others in the store, she remained silent about what was happening and resolved in herself that in time, they would all know the truth.

“Now, let’s listen to what’s going on, shall we?” asked Grandma as they changed the focus of the conversation back to the train and what was going on.

…

It was peculiar that the Conductor only stopped at the seats of the ‘visitors’ who were awake. From where Roger was sitting, he could see many, many others asleep in their seats. The Conductor completely ignored them, nor did he awaken them to collect their pass if they possessed one. It was Roger’s opinion that he wasn’t the only one without a pass aboard this train seeing others aboard the train who were awake but were unclear as to what they needed to do. Perhaps none of the ‘visitors’ who were awake had passed.

“Excuse me, but may I ask you a question?” quizzed Roger as he turned to satisfy his curiosity.

“But of course, young man.” replied the older fading man.

“Do either of you have a pass? Did you wake up on this train as I have done? And those, those who are still asleep in all of the other compartments, the ones the Conductor ignores, will they have passes when they wake up?” he asked. “And, if I may ask, what happens to those without a pass? I mean, are we required to move further back into the last passenger compartments and wait? What do we have to do to pay for our fare to secure our pass? What is the price we have to pay to ride this train to our eventual destination?” quizzed the "visitor" filled with anxiety, filled with desperation.

Turning to face the elderly woman who’d made an extra attempt to inform him of his situation without telling him the story, Roger reached deep within himself, a soul-searching moment, seeking some plausible answer, some acceptable reason that could be used for his negotiation, his bartering for the pass he lacked. Even though he didn’t know what it might look like or its value, he assumed it was a fair exchange between him and the Conductor to allow him to exit the train at the next feasible time and go back to where he saw the little boy in the window.

“When you've done all that you can do when you've spoken all the words that were expected to calm the discord when you've grieved the last ounce of who you are over people that you love when the answers seem as though they'll never come, then you will know how a human father feels behind closed doors alone with his prayers, acting out the lines of a script of an assignment, playing the part he was assigned, accompanied by an all too familiar state of solitude. This was my life. Is that not enough for me to pay for this pass that I need to present to the Conductor who has yet to confront me?” asked the "visitor" lacking understanding as to where he’d come from and where it was that he had arrived, and his eventual destination.

“Young man, all of us who have finished our tasking returned without a pass. That’s the way this works. What I see here is a lack of understanding on your part as to what has happened, why it has happened, and why you’re here in this car beside of us. That’s what has caused all of this confusion,” said the older gentleman as he opened his eyes as wide as he could to add an additional air of mystery to his comment.

The elderly couple listened to the regale of the burdened soul sitting near them. It wasn’t their place to tell him that it wasn’t the deeds done in the imaginary place called life, called the human experience that he thought he was living that would release him from the train. It wasn’t the anticipation of becoming more than any other individual or possessing great wealth. No, the train was filled with the participants, with ‘visitors’, individuals who were part of other people’s dreams in the place outside the cars riding upon the rails of eternity in a craft resembling a train.

Roger sit quietly trying to understand, trying to fit the pieces of a puzzle together that no one had been able to complete for him. It was his goal to find out for himself what had happened to him. He was determined to confront the Conductor as soon as he made himself available.

Chapter Eighteen

Restricted Information

“As this adventure unfolded, someone, perhaps you children, have wondered about the evidence in a given situation or condition such as this that we are experiencing might mean. Whether at home with your family or at my house or in your personal life at school or with your friends, a preponderance, a consideration of the amount of evidence will take place that will tell you that you are alive, that you are real, that you are taking part in a place called the ‘coal mining hollers’. At that moment, you and I will have to decide the scope or amount of the outcome of the things that we do or have done. Will our personal decision remain personal or will it affect those around us in a way that we can imagine? Will the ultimate outcome remain our personal future or will we, like those aboard this train, awaken to see that nothing was real?

Those who interfere without examining the evidence, without living the moment with me or you are like a "Tempest In A Teapot" because it doesn't affect their daily lives, it won't ask anything of them in the future like, what will be asked of you once this experiment is all over? Those who now sit asleep aboard this train are experiencing a different viewpoint that has little or no relevance to this reality that you and I are seeing every day. The life, their experience are irrelevant, inconsequential to that of ours, yet we are all of the same species. The outcome, yours and mine will affect us in every way once this journey is over. Those shouting from the hypothetical sidelines are the ones who have and will continue to stir the Teapot of misinformation resounding their objection to this or that part of this mission. The people shouting objections in the dream world called life in the existence being experienced while we dream will eventually be explained. But until then, we must leave them to their Teapot of ambiguity or misinformation and let us get on with what has been placed before us, to complete our part of the assignment. Be Safe, Be Strong, Be confident that I’m here with you always even until the end! We must push forward because we can't regress. Our challenge demands resolution and it must be resolved,” stated Grandma in such a matter that it caused the children to sit straighter and taller upon the quilt made by none other than their Grandma for this very occasion. This was the first journey to see the train and its passengers. The children were wondering if their Grandma's mother was who she pretended to be.

After hearing their Grandma finish up one of the older grandchildren asked a question that all of the other children wanted an answer to but were afraid to ask themselves. “Ah, Grandma, what exactly did you say? I mean, all of us would like to know what the expedition, the assignment, and the misinformation that you’re talking about means. We’ve never heard you speak like this. Is there something about ‘you’ that we need to know that you haven’t told us about?” asked Sammy as he looked at his Grandma in a different manner than ever before.

Grandma wasn’t ready to tell them everything about herself, but she could explain some of the answers each child was anxiously waiting to hear.

“My children, this moment outside of time that we know, is showing us a far greater meaning to our lives. You know that what you see here is not a dream. I’ve told you that time and time again as we prepared for this journey. Yes, we’re still sitting on the quilt. Yes, we’re watching the events aboard a train that isn’t really a train at all, but at this time I can’t tell you exactly the truth or reveal what it is. But, I will tell you once we get to the end of the story,” Grandma answered smiling and motioned for all of the children to pay attention to the train people, the alien ‘Visitors’ about the train traveling into the edge of the night so as to conceal it from the dream world.

Chapter Nineteen

Piercing Reality

“Young man, as you might’ve already discerned, there are different groups of passengers here aboard the train. As you’ve already pointed out, some remain asleep. There are those, like you who have just awakened. There are those who are jubilant and gay and sing and express to others how they feel, and then there are those full of sorrow. You’ve seen them yourself. But what you don’t know is what all of this means. As I mentioned earlier, it’s not up to me to unravel this mystery for you. It’s not up to me to tell you how you arrived here and why. But, as you’ve already deduced, it’s the Conductor who holds the key to your release to the answer that you seek, if there be one for you. For me and my husband, this is our end. There is nowhere else for us to go. The pages of our lives that we were given to fulfill have been completed, words splashed upon the pages of someone’s life beyond the tangible walls of this train that gives us life. There is one who, unknown to most of those aboard this train who is telling of a story in which we were a part of, who kept us there in that time beyond the train’s doors and windows. It is that person who controls all that has happened or is happening or will ever happen to all of us. So, there you have it, the truth about us. We don’t grieve. We’ve come to grips with the truth about who we are and we are at peace knowing that we’ve done our part, finished our race, and carry within us the experiences that will be shared with those of our kind.” surrendered the old woman as she grasped her husband's arm for reassurance.

Roger looked at the old woman and felt as if she’d told him the truth. Her explanation was unusual, but the truth was the truth never the less. He felt it was her last and best attempt to resolve her anxiety about being imprisoned in a train that now has become her home until all the ‘Visitor’s finish their exploits, their experiences outside the train in an imaginary world in its initial process of being set up for future visitations.

“Passes, train passes!” shouted the Conductor as it stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind it.

“Passes, I say passes!”it announced for the third time.

“Sir, you, young man, do you have your pass? You must have a pass. Anyone your age, with your talent, your promise of great things ahead must have a pass.” it stated as it pulled out the hole punch it used to validate the dimensional pass that allowed those on the train to leave, to ascend back into the dream world of someone’s story told to those sitting around in rooms of lackluster and faded paint.

“Hello, I don’t have a pass. I’ve tried to understand what the pass might be, what its value is, and how to claim one or purchase one, but no one seems to know. Everyone has told me to ask you. So, Conductor, what is the pass you keep asking for and how do I claim it?” inquired Roger as he sit up straight in his seat, fully awake, ready to hear what the Conductor had to say.

Chapter Twenty

The Undoing

“Grandma, what exactly are we watching? What are we hearing? Is this all real? Is this all in my head? Can there be a train like this that carries people or as you’ve called them, ‘Visitors’, into our world through some type of dreaming experience? Is this what you’re trying to explain to us? If it is, then I have only one other question, who are you?” asked Sammy as he turned to look his Grandma eye to eye.

His Grandma didn’t say anything as she listened to one of her grandchildren try to understand the workings of the senior member of the clan. Their days and nights were spent trying to experience all that there was to feel of what it meant to be human. That was the purpose of the close relationships sometimes called clans back in the old country. Before coming to the New World, many of the inhabitants of the small villages weren’t aware of the train, the passage, or even of Grandma and her extraordinary powers. All the clan knew was that there was someone in the clan who could and did pass from the world they lived into a place that was called reality. The reality wasn’t heaven or hell or someplace like the preachers talked about in their sermons. No, the reality wasn’t at all like those places that caused people, the humans to cry or laugh or become filled with joy when they were spoken of during some discussion or prayer session. For Grandma McDuff, the reality that she knew was connected to the train on which she rode now for some hundred years. This life, this dream that she has found herself in would be her last outing before being called away back to the main operations of the ‘dreamworld’ project.

...

All of the children except for Amber Ann who was asleep on the quilt, wanted to understand and they wanted to know who their Grandma really was if she wasn’t who she was pretending to be. Was she flesh and blood? Was she one of the ‘Visitors’? And if she was one of the ‘Visitors’, why would she conceal who she was from everyone all of her life? Was she just another puppet in this experiment that she’d told the children about or the passengers on the train spoke of? Whatever she was, now was the time to find out.

“Grandma, please stop the story. I think I speak for all of us, but I want to go back to your house! I want to go back now!” exclaimed Sammy as all of the children released their hands and immediately the quilt appeared on the floor of Grandma’s living room in the exact same place where the story started.

Once the house became quiet, the children sit around the patchwork quilt looking as if they were frightened and scared and visibly shaken by what Sammy had admitted. They too wanted to know the truth. Some weren’t as old as the others and the truth would have to be explained to them. That wasn’t something that Sammy was looking forward to doing. If he was confused, he knew that the others were even more confused about the trip to the train and the truth about their Grandma.

“Now, children, there wasn’t anything to be afraid of while we were watching the people aboard the train. There are many reasons that the secrets told about the train have remained secret. The truth, as you call it, would cause many to disbelieve things that were taught to them all of their lives. It’s true that not everyone in this ‘dream world’ is one of us. It’s true that out there in the darkness, living in houses much like this one, are people who assume that what they do every day, the places they go, the shopping, the farm work that’s done is real. But the truth of the matter is that none of it is real,” admitted Grandma as she turned to look at each of the children’s faces that were flushed with anxiety.

There wasn’t any reason to tell all of the secrets to the children that sit before the oldest of the McDuff clan. Even if she told the children the rest of the story, there might be those who would pull away from the locking ring that held them to the quilt and allowed them to travel out of the house to visit the train people. Was it fair? Was the fact that the McDuff family and all of their blood relatives were part of this grand experiment that was being attempted for the sole purpose of entertaining the residents of another world. If it was for the orders to keep things as secret as possible, Grandma might’ve told the children about the story and the train long before now. It wasn’t allowed by those in charge. The orders were given and the participants had to follow the guidelines.

“But Grandma, why would you keep this from all of us for so long? I’m not sure I understand it, but why now?” asked Sam as he looked at the other children for their supporting nods.

This question and others floated in the air high and lifted up above the matriarch of the McDuff clan as she sit pondering the rationale as to why the story hadn’t been mentioned up until now. There had been many times that the books holding stories was pulled from the shelf, opened, and read to the children, but nothing like this one with the ‘Visitors’ and riders on the train.

Without much effort, Grandma McDuff stood up, walked over to the dining room table, retrieved a wooden chair, and pulled it close to the quilt. The children watched and wondered what she might be doing, but didn’t ask.

“Who among us can see the future? I dare say no one. No one knows the future! No one sees into the secret hearts of men and women and boys and girls. No one knows what's predicted, there are only assumptions, guesses, and assertions as to what is hidden deep in the souls of men and women. No one has a crystal ball, a secret potion to conjure up a misty representation of what lies ahead in the shadows of time. No, there's no clairvoyant, no precognitive discerner waiting in the wings, standing by to interpret the event's aftermath. There's only time, the great equalizer. Therefore, since all of us are blinded to almost all that lies ahead of us, we should look within ourselves to see what future we want to see. This is what this experiment is all about. The knowing, the seeing, the experiencing of things that can be stored away as memories. If you believe this or teach this or proclaim this like many of the people do in the coal camp regions and around the mines, then why are you so worried about this little trip that I’ve taken all of you on? Either you believe or you don't. Complaining doesn't change anything, never has. No matter the position one holds on any that the clan has taught, there will always be someone who opposes your view. That's life in the train as it speeds into the darkness that all of you saw,” Grandma revealed as she spoke to the children as her grandma had spoken to her and the other children so many years before.

“Now, children, let me tell you a little of my great grandma’s story that she told me and my cousins when we were your age. It’s not like the one I’ve shared with you, but it’s about her time when she was a child making memories like those people that all of you saw on the train. Her story began a long time ago in a country far from our native Scotland,” stated Grandma as she repositioned herself in her chair to begin the story that her great-grandma told her. The story was different but the purpose of the experience was the same. The purpose set forth by those in charge at that time in history. The purpose has never changed even though the time span and the eras in which the ‘Visitors’ came to visit.

Grandma, filled with memories of her childhood sitting at her great-grandma’s feet, knew that this part of the story would take the children on a whole new adventure. An adventure at sea with a young girl. Yet, as she thought about the experience she’d had with her cousins, she felt perhaps the story might cause greater confusion. Reluctantly, she raised her hand and apologized that she would have to hold the story for another weekend.

“My children, let’s hold this other story for another time and for another weekend so that I can give it all of my attention. You’ll love the story about Anastasia, but this evening I feel perhaps we’ve seen enough.

As she finished her comment, Grandma got up, pushed her chair under the dining table, and turned to see if the children were finished asking questions. It wouldn’t be the first time that each of them raised their hands to find out more. But tonight as the storm raged outside, there was a hush that fell over the small group of pale faces looking up at their grandma.

“But Grandma, please finish the tale. What happens to the train people? Where do they go? Do they get off of the train? Are we going to find out?” asked one of Sammy’s cousins as she looked at the other children for their affirmation.

There was no telling if the story would be finished or left to their own imaginations. There was no way of knowing what happened to the older couple who shared the car with Roger. There was no way of knowing if the story was real or just a figment of the children’s imagination as they sit listening to their grandma spin a yard, as they said in the coal camps. But, what was the truth about the train? Was it real or just something made up to amuse the children? Whatever it was or whatever it is, it held all the children spellbound with questions that needed to be answered.

“Now, let’s prepare for bed,” instructed Grandma as she walked around the quilt and tapped each of the children on their heads. As she tapped them, they seemed to tremble a little, hardly noticeable if one wasn’t looking. Was the tap to awaken them from the dream of the train or to conceal the experience within each child until their next visit to her coal camp house filled with mysteries yet undiscovered?

The evening’s storm played with the trees along the fence line as it tossed them back and forth like a woman would a dust cloth. From left to right and up and down, the wind pushed and pulled the evergreens just before the thunder clouds overhead unloaded their rain in torrents upon the fields and surrounding area. Severe thunderstorms were Grandma’s favorite. With rain came the possibility of crops and the promise of a good harvest.

“Sam, you get the water pail and go out to the well and fetch us a pail of water,” order Grandma as she turned to face a confused young man who looked as if he’d just woke up from a long sleep.

“Alright, Grandma. But you know it’s really raining and I’m going to get wet. I didn’t bring a change of clothes this weekend like I usually do,” added Sam as he looked down at his thin shirt and Levi pants.

“Baby, don’t worry, I don’t think you’ll get that wet. Now, just go fetch us a pail of water for the night like Grandma said.

Consenting to do whatever his grandma asked him to do, Sam took the pail’s handle in his left hand, walked over to the back screen door, pushed it open, and walked out onto the back porch. In the distance, the lightning jabbed at the darkness like a sword would an enemy. Streaks of lightning looked like spider webs across the captured skyline that sit upon the mountaintops on either side of the valley. Grandma’s house rested on one side of a lazy stream that snaked its way passed the few houses up in the holler where Grandma house was built. The stream, absent of fish but filled with crawdads and larvae of bugs, was clear where the water dumped into the stream off of the mountains. During the winter thaws, the water was the coldest and the stream was its clearest.

“Go on now, Sammy. There ain’t nothing out there that’s going to harm you boy!” called out Grandma as she walked to the screen door, held it open, and waited on Sammy to walk down the wooden steps, across the backyard to the well, and sit the water pail on the mortared rocks built on top of the well.

Sammy wasn’t so sure that there wasn’t anything out in the darkness. Even though the lightning put on a light show, it didn’t expose everything lurking under the bushes or hiding from the rain. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was the oldest of the grandchildren, Sam was sure the next time the house needed a pail of water, someone else could fetch it.

“Okay, Sammy boy, you can do this,” whispered Sam as he placed the empty pail on the rock wall that encircled the well, held it there until it was steady, then backed away to the metal pump that he’d need to pull up and down until the water started to flow. It wasn’t hard, but it took a few pumps for the well to give up its treasure.

Standing still after the first few pumps of the metal apparatus mounted on top of the well’s cover, Sam thought he caught a glimpse of the figure that was standing at the edge of the tree line during the last time he visited Grandma. He was sure, but when the lightning lit up the sky, it seemed that the figure eased its way slowly back into the trees to keep out of sight.

Further down the treeline and closer to the dirt road that led to Grandma’s house, he could clearly see that there weren’t any vehicles or contraptions that would’ve brought someone over to visit. Besides, Grandma already told them that no one would be coming over this evening. She’d told them that she mentioned to the parents that she wanted to tell some of her stories to the children and didn’t want to be bothered. Most times, everyone listened and stayed away when she mentioned that she’d be telling stories. The few residents in the holler where she lived knew that when she was in her story-seeing, story-telling mood, they weren’t to bother her. It was her time with her grand grandchildren that’s what mattered most to her. She needed to tell the stories just like her great grandma told hers to the children at that time. It kept the stories alive and explained a lot of things that the valley people didn’t want to talk about. For Grandma, it was a time of opening up and showing those around her who she was and who there were. That truth, that opening up, flew in the face of some of the holler people and their beliefs. It wasn’t acceptable in some parts for her to speak of her talents or her skills as a story-seeing, yet she kept sharing all she could with those she felt might understand outside of her family and its history of story-seeing.

“What’s that?” asked Sam as he turned his head just in time to catch a glimpse of what he thought was a person. If it was a person, it was nothing like the human. If it was a person at all.

Within a few minutes of activating the pump’s apparatus that pulled the water up from the depths below, Sam was ready to get back over to the house. He could see the lights on in every room, the children walking back and forth, but the person he didn’t see was his Grandma. Was she in the other rooms preparing the beds for the children? He couldn’t be sure, but that’s what he wanted to believe.

Reaching over and closing the top of the well box, Sam took hold of the handle of the pail and lifted it up, then let it drop down to his side. He wasn’t sure how much water was in the pail, but the pail was extremely heavy, much heavier than it was the last time he came to fetch water. Standing alongside the well and turning to look off down the dirt patch to the house, Sam was surprised to see his Grandma standing out in the front yard near the corner of the front porch.

What was she doing there? Did the neighbors happened to walk over during the storm to speak with her or ask her for a favor or something? Or, was she taken by surprise by the ‘visitor’ standing at the treeline watching her and her house filled with her grandchildren? He didn’t know but he intended on finding out as soon as he got back inside.

Heaving the pail of water up off of the place where Sam set down, he turned to make sure the well hatch door was latched. Satisfied that everything was in order, he walked down the dirt path to the back porch and opened the screen door to get into the house.

“Well, son, what took you so long?” asked his Grandma as she pretended he didn’t see her outside the house in the front yard.

“Oh, I’m okay, Grandma. I’m a little worried about you though,” he said with a concerned look and furrowed brow.

“Why lands mercy, child, why would you be worried about me? I’m an old woman. Who would want to hurt an old woman especially since I’ve been in these here parts for a long time? Me and my family members, the McDuff clan, came over here from the old country to start a new life. It was like it was a dream come true for all of my people. Yet, once we got here and tried to get all set up and get about our busy of making a life for ourselves, it just seemed that something wasn’t right. Maybe it was just me, a stranger in a strange world trying to make my way,” said Grandma as she leaned closer to her grandchild who was more than curious as to why she seemed so well versed on the happenings of the family and its members.

“All I know, Grandma, is that, well, I hate to even mention it, but there seemed to be a person standing near the edge of your yard again. Yes, over there near the big ole pine trees where you told us not to go because you felt we might get lost. Is that true? Would be get lost over there by the tree line?” asked Sam as he pointed out the window to the edge of the yard.

“All I’m saying, child, is that there are some things and some places that we need to stay away from for our own good,” she stated and looked out the window as well for what might have been a person or a shadow or a ghost standing peering into her house.

“Grandma, why is it that you’re the only one in the hollers who has stories to tell us kids. I’m sure there must be others here who know things or have seen things or have come from other places to settle here in the coal camps,” stated Sam as he looked more intently as his grandma for some answer that would make sense.

“Some things are better left unsaid, Sammy. Some things are better left alone so that there isn’t an undoing of what we see and what we have here before us. Not everything is what we’ve been told it is, Sammy boy. We see things before us over the years and we are expected to accept what we see to be fact, but there are things that remain unanswered, young man, like the transitioning of our people from this world that we think is real to another plane where life continues. But, that’s for another time and another story-seeing,” she answered as she dropped the curtain and let it fall to the floor.

Chapter Twenty-One

Colloquial Dogma

“I'm surrounded by only my memories of my two brothers who've been called away. No one can see my heart or feel my sorrow or understand this moment or know what I'm feeling except God and me. It's somewhat like my father's passing when I become numb, immersed in sorrow that time hasn't provided relief. There's no amount of tears that will wash this pain away, nothing will erase this stain that death has left behind, this scar upon my being, my soul. It's said that time cures, that time softens, that time prioritizes our sorrows so we can go on with life. At this moment as I stand here looking out over this tribute to life, this closure for some, I'm not so sure. I couldn't bear to see my father placed in the earth and I'm not so sure I can bear seeing my brothers placed there either. I'm convinced that my brothers have passed into their eternal existence where I too must go to join them, but my heart can't bear this at this time. I told my brothers that I loved them at every opportunity I had and like many brothers, we knew, even without saying the words, that our bonds were eternal. My brother's remains will appear to be lifeless, but their souls carry memories, it carries that bond, that understanding, that we were the best of brothers, the best of friends,” stated the man standing on the edge of the furrowed ground where human bodies were awaiting to be placed where they’d remain for all eternity. This wasn’t the first time nor would it be the last time for the holler people, those not related to the McDuffs nor of their lineage, to stand and watch the dirt turned and flowers laid upon the cold boxes that held remains of their loved ones.

It was a neighborly thing to do, to attend the passing of those individuals who lived throughout the valleys and up the hollers. For Grandma McDuff, it was a time to share with those who stood trembling and shaking and crying as if those emotional responses would change anything. No, the valleys were low for those who had to travel them. For Grandma McDuff, it took all she had within her to keep from sharing the truth about what was being witnessed by the groups gathered first at the churches, then at the cemeteries.

“And, for the family members gathered here, it’s a time of reaffirmation, a time of consolation, and a time of reappointment as to what we might do with the rest of our lives,” stated the man standing apart from the rest of those dressed in black.

As with any similar occasion, Grandma kept silent about the truth behind the words that were spoken to offer some comfort. She and she alone would’ve stepped forward and proclaimed a new truth, one that the other may not have been able to understand nor accept. But, all during her life in the dream world, she’d attended these types of gathering only to walk away saddened that she couldn’t tell those in attendance that this wasn’t real. She could’ve told them that it was only an illusion, an act or role being played out for the express purpose of understanding the experiences known to the creature known as humanity. The sights, the sounds, and the feelings were all for a reason. They were transferred to the imaginary person standing or sitting or speaking at the time by means of dimensional transfer to allow the ‘Visitor’ the opportunity to know what it was like to be human.

As the gathering slowly disbursed and everyone departed to their respective coal camp homes, the man who spoke for the family walked over to Grandma McDuff for the expressed purpose of asking her a more serious question. He was going to ask her a question that he’d stored away for a number of years. He knew the McDuff family, well, ever since they first settled in the hollers. He knew all of the children and grandchildren, wives, and well, all of the sandy red-haired members of the notable family. It wasn’t hard to distinguish a McDuff from the rest of the crowd if one took a notion to find them.

“Mrs. McDuff, if you have a moment,” said the leading member of the local church congregation.

“Sir,”

“If you have a moment, I’d like to get your opinion on something that I’ve given a lot of thought to over the years we’ve all lived here in the hollers,” stated the man as he began the conversation that would lead him down a road that perhaps he wouldn’t want to travel.

“Sir,” Grandma McDuff repeated.

With his coat swaying in the brisk evening wind, the man approached Grandma McDuff with the intention of trying to win her over so that she could become a part of the group down the road at the big white building. It wasn’t necessarily a church, but it looked like a church. The building was constructed many years ago during the initial onset of the mining industry in the area. It wasn’t meant to divide people or groups of people, but over time it had done just that. In an attempt to bring the people back together or at least keep all of them friends, the building also served as a food distribution place. During the hard times when things got lean, many families were out of work and depended on the things that were contributed by others to keep their dinner tables full. It was called commodities in the hollers, but basically, it was handouts, bottom line.

“Sir,” echoed Grandma McDuff as she slowed her pace to match the man who was stumbling over the words he needed to speak to get his point across. It was known that the man in the black coat was one not short for ranting and raving about people’s lives in the hollers. Some called him a gossiper while others trusted him with their lives. Whichever person the people envisioned him to be, he wasn’t any of those things to Grandma McDuff.

“Excuse me, Mrs. McDuff, but I wanted to express my appreciation for you attending out going away celebration for some of our people. It’s always very difficult for those left behind to understand that their departed are not really dead. They are resting,” stated the man with the black coat in such a manner that Mrs. McDuff knew the discussion would be a little more difficult than she’d expected it to be.

“Sir?” asked Mrs. McDuff as she turned to look back at the newly turned sod and the men working to shovel the dirt over the coffins after they had been lowered into the graves.

“I’m trying to explain how hard it is to talk about such things, I mean the passing of the members of our communities, with those who are still living,” added the man in the black coat and black flapping hat.

“Oh, I see,” replied Grandma McDuff as she turned around to look at the finished grave sites where the bodies of those who’d passed away were placed.

“Oh, I see,” she repeated.

“Have you and your family attended many of our gatherings? I mean other than today, here, at this sight?” asked the man with the black coat as he sheepishly looked away from Grandma McDuff who was not afraid to engage in the conversation he had initiated out of curiosity.

“Oh, excuse me, Madam, but I’m Mr. Boddy, the local interment minister. I’m called out for every passing of our local residents to help the family manage the emotions related to such events,” he admitted with a little more pride than Mrs. McDuff expected seeing that his own confession was one noted for humility and servanthood. That wasn’t exactly the case today.

“I’ve seen many of these observances over my time here. Some are more emotional than others, some aren’t emotional at all. But, I always find all of them, shall I say, unnecessarily burdensome for the families and relatives who attend. I mean, there’s the costs associated, physically, monetarily, and emotionally,” said Grandma McDuff as she turned once more and gestured with her hands to the fresh dirt being piled over the graves.

“Seems such a waste. Don’t you think?” she asked and waited for a reply that she knew would be cloaked in tradition and lacked any truth whatsoever about the destinations of those missing from the holler families this evening.

Listening to the comment and attempting to judge as to how he should answer the older woman, Mr. Boddy sighed a long sigh, brushed a fly from his cheek, and pondered what he should say. He knew that ole Mrs. McDuff wasn’t a fool. She and her family had occupied many of the holler houses for many years, but none of them had ever requested his services, not once. That in itself was a curiosity, a question without an answer. He knew that Mrs. McDuff was the oldest of the McDuff clan. He knew that she’d been in the area for many, many years, decades even, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember if she had a husband. He couldn’t remember ever meeting the older gentleman. He couldn’t remember if the man had died and was buried in the community graveyard. He didn’t know if he died in the mines or of some disease that would frequent the valleys from time to time. He didn’t know anything about the man if the truth be known. But, now wasn’t the time to inquire. Now was the time to start questioning the old woman who, according to neighbors, had some type of special power to tell stories that seemed to come alive.

“Sir, if there isn’t anything else you’d like to discuss, I need to be getting’ back to my own house. This coming weekend, as usual, I’ll have all of my grandchildren over to spend time with me. I’ve planned this meeting for a long time. I need to finish up a little story I started with them some time ago,” insisted Mrs. McDuff as she stood and looked at the man who was obviously nervous about something.

“Ah, yes, well, there was something else I wanted to bring up with you Mrs. McDuff. I know that you’re a very respected part of our local communities, even more, respected than many who’ve lived here for many, many years. It seems as though you’ve made a name for yourself with your special type of storytelling. Personally, I don’t really go in for that type of, well, that type of thing. Some call it all a waste of time. I can’t say that it’s a waste of time if the children enjoy the stories,” confessed the man in the black coat.

“So, Sir, what exactly do you want me to tell you? I’ve always found it best to just get to the point. I like getting to the point, don’t you?” asked Grandma McDuff as she turned back to look at the sheepish man who was digging a hole he wouldn’t be able to climb out of.

“And, as you’ve pointed out, my stories entertain the children. I’ve even been told that you’ve suggested I come down to y’all gatherings and entertain the children while y’all hold, what you call it, services? That would be something many people would like to see happen,” laughed Grandma McDuff in such a manner that the man with the black coat wasn’t exactly how to take it.

Having said as much to one of the mine workers only just the other day, he couldn’t deny it. He’d said that in hopes of getting more people to gather down at the building for services, as they called them. It was an off-the-cuff remark that he regretted as soon as it left his lips. He’d admitted something that he’d been thinking but never really wanted to say.

“Oh, yes, I did mention something along those lines to a few of the men who worked the mines. The only reason I brought it up was because they, all of them, spoke so highly of your special talents and your stories. They said, well they said, they were almost beyond belief,” said the man as he turned to look where he was stepping. The road wasn’t paved and the ruts were deep.

“Well, Sir, I appreciate your confidence in my abilities even though you know nothing about them in the slightest. I know that some of your attendees have not been, well, haven’t been as cordial as you, sir. Some have conjectured that my stories sway the thoughts of those who hear them. I can’t say that that is my intent because my grandchildren love them and don’t seem to be effect at all by the sway of my words,” submitted Mrs. McDuff for the man’s consideration.

The two walked slowly from across one rut in the road to the next before returning to the accusatory comments and speculations by some of the neighbors in the hollers.

Taking the conversation a little deeper, the man turned to make a comment that Mrs. McDuff had been expecting. “Some say that your stories hypnotize those who listen and make them believe that there are other worlds beyond this one. I find that somewhat strange and contrary to our beliefs,” admitted the man with the black coat in such a manner that it sounds as if he was accusing Mrs. McDuff of casting a spell on the listeners of which the man would have to object to if he were to continue in his place of authority in the community.

“Oh, pish posh! What on earth are you talking about?” questioned Grandma McDuff as she shot a shard of indignation toward the pompous man who was still digging a hole.

“Oh, I wasn’t accusing you of anything, Madam. I don’t have any evidence or facts nor have I heard any of your stories, it’s just a feeling I have that perhaps there’s something more here that I need to know about, that’s all,” he added and waited for a response.

For a few moments, Grandma McDuff considered touching him and allowing him to see what he so desperately needed to see. He needed to see beyond the hopelessness of the world in which he assumed he lived. He needed to see beyond the mountains and valleys of the coal mining camps and realize that the universe was far greater than anything he could ever imagine. But, as tempting as that may seem to her, she decided that it wasn’t his time. He was still living in the dream world, a shadow of the person on the other side who would, if given time, come to understand that colloquial dogma, no matter how many times it's repeated or reaffirmed, wasn’t always the truth.

“Sir, I feel that our time has run out for this, this exchange of ideas, questions unanswered, and assumptions unfounded. I must be going. I only came to pay my respects to the family simply because it is the tradition, the expected thing to do here in this world,” stated Grandma McDuff. At the mouth of the holler where the main road intersects the dirt road, the two went their own way. Turning in the direction of her house, Grandma McDuff turned to bid the man adieu and walked away.

Chapter Twenty-Two

A Tale Within A Tale

The week marched lazily from one day into the next making it feel as if the weekend would never come. School for the children brought more than just a meeting of the minds between the teachers and the students. It brought the advent of snow to the mountains and the joy of sleigh riding.

It was Sammy’s mother’s responsibility to find a way to entertain the children during the advent of white mornings and slushy evenings after the day’s warmer temperatures melted some of the ice off of the dirt road leading to the house.. At times, it was a difficult assignment, but Abigail found a way. During the day, school filled the hours with the push and pull of children as they made their way through the hallways of the small school. The teachers like Mrs. Santi, Mrs. Barta, and Mrs. French collectively kept an eye on the comings and goings on the first floor of the two-story school. After school, the children were bused to a drop-off point all along the snowy two-lane roads leading from school. As the school bus departed, a handful of coal miner's children slid down the embankments from the highway, and walked across the short, but snowy valley that lay between the main road and the railroad tracks. Waving goodbye to their studious friends, they began their climb up the hillside following covered with melting and muddy snow. The snow made it a hard climb, but the children persevered until they reached the snow-covered dirt road. After stowing books, they were summoned to accompany their mom out to the road for some fun. It wasn't quite dusk yet, but the approaching evening's wind gusts carried deeper chills than expected. As they stood there listening, they could hear the large wet snowflakes falling against the dry tree branches and smell the smoke as their mom stirred the small bonfire. Once the fire was blazing, the makeshift sleds were bought out, wiped off, and slid into their usual starting place near the bonfire.

At that starting point, it was a gradual slope down the mountainous road covered with snow. Many trips back and forth were uneventful but fun. It was the last slide down the road that created the memory that Sam and his siblings would carry with them to Grandma’s house where they would share the tale once again. The crash, the bruises, and the laughter. It seemed after many passes of the sled's runners over the snow, they wore a bare spot in the snow. In the dying dim evening's light, two of the children encountered the bare spot that immediately stopped the sled. It threw both of them off onto the road like throwing dice on a Black Jack table. There were a few sore spots and a couple of bruises, but nothing that wouldn't heal. It was a tale that Sammy would always keep deep within him. Perhaps one day he too could be a story-seer like his grandma.

He didn’t know but he thought it worthwhile to bring it up the next time he was visiting his grandma.

….

“At last,” Sammy whispered as he pushed open the door of his dad’s truck, stepped down on the running board, and then onto the dirt path that led to Grandma’s house. It was finally Friday and they would stay until Sunday night when their parents would come get them. It was storytelling night for the children.

“I hope Grandma doesn’t tell us that scary story again. I’m going to ask her to tell us another one that’s not as scary. I like her stories, but I’d like to hear the one about the Snowchester Manor. She’s mentioned it several times so tonight I’ll ask her to tell us that story,” stated Amber Ann as she clasped her fingers together and held her folded hands up under her chin.

Waving toward her son-in-law from the front porch as he drove off down the dirt road, Grandma McDuff prepared for the weekend as she’d always done. She’d cooked most of the day and the counters were full of cookies and pies and cakes for the children to enjoy. Besides, that’s what Grandmas are for, to keep the smiles coming. She’d met her match with all the grandchildren and she was expected to fill the counters every time they came to spend the weekend.

“Ah, Grandma, I see that you’ve made my favorite pie!” admitted one of the older girls as she slid her finger along the crust and then raised her finger to her lips to taste the butter and cinnamon.

“Come on now, Jessica, that’s no surprise, honey. Cinnamon apple has always been your favorite. Good thing for you that it’s easy to make,” laughed Grandma as she set a couple more pies on the counter for the children to see.

Dinner and dishes and dessert were over when the youngest of the grandchildren went over to Grandma and asked if she’d tell the story of the magical mountain before she continued with the other story. Amber Ann smiled a huge smile as Grandma shook her head that she’d do her best, but when the story was over, she’d gather everyone back on the quilt so she could finish the first story that was cut short the last visit.

“Okay, Grandma!” shouted Amber Ann as she ran and hugged the old woman as hard as she could.

“Now, now, child, give me some room and we’ll get the old book off of the shelf. Come one child come listen to the story Amber Ann wanted to hear. I’m sure some of you haven’t heard of it. It’s called the Mystical Mountain Mystery,” stated Grandma as she took her seat on the large worn-out sofa as all the children gathered around her and sit on the floor.

“Okay!” said Grandma.

“Okay,” echoed the children.

Holding the large book tightly on her lap, Grandma opened the cover, pressed it against her left leg, and drew in a big breath of air signaling that she was ready.

...

Snowchester Manor was a quaint village nestled near majestic snow-capped mountains at higher elevations in Eastern Europe. The mountains that surrounded the manor were once known as the Mystical Mountains. It was said that in these mountains there lived mystical creatures who possessed magical powers, but for Oliver Darkwood, a 17-year-old, had a tale, a story was far more than just an old wives’ tale.

Standing five foot seven inches tall and weighing 150 pounds, Oliver was almost grown. His dusty brown hair was what set him apart from all of the other people in the manor. He wore it long, mid-shoulder length, as most of the men who lived in the valley beneath the shadows of the peaks that reached into the heavens. It was said he was cursed by the spirits in the mountain, but Oliver knew what had happened when he was only a young child of nine years old.

His life was that of a peasant. He didn’t have the skills or inclination to become a knight, besides, where he lived in the manor, his time was spent farming and tilling the land for the master. Yet, for Oliver, he remembered a time when things weren’t as boring, weren’t as uneventful as they were now. He stood in the pasture land, a field located near the base of the mountains, holding a dirt pick that he’d used to turn the soil getting it ready for planting, and remembered an old friend he’d come to know who shared his secret with him. But, that was when he was a young boy and no one believes little children when they tell their stories of mystical creatures, let alone a dragon named Narinder.

It was on a day when the snow was melting and small rivers of water cascading over the rocky mountain face that Oliver found himself climbing to one of the caves that dotted the mountainside. He’d been told not to go near the caves. He’d been told that if he ventured into the caves, he would never return. He’d been told that people in the manor had seen what they called “Ice fire” coming out of one of the caves. Oliver wanted to find out for himself. And with courage in one hand and anticipation in the other, he climbed the last few feet to the opening of the cave and peeked in.

The cave, much like any other cave, looked scary, dark, and uninviting. It had ice hanging from the ceiling and puddles of water on the dirt floor. The ice had melted off of the floor leaving sticky mud in some places. But for the most part, the floor of the cave was solid rock. The rock, dried by the mountain winds provided a walkway into the cave. Oliver needed to find out what was in the cave. He needed to find out if the tales were true about the mystical creature that lived in the mountains overlooking the manor.

As Oliver stood waiting to build up enough courage to enter the cave, he couldn’t help but remember what one of the older boys from the manor told him concerning the cave and its magical inhabitant. “I can do this,” he said to himself as he took a deep breath.

Elijah Nicholes, now twenty-four years old, with short fluffy sandy ginger-colored hair with black eyes standing about six foot two inches tall wasn’t someone who’d just spin a yarn or tell a tale for no reason. To hear Elijah tell it, the cave held a terrible secret, a secret about a creature that would kill you just by breathing ice at you. To hear Elijah tell it, no one had ever lived to share their story about a creature known as “Narinder”. That was some years ago when Elijah himself believed in the mystical mountains and its magic. Since becoming of “age” as it was said, Elijah said he no longer believed the tales of his childhood, and neither should anyone else. The life of a peasant didn’t have time for imaginary creatures that breathed ice for fire. But, rather than accept Elijah’s ideas of what was real or unreal, Oliver entered the cave and disappeared into the darkness.

Elijah wasn’t just some other farm hand. He was soon to be one of the leaders of the vassals in the area. His word was soon to become law. In the position of a “leader”, he would be given responsibilities much like that of an older adult. And, unfortunately for Oliver, he and his family would fall under the rule of Elijah, a man with black eyes and a mean spirit. It was said that Elijah had little patience for storytelling and would soon outlaw campfire gatherings where tales were told, and stories were spun whether true or not. He’d been heard saying, “We’ll have none of that when I’m in charge.”

Elijah believed that such spinning of tales or yarns, as he called them, was a waste of time. He said the stories were little more than lies to scare children and keep them up at night. He said he needed every person able to get up early and go out to work every morning. He didn’t want anyone sleepy at the plow when it came planting time. The Lord of the Manor, the master of them all, demanded that his vassals in charge do their jobs. Elijah would be required to do the same as his father and his father’s father had done before him.

Hours later, after visiting the cave, Oliver found himself unconscious laying face down on the grass at the bottom of the trail that leads to the cave high in the mountains. Waking up, he asked himself, “How’d I get here?”

He remembered climbing to the cave, he remembered walking into the darkness on the cold rocks, and looking at the ice hanging from the ceiling, but he didn’t remember exactly what he’d found or how he got back down. But, like some dreams, Oliver would be reminded of what happened and what he saw when the campfire gathering took place later in the evening after all the work was finished. The untold story haunted him all day long until the evening hours and time for the gathering was about to take place.

Listening to the others, Oliver didn’t believe the stories the old women told sitting at the campfire later in the evening after all the work was done, dinner over, and metal plates put away. He didn’t believe them mainly because they didn’t have any proof. But unlike them, he had proof of what he saw. Unlike the others, he had proof that would stay with him for the rest of his life.

The family, his parents, and grandparents, a couple of siblings, one brother and one sister, all sit down to tell their tales about what had happened during the day. It was during this campfire meeting that Oliver first began to remember what happened to him early in the day. It wasn’t his turn to talk about his day. As he sit waiting like others, the memories of the day’s events came flooding into his mind. He remembered walking through the farmland to the base of the mountain. He remembered climbing to the ledge and looking into the mouth of the cave. He remembered how scared he was as he took one step after another into the mouth of the cave and then disappeared into the darkness. Those things he remembered. Those events were really clear. But, unfortunately, what happened after he entered the cave was a bit sketchy.

Each of the women told their tales and passed the imaginary storyteller baton on the next one and so forth until all of the women had had a turn. Then it was the men’s turn to share their day’s events. One man spoke of how he plowed many rows for planting. One man spoke of how he’d made small canals for the water to irrigate the plants. Still another spoke of the awkwardness of the mule as he tried to plow the scared soil before planting the seeds. Then, after all the stories were told by everyone older than Oliver, it was his turn to tell the tale of his adventures of the day.

“Okay, Oliver, tell us how your day had been!” called out one of the boys from his manor’s pig farm. “Tell us all about your mystical fantasies and your made-up tales of dragons. You know, like you did the last time!” jeered the younger boy as he elbowed his friend who was sitting beside of him warming himself at the fire.

“Why do you always think that I’m telling some lie, Abraham? I know what I saw today was no imaginary creature, nothing that I dreamed up while I was sleeping,” Oliver commented.

“Okay, well then, tell us your tale and we’ll be the judge as to whether it is the truth or not,” said Abe as he nudged his friend again almost knocking him off of the large boulder he was sitting on.

“Yeah, tell us all about it Oliver,” sneered one of the younger girls as she too laughed and laughed.

Oliver didn’t pay too much attention to the childishness of the children. He was once a child himself, but he’d grown beyond those years and what he had to say was the truth. It was a man’s truth. That’s what his father taught him over the years. He’d taught me that when a man spoke, he should speak the truth. As he sit warming his hands by the campfire, the others watched him as he prepared himself to tell his story, perhaps his last story because the new “lord” of the manor was going to ban any further storytelling as soon as he was anointed by the “Master of the Manor”.

Taking a deep breath, Oliver began to tell his tale of the cave, the ice and snow, and the creature he found living within the dark recesses of the mystical mountains. He knew it would all come down him having proof, and that was what all of the others lacked when proclaiming their victories, their journey’s fortune. “Excuse me, but I’ve been very patient, very attentive, and very respectful to each of the storytellers. Now, if you would kindly show me the same respect I would appreciate it,” stated Oliver as he stood up from the rock on which he was sitting and rubbed his hands together over the flames that were tossed from side to side in the evening breeze.

“It was earlier today that I climbed to the top of the first plateau on the snow-capped mountains that all of us have played during our childhood. It’s on this plateau that I found an opening, a cave into which I was drawn to explore. Being grown now, I wasn’t afraid as I was when I was a child and I walked straight forward into the cave without fear. I walked along a dry rocky path until I came upon a wall of ice that was melting. The ice was melted enough for me to squeeze through into another chamber where I discovered a gigantic creature, a deadly dragon who called himself Narinder. I wasn’t afraid, but I was curious. I asked Narinder why he stayed in the cave and didn’t venture out to see the manor or its people. He told me that if he did venture out it would be a danger to the people who looked upon him. He turned to me and stared at me with a usual mystical gaze. I felt as though something was happening but I didn’t know what. I wasn’t older or younger nor was my hair a different color. After the dragon showed me his skill of breathing ice to seal the hole back up where I’d come through earlier, he waved his magical clawed hand across my face. Then he told me to look into the crystal pool and see the gift I’d received. Like him, I too had a blue eye and a green eye just like him. He touched my forehead and I fell asleep. While asleep, he carried me to the grassy pasture land and left me to wake up.” said Oliver as he started to brush his hair out of his face to show the people his gift.

“Show us, show us if you really have been blessed with this great gift,” shouted the older women who clamored and yelled in disbelief.

Oliver walked over to the center of the gathering, pulled his hair out of his face and sure enough, he’d been blessed with one blue eye and one green just like he said. “Me and Marinder are now brothers. If I need him, he will come.

… The story lasted long enough for Amber Ann to curl up on the patchwork quilt and fall asleep. She’d be out for the remainder of the evening. She loved the story and always loved the part where the two stated they were brothers and each was there for each other.

“Okay, now, children, now that the story has put our child asleep, I want to continue with the story I was telling all of you the last time you all came over. It’s very important that I finish the story tonight. I have a feeling that some of the folks around the hollers might not like me repeating my stories. Therefore, I’m going to finish it for all of your tonight,” said Grandma as she looked at each of her grandchildren as if she wouldn’t have them very long or they wouldn’t be allowed to come see her.

“Amber Ann will always like that story because it speaks to her as the others speak to all of us.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Minds Without Faces

Once more in the late evening hours, Grandma McDuff huddles her grandchildren together for the last of the story-seeing that she’ll be able to provide. There’s been word in the neighborhood that old Mrs. McDuff has been polluting the minds of the children, specifically her grandchildren. There had been talk, whispers, rumors, and gossip at the local school that the grandchildren had listened to stories that took them places away from the house. The tales were of such a nature that the teachers who heard the comments thought it would be best to talk to some professionals about what old Mrs. McDuff was doing over there at her house in the holler. It wasn’t anyone’s business what was going on over at the McDuff house, but as holler people do, some people liked to stick their noses into other people’s business. It was this type of gossip that had Grandma up in arms to the point that she felt it better to tell the story, all of it before some lame officer or official comes over and confronted her about it in front of the children. It’s best to get it over with and then perhaps things would get back to what the people thought was normal for them.

“Okay, children, let’s gather ‘round here on the quilt and joint hands like we did before. I’m very happy that I can share this with all of you for this last time. My life here among you has been very much an opportunity that only a few have been given. Now, this evening, I’ll show you what the story is all about and bring your concerns to an end,” said Grandma as she watched the children all gather around, join hands, and stare up at her like they’d done many times before.

“Grandma, is this the last story you’re going to tell us?” asked one of the older girls as she almost broke down in tears.

She loved her grandma’s stories, all of them even if she didn’t really understand most of them. So sure that the stories were true and the emotion so real, the mere thought of the children not being able to hear any more of their grandma’s stories was almost unacceptable. If there were to be other stories recited or read from imaginary books, all of them would have to come again to this place where the train brings them. It was only through the visitations of the train to this imaginary world that the children and their families could experience emotions like fear, joy, and the excitement of newly fallen snow.

“Let’s begin. Now, hold on as we did before,” instructed the old woman as she started the tale where she’d left off a few weeks ago.

….

Looking from one end of the train to the other, through the windows that divided the compartments, the Conductor was ready to tell the “visitor” where he was and who he was. The Conductor was ready to tell him something that might not want to hear. But the truth is the truth no matter who is telling it.

“Roger! Yes, I know your name, sir. This is the first time you’ve awakened here aboard my train called reality, a conveyance between this experience and our world far from here. This world, these experiences are unique to the creatures who live in the imaginary world created by us for us. What you see before you are all the characters used by our storytellers in what you have called “life”. You and all of the others here represent characters in people’s stories that are carried on from time and eternity just for us. They’re told over and over again to keep us alive by gleaning the heights and depths of the experiences created while each of my passengers sleeps. Once the story has been told, the pages finished upon which you’ve played your part, you arrive here to awaken to this reality that is the true one.

Those who you see who are still asleep, their stories aren’t finished, and their storytellers haven’t finished reciting their stories to those who need to hear them. But, in time, they will awaken as well. Your past would’ve allowed you to become another character in another story with which you can become acquainted, but alas, your tale has been told. There aren’t any more stories for you to play a part in. That’s what this fine couple wanted to tell you, but, as they mentioned, it wasn’t their story to tell. The passengers who disappear, those with passes, still have a part to play in a story being told by some mother or grandmother or friend in that world beyond the windows, outside the doors of this train which is our vessel, our transport from this place to our home world. If one has no pass in their possession when they awaken here, the characters no longer have a part in the story or the story has been told for the last time. It’s quite simple if you think about it. Don’t you think?” asked the Conductor as they turned away from a character who had no pass and made his way through the crowd looking for those who did.

…

The evening’s sun lay heavily upon the mountain tops and held on for dear life hoping to keep the valley as its own for another hour, perhaps two. But, as it fought to keep possession of the world it knew, the darkness set forth to push it beyond the ridges and take possession of what was rightfully its domain. The evening’s shards of light-like fingers appeared to be embedded within the trees that lined the tops of the mountains. Yet, no matter the fight, the struggle, and the might of each warrior, evening’s light failed in its attempt to reign supreme over the inhabitants of the hollers. It died and the fingers of light released the mountains giving way to the darkness. It was a cycle, like life, from one day to the next, from one evening to the next, from the first story to the last that would be told.

“But Grandma, was the man really a person?” asked one of the more attentive children who sit closer to the storyteller than the others. “Was the man a ghost?” she asked as she put her hands up to her face in anticipation that the answer she was going to hear wasn’t what she wanted to know. So many of the answers were things that many before the grandchildren had wanted to know.

“Yeah, Grandma, was the man real?” asked another of the kids who sit with me on the porch as the light collapsed and darkness filled the void after the end of the story climaxed and sleepy eyes drooped forward into tired hands.

“My dear children, my Grandma, your great-Grandma was sure that the people in the story were real. To her and her children, to the whole McDuff clan, the people were as real as each of you are here now sitting with me. It was a story, like many others, that tried to explain the ‘Visitors’ in a way that wasn’t frightening and keep your children up at night. It’s called a generational story that has been in my family for many, many years. The tale, the people, the train, the experiences are what’s called an imaginary journey into a world that doesn’t exist. This world that we see around us is a vapor like a cloud just before the rainstorm begins. Have you ever noticed that there is a certain cloudiness or fogginess that conceals the truth from us? We can’t see through the vapor without the pass I spoke of during the story. The story, the tale, was created because the village people, those people like all of us today, had no idea who the ‘visitors’ were, they just knew that in time, there would come a knock on someone’s door that would start a series of events to happen that all of us will have no control over but would become a part of in the hours between real and imagined. We haven’t seen or heard or been visited to the point that we will no longer experience this dream world, but unfortunately, in time, we will be. Sadly, I’m aware of a few of the “Visitors’ who stand off in the distance down by the edge of the forest. They are waiting for the signal from the Conductor that all is ready. They’re waiting on the signal that the ship is preparing to leave,” answered Grandma as she leaned over and picked up the edge of her apron, wiped her forehead, and let it drop back down onto her lap.

Out at the end of the dirt road, there was a figure shimmering in the moon light. Grandma so it, but she didn’t alert the children to keep from scaring them. That was one thing that was so frail about the dream world characters, they became fearful if things remained without an explanation.

“But how do we know that it will ever happen?” asked one of my cousins as he stood up and waited for an answer that he could live with. He too knew, he felt, that something was about to happen. He didn’t know what, but he knew. He watched Grandma’s hands and her face as it contorted its features ever so slightly in the moonlight.

The story was, just that, a story filled with characters from start to finish, but in the hollers up and down the valley, the whispers were real or so all of the “Visitors’ thought. There had been something or someone who was either playing a trick on the people who lived there or it was something else, entirely different without an explanation that walked the dark dirt roads and peered through the windows left open to allow the evening wind to pass through.

“Now, now, children, let’s not go off and think there’s anything out there that will hurt you. You know that I’m here to protect you. I won’t allow anything to harm you. You and all of our clans are special. We’ve been given a great gift and opportunity that few have ever known. I’ve been living here in this holler for a long time, way longer than your mommy and daddy have. The story, like the one I shared with you just now, was thought up by someone a long time ago. Those who thought up the story were a special type of person. They had the ability to bend time and space to allow us to come here on a ship that became the train that I told you about and showed you. There was one car attached to the train that I wasn’t allowed to show you for fear that some of you might become fearful or just not understand. But we’re not going to let it keep up awake, now are we?” asked Grandma as she leaned over to her left, picked up her empty baskets, stacked them into each other, and slid them closer to the doorway.

At the end of the road, the figures watched and waited. They knew that the time had come. They knew that no matter how much all of them wanted to stay, to live, to imagine all that the human mind could imagine, they wouldn’t be allowed to continue.

“But, Grandma!” said one of the younger girls, Samuel's sister, Amber Ann who sit near the corner of the porch in the cool of the evening. She’d fallen asleep after the story of mystical mountain but awakened as soon as the other story was finished.

“My mommy told me that you know a whole lot more than most people about the ‘visitors’ and why people are so afraid of them. Maybe they ain’t real at all but just some made-up story to tell all of us children, you know, to scare us. I’m not so sure I believe any of that hogwash. Ie and my brother Samuel have stayed up at night at times just to see if there was anything that would happen. We ain’t heard nothing,” she admitted and looked at the other children as if she were an expert on the subject.

“Well, that’s very brave of you and your brother. I mean, there aren’t too many children of your age here in these parts that would stay up on purpose to wait for something to come knocking at their door,” stated Grandma as she stood up, dusted her apron off, and pulled her chair back to the back of the porch.

For a few moments, all of them sit silently as they watched the moon escape the hold of the clouds that passed in front of it. The moon, one of the controlling lights of the night, showed brightly and illuminated the treeline not far from the well where Sammy went to fetch water earlier in the evenings. He wasn’t sure if the figures he saw were real or imagined, but he felt a rush of fear flush over him every time he thought about it.

“Grandma, what exactly is the train in the story?” asked another of Sammy’s cousins as they turned to look at Grandma in hopes that she could tell them so they would know before they all turned to go to bed.

There was a long exhale and a just as long inhale before Grandma finally decided to tell the children the truth about the train. The train and its Conductor was one of the most difficult parts of the story to explain. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to tell them, it was that she knew once she did tell them, there would be more questions than she’d be able to answer.

“Well, first let me try to understand how I should answer your questions about the Conductor and the train. It’s peculiar how time flies. We’re told to savor the moments and keep close to the conversations that inspire you. We’re told by those that we belong to collect the memories around us and file them away in our hearts so that, in time, we can relive them over and over again when those around you have disappeared. If you’ve noticed while I told the story, there were people appearing and disappearing all the time. Did you notice that? Well, we’re told to turn aside from injustice, surrender to compassion, praise that which is good, and reject that which is negative in our lives, but the question is, what is life?

We’re to see beyond the here and now into a new world of tomorrow where your dreams become facts and you too can experience what is known as human expressions and feelings. It is here aboard the train that your desires are fulfilled as you sleep deeply in the mystical world of the “REMS”.

“But, Grandma, what is the REMS?” asked several of the children.

“MY children, the REMS, Rapid Eye Movement Species are those that we call humans. They leave just beyond the REM experience that you saw some of the passengers doing who were asleep. The REMs are a special type of being. And, here is where I need to tell you who you are. You and me and all of the McDuffs are REM creatures. It is we who have built this world that we see around us for our use, for our entertainment.

There was a long silence between the revelation and the acceptance, but it only take a child’s mind to understand and envision a world created from mere thought or dreams or visions of imagination. Grandma didn’t say much but only watched and listened as each child took her at her word and settled back down to hear the last of what she might have to say.

“Leave that part of this life that holds you back, escape from the mundane. Remember that life is priceless, but imagination and the dream world offer all of us so much more. Look around you! See what we have made for all of us. Never take this moment for granted. Don't surrender to defeat because your dream might just be around the next corner, between the pages of the book you're living, or in the conversation over with me, your grandma. You must keep our secret within us until we arrive back to our homes.

The story was told, and the truth was explained, but the children were neither scared or disbelieving in what they all had experienced. It was a time to surrender to the reality of who they were, where they had come from, and where they would return once the Conductor gave the world.

“Children, for many years I’ve had the opportunity to watch my children grow and to see my grandchildren become some much a part of my life. But, as you might guess, this time, the experiment, this sharing of thoughts and dreams will come to an end,” confessed Grandma as she walked down the wooden steps and out into the moonlight. She wasn’t exactly the same as she’d looked like on the porch. She glowed brightly and pulsed as if she were taking in light herself. It wasn’t light, but it was the imaginary life that she’d lived for over six decades. Now it was time to go. It was time for all of them to go who didn’t have a pass.

Standing on the porch looking out into the backyard, Sammy felt as if there was going to be a “Visitor” coming to get him. He didn’t know why he felt that way, but he just did. The evening bugs and the frogs were filling the air with sounds and noises that made him feel alive. But, according to Grandma, none of what he was hearing or seeing was real. It was all a dream.

“Now, children, let’s all get in the house and get ready for bed. The beds have been turned down for each of you. Tomorrow may be the biggest day of all of your lives. We never know what’s going to happen! We all need our rest,” added Grandma as she turned to walk back into the house with the children that she’d always wanted to have as grandchildren.

The program had worked better than it was said it would. The world, the kids, the miners, the feelings, all of it was so real that even Grandma, even though fully aware that she and the others were they only for a short time, she felt like she belonged and didn’t want to leave. Luckily for her and for the children, she’d taken precautions to prevent anyone from losing their pass to take back onto the train.

Out in the yard, dark figures moved closer to the house to fulfill their jobs of removing the participants from the dream world if discovered to not have their passes. It was the way the system worked. If the “Visitors” found a participant without their passes or their passes couldn’t be presented if asked, they would awaken on the train never to revisit the world they left behind.

Moving through the wet grass, the “Visitors” jumped up on the porch and pushed their way into the kitchen. Grandma heard them coming and rushed to keep all the children safe by tucking them in and locking their bedroom doors. She wanted to stay longer in this world where she had children and grandchildren that she loved. It was a strange sensation, a strange arrangement for the “Visitors” without faces. Here in this world of illusions, they could become anyone they wanted to be simply by finding the face that best suited them. For Grandma McDuff and her clan, their faces were uniquely theirs.

Making their way into the largest of the bedrooms in the house, the “Visitors” without faces confronted Grandma and demanded to see her pass. They weren’t going to leave without seeing the passing of all of the dreamers in the house.

“Stop where you are!” shouted Grandma as she stood her ground in her bedroom’s doorway.

“You can’t remove us. We’re not finished here!” she shouted and ran to the dresser sitting in her bedroom. She pulled open the top drawer, fumbled around under the imaginary clothes that she’d folded and placed there the day before.

“Here! Here!” she shouted as she ran to the doorway with all the passes for everyone in her house. She had one for all of the children and herself.

“You may stay!” shouted the Minds without faces as they were bound to honor the code of the “Visitors” from another world.