On the eleventh day of Christmas…
Here we are. It’s Christmas Eve. So far we’ve had stories and bossy lectures, some video talks, which is a new skill set for me, and even some Christmas carols done quickly, but with appropriate seasonal enthusiasm, from ten of our readers. Did any of you recognize, among the ten singers singing, Mike, one of the hosts of Fabletown and Beyond, singing Oh Holy Night?
Out of so many wonderful and spirited entries, it was awful tough picking out the one to get a sketch of her favorite Fables character. All were terrific. The hand puppets and the child singing? All done on the fly, with no time to prepare? What a fun undertaking it was. Ultimately we chose the winner because it was sweet and earnest and it charmed the both of us.
With but two Blogs of Christmas yet to go, this and the one on Christmas Day, we’re nearly done – for this year. Today we have another story set in the fictional worlds connected by The Night Train. In one venue and another, you’ll see many more of these in the future. Here is the second of two Night Train stories that have something to do with Christmas. Tomorrow we have a Christmas gift for all of you, but particularly for any writers among my readers.
Night Train to The End
Just after 3 AM on Christmas Day, the Night Train picked up Billy Selmer outside of Cabool, Missouri, and then continued on its way, riding the dark and the mists into other realms.
Billy was excited to board, never believing the Night Train could be real, until he was on it. He was one of those ever-youthful types, who’d look young into a ripe age. He could have been 14, or 17, or even older. He showed his ticket to Miss Selkirk, one of the porters.
“An all-expense paid one-way ticket to anywhere,” she said. “Quite a treasure.”
“It was a gift,” Billy said. “A Christmas present.”
“Where would you like to go?” Selkirk said.
“I don’t know. Where can I go?”
“You’re allowed to ride all the way to the end of the line, and get off at any stop along the way. Wherever suits your fancy.”
“Can you tell me about the stops?”
“They vary on each run,” she said. “But I can fetch you an itinerary from Mr. Caruthers. Take any open seat in any car, even a sleeper compartment, if you like. I’ll find you.”
For the first hour Billy sat near the window in the first class car, watching the dim stars through the mist. Unlike at home, the stars could actually be seen to go by. By pressing his head against the windowpane, he tried to get an angle that would allow him to see the tracks below the train, but they were hidden to him by the car’s edge. He wanted to stick his head out of the window for a better angle, but they wouldn’t open.
When he got hungry he found the dining car, but the menu seemed to fancy for his tastes. The waiter there directed him to the less formal club car, where hamburgers, hot dogs and other more accustomed fare could be found.
The counter man said, “No charge for whatever you want to order, Mr. Selmer.” He ordered a tuna melt and a Coke, finishing it off with three ice cream sundaes, once he came to trust there really would be no charge, no matter how much he ate.
Miss Selkirk found him between sundaes two and three. She handed him a sheet of foolscap with writing on it, in a precise and orderly hand.
“All the stops left to make on this run,” she said.
Billy examined the page intently. Only one or two of the place names seemed even remotely familiar.
“You’re lucky to have joined us on what we call our paradise run,” Selkirk said, “since most of our stops on the tail end of this tour are in nice places – paradisaical, one might say. With a couple of exceptions, any of the stops remaining will be an excellent place to visit.”
She joined him in his booth.
“I’ll be happy to provide descriptions, histories and even make recommendations.”
Billy asked lots of questions, throughout the entirety of the final serving of ice cream, and beyond.
“How is it we can see the stars move?”
“We pick up speed between worlds. All straight tracks and no air resistance makes for fast travel.”
“Tell me about this first stop,” he said.
“One of the few lands I’d advise skipping,” she said. “They were in the middle of a war the last time we came through and that’s not likely to have changed since.”
The Night Train stopped at Gold Street Station, sometime after midnight.
A porter Billy hadn’t met yet walked through the car he was in, announcing, “Everyone off for all Lankhmar destinations.” A big man with a red beard got up from mid-car and pulled a large bundle from the overhead luggage racks. He was joined on the platform between cars by a smaller man dressed in gray. Billy watched them step down from the train and disappear into the mist that engulfed them. He couldn’t see much of the city beyond the fog, but got a sense of very old buildings, like the kind in Europe that were left over from medieval days. He smelled wood smoke and heard dogs growling and barking somewhere nearby.
He decided not to get off at Gold Street Station. He slept in a luxurious bed, in his very own compartment and was woken just in time for the next stop.
“Pwyll Station, in Annwn is one of the good ones I told you about,” Miss Selkirk told him.”
“I smell the sea,” Billy said.
“We’re close to it.”
“And that sound, like music?”
“It’s the season of the crystal migrations. It’s a bright moon here tonight. Once you get beyond the mist, you might be able to spot them, hovering out over the water.”
“I’m tempted to get off here, but I don’t know what the other stops are like yet.”
“Your ticket’s only good for one way though,” she said. “Once we leave here – once we leave any of the stops ahead of us – your decision is made for you.”
“Seems a shame to waste a Christmas present like this on just the second place we come to though,” he said.
“How did you come by the ticket, Mr. Selmer?”
“That’s the best thing of all,” Billy said. “I’d never met the guy before, until I saw him walking through the park, near the All Wars Memorial, but he knew me and said he was an old friend of the family. He said he had a special Christmas present, just for me, and told me all about the Night Train, and how it would stop that very night in our town. I didn’t believe him, of course, until you pulled up on the old freight line tracks that aren’t even used anymore.”
“Did this mysterious benefactor have a name?” she said.
“I don’t remember his first name, if he ever even said it, but he called himself Mr. Plantigrade.”
With that, Miss Selkirk became quiet and presently excused herself.
The Night Train made two more stops before Billy felt tired again. Both times it was just after midnight where they arrived. The first was in Narda Falls, in a world called Cockaigne, which Miss Selkirk described as The Land of Paradise and Plenty. The second, hours later, was at Bardo Street Station in a place called Summerland. In both cases Billy was tempted to get off, but his curiosity about the next stop, and possibly the one after that, kept him aboard.
After Summerland had come and gone, Miss Selkirk insisted on having a private talk with Mr. Caruthers, the Conductor, which made him, in the absence of the owner, who seldom rode the line, and never set foot out of his private car when he did, the master of the train.
“It’s one of Mr. Plantigrade’s games,” she said.
“Not our business,” Caruthers said.
They were in Mr. Caruther’s private office/suite, in the first car behind the engine. On one wall he had pictures of a polo match, in which a younger version of him could clearly be seen mounted on one of the ponies. On the other wall there were dragons.
“At least we could cut off Billy Selmer’s food and sleeping compartments,” she said. “Thereby encouraging him to get off by his own accord.”
“No, Miss Selkirk, that we cannot do. His ticket is authentic, paid in full, and includes all meals, accommodations, and amenities. We can’t get into the business of denying goods and services fairly purchased.”
“But if he doesn’t get off before the end?”
“You’re allowed to be as enthusiastic about each location as you’ve a mind to, Miss Selkirk, as long as you meet his every request, as with any premium customer.”
Billy stayed on the Night Train through Hyperboria, Saduenay and Westernesse. Since the Lemuria stop happened during his third dinner aboard, and since he was much too polite to dash away mid-meal. When they pulled into James Churchward Station, in the land of Mu, Billy happened to be in the middle of an intense conversation with one of the Priest Kings of Mu and therefore willing to follow him off the train, if for no other reason than to try out the wings one could rent, along with something called a Redistribution Suit, that allowed a man to fly under his own power. But at the last moment Billy jumped back on the departing train, shouting his apology to the stout Priest King. Avalon was the next stop and he dimly recalled Miss Selkirk’s mention that the magical island was King Arthur’s final resting place.
But Avalon came and went too. Billy stayed with the train.
“I can’t help it,” he explained, as Miss Selkirk urged him to stay in Avalon. “We’re going to places that can’t exist. I need to see all of them.”
“All you’ve really seen so far is mist and train tracks. You need to step into a world to actually experience any of it.”
“Sure, but there’s plenty of time.”
“No, there isn’t, Mr. Selmer.”
“Why not? Where do we go next? And why do you look like that? Did I upset you?” The last thing Billy wanted to do was anything that might upset Miss Selkirk, who was the prettiest woman who’d ever seemed happy to speak to him for such an extended time.
“The next stop is the last stop,” she said. “End of the line. You only had a one-way ticket, so you’ll have to get off there.”
“Okay then. Can I buy a return ticket there?”
“Of course, but they’re very expensive.” She provided a few examples of the kinds of things they accepted as currency at one of their ticket offices. Billy didn’t understand most of it, except when “pounds of gold” were mentioned.
“What about jobs?” he asked.
Mr. Caruthers surprised Billy by speaking from behind him. Billy hadn’t heard the man enter the car. Mr. Caruthers was an older man, and dark. Dark of skin and dark of expression.
“You’ll be put to work in the town, but pay of any kind might not be part of the transaction,” Caruthers said. “End of the Line isn’t a pleasant place for vagabonds and new arrivals. It’s a place of hammer, fire and steel, where the Night Train, and machines like it, are built and maintained.”
“You never told me…” Billy started to say, more to Miss Selkirk than Mr. Caruthers.
“She told you what she could,” Caruthers said, “in keeping with the company policies and the owner’s wishes. I’m afraid you were a victim of an ongoing wager between our owner and the gentleman calling himself Plantigrade, from whom you obtained your ticket. He has many names, depending on the time and place. No doubt you’d recognize a few of them. We know him most often as The Wandering Man. He loves nothing better than a good wager. You were the thirty-seventh person in a row to receive that particular Christmas gift. And the thirty-seventh to insist on riding all the way to the End of the Line. The bet ends when the first recipient departs the Night Train anywhere but our last stop.”
Billy heard the incessant pounding and grinding of terrible machines, and smelled sulfur and ash, as they neared the final station.
