by P. G. Bell
“We’ll get there as quickly as possible,” said Stonker. “I’m just waiting for … Aha! Here we are.”
A second figure had emerged from the driver’s cab and was hurrying along the gangway; Suzy could tell immediately that it was not like the others—it was bigger than she was, loping along on all fours in a powerful run. It wore faded blue overalls but was otherwise covered from top to bottom in vivid yellow fur. Only when it came to a halt beside Stonker and reared up onto its hind legs did Suzy realize what she was looking at.
“Is that a bear?” she exclaimed. The creature spared her a curious glance.
“A brown bear, to be precise,” said Stonker. “Ursus arctos. A bit of a departure for a troll train, I’ll admit, but she scored top marks in all her entrance exams. Ursel here keeps the firebox stoked and the wheels turning.”
Ursel flashed a set of startlingly white fangs at Suzy, who wasn’t sure if the gesture was meant as a greeting or a threat. She tried not to show her discomfort.
“How are we looking, Ursel?” said Stonker.
“Growlf,” said the bear with a voice so deep that Suzy felt it as a shiver in her bones.
“Jolly good. Well, stand by the valves and be ready to give it plenty of pep. I want to get out of here before anything else goes wrong.”
“Grunf.” With a last glance down at the assembled audience, Ursel turned and began loping back toward the cab.
Suzy felt the question well up in her throat before she had time to stop it. “If it’s a brown bear, why is it bright yellow?”
Everything stopped.
Stonker and Wilmot stared at her, mortified, and even the train seemed to have quieted its hissing and clanking. Fletch winced. Then, very slowly, all eyes turned to Ursel.
Suzy clapped her hands over her mouth, as though she could stuff the question back inside it. She could tell from everyone’s reaction that it had been the wrong thing to say, but it shouldn’t have been. This whole situation—trolls and bears and trains and just all of it—was starting to upset her. Because, while she never would have admitted it, she had always been secretly proud of her ability to understand the nuts and bolts of reality. Now, though, it felt as if that reality was tilting underneath her, threatening to throw her off. She just wanted to make sense of it again.
Ursel turned and padded back toward them, dark eyes fixed on Suzy, who was now too terrified to move. It’s going to eat me, she thought. Eaten by a bear, in my own house. But the thought that made her saddest was this: Now I’ll never get to understand what’s happening.
Ursel reared up and leaned over the railing. A string of saliva hung from a large incisor. “Growlf,” Ursel grunted. “Grrrrunf orf nnngrowlf!”
Suzy stood to polite attention, not daring to take her eyes off those fangs. “What did it say?” she said with a pleading look toward Stonker.
The driver gave a knowing smile, and his eyes twinkled again. “She said she’s not an it, she’s a she, thank you very much. And it’s none of your business if she happens to prefer being blond.”
Suzy looked again at Ursel with a mixture of shock and relief. “You mean you’re a girl?”
This was met with a guttural roar that made everyone jump back.
“What!” said Suzy, trembling with shock. “What did I do wrong this time?”
“It’s a common mistake,” said Stonker, rubbing his ringing ears. “She prefers the term woman. Something to do with being a responsible adult who pays her taxes.”
Ursel flexed her shoulders and gave a decisive nod before turning and lumbering back toward the cab. Suzy wasn’t sure it was possible for bears to wink, but she was sure Ursel gave her one as she went.
A few seconds later, steam hissed from between the driving wheels. The boiler rattled and the whole train lurched forward an inch, straining against the brakes. Wilmot turned and dashed back toward the rear coach, his coattails flapping behind him.
“I’m sorry there’s no more time for pleasantries,” Stonker called over the rising noise. “I’ll leave you in Fletch’s capable hands.”
Fletch grunted.
“But I still don’t understand what all this means,” Suzy protested. “Where did it all come from? Where are you going?”
Stonker drew himself up, eyes twinkling. “From Trollville to the five corners of reality, my dear. No package too big, no postcard too small. Come rain, shine, or meteor shower, the Impossible Postal Express will deliver.” He whipped off his cap and gave a theatrical bow as the locomotive strained forward again, its carriages rattling. “Farewell,” he called, steadying himself against the handrail, “and try not to worry. Fletch really is jolly skilled.” He turned and hurried back along the gangway to the cab, slamming the door shut behind him. A second later, the brakes unlocked with an almighty clunk, and the huge driving wheels ground slowly forward.
“I s’pose we’d better get on with it,” said Fletch, cracking his knuckles. He reached to his tool belt and paused. “Where is it?”
Suzy had no idea what he was talking about, but some nervous instinct told her to start backing away as the train lumbered into motion beside them.
“I can’t do the job without it,” said Fletch. He patted his pockets and looked around in confusion. Then his head snapped up and his eyes fixed on Suzy. “You!” he exclaimed. “You took it from me.”
Suzy started retreating slowly as Fletch advanced on her. “What?”
“Where is it? I need it!”
Before Suzy could answer, her foot came down on something hard and narrow, and it rolled out from under her, taking her foot with it. She felt a moment of weightlessness before she landed flat on her back.
She sat up, nursing her head with one hand, and looked down to see what she had stepped on. It was Fletch’s metal rod. She must have dropped it when she threw herself clear of the train.
He saw it at the same instant she did, and pounced for it. He was fast, but she was faster—she snatched it up and sprang away.
“Give it back!” he shouted.
“No,” she said. “Whatever it is, you’ll use it on me. You just said so.”
Fletch crept toward her, his hands up as though she were pointing a gun at him. “I know how to use it properly. You don’t.”
“I don’t want to use it,” she said. “And I don’t want you to, either.”
The locomotive slid into the archway. The huffing of its chimney, the clank of its wheels, the hiss and gush of steam echoed back out of the darkness as it continued to gather speed, drawing the carriages ever closer to the tunnel mouth. Suzy felt a sudden tug—a fear that something very important was right in front of her, but was slipping away.
“Are there really five corners of reality?” she asked.
Fletch stopped, surprised. “’Course there are. Don’t they teach you anything useful at school?” The tender slipped through the tunnel mouth and out of sight. “Now give back what’s not yours.” He started forward again.
Suzy didn’t realize she had made her mind up until she started running—not away from Fletch, but toward him. She saw the startled look on his face as he spread his arms wide to catch her, but she was too quick. She heard his little yelp of shock as she rushed past him and felt the slight tug on her bathrobe as he tried to snatch at her.
She was running level with the train now, but it was still gathering speed and steadily outpacing her. The tug of anxiety felt stronger, but clearer as well; the world made no sense anymore because of this train and the things that were on it. If she ever wanted to understand the world again, she couldn’t afford to let the train go without her. If she did, they would make her forget she’d ever seen it, and she’d live out the rest of her life in blissful ignorance, never knowing any better, and that scared her. That scared her so badly she put her head down and ran until she could feel her heartbeat in her throat.
The strange cylindrical tanker that bore the letters H. E. C. entered the tunnel, leaving only the old red coach at the rear. It was c
lose enough to touch, but the tunnel mouth was fast approaching and she was running out of ground. She had no idea what would happen to her if she ran on into the tunnel, and she wasn’t keen to find out.
“Stop!” bellowed Fletch.
The carriage slid past her, the leading wheels vanishing over the threshold. The door through which Wilmot had disappeared was gaining on her fast. Last chance. She put on a final burst of speed, swerved toward the coach, and jumped.
Her hand closed around the coach’s door handle in the same second that the world around her went dark. The deep echoes of the hall were swept away by the noisy rush of the tunnel. Cold wind tugged at her hair and clothes, and she planted her feet as securely as she could on the narrow metal step below the door. Looking back, she was just in time to see the tunnel mouth shrinking away into the distance. Framed inside it was the tiny figure of Fletch, standing in the hallway, shaking his fist in anger.
4
THE INTERDIMENSIONAL POST OFFICE
Suzy pressed herself flat against the door to the coach. The train was still accelerating, and the pull of the wind was getting stronger. If she stayed out here much longer, it would simply pluck her from the side of the train and cast her off into the darkness.
For the first time, she realized how impulsive and unplanned this all was and began to feel scared. She was clinging to the outside of a train—a magic train, if such a thing were possible—hurtling through a tunnel that shouldn’t exist, on its way to who knew where? Her parents couldn’t help her. She was alone, and already in danger.
She was also still holding Fletch’s metal rod, she realized, and stuffed it into her bathrobe pocket for safekeeping. She had meant to throw it back to him before she jumped, but there hadn’t been time to think.
Nor was there time to feel guilty now. She made sure her grip on the handle was secure, then raised her free hand and knocked as hard as she could on the door.
Nothing happened.
The door had a small window set in it, but a blind had been folded closed behind it, so she couldn’t see in. She knocked again, hard enough it hurt her knuckles. “Hello?” she shouted. “Is anyone there? Wilmot? Please!”
Nobody answered, and her imagination taunted her with a horrible idea—what if Wilmot couldn’t hear her over the noise of the locomotive? She would be stuck out here, alone, until—
The door swung open, knocking her back on her heels. She tried to regain her grip on the handle, but her fingers slipped, and she windmilled her arms. Right in front of her was Wilmot, his eyes wide with shock in the small gap between his collar and his cap.
“You!” he yelped.
“Help!” she cried as she started to tip backward.
He darted forward and caught her bathrobe cord, stopping her midfall. “Got you!” he said, but then his eyes widened again as her weight began dragging him steadily out the door.
“Pull!” she cried.
“I am pulling!” He braced first one foot, then the other against the inside of the doorframe, leaning back almost horizontally in his effort to stop them both from falling. “Help!” he shouted.
Their tug-of-war stretched the bathrobe cord taut. Suzy reached out and grabbed it, pulling herself up hand over hand until she was standing upright again, at which point, without her weight as a counterbalance, Wilmot dropped backward onto the floor with a thud, yanking her in through the door. She tripped over him and went sprawling on her front.
They both lay there for a moment, catching their breath.
“Thank you,” said Suzy. “I think you just saved my life.”
“Really?” Wilmot gave an embarrassed little smile. “Well, I’m happy to be of service, and I—” He broke off, and his face went pale. “What am I saying?” He sprang to his feet. “This isn’t allowed! You’re not supposed to be here.” He ran in a little circle, flapping his hands in panic. “I need to call Mr. Stonker. I need to call HQ.”
“Please don’t,” said Suzy, getting up. “I don’t want them to send me back.”
“But they have to! You’re in breach of regulations. Only authorized personnel are allowed in here. And you’re unauthorized!”
“I’m not going to cause any trouble,” she said. “I just wanted to see where this train was going. And to get away from Fletch.” As if to underline her point, she pulled the door shut, muffling the scream of the wind in the tunnel.
Wilmot paused. “Oh, well, that much I can quite understand. I’ve always found him thoroughly disagreeable. He doesn’t have an ounce of respect for the work I do here.” He spread his arms to encompass the whole carriage.
Suzy looked around. It was cramped but cozy, stuffed from floor to ceiling with bundles of letters, parcels, and other, more strangely shaped objects, most of them wrapped in brown paper and string. A small wooden desk had been squeezed in among it all, and the lamp that stood on it cast a warm, reassuring glow. It all had the sense of well-ordered business. Not a scrap of space had been wasted.
“It looks like a little post office,” she said.
“That’s exactly what it is,” Wilmot said, brightening. Suzy guessed he liked talking about his work. “We receive, sort, and distribute mail from throughout the Impossible Places. No package too big, no postcard too small. Come rain, shine, or—”
“Or meteor shower,” she chipped in. “Yes, Stonker told me. But what are the Impossible Places?”
The question appeared to surprise him. “You mean you don’t know?” He frowned. He seemed to be constructing his answer in his head, and Suzy guessed he was trying to find words for something so self-evident he had never dreamed he would ever have to explain it to anyone. It made her feel a little foolish.
“They’re home,” he said with a little shrug. “The Union of Impossible Places, or sometimes just ‘the Union’ for short. All the weird and magical places that don’t quite fit anywhere else.”
“Yes, but what are they?” she said. “Are they different countries? Different planets?”
“They’re a bit of everything, really,” he said. “Cities, realms, worlds, and dimensions, plus a few spaces no one can quite agree on a name for. All different shapes, sizes, and types, threaded all throughout reality.”
Suzy blinked. Her brain was so busy trying to process such a huge concept that it wasn’t able to provide her with a better reply than, “It all sounds very interesting.”
“Interesting?” Wilmot lifted his cap and scratched his head in thought. “Yes, I suppose it is, really. And I’m quite lucky that my job lets me see a lot of places, even if it’s never for very long. I’m usually too busy in here.”
Suzy looked around and, for the first time, realized what was missing from the sorting car. “Do you do all this by yourself? There’s no one to help you?”
“In an ideal world, I’d have a sorting team and a squad of posties to handle the deliveries,” he said. “My grandfather was in charge of a dozen sorting cars like this one and a staff of a hundred trolls. My father had a staff of fifty. Of course, things were very different in those days, but I do my best.”
Suzy looked again at the towers of letters and boxes. “But there’s so much of it.”
“Yes, I suppose there is.” He gave a nervous little laugh, as though only just realizing this fact himself. He soon rallied. “But it’s nothing a little hard work can’t fix. The Union has relied on the Impossible Postal Service for generations, and it’s still as reliable as the day it was founded.”
The train jolted, and he fell over sideways. Suzy helped him up again.
“That was the end of the tunnel,” he said, his anxiety returning. “We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?” She hurried to the little window in the door and pushed the blind aside.
The land outside was featureless—a desert of frosty blue sand stretching to the horizon, broken only by the skeletons of a few dead trees. But the sky … Suzy stared in wonder. She had never seen so many stars, not even in her astronomy textbooks. They p
ulsed and flared like fireworks, strobing yellow, purple, and green against the neon ink stain of a huge nebula. Whatever sky this was, it was a long way from her own.
“It’s beautiful,” she exclaimed. “Where are we?” When Wilmot didn’t answer, she tore her eyes away from the window to see him pacing in circles around the desk, clutching a small, square parcel in one hand and an antique fob watch in the other.
“She’ll turn me to stone,” he fretted. “Or file a complaint. Or both!”
“Who will?” said Suzy.
Wilmot jumped, as though he had forgotten she was there. “This is a priority package,” he said, holding it up for her to see. “That means five hours’ delivery, doorstep to doorstep, guaranteed.”
Suzy looked at the address on the parcel. It read simply:
THE LADY CREPUSCULA
THE OBSIDIAN TOWER
THE CREPUSCULAN WASTES
And below that, in red ink:
FRAGILE
“Who’s the Lady Crepuscula?” she asked.
“It’s been five and a half hours already!” he said, recommencing his pacing. “We’re thirty minutes late!”
“I see.” Suzy couldn’t understand why he was getting so worked up about a simple parcel, when the wonders of the cosmos lay right outside his door, but realized it wouldn’t help his mood to say so. Instead, she said, “She might be a bit annoyed, but I’m sure she’ll understand if you just explain why you’re late.”
“Explain?” he said. “Nobody explains things to the Lady Crepuscula. She’s the most powerful sorceress in the Union! One of its highest authorities. She explains things to you!” The color was draining from his face again. “Oh, what am I going to do? I can’t face her like this. She’ll blast me into next Tuesday.”
“She’s not really that bad, is she?” said Suzy.
“She’s worse. She’s perfectly horrid.”
Suzy looked at the quivering little figure in the oversized uniform, and two things happened at once. The first was that she realized she felt sorry for him. He must spend so much of his time shut up in this little carriage, she reasoned, doing the work of a hundred trolls, all alone. And she supposed she was at least partly responsible for the delay that now had him so worried, even if it hadn’t exactly been her fault.
