Fantastic Trains

by Neil Enock

  “I didn’t die, and I never really fit in, not in the human world or the Twilight Lands. But I’ve found this to be a good place anyway.”

  Mayor Landa and the group surrounded us, gushing horror and enthusiasm and praise and concern. I bent close to Harry’s ear. “Maybe if you want them to give you a chance, you should give them a chance.”

  I squeezed his shoulder and then turned to the boy whose bow and arrow I’d borrowed. “Here you go. Thanks for their use. Mind the blood.”

  He stared open-mouthed at the blood clinging to the head and then looked up at me, beaming. “Indiana is great!”

  “It sure is,” I agreed, ignoring the horror on his new mother’s face.

  We passed on the sheriff’s request for a physician and his handcuffs. After a moment, I worked my way out of the group and followed the man who had started away down the street, the only one not focused on the downed outlaw or the rescued boy. I called to him. “Wait a moment. We need to talk.”

  He whirled, gun drawn, and I shook my head. “Just talk.”

  He hesitated. He was scared, and shooting me would draw everyone’s attention to his quiet escape. “What do you want?”

  “You didn’t want to be part of torturing a kid. That saved your life today.”

  He blanched. He probably thought I was reading his mind.

  “But you might want to think about your life and how it came to this. Maybe think about how it could go in another direction after this.”

  “Mister, trust me, I’m already thinking,” he said. “Things just haven’t gone right for the last three years, but I couldn’t get out. They said they’d kill me if I left, as I could testify.”

  “Looks like you’re out now.”

  “And much obliged. My sister married a preacher out on the frontier; I figure I can get out from under the warrant out there while they set me straight.”

  I didn’t much care where he got it worked out as long as he did. “Good luck.”

  He holstered the gun, nodded his head, and we went our separate ways.

  I didn’t much want to stay around for the sheriff’s questions. Smith could take care of himself, and Harry had more information than I did. I was halfway to the train station when I heard his voice. “Hey!”

  I turned around and saw Harry watching me. “Yes?”

  “That’s it? Are you just — leaving?”

  “Seems like it.”

  “But — I mean, you didn’t even ask me.”

  “About what?”

  “About what? About the money!”

  “I told you, I don’t care,” I said. “And you told me you didn’t know where it was.”

  “I lied,” he said.

  “I didn’t,” I answered.

  He stared at me.

  “But,” I said, “if you want, we can return it. That might make things easier on the community.”

  He hesitated and then nodded. “It’s not far. I can show you.”

  As I said, I don’t have the trick of giving out money which turns to sticks and leaves. It would be handy, but my screwed-up heritage didn’t include that bonus. So I had to manually collect sticks and leaves in a bag for our excursion.

  Harry said there was one robber left, he didn’t know where, who might come back for the buried treasure. So we loaded the coin and cash onto the mule we’d brought and reburied the strong box, now filled with twigs and dead leaves. It’s the nearest I’ll ever be to the money trick, and I drew a sad, bitter pleasure from it.

  Harry and I asked to meet privately with the bank president and returned the money on the condition that the details of its recovery be kept quiet, to protect Harry’s new family, and that he not complain about the one thousand dollars I reserved for Harry’s future college education.

  Harry graduated from the fledgling Indiana Law School and later was instrumental in lobbying the Indiana General Assembly to fund free kindergartens. I went on doing what I do by order of the Fairy Queen, which is generally less recorded in media of the time.

  But I do it still, just the same.

  —— « o » ——

  Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  Laura VanArendonk Baugh loves both train travel and writing fantasy of many flavors, as well as other genres and non-fiction. Her novel The Songweaver’s Vow won the 2018 Realm Award for Best Fantasy. She lives in Indiana, where Robin Archer’s tales are rooted in local flavor and history, and enjoys Dobermans, travel, chocolate, and making her imaginary friends fight one another for imaginary reasons. Find her new novels and more at www.LauraVAB.com.

  Destination 1945

  by Rachel Leidenfrost

  1985

  “Take a ride to the past! Like no experience you’ve ever had!”

  Isabelle turned and looked at the man, his loud bellow startling her. His top hat and tails looked out of place in this neon-and-pastel sweater vest world. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. It had been an unusually warm fall, especially for Philadelphia.

  She disregarded the man, focused on the headline in front of her: Nine thousand people killed in Mexico City quake.

  The world seemed so aggressive to her. People killing people. Pirates. Guns. Even the planet wanted to kill them. She pushed her light hair back, wishing for a moment it wasn’t sprayed so solidly in place. It itched. Damn fashion. Lately, she didn’t even know why she bothered trying to fit in. She’d never found her spot in the world and she’d begun to believe that she never would, that someday her tombstone would read ‘cast’ or ‘dutiful daughter.’ She wanted to be the heroine in her own story, but the older she got the dimmer her future seemed.

  The pair came from out of nowhere. Loud and boisterous, they rolled down the street like characters from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

  “What’s this? A reenactment you say? Where does it go? What will we see?” The woman had dark, perfectly coiffed hair and demanded the attention of everyone around her. A rotund boy of about ten whom she tugged at her side pulled gum out of his mouth and stretched it between his fingers as far as it would go before getting bored and shoving it back in.

  “I don’t want to do a reenactment, Mom!”

  “Young man, this is no mere reenactment. This is your chance to see history come to life. Located over a genuine wormhole, this is a real-life train ride through history!” The eager salesman turned to the mother, his black and silver suspenders shining in the sun. “And as for what you’ll see — who knows? Every day is different. You may see lovers wandering through the Central Terminal, the most beautiful dresses and hats you can imagine, handsome soldiers departing, maybe even some soldiers lucky enough to be coming home.” He wiggled his eyebrows, leaning in closer to the mother, who blushed.

  Isabelle realized she had dropped her paper. She took a couple of halting steps and found herself in the middle of the small group. She pulled out her wallet. “How much?”

  The merchant smiled, his teeth shining like Chiclets. “Twenty dollars per person.”

  Isabelle pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it over, her palms sweaty. The past had a strong pull on her, tugging her like a tether — or maybe an anchor. She reached up and touched the locket at her neck, distracted.

  The mother frowned. “That seems like an awful lot for a reenactment.”

  “Not a reenactment, ma Cherie. A peek at history. And you can enjoy our family rate. Just thirty dollars.” He leaned in closer and the woman reached for her purse.

  —— «» ——

  Isabelle crossed the square, following the ticket seller’s directions to a small street a block away, the entrance hidden behind two tall, narrow buildings. She’d been this way many times and had never noticed the road. She made the turn and stopped abruptly, surprised to see a large train dominating the small space. The steam locomotive shone in the sunlight, the blac
k steel polished to a high gloss and trimmed with a vibrant orange. Wisps of steam puffed out of the smokestack as the engine heated up for the journey.

  Isabelle looked down the track. There were seven passenger cars. She was a little disappointed to see there wasn’t an open-air caboose at the end. Outside one of the cars, the salesman was helping a smattering of passengers onto the train.

  She haltingly joined them, twisting the ticket in her hand nervously while she waited.

  The man gave her a hand as she stepped on to the block and then the train itself. He was chattering at her, but she didn’t notice. She was distracted. Onboard, she was surprised to feel the hum of the engine vibrate through her shoes even though they hadn’t yet disembarked.

  Isabelle fell onto the old leather bench seat, the battered brown material crackling as she settled in. She fiddled with the locket at her neck, her mind lost in the past. Her father had fought in World War II. Her mother had talked of little else for years on end. He never made it home. Isabelle herself never met him. She was born in 1944, shortly after her father shipped out.

  The war had casualties people never thought about. Her mom never recovered. Her dad infused every moment of their lives from her mother’s refusal to date, to simple things like what they ate for dinner each night, to Isabelle’s frowned upon choice to be a nurse. Her father liked meat and potatoes after all, and as for nursing, her mom reminded her constantly that you “can’t save everyone.”

  Isabelle had enough insight to know that she was quiet, and she didn’t necessarily endear others; she understood her upbringing may have something to do with that. But, inside, she felt like a whole different person was hidden, just waiting to be released. It was as if she herself had spent a lifetime waiting for a lost love to come home from the war. She often wondered how her life would have been different if her dad had come home, or if her mom had stopped waiting.

  She opened the locket and looked at the two pictures. Her mom’s Alzheimer’s had made the truth even more clear. She never stopped thinking about Richard Maxwell and hoping for his return. Her entire world began and ended with him. At the end, Isabelle wasn’t sure if she even remembered having a daughter.

  “All aboard!”

  The loud announcement from outside shook Isabelle loose. She peered out the window to see one last couple making a dash for the door. Moments later, the salesman stowed the box and climbed on board. He was the only attendant in the passenger cars.

  He picked up a bulky microphone and smoothly dived into his routine.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, my name is Harvey H. Heartcrest, and I’m pleased to welcome you on today’s ride! Are you ready for the experience of a lifetime? To find the thrill of discovery? To take a peek at history? Next stop: 1945!” He held a large wooden whistle up to his lips and blew hard, his rosy cheeks bellowing out. Choo! Choo!

  The handful of people on the train clapped politely, most eyes directed out the windows.

  Isabelle let her attention wander, checking out her fellow travelers.

  There was the dominant mom and whiny son. The young couple who dashed to the train at the last moment nestled closely together in the last seat. A grandmotherly-looking woman sat alone a few rows back; she looked emotional. Isabelle briefly thought of joining her but checked the impulse. She wasn’t in the mood for company.

  Another half a dozen people were in the compartment, making it a third full. She peeked down the aisle and saw a similar number of people in the adjoining compartment. The end of the car was chained off with a velvet rope. She briefly wondered what they did with the remaining cars.

  The train set off with a slight jerk before settling into a steady rhythm. Isabelle looked out the window.

  Philadelphia was a bustling city. Mid-day brought a mix of characters. Men in baggy coats and women with big hair rushed from place to place while others relaxed along fountains and park benches, eating lunch, chatting and smoking. A dozen children played in Great Bell Park as they swung by.

  Isabelle wondered where the reenactment was. She didn’t remember any large open areas through here. In fact, she would swear they were headed toward the harbor.

  She jumped when Harvey blared into his mic once more. “Are you ready for a glimpse at history? This is it!”

  All eyes were drawn to him. Outside the train, the world went gray as they rode through a bank of fog. Moments later, in the wake of his announcement, every eye turned toward the window.

  “Oh my God.”

  “How lifelike…”

  “Look, that actress is crying.”

  Isabelle stared out the window in shock. In the blink of an eye they’d entered another world. She twisted around to peer out the window behind her but saw nothing.

  In front of her, the world of 1945 came alive. The women wore high-necked stiffly suited dresses and soft ruffled shirts, tied at the throat. The look was topped by perfect little hats and pairs of heels. Little girls mirrored their mothers and little boys wore short pants and argyle sweaters. She saw very few men. Those she did see were old or infirm, moving with difficulty, though that didn’t stop them from opening a door or doffing their hat for a passing lady.

  The train moved more slowly and Isabelle soaked it all in. She could just see the edge of the harbor and those waiting by the first two docks. Her eyes were drawn continually to the same woman. She had light blond hair, perfectly coiffed, and gently rocked a pram. But she didn’t look at the baby. Her attention was riveted on the docks, her eyes bouncing anxiously from one area to another, dissecting the space before moving on. Occasionally, she brought a handkerchief to her eyes and dabbed, but Isabelle wasn’t sure if she was aware of it. She looked haunted.

  “And I hope you enjoyed your glimpse of history today!”

  Isabelle glanced at the attendant, startled, as he began sharing facts about 1945 through the sound system. In the moment that she’d turned from the window, she missed the transition again. When she looked out the window, she saw only gray mist.

  Very tricky, she thought. He times it perfectly so that you can’t see where or how you get into the reenactment. For surely it had to be a reenactment.

  Isabelle paused for a moment, reflecting on the look on the woman’s face. Her acting was superior.

  For the rest of the ride, Isabelle fiddled with her locket and thought about what might have been. She fought off waves of loneliness and settled into the feeling of melancholy. It was getting harder and harder to find a spark of interest, to pull herself back. She thought of the gray mist.

  When they pulled up to the train station in modern day Philadelphia, Isabelle disembarked and resolved to put it out of her mind. She didn’t need this kind of stress.

  —— «» ——

  But she couldn’t forget…

  She kept dreaming about the woman pushing the pram at the harbor. And in her dreams, the waiting woman had her mother’s face. The more she thought about it, the more determined she felt that it was her mom. But was that wishful thinking? Was her mind projecting what she wanted to see? Or, did this alleged wormhole show each of them a slice of their own past?

  A few days later, Isabelle found herself again in the city center, buying a ticket, boarding the train. She was determined to see everything — not to be fooled by the salesman’s clever timing.

  The train departed and Isabelle gazed out the window.

  She was looking as they passed into and out of the gray fog, though she still couldn’t see how it might be produced.

  When they made the transition, the weather was stark. They’d gone from a sunny day to rain. People on board oh’d and ah’d in appreciation. Isabelle immediately craned her neck, seeking the harbor.

  Finally, she saw her. It was definitely the same woman. Her clothes were slightly different but the haunted look on her face was the same. She stood there, pushing the pram a
nd staring at the docks, oblivious to the rain running down her face.

  Isabelle twisted and turned, trying to get a better look at the woman’s features. The hair was the correct color and the petite nose could be right, but she just couldn’t tell at this distance.

  She stood up, determined to walk farther down the train, maybe find a window that opened. But Harvey was there.

  “Where do you think you’re going, young lady?” He smiled at her, but she saw the steel in his eyes. She hated fake charm. She was forty-one years old and she knew she looked it.

  She stared at him. “Just going to see if there was a bathroom on this train.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry to say that you wouldn’t like the bathrooms of 1945.” A chuckle. “But, we’ll be back in our time in just a few minutes and you’ll be able to go.”

  Isabelle recognized a battle she couldn’t win. She sat back down.

  As they passed back into the mist her mind spun, thinking of everything she knew about the 1940s.

  —— «» ——

  Isabelle spent days at the public library, pouring over books about the past. She’d always been a history buff — interested in peoples and places of the past — and the 40s came alive in her mind as she flipped through the books.

  The more she read, the more excited she became, thinking about the classic films, groundbreaking novels, and the simpler way of life of the 1940s and beyond.

  The next time she rode the train, she was ready. She wore sturdy shoes and her locket. The super-sized purse she carried was full — of items both useful and sentimental. She’d given away her few plants and her goldfish in case her plan worked.

  When she boarded, she took the car to the left — despite Harvey’s wave to the right — and settled into the last seat, hoping the adage “out of sight, out of mind” held true.

  He picked up the microphone in the other car and started going through his spiel. When he began talking about the history of steam locomotives, Isabelle rose and quietly made her way to the bathroom.

  She locked the door and waited. Harvey’s voice sounded muffled and unclear through the door. A small dingy window showed the outside world. Her eyes darted from the window to the floor and back. She didn’t know what would happen when they switched over to 1945. But she was ready. She had her feet braced along either wall. Would the floor drop out? Did the wormhole pull people through the toilet bowl?